John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Quæ super-imposito moles geminata Colosso

  carries a more thundering kind of sound, than

  Tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi:

  yet Virgil had all the majesty of a lawful prince, and Statius only the blustering of a tyrant. But when men affect a virtue which they cannot easily reach, they fall into a vice, which bears the nearest resemblance to it. Thus, an injudicious poet, who aims at loftiness, runs easily into the swelling puffy style, because it looks like greatness. I remember, when I was a boy, I thought inimitable Spencer a mean poet, in comparison of Sylvester’s “Dubartas,” and was wrapt into an ecstasy when I read these lines:

  Now, when the winter’s keener breath began

  To crystalize the Baltic ocean;

  To glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods,

  And periwig with snow the bald-pate woods: —

  I am much deceived if this be not abominable fustian, that is, thoughts and words ill-sorted, and without the least relation to each other; yet I dare not answer for an audience, that they would not clap it on the stage: so little value there is to be given to the common cry, that nothing but madness can please madmen, and the poet must be of a piece with the spectators, to gain a reputation with them. But, as in a room, contrived for state, the height of the roof should bear a proportion to the area; so, in the heightenings of poetry, the strength and vehemence of figures should be suited to the occasion, the subject, and the persons. All beyond this is monstrous: it is out of nature, it is an excrescence, and not a living part of poetry. I had not said thus much, if some young gallants, who pretend to criticism, had not told me, that this tragi-comedy wanted the dignity of style; but, as a man, who is charged with a crime of which he thinks himself innocent, is apt to be too eager in his own defence; so, perhaps, I have vindicated my play with more partiality than I ought, or than such a trifle can deserve. Yet, whatever beauties it may want, it is free at least from the grossness of those faults I mentioned: what credit it has gained upon the stage, I value no farther than in reference to my profit, and the satisfaction I had, in seeing it represented with all the justness and gracefulness of action. But, as it is my interest to please my audience, so it is my ambition to be read: that I am sure is the more lasting and the nobler design: for the propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action: all things are there beheld, as in a hasty motion, where the objects only glide before the eye, and disappear. The most discerning critic can judge no more of these 380 silent graces in the action, than he who rides post through an unknown country can distinguish the situation of places, and the nature of the soil. The purity of phrase, the clearness of conception and expression, the boldness maintained to majesty, the significancy and sound of words, not strained into bombast, but justly elevated; in short, those very words and thoughts, which cannot be changed, but for the worse, must of necessity escape our transient view upon the theatre; and yet, without all these, a play may take. For, if either the story move us, or the actor help the lameness of it with his performance, or now and then a glittering beam of wit or passion strike through the obscurity of the poem, any of these are sufficient to effect a present liking, but not to fix a lasting admiration; for nothing but truth can long continue; and time is the surest judge of truth. I am not vain enough to think that I have left no faults in this, which that touchstone will not discover; neither, indeed, is it possible to avoid them in a play of this nature. There are evidently two actions in it; but it will be clear to any judicious man, that with half the pains I could have raised a play from either of them; for this time I satisfied my humour, which was to tack two plays together; and to break a rule for the pleasure of variety. The truth is, the audience are grown weary of continued melancholy scenes; and I dare venture to prophecy, that few tragedies, except those in verse, shall succeed in this age, if they are not lightened with a course of mirth; for the feast is too dull and solemn without the fiddles. But how difficult a task this is, will soon be tried; for a several genius is required to either way; and, without both of them, a man, in my opinion, is but half a poet for the stage. Neither is it so trivial an undertaking, to make a 381 tragedy end happily; for it is more difficult to save, than it is to kill. The dagger and the cup of poison are always in a readiness; but to bring the action to the last extremity, and then by probable means to recover all, will require the art and judgement of a writer; and cost him many a pang in the performance.

  And now, my lord, I must confess, that what I have written, looks more like a Preface, than a Dedication; and, truly, it was thus far my design, that I might entertain you with somewhat in my own art, which might be more worthy of a noble mind, than the stale exploded trick of fulsome panegyrics. It is difficult to write justly on any thing, but almost impossible in praise. I shall therefore wave so nice a subject; and only tell you, that, in recommending a protestant play to a protestant patron, as I do myself an honour, so I do your noble family a right, who have been always eminent in the support and favour of our religion and liberties. And if the promises of your youth, your education at home, and your experience abroad, deceive me not, the principles you have embraced are such, as will no way degenerate from your ancestors, but refresh their memory in the minds of all true Englishmen, and renew their lustre in your person; which, my lord, is not more the wish, than it is the constant expectation, of

  Your lordship’s

  Most obedient, faithful servant,

  John Dryden.

  PROLOGUE.

  Now, luck for us, and a kind hearty pit;

  For he, who pleases, never fails of wit:

  Honour is yours;

  And you, like kings at city-treats, bestow it;

  The writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet;

  But you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow;

  You dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow:

  You cry the same sense up, and down again,

  Just like brass-money once a year in Spain:

  Take you in the mood, whate’er base metal come,

  You coin as fast as groats at Birmingham:

  Though ’tis no more like sense, in antient plays,

  Than Rome’s religion like St Peter’s days.

  In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind,

  You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind.

  ‘Twere well your judgments but in plays did range,

  But e’en your follies and debauches change

  With such a whirl, the poets of our age

  Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage;

  Unless each vice in short-hand they indict,

  Even as notch’d prentices whole sermons write.

  The heavy Hollanders no vices know,

  But what they used a hundred years ago;

  Like honest plants, where they were stuck, they grow.

