John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  But, worst of all,

  Your gratitude for his defence was shown:

  It proved you valued life, when I was gone.

  Ind. Not that I valued life, but feared to die:

  Think that my weakness, not inconstancy.

  Aur. Fear showed you doubted of your own intent:

  And she, who doubts, becomes less innocent.

  Tell me not you could fear;

  Fear’s a large promiser; who subject live

  To that base passion, know not what they give.

  No circumstance of grief you did deny;

  And what could she give more, who durst not die?

  Ind. My love, my faith.

  Aur. Both so adulterate grown,

  When mixed with fear, they never could be known.

  I wish no ill might her I love befal;

  But she ne’er loved, who durst not venture all.

  Her life and fame should my concernment be;

  But she should only be afraid for me.

  Ind. My heart was yours; but, oh! you left it here,

  Abandoned to those tyrants, hope and fear;

  If they forced from me one kind look, or word,

  Could you not that, not that small part afford?

  Aur. If you had loved, you nothing yours could call;

  Giving the least of mine, you gave him all.

  True love’s a miser; so tenacious grown,

  He weighs to the least grain of what’s his own;

  More delicate than honour’s nicest sense,

  Neither to give nor take the least offence.

  With, or without you, I can have no rest:

  What shall I do? you’re lodged within my breast:

  Your image never will be thence displaced;

  But there it lies, stabbed, mangled, and defaced.

  Ind. Yet to restore the quiet of your heart,

  There’s one way left.

  Aur. Oh, name it.

  Ind. ’Tis to part.

  Since perfect bliss with me you cannot prove,

  I scorn to bless by halves the man I love.

  Aur. Now you distract me more: Shall then the day,

  Which views my triumph, see our loves decay?

  Must I new bars to my own joy create?

  Refuse myself what I had forced from fate?

  What though I am not loved?

  Reason’s nice taste does our delights destroy:

  Brutes are more blessed, who grossly feed on joy.

  Ind. Such endless jealousies your love pursue,

  I can no more be fully blessed than you.

  I therefore go, to free us both from pain:

  I prized your person, but your crown disdain.

  Nay, even my own —

  I give it you; for, since I cannot call

  Your heart my subject, I’ll not reign at all.[Exit.

  Aur. Go: Though thou leav’st me tortured on the rack,

  ‘Twixt shame and pride, I cannot call thee back. —

  She’s guiltless, and I should submit; but oh!

  When she exacts it, can I stoop so low?

  Yes; for she’s guiltless; but she’s haughty too.

  Great souls long struggle ere they own a crime:

  She’s gone; and leaves me no repenting time.

  I’ll call her now; sure, if she loves, she’ll stay;

  Linger at least, or not go far away. [Looks to the door, and returns.

  For ever lost! and I repent too late.

  My foolish pride would set my whole estate,

  Till, at one throw, I lost all back to fate.

  To him the Emperor, drawing in Indamora: Attendants.

  Emp. It must not be, that he, by whom we live,

  Should no advantage of his gift receive.

  Should he be wholly wretched? he alone,

  In this blessed day, a day so much his own?[To Ind.

  I have not quitted yet a victor’s right:

  I’ll make you happy in your own despite.

  I love you still; and, if I struggle hard

  To give, it shows the worth of the reward.

  Ind. Suppose he has o’ercome; must I find place

  Among his conquered foes, and sue for grace?

  Be pardoned, and confess I loved not well?

  What though none live my innocence to tell,

  I know it: Truth may own a generous pride:

  I clear myself, and care for none beside.

  Aur. Oh, Indamora, you would break my heart!

  Could you resolve, on any terms, to part?

  I thought your love eternal: Was it tied

  So loosely, that a quarrel could divide?

  I grant that my suspicions were unjust;

  But would you leave me, for a small distrust?

  Forgive those foolish words — [Kneeling to her.

  They were the froth my raging folly moved,

  When it boiled up: I knew not then I loved;

  Yet then loved most.

  Ind. [To Aur.]

  You would but half be blest![Giving her hand, smiling.

  Aur. Oh do but try

  My eager love: I’ll give myself the lie.

  The very hope is a full happiness,

  Yet scantly measures what I shall possess.

  Fancy itself, even in enjoyment, is

  But a dumb judge, and cannot tell its bliss.

  Emp. Her eyes a secret yielding do confess,

  And promise to partake your happiness.

  May all the joys I did myself pursue,

  Be raised by her, and multiplied on you!

  A Procession of Priests, Slaves following, and, last, Melesinda in white.

  Ind. Alas! what means this pomp?

  Aur. ’Tis the procession of a funeral vow,

  Which cruel laws to Indian wives allow,

  When fatally their virtue they approve;

  Cheerful in flames, and martyrs of their love.

  Ind. Oh, my foreboding heart! the event I fear:

  And see! sad Melesinda does appear.

  Mel. You wrong my love; what grief do I betray?

  This is the triumph of my nuptial day,

  My better nuptials; which, in spite of fate,

  For ever join me to my dear Morat.

  Now I am pleased; my jealousies are o’er:

  He’s mine; and I can lose him now no more.

  Emp. Let no false show of fame, your reason blind.

