John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Cur. They thought, to arm against the king was treason.

  Buss. I hope you set them right?

  Cur. Yes; and for answer, I produced this book.

  A Calvinist minister of Orleans

  Writ this, to justify the admiral

  For taking arms against the king deceased;

  Wherein he proves, that irreligious kings

  May justly be deposed, and put to death.

  Buss. To borrow arguments from heretic books,

  Methinks, was not so prudent.

  Cur. Yes; from the devil, if it would help our cause.

  The author was indeed a heretic;

  The matter of the book is good and pious.

  Pol. But one prime article of our Holy League

  Is to preserve the king, his power, and person.

  Cur. That must be said, you know, for decency;

  A pretty blind to make the shoot secure.

  Buss. But did the primitive Christians e’er rebel,

  When under heathen lords? I hope they did.

  Cur. No sure, they did not; for they had not power;

  The conscience of a people is their power.

  Pol. Well; the next article in our solemn covenant

  Has cleared the point again.

  Buss. What is’t? I should be glad to find the king

  No safer than needs must.

  Pol. That, in case of opposition from any person whatsoever —

  Cur. That’s well, that well; then the king is not excepted, if he oppose us. —

  Pol. We are obliged to join as one, to punish

  All, who attempt to hinder or disturb us.

  Buss. ’Tis a plain case; the king’s included in the punishment, in case he rebel against the people.

  Pol. But how can he rebel?

  Cur. I’ll make it out: Rebellion is an insurrection against the government; but they that have the power are actually the government; therefore, if the people have the power, the rebellion is in the king.

  Buss. A most convincing argument for faction.

  Cur. For arming, if you please, but not for faction:

  For still the faction is the fewest number:

  So what they call the lawful government,

  Is now the faction; for the most are ours.

  Pol. Since we are proved to be above the king, I would gladly understand whom we are to obey, or, whether we are to be all kings together?

  Cur. Are you a member of the League, and ask that question? There’s an article, that, I may say, is as necessary as any in the creed; namely, that we, the said associates, are sworn to yield ready obedience, and faithful service, to that head which shall be deputed.

  Buss. ’Tis most manifest, that, by virtue of our oath, we are all subjects to the Duke of Guise. The king’s an officer that has betrayed his trust; and therefore we have turned him out of service.

  Omn. Agreed, agreed.

  Enter the Duke of Guise, Cardinal of Guise, Aumale: Torches before them. The Duke takes the Chair.

  Buss. Your highness enters in a lucky hour;

  The unanimous vote you heard, confirms your choice.

  As head of Paris and the Holy League.

  Card. I say amen to that.

  Pol. You are our champion, buckler of our faith.

  Card. The king, like Saul, is heaven’s repented choice;

  You his anointed one, on better thought.

  Gui. I’m what you please to call me; any thing,

  Lieutenant-general, chief, or constable,

  Good decent names, that only mean — your slave.

  Buss. You chased the Germans hence, exiled Navarre,

  And rescued France from heretics and strangers.

  Aum. What he, and all of us have done, is known.

  What’s our reward? Our offices are lost,

  Turned out, like laboured oxen after harvest,

  To the bare commons of the withered field.

  Buss. Our charters will go next; because we sheriffs

  Permit no justice to be done on those

  The court calls rebels, but we call them saints.

  Gui. Yes; we are all involved, as heads, or parties;

  Dipt in the noisy crime of state, called treason;

  And traitors we must be, to king, or country.

  Buss. Why then my choice is made.

  Pol. And mine.

  Omn. And all.

  Card. Heaven is itself head of the Holy League;

  And all the saints are cov’nanters and Guisards.

  Gui. What say you, curate?

  Cur. I hope well, my lord.

  Card. That is, he hopes you mean to make him abbot,

  And he deserves your care of his preferment;

  For all his prayers are curses on the government,

  And all his sermons libels on the king;

  In short, a pious, hearty, factious priest.

  Gui. All that are here, my friends, shall share my fortunes:

  There’s spoil, preferments, wealth enough in France;

  ’Tis but deserve, and have. The Spanish king

  Consigns me fifty thousand crowns a-week

  To raise, and to foment a civil war.

  ’Tis true, a pension, from a foreign prince,

  Sounds treason in the letter of the law,

  But good intentions justify the deed.

  Cur. Heaven’s good; the cause is good; the money’s good;

  No matter whence it comes.

  Buss. Our city-bands are twenty thousand strong,

  Well-disciplined, well-armed, well-seasoned traitors,

  Thick-rinded heads, that leave no room for kernel;

  Shop-consciences, of proof against an oath,

  Preached up, and ready tined for a rebellion.

  Gui. Why then the noble plot is fit for birth;

  And labouring France cries out for midwife hands.

  We missed surprising of the king at Blois,

  When last the states were held: ’twas oversight;

  Beware we make not such another blot.

  Card. This holy time of Lent we have him sure;

  He goes unguarded, mixed with whipping friars.

  In that procession, he’s more fit for heaven:

  What hinders us to seize the royal penitent,

  And close him in a cloister?

