John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  They who were born before it carry away the patrimony by right of eldership; this is to make its fortune in the world, and since I can do little for it, natural affection calls upon me to put it out, at least, into the best service which I can procure for it; and, as it is the usual practice of our decayed gentry to look about them for some illustrious family, and their endeavour to fix their young darling where he may be both well educated and supported I have herein also followed the custom of the world, and am satisfied in my judgment, that I could not have made a more worthy choice. It is true, I am not vain enough to think that anything of mine can in any measure be worthy of your lordship’s patronage; and yet I should be ashamed to leave the stage without some acknowledgment of your former favours, which I have more than once experienced. Besides the honour of my wife’s relation to your noble house, to which my sons may plead some title, though I cannot you have been pleased to take a particular notice of me, even in this lowness of my fortunes, to which I have voluntarily reduced myself; and of which I have no reason to be ashamed. This condescension, my lord, is not only becoming of your ancient family, but of your personal character in the world; and, if I value myself the more for your indulgence to me, and your opinion of me, it is because anything which you like ought to be considered as something in itself; and therefore I must not undervalue my present labours, because I have presumed to make you my patron. A man may be just to himself, though he ought not to be partial; and I dare affirm, that the several manners which I have given to the persons of this drama are truly drawn from nature, all perfectly distinguished from each other; that the fable is not injudiciously contrived; that the turns of fortune are not managed unartfully; and that the last revolution is happily enough invented.

  Aristotle, I acknowledge, has declared that the catastrophe which is made from the change of will is not of the first order of beauty; but it may reasonably be alleged, in defence of this play, as well as of the “Cinna” (which I take to be the very best of Corneille’s), that the philosopher, who made the rule, copied all the laws, which he gave for the theatre, from the authorities and examples of the Greek poets, which he had read; and, from their poverty of invention, he could get nothing but mean conclusions of wretched tales: where the mind of the chief actor was, for the most part, changed without art or preparation, only because the poet could not otherwise end his play. Had it been possible for Aristotle to have seen the “Cinna,” I am confident he would have altered his opinion, and concluded that a simple change of will might be managed with so much judgment as to render it the most agreeable, as well as the most surprising part of the whole fable, let Dacier, and all the rest of the modern critics, who are too much bigoted to the ancients, contend ever so much to the contrary. I was afraid that I had been the inventor of a new sort of designing, when, in my third act, I make a discovery of my Alphonso’s true parentage. If it were so, what wonder had it been that dramatic poetry, though a limited art, yet might be capable of receiving some innovations for the better? But afterwards I casually found that Menander and Terence, in the “Heautontimoroumenos,” had been before me, and made the same kind of discovery in the same act. As for the mechanic unities; — that of time is much within the compass of an astrological day, which begins at twelve, and ends at the same hour the day following: that of place is not observed so justly by me, as by the ancients; for their scene was always one, and almost constantly in some public place. Some of the late French poets, and, amongst the English, my most ingenious friend, Mr. Congreve, have observed this rule strictly; though the place was not altogether so public as a street. I have followed the example of Corneille, and stretched the latitude to a street and palace, not far distant from each other in the same city. They, who will not allow this liberty to a poet, make it a very ridiculous thing for an audience to suppose themselves sometimes to be in a field, sometimes in a garden, and at other times in a chamber. There are not, indeed, so many absurdities in their supposition as in ours; but it is an original absurdity for the audience to suppose themselves to be in any other place than in the very theatre in which they sit, which is neither chamber, nor garden, nor yet a public place of any business, but that of the representation. For my action, it is evidently double; and in that I have the most of the ancients for my examples. Yet I dare not defend this way by reason, much less by their authority; for their actions, though double, were of the same species; that is to say, in their comedies, two amours; and their persons were better linked in interest than mine. Yet even this is a fault which I should often practise, if I were to write again, because it is agreeable to the English genius. We love variety more than any other nation; and so long as the audience will not be pleased without it, the poet is obliged to humour them. On condition they were cured of this public vice, I could be content to change my method, and gladly give them a more reasonable pleasure. This digression, my lord, is not altogether the purpose of an Epistle Dedicatory; yet it is expected that somewhat should be said, even here, in relation to criticism, at least in vindication of my address, that you may not be desired to patronise a poem which is wholly unworthy of your protection.

