John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  [Maskall goes to one side of the scene, which draws, and discovers Theo. Jac. Aur. Beat. Cam. Lop. Wild., standing all without motion in a rank.

  Now, sir, what think you?

  Alon. They are here, they are here: We need search no farther. Ah you ungracious baggages!

  [Going toward them.

  Bel. Stay, or you’ll be torn in pieces: These are the very shapes I conjured up, and truly represent to you in what company your niece and daughters are, this very moment.

  Alon. Why, are they not they? I durst have sworn that some of them had been my own flesh and blood. — Look; one of them is just like that rogue, your comrade.

  [Wild. shakes his head, and frowns at him.

  Bel. Do you see how you have provoked that English devil? Take heed of him; if he gets you once into his clutches —

  [Wild. embracing Jac.

  Alon. He seems to have got possession of the spirit of my Jacintha, by his hugging her.

  Bel. Nay, I imagined as much: Do but look upon his physiognomy — you have read Baptista Porta? Has he not the leer of a very lewd, debauched spirit?

  Alon. He has indeed: Then there’s my niece Aurelia, with the spirit of Don Lopez; but that’s well enough; and my daughter Theodosia all alone: Pray how comes that about?

  Bel. She’s provided for with a familiar too: One that is in this very room with you, and by your elbow; but I’ll shew you him some other time.

  Alon. And that baggage Beatrix, how I would swinge her, if I had her here: I’ll lay my life she was in the plot for the flight of her mistresses.

  [Beat. claps her hands at him.

  Bel. Sir, you do ill to provoke her; for being the spirit of a woman, she is naturally mischievous: You see she can scarce hold her hands from you already.

  Mask. Let me alone to revenge your quarrel upon Beatrix: If e’er she come to light, I’ll take a course with her, I warrant you, sir.

  Bel. Now come away, sir, you have seen enough; the spirits are in pain whilst we are here: We keep them too long condensed in bodies; if we were gone, they would rarify into air immediately. — Maskall, shut the door.

  [Mask. goes to the scene, and it closes.

  Alon. Monstrum hominis! O prodigy of science!

  Enter two Servants with Don Melchor.

  Bel. Now help me with a lie, Maskall, or we are lost.

  Mask. Sir, I could never lie with man or woman in a fright.

  Serv. Sir, we found this gentleman bound and gagged, and he desired us to bring him to you with all haste imaginable.

  Mel. O, sir, sir! your two daughters and your niece ——

  Bel. They are gone; he knows it: — But are you mad, sir, to set this pernicious wretch at liberty?

  Mel. I endeavoured all that I was able ——

  Mask. Now, sir, I have it for you. [Aside to his master.] — He was endeavouring, indeed, to have got away with them; for your daughter Theodosia was his prize. But we prevented him, and left him in the condition in which you see him.

  Alon. I thought somewhat was the matter, that Theodosia had not a spirit by her, as her sister had.

  Bel. This was he I meant to shew you.

  Mel. Do you believe him, sir?

  Bel. No, no, believe him, sir: You know his truth, ever since he stole your daughter’s diamond.

  Mel. I swear to you, by my honour —

  Alon. Nay, a thief I knew him; and yet, after that, he had the impudence to ask me for my daughter.

  Bel. Was he so impudent? The case is plain, sir; put him quickly into custody.

  Mel. Hear me but one word, sir, and I’ll discover all to you.

  Bel. Hear him not, sir; for my art assures me, if he speaks one syllable more, he will cause great mischief.

  Alon. Will he so? I’ll stop my ears; away with him.

  Mel. Your daughters are yet in the garden, hidden by this fellow and his accomplices.

  Alon. [At the same time, drowning him.] I’ll stop my ears, I’ll stop my ears.

  Bel. Mask. [At the same time also.] A thief, a thief! away with him.

  [Servants carry Melchor off struggling.

  Alon. He thought to have borne us down with his confidence.

  Enter another Servant.

  Serv. Sir, with much ado we have got out the key, and opened the door.

  Alon. Then, as I told you, run quickly to the corrigidor, and desire him to come hither in person to examine a malefactor. [Wildblood sneezes within.] Hark! what noise is that within? I think one sneezes.

  Bel. One of the devils, I warrant you, has got a cold, with being so long out of the fire.

  Alon. Bless his devilship, as I may say.

  [Wildblood sneezes again.

  Serv. [To Don Alonzo.] This is a man’s voice; do not suffer yourself to be deceived so grossly, sir.

  Mask. A man’s voice! that’s a good one indeed, that you should live to these years, and yet be so silly as not to know a man from a devil.

  Alon. There’s more in’t than I imagined: Hold up your torch, and go in first, Pedro, and I’ll follow you.

  Mask. No, let me have the honour to be your usher.

  [Takes the torch and goes in.

  Mask. [Within.] Help, help, help!

  Alon. What’s the matter?

  Bel. Stir not upon your life, sir.

  Enter Maskall again, without the torch.

  Mask. I was no sooner entered, but a huge giant seized my torch, and felled me along, with the very whiff of his breath, as he passed by me.

  Alon. Bless us!

  Bel. [At the door to them within.] Pass out now, while you have time, in the dark: The officers of justice will be here immediately; the garden-door is open for you.

  Alon. What are you muttering there, sir?

  Bel. Only dismissing these spirits of darkness, that they may trouble you no further. — Go out, I say.

  [They all come out upon the stage, groping their way. Wildblood falls into Alonzo’s hands.

  Alon. I have caught somebody: Are these your spirits? Another light quickly, Pedro.

  Mask. [Slipping between Alon. and Wild.] ’Tis Maskall you have caught, sir; do you mean to strangle me, that you press me so hard between your arms?

  Alon. [Letting Wild. go.] Is it thee, Maskall? I durst have sworn it had been another.

  Bel. Make haste now, before the candle comes.

  [Aurelia falls into Alonzo’s arms.

  Alon. Now I have another.

  Aur. ’Tis Maskall you have caught, sir.

  Alon. No, I thank you, niece, this artifice is too gross: I know your voice a little better. What ho, bring lights there!

  Bel. Her impertinence has ruined all.

  Enter Servants with lights, and swords drawn.

  Serv. Sir, the corrigidor is coming, according to your desire: In the mean time, we have secured the garden doors.

  Alon. I’m glad on’t: I’ll make some of them severe examples.

  Wild. Nay, then, as we have lived merrily, so let us die together: But we’ll shew the Don some sport first.

  Theo. What will become of us!

  Jac. We’ll die for company: Nothing vexes me, but that I am not a man, to have one thrust at that malicious old father of mine before I go.

  Lop. Let us break our way through the corrigidor’s band.

  Jac. A match, i’faith. We’ll venture our bodies with you: You shall put the baggage in the middle.

  Wild. He that pierces thee, I say no more, but I shall be somewhat angry with him. — [To Alon.] In the mean time, I arrest you, sir, in the behalf of this good company. As the corrigidor uses us, so we’ll use you.

  Alon. You do not mean to murder me!

  Bel. You murder yourself, if you force us to it.

  Wild. Give me a razor there, that I may scrape his weeson, that the bristles may not hinder me, when I come to cut it.

  Bel. What need you bring matters to that extremity? You have your ransom in your hand: Here are three men, and there are three women; you understand
me.

  Jac. If not, here’s a sword, and there’s a throat; you understand me.

  Alon. This is very hard!

  Theo. The propositions are good, and marriage is as honourable as it used to be.

  Beat. You had best let your daughters live branded with the name of strumpets; for whatever befals the men, that will be sure to be their share.

  Alon. I can put them into a nunnery.

  All the Women. A nunnery!

  Jac. I would have thee to know, thou graceless old man, that I defy a nunnery: Name a nunnery once more, and I disown thee for my father.

  Lop. You know the custom of the country, in this case, sir: ’Tis either death or marriage. The business will certainly be public; and if they die, they have sworn you shall bear them company.

  Alon. Since it must be so, run, Pedro, and stop the corrigidor: Tell him it was only a carnival merriment, which I mistook for a rape and robbery.

  Jac. Why now you are a dutiful father again, and I receive you into grace.

  Bel. Among the rest of your mistakes, sir, I must desire you to let my astrology pass for one: My mathematics, and art magic, were only a carnival device; and now that’s ending, I have more mind to deal with the flesh, than with the devil.

  Alon. No astrologer! ’tis impossible!

  Mask. I have known him, sir, these seven years, and dare take my oath, he has been always an utter stranger to the stars; and indeed to any thing that belongs to heaven.

  Lop. Then I have been cozened among the rest.

  Theo. And I; but I forgive him.

  Beat. I hope you will forgive me, madam, who have been the cause on’t; but what he wants in astrology, he shall make up to you some other way, I’ll pass my word for him.

  Alon. I hope you are both gentlemen?

  Bel. As good as the cid himself, sir.

  Alon. And for your religion, right Romans ——

  Wild. As ever was Mark Anthony.

  Alon. For your fortunes and courages ——

  Mask. They are both desperate, sir; especially their fortunes.

  Theo. [To Bel.] You should not have had my consent so soon, but only to revenge myself upon the falseness of Don Melchor.

  Aur. I must avow, that gratitude for Don Lopez is as prevalent with me, as revenge against Don Melchor.

  Alon. Lent, you know, begins to-morrow; when that’s over, marriage will be proper.

  Jac. If I stay till after Lent, I shall be to marry when I have no love left: I’ll not bate you an ace of to-night, father; I mean to bury this man ere Lent be done, and get me another before Easter.

  Alon. Well, make a night on’t then.

  [Giving his daughters.

  Wild. Jacintha Wildblood, welcome to me: Since our stars have doomed it so, we cannot help it; but ’twas a mere trick of fate, to catch us thus at unawares; to draw us in, with a what do you lack, as we passed by: Had we once separated to-night, we should have had more wit, than ever to have met again to-morrow.

  Jac. ’Tis true, we shot each other flying: We were both upon the wing, I find; and, had we passed this critical minute, I should have gone for the Indies, and you for Greenland, ere we had met in a bed, upon consideration.

  Mask. You have quarrelled twice to-night without bloodshed; beware the third time.

  Jac. Apropos! I have been retrieving an old song of a lover, that was ever quarrelling with his mistress: I think it will fit our amour so well, that, if you please, I’ll give it you for an epithalamium; and you shall sing it.

  [Gives him a paper.

  Wild. I never sung in all my life; nor ever durst try, when I was alone, for fear of braying.

  Jac. Just me, up and down; but for a frolic, let’s sing together; for I am sure, if we cannot sing now, we shall never have cause when we are married.

  Wild. Begin then; give me my key, and I’ll set my voice to’t.

  Jac. Fa la, fa la, fa la.

  Wild. Fala, fala, fala. Is this your best, upon the faith of a virgin?

  Jac. Ay, by the muses, I am at my pitch.

  Wild. Then do your worst; and let the company be judge who sings worst.

  Jac. Upon condition the best singer shall wear the breeches. Prepare to strip, sir; I shall put you into your drawers presently.

  Wild. I shall be revenged, with putting you into your smock anon; St George for me.

  Jac. St James for me: Come, start, sir.

  SONG.

  Damon.Celimena, of my heart None shall e’er bereave you: If, with your good leave, I may Quarrel with you once a day, I will never leave you.

  Celimena.Passion’s but an empty name, Where respect is wanting: Damon, you mistake your aim; Hang your heart, and burn your flame, If you must be ranting.

  Damon.Love as dull and muddy is, As decaying liquor: Anger sets it on the lees, And refines it by degrees, Till it works the quicker.

  Celimena.Love by quarrels to beget Wisely you endeavour; With a grave physician’s wit, Who, to cure an ague fit, Put me in a fever.

  Damon.Anger rouses love to fight, And his only bait is, ’Tis the spur to dull delight, And is but an eager bite, When desire at height is.

  Celimena.If such drops of heat can fall In our wooing weather; If such drops of heat can fall, We shall have the devil and all When we come together.

  Wild. Your judgment, gentlemen; a man, or a maid?

  Bel. An you make no better harmony after you are married, than you have before, you are the miserablest couple in Christendom.

  Wild. ’Tis no great matter; if I had had a good voice, she would have spoiled it before to-morrow.

  Bel. When Maskall has married Beatrix, you may learn of her.

  Mask. You shall put her life into a lease, then.

  Wild. Upon condition, that when I drop into your house from hunting, I may set my slippers at your door, as a Turk does at a Jew’s, that you may not enter.

  Theo. And while you refresh yourself within, he shall wind the horn without.

  Mask. I’ll throw up my lease first.

  Bel. Why, thou wouldst not be so impudent, to marry Beatrix for thyself only?

  Beat. For all his ranting and tearing now, I’ll pass my word, he shall degenerate into as tame and peaceable a husband, as a civil woman would wish to have.

  Enter Don Melchor, with a Servant.

  Mel. Sir ——

  Alon. I know what you would say, but your discovery comes too late now.

  Mel. Why, the ladies are found.

  Aur. But their inclinations are lost, I can assure you.

  Jac. Look you, sir, there goes the game: Your plate-fleet is divided; half for Spain, and half for England.

  Theo. You are justly punished for loving two.

  Mel. Yet I have the comfort of a cast lover: I will think well of myself, and despise my mistresses.

  [Exit.

  DANCE.

  Bel. Enough, enough; let’s end the carnival abed.

  Wild. And for these gentlemen, whene’er they try, May they all speed as soon, and well as I.

  [Exeunt.

  EPILOGUE.

  My Part being small, I have had time to day

  To mark your various censures of our Play.

  First, looking for a Judgement or a Wit,

  Like Jews, I saw ‘em scatter’d through the Pit;

  And where a lot of Smilers lent an Ear

  To one that talk’d, I knew the Foe was there.

  The Club of jests went round; he, who had none,

  Borrow’d o’ th’ next, and told it for his own.

  Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir,

  In whisp’ring that he stole th’ Astrologer;

  And said, betwixt a French and English Plot,

  He eased his halfe-tir’d Muse, on Pace and Trot.

  Up starts a Mounsieur, new come o’er, and warm

  In the French stoop, and the pull-back o’ th’ Arm:

  Morbleu dit il, and cocks, I am a Rogue,

  But he has quite spoil’d the fein’d Astr
ologue.

  ‘Pox, says another, here’s so great a stir

  With a Son of a Whore, Farce that’s regular,

  A Rule, where nothing must decorum shock!

  Dam’me, ’tis as dull as Dining by the Clock.

  An Evening! why the Devil should we be vext,

  Whether he gets the Wench this night or next?

  When I heard this, I to the Poet went,

  Told him the House was full of Discontent,

  And ask’d him what excuse he could invent.

  He neither swore nor storm’d, as Poets do,

  But, most unlike an Author, vow’d ’twas true;

  Yet said, he used the French like Enemies,

  And did not steal their Plots, but made ‘em Prize.

  But should he all the pains and charges count

  Of taking ‘em, the Bill so high wou’d mount,

  That, like Prize-Goods, which through the Office come,

  He should have had ‘em much more cheap at home.

  He still must write, and, Banquier-like, each Day

  Accept new Bills, and he must break, or pay.

  When through his hands such sums must yearly run,

  You cannot think the Stock is all his own.

  His haste his other errors might excuse,

  But there’s no mercy for a guilty Muse;

  For, like a Mistress, she must stand or fall,

  And please you to a height, or not at all.

  ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE

  OR, THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA BY THE SPANIARDS

  A TRAGEDY.

  — Major rerum mihi nascitur ordo;

  Majus opus moveo.

  Virg. Æneid.

  This play, — for the two parts only constitute an entire drama betwixt them, — seems to have been a favourite with Dryden, as well as with the public. In the Essay upon Heroic Plays, as well as in the dedication, the character of Almanzor is dwelt upon with that degree of complacency which an author experiences in analyzing a successful effort of his genius. Unquestionably the gross improbability of a hero, by his single arm, turning the tide of battle as he lists, did not appear so shocking in the age of Dryden, as in ours. There is no doubt, that, while personal strength and prowess were of more consequence than military skill and conduct, the feats of a single man were sometimes sufficient to determine the fate of an engagement, more especially when exerted by a knight, sheathed in complete mail, against the heartless and half-armed mass, which constituted the feudal infantry. Those, who have perused Barbour’s History of Robert Bruce, Geoffrey de Vinsauf’s account of the wars of Richard Cœur de Lion, or even the battles detailed by Froissart and Joinville, are familiar with instances of breaches defended, and battles decided, by the prowess of a single arm. The leader of a feudal army was expected by his followers not only to point out the path to victory but to lead the way in person. It is true, that the military art had been changed in this particular long before the days of Dryden. Complete armour was generally laid aside; fire-arms had superseded the use of the lance and battle-axe; and, above all, the universal institution of standing armies had given discipline and military skill their natural and decisive superiority over untaught strength, and enthusiastic valour. But the memory of what had been, was still familiar to the popular mind, and preserved not only by numerous legends and traditions, but also by the cast of the fashionable works of fiction. It is, indeed, curious to remark, how many minute remnants of a system of ancient manners can be traced long after it has become totally obsolete. Even down to the eighteenth century, the portrait of every soldier of rank was attired in complete armour, though, perhaps, he never saw a suit of mail excepting in the Tower of London; and on the same principle of prescriptive custom, Addison was the first poet who ventured to celebrate a victorious general for skill and conduct, instead of such feats as are appropriated to Guy of Warwick, or Bevis of Hampton. The fashion of attributing mighty effects to individual valour being thus prevalent, even in circumstances when every one knew the supposition to be entirely gratuitous, the same principle, with much greater propriety, continued to be applied in works of fiction, where the scene was usually carried back to times in which the personal strength of a champion really had some efficacy. It must be owned, however, that the authors of the French romances carried the influence of individual strength and courage beyond all bounds of modesty and reason. In the Grand Cyrus, Artamenes, upon a moderate computation, exterminates with his own hand, in the course of the work, at least a hundred thousand fighting men. These monstrous fictions, however, constituted the amusement of the young and the gay, in the age of Charles II., and from one of these very books Dryden admits his having drawn, at least in part, the character of his Moorish warrior. The public was, therefore, every way familiarised with such chivalrous exploits as those of Almanzor; and if they did not altogether command the belief, at least they did not revolt the imagination, of an audience: And this must certainly be admitted as a fair apology for the extravagance of his heroic achievements.