John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  And then securely take the man you love.

  Leo. [Walking aside.]

  Ha! let me think of that: — The man I love?

  ’Tis true, this murder is the only means,

  That can secure my throne to Torrismond:

  Nay, more, this execution, done by Bertran,

  Makes him the object of the people’s hate.

  Bert. The more she thinks, ‘twill work the stronger in her. [Aside.

  Leo. How eloquent is mischief to persuade!

  Few are so wicked, as to take delight

  In crimes unprofitable, nor do I:

  If then I break divine and human laws,

  No bribe but love could gain so bad a cause.[Aside.

  Bert. You answer nothing.

  Leo. ’Tis of deep concernment,

  And I a woman, ignorant and weak:

  I leave it all to you; think, what you do,

  You do for him I love.

  Bert. For him she loves?

  She named not me; that may be Torrismond,

  Whom she has thrice in private seen this day;

  Then I am fairly caught in my own snare.

  I’ll think again. [Aside.] — Madam, it shall be done;

  And mine be all the blame.[Exit.

  Leo. O, that it were! I would not do this crime,

  And yet, like heaven, permit it to be done.

  The priesthood grossly cheat us with free-will:

  Will to do what — but what heaven first decreed?

  Our actions then are neither good nor ill,

  Since from eternal causes they proceed;

  Our passions, — fear and anger, love and hate, —

  Mere senseless engines that are moved by fate;

  Like ships on stormy seas, without a guide,

  Tost by the winds, and driven by the tide.

  Enter Torrismond.

  Tor. Am I not rudely bold, and press too often

  Into your presence, madam? If I am —

  Leo. No more, lest I should chide you for your stay:

  Where have you been? and how could you suppose,

  That I could live these two long hours without you?

  Tor. O words, to charm an angel from his orb!

  Welcome, as kindly showers to long-parched earth!

  But I have been in such a dismal place,

  Where joy ne’er enters, which the sun ne’er cheers,

  Bound in with darkness, overspread with damps;

  Where I have seen (if I could say I saw)

  The good old king, majestic in his bonds,

  And, ‘midst his griefs, most venerably great:

  By a dim winking lamp, which feebly broke

  The gloomy vapours, he lay stretched along

  Upon the unwholesome earth, his eyes fixed upward;

  And ever and anon a silent tear

  Stole down, and trickled from his hoary beard.

  Leo. O heaven, what have I done! — my gentle love,

  Here end thy sad discourse, and, for my sake,

  Cast off these fearful melancholy thoughts.

  Tor. My heart is withered at that piteous sight,

  As early blossoms are with eastern blasts:

  He sent for me, and, while I raised his head,

  He threw his aged arms about my neck;

  And, seeing that I wept, he pressed me close:

  So, leaning cheek to cheek, and eyes to eyes,

  We mingled tears in a dumb scene of sorrow.

  Leo. Forbear; you know not how you wound my soul.

  Tor. Can you have grief, and not have pity too?

  He told me, — when my father did return,

  He had a wond’rous secret to disclose:

  He kissed me, blessed me, nay — he called me son;

  He praised my courage; prayed for my success:

  He was so true a father of his country,

  To thank me, for defending even his foes,

  Because they were his subjects.

  Leo. If they be, — then what am I?

  Tor. The sovereign of my soul, my earthly heaven.

  Leo. And not your queen?

  Tor. You are so beautiful,

  So wond’rous fair, you justify rebellion;

  As if that faultless face could make no sin,

  But heaven, with looking on it, must forgive.

  Leo. The king must die, — he must, my Torrismond,

  Though pity softly plead within my soul;

  Yet he must die, that I may make you great,

  And give a crown in dowry with my love.

  Tor. Perish that crown — on any head but yours!

  O, recollect your thoughts!

  Shake not his hour-glass, when his hasty sand

  Is ebbing to the last:

  A little longer, yet a little longer,

  And nature drops him down, without your sin;

  Like mellow fruit, without a winter storm.

  Leo. Let me but do this one injustice more.

