John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Far more than Spartan morals to inspire,

  While your great accents kindle Spartan fire?

  Thus metals, heated to the artist’s will,

  Receive the impression of a nobler skill.

  Your hero formed so regularly good.

  So nicely patient in his want of food,

  That it no more th’ undress of death appears,

  While the rich garment of your sense it wears.

  So just a husband, father, son, and friend,

  Great in his life, but greater in his end;

  That sure, like Xenophon, you meant to show

  Not what they are, but what they ought to do;

  At once a poet, and instructor too.

  The parts so managed, as if each were thine;

  Thou draw’st both ore and metal from the mine;

  And, to be seen, thou mak’st even vice to shine:

  As if, like Siam’s transmigrating god,

  A single life in each you made abode;

  And the whole business of the tedious round,

  To copy patterns which in each you found.

  Sure you have gained from heaven Promethean fire,

  To form, then kindle souls into desire:

  Else why successive starts of hopes and fears,

  A martial warmth first raised, then quenched with tears?

  Unless this truth shines clearly through the whole,

  Sense rules the world, but you command the soul.

  THEOPHILUS PARSONS.

  PROLOGUE.

  SPOKEN BY MR. MOUNTFORT.

  I think, or hope at least, the coast is clear;

  That none but men of wit and sense are here;

  That our Bear-Garden friends are all away,

  Who bounce with hands and feet, and ciy Play, Play,

  Who, to save coach-hire, trudge along the street,

  Then print our matted seats with dirty feet;

  Who, while we speak, make love to orange-wenches,

  And, between acts, stand strutting on the benches;

  Where got a cock-horse, making vile grimaces,

  They to the boxes show their booby faces.

  A merry-Andrew such a mob will serve,

  And treat them with such wit as they deserve.

  Let them go people Ireland, where there’s need

  Of such new planters to repair the breed;

  Or to Virginia or Jamaica steer,

  But have a care of some French privateer;

  For, if they should become the prize of battle,

  They’ll take them, black and white, for Irish cattle.

  Arise, true judges, in your own defence,

  Control these foplings, and declare for sense:

  For, should the fools prevail, they stop not there,

  But make their next descent upon the fair.

  Then rise, ye fair; for it concerns you most,

  That fools no longer should your favours boast;

  ’Tis time you should renounce them, for we find

  They plead a senseless claim to womankind:

  Such squires are only fit for country-towns,

  To stink of ale, and dust a stand with clowns;

  Who, to be chosen for the land’s protectors,

  Tope and get drunk before their wise electors.

  Let not farce-lovers your weak choice upbraid,

  But turn them over to the chamber-maid;

  Or, if they come to see our tragic scenes,

  Instruct them what a Spartan hero means:

  Teach them how manly passions ought to move.

  For such as cannot think, can never love;

  And, since they needs will judge the poet’s art,

  Point them with fescues to each shining part.

  Our author hopes in you; but still in pain,

  He fears your charms will be employed in vain.

  You can make fools of wits, we find each hour;

  But to make wits of fools, is past your power.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  Cleomenes, King of Sparta.

  Cleonidas, his Son by his first Wife.

  Ptolemy, King of Egypt.

  Sosibius, his Minister of State.

  Cleanthes, Son to Sosibius, Friend to Cleomenes, Captain of Ptolemy’s Guard.

  Pantheus, a noble Spartan, the favourite of Cleomenes.

  Cœnus, a Messenian Lord.

  Cratesiclea, Mother to Cleomenes.

  Cleora, Cleomenes’s second Wife.

  Cassandra, Mistress to Ptolemy.

  Priests of Apis. A Mariner. Egyptians.

  Guards.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I. — The Sea-port of Alexandria.

  Enter CLEOMENES.

  Cleom. Dejected! no, it never shall be said,

  That fate had power upon a Spartan soul:

  My mind on its own centre stands unmoved,

  And stable, as the fabric of the world,

  Propped on itself; still I am Cleomenes.

  I fought the battle bravely, which I lost;

  And lost it, but to Macedonians,

  The successors of those who conquered Asia.

  ’Twas for a cause too — such a cause! — I fought;

  Unbounded empire hung upon my sword:

  Greece, like a lovely heifer, stood in view,

  To see the rival bulls each other gore,

  But wished the conquest mine.

  I fled; and yet I languish not in exile;

  But here in Egypt whet my blunted horns,

  And meditate new fights, and chew my loss.

  Ah! why, ye gods, must Cleomenes wait

  On this effeminate, luxurious court,

  For tardy helps of base Egyptian bands?

  Why have not I, whose individual mind

  Would ask a nation of such souls to inform it,

  Why have not I ten thousand hands to fight

  It all myself, and make the work my own?

  Enter CRATESICLEA, CLEORA, and CLEONIDAS.

  Crat. Is this well done? or like the King of Sparta?

  Or like my son? to waste your time in tears?

  What have you done, that you avoid mankind,

  And skulk in corners like a guilty slave?

  Cleor. We have been seeking you, my dearest lord,

  Through all the shady walks and dark retreats

  Of secret care; that false deluding friend,

  That only soothes and keeps you company,

  To prey upon your last remains of life.

