by John Dryden
For you shall know no further.
Poly. Then prove indulgent to my hopes, and be
My friend for ever. Tell me, good Hermogenes,
Whose son is that brave youth?
Her. Sir, he is yours.
Poly. Fool that I am! thou see’st that so I wish it,
And so thou flatter’st me.
Her. By all that’s holy!
Poly. Again. Thou canst not swear too deeply. —
Yet hold, I will believe thee: — Yet I doubt.
Her. You need not, sir.
Arga. Believe him not; he sees you credulous,
And would impose his own base issue on you,
And fix it to your crown.
Amal. Behold his goodly shape and feature, sir;
Methinks he much resembles you.
Arga. I say, if you have any issue here,
It must be that fair creature;
By all my hopes I think so.
Amal. Yes, brother, I believe you by your hopes,
For they are all for her.
Poly. Call the youth nearer.
Her. Leonidas, the king would speak with you.
Poly. Come near, and be not dazzled with the splendour,
And greatness of a court.
Leon. I need not this encouragement;
I can fear nothing but the gods.
And, for this glory, after I have seen
The canopy of state spread wide above
In the abyss of heaven, the court of stars,
The blushing morning, and the rising sun,
What greater can I see?
Poly. This speaks thee born a prince; thou art, thyself, [Embracing him.
That rising sun, and shalt not see, on earth,
A brighter than thyself. All of you witness,
That for my son I here receive this youth,
This brave, this — but I must not praise him further,
Because he now is mine.
Leon. I wo’not, sir, believe [Kneeling.
That I am made your sport;
For I find nothing in myself, but what
Is much above a scorn. I dare give credit
To whatsoe’er a king, like you, can tell me.
Either I am, or will deserve to be, your son.
Arga. I yet maintain it is impossible
This young man should be yours; for, if he were,
Why should Hermogenes so long conceal him,
When he might gain so much by his discovery?
Her. I staid a while to make him worthy, sir,
Of you. [To the King.
But in that time I found
Somewhat within him, which so moved my love,
I never could resolve to part with him.
Leon. You ask too many questions, and are [To Arga.
Too saucy for a subject.
Arga. You rather over-act your part, and are
Too soon a prince.
Leon. Too soon you’ll find me one.
Poly. Enough, Argaleon!
I have declared him mine; and you, Leonidas,
Live well with him I love.
Arga. Sir, if he be your son, I may have leave
To think your queen had twins. Look on this virgin;
Hermogenes would enviously deprive you
Of half your treasure.
Her. Sir, she is my daughter.
I could, perhaps, thus aided by this lord,
Prefer her to be yours; but truth forbid
I should procure her greatness by a lie!
Poly. Come hither, beauteous maid: Are you not sorry
Your father will not let you pass for mine?
Palm. I am content to be what heaven has made me.
Poly. Could you not wish yourself a princess then?
Palm. Not to be sister to Leonidas.
Poly. Why, my sweet maid?
Palm. Indeed I cannot tell;
But I could be content to be his handmaid.
Arga. I wish I had not seen her. [Aside.
Palm. I must weep for your good fortune; [To Leon.
Pray, pardon me, indeed I cannot help it.
Leonidas, — alas! I had forgot,
Now I must call you prince, — but must I leave you?
Leon. I dare not speak to her; for, if I should,
I must weep too. [Aside.
Poly. No, you shall live at court, sweet innocence,
And see him there. Hermogenes,
Though you intended not to make me happy,
Yet you shall be rewarded for the event.
Come, my Leonidas, let’s thank the gods;
Thou for a father, I for such a son. [Exeunt all but Leon. and Palm.
Leon. My dear Palmyra, many eyes observe me,
And I have thoughts so tender, that I cannot
In public speak them to you: Some hours hence,
I shall shake off these crowds of fawning courtiers,
And then — [Exit Leon.
Palm. Fly swift, you hours! you measure time for me in vain,
‘Till you bring back Leonidas again.