  Though, after all, I doubt not but some will liken me to the lover in a modern comedy, who was combing his peruke, and setting his cravat before his mistress; and being asked by her when he intended to begin his court, replied, “He had been doing it all this while.” Yet thus it happens, my lord, that self will come into all addresses of this nature, though it is the most unmannerly word of the world in civil conversation, and the most ungrateful to all hearers.

  For which reason, I, who have nothing to boast of, but my misfortunes, ought to be the first to banish it; especially since I have so large a field before me as your inborn goodness, your evenness of temper, your humility in so ample a share of fortune as you possess, your humanity to all men, and your kindness to your friends, besides your natural and acquired endowments, and your brotherly love to your relations. Notus in fratres animo paterno, was the great commendation which Horace gave to one of his patrons; and it is that praise which particularly crowns your other virtues. But here, my lord, I am obliged, in common prudence, to stop short, and to cast under a veil some other of your praises, as the chemists use to shadow the secret of their great elixir, lest, if it were made public, the world should made a bad use of it. To enjoy our own quiet, without disturbing that of others, is the practice of every moral man; and, for the rest, to live cheerfully and splendidly, as it is becoming your illustrious birth, so it is likewise to thank God for his benefits in the best manner.

  It is unnecessary to wish you more worldly happiness, or content of mind, than you enjoy; but the continuance of both to yourself, and your posterity, is earnestly desired by all who have the honour to be known to you, and more particularly by,

  MY LORD,

  Your Lordship’s most obedient

  And most humbly devoted Servant,

  JOHN DRYDEN.

  PROLOGUE.

  SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON.

  As when some treasurer lays down the stick,

  Warrants are signed for ready money thick,

  And many desperate debentures paid,

  Which never had been, had his lordship stayed:

  So now, this poet, who forsakes the stage.

  Intends to gratify the present age.

  One warrant shall be signed for every man;

  All shall be wits that will, and beaux that can:

  Provided still, this warrant be not shown.

  And you be wits but to yourselves alone;

  Provided, too, you rail at one another,

  For there’s no one wit will allow a brother;

  Provided, also, that you spare this story.

  Damn all the plays that e’er shall come before ye.

  If one by chance prove good in half a score,

  Let that one pay for all, and damn it more.

  For if a good one scape among the crew,

  And you continue judging as you do,
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  Every bad play will hope for damning too.

  You might damn this, if it were worth your pains;

  Here’s nothing you will like; no fustian scenes,

  And nothing, too, of — you know what he means.

  No dauhle-entendres, which you sparks allow,

  To make the ladies look they know not how;

  Simply as ‘twere, and knowing both together,

  Seeming to fan their faces in cold weather.

  But here ‘s a story, which no books relate,

  fi’d from our own old poet’s addle-pate.

  fable has a moral, too, if sought; let that go; for,

  upon second thought, fears but few come hither to be taught.

  Yet if you will be profited, you may;

  And he would bribe you too, to like his play.

  He dies, at least to us, and to the stage,

  And what he has he leaves this noble age.

  He leaves you, first, all plays of his inditing,

  The whole estate, which he has got by writing.

  The beaux may think this nothing but vain praise;

  They’ll find it something, the testator says;

  For half their love is made from scraps of plays.

  To his worst foes he leaves his honesty,

  That they may thrive upon’t as much as he.

  He leaves his manners to the roaring boys,

  Who come in drunk, and fill the house with noise.

  He leaves to the dire critics of his wit,

  His silence and contempt of all they writ.

  To Shakespeare’s critic, he bequeathes the curse,

  To find his faults; and yet himself make worse;

  A precious reader in poetic schools,

  Who by his own examples damns his rules.