  His doom is past, and, for your sake, he dies.

  Tor. Would you, for me, have done so ill an act,

  And will not do a good one!

  Now, by your joys on earth, your hopes in heaven,

  O spare this great, this good, this aged king;

  And spare your soul the crime!

  Leo. The crime’s not mine;

  ’Twas first proposed, and must be done, by Bertran,

  Fed with false hopes to gain my crown and me;

  I, to enhance his ruin, gave no leave,

  But barely bade him think, and then resolve.

  Tor. In not forbidding, you command the crime:

  Think, timely think, on the last dreadful day;

  How will you tremble, there to stand exposed,

  And foremost, in the rank of guilty ghosts,

  That must be doomed for murder! think on murder:

  That troop is placed apart from common crimes;

  The damned themselves start wide, and shun that band,

  As far more black, and more forlorn than they.

  Leo. ’Tis terrible! it shakes, it staggers me;

  I knew this truth, but I repelled that thought.

  Sure there is none, but fears a future state;

  And, when the most obdurate swear they do not,

  Their trembling hearts belie their boasting tongues.

  Enter Teresa.

  Send speedily to Bertran; charge him strictly

  Not to proceed, but wait my farther pleasure.

  Ter. Madam, he sends to tell you, ’tis performed.[Exit.

  Tor. Ten thousand plagues consume him! furies drag him,

  Fiends tear him! blasted be the arm that struck,

  The tongue that ordered! — only she be spared,

  That hindered not the deed! O, where was then

  The power, that guards the sacred lives of kings?

  Why slept the lightning and the thunder-bolts,

  Or bent their idle rage on fields and trees,

  When vengeance called them here?

  Leo. Sleep that thought too;

  ’Tis done, and, since ’tis done, ’tis past recal;

  And, since ’tis past recal, must be forgotten.

  Tor. O, never, never, shall it be forgotten!

  High heaven will not forget it; after-ages

  Shall with a fearful curse remember ours;

  And blood shall never leave the nation more!

  Leo. His body shall be royally interred,

  And the last funeral-pomps adorn his hearse;

  I will myself (as I have cause too just,)

  Be the chief mourner at his obsequies;

  And yearly fix on the revolving day

  The solemn marks of mourning, to atone,

  And expiate my offence.

  Tor. Nothing can,

  But bloody vengeance on that traitor’s head, —

  Which, dear departed spirit, here I vow.

  Leo. Here end our sorrows, and begin our joys:


  Love calls, my Torrismond; though hate has raged,

  And ruled the day, yet love will rule the night.

  The spiteful stars have shed their venom down,

  And now the peaceful planets take their turn.

  This deed of Bertran’s has removed all fears,

  And given me just occasion to refuse him.

  What hinders now, but that the holy priest

  In secret join our mutual vows? and then

  This night, this happy night, is yours and mine.

  Tor. Be still my sorrows, and be loud my joys.

  Fly to the utmost circles of the sea,

  Thou furious tempest, that hast tossed my mind,

  And leave no thought, but Leonora there. —

  What’s this I feel, a boding in my soul,

  As if this day were fatal? be it so;

  Fate shall but have the leavings of my love:

  My joys are gloomy, but withal are great.

  The lion, though he sees the toils are set,

  Yet, pinched with raging hunger, scowers away,

  Hunts in the face of danger all the day;

  At night, with sullen pleasure, grumbles o’er his prey. [Exeunt.

  ACT IV.

  SCENE I. — Before Gomez’s Door.

  Enter Lorenzo, Dominick, and two Soldiers at a distance.

  Dom. I’ll not wag an ace farther: the whole world shall not bribe me to it; for my conscience will digest these gross enormities no longer.

  Lor. How, thy conscience not digest them! There is ne’er a friar in Spain can shew a conscience, that comes near it for digestion. It digested pimping, when I sent thee with my letter; and it digested perjury, when thou swor’st thou didst not know me: I am sure it has digested me fifty pounds, of as hard gold as is in all Barbary. Pr’ythee, why shouldest thou discourage fornication, when thou knowest thou lovest a sweet young girl?

