John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  And entered Sparta like a choir of priests,

  As if they feared to tread on holy ground.

  No noise was heard; no voice, but of the crier,

  Proclaiming peace and liberty to Sparta.

  At that, a peal of loud applause rang out,

  And thinned the air, till even the birds fell down

  Upon the shouters’ heads: the shops flew open,

  And all the busy trades renewed their tasks;

  No law was changed, no custom was controlled;

  That had Lycurgus lived, or you returned,

  So Sparta would have shown.

  Panth. If this be true —

  Cleom. If this indeed be true,

  Then farewell, Sparta.

  Cœn. Hear me out. —

  He reaped no fruit of conquest but their blessings;

  Nor staid three days in Sparta; summoned thence,

  With sudden news that a barbarian host

  Was entered Macedonia,

  And, like a mighty deluge rolling on,

  Swept all before them. Thus alarmed, he left us;

  Marched homeward; met, and fought them; nay, and lived

  To say, The field is mine!

  Panth. Died of his wounds?

  Cœn. Not so; but, straining loud his feeble voice

  To animate his soldiers, broke a vein,

  And, in a purple vomit, poured his soul.

  Panth. O blessed, blessed Cœnus, for this happy news! — [Embraces CŒNUS.

  Cleom. O wretch! O born to all misfortunes! cursed,

  Cursed Cleomenes!

  Panth. How’s this! — Are these the thanks you pay the gods,

  Who freed your Sparta, and removed, by death,

  Your only fatal foe?

  Cleom. O blind Pantheus!

  Canst thou not find, that, had I but deferred

  Sellasia’s fight three days, but three short days,

  Fate then had fought my battle with Antigonus;

  And I, not fighting, had been still a king?

  Panth. That’s true; but that you knew not when you fought.

  Cleom. Why, therefore, once again cursed Cleomenes!

  ’Tis not to be endured,

  That fate of empires, and the fall of kings,

  Should turn on flying hours, and catch of moments.

  Panth. Now, by my soul, ’tis lazy wickedness,

  To rail at heaven, and not to help yourself;

  Heaven’s but too kind, in offering you the means.

  Your fate, once more, is laid upon the anvil;

  Now pluck up all the Spartan in your soul,

  Now stretch at every stroke, and hammer out

  A new, and nobler fortune;

  Else may the peaceful ground restore the dead,

  And give up old Antigonus again.

  Cleom. I thank thee; thou hast added flame to fury.

  The Spartan genius shall once more be roused;

  Our household gods, that droop upon our hearths,

  Each from his venerable face shall brush

  The Macedonian soot, and shine again.

  Panth. Now you confess the Spartan.

  Cleom. Haste, Pantheus!

  I struggle like a priestess with a god;

  With that oppressing god, that works her soul.

  Haste to Cleanthes, my Egyptian friend,

  That only man that Egypt ever made;

  He’s my Lucina. Say, my friendship wants him,

  To help me bring to light a manly birth;

  Which to the wondering world I shall disclose,

  Or, if he fail me, perish in my throes. [EXEUNT.

  ACT II.

  SCENE I.

  Enter CLEOMENES, CLEANTHES, and PANTHEUS.

  Cleom. The king sent for me, say’st thou, and to council!

  Clean. And I was coming to you, on that message,

  Just when I met Pantheus.

  Panth. Good omen, sir, of some intended good.

  Your fortune mends; she reconciles apace,

  When Egypt makes the advances.

  Cleom. Rise a prophet! —

  For, since his father’s death, this Ptolemy

  Has minded me no more

  Than boys their last year’s gewgaws.

  Petition on petition, prayer on prayer,

  For aid, or free dismission, all unanswered,

  As Cleomenes were not worth his thought;

  Or he, that god, which Epicurus dreamt,

  Disclaiming care, and lolling on a cloud.

  Panth. At length, it seems, it pleases him to wake.

  Clean. Yes, for himself, not you; he’s drenched too deep,

  To wake on any call, but his own danger.

  My father, his wise pilot, has observed

  The face of heaven, and sees a gathering storm;

  I know not from what quarter, but it threatens,

  And, while it threats, he wants such hands as yours;

  But when ’tis o’er, the thoughtless king returns

  To native sloth, shifts sides, and slumbers on.

  Panth. Sure, he’ll remember to reward those hands,

  That helped him from the plunge.

  Clean. You dream, Pantheus,

  Of former times, when gratitude was virtue.

  Reward him! Yes, like Æsop’s snake the wretch,

  That warmed him in his bosom. We are tools,

  Vile, abject things, created for his use,

  As beasts for men; as oxen, draw the yoke,

  And then are sacrificed.

  Cleom. I would not use him so.

  Clean. You are not Ptolemy;

  Nor is he Cleomenes.

  Cleom. I’ll press him home,

  To give me my despatch; few ships will serve

  To bear my little band, and me, to Greece:

  I will not ask him one of his Egyptians;

  No, let him keep them all for slaves and stallions,

  Fit only to beget their successors.

  Clean. Excepting one Egyptian — that’s myself.

  Cleom. Thou need’st not be excepted; thou art only

  Misplanted in a base, degenerate soil;

  But Nature, when she made thee, meant a

  Spartan.

  Panth. Then if your father will but second us —

  Clean. I dare not promise for him, but I’ll try.

  He loves me: love and interest sometimes

  May make a statesman honest.

  Cleom. For the king,

  I know he’ll not refuse me, for he dares not;

  A coward is the kindest animal,

  ’Tis the most giving creature in a fright.

  Clean. Say the most promising, and there you hit him.

  Cleom. Well, I’ll attack him on the shaking side,

  That next his fearful heart.

  Enter CŒNUS.

  Cœn. I come to mind you of the late request,

  You would not hear. Be pleased to engage this lord,

  And then it may succeed.

  Cleom. What wouldst thou, Cœnus?

  Cœn. I brought along

  Some horses of the best Thessalian breed,

  High-spirited and strong, and made for war;

  These I would sell the king.

  Cleom. Mistaken man!

  Thou shouldst have brought him whores, and catamites;

  Such merchandise is fit for such a monarch.

  Clean. Wouldst thou bring horses here, to shame our men?

  Those very words, of SPIRITED and WAR,

  Are treason in our clime.

  Cleom. From the king downward (if there be a downward,

  From Ptolemy to any of his slaves),

  No true Egyptian ever knew in horses

  The far side from the near.

  Clean. Cleomenes told thee true: Thou shouldst have brought

  A soft pad strumpet for our monarch’s use;

  Though, thanked be hell, we want not one at home, —

  Our master’s
mistress, she that governs all.

  ’Tis well, ye powers, ye made us but Egyptians:

  You could not have imposed

  On any other people such a load,

  As an effeminate tyrant and a woman.

  Cleom. Sell me thy horses, and, at my return,

  When I have got from conquered Greece the pelf

  That noble Sparta scorns, I’ll pay their value.

  Cœn. Just as you paid me for the fair estate

  I sold you there. — [ASIDE.

  Cleom. What’s that you mutter?

  Cœn. Nothing: That’s what his hopes are worth —— [Aside. Exit CŒNUS.

  Panth. I fear he’s gone away dissatisfied.

  Clean. I’ll make it up: — Those horses I present you;

  You’ll put them to the use that nature meant them.

  Cleom. I burden you too much.

  Clean. If you refuse,

  You burden me much more. A trifle this:

  A singing eunuch’s price, a pander’s fee,

  Exceeds this sum at court. The king expects us.

  Cleom. Come after us, Pantheus,

  And bring my boy Cleonidas along.

  I’ll show his youth this base, luxurious court,

  Just as in sober Sparta we expose

  Our drunken Helots; only with design

  To wean our children from the vice of wine.

  [Exeunt.

  SCENE II. — The Apartment of CASSANDRA.

  Enter King Ptolemy; Sosibius, with papers, after him.

  Ptol. No more of business.

  Sosib. Sir, the council waits you.

  Ptol. Council! What’s that? a pack of bearded slaves,

  Grave faces, saucy tongues, and knavish hearts,

  That never speak one word, but self at bottom;

  The scavengers that sweep state nuisances,

  And are themselves the greatest — I’ll no council.

  Sosib. Remember, you appointed them this day.

  Ptol. I had forgot ’twas my Cassandra’s birthday.

  Sosib. Your brother Magas grows more dangerous daily,

  And has the soldiers’ hearts.

  Ptol. I’ll cut him off.

  Sosib. Not so soon done as said. The Spartan king

  Was summoned for advice, and waits without.

  Ptol. His business is to wait.

  Sosib. Be pleased to sign these papers; they are all

  Of great concern.

  Ptol. My pleasure is of more. — if

  How could I curse my name of Ptolemy!

  For ’tis so long, it asks an hour to write it.

  By heaven, I’ll change it into Jove or Mars,

  Or any other civil monosyllable

  That will not tire my hand.

  Sosib. These are for common good.

  [Showing papers.

  Ptol. I am glad of that;

  Those shall be sure to wait.

  Sosib. Orders to pay the soldiers, ripe for mutiny;

  They may revolt

  Ptol. To whom?

  Sosib. The man you fear, —

  Your brother Magas.

  Ptol. That’s indeed the danger.

  Give me the physic; let me swallow quick. —

  There’s Ptolemy for that: Now, not one more,

  For every minute I expect Cassandra

  To call me to the music.

  If she should find me at this rare employment,

  Of signing out her treasures?

  Sosib. The rest are only grants to her you love,

  And places for her friends.

  Ptol. I’ll sign them all, were every one a province.

  Thou know’st her humour, not to brook denial;

  And then a quarrel on her birthday, too,

  Would be of ill presage. [signs more papers.

  Enter Cassandra and Women.

  Cas. I heard you waited; but you’ll pardon me,

  I was no sooner dressed.

  Ptol. Thus I begin my homage to the day

  [kisses her hand.

  That brought me forth a mistress; and am proud

  To be your foremost slave.

  Cas. Our little entertainment waits; not worth

  A longer ceremony; please to grace it?

  The Scene opens, and discovers Cassandra’s Apartment. Musicians and Dancers. Ptolemy leads in Cassandra; Sosibius follows — they sit. Towards the end of the song and dance, enter Cleomenes and Cleanthes on one side of the Stage, where they stand.

  SONG.

  No, no, poor suffering heart, no change endeavour,

  Choose to sustain the smart, rather than leave her;

  My ravished eyes behold such charms about her,

  I can die with her, but not live without her;

  One tender sigh of hers to see me languish,

  Will more than pay the price of my past anguish:

  Beware, O cruel fair, how you smile on me,

  ’Twas a kind look of yours that has undone me.

  Love has in store for me one happy minute,

  And she will end my pain, who did begin it;

  Then no day void of bliss, or pleasure, leaving,

  Ages shall slide away without perceiving:

  Cupid shall guard the door, the more to please us,

  And keep out Time and Death, when they would seize us:

  Time and Death shall depart, and say, in flying,

  Love has found out a way to live by dying.

  CLEOM. [to Clean.] Is this the council of the

  Egyptian king?

  And am I called upon the grave debate,

  To judge of trilling notes, and tripping feet?

  Clean. ’Tis of a piece with all the rest of Ptolemy;

  A singing and a dancing government —

  O Egypt, Egypt! thou art grown the lees

  Of all the world; the slime of thy own Nile.

  Sure we had neither human sires, nor mothers;

  The sun and Nile begot us: We ‘re so cowardly,

  And yet so proud; so many gods we have,

  And yet not one! —

  Cleom. No more: — they seem to gaze on me with wonder.

  Clean. And well they may, to see a man in

  Egypt.

