John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  A Dorset or a Wycherly invite,

  Becauae they feel no pinching wants, to write.

  “Go on! endenizon the Romane alave;

  Lot an eternal spring adorne hia grave;

  Hia ghost would gladly all hia fame aubmitt

  To thy atrong judgment and thy piercing witt.

  Purged by thy hand, he speaks immortall aenae,

  And pleaaea all with modish excellence.

  Nor would we have thee live on empty praiee

  The while, for, though we cann’t restore the baya,

  While thou writ’st thua, — to pay thy meritea due,

  Wee ‘ll give the claret and the pension too.”

  Melbourne concludes, by desiring to be supplied with such of our author’s writings, as he had not already, to be sent to Yarmouth in Norfolk, where he probably had then a living.

  “Amphitryon” was produced in the same year with “Don Sebastian;” and although it cannot be called altogether an original performance, yet it contains so much original writing as to show that our author’s vein of poetry was, in his advanced age, distinguished by the same rapid fluency as when he first began to write for the stage.

  This comedy was acted and printed in 1690. It was very favourably received; and continued long to be what is called a stock-play.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  ACT III.

  ACT IV.

  ACT V.

  EPILOGUE.

  TO THE HONOURABLE SIR WILLIAM LEVESON GOWER, BARONET.

  There is one kind of virtue which is inborn in the nobility, and indeed in most of the ancient families of this nation; they are not apt to insult on the misfortunes of their countrymen. But you, sir, I may tell it you without flattery, have grafted on this natural commiseration, and raised it to a nobler virtue. As you have been pleased to honour me, for a long time, with some part of your esteem, and your good-will; so, in particular, since the late Revolution, you have increased the proofs of your kindness to me; and not suffered the difference of opinions, which produce such hatred and enmity in the brutal part of humankind, to remove you from the settled basis of your good nature, and good sense. This nobleness of yours, had it been exercised on an enemy, had certainly been a point of honour, and as such I might have justly recommended it to the world; but that of constancy to your former choice, and the pursuance of your first favours, are virtues not over common amongst Englishmen. All things of honour have, at best, somewhat of ostentation in them, and self-love; there is a pride of doing more than is expected from us, and more than others would have done. But to proceed in the same tract of goodness, favour, and protection, is to show that a man is acted by a thorough principle: it carries somewhat of tenderness in it, which is humanity in a heroical degree; it is a kind of unmovable good nature; a word which is commonly despised, because it is so seldom practised. But, after all, it is the most generous virtue, opposed to the most degenerate vice, which is that of ruggedness and harshness to our fellow-creatures.

  It is upon this knowledge of you, sir, that I have chosen you, with your permission, to be the patron of this poem. And as, since this wonderful Revolution, I have begun with the best pattern of humanity, the Earl of Leicester, I shall continue to follow the same method, in all to whom I shall address; and endeavour to pitch on such only, as have been pleased to own me, in this ruin of my small fortune; who, though they are of a contrary opinion themselves, yet blame not me for adhering to a lost cause, and judging for myself, what I cannot choose but judge, so long as I am a patient sufferer, and no disturber of the government Which, if it be a severe penance, as a great wit has told the world, it is at least enjoined me by myself: and Sancho Panca, as much fool as I, was observed to discipline his body no further than he found he could endure the smart.

  You see, sir, I am not entertaining you like Ovid, with a lamentable epistle from Pontus: I suffer no more than I can easily undergo; and so long as I enjoy my liberty, which is the birthright of an Englishman, the rest shall never go near my heart. The merry philosopher is more to my humour than the melancholic; and I find no disposition in myself to cry, while the mad world is daily supplying me with such occasions of laughter. The more reasonable sort of my countrymen have shown so much favour to this piece, that they give me no doubt of their protection for the future.

  As you, sir, have been pleased to follow the example of their goodness, in favouring me; so give me leave to say that I follow yours, in this dedication to a person of a different persuasion.

  Though I must confess withal, that I have had a former encouragement from you for this address; and the warm remembrance of your noble hospitality to me, at Trentham, when some years ago I visited my friends and relations in your country, has ever since given me a violent temptation to this boldness.

  It is true, were this comedy wholly mine, I should call it a trifle, and perhaps not think it worth your patronage; but when the names of Plautus and Molière are joined in it, that is, the two greatest names of ancient and modern comedy, I must not presume so far on their reputation, to think their best and most unquestioned productions can be termed little. I will not give you the trouble of acquainting you what I have added, or altered, in either of them, so much, it may be, for the worse; but only that the difference of our stage from the Roman and the French did so require it. But I am afraid, for my own interest, the world will too easily discover that more than half of it is mine; and that the rest is rather a lame imitation of their excellences than a just translation. It is enough, that the reader know by you, that I neither deserve nor desire any applause from it: if I have performed anything, it is the genius of my authors that inspired me; and, if it pleased in representation, let the actors share the praise amongst themselves. As for Plautus and Molière, they are dangerous people; and I am too weak a gamester to put myself into their form of play.

