by John Dryden
Bend. I could not find it, till you lent a clue
To that close labyrinth; how then should they?
Emp. I would be loth they should: it breeds contempt
For herds to listen, or presume to pry,
When the hurt lion groans within his den:
But is’t not strange?
Bend. To love? not more than ’tis to live; a tax
Imposed on all by nature, paid in kind,
Familiar as our being.
Emp. Still ’tis strange
To me: I know my soul as wild as winds,
That sweep the desarts of our moving plains;
Love might as well be sowed upon our sands,
As in a breast so barren.
To love an enemy, the only one
Remaining too, whom yester sun beheld
Mustering her charms, and rolling, as she past
By every squadron, her alluring eyes,
To edge her champions’ swords, and urge my ruin.
The shouts of soldiers, and the burst of cannon,
Maintain even still a deaf and murmuring noise;
Nor is heaven yet recovered of the sound,
Her battle roused: Yet, spite of me, I love.
Bend. What then controuls you?
Her person is as prostrate as her party.
Emp. A thousand things controul this conqueror:
My native pride to own the unworthy passion,
Hazard of interest, and my people’s love.
To what a storm of fate am I exposed! —
What if I had her murdered!— ’tis but what
My subjects all expect, and she deserves, —
Would not the impossibility
Of ever, ever seeing, or possessing,
Calm all this rage, this hurricane of soul?
Bend. That ever, ever, —
I marked the double, — shows extreme reluctance
To part with her for ever.
Emp. Right, thou hast me.
I would, but cannot kill: I must enjoy her:
I must, and what I must, be sure I will.
What’s royalty, but power to please myself?
And if I dare not, then am I the slave,
And my own slaves the sovereigns:— ’tis resolved.
Weak princes flatter, when they want the power
To curb their people; tender plants must bend:
But when a government is grown to strength,
Like some old oak, rough with its armed bark,
It yields not to the tug, but only nods,
And turns to sullen state.
Bend. Then you resolve
To implore her pity, and to beg relief?
Emp. Death! must I beg the pity of my slave?
Must a king beg? — Yes; love’s a greater king;
A tyrant, nay, a devil, that possesses me:
He tunes the organs of my voice, and speaks,
Unknown to me, within me; pushes me,
And drives me on by force. —
Say I should wed her, would not my wise subjects
Take check, and think it strange? perhaps revolt?
Bend. I hope they would not.
Emp. Then thou doubtst they would?
Bend. To whom?
Emp. To her
Perhaps, — or to my brother, — or to thee.
Bend. [in disorder.]
To me! me, did you mention? how I tremble!
The name of treason shakes my honest soul.
If I am doubted, sir,
Secure yourself this moment, take my life.
Emp. No more: If I suspected thee — I would.
Bend. I thank your kindness. — Guilt had almost lost me. [Aside.
Emp. But clear my doubts: — thinkst thou they may rebel?
Bend. This goes as I would wish. — [Aside.
’Tis possible:
A secret party still remains, that lurks
Like embers raked in ashes, — wanting but
A breath to blow aside the involving dust,
And then they blaze abroad.
Emp. They must be trampled out.
Bend. But first be known.
Emp. Torture shall force it from them.
Bend. You would not put a nation to the rack?
Emp. Yes, the whole world; so I be safe, I care not.
Bend. Our limbs and lives
Are yours; but mixing friends with foes is hard.
Emp. All may be foes; or how to be distinguished,
If some be friends?
Bend. They may with ease be winnowed.
Suppose some one, who has deserved your trust,
Some one, who knows mankind, should be employed
To mix among them, seem a malcontent,
And dive into their breasts, to try how far
They dare oppose your love?
Emp. I like this well; ’tis wholesome wickedness.
Bend. Whomever he suspects, he fastens there,
And leaves no cranny of his soul unsearched;
Then like a bee bag’d with his honeyed venom,
He brings it to your hive; — if such a man,
So able and so honest, may be found;
If not, my project dies.
Emp. By all my hopes, thou hast described thyself:
Thou, thou alone, art fit to play that engine,
Thou only couldst contrive.
Bend. Sure I could serve you:
I think I could: — but here’s the difficulty;
I am so entirely yours,
That I should scurvily dissemble hate;
The cheat would be too gross.
Emp. Art thou a statesman,
And canst not be a hypocrite? Impossible!
Do not distrust thy virtues.
Bend. If I must personate this seeming villain,
Remember ’tis to serve you.
Emp. No more words:
Love goads me to Almeyda, all affairs
Are troublesome but that; and yet that most.[Going.
Bid Dorax treat Sebastian like a king;
I had forgot him; — but this love mars all,
And takes up my whole breast.[Exit Emperor.
Bend. [To the Emp.] Be sure I’ll tell him —
With all the aggravating circumstances[Alone.