Be shorter now; and, to redeem that wrong,
When he and I are met, be twice as long! [Exit.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Enter Melantha and Philotis.
Phil. Count Rhodophil’s a fine gentleman indeed, madam; and, I think, deserves your affection.
Mel. Let me die but he’s a fine man; he sings and dances en François, and writes the billets doux to a miracle.
Phil. And those are no small talents, to a lady that understands, and values the French air, as your ladyship does.
Mel. How charming is the French air! and what an etourdi bête is one of our untravelled islanders! When he would make his court to me, let me die but he is just Æsop’s ass, that would imitate the courtly French in his addresses; but, instead of those, comes pawing upon me, and doing all things so mal a droitly.
Phil. ’Tis great pity Rhodophil’s a married man, that you may not have an honourable intrigue with him.
Mel. Intrigue, Philotis! that’s an old phrase; I have laid that word by; amour sounds better. But thou art heir to all my cast words, as thou art to my old wardrobe. Oh, count Rhodophil! Ah mon cher! I could live and die with him.
Enter Palamede, and a Servant.
Serv. Sir, this is my lady.
Pala. Then this is she that is to be divine, and nymph, and goddess, and with whom I am to be desperately in love.
[Bows to her, delivering a letter.
This letter, madam, which I present you from your father, has given me both the happy opportunity, and the boldness, to kiss the fairest hands in Sicily.
Mel. Came you lately from Palermo, sir?
Pala. But yesterday, madam.
Mel. [Reading the letter.] Daughter, receive the bearer of this letter, as a gentleman whom I have chosen to make you happy. [O Venus, a new servant sent me! and let me die but he has the air of a gallant homme!] His father is the rich lord Cleodemus, our neighbour: I suppose you’ll find nothing disagreeable in his person or his converse; both which he has improved by travel. The treaty is already concluded, and I shall be in town within these three days; so that you have nothing to do but to obey your careful father.
[To Pala.] Sir, my father, for whom I have a blind obedience, has commanded me to receive your passionate addresses; but you must also give me leave to avow, that I cannot merit them from so accomplished a cavalier.
Pala. I want many things, madam, to render me accomplished; and the first and greatest of them is your favour.
Mel. Let me die, Philotis, but this is extremely French; but yet Count Rhodophil — a gentleman, sir, that understands the grand monde so well, who has haunted the best conversations, and who, in short, has voyaged, may pretend to the good graces of a lady.
Pala. [Aside.] Hey-day! Grand monde! Conversation! voyaged! and good graces! I find my mistress is one of those that run mad in new French words.
Mel. I suppose, sir, you have made the tour of France; and, having seen all that’s fine there, will make a considerable reformation in the rudeness of our court: For let me die, but an unfashioned, untravelled, mere Sicilian, is a bête; and has nothing in the world of an honnête homme.
Pala. I must confess, madam, that —
Mel. And what new minuets have you brought over with you? their minuets are to a miracle! and our Sicilian jiggs are so dull and sad to them!
Pala. For minuets, madam —
Mel. And what new plays are there in vogue? And who danced best in the last grand ballet? Come, sweet servant, you shall tell me all.
Pala. [aside.] Tell her all? Why, she asks all, and will hear nothing. — To answer in order, madam, to your demands —
Mel. I am thinking what a happy couple we shall be! For you shall keep up your correspondence abroad, and every thing that’s new writ, in France, and fine, I mean all that’s delicate, and bien tourné, we will have first.
Pala. But, madam, our fortune —
Mel. I understand you, sir; you’ll leave that to me: For the menage of a family, I know it better than any lady in Sicily.
Pala. Alas, madam, we —
Mel. Then, we will never make visits together, nor see a play, but always apart; you shall be every day at the king’s levee, and I at the queen’s; and we will never meet, but in the drawing-room.
Phil. Madam, the new prince is just passed by the end of the walk.
Mel. The new prince, sayest thou? Adieu, dear servant; I have not made my court to him these two long hours. O, it is the sweetest prince! so obligeant, charmant, ravissant, that — Well, I’ll make haste to kiss his hands, and then make half a score visits more, and be with you again in a twinkling.