  Cleom. I’ve heard you.

  Crat. Hear her still; she tells you true.

  This melancholy flatters, but unmans you.

  What is it else, but penury of soul,

  A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind,

  That locks up all the vigour to attempt,

  By barely crying,— ’Tis impossible!

  Cleom. You both mistake me: — That I grieve,

  ’tis true;

  But ’tis a grief of fury, not despair!

  And if a manly drop or two fall down,

  It scalds along my cheeks, like the green wood,

  That, sputtering in the flame, works outward into tears.

  Cleor. Why would you leave me, then, and be alone?

  Indeed it was a churlish kind of sorrow,

  Indeed it was, to engross it all yourself,

  And not permit me to endure my share.

  Think you, because I am of tender mould,

  I cannot suffer and partake your burdens?

  Alas! I suffer more by not partaking.

  Cleom. My wife! my mother! Oh, I’m so divided,

  That I grieve most for both, and love both most!

  Two twining vines about this elm, whose fall

  Must shortly — very shortly, crush you both.

  And yet I will not go to ground,

  Without a noble ruin round my trunk:

  The forest shall be shaken when I sink,

  And all the neighbouring trees
/>   Shall groan, and fall beneath my vast destruction.

  Crat. That’s something yet, an earnest of an action;

  Another groan or two, and all goes well.

  Cleom. Well, I will live.

  Crat. Thou shalt.

  Cleom. I’ll try, at least.

  Crat. Do not go back, and beat off what thou saidst.

  Cleon. Peace, peace, good grandmother; he lives already,

  And conquers too, in saying he will try:

  Nay, if the King of Sparta says he 11 do’t,

  I ask no more than that;

  For ’tis below a king to tell a lie.

  Cleor. But where’s the means?

  Cleon. The means is in the daring:

  Had my own mother lived, and asked that question,

  I should have thought my father had begot me

  Without her help, as Pallas sprung from Jove.

  Cleor. Think’st thou, he can defend us all, alone?

  Cleon. No; for I mean to help him.

  Cleom. That’s my boy, my hopeful lion’s whelp.

  [takes and kisses him.

  Cleor. So Hector hugged his young Astyanax;

  Went out to fight, and never saw him more.

  Cleon. But why did not Astyanax go with

  Hector?

  Crat. Because he was a child, and could notgo.

  Cleon. Was he a Spartan child?

  Cleor. O no! a Trojan.

  Cleon. There’s it, a Trojan child. But grant me this,

  There are no Spartan children; we are born men;

  And though you say, I have but fifteen years,

  We Spartans take ten strides before our age,

  And start beyond dull nature.

  Cleom. Let me but live to shadow this young plant

  From blights and storms, he’ll soon shoot up a hero:

  He must; I got him in the pride of conquest;

  For, coming back from my first maiden battle,

  Wherein I made the great Aratus fly,

  And added all his laurels to my brow,

  I well remember, that I spurred it hard,

  And, like a meteor, shot before my troops,

  To reach my love that night. I was a bridegroom,

  Or scarce had lost that name; and, stealing home,

  According to my country’s modest use,

  I found my Ægiatis just undressed,

  Wearying the gods with vows for my return.

  My transport was so great, I could not stay,

  But kissed, and took her, trembling, in my arms;

  And in that fury of my love, I stamped

  This image of my soul. —

  Enter PANTHEUS.

  What, my Pantheus!

  Where hast thou been this long, long year of hours?

  Panth. Where I have past a merry morning’s walk,

  With the best company.

  Cleom. With whom?

  Panth. Why with myself, in laughing at the world,

  Making a farce of life, where knaves, and fools,

  And madmen, that’s all humankind, were actors.

  Cleom. And what part acted you?

  Panth. As little as I could; and daily would have less,

  So please the gods, for that’s a wise man’s part.

  Cleom. Would I could share thy balmy, even temper,

  And milkiness of blood.

  Panth. You may.

  Cleom. As how?

  Panth. By but forgetting you have been a king.

  Cleom. Then must I rust in Egypt, never more

  Appear in arms, and be the chief of Greece?

  Now, by yon blue palace,

  The mansion of my great forefather, Hercules,

  I would lose o’er again Sellasia’s field,

  Rather than fight behind,

  When proud Aratus led the Grecian van.

  Cleon. What, when the lively trumpets sound a charge,

  The word of battle may be Hercules,

  And after our great grandsire’s name, Aratus

  Cries, — Cleomenes, bring you up the rear.

  Panth. If fortune takes not off this boy betimes,

  He’ll make mad work, and elbow all his neighbours.

  Cleon. My neighbours! Little: Elbow all the world,

  And push off kings, like counters, from the board,

  To place myself the foremost.

  Panth. What wilt thou be, young cockerel, when thy spurs

  Are grown to sharpness?

  Cleon. Why, I’ll be a Spartan;

  For if I said a king, I should say less.

  I mean a Spartan while I live on earth;

  But when in heaven, I’ll stand next Hercules,

  And thrust between my father and the god.

  Cleor. Do you not view, my lord,

  As in a glass, your darling fault, ambition,

  Reflected in your son?