  Dom. Away, away; I do not love them; — pah; no, — [spits.] I do not love a pretty girl — you are so waggish! —

  [Spits again.

  Lor. Why thy mouth waters at the very mention of them.

  Dom. You take a mighty pleasure in defamation, colonel; but I wonder what you find in running restless up and down, breaking your brains, emptying your purse, and wearing out your body, with hunting after unlawful game.

  Lor. Why there’s the satisfaction on’t.

  Dom. This incontinency may proceed to adultery, and adultery to murder, and murder to hanging; and there’s the satisfaction on’t.

  Lor. I’ll not hang alone, friar; I’m resolved to peach thee before thy superiors, for what thou hast done already.

  Dom. I’m resolved to forswear it, if you do. Let me advise you better, colonel, than to accuse a church-man to a church-man; in the common cause we are all of a piece; we hang together.

  Lor. If you don’t, it were no matter if you did.[Aside.

  Dom. Nay, if you talk of peaching, I’ll peach first, and see whose oath will be believed; I’ll trounce you for offering to corrupt my honesty, and bribe my conscience: you shall be summoned by an host of parators; you shall be sentenced in the spiritual court; you shall be excommunicated; you shall be outlawed; — and —

  [Here Lorenzo takes a purse, and plays with it, and at last lets the purse fall chinking on the ground, which the Friar eyes.

  [In another tone.] I say, a man might do this now, if he were maliciously disposed, and had a mind to bring matters to extremity: but, considering that you are my friend, a person of honour, and a worthy good charitable man, I would rather die a thousand deaths than disoblige you.

  [Lorenzo takes up the purse, and pours it into the Friar’s sleeve.

  Nay, good sir; — nay, dear colonel; — O lord, sir, what are you doing now! I profess this must not be: without this I would have served you to the utter-most; pray command me. — A jealous, foul-mouthed rogue this Gomez is; I saw how he used you, and you marked how he used me too. O he’s a bitter man; but we’ll join our forces; ah, shall we, colonel? we’ll be revenged on him with a witness.

  Lor. But how shall I send her word to be ready at the door? for I must reveal it in confession to 441 you, that I mean to carry her away this evening, by the help of these two soldiers. I know Gomez suspects you, and you will hardly gain admittance.

  Dom. Let me alone; I fear him not. I am armed with the authority of my clothing: yonder I see him keeping sentry at his door: — have you never seen a citizen, in a cold morning, clapping his sides, and walking forward and backward, a mighty pace before his shop? but I’ll gain the pass, in spite of his suspicion; stand you aside, and do but mark how I accost him.

  Lor. If he meet with a repulse, we must throw off the fox’s skin, and put on the lion’s. — Come, gentlemen, you’ll stand by me?

  Sol. Do not doubt us, colonel. [They retire all three to a corner of the stage; Dominick goes to the door where Gomez stands.

  Dom. Good even, Gomez; how does your wife?

  Gom. Just as you’d have her; thinking on nothing but her dear colonel, and conspiring cuckoldom against me.

  Dom. I dare say, you wrong her; she is employing her thoughts how to cure you of your jealousy.

  Gom. Yes, by certainty.

  Dom. By your leave, Gomez; I have some spiritual advice to impart to her on that subject.

  Gom. You may spare your instructions, if you please, father; she has no farther need of them.

  Dom. How, no need of them! do you speak in riddles?

  Gom. Since you will have me speak plainer, — she has profited so well already by your counsel, that she can say her lesson without your teaching: Do you understand me now?

  Dom. I must not neglect my duty, for all that; once again, Gomez, by your leave.

  Gom. She’s a little indisposed at present, and it will not be convenient to disturb her.

  [Dominick offers to go by him, but t’other stands before him.

  Dom. Indisposed, say you? O, it is upon those occasions that a confessor is most necessary; I think, it was my good angel that sent me hither so opportunely.

  Gom. Ay, whose good angels sent you hither, that you best know, father.