I can, to make him swell at that command.
The tyrant first suspected me;
Then with a sudden gust he whirled about,
And trusted me too far: — Madness of power!
Now, by his own consent, I ruin him.
For, should some feeble soul, for fear or gain.
Bolt out to accuse me, even the king is cozened,
And thinks he’s in the secret.
How sweet is treason, when the traitor’s safe!
Sees the Mufti and Dorax entering, and seeming to confer.
The Mufti, and with him my sullen Dorax.
That first is mine already:
’Twas easy work to gain a covetous mind,
Whom rage to lose his prisoners had prepared:
Now caught himself,
He would seduce another. I must help him:
For churchmen, though they itch to govern all,
Are silly, woeful, aukward politicians:
They make lame mischief, though they mean it well:
Their interest is not finely drawn, and hid,
But seams are coarsely bungled up, and seen.
Muf. He’ll tell you more.
Dor. I have heard enough already,
To make me loath thy morals.
Bend. [To Dor.] You seem warm;
The good man’s zeal perhaps has gone too far.
Dor. Not very far; not farther than zeal goes;
Of course a small day’s journey short of treason.
Muf. By all that’s holy, treason was not named:
I spared the emperor’s broken vows, to save
The slaves from death, though it was cheating heaven;
But I
forgave him that.
Dor. And slighted o’er
The wrongs himself sustained in property;
When his bought slaves were seized by force, no loss
Of his considered, and no cost repaid.[Scornfully.
Muf. Not wholly slighted o’er, not absolutely. —
Some modest hints of private wrongs I urged.
Dor. Two-thirds of all he said: there he began
To shew the fulness of his heart; there ended.
Some short excursions of a broken vow
He made indeed, but flat insipid stuff;
But, when he made his loss the theme, he flourished,
Relieved his fainting rhetoric with new figures,
And thundered at oppressing tyranny.
Muf. Why not, when sacrilegious power would seize
My property? ’tis an affront to heaven,
Whose person, though unworthy, I sustain.
Dor. You’ve made such strong alliances above,
That ‘twere profaneness in us laity
To offer earthly aid.
I tell thee, Mufti, if the world were wise,
They would not wag one finger in your quarrels.
Your heaven you promise, but our earth you covet;
The Phætons of mankind, who fire that world,
Which you were sent by preaching but to warm.
Bend. This goes beyond the mark.
Muf. No, let him rail;
His prophet works within him;
He’s a rare convert.
Dor. Now his zeal yearns
To see me burned; he damns me from his church,
Because I would restrain him to his duty. —
Is not the care of souls a load sufficient?
Are not your holy stipends paid for this?
Were you not bred apart from worldly noise,
To study souls, their cures and their diseases?
If this be so, we ask you but our own:
Give us your whole employment, all your care.
The province of the soul is large enough
To fill up every cranny of your time,
And leave you much to answer, if one wretch
Be damned by your neglect.
Bend. [To the Mufti.] He speaks but reason.
Dor. Why, then, these foreign thoughts of state-employments,
Abhorrent to your function and your breedings?
Poor droning truants of unpractised cells,
Bred in the fellowship of bearded boys,
What wonder is it if you know not men?
Yet there you live demure, with down-cast eyes,
And humble as your discipline requires;
But, when let loose from thence to live at large,
Your little tincture of devotion dies:
Then luxury succeeds, and, set agog
With a new scene of yet untasted joys,
You fall with greedy hunger to the feast.
Of all your college virtues, nothing now
But your original ignorance remains;
Bloated with pride, ambition, avarice,
You swell to counsel kings, and govern kingdoms.
Muf. He prates as if kings had not consciences,
And none required directors but the crowd.
Dor. As private men they want you, not as kings;
Nor would you care to inspect their public conscience,
But that it draws dependencies of power
And earthly interest, which you long to sway;
Content you with monopolizing heaven,
And let this little hanging ball alone:
For, give you but a foot of conscience there,
And you, like Archimedes, toss the globe.
We know your thoughts of us that laymen are,
Lag souls, and rubbish of remaining clay,
Which heaven, grown weary of more perfect work,
Set upright with a little puff of breath,
And bid us pass for men.
Muf. I will not answer,
Base foul-mouthed renegade; but I’ll pray for thee,
To shew my charity.[Exit Mufti.
Dor. Do; but forget not him who needs it most:
Allow thyself some share. — He’s gone too soon;
I had to tell him of his holy jugglings;
Things that would startle faith, and make us deem
Not this, or that, but all religions false.
Bend. Our holy orator has lost the cause.[Aside.
But I shall yet redeem it. — [To Dorax.] Let him go;
For I have secret orders from the emperor,
Which none but you must hear: I must confess,
I could have wished some other hand had brought them.
