by John Dryden
No second vows can with your first dispense.
Yet, since the king did to Almanzor swear,
And in his death ungrateful may appear,
He ought, in justice, first to spare his life,
And then to claim your promise as his wife.
Almah. Whate’er my secret inclinations be,
To this, since honour ties me, I agree:
Yet I declare, and to the world will own,
That, far from seeking, I would shun the throne.
And with Almanzor lead a humble life:
There is a private greatness in his wife.
Boab. That little love I have, I hardly buy;
You give my rival all, while you deny:
Yet, Almahide, to let you see your power,
Your loved Almanzor shall be free this hour.
You are obeyed; but ’tis so great a grace,
That I could wish me in my rival’s place. [Exeunt King and Abenamar.
Almah. How blessed was I before this fatal day,
When all I knew of love, was to obey!
’Twas life becalmed, without a gentle breath;
Though not so cold, yet motionless as death.
A heavy quiet state; but love, all strife,
All rapid, is the hurricane of life.
Had love not shewn me, I had never seen
An excellence beyond Boabdelin.
I had not, aiming higher, lost my rest;
But with a vulgar good been dully blest:
But, in Almanzor, having seen what’s rare,
Now I have learnt too sharply to compare;
And, like a favourite quickly in disgrace,
Just knew the value ere I lost the place.
To her Almanzor, bound and guarded.
Almanz. I see the end for which I’m hither sent,
To double, by your sight, my punishment.
There is a shame in bonds I cannot bear;
Far more than death, to meet your eyes I fear.
Almah. That shame of long continuance shall not be: [Unbinding him.
The king, at my entreaty, sets you free.
Almanz. The king! my wonder’s greater than before;
How did he dare my freedom to restore?
He like some captive lion uses me;
He runs away before he sets me free,
And takes a sanctuary in his court:
I’ll rather lose my life than thank him for’t.
Almah. If any subject for your thanks there be,
The king expects them not, you owe them me.
Our freedoms through each other’s hands have past;
You give me my revenge in winning last.
Almanz. Then fate commodiously for me has done;
To lose mine there where I would have it won.
Almah. Almanzor, you too soon will understand,
That what I win is on another’s hand.
The king (who doomed you to a cruel fate)
Gave to my prayers both his revenge and hate;
But at no other price would rate your life,
Than my consent and oath to be his wife.
Almanz. Would you, to save my life, my love betray?
Here; take me; bind me; carry me away;
Kill me! I’ll kill you if you disobey. [To the Guards.
Almah. That absolute command your love does give,
I take, and charge you by that power to live.
Almanz. When death, the last of comforts, you refuse,
Your power, like heaven upon the damned, you use;
You force me in my being to remain,
To make me last, and keep me fresh for pain.
When all my joys are gone,
What cause can I for living longer give,
But a dull, lazy habitude to live?
Almah. Rash men, like you, and impotent of will,
Give chance no time to turn, but urge her still;
She would repent; you push the quarrel on,
And once because she went, she must be gone.
Almanz. She shall not turn; what is it she can do,
To recompense me for the loss of you?
Almah, Heaven will reward your worth some better way:
At least, for me, you have but lost one day.
Nor is’t a real loss which you deplore;
You sought a heart that was engaged before.
’Twas a swift love which took you in his way;
Flew only through your heart, but made no stay:
’Twas but a dream, where truth had not a place;
A scene of fancy, moved so swift a pace,
And shifted, that you can but think it was; —
Let then, the short vexatious vision pass.
Almanz. My joys, indeed, are dreams; but not my pain:
’Twas a swift ruin, but the marks remain.
When some fierce fire lays goodly buildings waste,
Would you conclude
There had been none, because the burning’s past?
Almah. It was your fault that fire seized all your breast;
You should have blown up some to save the rest:
But ’tis, at worst, but so consumed by fire,
As cities are, that by their fall rise higher.
Build love a nobler temple in my place;
You’ll find the fire has but enlarged your space.
Almanz. Love has undone me; I am grown so poor,
I sadly view the ground I had before,
But want a stock, and ne’er can build it more.
Almah. Then say what charity I can allow;
I would contribute if I knew but how.
Take friendship; or, if that too small appear,
Take love, — which sisters may to brothers bear.
Almanz. A sister’s love! that is so palled a thing,
What pleasure can it to a lover bring?
’Tis like thin food to men in fevers spent;
Just keeps alive, but gives no nourishment.
What hopes, what fears, what transports can it move?
’Tis but the ghost of a departed love.
Almah. You, like some greedy cormorant, devour
All my whole life can give you in an hour.
What more I can do for you is to die,
And that must follow, if you this deny.
