John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

O there’s the wound! but let me first adjure you,

  By all you owe that dear departed soul,

  No more to think of marriage with Almeyda.

  Seb. Not heaven and earth combined can hinder it.

  Alv. Then witness heaven and earth, how loth I am

  To say, you must not, nay, you cannot, wed:

  And since not only a dead father’s fame,

  But more, a lady’s honour, must be touched,

  Which, nice as ermines, will not bear a soil,

  Let all retire, that you alone may hear

  What even in whispers I would tell your ear. [All are going out.

  Alm. Not one of you depart; I charge you, stay!

  And were my voice a trumpet loud as fame,

  To reach the round of heaven, and earth, and sea,

  All nations should be summoned to this place,

  So little do I fear that fellow’s charge:

  So should my honour, like a rising swan,

  Brush with her wings the falling drops away,

  And proudly plough the waves.

  Seb. This noble pride becomes thy innocence;

  And I dare trust my father’s memory,

  To stand the charge of that foul forging tongue.

  Alv. It will be soon discovered if I forge.

  Have you not heard your father in his youth,

  When newly married, travelled into Spain,

  And made a long abode in Philip’s court?

  Seb. Why so remote a question, which thyself

  Can answer to thyself? for thou wert with him,

  His favourite, as I oft have heard thee boast,

  And nearest to his soul.

  Alv. Too near, indeed; forgive me, gracious heaven,

  That ever I should boast I was so near,

  The confident of all his young amours! —

  And have not you, unhappy beauty, heard,[To Alm.

  Have you not often heard, your exiled parents

  Were refuged in that court, and at that time?

  Alm. ’Tis true; and often since my mother owned,

  How kind that prince was to espouse her cause;

  She counselled, nay enjoined me on her blessing,

  To seek the sanctuary of your court;

  Which gave me first encouragement to come,

  And, with my brother, beg Sebastian’s aid.

  Seb. Thou helpst me well to justify my war:

  [To Alm.] My dying father swore me, then a boy,

  And made me kiss the cross upon his sword,

  Never to sheath it, till that exiled queen

  Were by my arms restored.

  Alm. And can you find

  No mystery couched in this excess of kindness?

  Were kings e’er known, in this degenerate age,

  So passionately fond of noble acts,

  Where interest shared not more than half with honour?

  Seb. Base grovelling soul, who know’st not honour’s worth,

  But weigh’st it out in mercenary scales!

  The secret pleasure of a generous act

  Is the great mind’s great bribe.

  Alv. Show me that king, and I’ll believe the Phœnix.

  But knock at your own breast, and ask your soul,

  If those fair fatal eyes edged not your sword

  More than your father’s charge, and all your vows?

  If so, — and so your silence grants it is, —

  Know king, your father had, like you, a soul,

  And love is your inheritance from him.

  Almeyda’s mother, too, had eyes, like her,

  And not less charming; and were charmed no less

  Than yours are now with her, and hers with you.

  Alm. Thou liest, impostor! perjured fiend, thou liest!

  Seb. Was’t not enough to brand my father’s fame,

  But thou must load a lady’s memory?

  O infamous! O base, beyond repair!

  And to what end this ill-concerted lie,

  Which palpable and gross, yet granted true,

  It bars not my inviolable vows?

  Alv. Take heed, and double not your father’s crimes;

  To his adultery do not add your incest.

  Know, she’s the product of unlawful love,

  And ’tis your carnal sister you would wed.

  Seb. Thou shalt not say thou wer’t condemned unheard;

  Else, by my soul, this moment were thy last.

  Alm. But think not oaths shall justify thy charge,

  Nor imprecations on thy cursed head;

  For who dares lie to heaven, thinks heaven a jest.

  Thou hast confessed thyself the conscious pandar

  Of that pretended passion;

  A single witness infamously known,

  Against two persons of unquestioned fame.

  Alv. What interest can I have, or what delight,

  To blaze their shame, or to divulge my own?

  If proved, you hate me; if unproved, condemn.

  Not racks or tortures could have forced this secret,

  But too much care to save you from a crime,

  Which would have sunk you both. For, let me say,

  Almeyda’s beauty well deserves your love.

  Alm. Out, base impostor! I abhor thy praise.

  Dor. It looks not like imposture; but a truth,

  On utmost need revealed.

  Seb. Did I expect from Dorax this return?

  Is this the love renewed?

  Dor. Sir, I am silent;

  Pray heaven my fears prove false!

  Seb. Away! you all combine to make me wretched.

  Alv. But hear the story of that fatal love,

  Where every circumstance shall prove another;

  And truth so shine by her own native light,

  That, if a lie were mixt, it must be seen.

  Seb. No; all may still be forged, and of a piece.

  No; I can credit nothing thou canst say.

  Alv. One proof remains, and that’s your father’s hand,

  Firmed with his signet; both so fully known,

  That plainer evidence can hardly be,

  Unless his soul would want her heaven awhile,

  And come on earth to swear.

  Seb. Produce that writing.

  Alv. [To Dorax.] Alonzo has it in his custody;

  The same, which, when his nobleness redeemed me,

  And in a friendly visit owned himself

  For what he is, I then deposited,

  And had his faith to give it to the king.