When did you see your prisoner, great Sebastian?
Dor. You might as well have asked me, when I saw
A crested dragon, or a basilisk;
Both are less poison to my eyes and nature,
He knows not I am I; nor shall he see me,
Till time has perfected a labouring thought,
That rolls within my breast.
Bend. ’Twas my mistake.
I guessed indeed that time, and his misfortunes,
And your returning duty, had effaced
The memory of past wrongs; they would in me,
And I judged you as tame, and as forgiving.
Dor. Forgive him! no: I left my foolish faith,
Because it would oblige me to forgiveness.
Bend. I can’t but grieve to find you obstinate,
For you must see him; ’tis our emperor’s will,
And strict command.
Dor. I laugh at that command.
Bend. You must do more than see; serve, and respect him.
Dor. See, serve him, and respect! and after all
My yet uncancelled wrongs, I must do this! —
But I forget myself.
Bend. Indeed you do.
Dor. The emperor is a stranger to my wrongs;
I need but tell my story, to revoke
This hard commission.
Bend. Can you call me friend,
And think I could neglect to speak, at full,
The affronts you had from your ungrateful master?
Dor. And yet enjoined my service and attendance!
Bend. And yet enjoined them both: would that were all!
He screwed his face into a hardened smile,
And said, Sebastian knew to govern slaves.
Dor. Slaves are the growth of Africk, not of Europe. —
By heaven! I will not lay down my commission;
Not at his foot, I will not stoop so low:
But if there be a part in all his face
More sacred than the rest, I’ll throw it there.
Bend. You may; but then you lose all future means
Of vengeance on Sebastian, when no more
Alcayde of this fort.
Dor. That thought escaped me.
Bend. Keep your command, and be revenged on both:
Nor sooth yourself; you have no power to affront him;
The emperor’s love protects him from insults;
And he, who spoke that proud, ill-natured word,
Following the bent of his impetuous temper,
May force your reconcilement to Sebastian;
Nay, bid you kneel, and kiss the offending foot,
That kicked you from his presence. —
But think not to divide their punishment;
You cannot touch a hair of loathed Sebastian,
While Muley-Moluch lives.
Dor. What means this riddle?
Bend. ’Tis out; — there needs no Œdipus to solve it.
Our emperor is a tyrant, feared and hated;
I scarce remember, in his reign, one day
Pass guiltless o’er his execrable head.
He thinks the sun is lost, that sees not blood:
When none is shed, we count it holiday.
We, who
are most in favour, cannot call
This hour our own. — You know the younger brother,
Mild Muley-Zeydan?
Dor. Hold, and let me think.
Bend. The soldiers idolize you;
He trusts you with the castle,
The key of all his kingdom.
Dor. Well; and he trusts you too.
Bend. Else I were mad,
To hazard such a daring enterprize.
Dor. He trusts us both; mark that! — Shall we betray him;
A master, who reposes life and empire
On our fidelity: — I grant he is a tyrant,
That hated name my nature most abhors:
More, — as you say, — has loaded me with scorn,
Even with the last contempt, to serve Sebastian;
Yet more, I know he vacates my revenge,
Which, but by this revolt, I cannot compass:
But, while he trusts me, ‘twere so base a part,
To fawn, and yet betray, — I should be hissed,
And whooped in hell for that ingratitude.
Bend. Consider well what I have done for you.
Dor. Consider thou, what thou wouldst have me do.
Bend. You’ve too much honour for a renegade.
Dor. And thou too little faith to be a favourite.
Is not the bread thou eat’st, the robe thou wear’st,
Thy wealth, and honours, all the pure indulgence
Of him thou would’st destroy?
And would his creature, nay, his friend, betray him?
Why then no bond is left on human kind!
Distrusts, debates, immortal strifes ensue;
Children may murder parents, wives their husbands;
All must be rapine, wars, and desolation,
When trust and gratitude no longer bind.
Bend. Well have you argued in your own defence;
You, who have burst asunder all those bonds,
And turned a rebel to your native prince.
Dor. True, I rebelled: But when did I betray? —
Indignities, which man could not support,
Provoked my vengeance to this noble crime;
But he had stripped me first of my command,
Dismissed my service, and absolved my faith;
And, with disdainful language, dared my worst:
I but accepted war, which he denounced.
Else had you seen, not Dorax, but Alonzo,
With his couched lance, against your foremost Moors;
Perhaps, too, turned the fortune of the day,
Made Africk mourn and Portugal triumph.
Bend. Let me embrace thee!
Dor. Stand off, sycophant,
And keep infection distant.
Bend. Brave and honest!
Dor. In spite of thy temptations.
Bend. Call them, trials;
They were no more. Thy faith was held in balance,
And nicely weighed by jealousy of power.
Vast was the trust of such a royal charge: