John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Dor. What should you talk of a peace a-bed, when you can give no security for performance of articles?

  Rho. Then, since we must live together, and both of us stand upon our terms, as to matters of dying first, let us make ourselves as merry as we can with our misfortunes. Why, there’s the devil on’t! if thou could’st make my enjoying thee but a little easy, or a little more unlawful, thou should’st see what a termagant lover I would prove. I have taken such pains to enjoy thee, Doralice, that I have fancied thee all the fine women of the town — to help me out: But now there’s none left for me to think on, my imagination is quite jaded. Thou art a wife, and thou wilt be a wife, and I can make thee another no longer.

  [Exit Rho.

  Dor. Well, since thou art a husband, and wilt be a husband, I’ll try if I can find out another. ’Tis a pretty time we women have on’t, to be made widows while we are married. Our husbands think it reasonable to complain, that we are the same, and the same to them, when we have more reason to complain, that they are not the same to us. Because they cannot feed on one dish, therefore we must be starved. ’Tis enough that they have a sufficient ordinary provided, and a table ready spread for them: If they cannot fall too, and eat heartily, the fault is theirs; and ’tis pity, methinks, that the good creature should be lost, when many a poor sinner would be glad on’t.

  Enter Melantha and Artemis to her.

  Mel. Dear, my dear, pity me, I am so chagrin to day, and have had the most signal affront at court! I went this afternoon to do my devoir to princess Amalthea, found her, conversed with her, and helped to make her court some half an hour; after which, she went to take the air, chose out two ladies to go with her, that came in after me, and left me most barbarously behind her.

  Arte. You are the less to be pitied, Melantha, because you subject yourself to these affronts, by coming perpetually to court, where you have no business nor employment.

  Mel. I declare, I had rather of the two be rallied nay, mal traitée at court, than be deified in the town; for, assuredly, nothing can be so ridicule as a mere town lady.

  Dor. Especially at court. How I have seen them crowd and sweat in the drawing-room on a holiday-night! For that’s their time to swarm and invade the presence. O, how they catch at a bow, or any little salute from a courtier, to make show of their acquaintance! and, rather than be thought to be quite unknown, they court’sy to one another; but they take true pains to come near the circle, and press and peep upon the princess, to write letters into the country how she was dressed, while the ladies, that stand about, make their court to her with abusing them.

  Arte. These are sad truths, Melantha; and therefore I would e’en advise you to quit the court, and live either wholly in the town, or, if you like not that, in the country.

  Dor. In the country! nay, that’s to fall beneath the town, for they live upon our offals here. Their entertainment of wit is only the remembrance of what they had when they were last in town; — they live this year upon the last year’s knowledge, as their cattle do all night, by chewing the cud of what they eat in the afternoon.

  Mel. And they tell, for news, such unlikely stories! A letter from one of us is such a present to them, that the poor souls wait for the carrier’s-day with such devotion, that they cannot sleep the night before.

  Arte. No more than I can, the night before I am to go a journey.

  Dor. Or I, before I am to try on a new gown.

  Mel. A song, that’s stale here, will be new there a twelvemonth hence; and if a man of the town by chance come amongst them, he’s reverenced for teaching them the tune.

  Dor. A friend of mine, who makes songs sometimes, came lately out of the west, and vowed he was so put out of countenance with a song of his; for, at the first country gentleman’s he visited, he saw three tailors cross legged upon the table in the hall, who were tearing out as loud as ever they could sing,

  — After the pangs of a desperate lover, &c.

  And that all day he heard of nothing else, but the daughters of the house, and the maids, humming it over in every corner, and the father whistling it. Arte. Indeed, I have observed of myself, that when I am out of town but a fortnight, I am so humble, that I would receive a letter from my tailor or mercer for a favour.

  Mel. When I have been at grass in the summer, and am new come up again, methinks I’m to be turned into ridicule by all that see me; but when I have been once or twice at court, I begin to value myself again, and to despise my country acquaintance.