  Dom. A word or two of devotion will do her no harm, I’m sure.

  Gom. A little sleep will do her more good, I’m sure: You know, she disburthened her conscience but this morning to you.

  Dom. But, if she be ill this afternoon, she may have new occasion to confess.

  Gom. Indeed, as you order matters with the colonel, she may have occasion of confessing herself every hour.

  Dom. Pray, how long has she been sick?

  Gom. Lord, you will force a man to speak; — why, ever since your last defeat.

  Dom. This can be but some slight indisposition; it will not last, and I may see her.

  Gom. How, not last! I say, it will last, and it shall last; she shall be sick these seven or eight days, and perhaps longer, as I see occasion. What? I know the mind of her sickness a little better than you do.

  Dom. I find, then, I must bring a doctor.

  Gom. And he’ll bring an apothecary, with a chargeable long bill of ana’s: those of my family have the grace to die cheaper. In a word, Sir Dominick, we understand one another’s business here: I am resolved to stand like the Swiss of my own family, to defend the entrance; you may mumble over your 443 pater nosters, if you please, and try if you can make my doors fly open, and batter down my walls with bell, book, and candle; but I am not of opinion, that you are holy enough to commit miracles.

  Dom. Men of my order are not to be treated after this manner.

  Gom. I would treat the pope and all his cardinals in the same manner, if they offered to see my wife, without my leave.

  Dom. I excommunicate thee from the church, if thou dost not open; there’s promulgation coming out.

  Gom. And I excommunicate you from my wife, if you go to that: there’s promulgation for promulgation, and bull for bull; and so I leave you to recreate yourself with the end of an old song —
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  And sorrow came to the old friar.[Exit.

  Lorenzo comes to him.

  Lor. I will not ask you your success; for I overheard part of it, and saw the conclusion. I find we are now put upon our last trump; the fox is earthed, but I shall send my two terriers in after him.

  Sold. I warrant you, colonel, we’ll unkennel him.

  Lor. And make what haste you can, to bring out the lady. — What say you, father? Burglary is but a venial sin among soldiers.

  Dom. I shall absolve them, because he is an enemy of the church. — There is a proverb, I confess, which says, that dead men tell no tales; but let your soldiers apply it at their own perils.

  Lor. What, take away a man’s wife, and kill him too! The wickedness of this old villain startles me, and gives me a twinge for my own sin, though it comes far short of his. — Hark you, soldiers, be sure you use as little violence to him as is possible.

  Dom. Hold a little; I have thought better how to secure him, with less danger to us.

  Lor. O miracle, the friar is grown conscientious!

  Dom. The old king, you know, is just murdered, and the persons that did it are unknown; let the soldiers seize him for one of the assassinates, and let me alone to accuse him afterwards.

  Lor. I cry thee mercy with all my heart, for suspecting a friar of the least good nature; what, would you accuse him wrongfully?

  Dom. I must confess, ’tis wrongful, quoad hoc, as to the fact itself; but ’tis rightful, quoad hunc, as to this heretical rogue, whom we must dispatch. He has railed against the church, which is a fouler crime than the murder of a thousand kings. Omne majus continet in se minus: He, that is an enemy to the church, is an enemy unto heaven; and he, that is an enemy to heaven, would have killed the king if he had been in the circumstances of doing it; so it is not wrongful to accuse him.

  Lor. I never knew a churchman, if he were personally offended, but he would bring in heaven by hook or crook into his quarrel. — Soldiers, do as you were first ordered.

  [Exeunt Soldiers.

  Dom. What was’t you ordered them? Are you sure it’s safe, and not scandalous?

  Lor. Somewhat near your own design, but not altogether so mischievous. The people are infinitely discontented, as they have reason; and mutinies there are, or will be, against the queen: now I am content to put him thus far into the plot, that he should be secured as a traitor; but he shall only be prisoner at the soldiers’ quarters; and when I am out of reach, he shall be released.

  Dom. And what will become of me then? for when he is free, he will infallibly accuse me.