Since I gave up my love, that you might live,
You, in refusing life, my sentence give.
Almanz. Far from my breast be such an impious thought!
Your death would lose the quiet mine had sought.
I’ll live for you, in spite of misery;
But you shall grant that I had rather die.
I’ll be so wretched, filled with such despair,
That you shall see, to live was more to dare.
Almah. Adieu, then, O my soul’s far better part!
Your image sticks so close,
That the blood follows from my rending heart.
A last farewell!
For, since a last must come, the rest are vain,
Like gasps in death, which but prolong our pain.
But, since the king is now a part of me,
Cease from henceforth to be his enemy.
Go now, for pity go! for, if you stay,
I fear I shall have something still to say.
Thus — I for ever shut you from my sight. [Veils.
Almanz. Like one thrust out in a cold winters night,
Yet shivering underneath your gate I stay;
One look — I cannot go before ’tis day. — [She beckons him to be gone.
Not one — Farewell: Whate’er my sufferings be
Within, I’ll speak farewell as loud as she:
I will not be out-done in constancy. — [She turns her back.
Then like a dying conqueror I go;
At least I have looked last upon my foe.
I go — but, if too heavily I move,
I walk encumbered with a weight of love.
Fain I would leave the thought of you behind,
But still, the more I cast you from my mind,
You dash, like water, back, when thrown against the wind. [Exit.
As he goes off, the King meets him with Abenamar; they stare at each other without saluting.
Boab. With him go all my fears: A guard there wait,
And see him safe without the city gate.
To them Abdelmelech.
Now, Abdelmelech, is my brother dead?
Abdelm. Th’ usurper to the Christian camp is fled;
Whom as Granada’s lawful king they own,
And vow, by force, to seat him on the throne.
Mean time the rebels in the Albayzyn rest;
Which is in Lyndaraxa’s name possest.
Boab. Haste and reduce it instantly by force.
Abdelm. First give me leave to prove a milder course.
She will, perhaps, on summons yield the place.
Boab. We cannot to your suit refuse her grace. [One enters hastily, and whispers Abenamar.
Aben. How fortune persecutes this hoary head!
My Ozmyn is with Selin’s daughter fled.
But he’s no more my son:
My hate shall like a Zegry him pursue,
‘Till I take back what blood from me he drew.
Boab. Let war and vengeance be to-morrow’s care;
But let us to the temple now repair.
A thousand torches make the mosque more bright:
This must be mine and Almahide’s night.
Hence, ye importunate affairs of state,
You should not tyrannize on love, but wait.
Had life no love, none would for business live;
Yet still from love the largest part we give;
And must be forced, in empire’s weary toil,
To live long wretched, to be pleased a while. [Exeunt.
EPILOGUE.
Success, which can no more than beauty last,
Makes our sad poet mourn your favours past:
For, since without desert he got a name,
He fears to lose it now with greater shame.
Fame, like a little mistress of the town,
Is gained with ease, but then she’s lost as soon:
For, as those tawdry misses, soon or late,
Jilt such as keep them at the highest rate;
And oft the lacquey, or the brawny clown,
Gets what is hid in the loose-bodied gown, —
So, fame is false to all that keep her long;
And turns up to the fop that’s brisk and young.
Some wiser poet now would leave fame first;
But elder wits are, like old lovers, cursed:
Who, when the vigour of their youth is spent,
Still grow more fond, as they grow impotent.
This, some years hence, our poet’s case may prove;
But yet, he hopes, he’s young enough to love.
When forty comes, if e’er he live to see
That wretched, fumbling age of poetry,
‘Twill be high time to bid his muse adieu: —
Well may he please himself, but never you.
Till then, he’ll do as well as he began,
And hopes you will not find him less a man.
Think him not duller for this year’s delay;
He was prepared, the women were away;
And men, without their parts, can hardly play.
If they, through sickness, seldom did appear,
Pity the virgins of each theatre:
For, at both houses, ’twas a sickly year!
And pity us, your servants, to whose cost,
In one such sickness, nine whole months are lost.
Their stay, he fears, has ruined what he writ:
Long waiting both disables love and wit.
They thought they gave him leisure to do well;
But, when they forced him to attend, he fell!
Yet, though he much has failed, he begs, to-day,
You will excuse his unperforming play:
Weakness sometimes great passion does express;
He had pleased better, had he loved you less.
ALMANZOR AND ALMAHIDE:
OR, THE
CONQUEST OF GRANADA
BY THE
SPANIARDS.
A TRAGEDY.
THE SECOND PART.
— Stimulos dedit æmula virtus.
Lucan.
PROLOGUE TO THE SECOND PART.
They, who write ill, and they, who ne’er durst write,
Turn critics, out of mere revenge and spite:
A playhouse gives them fame; and up there starts,
From a mean fifth-rate wit, a man of parts.
(So common faces on the stage appear;
We take them in, and they turn beauties here.)
Our author fears those critics as his fate;
And those he fears, by consequence must hate,
For they the traffic of all wit invade,
As scriveners draw away the bankers’ trade.
Howe’er, the poet’s safe enough to day,
They cannot censure an unfinished play.
But, as when vizard-mask appears in pit,
Straight every man, who thinks himself a wit,
Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace,
With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face;
That done, bears up to th’ prize, and views each limb,
To know her by her rigging and her trim;
Then, the whole noise of fops to wagers go, —
“Pox on her, ‘tmust be she;” and— “damme, no!” —
Just, so, I prophesy, these wits to-day
Will blindly guess at our imperfect play;
With what new plots our Second Part is filled,
Who must be kept alive, and who be killed.
And as those vizard-masks maintain that fashion,
To soothe and tickle sweet imagination;
So our dull poet keeps you on with masking,
To make you think there’s something worth your asking.
But, when ’tis shown, that, which does now delight you,
Will prove a dowdy, with a face to fright you.
THE SECOND PART.
ACT I.
SCENE I. — A Camp.
Enter King Ferdinand, Queen Isabella, Alonzo D’Aguilar; Attendants, Men and Women.
K. Ferd. At length the time is come, when Spain shall be
From the long yoke of Moorish tyrants free.
All causes seem to second our design,
And heaven and earth in their destruction join.
When empire in its childhood first appears,
A watchful fate o’ersees its tender years;
Till, grown more strong, it thrusts and stretches out,
And elbows all the kingdoms round about:
The place thus made for its first breathing free,
It moves again for ease and luxury;
Till, swelling by degrees, it has possessed
The greater space, and now crowds up the rest;
When, from behind, there starts some petty state,
And pushes on its now unwieldy fate;
Then down the precipice of time it goes,
And sinks in minutes, which in ages rose.
Q. Isabel. Should bold Columbus in his search succeed,
And find those beds in which bright metals breed;
Tracing the sun, who seems to steal away,
That, miser-like, he might alone survey
The wealth which he in western mines did lay, —
Not all that shining ore could give my heart
The joy, this conquered kingdom will impart;
Which; rescued from these misbelievers’ hands,
Shall now, at once, shake off its double bands:
At once to freedom and true faith restored,
Its old religion and its ancient lord.
K. Ferd. By tha
t assault which last we made, I find,
Their courage is with their success declined:
Almanzor’s absence now they dearly buy,
Whose conduct crowned their arms with victory.
Alonzo. Their king himself did their last sally guide;
I saw him, glistering in his armour, ride
To break a lance in honour of his bride:
But other thoughts now fill his anxious breast;
Care of his crown his love has dispossest.
To them Abdalla.
Q. Isabel. But see, the brother of the Moorish king:
He seems some news of great import to bring.
K. Ferd. He brings a spacious title to our side:
Those, who would conquer, must their foes divide.
Abdal. Since to my exile you have pity shown,
And given me courage yet to hope a throne;
While you without our common foes subdue,
I am not wanting to myself or you;
But have, within, a faction still alive,
Strong to assist, and secret to contrive,
And watching each occasion to foment
The people’s fears into a discontent;
Which, from Almanzor’s loss, before were great,
And now are doubled by their late defeat:
These letters from their chiefs the news assures. [Gives letters to the King.
K. Ferd. Be mine the honour, but the profit yours.
To them the Duke of Arcos, with Ozmyn and Benzayda, Prisoners.
K. Ferd. That tertia of Italians did you guide,
To take their post upon the river side?
D. Arcos. All are according to your orders placed:
My chearful soldiers their intrenchments haste;
The Murcian foot hath ta’en the upper ground,
And now the city is beleaguered round.
K. Ferd. Why is not then their leader here again?
D. Arcos. The master of Alcantara is slain;
But he, who slew him, here before you stands:
It is that Moor whom you behold in bands.
K. Ferd. A braver man I had not in my host;
His murderer shall not long his conquest boast:
But, Duke of Arcos, say, how was he slain?
D. Arcos. Our soldiers marched together on the plain;
We two rode on, and left them far behind,
Till, coming where we found the valley wind,
We saw these Moors; who, swiftly as they could,
Ran on to gain the covert of a wood.
This we observed; and, having crossed their way,
The lady, out of breath, was forced to stay:
The man then stood, and straight his faulchion drew;
Then told us, we in vain did those pursue,
Whom their ill fortune to despair did drive,