  Ind. You have no right to die; he was not kind.

  Mel. Had he been kind, I could no love have shown:

  Each vulgar virtue would as much have done.

  My love was such, it needed no return;

  But could, though he supplied no fuel, burn.

  Rich in itself, like elemental fire,

  Whose pureness does no aliment require.

  In vain you would bereave me of my lord;

  For I will die: — Die is too base a word,

  I’ll seek his breast, and, kindling by his side,

  Adorned with flames, I’ll mount a glorious bride.[Exit.

  Enter Nourmahal, distracted, with Zayda.

  Zay. She’s lost, she’s lost! but why do I complain,

  For her, who generously did life disdain!

  Poisoned, she raves —

  The envenomed body does the soul attack;

  The envenomed soul works its own poison back.

  Nour. I burn, I more than burn; I am all fire.

  See how my mouth and nostrils flame expire!

  I’ll not come near myself —

  Now I’m a burning lake, it rolls and flows;

  I’ll rush, and pour it all upon my foes.

  Pull, pull that reverend piece of timber near:

  Throw’t on— ’tis dry— ‘twill burn —

  Ha, ha! how my old husband crackles there!

  Keep him down, keep him down; turn him about:

  I know him, — he’ll but whiz, and strait go out.

  Fan me, you winds: What,
not one breath of air?

  I’ll burn them all, and yet have flames to spare.

  Quench me: Pour on whole rivers. ’Tis in vain:

  Morat stands there to drive them back again:

  With those huge billows in his hands, he blows

  New fire into my head: My brain-pan glows.

  See! see! there’s Aureng-Zebe too takes his part;

  But he blows all his fire into my heart.

  Aur. Alas, what fury’s this?

  Nour. That’s he, that’s he! [Staring upon him, and catching at him.

  I know the dear man’s voice:

  And this my rival, this the cursed she.

  They kiss; into each other’s arms they run:

  Close, close, close! must I see, and must have none?

  Thou art not hers: Give me that eager kiss.

  Ungrateful! have I lost Morat for this?

  Will you? — before my face? — poor helpless I

  See all, and have my hell before I die![Sinks down.

  Emp. With thy last breath thou hast thy crimes confest:

  Farewell; and take, what thou ne’er gav’st me, rest.

  But you, my son, receive it better here: [Giving him Indamora’s hand.

  The just rewards of love and honour wear.

  Receive the mistress, you so long have served;

  Receive the crown, your loyalty preserved.

  Take you the reins, while I from cares remove,

  And sleep within the chariot which I drove.[Exeunt.

  EPILOGUE

  A pretty task! and so I told the fool,

  Who needs would undertake to please by rule:

  He thought, that if his characters were good,

  The scenes entire, and freed from noise and blood;

  The action great, yet circumscribed by time,

  The words not forced, but sliding into rhyme,

  The passions raised, and calm by just degrees,

  As tides are swelled, and then retire to seas;

  He thought, in hitting these, his business done,

  Though he, perhaps, has failed in every one:

  But, after all, a poet must confess,

  His art’s like physic, but a happy guess.

  Your pleasure on your fancy must depend:

  The lady’s pleased, just as she likes her friend.

  No song! no dance! no show! he fears you’ll say:

  You love all naked beauties, but a play.

  He much mistakes your methods to delight;

  And, like the French, abhors our target-fight:

  But those damned dogs can ne’er be in the right.

  True English hate your Monsieur’s paltry arts,

  For you are all silk-weavers in your hearts.

  Bold Britons, at a brave Bear-Garden fray,

  Are roused: And, clattering sticks, cry, — Play, play, play!

  Meantime, your filthy foreigner will stare,

  And mutters to himself, — Ha! gens barbare!

  And, gad, ’tis well he mutters; well for him;

  Our butchers else would tear him limb from limb.

  ’Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be

  Infected with this French civility:

  But this, in after ages will be done:

  Our poet writes an hundred years too soon.

  This age comes on too slow, or he too fast:

  And early springs are subject to a blast!

  Who would excel, when few can make a test

  Betwixt indifferent writing and the best?

  For favours, cheap and common, who would strive,

  Which, like abandoned prostitutes, you give?

  Yet, scattered here and there, I some behold,

  Who can discern the tinsel from the gold:

  To these he writes; and, if by them allowed,

  ’Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd.

  For he more fears, like a presuming man,

  Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can.

  THE STATE OF INNOCENCE AND FALL OF MAN

  AN OPERA

  — Utinam modò dicere possem

  Carmina digna deâ: Certe est dea carmine digna.

  Ovid. Met.

  The “Paradise Lost” of Milton is a work so extraordinary in conception and execution, that it required a lapse of many years to reconcile the herd of readers, and of critics, to what was almost too sublime for ordinary understandings. The poets, in particular, seemed to have gazed on its excellencies, like the inferior animals on Dryden’s immortal Hind; and, incapable of fully estimating a merit, which, in some degree, they could not help feeling, many were their absurd experiments to lower it to the standard of their own comprehension. One author, deeming the “Paradise Lost” deficient in harmony, was pleased painfully to turn it into rhyme; and more than one, conceiving the subject too serious to be treated in verse of any kind, employed their leisure in humbling it into prose. The names of these well-judging and considerate persons are preserved by Mr Todd in his edition of Milton’s Poetical Works.