  Cur. Or dispatch him; I love to make all sure.

  Gui. No; guard him safe;

  Thin diet will do well; ‘twill starve him into reason,

  ‘Till he exclude his brother of Navarre,

  And graft succession on a worthier choice.

  To favour this, five hundred men in arms

  Shall stand prepared, to enter at your call,

  And speed the work; St Martin’s gate was named;

  But the sheriff Conty, who commands that ward,

  Refused me passage there.

  Buss. I know that Conty;

  A snivelling, conscientious, loyal rogue;

  He’ll peach, and ruin all.

  Card. Give out he’s arbitrary, a Navarist,

  A heretic; discredit him betimes,

  And make his witness void.

  Cur. I’ll swear him guilty.

  I swallow oaths as easy as snap-dragon,

  Mock-fire that never burns.

  Gui. Then, Bussy, be it your care to admit my troops,

  At Port St Honore: [Rises.] Night wears apace,

  And day-light must not peep on dark designs.

  I will myself to court, pay formal duty,

  Take leave, and to my government retire;

  Impatient to be soon recalled, to see

  The king imprisoned, and the nation free.[Exeunt.

  SCENE II.

  Enter Malicorn solus.

  Mal. Each dismal minute, when I call to mind

  The promise, that I made the Prince of Hell,

  In one-and-twenty years to be his slave,

  Of which near twelve are gone, my soul runs back,

&
nbsp; The wards of reason roll into their spring.

  O horrid thought! but one-and-twenty years,

  And twelve near past, then to be steeped in fire,

  Dashed against rocks, or snatched from molten lead,

  Reeking, and dropping, piece-meal borne by winds,

  And quenched ten thousand fathom in the deep! —

  But hark! he comes: see there! my blood stands still,

  [Knocking at the Door. My spirits start on end for Guise’s fate.

  A Devil rises.

  Mal. What counsel does the fate of Guise require?

  Dev. Remember, with his prince there’s no delay.

  But, the sword drawn, to fling the sheath away;

  Let not the fear of hell his spirit grieve,

  The tomb is still, whatever fools believe:

  Laugh at the tales which withered sages bring,

  Proverbs and morals; let the waxen king,

  That rules the hive, be born without a sting;

  Let Guise by blood resolve to mount to power.

  And he is great as Mecca’s emperor.

  He comes; bid him not stand on altar-vows,

  But then strike deepest, when he lowest bows;

  Tell him, fate’s awed when an usurper springs,

  And joins to crowd out just indulgent kings.[Vanishes.

  SCENE III.

  Enter the Duke of Guise, and Duke of Mayenne.

  May. All offices and dignities he gives

  To your profest and most inveterate foes;

  But if he were inclined, as we could wish him,

  There is a lady-regent at his ear,

  That never pardons.

  Gui. Poison on her name!

  Take my hand on’t, that cormorant dowager

  Will never rest, till she has all our heads

  In her lap. I was at Bayonne with her,

  When she, the king, and grisly d’Alva met.

  Methinks, I see her listening now before me,

  Marking the very motion of his beard,

  His opening nostrils, and his dropping lids.

  I hear him croak too to the gaping council, —

  Fish for the great fish, take no care for frogs,

  Cut off the poppy-heads, sir; — madam, charm

  The winds but fast, the billows will be still.

  May. But, sir, how comes it you should be thus warm,

  Still pushing counsels when among your friends;

  Yet, at the court, cautious, and cold as age,

  Your voice, your eyes, your mien so different,

  You seem to me two men?

  Gui. The reason’s plain.

  Hot with my friends, because, the question given,

  I start the judgment right, where others drag.

  This is the effect of equal elements,

  And atoms justly poised; nor should you wonder

  More at the strength of body than of mind;

  ’Tis equally the same to see me plunge

  Headlong into the Seine, all over armed,

  And plow against the torrent to my point,

  As ’twas to hear my judgment on the Germans,

  This to another man would be a brag;

  Or at the court among my enemies,

  To be, as I am here, quite off my guard,

  Would make me such another thing as Grillon,

  A blunt, hot, honest, downright, valiant fool.

  May. Yet this you must allow a failure in you, —

  You love his niece; and to a politician

  All passion’s bane, but love directly death.

  Gui. False, false, my Mayenne; thou’rt but half Guise again.

  Were she not such a wond’rous composition,

  A soul, so flushed as mine is with ambition,

  Sagacious and so nice, must have disdained her:

  But she was made when nature was in humour,

  As if a Grillon got her on the queen,

  Where all the honest atoms fought their way,

  Took a full tincture of the mother’s wit,

  But left the dregs of wickedness behind.

  May. Have you not told her what we have in hand?

  Gui. My utmost aim has been to hide it from her,

  But there I’m short; by the long chain of causes

  She has scanned it, just as if she were my soul;

  And though I flew about with circumstances.

  Denials, oaths, improbabilities;

  Yet, through the histories of our lives, she looked,

  She saw, she overcame.

  May. Why then, we’re all undone.

  Gui. Again you err.