  Arte. There are places where all people may be adored, and we ought to know ourselves so well as to choose them.

  Dor. That’s very true; your little courtier’s wife, who speaks to the king but once a month, need but go to a town lady, and there she may vapour and cry,— “The king and I,” at every word. Your town lady, who is laughed at in the circle, takes her coach into the city, and there she’s called Your honour, and has a banquet from the merchant’s wife, whom she laughs at for her kindness. And, as for my finical cit, she removes but to her country house, and there insults over the country gentlewoman that never comes up, who treats her with furmity and custard, and opens her dear bottle of mirabilis beside, for a gill-glass of it at parting.

  Arte. At last, I see, we shall leave Melantha where we found her; for, by your description of the town and country, they are become more dreadful to her than the court, where she was affronted. But you forget we are to wait on the princess Amalthea. Come, Doralice.

  Dor. Farewell, Melantha.

  Mel. Adieu, my dear.

  Arte. You are out of charity with her, and therefore I shall not give your service.

  Mel. Do not omit it, I beseech you; for I have such a tendre for the court, that I love it even from the drawing-room to the lobby, and can never be rebutée by any usage. But hark you, my dears; one thing I had forgot, of great concernment.

  Dor. Quickly then, we are in haste.

  Mel. Do not call it my service, that’s too vulgar; but do my baise mains to the princess Amalthea; that is spirituelle!

  Dor. To do you service, then, we will prendre the carosse to court, and do your baise mains to the princess Amalthea, in your phrase spirituelle.

  [Exeunt Artemis and Doralice.

  Enter Philotis, with a paper in her hand.

  Mel. O, are you there, minion? And, well, are not you a most precious damsel, to retard all my visits for want of language, when you know you are paid so well for furnishing me with new words for my daily conversation? Let me die, if I have not run the risque already to speak like one of the vulgar, and if I have one phrase left in all my store, that is not thread-bare et usé, and fit for nothing but to be thrown to peasants.

  Phil. Indeed, Madam, I have been very diligent in my vocation; but you have so drained all the French plays and romances, that they are not able to supply you with words for your daily expence.

  Mel. Drained? What a word’s there! Epuisée, you sot you. Come, produce your morning’s work.

  Phil. ’Tis here, madam. [Shows the paper.

  Mel. O, my Venus! fourteen or fifteen words to serve me a whole day! Let me die, at this rate I cannot last till night. Come, read your works: Twenty to one, half of them will not pass muster neither.

  Phil. Sottises. [Reads.

  Mel. Sottises: bon. That’s an excellent word to begin withal; as, for example, he or she said a thousand sottises to me. Proceed.

  Phil. Figure: As, what a figure of a man is there! Naive, and naiveté.

  Mel. Naive! as how?

  Phil. Speaking of a thing that was naturally said, it was so naive; or, such an innocent piece of simplicity ’twas such a naiveté.

  Mel. Truce with your interpretations. Make haste.

  Phil. Foible, chagrin, grimace, embarrasse, double entendre, equivoque, ecclaircissement, suittè, beveue, façon, penchant, coup d’etourdy, and ridicule.

  Mel. Hold, hold; how did they begin?

  Phil. They began at sottises, and ended en ridicule.

  Mel. N
ow, give me your paper in my hand, and hold you my glass, while I practise my postures for the day. [Melantha laughs in the glass.] How does that laugh become my face?

  Phil. Sovereignly well, madam.

  Mel. Sovereignly? Let me die, that’s not amiss. That word shall not be yours; I’ll invent it, and bring it up myself: My new point gorget shall be yours upon’t. Not a word of the word, I charge you.

  Phil. I am dumb, madam.

  Mel. That glance, how suits it with my face? [Looking in the glass again.

  Phil. ’Tis so languissant!

  Mel. Languissant! that word shall be mine too, and my last Indian gown thine for’t. That sigh?

  [Looks again.

  Phil. ‘Twill make a man sigh, madam. ’Tis a mere incendiary.