[Exit running, with Phil.
Pala. [solus.] Now heaven, of thy mercy, bless me from this tongue! it may keep the field against a whole army of lawyers, and that in their own language, French gibberish. It is true, in the day-time, it is tolerable, when a man has field room to run from it; but to be shut up in a bed with her, like two cocks in a pit, humanity cannot support it. I must kiss all night in my own defence, and hold her down, like a boy at cuffs, and give her the rising blow every time she begins to speak.
Enter Rhodophil.
But here comes Rhodophil. It is pretty odd that my mistress should so much resemble his: The same newsmonger, the same passionate lover of a court, the same — But, Basta, since I must marry her. I’ll say nothing, because he shall not laugh at my misfortune.
Rho. Well, Palamede, how go the affairs of love? You have seen your mistress?
Pala. I have so.
Rho. And how, and how? has the old Cupid, your father, chosen well for you? is he a good woodman?
Pala. She’s much handsomer than I could have imagined: In short, I love her, and will marry her.
Rho. Then you are quite off from your other mistress?
Pala. You are mistaken; I intend to love them both, as a reasonable man ought to do: For, since all women have their faults and imperfections, it is fit that one of them should help out the other.
Rho. This were a blessed doctrine, indeed, if our wives would hear it; but they are their own enemies: If they would suffer us but now and then to make excursions, the benefit of our variety would be theirs; instead of one continued, lazy, tired love, they would, in their turns, have twenty vigorous, fresh, and active lovers.
Pala. And I would ask any of them, whether a poor narrow brook, half dry the best part of the year, and running ever one way, be to be compared to a lusty stream, that has ebbs and flows?
Rho. Ay, or is half so profitable for navigation?
Enter Doralice, walking by, and reading.
Pala. Ods my life, Rhodophil, will you keep my counsel?
Rho. Yes: Where’s the secret?
Pala. There it is: [Shewing Dor.] I may tell you, as my friend, sub sigillo, &c. this is that very lady, with whom I am in love.
Rho. By all that’s virtuous, my wife! [Aside.
Pala. You look strangely: How do you like her? Is she not very handsome?
Rho. Sure he abuses me. [Aside.] — Why the devil do you ask my judgment?
Pala. You are so dogged now, you think no man’s mistress handsome but your own. Come, you shall hear her talk too; she has wit, I assure you.
Rho. This is too much, Palamede. [Going back.
Pala. Pr’ythee do not hang back so: Of an old tried lover, thou art the most bashful fellow!
[Pulling him forward.
Dor. Were you so near, and would not speak, dear husband? [Looking up.
Pala. Husband, quoth a! I have cut out a fine piece of work for myself. [Aside.
Rho. Pray, spouse, how long have you been acquainted with this gentleman?
Dor. Who? I acquainted with this stranger? To my best knowledge, I never saw him before.
Enter Melantha at the other end.
Pala. Thanks, fortune, thou hast helped me. [Aside.
Rho. Palamede, this must not pass so. I must know your mistress a little better.
Pala. It shall be your own fault else. Come, I’ll introduce you.
Rho. Introduce me! where?
Pala. There. To my mistress. [Pointing to Melantha, who swiftly passes over the stage.
Rho. Who? Melantha! O heavens, I did not see her.
Pala. But I did: I am an eagle where I love; I have seen her this half hour.
Dor. [Aside.] I find he has wit, he has got off so readily; but it would anger me, if he should love Melantha.
Rho. [Aside.] Now, I could even wish it were my wife he loved; I find he’s to be married to my mistress.
Pala. Shall I run after, and fetch her back again, to present you to her?
Rho. No, you need not; I have the honour to have some small acquaintance with her.
Pala. [Aside.] O Jupiter! what a blockhead was I, not to find it out! my wife, that must be, is his mistress. I did a little suspect it before. Well, I must marry her, because she’s handsome, and because I hate to be disinherited by a younger brother, which I am sure I shall be, if I disobey; and yet I must keep in with Rhodophil, because I love his wife. — [To Rho.] I must desire you to make my excuse to your lady, if I have been so unfortunate to cause any mistake; and, withal, to beg the honour of being known to her.
Rho. O, that is but reason. — Hark you, spouse, pray look upon this gentleman as my friend; whom, to my knowledge, you have never seen before this hour.
Dor. I am so obedient a wife, sir, that my husband’s commands shall ever be a law to me.
Enter Melantha again, hastily, and runs to embrace Doralice.
Mel. O, my dear, I was just going to pay my devoirs to you; I had not time this morning, for making my court to the king, and our new prince. Well, never nation was so happy, and all that, in a young prince; and he is the kindest person in the world to me, let me die if he is not.
Dor. He has been bred up far from court, and therefore —
Mel. That imports not: Though he has not seen the grand monde, and all that, let me die but he has the air of the court most absolutely.
Pala. But yet, madam, he —
Mel. O, servant, you can testify that I am in his good graces. Well, I cannot stay long with you, because I have promised him this afternoon to — But hark you, my dear, I’ll tell you a secret.
[Whispers to Dor.
Rho. The devil’s in me, that I must love this woman. [Aside.
Pala. The devil’s in me, that I must marry this woman. [Aside.
Mel. [Raising her voice.] So the prince and I — But you must make a secret of this, my dear; for I would not for the world your husband should hear it, or my tyrant, there, that must be.
Pala. Well, fair impertinent, your whisper is not lost, we hear you. [Aside.
Dor. I understand then, that —
Mel. I’ll tell you, my dear, the prince took me by the hand, and pressed it a la derobbée, because the king was near, made the doux yeux to me, and, e
nsuite, said a thousand gallantries, or let me die, my dear.
Dor. Then I am sure you —
Mel. You are mistaken, my dear.
Dor. What, before I speak?
Mel. But I know your meaning. You think, my dear, that I assumed something of fierté into my countenance, to rebute, him; but, quite contrary, I regarded him, — I know not how to express it in our dull Sicilian language, — d’un air enjoüé; and said nothing but ad autre, ad autre, and that it was all grimace, and would not pass upon me.
Enter Artemis: Melantha sees her, and runs away from Doralice.
[To Artemis.] My dear, I must beg your pardon, I was just making a loose from Doralice, to pay my respects to you. Let me die, if I ever pass time so agreeably as in your company, and if I would leave it for any lady’s in Sicily.
Arte. The princess Amalthea is coming this way.
Enter Amalthea: Melantha runs to her.
Mel. O, dear madam! I have been at your lodging in my new galeche, so often, to tell you of a new amour, betwixt two persons whom you would little suspect for it, that, let me die if one of my coach-horses be not dead, and another quite tired, and sunk under the fatigue.
Amal. O, Melantha, I can tell you news; the prince is coming this way.
Mel. The prince? O sweet prince! He and I are to — and I forgot it. — Your pardon, sweet madam, for my abruptness. — Adieu, my dear servant, — Rhodophil. — Servant, servant, servant all.
[Exit running.
Amal. Rhodophil, a word with you. [Whispers.
Dor. [To Pala.] Why do you not follow your mistress, sir?
Pala. Follow her? Why, at this rate she’ll be at the Indies within this half hour.
Dor. However, if you cannot follow her all day, you will meet her at night, I hope?
Pala. But can you, in charity, suffer me to be so mortified, without affording me some relief? If it be but to punish that sign of a husband there, that lazy matrimony, that dull insipid taste, who leaves such delicious fare at home, to dine abroad on worse meat, and pay dear for it into the bargain.
Dor. All this is in vain: Assure yourself, I will never admit of any visit from you in private.
Pala. That is to tell me, in other words, my condition is desperate.
Dor. I think you in so ill a condition, that I am resolved to pray for you, this very evening, in the close walk behind the terrace; for that’s a private place, and there I am sure nobody will disturb my devotions. And so, good-night, sir.