  Chaste as she is, she would as soon give up

  Her honour, as betray me to the king:

  I tell thee, she’s the character of heaven;

  Such an habitual over-womanly goodness,

  She dazzles, walks mere angel upon earth.

  But see, she comes; call the cardinal Guise,

  While Malicorn attends for some dispatches,

  Before I take my farewell of the court.[Exit May.

  Enter Marmoutiere.

  Mar. Ah Guise, you are undone!

  Gui. How, madam?

  Mar. Lost,

  Beyond the possibility of hope:

  Despair, and die.

  Gui. You menace deeply, madam:

  And should this come from any mouth but yours,

  My smile should answer how the ruin touched me.

  Mar. Why do you leave the court?

  Gui. The court leaves me.

  Mar. Were there no more, but weariness of state,

  Or could you, like great Scipio, retire,

  Call Rome ungrateful, and sit down with that;

  Such inward gallantry would gain you more

  Than all the sullied conquests you can boast:

  But oh, you want that Roman mastery;

  You have too much of the tumultuous times,

  And I must mourn the fate of your ambition.

  Gui. Because the king disdains my services,

  Must I not let him know I dare be gone?

  What, when I feel his council on my neck,

  Shall I not cast them backward if I can,

  And at his feet make known their villainy?

  Mar. No, Guise, not at his feet, but on his head;

  For there you strike.

  Gui. Madam, you wrong me now:

  For still, whate’er shall come in fortune’s whirl,

  His person must be safe.

  Mar. I cannot think it.

  However, your last words confess too much.

  Confess! what need I urge that evidence,

  When every hour I see you court the crowd,

  When with the shouts of the rebellious rabble,

  I see you borne on shoulders to cabals;

  Where, with the traitorous Council of Sixteen,

  You sit, and plot the royal Henry’s death;

  Cloud the majestic name with fumes of wine,

  Infamous scrolls, and treasonable verse;

  While, on the other side, the name of Guise,

  By the whole kennel of the slaves, is rung.

  Pamphleteers, ballad-mongers sing your ruin.

  While all the vermin of the vile Parisians

  Toss up their greasy caps where’er you pass,

  And hurl your dirty glories in your face.

  Gui. Can I help this?

  Mar. By heaven, I’d earth myself,

  Rather than live to act such black ambition:

  But, sir, you seek it with your smiles and bows.

  This side and that side congeing to the crowd.

  You have your writers too, that cant your battles,

  That stile you, the new David, second Moses,

  Prop of the church, deliverer of the people.

  Thus from the city, as from the heart, they spread

  Through all the provinces, alarm the countries,

  Where they run forth in heaps, bellowing your w
onders;

  Then cry, — The king, the king’s a Hugonot,

  And, spite of us, will have Navarre succeed,

  Spite of the laws, and spite of our religion:

  But we will pull them down, down with them, down.[Kneels.

  Gui. Ha, madam! Why this posture?

  Mar. Hear me, sir;

  For, if ’tis possible, my lord, I’ll move you.

  Look back, return, implore the royal mercy,

  Ere ’tis too late; I beg you by these tears,

  These sighs, and by the ambitious love you bear me;

  By all the wounds of your poor groaning country,

  That bleeds to death. O seek the best of kings,

  Kneel, fling your stubborn body at his feet:

  Your pardon shall be signed, your country saved,

  Virgins and matrons all shall sing your fame,

  And every babe shall bless the Guise’s name.

  Gui. O rise, thou image of the deity!

  You shall prevail, I will do any thing:

  You’ve broke the very gall of my ambition,

  And all my powers now float in peace again.

  Be satisfied that I will see the king,

  Kneel to him, ere I journey to Champaigne,

  And beg a kind farewell.

  Mar. No, no, my lord;

  I see through that; you but withdraw a while,

  To muster all the forces that you can,

  And then rejoin the Council of Sixteen.

  You must not go.

  Gui. All the heads of the League

  Expect me, and I have engaged my honour.

  Mar. Would all those heads were off, so yours were saved!

  Once more, O Guise, the weeping Marmoutiere

  Entreats you, do not go.

  Gui. Is’t possible

  That Guise should say, in this he must refuse you!

  Mar. Go then, my lord. I late received a letter

  From one at court, who tells me, the king loves me:

  Read it, — there is no more than what you hear.

  I’ve jewels offered too, — perhaps may take them;

  And if you go from Paris, I’ll to court.

  Gui. But, madam, I have often heard you say,

  You loved not courts.

  Mar. Perhaps I’ve changed my mind:

  Nothing as yet could draw me, but a king;

  And such a king, — so good, so just, so great,

  That, at his birth, the heavenly council paused,

  And then, at last, cried out, — This is a man.

  Gui. Come, ’tis but counterfeit; you dare not go.

  Mar. Go to your government, and try.

  Gui. I will.

  Mar. Then I’ll to court, nay — to the king.

  Gui. By heaven,

  I swear you cannot, shall not, — dare not see him.

  Mar. By heaven, I can, I dare, nay — and I will;

  And nothing but your stay shall hinder me;