  Mel. Take my guimp petticoat for that truth. If thou hast most of these phrases, let me die but I could give away all my wardrobe, and go naked for them.

  Phil. Go naked? Then you would be a Venus, madam. O Jupiter! what had I forgot? This paper was given me by Rhodophil’s page.

  Mel. [Reading the letter.] Beg the favour from you. — Gratify my passion — so far — assignation — in the grotto — behind the terrace — clock this evening — Well, for the billets doux there is no man in Sicily must dispute with Rhodophil; they are so French, so gallant, and so tendre, that I cannot resist the temptation of the assignation. Now, go you away, Philotis; it imports me to practise what to say to my servant when I meet him. [Exit Philotis.] Rhodophil, you’ll wonder at my assurance to meet you here; — let me die, I am so out of breath with coming, that I can render you no reason of it. — Then he will make this repartee; Madam, I have no reason to accuse you for that which is so great a favour to me. — Then I reply, But why have you drawn me to this solitary place? Let me die, but I am apprehensive of some violence from you. — Then says he, Solitude, madam, is most fit for lovers; but by this fair hand — Nay, now I vow you’re rude, sir. O fy, fy, fy; I hope you’ll be honourable? — You’d laugh at me if I should, madam. — What, do you mean to throw me down thus? Ah me! ah! ah! ah!

  Enter Polydamas, Leonidas, and Guards.

  O Venus! the king and court. Let me die, but I fear they have found my foible, and will turn me into ridicule.

  [Exit, running.

  Leon. Sir, I beseech you.

  Poly. Do not urge my patience.

  Leon. I’ll not deny,

  But what your spies informed you of is true:

  I love the fair Palmyra; but I loved her

  Before I knew your title to my blood.

  Enter Palmyra guarded.

  See, here she comes, and looks, amidst her guards,

  Like a weak dove under the falcon’s gripe.

  O heaven, I cannot bear it.

  Poly. Maid, come hither.

  Have you presumed so far, as to receive

  My son’s affections?

  Palm. Alas, what shall I answer? To confess it

  Will raise a blush upon a virgin’s face;

  Yet I was ever taught ’twas base to lie.

  Poly. You’ve been too bold, and you must love no more.

  Palm. Indeed I must; I cannot help my love;

  I was so tender when I took the bent,

  That now I grow that way.

  Poly. He is a prince, and you are meanly born.

  Leon. Love either finds equality, or makes it:

  Like death, he knows no difference in degrees,

  But plains, and levels all.

  Palm. Alas! I had not rendered up my heart,

  Had he not loved me first; but he preferred me

  Above the maidens of my age and rank, —

  Still shunned their company, and still sought mine.

  I was not won by gifts, yet still he gave;

  And all his gifts, though small, yet spoke his love.

  He picked the earliest strawberries in woods,

  The clustered filberds, and the purple grapes;

  He taught a prating stare to speak my name;

  And, when he found a nest of nightingales,

  Or callow linnets, he would show them me,

  And let me take them out.

  Poly. This is a little mistress, meanly born,

  Fit only for a prince’s vacant hours,

  And then, to laugh at her simplicity,

  Not fix a passion there. Now hear my sentence.

  Leon. Remember, ere you give it, ’tis pronounced

  Against us both.

  Poly. First, in her hand

  There shall be placed a player’s painted sceptre,

  And, on her head, a gilded pageant crown:

  Thus shall she go,

  With all the boys attending on her triumph;

  That done, be put alone into a boat,

  With bread and water only for three days;

  So on the sea she shall be set adrift,

  And who relieves her dies.

  Palm. I only beg that you would execute

  The last part first: Let me be put to sea;

  The bread and water for my three days life

  I give you back, I would not live so long;

  But let me ‘scape the shame.

  Leon. Look to me, piety; and you, O Gods, look to my piety!

  Keep me from saying that, which misbecomes a son;

  But let me die before I see this done.