  Dor. Untouched, and sealed, as when intrusted with me, [Giving a sealed Paper to the King.

  Such I restore it with a trembling hand,

  Lest aught within disturb your peace of soul.

  Seb. Draw near, Almeyda; thou art most concerned,

  For I am most in thee. — [Tearing open the Seals.

  Alonzo, mark the characters;

  Thou know’st my father’s hand, observe it well;

  And if the impostor’s pen have made one slip

  That shews it counterfeit, mark that, and save me.

  Dor. It looks indeed too like my master’s hand:

  So does the signet: more I cannot say;

  But wish ‘twere not so like.

  Seb. Methinks it owns

  The black adultery, and Almeyda’s birth;

  But such a mist of grief comes o’er my eyes,

  I cannot, or I would not, read it plain.

  Alm. Heaven cannot be more true, than this is false.

  Seb. O couldst thou prove it with the same assurance!

  Speak, hast thou ever seen my father’s hand?

  Alm. No; but my mother’s honour has been read

  By me, and by the world, in all her acts,

  In characters more plain and legible

  Than this dumb evidence, this blotted lie. —

  Oh that I were a man, as my soul’s one,

  To prove thee traitor, and assassi
nate

  Of her fame! thus moved, I’d tear thee thus, — [Tearing the Paper.

  And scatter o’er the field thy coward limbs,

  Like this foul offspring of thy forging brain. [Scattering the Paper.

  Alv. Just so shalt thou be torn from all thy hopes;

  For know, proud woman, know, in thy despite,

  The most authentic proof is still behind, —

  Thou wear’st it on thy finger: ’Tis that ring,

  Which, matched to that on his, shall clear the doubt.

  ’Tis no dumb forgery, for that shall speak,

  And sound a rattling peal to either’s conscience.

  Seb. This ring, indeed, my father, with a cold

  And shaking hand, just in the pangs of death,

  Put on my finger, with a parting sigh;

  And would have, spoke, but faultered in his speech,

  With undistinguished sound.

  Alv. I know it well,

  For I was present. — Now, Almeyda, speak,

  And truly tell us how you came by yours.

  Alm. My mother, when I parted from her sight

  To go to Portugal, bequeathed it to me,

  Presaging she should never see me more.

  She pulled it from her finger, shed some tears,

  Kissed it, and told me ’twas a pledge of love,

  And hid a mystery of great importance,

  Relating to my fortunes.

  Alv. Mark me now,

  While I disclose that fatal mystery: —

  Those rings, when you were born and thought another’s,

  Your parents, glowing yet in sinful love,

  Bid me bespeak: a curious artist wrought them.

  With joints so close, as not to be perceived,

  Yet are they both each other’s counterpart;

  Her part had Juan inscribed, and his had Zayda,

  (You know those names are theirs,) and in the midst

  A heart divided in two halves was placed.

  Now, if the rivets of those rings inclosed

  Fit not each other, I have forged this lie;

  But, if they join, you must for ever part.

  [Sebastian pulling off his Ring, Almeyda does the same, and gives it to Alvarez, who unscrews both the Rings, and fits one half to the other.

  Seb. Now life, or death.

  Alm. And either thine, or ours. —

  I’m lost for ever.

  [Swoons. The Women and Morayma take her up, and carry her off. Sebastian here stands amazed without motion, his eyes fixed upward.

  Seb. Look to the queen, my wife; for I am past

  All power of aid to her, or to myself.

  Alv. His wife! said he, his wife! O fatal sound!

  For, had I known it, this unwelcome news

  Had never reached their ears:

  So they had still been blest in ignorance,

  And I alone unhappy.

  Dor. I knew it, but too late, and durst not speak.

  Seb. [Starting out of his amazement.]

  I will not live, no not a moment more;

  I will not add one moment more to incest;

  I’ll cut it off, and end a wretched being:

  For, should I live, my soul’s so little mine,

  And so much hers, that I should still enjoy. —

  Ye cruel powers,

  Take me, as you have made me, miserable;

  You cannot make me guilty; ’twas my fate,

  And you made that, not I. [Draws his Sword. Antonio and Alvarez lay hold on him, and Dorax wrests the Sword out of his hand.

  Ant. For heaven’s sake hold, and recollect your mind!

  Alv. Consider whom you punish, and for what;

  Yourself unjustly; you have charged the fault

  On heaven, that best may bear it.

  Though incest is indeed a deadly crime,

  You are not guilty, since unknown ’twas done,

  And, known, had been abhorred.

  Seb. By heaven, you’re traitors all, that hold my hands.

  If death be but cessation of our thought,

  Then let me die, for I would think no more.

  I’ll boast my innocence above,

  And let them see a soul they could not sully,

  I shall be there before my father’s ghost,

  That yet must languish long in frosts and fires,

  For making me unhappy by his crime. —

  Stand oft, and let me take my fill of death;[Struggling again.

  For I can hold my breath in your despite,

  And swell my heaving soul out when I please.

  Alv. Heaven comfort you!

  Seb. What, art thou giving comfort!