  [King, Cassandra, and Sosibius rise and come forward.

  Ptol. Welcome, royal stranger!

  Not only to my court, but to my bosom.

  Cleom. I heard you sent for me; but on what business

  Am yet to learn.

  Ptol. The greatest in the world; to see the man,

  Whom even his foes extol, his friends adore,

  And all mankind admire.

  Cleom. Say rather, sir,

  A man forsaken of his better stars,

  A banished prince, the shadow of a king.

  Ptol. My father’s friend.

  Cleom. I must not think so vainly of myself,

  To be what you have said; lest it upbraid you,

  To let your father’s friend for three long months

  Thus dance attendance for a word of audience.

  Cas. Now, by my soul, ’tis nobly urged: He speaks

  As if he were in Sparta, on his throne;

  Not asking aid, but granting.

  How little looks our pageant prince to him!

  This is the only king I ever saw. — [Aside.

  Cleom. By all the gods, when I have stood repulsed,

  Before your gates, and could not gain admittance,

  I have not sighed so much for my own sorrows,

  As I have blushed for your ungenerous usage.

  Clean. Not a word, Ptolemy? —

  Ashamed, by all that’s good, to be miscalled

  A king when this is present. — [Aside.

  Cleom. Think you ’tis nothing

  For me to beg; that I constrain my temper

  To sue for aid, which you should first have offered?

  Believe me, Ptolemy, a noble soul

  Does much that asks: he gives you power to ob
lige him.

  Know, sir, there’s a proud modesty in merit,

  Averse from begging; and resolved to pay

  Ten times the gift it asks.

  Ptol. I have been to blame;

  And you have justly taxed my long neglect.

  I am young, and am a lover; and how far

  Fair eyes may make even kings forgetful, look,

  And read my best excuse.

  Clean. O miracle! he blushes!

  The first red virtue I have ever seen

  Upon that face. — [ASIDE.

  Cas. I am sorry, sir, you’ve made me your excuse;

  As if I stood betwixt the good you meant,

  And intercepted every royal grace.

  Now, in my own defence, I must solicit

  All his concerns, as mine:

  And if my eyes have power, he should not sue

  In vain, nor linger with a long delay.

  Ptol. Well! I’ll consider.

  Cas. Say that word again,

  And I’ll consider too.

  Ptol. Pr’ythee be satisfied; he shall be aided,

  Or I’ll no more be king.

  Clean. When wert thou one? — For shame, for shame, ye gods,

  That e’er you put it in a strumpet’s power,

  To do so good a deed! — [ASIDE.

  Cleom. I am a Spartan, madam, scarce of words;

  We have but just enough to speak our meaning.

  Be thanked; that’s all I could have said to Jove,

  Had Jove, like you, restored me to my crown.

  Sosib. [TO Cleom.] The gods have given you, sir, the speedy means

  To satisfy your debt of gratitude.

  Cleom. Oh, make me happy! tell me how this sword

  (This and my heart are all that’s left me now)

  Can be employed to serve the crown of Egypt.

  Clean. Well said, father; thou art a true statesman.

  So much for so much is the way at court. [ASIDE.

  Sosib. My king has in the camp a younger brother,

  Valiant, they say, but very popular;

  He gets too far into the soldiers’ grace,

  And inches out my master.

  Cleom. Is the king

  Assured of this, by any overt act,

  Or any close conspiracy revealed?

  Ptol. He has it in his power to be a traitor;

  And that’s enough.

  Sosib. He has it in his will too;

  Else, why this ostentation of his virtues,

  His bounty, valour, and his temperance?

  Why are they thus exposed to public view,

  But as a Venus set beside a monster,

  To make an odious comparison;

  As if his brother wanted what he boasts?

  Ptol. What’s to be done with him?

  Cas. There needs no more, I think, but to contrive,

  With secrecy, and safety, to despatch him.

  Clean. I thank thee, that thou hast not cozened me

  In this advice; for two good deeds together