  Poly. If you for ever will abjure her sight,

  I can be yet a father; she shall live.

  Leon. Hear, O you powers! is this to be a father?

  I see ’tis all my happiness and quiet

  You aim at, sir; and take them:

  I will not save even my Palmyra’s life

  At that ignoble price; but I’ll die with her.

  Palm. So had I done by you,

  Had fate made me a princess. — Death, methinks,

  Is not a terror now:

  He is not fierce, or grim, but fawns, and sooths me,

  And slides along, like Cleopatra’s aspick,

  Offering his service to my troubled breast.

  Leon. Begin what you have purposed when you please;

  Lead her to scorn, your triumph shall be doubled.

  As holy priests,

  In pity, go with dying malefactors,

  So I will share her shame.

  Poly. You shall not have your will so much; first part them,

  Then execute your office.

  Leon. No; I’ll die

  In her defence. [Draws his sword.

  Palm. Ah, hold, and pull not on

  A curse, to make me worthy of my death:

  Do not by lawless force oppose your father,

  Whom you have too much disobeyed for me.

  Leon. Here, take it, sir, and with it pierce my heart: [Presenting his sword to his Father upon his knees.

  You have done more in taking my Palmyra.

  You are my father; therefore I submit.

  Poly. Keep him from any thing he may design

  Against his life, while the first fury lasts;

  And now perform what I commanded you.

  Leon. In vain; if sword and poison be denied me,

  I’ll hold my breath and die.

  Palm. Farewell, my last Leonidas; yet live,

  I charge you, live, ‘till you believe me dead.

  I cannot die in peace, if you die first;

  If life’s a blessing, you shall have it last.

  Poly. Go on with her, and lead him after me.

  Enter Argaleon hastily, with Hermogenes.

  Arga. I bring you, sir, such news as must amaze you,

  And such as will prevent you from an action,

  Which would have rendered all your life unhappy. [Hermogenes kneels.

  Poly. Hermogenes, you bend your knees in vain,

  My doom’s already past.

  Her. I kneel not for Palmyra, for I know

  She will not need my prayers; but for myself:

  With a feigned tale I have abused your ears,


  And, therefore, merit death: but since, unforced,

  I first accuse myself, I hope your mercy.

  Poly. Haste to explain your meaning.

  Her. Then, in few words, Palmyra is your daughter.

  Poly. How can I give belief to this impostor?

  He, who has once abused me, often may.

  I’ll hear no more.

  Arga. For your own sake, you must.

  Her. A parent’s love, — for I confess my crime, —

  Moved me to say, Leonidas was yours;

  But when I heard Palmyra was to die,

  The fear of guiltless blood so stung my conscience,

  That I resolved, even with my shame, to save

  Your daughter’s life.

  Poly. But how can I be certain, but that interest,

  Which moved you first to say your son was mine,

  Does not now move you too, to save your daughter?

  Her. You had but then my word; I bring you now

  Authentic testimonies. Sir, in short, [Delivers on his knees a jewel, and letter.

  If this will not convince you, let me suffer.

  Poly. I know this jewel well; ’twas once my mother’s, [Looking first on the jewel.

  Which, marrying, I presented to my wife.

  And this, O this is my Eudocia’s hand.

  This was the pledge of love given to Eudocia, [Reads.

  Who, dying, to her young Palmyra leaves it;

  And this, when you, my dearest lord, receive,

  Own her, and think on me, dying Eudocia.

  Take it; ’tis well there is no more to read. [To Arga.

  My eyes grow full, and swim in their own light. [He embraces Palm.

  Palm. I fear, sir, this is your intended pageant.

  You sport yourself at poor Palmyra’s cost;

  But if you think to make me proud,

  Indeed I cannot be so: I was born

  With humble thoughts, and lowly, like my birth.

  A real fortune could not make me haughty,

  Much less a feigned.

  Poly. This was her mother’s temper.

  I have too much deserved thou shouldst suspect

  That I am not thy father; but my love