  But we must not confound with these effusions of gratuitous folly an alteration, or imitation, planned and executed by John Dryden; although we may be at a loss to guess the motives by which he was guided in hazarding such an attempt. His reverence for Milton and his high estimation of his poetry, had already called forth the well-known verses, in which he attributes to him the joint excellencies of the two most celebrated poets of antiquity; and if other proofs of his veneration were wanting, they may be found in the preface to this very production. Had the subject been of a nature which admitted its being actually represented, we might conceive, that Dryden, who was under engagements to the theatre, with which it was not always easy to comply, might have been desirous to shorten his own labour, by adopting the story sentiments, and language of a poem, which he so highly esteemed and which might probably have been new to the generality of his audience. But the costume of our first parents, had there been no other objection, must have excluded the “State of Innocence” from the stage, and accordingly it was certainly never intended for representation. The probable motive, therefore, of this alteration, was the wish, so common to genius, to exert itself upon a subject in which another had already attained brilliant success, or, as Dryden has termed a similar attempt, the desire to shoot in the bow of Ulysses. Some circumstances in the history of Milton’s immortal poem may have suggested to Dryden the precise form of the present attempt. It is reported by Voltaire, and seems at length to be admitted, that the original idea of the “Paradise Lost” was supplied by an Italian Mystery, or religious play, which Milton witnessed when abroad; and it is certain, that he intended at first to mould his poem into a dramatic form. It seems, therefore, likely, that Dryden, conscious of his own powers, and enthusiastically admiring those of Milton, was induced to make an experiment upon the forsaken plan of the blind bard, which, with his usual rapidity of conception and execution, he completed in the short space of one month. The spurious copies which got abroad, and perhaps the desire of testifying his respect for his beautiful patroness, the Duchess of York, form his own apology for the publication. It is reported by Mr Aubrey that the step was not taken without Dryden’s reverence to Milton being testified by a personal application for his permission. The aged poet, conscious that the might of his versification could receive no addition even from the flowing numbers of Dryden, is stated to have answered with indifference— “Ay, you may tag my verses, if you will.”

  The structure and diction of this opera, as it is somewhat improperly termed, being rather a dramatic poem, strongly indicate the taste of Charles the Second’s reign, for what was ingenious, acute, and polished, in preference to the simplicity of the true sublime. The judgment of that age, as has been already noticed, is always to be referred rather to the head than to the heart; and a poem, written to please mere critics, requires an introduction and display of art, to the exclusion of natural beauty. — This explains the extravagant panegyric of Lee on Dryde
n’s play:

  — Milton did the wealthy mine disclose,

  And rudely cast what you could well dispose;

  He roughly drew, on an old-fashioned ground,

  A chaos; for no perfect world was found,

  Till through the heap your mighty genius shined:

  He was the golden ore, which you refined.

  He first beheld the beauteous rustic maid,

  And to a place of strength the prize conveyed:

  You took her thence; to Court this virgin brought,

  Dressed her with gems, new-weaved her hard-spun thought,

  And softest language sweetest manners taught;

  Till from a comet she a star did rise,

  Not to affright, but please, our wondering eyes.

  Doubtless there were several critics of that period, who held the heretical opinion above expressed by Lee. And the imitation was such as to warrant that conclusion, considering the school in which it was formed. The scene of the consultation in Pandemonium, and of the soliloquy of Satan on his arrival in the newly-created universe, would possess great merit, did they not unfortunately remind us of the majestic simplicity of Milton. But there is often a sort of Ovidian point in the diction which seems misplaced. Thus, Asmodeus tells us, that the devils, ascending from the lake of fire,

  Shake off their slumber first, and next their fear.

  And, with Dryden’s usual hate to the poor Dutchmen, the council of Pandemonium are termed,

  Most High and Mighty Lords, who better fell

  From heaven, to rise States General of hell.

  There is one inconvenience, which, as this poem was intended for perusal only, the author, one would have thought, might have easily avoided. This arises from the stage directions, which supply the place of the terrific and beautiful descriptions of Milton. What idea, except burlesque, can we form of the expulsion of the fallen angels from heaven, literally represented by their tumbling down upon the stage? or what feelings of terror can be excited by the idea of an opera hell, composed of pasteboard and flaming rosin? If these follies were not actually to be produced before our eyes, it could serve no good purpose to excite the image of them in our imaginations. They are circumstances by which we feel, that scenic deception must be rendered ridiculous; and ought to be avoided, even in a drama intended for perusal only, since they cannot be mentioned without exciting ludicrous combinations. — Even in describing the primitive state of our first parents, Dryden has displayed some of the false and corrupted taste of the court of Charles. Eve does not consent to her union with Adam without coquettish apprehensions of his infidelity, which circumstances rendered rather improbable; and even in the state of innocence, she avows the love of sway and of self, which, in a loose age, is thought the principal attribute of her daughters. It may be remembered that the Adam of Milton, when first experiencing the powers of slumber, thought,