by John Dryden
Re-enter Ascanio.
Asca. Hold, Hippolita, and make no more rash vows: If you do, as I live, you shall not have the key.
Hip. The key! why, have you it, brother?
Luc. He does but mock us. I know you have it not, Ascanio.
Asca. Ecce signum; here it is for you.
Hip. O, sweet brother, let me kiss you.
Asca. Hands off, sweet sister, you must not be forsworn; you vowed you would not think of a man these seven years.
Hip. Aye, brother, but I was not so hasty but I had wit enough to cozen the saint to whom I vowed; for you are but a boy, brother, and will not be a man these seven years.
Luc. But where did you find the key, Ascanio?
Asca. To confess the truth, madam, I stole it out of Hippolita’s pocket, to take the print of it in wax; for I’ll suppose you’ll give my master leave to wait on you in the nunnery-garden, after your abbess has walked the rounds.
Luc. Well, well, good-morrow. When you have slept, come to the grate for a letter to your lord. Now will I have the headach, or the megrim, or some excuse; for I’m resolved I’ll not rise to prayers.
Hip. Pray, brother, take care of our masking-habits, that they may be forthcoming another time.
Asca. Sleep, sleep, and dream of me, sister: I’ll make it good, if you dream not too unreasonably.
Luc. Thus dangers in our love make joys more dear;
And pleasure’s sweetest when ’tis mixed with fear. [Exeunt.
ACT IV.
SCENE I. — A Dressing-chamber.
The Masking-habits of Lucretia and Hippolita laid in a Chair. — Enter Frederick and Ascanio.
Fred. I never thought I should have loved her. Is’t come to this, after all my boastings and declarations against it? Sure I loved her before, and did not know it, till I feared to lose her: There’s the reason. I had never desired her, if my father had not. This is just the longing of a woman: She never finds the appetite in herself, till she sees the meat on another’s plate. I’m glad, however, you took the impression of the key; but ’twas not well to fright them.
Asca. Sir, I could not help it; but here’s the effect on’t: the workman sat up all night to make it.
[Gives a key.
Fred. This key will admit me into the seraglio of the godly. The monastery has begun the war, in sallying out upon the world; and therefore ’tis but just that the world should make reprisals on the monastery.
Asca. Alas, sir, you and Lucretia do but skirmish; ’tis I and Hippolita that make the war: ’Tis true, opportunity has been wanting for a battle, but the forces have been stoutly drawn up on both sides. As for your concernment, I come just now from the monastery; and have orders from your Platonic mistress to tell you, she expects you this evening in the garden of the nunnery; withal, she delivered me this letter for you.
Fred. Give it me.
Asca. O, sir, the duke your father! [The Prince takes the letter, and, thinking to put it up hastily, drops it.
Enter Duke.
Duke. Now, Frederick, not abroad yet?
Fred. Your last night’s entertainment left me so weary, sir, that I overslept myself this morning.
Duke. I rather envy you than blame you: Our sleep is certainly the most pleasant portion of our lives. For my own part, I spent the night waking and restless.
Fred. Has any thing of moment happened to discompose your highness?
Duke. I’ll confess my follies to you: I am in love with a lady I saw last night in masquerade.
Fred. ’Tis strange she should conceal herself.
Duke. She has, from my best search; yet I took exact notice of her masking habit, and described it to those whom I employed to find her.
Fred. [Aside.] ‘Sdeath, it lies there unremoved, and, if he turns himself, full in his eye. Now, now, ‘twill be discovered.
Duke. For ’twas extremely remarkable. I remember very well, ’twas a loose long robe, streaked black and white, girt with a large silver ribband, and the vizor was a Moor’s face.
Fred. [Running to the chair where the habits are sits down.] Sir, I beg pardon of your highness for this rudeness; I am — O, Oh! —
Duke. What’s the matter?
Fred. I am taken so extremely ill o’ the sudden, that I am forced to sit before you.
Duke. Alas, what’s your distemper?
Fred. A most violent griping, which pulls me together on a heap.