  But what has been wanting on my part, has been abundantly supplied by the excellent composition of Mr. Purcell; in whose person we have at length found an Englishman equal with the best abroad. At least, my opinion of him has been such, since his happy and judicious performances in the late opera, and the experience I have had of him, in the setting my three songs for this Amphitryon to all which, and particularly to the composition of the pastoral dialogue, the numerous choir of fair ladies gave so just an applause on the third day. I am only sorry, for my own sake, that there was one star wanting, as beautiful as any in our hemisphere; that young Berenice, who is misemploying all her charms on stupid country souls, that can never know the value of them; and losing the triumphs, which are ready prepared for her, in the court and town. And yet I know not whether I am so much a loser by her absence; for I have reason to apprehend the sharpness of her judgment, if it were not allayed with the sweetness of her nature; and, after all, I fear she may come time enough to discover a thousand imperfections in my play, which might have passed on vulgar understandings. Be pleased to use the authority of a father over her, on my behalf: enjoin her to keep her own thoughts of “Amphitryon” to herself; or at least not to compare him too strictly with Molière’s. It is true, I have an interest in this partiality of hers: but withal, I plead some sort of merit for it, in being so particularly, as I am,

  SIR,

  Your most obedient,

  Humble servant,

  JOHN DRYDEN.

  October 24th, 1690.

  PROLOGUE.

  SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE.

  The labouring bee, when his sharp sting is gone,

  Forgets his golden work, and turns a drone:

  Such is a satire, when you take away

  That rage, in which his noble vigour lay.

  What gain you, by not suffering him to teaze ye?

  He neither can offend you now, nor please ye.

  The honey-bag, and venom, lay so near,

  That both together you resolved to tear;

  And lost
your pleasure, to secure your fear.

  How can he show his manhood, if you bind him

  To box, like boys, with one hand tied behind him?

  This is plain levelling of wit; in which

  The poor has all the advantage, not the rich.

  The blockhead stands excused, for wanting sense;

  And wits turn blockheads in their own defence.

  Yet, though the stage’s traffic is undone.

  Still Julian’s interloping trade goes on:

  Though satire on the theatre you smother,

  Yet, in lampoons, you libel one another.

  The first produces, still, a second jig;

  You whip them out, like school-boys, till they gig;

  And with the same success, we readers guess

  For every one still dwindles to a less;

  And much good malice is so meanly drest,

  That we would laugh, but cannot find the jest.

  If no advice your rhyming rage can stay.

  Let not the ladies suffer in the fray:

  Their tender sex is privileged from war;

  ’Tis not like knights, to draw upon the fair.

  What fame expect you from so mean a prize?

  We wear no murdering weapons, but our eyes.

  Our sex, you know, was after yours designed;

  The last perfection of the Maker’s mind:

  Heaven drew out all the gold for us, and left y dross behind.

  Beauty, for valour’s best reward, he chose;

  Peace, after war; and, after toil, repose.

  Hence, ye profane, excluded from our sights;

  And, charmed by day with honour’s vain delights,

  Go, make your best of solitary nights.

  Recant betimes, ’tis prudence to submit;

  Our sex is still your overmatch in wit:

  We never fail, with new, successful arts,

  To make fine fools of you, and all your parts.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  JUPITER.

  MERCURY.

  PHŒBUS.

  AMPHITRYON, the Theban General.

  SOSIA, his Slave.

  GRIPUS, a Theban Judge.

  ALCMENA, Wife to Amphitryon.

  PHÆDRA, NIGHT and BROMIA, her slaves.

  SCENE — Thebes.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I.

  Mercury and Phœbus descend in several Machines.

  Phœ. Know you the reason of this present summons?

  ’Tis neither council day, nor is this heaven.

  What business has our Jupiter on earth?

  Why more at Thebes than any other place?

  And why we two, of all the herd of gods,

  Are chosen out to meet him in consult?

  They call me God of Wisdom;

  But Mars and Vulcan, the two fools of heaven,

  Whose wit lies in their anvil and their sword,

  Know full as much as I.

  Merc. And Venus may know more than both of us;

  For ’tis some petticoat affair, I guess.

  I have discharged my duty, which was, to summon you, Phœbus: we shall know more anon, when the Thunderer comes down. ’Tis our part to obey our father; for, to confess the truth, we two are little better than sons of harlots; and, if Jupiter had not been pleased to take a little pains with our mothers, instead of being gods, we might have been a couple of link-boys.

  Phoe. But know you nothing further, Hermes?

  What news in court?

  Merc. There has been a devilish quarrel, I can tell you, betwixt Jupiter and Juno. She threatened to sue him in the spiritual court for some matrimonial omissions; and he stood upon his prerogative: then she hit him on the teeth of all his bastards; and your name and mine were used with less reverence than became our godships. They were both in their cups; and at last the matter grew so high, that they were ready to have thrown stars at one another’s heads.

  Phœ. ’Twas happy for me that I was at my vocation, driving daylight about the world.

  But I had rather stand my father’s thunderbolts than my step-mother’s railing.

  Merc. When the tongue-battle was over, and the championess had harnessed her peacocks to go for Samos, and hear the prayers that were made to her —

  Phoe. By the way, her worshippers had a bad time on’t; she was in a damnable humour for receiving petitions.