  Wouldst thou give comfort, who hast given despair?

  Thou seest Alonzo silent; he’s a man.

  He knows, that men, abandoned of their hopes,

  Should ask no leave, nor stay for sueing out

  A tedious writ of ease from lingering heaven,

  But help themselves as timely as they could,

  And teach the Fates their duty.

  Dor. [To Alv. and Ant.] Let him go;

  He is our king, and he shall be obeyed.

  Alv. What, to destroy himself? O parricide!

  Dor. Be not injurious in your foolish zeal,

  But leave him free; or, by my sword, I swear

  To hew that arm away, that stops the passage

  To his eternal rest.

  Ant. [Letting go his hold.] Let him be guilty of his own death, if he pleases; for I’ll not be guilty of mine, by holding him.

  [The King shakes off Alv.

  Alv. [To Dor.] Infernal fiend,

  Is this a subject’s part?

  Dor. ’Tis a friend’s office.

  He has convinced me, that he ought to die;

  And, rather than he should not, here’s my sword,

  To help him on his journey.

  Seb. My last, my only friend, how kind art thou,

  And how inhuman these!

  Dor. To make the trifle, death, a thing of moment!

  Seb. And not to weigh the important cause I had

  To rid myself of life!

  Dor. True; for a crime

  So horrid, in the face of men and angels,

  As wilful incest is!

  Seb. Not wilful, neither.

  Dor. Yes, if you lived, and with repeated acts

  Refreshed your sin, and loaded crimes with crimes,

  To swell your scores of guilt.

  Seb. True; if I lived.

  Dor. I said so, if you lived.

  Seb. For hitherto was fatal ignorance,

  And no intended crime.

  Dor. That you best know;

  But the malicious world will judge the worst.

  Alv. O what a sophister has hell procured,

  To argue for damnation!

  Dor. Peace, old dotard.

  Mankind, that always judge of kings with malice,

  Will think he knew this incest, and pursued it.

  His only way to rectify mistakes,

  And to redeem her honour, is to die.

  Seb. Thou hast it right, my dear, my best Alonzo!

  And that, but petty reparation too;

  But all I have to give.

  Dor. Your, pardon, sir;

  You may do more, and ought.

  Seb. What, more than death?

  Dor. Death! why, that’s children’s sport; a stage-play death;

  We act it every night we go to bed.

  Death, to a man in misery, is sleep.

  Would you, — who perpetrated such a crime,

  As frightened nature, made the saints above

  Shake heavens eternal pavement with their trembling

  To view that act, — would you but barely die?

  But stretch your limbs, and turn on t’other side.

  To lengthen out a black voluptuous slumber,

  And dream you had your sister in your arms?

  Seb. To expia
te this, can I do more than die?

  Dor. O yes, you must do more, you must be damned;

  You must be damned to all eternity;

  And sure self-murder is the readiest way.

  Seb. How, damned?

  Dor. Why, is that news?

  Alv. O horror, horror!

  Dor. What, thou a statesman,

  And make a business of damnation

  In such a world as this! why, ’tis a trade;

  The scrivener, usurer, lawyer, shopkeeper,

  And soldier, cannot live but by damnation.

  The politician does it by advance,

  And gives all gone beforehand.

  Seb. O thou hast given me such a glimpse of hell,

  So pushed me forward, even to the brink

  Of that irremeable burning gulph,

  That, looking in the abyss, I dare not leap.

  And now I see what good thou mean’st my soul,

  And thank thy pious fraud; thou hast indeed

  Appeared a devil, but didst an angel’s work.

  Dor. ’Twas the last remedy, to give you leisure;

  For, if you could but think, I knew you safe.

  Seb. I thank thee, my Alonzo; I will live,

  But never more to Portugal return;

  For, to go back and reign, that were to show

  Triumphant incest, and pollute the throne.

  Alv. Since ignorance —

  Seb. O, palliate not my wound;

  When you have argued all you can, ’tis incest.

  No, ’tis resolved: I charge you plead no more;

  I cannot live without Almeyda’s sight,

  Nor can I see Almeyda, but I sin.

  Heaven has inspired me with a sacred thought,

  To live alone to heaven, and die to her.

  Dor. Mean you to turn an anchorite?

  Seb. What else?

  The world was once too narrow for my mind,

  But one poor little nook will serve me now,

  To hide me from the rest of human kind.

  Africk has deserts wide enough to hold

  Millions of monsters; and I am, sure, the greatest.

  Alv. You may repent, and wish your crown too late.

  Seb. O never, never; I am past a boy:

  A sceptre’s but a plaything, and a globe

  A bigger bounding stone. He, who can leave

  Almeyda, may renounce the rest with ease.

  Dor. O truly great!

  A soul fixed high, and capable of heaven.

  Old as he is, your uncle cardinal

  Is not so far enamoured of a cloister,

  But he will thank you for the crown you leave him.

  Seb. To please him more, let him believe me dead,

  That he may never dream I may return.

  Alonzo, I am now no more thy king,

  But still thy friend; and by that holy name

  Adjure thee, to perform my last request; —

  Make our conditions with yon captive king;