by John Dryden
[Exit.
Pala. This is the newest way of making an appointment I ever heard of. Let women alone to contrive the means; I find we are but dunces to them. Well, I will not be so prophane a wretch as to interrupt her devotions; but, to make them more effectual, I’ll down upon my knees, and endeavour to join my own with them.
[Exit.
Amal. [To Rho.] I know already they do not love each other; and that my brother acts but a forced obedience to the king’s commands; so that if a quarrel should arise betwixt the prince and him, I were most miserable on both sides.
Rho. There shall be nothing wanting in me, madam, to prevent so sad a consequence.
Enter the King and Leonidas; the King whispers Amalthea.
[To himself.] I begin to hate this Palamede, because he is to marry my mistress: Yet break with him I dare not, for fear of being quite excluded from her company. It is a hard case, when a man must go by his rival to his mistress: But it is, at worst, but using him like a pair of heavy boots in a dirty journey; after I have fouled him all day, I’ll throw him off at night.
[Exit.
Amal. [To the King.] This honour is too great for me to hope.
Poly. You shall this hour have the assurance of it. —
Leonidas, come hither; you have heard,
I doubt not, that the father of this princess
Was my most faithful friend, while I was yet
A private man; and when I did assume
This crown, he served me in the high attempt.
You see, then, to what gratitude obliges me;
Make your addresses to her.
Leon. Sir, I am yet too young to be a courtier;
I should too much betray my ignorance,
And want of breeding to so fair a lady.
Amal. Your language speaks you not bred up in desarts,
But in the softness of some Asian court,
Where luxury and ease invent kind words,
To cozen tender virgins of their hearts.
Poly. You need not doubt,
But in what words soe’er a prince can offer
His crown and person, they will be received.
You know my pleasure, and you know your duty.
Leon. Yes, sir, I shall obey, in what I can.
Poly. In what you can, Leonidas? Consider,
He’s both your king, and father, who commands you.
Besides, what is there hard in my injunction?
Leon. ’Tis hard to have my inclination forced.
I would not marry, sir; and, when I do,
I hope you’ll give me freedom in my choice.
Poly. View well this lady,
Whose mind as much transcends her beauteous face,
As that excels all others.
Amal. My beauty, as it ne’er could merit love,
So neither can it beg: And, sir, you may
Believe, that what the king has offered you,
I should refuse, did I not value more
Your person than your crown.
Leon. Think it not pride,
Or my new fortunes swell me to contemn you;
Think less, that I want eyes to see your beauty;
And, least of all, think duty wanting in me
To obey a father’s will: But —
Poly. But what, Leonidas?
For I must know your reason; and be sure
It be convincing too.
Leon. Sir, ask the stars,
Which have imposed love on us, like a fate,
Why minds are bent to one, and fly another?
Ask, why all beauties cannot move all hearts?
For though there may
Be made a rule for colour, or for feature,
There can be none for liking.
Poly. Leonidas, you owe me more
Than to oppose your liking to my pleasure.
Leon. I owe you all things, sir; but something, too,
I owe myself.
Poly. You shall dispute no more; I am a king,
And I will be obeyed.
Leon. You are a king, sir, but you are no god;
Or, if you were, you could not force my will.
Poly. [Aside.] But you are just, ye gods; O you are just,
In punishing the crimes of my rebellion
With a rebellious son!
Yet I can punish him, as you do me. —
Leonidas, there is no jesting with
My will: I ne’er had done so much to gain
A crown, but to be absolute in all things.
Amal. O, sir, be not so much a king, as to
Forget you are a father: Soft indulgence
Becomes that name. Tho’ nature gives you power
To bind his duty, ’tis with silken bonds:
Command him, then, as you command yourself;
He is as much a part of you, as are
Your appetite and will, and those you force not,
But gently bend, and make them pliant to your reason.
Poly. It may be I have used too rough a way. —
Forgive me, my Leonidas; I know
I lie as open to the gusts of passion,
As the bare shore to every, beating surge:
I will not force thee now; but I entreat thee,
Absolve a father’s vow to this fair virgin;
A vow, which hopes of having such a son
First caused.
Leon. Show not my disobedience by your prayers;
For I must still deny you, though I now
Appear more guilty to myself than you:
I have some reasons, which I cannot utter,
That force my disobedience; yet I mourn
To death, that the first thing, you e’er enjoined me,
Should be that only one command in nature,
Which I could not obey.
Poly. I did descend too much below myself,
When I entreated him. — Hence, to thy desart!
Thou’rt not my son, or art not fit to be.
Amal. Great sir, I humbly beg you, make not me [Kneeling.
The cause of your displeasure. I absolve
Your vow; far from me be such designs;
So wretched a desire of being great,
By making him unhappy. You may see
Something so noble in the prince’s nature,
As grieves him more, not to obey, than you,
That you are not obeyed.