  They cheat, but still from cheating sires they come;

  They drink, but they were christened first in mum.

  Their patrimonial sloth the Spaniards keep,

  And Philip first taught Philip how to sleep.

  The French and we still change; but here’s the curse,

  They change for better, and we change for worse;

  They take up our old trade of conquering,

  And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing:

  Our fathers did, for change, to France repair,

  And they, for change, will try our English air;

  As children, when they throw one toy away,

  Strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play:

  So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking,

  Leave whoring, and devoutly fall to drinking.

  Scowering the watch grows out-of-fashion wit:

  Now we set up for tilting in the pit,

  Where ’tis agreed by bullies chicken-hearted,

  To fright the ladies first, and then be parted.

  A fair attempt has twice or thrice been mad
e,

  To hire night murderers, and make death a trade.

  When murder’s out, what vice can we advance?

  Unless the new-found poisoning trick of France:

  And, when their art of rats-bane we have got,

  By way of thanks, we’ll send them o’er our plot.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  Torrismond, Son of Sancho, the deposed King, believing himself Son of Raymond.

  Bertran, a Prince of the blood.

  Alphonso, a general Officer, Brother to Raymond.

  Lorenzo, his Son.

  Raymond, a Nobleman, supposed Father of Torrismond.

  Pedro, an Officer.

  Gomez, an old Usurer.

  Dominick, the Spanish Friar.

  Leonora, Queen of Arragon.

  Teresa, Woman to Leonora.

  Elvira, Wife to Gomez.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I.

  Alphonso and Pedro meet, with Soldiers on each Side, Drums, &c.

  Alph. Stand: give the word.

  Ped. The queen of Arragon.

  Alph. Pedro? — how goes the night?

  Ped. She wears apace.

  Alph. Then welcome day-light; we shall have warm work on’t.

  The Moor will ‘gage

  His utmost forces on this next assault,

  To win a queen and kingdom.

  Ped. Pox on this lion-way of wooing, though.

  Is the queen stirring yet?

  Alph. She has not been abed, but in her chapel

  All night devoutly watched, and bribed the saints

  With vows for her deliverance.

  Ped. O, Alphonso!

  I fear they come too late. Her father’s crimes

  Sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers.

  A crown usurped; a lawful king deposed,

  In bondage held, debarred the common light;

  His children murdered, and his friends destroyed, —

  What can we less expect than what we feel,

  And what we fear will follow?

  Alph. Heaven avert it!

  Ped. Then heaven must not be heaven. Judge the event

  By what has passed. The usurper joyed not long

  His ill-got crown:— ’tis true, he died in peace, —

  Unriddle that, ye powers! — but left his daughter,

  Our present queen, engaged upon his death-bed,

  To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father

  Had helped to make him great.

  Hence, you well know, this fatal war arose;

  Because the Moor Abdalla, with whose troops

  The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused;

  And, as an infidel, his love despised.

  Alph. Well, we are soldiers, Pedro; and, like lawyers,

  Plead for our pay.

  Ped. A good cause would do well though:

  It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran

  Has now three times been beaten by the Moors:

  What hope we have, is in young Torrismond,

  Your brother’s son.

  Alph. He’s a successful warrior,

  And has the soldiers’ hearts: upon the skirts

  Of Arragon our squandered troops he rallies.

  Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes

  Expect his swift arrival.

  Ped. It must be swift, or it will come too late.

  Alph. No more. — Duke Bertran.

  Enter Bertran attended.

  Bert. Relieve the sentries that have watched all night.

  [To Ped.] Now, colonel, have you disposed your men,

  That you stand idle here?

  Ped. Mine are drawn off

  To take a short repose.

  Bert. Short let it be:

  For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more,

  There has been heard a distant humming noise,

  Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives.

  What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?

  Ped. As much as when physicians shake their heads,

  And bid their dying patient think of heaven.

  Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain;

  The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching,

  And harassed out with duty.

  Bert. Good-night all, then.

  Ped. Nay, for my part, ’tis but a single life

  I have to lose. I’ll plant my colours down

  In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot;

  Say a short soldier’s prayer, to spare the trouble

  Of my new friends above; and then expect

  The next fair bullet.

  Alph. Never was known a night of such distraction;

  Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds.

  That run, and know not whither; torches gliding,

  Like meteors, by each other in the streets.

  Ped. I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar, —

  With a paunch swoll’n so high, his double chin

  Might rest upon it; a true son of the church;

  Fresh-coloured, well thriven on his trade, —

  Come puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir,

  And fumbling o’er his beads in such an agony,

  He told them false, for fear. About his neck

  There hung a wench, the label of his function,

  Whom he shook off, i’faith, methought, unkindly.

  It seems the holy stallion durst not score

  Another sin, before he left the world.

  Enter a Captain.

  Capt. To arms, my lord, to arms!

  From the Moors’ camp the noise grows louder still:

  Rattling of armour, trumpets, drums, and ataballes;

  And sometimes peals of shouts that rend the heavens,

  Like victory: then groans again, and howlings,

  Like those of vanquished men; but every echo

  Goes fainter off, and dies in distant sounds.

  Bert. Some false attack: expect on t’other side.

  One to the gunners on St Jago’s tower; bid them, for shame,

  Level their cannon lower: On my soul

  They are all corrupted with the gold of Barbary,

  To carry over, and not hurt the Moor.

  Enter a second Captain.

  Capt. My lord, here’s fresh intelligence arrived.