Duke. Some cold, I fear, you took last night. [Runs to the door.] Who waits there? Call physicians to the prince.
Fred. Ascanio, remove these quickly. [Ascanio takes away the habits, and Exit.
Duke. [Returning.] How do you find yourself?
Fred. [Arising.] Much better, sir: That which pained me is removed. As it came unexpectedly, so it went as suddenly.
Enter Valerio.
Duke. The air, perhaps, will do you good. If you have health, you may see those troops drawn out, which I design for Milan.
Fred. Shall I wait your highness?
Duke. No, leave me here with Valerio; I have a little business, which dispatched, I’ll follow you immediately. — Well, what success, Valerio?
[Exit Frederick.
Val. Our endeavours are in vain, sir; there has been inquiry made about all the palaces in Rome, and neither of the masking habits can be discovered.
Duke. Yet it must be a woman of quality. What paper’s that at my foot?
Val. [Taking up the letter.] ’Tis sealed, sir, and directed to the prince.
Duke. [Taking the letter.] ’Tis a woman’s, hand. Has he got a mistress in town so soon? I am resolved to open it, though I do not approve my own curiosity.
[Opens and reads it.
Now my fear is over, I can laugh at my last night’s adventure. I find that at fifty all men grow incorrigible, and lovers especially; for, certainly, never any creature could be worse treated than your father; [How’s this, Valerio? I am amazed.] and yet the good, old, out-of-fashion gentleman heard himself rallied and bore it with all the patience of a Christian prince. [Now, ’tis plain, the lady in masquerade is a mistress of my son’s, and the undutiful wretch was in the plot to abuse me.] Ascanio will tell you the latter part of our misfortune, how hardly we got into the cloister. [A nun, too! Oh, the devil!] When we meet next, pray provide to laugh heartily; for there is subject sufficient for a plentiful fit, and fop enough to spare for another time.
Lucretia.
Val. Lucretia! now the mystery is unfolded.
Duke. Do you know her?
Val. When I was last at Rome I saw her often; she is near kinswoman to the present Pope; and, before he placed her in this nunnery of Benedictines, was the most celebrated beauty of the town.
Duke. I know I ought to hate this woman, because she has affronted me thus grossly; but yet, I cannot help it, I must love her.
Val. But, sir, you come on too much disadvantage to be your son’s rival.
Duke. I am deaf to all considerations: Pr’ythee do not think of giving a madman counsel. Pity me, and cure me, if thou canst; but remember, there’s but one infallible medicine, — that’s enjoyment.
Val. I had forgot to tell you, sir, that the governor, Don Mario, is without, to wait on you.
Duke. Desire him to come in.
Enter Don Mario.
Mar. I am come, sir, to beg a favour from your highness; and ’tis on the behalf of my sister Sophronia, abbess of the Torr’ di Specchi.
Val. Sir, she’s abbess of that very monastery where your mistress is inclosed. [Aside to the Duke.
Duke. I should be glad to serve any relation of yours, Don Mario.
Mar. Her request is, that you would be pleased to grace her chapel this afternoon. There will be music, and some little ceremony, in the reception of my two nieces, who are to be placed on pension there.
Duke. Your nieces, I hear, are fair, and great fortunes.
Mar. Great vexations, I’m sure they are; being daily haunted by a company of wild fellows, who buzz about my
house like flies.
Duke. Your design seems reasonable: women in hot countries are like oranges in cold; to preserve them, they must be perpetually housed. I’ll bear you company to the monastery. — Come, Valerio; this opportunity is happy beyond our expectation.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Camillo and Aurelian.
Cam. He has smarted sufficiently for this offence. Pr’ythee, dear Aurelian, forgive him. He waits without, and appears penitent; I’ll be responsible for his future carriage.
Aur. For your sake, then, I receive him into grace.
Cam. [At the door.] Benito, you may appear; your peace is made.
Enter Benito.
Aur. But it must be upon conditions.
Ben. Any conditions, that are reasonable; for, as I am a wit, sir, I have not eaten —
Aur. You are in the path of perdition already; that’s the principal of our conditions, you are to be a wit no more.