Poly. Then, for your sake,
I’ll give him one day longer to consider,
Not to deny; for my resolves are firm
As fate, that cannot change. [Exeunt King and Amal.
Leon. And so are mine.
This beauteous princess, charming as she is,
Could never make me happy: I must first
Be false to my Palmyra, and then wretched.
But, then, a father’s anger!
Suppose he should recede from his own vow,
He never would permit me to keep mine.
Enter Palmyra; Argaleon following her, a little after.
See, she appears!
I’ll think no more of any thing, but her.
Yet I have one good hour ere I am wretched.
But, oh! Argaleon follows her! so night
Treads on the footsteps of a winter’s sun,
And stalks all black behind him.
Palm. O, Leonidas,
For I must call you still by that dear name,
Free me from this bad man.
Leon. I hope he dares not be injurious to you.
Arga. I rather was injurious to myself,
Than her.
Leon. That must be judged, when I hear what you said.
Arga. I think you need not give yourself that trouble:
It concerned us alone.
Leon. You answer saucily, and indirectly:
What interest can you pretend in her?
Arga. It may be, sir, I made her some expressions
Which I would not repeat, b
ecause they were
Below my rank, to one of hers.
Leon. What did he say, Palmyra?
Palm. I’ll tell you all: First, he began to look,
And then he sighed, and then he looked again;
At last, he said, my eyes wounded his heart:
And, after that, he talked of flames and fires,
And such strange words, that I believed he conjured.
Leon. O my heart! — Leave me, Argaleon.
Arga. Come, sweet Palmyra,
I will instruct you better in my meaning:
You see he would be private.
Leon. Go yourself,
And leave her here.
Arga. Alas, she’s ignorant,
And is not fit to entertain a prince.
Leon. First learn what’s fit for you; that’s to obey.
Arga. I know my duty is to wait on you.
A great king’s son, like you, ought to forget
Such mean converse.
Leon. What? a disputing subject?
Hence, or my sword shall do me justice on thee.
Arga. Yet I may find a time — [Going.
Leon. What’s that you mutter, [Going after him.
To find a time? —
Arga. To wait on you again —
In the mean while I’ll watch you. [Softly.
[Exit, and watches during the scene.
Leon. How precious are the hours of love in courts!
In cottages, where love has all the day,
Full, and at ease, he throws it half away.
Time gives himself, and is not valued, there;
But sells at mighty rates, each minute, here:
There, he is lazy, unemployed, and slow;
Here, he’s more swift; and yet has more to do.
So many of his hours in public move,
That few are left for privacy and love.
Palm. The sun, methinks, shines faint and dimly, here;
Light is not half so long, nor half so clear:
But, oh! when every day was yours and mine,
How early up! what haste he made to shine!
Leon. Such golden days no prince must hope to see,
Whose every subject is more blessed than he.
Palm. Do you remember, when their tasks were done,
How all the youth did to our cottage run?
While winter-winds were whistling loud without,
Our cheerful hearth was circled round about:
With strokes in ashes, maids their lovers drew;
And still you fell to me, and I to you.
Leon. When love did of my heart possession take,
I was so young, my soul was scarce awake:
I cannot tell when first I thought you fair;
But sucked in love, insensibly as air.
Palm. I know too well when, first my love began,
When at our wake you for the chaplet ran:
Then I was made the lady of the May,
And, with the garland, at the goal did stay:
Still, as you ran, I kept you full in view;
I hoped, and wished, and ran, methought, for you.
As you came near, I hastily did rise,
And stretched my arm outright, that held the prize.
The custom was to kiss whom I should crown;
You kneeled, and in my lap your head laid down:
I blushed, and blushed, and did the kiss delay;
At last my subjects forced me to obey:
But, when I gave the crown, and then the kiss,
I scarce had breath to say, Take that, — and this.
Leon. I felt, the while, a pleasing kind of smart;
That kiss went, tingling, to my very heart.
When it was gone, the sense of it did stay;
The sweetness clinged upon my lips all day,
Like drops of honey, loth to fall away.
Palm. Life, like a prodigal, gave all his store
To my first youth, and now can give no more.
You are a prince; and, in that high degree,
No longer must converse with humble me.
Leon. ’Twas to my loss the gods that title gave;
A tyrant’s son is doubly born a slave:
He gives a crown; but, to prevent my life
From being happy, loads it with a wife.
Palm. Speak quickly; what have you resolved to do?
Leon. To keep my faith inviolate to you.
He threatens me with exile, and with shame,
To lose my birthright, and a prince’s name;
But there’s a blessing which he did not mean,
To send me back to love and you again.
Palm. Why was not I a princess for your sake?
But heaven no more such miracles can make:
And, since that cannot, this must never be;
You shall not lose a crown for love of me.
Live happy, and a nobler choice pursue;
I shall complain of fate, but not of you.
Leon. Can you so easily without me live?
Or could you take the counsel, which you give?