  Cleom. My virtue rather:

  I love to see him sparkle out betimes,

  For ’twas my flame that lighted up his soul:

  I’m pleased with my own work; Jove was not more

  With infant nature, when his spacious hand

  Had rounded this huge ball of earth and seas,

  To give it the first push, and see it roll

  Along the vast abyss.

  Cleon. My mother would have had my youth brought up

  To spin with girls in Sparta.

  Crat. Well said, my boy; yet Hercules, they say,

  Took up the distaff once.

  Cleon. Yes, when he had been conquered by a woman.

  Panth. [TO Cleom.] One thing I have forgot, which may import you, —

  You’ll suddenly hear news from Greece.

  Cleom. Thou wert

  Indeed forgetful, not to tell me that;

  For, from my first arrival on this coast,

  This fatal Egypt, where I fled for refuge,

  In three long months I have not heard from

  Greece.

  What makes thee think I shall have news so soon?

  Panth. As walking on the beach, I saw a ship

  Just entering in the port, and on the deck

  Stood Ccenus.

  Cleom. Çœnus, saidst thou?

  Panth. Yes, our Cœnus, the rich Messenian lord;

  I saw and knew him; but, amidst the shouts

  Of mariners, and busy care to sling

  His horses soon ashore, he saw not me.

  Cleom. Then shall I hear of thee once more, dear country!

  I fear too soon; shall hear how proud Antigonus

  Led o’er Eurotas’ banks his conquering troops,

  And first to wondering Sparta showed a king,

  A king that was not hers:

  Then I shall hear of sacrilege and murders,

  And fires, and rapes on matrons and on maids.

  Panth. Such news we must expect.

  Cleom. O happy ghosts

  Of those that fell in the last fatal fight,

  And lived not to survive their country’s loss!

  Base as I was, I should have fallen there too;

  But first have raised a mountain of the dead,

  To choke their way to Sparta.

  Panth. Thus I knew

  Your blood would boil, and therefore I delayed

  So long to tell you Ccenus was arrived.

  Cleom. Go,

  My mother, my Cleora, and my boy.

  [STROKING Cleonidas.

  Your ears would be polluted with such ills,

  Which I must try to mollify, before

  They reach your tender hearing.

  Cleor. I obey you.

  But let not grief disorder you too much

  For what you lost.

  For me, while I have you, and you are kind,

  I ask no more of heaven.

  Cleon. I go too,

  Because my king and father bids me go;

  Else, I have sternness in my soul enough

  To hear of murders, rapes, and s
acrilege:

  For those are soldiers’ work; and I would hear them,

  To spurn me to revenge.

  [Exeunt Crat., Cleora, and Cleon.

  Panth. He’s here already;

  Now bear it like yourself.

  Cleom. I’m armed against it.

  Enter COENUS; salutes CLEOMENES.

  Cœn. I heard, sir, you were refuged in this court,

  And come to beg a favour.

  Cleom. Good; a favour!

  Sure, thou mistakest me for the King of Egypt,

  And think’st I govern here?

  Cœn. You’re Cleomenes.,

  Cleom. No thanks to heaven for that. I should have died,

  And then I had not been this Cleomenes.

  Panth. You promised patience, sir.

  Cleom. Thou art a scurvy monitor; I am patient:

  Do I foam at lips,

  Or stare at eyes? Methinks, I am wondrous patient:

  Now, thou shalt see how I can swallow gall. —

  I pr’ythee, gentle Ccenus, tell the story

  [speaking softly.

  Of ruined Sparta; leave no circumstance

  Untold, of all their woes; and I will hear thee,

  As unconcerned, as if thou told’st a tale

  Of ruined Troy. I pr’ythee, tell us how

  The victors robbed the shrines, polluted temples,

  Ransacked each wealthy house: — No, spare me that;

  Poor honest Sparta had no wealth to lose.

  But [raises his voice] when thou com’st to tell of matrons ravished,

  And virgins forced, then raise thy voice,

  And let me hear their howlings,

  And dreadful shrieks, as in the act of rape.

  Panth. Again you are distempered.

  Cleom. [softly.] Peace! I am not.

  I was but teaching him to grace his tale

  With decent horror.

  Cœn. Your sick imagination feigns all this:

  Now hear a truth, and wonder.

  Cleom. Has not the conqueror been at Sparta?

  Cœn. Yes.

  Cleom. Nay, then I know what follows victory.

  Panth. You interrupt, as if you would not know,

  Cœn. Then, — if you will imagine, — think some king,

  Who loved his people, took a peaceful progress

  To some far distant place of his dominions;

  Smiled on his subjects, as he rode in triumph,

  And strewed his plenty, wheresoe’er he passed.

  Nay, raise your thoughts yet higher; — think some deity,

  Some better Ceres, drawn along the sky

  By gentle dragons, scattered as she flew

  Her fruitful grains upon the teeming ground,

  And bade new harvests rise.

  Cleom. Do we dream, Pantheus?

  Panth. No, sure; we are awake: but ’tis he dreams.

  Cœn. The soldiers marched, as in procession, slow;