Ben. Pray, sir, if it be possible, let me be a little wit still.
Aur. No, sir; you can make a leg, and dance; those are no talents of a wit: you are cut out for a brisk fool, and can be no other.
Ben. Pray, sir, let me think I am a wit, or my heart will break.
Cam. That you will naturally do, as you are a fool.
Aur. Then no farther meddling with adventures, or contrivances of your own; they are all belonging to the territories of wit, from whence you are banished.
Ben. But what if my imagination should really furnish me with some —
Aur. Not a plot, I hope?
Ben. No, sir, no plot; but some expedient then, to mollify the word, when your invention has failed you?
Aur. Think it a temptation of the devil, and believe it not.
Ben. Then farewell all the happiness of my life.
Cam. You know your doom, Benito; and now you may take your choice, whether you will renounce wit, or eating.
Ben. Well, sir, I must continue my body, at what rate soever; and the rather, because now there’s no farther need of me in your adventures; for I was assured by Beatrix, this morning, that her two mistresses are to be put in pension, in the nunnery of Benedictines, this afternoon.
Cam. Then I am miserable.
Aur. And you have deferred the telling it, till it is past time to study for prevention.
Cam. Let us run thither immediately, and either perish in’t, or free them. You’ll assist me with your sword?
Aur. Yes, if I cannot do it to more purpose with my counsel. Let us first play the fairest of our game; ’tis time enough to snatch when we have lost it.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III. — A Chapel.
The Duke, Valerio, Attendants. At the other door, Laura, Violetta, Beatrix, Mario. Instrumental and vocal music; in the time of which, enter Aurelian and Camillo. After the music, enter Sophronia, Lucretia, Hippolita, and other Nuns.
Duke. [To Valerio, who had whispered to him.] I needed not those marks to know her. She’s one continued excellence; she’s all over miracle.
Soph. [To the Duke.] We know, sir, we are not capable by our entertainment, of adding any thing to your pleasures; and therefore we must attribute this favour of your presence, to your piety and devotion.
Duke. You have treated me with harmony so excellent, that I believed myself among a choir of angels; especially when I beheld so fair a troop behind you.
Soph. Their beauty, sir, is wholly dedicated to heaven, and is no way ambitious of a commendation, which, from your mouth, might raise a pride in any other of the sex.
Cam. I am impatient, and can bear no longer. Let what will happen —
Aur. Do you not see your ruin inevitable? Draw in a holy place! and in the presence of the Duke!
Mar. I do not like Camillo’s being here: I must cut short the ceremony. [Whispers Sophronia.
Soph. [To Laura and Violetta.] Come, fair cousins, we hope to make the cloisteral life so pleasing, that it may be an inducement to you to quit the wicked world for ever.
Vio. [Passing by Camillo.] Take that, and read it at your leisure. [Conveys a note into his hand.
Cam. A ticket, as I live, Aurelian.
Aur. Steal off, and be thankful: if that be my Beatrix with Laura, she’s most confoundedly ugly. If ever we had come to love-work, and a candle had been brought us, I had fallen back from that face, like a buck-rabbit in coupling.
[Exeunt Camillo and Aurelian.
Soph. Daughters, the time of our devotion calls us. — All happiness to your highness.
Luc. [To Hippolita.] Little thinks my venerable old love there, that his mistress in masquerade is so near him. Now do I even long to abuse that fop-gravity again.
Hip. Methinks, he looks on us.
Luc. Farewell, poor love; I am she, I am, for all my demure looks, that treated thee so inhumanly last night.
[She is going off, after Sophronia.
Duke. [following her.] Stay, lady; I would speak with you.
Luc. Ah! [Shrieking.
Soph. How now, daughter? What’s the meaning of that indecent noise you make?
Luc. [Aside.] If I speak to him, he will discover my voice, and then I am ruined.
Duke. If your name be Lucretia, I have some business of concernment with you.
Luc. [To Sophronia.] Dear madam, for heaven’s sake make haste into the cloister; the duke pursues me on some ill design.
Soph. [To the Duke.] ’Tis not permitted, sir, for maids, once entered into religion, to hold discourses here of worldly things.
Duke. But my discourses are not worldly, madam;
I had a vision in the dead of night,
Which shewed me this fair virgin in my sleep,
And told me, that from her I should be taught
Where to bestow large alms, and great endowments,
On some near monastery.
Soph. Stay, Lucretia;
The holy vision’s will must be obeyed. [Exeunt Sophronia and Nuns.
Luc. [Aside.] He does not know me, sure; and yet I fear religion is the least of his business with me.
Duke. I see, madam, beauty will be beauty in any habit;
Though, I confess, the splendour of a court
Were a much fitter scene for yours, than is
A cloistered privacy.
Luc. [counterfeiting her voice.]
The world has no temptations for a mind
So fixed and raised above it;
This humble cell contains and bounds my wishes:
My charity gives you my prayers, and that’s
All my converse with human kind.
Duke. Since when, madam, have the world and you been upon these equal terms of hostility? Time was, you have been better friends.
Luc. No doubt I have been vain, and sinful; but the remembrance of those days cannot be pleasant to me now, and therefore, if you please, do not refresh their memory.
Duke. Their memory! you speak as if they were ages past.
Luc. You think me still what I was once — a vain, fond, giddy creature: I see, sir, whither your discourses tend, and therefore take my leave.
Duke. Yes, madam, I know you see whither my discourses tend, and therefore ‘twill not be convenient that you should take your leave. Disguise yourself no farther; you are known, as well as you knew me in masquerade.
Luc. I am not used enough to the world to interpret riddles; therefore, once more, heaven keep you.
Duke. This will not do; your voice, your mien, your stature, betray you for the same I saw last night: you know the time and place.
Luc. You were not in this chapel, and I am bound by vow to stir no farther.
Duke. But you had too much wit to keep that vow.
Luc. If you persist, sir, in this raving madness, I can bring witness of my innocence. [Is going.
Duke. To save that labour, see if you know that hand, and let that justify you. [Shows her letter.
Luc. What do I see! my ruin is inevitable.
Duke. You know you mer
it it:
You used me ill, and now are in my power.
Luc. But you, I hope, are much too noble to
Destroy the fame of a poor silly woman?
Duke. Then, in few words, — for I am bred a soldier,
And must speak plain, — it is your love I ask;
If you deny, this letter is produced;
You know the consequence.
Luc. I hope I do not;
For though there are appearances against me,
Enough to give you hope I durst not shun you,
Yet, could you see my heart, ’tis a white virgin-tablet,
On which no characters of earthly love
Were ever writ: And, ‘twixt the prince and me,
If there were any criminal affection,
May heaven this minute —
Duke. Swear not; I believe you:
For, could I think my son had e’er enjoyed you,
I should not be his rival. Since he has not,
I may have so much kindness for myself,
To wish that happiness.
Luc. You ask me what I must not grant,
Nor, if I loved you, would: you know my vow of chastity.
Duke. Yet again that senseless argument?
The vows of chastity can ne’er be broken,
Where vows of secrecy are kept. Those I’ll swear with you.
But ’tis enough at present, you know my resolution.
I would persuade, not force, you to my love;
And to that end I give you this night’s respite.
Consider all, that you may fear or hope;
And think that on your grant, or your denial,
Depends a double welfare, yours and mine. [Exit.
Luc. A double ruin, rather, if I grant;
For what can I expect from such a father,
When such a son betrays me! Could I think,
Of all mankind, that Frederick would be base?
And, with the vanity of vulgar souls,
Betray a virgin’s fame? One, who esteemed him,
And I much fear did more than barely so —
But I dare note examine myself farther, for fear of confessing to my own thoughts, a tenderness of which he is unworthy.
Enter Hippolita.
Hip. I watched till your old gallant was gone, to bring you news of your young one. A mischief on these old dry lovers! they are good for nothing but tedious talking; well, yonder’s the prince at the grate; I hope I need say no more to you.