Were you a princess, would you not be true?
Palm. I would; but cannot merit it from you.
Leon. Did you not merit, as you do, my heart,
Love gives esteem, and then it gives desert.
But if I basely could forget my vow,
Poor helpless innocence, what would you do?
Palm. In woods, and plains, where first my love began,
There would I live, retired from faithless man:
I’d sit all day within some lonely shade,
Or that close arbour which your hands have made:
I’d search the groves, and every tree, to find
Where you had carved our names upon the rind:
Your hook, your scrip, all that was yours, I’d keep,
And lay them by me when I went to sleep.
Thus would I live: And maidens, when I die,
Upon my hearse white true-love-knots should tie;
And thus my tomb should be inscribed above,
Here the forsaken Virgin rests from love.
Leon. Think not that time or fate shall e’er divide
Those hearts, which love and mutual vows have tied.
But we must part; farewell, my love.
Palm. Till when?
Leon. Till the next age of hours we meet again.
Meantime, we may,
When near each other we in public stand,
Contrive to catch a look, or steal a hand:
Fancy will every touch and glance improve;
And draw the most spirituous parts of love.
Our souls sit close, and silently within,
And their own web from their own entrails spin;
And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such,
That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch. [Exeunt.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Enter Rhodophil, meeting Doralice and Artemis; Rhodophil and Doralice embrace.
Rho. My own dear heart!
Dor. My own true love! [She starts back.] I had forgot myself to be so kind; indeed, I am very angry with you, dear; you are come home an hour after you appointed: if you had staid a minute longer, I was just considering whether I should stab, hang, or drown myself.
[Embracing him.
Rho. Nothing but the king’s business could have hindered me; and I was so vexed, that I was just laying down my commission, rather than have failed my dear.
[Kisses her hand.
Arte. Why, this is love as it should be betwixt man and wife: such another couple would bring marriage into fashion again. But is it always thus betwixt you?
Rho. Always thus! this is nothing. I tell you, there is not such a pair of turtles in Sicily; there is such an eternal cooing and kissing betwixt us, that indeed it is scandalous before civil company.
Dor. Well, if I had imagined I should have been this fond fool,
I would never have married the man I loved: I married to be happy, and have made myself miserable by over-loving. Nay, and now my case is desperate; for I have been married above these two years, and find myself every day worse and worse in love: nothing but madness can be the end on’t.
Arte. Doat on, to the extremity, and you are happy.
Dor. He deserves so infinitely much, that, the truth is, there can be no doating in the matter; but, to love well, I confess, is a work that pays itself: ’Tis telling gold, and, after, taking it for one’s pains.
Rho. By that I should be a very covetous person; for I am ever pulling out my money, and putting it into my pocket again.
Dor. O dear Rhodophil!
Rho. O sweet Doralice! [Embracing each other.
Arte. [Aside.] Nay, I am resolved, I’ll never interrupt lovers: I’ll leave them as happy as I found them.
[Steals away.
Rho. What, is she gone? [Looking up.
Dor. Yes; and without taking leave.
Rho. Then there’s enough for this time. [Parting from her.
Dor. Yes, sure, the scene is done, I take it.
They walk contrary ways on the stage; he, with his hands in his pockets, whistling; she singing a dull melancholy tune.
Rho. Pox o’your dull tune, a man can’t think for you.
Dor. Pox o’your damned whistling; you can neither be company to me yourself, nor leave me to the freedom of my own fancy.
Rho. Well, thou art the most provoking wife!
Dor. Well, thou art the dullest husband, thou art never to be provoked.
Rho. I was never thought dull till I married thee; and now thou hast made an old knife of me; thou hast whetted me so long, till I have no edge left.
Dor. I see you are in the husband’s fashion; you reserve all your good humours for your mistresses, and keep your ill for your wives.
Rho. Prythee leave me to my own cogitations; I am thinking over all my sins, to find for which of them it was I married thee.
Dor. Whatever your sin was, mine’s the punishment.
Rho. My comfort is, thou art not immortal; and, when that blessed, that divine day comes of thy departure, I’m resolved I’ll make one holiday more in the almanack for thy sake.
Dor. Ay, you had need make a holiday for me, for I am sure you have made me a martyr.
Rho. Then, setting my victorious foot upon thy head, in the first hour of thy silence, (that is, the first hour thou art dead, for I despair of it before) I will swear by thy ghost, — an oath as terrible to me as Styx is to the gods, — never more to be in danger of the banes of matrimony.
Dor. And I am resolved to marry the very same day thou diest, if it be but to show how little I’m concerned for thee.
Rho. Pray thee, Doralice, why do we quarrel thus a-days? ha! this is but a kind of heathenish life, and does not answer the ends of marriage. If I have erred, propound what reasonable atonement may be made before we sleep, and I will not be refractory; but withal consider, I have been married these three years, and be not too tyrannical.