  Merc. Jupiter immediately beckons me aside, and charges me, that, as soon as ever you had set up your horses, you and I should meet him here at Thebes: now, putting the premises together, as dark as it is, methinks I begin to see daylight.

  Phœ. As plain as one of my own beams; she has made him uneasy at home, and he is going to seek his diversion abroad. I see heaven itself is no privileged place for happiness, if a man must carry his wife along with him.

  Merc. ’Tis neither better nor worse, upon my conscience. He is weary of hunting in the spacious forest of a wife, and is following his game incognito in some little purlieu here at

  Thebes: that’s many an honest man’s case on earth too, Jove help them! as indeed he does, to make them cuckolds.

  Phœ. But, if so, Mercury, then I, who am a poet, must indite his love-letter; and you, who are by trade a porter, must convey it.

  Merc. No more; he’s coming down souse upon us, and hears as far as he can see, too. He’s plaguy hot upon the business, I know it by his hard driving.

  Jupiter descends.

  Jup. What, you are descanting upon my actions!

  Much good may do you with your politics:

  All subjects will be censuring their kings.

  Well, I confess I am in love; what then?

  Phœ. Some mortal, we presume, of Cadmus’ blood;

  Some Theban beauty; some new Semele;

  Or some Europa.

  Merc. I ‘ll say that for my father, he’s constant to a handsome family; he knows when they have a good smack with them, and snuffs up incense so savourly when ’tis offered him by a fair hand ——

  Jup. Well, my familiar sons, this saucy carriage

  I have deserved; for he, who trusts a secret,

  Makes his own man his master.

  I read your thoughts;

  Therefore you may as safely speak as think.

  Merc. Mine was a very homely thought. — I was considering into what form your almightyship would be pleased to transform yourself tonight; whether you would fornicate in the shape of a bull, or a ram, or an eagle, or a swan; what bird or beast you would please to honour, by transgressing your own laws in his likeness; or, in short, whether you would recreate yourself in feathers, or in leather?

  Phœ. Any disguise to hide the king of gods.

  Jup. I know your malice, Phœbus; you would say,

  That, when a monarch sins, it should be secret,

  To keep exterior show of sanctity,

  Maintain respect, and cover bad example:

  ‘ For kings and priests are in a manner bound,

  For reverence sake, to be close hypocrites.

  Phœ. But what necessitates you to this love,

  Which you confess a crime, and yet commit?

  For, to be secret makes not sin the less;

  ’Tis only hidden from the vulgar view;

  » Maintains, indeed, the reverence due to princes,

  But not absolves the conscience from the crime.

  Jup. I love, because ’twas in the fates I should.

  Phœ. With reverence be it spoke, a bad excuse:

  Thus every wicked act, in heaven or earth,

  « May make the same defence. But what is fate?

  Is it a blind contingence of events,

  Or sure necessity of causes linked,

  That must produce effects? Or is’t a power,

  That orders all things by superior will,

  Foresees his work, and works in that foresight?

  Jup. Fate is, what I,

  By virtue of omnipotence, have made it;

  And power omnipotent c
an do no wrong:

  Not to myself, because I will it so;

  Nor yet to men, for what they are is mine. —

  This night I will enjoy Amphitryon’s wife;

  For, when I made her, I decreed her such

  As I should please to love. I wrong not him

  Whose wife she is; for I reserved my right,

  To have her while she pleased me; that once past,

  She shall be his again.

  Merc. Here’s omnipotence with a vengeance! to make a man a cuckold, and yet not to do him wrong! Then I find, father Jupiter, that when you made fate, you had the wit to contrive a holiday for yourself now and then; for you kings never enact a law, but you have a kind of an eye to your own prerogative.

  Phoe. If there be no such thing as right and wrong

  Of an eternal being, I have done;

  But if there be —

  Jup. Peace, thou disputing fool!

  Learn this: If thou couldst comprehend my ways,

  Then thou wert Jove, not I; yet thus far know,

  That, for the good of humankind, this night

  I shall beget a future Hercules,

  Who shall redress the wrongs of injured mortals,

  Shall conquer monsters, and reform the world.

  Merc. Ay, brother Phœbus; and our father made all those monsters for Hercules to conquer, and contrived all those vices on purpose for him to reform, too, there’s the jest on’t.

  Phœ. Since arbitrary power will hear no reason,

  ’Tis wisdom to be silent.

  Merc. Why, that’s the point; this same arbitrary power is a knock-down argument;

  ’tis but a word and a blow. Now methinks, our father speaks out like an honest barefaced god, as he is; he lays the stress in the right place, upon absolute dominion: I confess, if he had been a man, he might have been a tyrant, if his subjects durst have called him to account. But you, brother Phœbus, are but a mere country gentleman, that never comes to court; that are abroad all day on horseback, making visits about the world; are drinking all night; and, in your cups are still railing at the government. Oh, these patriots, these bumpkin patriots, are a very silly sort of animal!

  Jup. My present purpose and design you heard,

  To enjoy Amphitryon’s wife, the fair Alcmena: