John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  As there is music, uninformed by art,

  In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,

  The birds in unfrequented shades express,

  Which better taught at home, yet please us less.

  MARRIAGE À LA MODE

  A COMEDY.

  — Quicquid sum ego, quamvis

  Infra Lucili censum ingeniumque, tamen me

  Cum magnis vixisse, invita fatebitur usque

  Invidia, et fragili quærens illidere dentem,

  Offendet solido.

  Horat. Serm.

  Marriage a-la-mode was one of Dryden’s most successful comedies. A venerable praiser of the past time, in a curious letter printed in the Gentleman’s Magazine for 1745, gives us this account of its first representation. “This comedy, acted by his Majesty’s servants at the Theatre-Royal, made its first appearance with extraordinary lustre. Divesting myself of the old man, I solemnly declare, that you have seen no such acting, no, not in any degree since. The players were then, 1673, on a court establishment, seventeen men, and eight women.” Gent. Mag. Vol. xv. p. 99. From a copy of verses, to which this letter is annexed, we learn the excellence of the various performers by whom the piece was first presented. They are addressed to a young actress.

  Henceforth, in livelier characters excel,

  Though ’tis great merit to act folly well;

  Take, take from Dryden’s hand Melantha’s part,

  The gaudy effort of luxuriant art,

  In all imagination’s glitter drest;

  What from her lips fantastic Montfort caught,

  And almost moved the thing the poet thought.

  These scenes, the glory of a comic age,

  (It decency could blanch each sullied page)

  Peruse, admire, and give unto the stage;

  Or thou, or beauteous Woffington, display

  What Dryden’s self, with pleasure, might survey.

  Even he, before whose visionary eyes,

  Melantha, robed in ever-varying dies,

  Gay fancy’s work, appears, actor renowned.

  Like Roscius, with theatric laurels crowned,

  Cibber will smile applause, and think again

  Of Harte, and Mohun, and all the female train,

  Coxe, Marshal, Dryden’s Reeve, Bet Slade, and Charles’s reign.

  Mrs Monfort, who, by her second marriage, became Mrs Verbruggen, was the first who appeared in the highly popular part of Melantha, and the action and character appear to have been held incomparable by that unquestionable judge of the humour of a coquette, or coxcomb, the illustrious Colley Cibber. “Melantha” says Cibber, “is as finished an impertinent as ever fluttered in a drawing-room; and seems to contain the most complete system of female foppery that could possibly be crowded into the tortured form of a fine lady. Her language, dress, motion, manners, soul, and body, are in a continual hurry to be something more than is necessary or commendable. And, though I doubt it will be a vain labour to offer you a just likeness of Mrs Monfort’s action, yet the fantastic expression is still so strong in my memory, that I cannot help saying something, though fantastically, about it. The first ridiculous airs, that break from her, are upon a gallant never seen before, who delivers her a letter from her father, recommending him to her good graces as an honourable lover. Here, now, one would think she might naturally shew a little of the sex’s decent reserve, though never so slightly covered. No, sir, not a tittle of it: Modesty is a poor-souled country gentlewoman; she is too much a court lady to be under so vulgar a confusion. She reads the letter, therefore, with a careless dropping lip, and an erected brow, humming it hastily over, as if she were impatient to outgo her father’s commands, by making a complete conquest of him at once; and, that the letter might not embarrass the attack, crack! she crumbles it at once into her palm, and pours down upon him her whole artillery of airs, eyes, and motion; down goes her dainty diving body to the ground, as it she were sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions; then launches into a flood of fine language and compliment, still playing her chest forward in fifty falls and risings, like a swan upon waving water; and, to complete her impertinence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit, that she will not give her lover leave to praise it. Silent assenting bows, and vain endeavours to speak, are all the share of the conversation he is admitted to, which, at last, he is removed from by her engagement to half a score of visits, which she swims from him to make, with a promise to return in a twinkling.” Cibber’s Apology, p. 99.

  By this lively sketch, some judgment may be formed of the effect produced by the character of Melantha, when ably represented; but, to say the truth, we could hardly have drawn the same deduction from a simple perusal of the piece. Of the French phrases, which the affected lady throws into her conversation, some have been since naturalized, as good graces, minuet, chagrin, grimace, ridicule, and others. Little can be said of the tragic part of the drama. The sudden turn of fortune in the conclusion is ridiculed in “The Rehearsal.”

  The researches of Mr Malone have ascertained that “Marriage A-la-Mode” was first acted in 1673, in an old theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, occupied by the King’s company, after that in Drury-Lane had been burned, and during its re-building. The play was printed in the same year.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  ACT III.

  ACT IV.

  ACT V.

  EPILOGUE.

  TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

  My Lord,

  I humbly dedicate to your Lordship that poem, of which you were pleased to appear an early patron, before it was acted on the stage. I may yet go farther, with your permission, and say, that it received amendment from your noble hands ere it was fit to be presented. You may please likewise to remember, with how much favour to the author, and indulgence to the play, you commended it to the view of his Majesty, then at Windsor, and, by his approbation of it in writing, made way for its kind reception on the theatre. In this dedication, therefore, I may seem to imitate a custom of the ancients, who offered to their gods the firstlings of the flock, (which, I think, they called Ver sacrum) because they helped them to increase. I am sure, if there be any thing in this play, wherein I have raised myself beyond the ordinary lowness of my comedies, I ought wholly to acknowledge it to the favour of being admitted into your lordship’s conversation. And not only I, who pretend not to this way, but the best comic writers of our age, will join with me to acknowledge, that they have copied the gallantries of courts, the delicacy of expression, and the decencies of behaviour, from your lordship, with more success, than if they had taken their models from the court of France. But this, my lord, will be no wonder to the world, which knows the excellency of your natural parts, and those you have acquired in a noble education. That which, with more reason, I admire, is that being so absolute a courtier, you have not forgot either the ties of friendship, or the practice of generosity. In my little experience of a court, (which, I confess, I desire not to improve) I have found in it much of interest, and more of detraction: Few men there have that assurance of a friend, as not to be made ridiculous by him when they are absent. There are a middling sort of courtiers, who become happy by their want of wit; but they supply that want by an excess of malice to those who have it. And there is no such persecution as that of fools: They can never be considerable enough to be talked of themselves; so that they are safe only in their obscurity, and grow mischievous to witty men, by the great diligence of their envy, and by being always present to represent and aggravate their faults. In the mean time, they are forced, when they endeavour to be pleasant, to live on the offals of their wit whom they decry; and either to quote it, (which they do unwillingly) or to pass it upon others for their own. These are the men who make it their business to chace wit from the knowledge of princes, lest it should disgrace their ignorance. And this kind of malice your lordship has not so much a
voided, as surmounted. But if by the excellent temper of a royal master, always more ready to hear good than ill; if by his inclination to love you; if by your own merit and address; if by the charms of your conversation, the grace of your behaviour, your knowledge of greatness, and habitude in courts, you have been able to preserve yourself with honour in the midst of so dangerous a course; yet at least the remembrance of those hazards has inspired you with pity for other men, who, being of an inferior wit and quality to you, are yet persecuted, for being that in little, which your lordship is in great. For the quarrel of those people extends itself to any thing of sense; and if I may be so vain to own it, amongst the rest of the poets, has sometimes reached to the very borders of it, even to me. So that, if our general good fortune had not raised up your lordship to defend us, I know not whether any thing had been more ridiculous in court than writers. It is to your lordship’s favour we generally owe our protection and patronage; and to the nobleness of your nature, which will not suffer the least shadow of your wit to be contemned in other men. You have been often pleased, not only to excuse my imperfections, but to vindicate what was tolerable in my writings from their censures; and, what I never can forget, you have not only been careful of my reputation, but of my fortune. You have been solicitous to supply my neglect of myself; and to overcome the fatal modesty of poets, which submits them to perpetual wants, rather than to become importunate with those people who have the liberality of kings in their disposing, and who, dishonouring the bounty of their master, suffer such to be in necessity who endeavour at least to please him; and for whose entertainment he has generously provided, if the fruits of his royal favour were not often stopped in other hands. But your lordship has given me occasion, not to complain of courts whilst you are there. I have found the effects of your mediation in all my concernments; and they were so much the more noble in you, because they were wholly voluntary. I, became your lordship’s, (if I may venture on the similitude) as the world was made, without knowing him who made it; and brought only a passive obedience to be your creature. This nobleness of yours I think myself the rather obliged to own, because otherwise it must have been lost to all remembrance: For you are endowed with that excellent quality of a frank nature, to forget the good which you have done.

  But, my lord, I ought to have considered, that you are as great a judge, as you are a patron; and that in praising you ill, I should incur a higher note of ingratitude, than that I thought to have avoided. I stand in need of all your accustomed goodness for the dedication of this play; which, though perhaps it be the best of my comedies, is yet so faulty, that I should have feared you for my critic, if I had not, with some policy, given you the trouble of being my protector. Wit seems to have lodged itself more nobly in this age, than in any of the former; and people of my mean condition are only writers, because some of the nobility, and your lordship in the first place, are above the narrow praises which poesy could give you. But, let those who love to see themselves exceeded, encourage your lordship in so dangerous a quality; for my own part, I must confess, that I have so much of self-interest, as to be content with reading some papers of your verses, without desiring you should proceed to a scene, or play; with the common prudence of those who are worsted in a duel, and declare they are satisfied, when they are first wounded. Your lordship has but another step to make, and from the patron of wit, you may become its tyrant; and oppress our little reputations with more ease than you now protect them. But these, my lord, are designs, which I am sure you harbour not, any more than the French king is contriving the conquest of the Swissers. It is a barren triumph, which is not worth your pains; and would only rank him amongst your slaves, who is already,

  My Lord,

  Your Lordship’s most obedient,

  And most faithful servant,

  John Dryden.

  PROLOGUE.

  Lord, how reformed and quiet are we grown,

  Since all our braves and all our wits are gone!

  Fop-corner now is free from civil war,

  White-wig and vizard make no longer jar.

  France, and the fleet, have swept the town so clear,

  That we can act in peace, and you can hear.

  ’Twas a sad sight, before they marched from home,

  To see our warriors in red waistcoats come,

  With hair tucked up, into our tireing-room.

  But ’twas more sad to hear their last adieu:

  The women sobbed, and swore they would be true;

  And so they were, as long as e’er they could,

  But powerful guinea cannot be withstood,

  And they were made of play-house flesh and blood.

  Fate did their friends for double use ordain;

  In wars abroad they grinning honour gain,

  And mistresses, for all that stay, maintain.

  Now they are gone, ’tis dead vacation here,

  For neither friends nor enemies appear.

  Poor pensive punk now peeps ere plays begin,

  Sees the bare bench, and dares not venture in;

  But manages her last half-crown with care,

  And trudges to the Mall, on foot, for air.

  Our city friends so far will hardly come,

  They can take up with pleasures nearer home;

  And see gay shows, and gaudy scenes elsewhere;

  For we presume they seldom come to hear.

  But they have now ta’en up a glorious trade,

  And cutting Morecraft struts in masquerade.

  There’s all our hope, for we shall shew to-day

  A masking ball, to recommend our play;

  Nay, to endear them more, and let them see

  We scorn to come behind in courtesy,

  We’ll follow the new mode which they begin,

  And treat them with a room, and couch within:

  For that’s one way, howe’er the play fall short,

  To oblige the town, the city, and the court.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

  Polydamas, Usurper of Sicily.

  Leonidas, the rightful Prince, unknown.

  Argaleon, favourite to Polydamas.

  Hermogenes, foster-father to Leonidas.

  Eubulus, his friend and companion.

  Rhodophil, captain of the guards.

  Palamede, a courtier.

  Palmyra, daughter to the Usurper.

  Amalthea, sister to Argaleon.

  Doralice, wife to Rhodophil.

  Melantha, an affected lady.

  Philotis, woman to Melantha.

  Beliza, woman to Doralice.

  Artemis, a court lady.

  SCENE, — Sicily.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I. — Walks near the Court.

  Enter Doralice and Beliza.

  Dor. Beliza, bring the lute into this arbour; the walks are empty: I would try the song the princess Amalthea bade me learn.

  [They go in, and sing.

  I.

  Why should a foolish marriage vow,

  Which long ago was made,

  Oblige us to each other now,

  When passion is decayed?

  We loved, and we loved, as long as we could,

  ‘Till our love was loved out in us both;

  But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled:

  ’Twas pleasure first made it an oath.

  II.

  If I have pleasures for a friend,

  And further love in store,

  What wrong has he, whose joys did end,

  And who could give no more?

  ’Tis a madness that he

  Should be jealous of me,

  Or that I should bar him of another:

  For all we can gain,

  Is to give ourselves pain,

  When neither can hinder the other.

  Enter Palamede, in a riding-habit, and hears the Song. Re-enter Doralice and Beliza.

  Bel. Madam, a stranger.

  Dor. I did not think to have had witnesses of my bad singing.
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  Pala. If I have erred, madam, I hope you’ll pardon the curiosity of a stranger; for I may well call myself so, after five years absence from the court: but you have freed me from one error.

  Dor. What’s that, I beseech you?

  Pala. I thought good voices, and ill faces, had been inseparable; and that to be fair, and sing well, had been only the privilege of angels.

  Dor. And how many more of these fine things can you say to me?

  Pala. Very few, madam; for if I should continue to see you some hours longer, you look so killingly that I should be mute with wonder.

  Dor. This will not give you the reputation of a wit with me. You travelling monsieurs live upon the stock you have got abroad, for the first day or two: to repeat with a good memory, and apply with a good grace, is all your wit; and, commonly, your gullets are sewed up, like cormorants. When you have regorged what you have taken in, you are the leanest things in nature.

  Pala. Then, madam, I think you had best make that use of me; let me wait on you for two or three days together, and you shall hear all I have learnt of extraordinary in other countries; and one thing which I never saw ‘till I came home, that is, a lady of a better voice, better face, and better wit, than any I have seen abroad. And, after this, if I should not declare myself most passionately in love with you, I should have less wit than yet you think I have.