  Last, for the fair, he wishes you may be,

  From your dull critics, the lampooners, free.

  Though he pretends no legacy to leave you,

  An old man may at least good wishes give you.

  Your beauty names the play; and may it prove

  To each, an omen of triumphant love!

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  Veramond, King of Arragon.

  Alphonso, his supposed Son.

  Garcia, King of Navarre.

  Ramirez, King of Castile.

  Sancho and Carlos - two Colonels

  Lopez, an old Courtier.

  Ximena, Queen of Arragon.

  Victoria, eldest Daughter to the King and Queen.

  Celidea, her Sister.

  Dalinda, Daughter to Lopez.

  A Nurse with two Children.

  SCENE — Saragossa, in Spain.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I. — A Presence-chamber.

  At the drawing up of the Curtain, Veramond, King of Arragon, appears; Ximena, the Queen, by him; Victoria, their eldest daughter, on the right hand; and Celidea, their younger daughter, on the left; Courtiers stand attending in file on each side of the Stage; the Men on the one hand, the Ladies on the other. Amongst the Men, Don Lopez; amongst the Women, Dalinda, his daughter.

  Vera. Now the long wars betwixt Castile and Arragon

  Are ended in the ruin of our foes;

  And fierce Ramirez, the Castilian king,

  Who tugged for empire with our warlike son,

  In single combat taken, adds his laurels

  To the young victor’s brow: our tender maids,

  And trembling children, shall with scorn behold

  The haughty captive, who had made his vaunts

  To lay their dwellings level, and with salt

  To sow the place where Saragossa stood.

  Xim. Processions, prayers, and public thanks to heaven,

  Were fit to be decreed.

  Vera. Your sex is ever foremost in devotion.

  But for our brave confederate, young Navarre,

  He shall receive the prize reserved within

  My breast; and such a one,

  His youth and valour have right well deserved.

  Xim. I hear he comes along with our Alphonso,

  And, next our son, did best.

  Vera. Perhaps as well;

  Alphonso’s action was indeed more glorious,

  To buckle with a king in single fight,

  And take him prisoner; but his fiery temper

  Still hurries him to daring rash attempts.

  Xim. Alphonso is impetuous, but he’s noble;

  He will not take one atom from Navarre

  Of what’s his right, nor needs he.

  Vera. If he should —

  Xim. You take too bad impressions of your son.

  Vera. No more, Ximena, for I hear their trumpets

  Proclaim their entry; and our own their welcome.

  [Trumpets from each side of the Stage.

  Enter Alphonso and Garcia, hand in hand. After them, the prisoner, King Ramirez, alone; then the two Colonels, Sancho and Carlos; after them, other Officers of the

  Army. Veramond advances to meet them; the Queen and the two Princesses follow him. Alphonso first kneels to his father and mother, and immediately runs to salute his sister Victoria tenderly; then slightly salutes Celidea, and returns to Victoria. In the meantime Veramond embraces Don Garcia, who afterwards kisses the Queen’s hand.

  Vera. The triumphs of this day, auspicious prince,

  Proclaim themselves your gift to us and Arragon;

  From you they are derived, to you return;

  For what we are, you make us.

  Gar. May heaven and your brave son, and, above all,

  Your own prevailing genius, guard your age

  From such another day of doubtful fate!

  But if it come, then Garcia will be proud

  To be again the foil of great Alphonso.

  Vera. It might, and well it had become my son,

  [Looking about for Alphonso.

  To speak your words; but you are still before him,

  As in the fight you were.

  Xim. Turn to your father, and present your duty; [Pulling Alphonso by the sleeve.

  He thinks himself neglected, and observes ye.

  [Here Garcia, after bowing to the King and Queen, goes to the two Princesses and salutes them. After a little dumb courtship, he leads out Victoria and Celidea; the Ladies follow; Alphonso observes it with discontent, and then turns to his father.

  Alph. I saw you, sir, engaged in ceremonies,

  And therefore thought I might defer this office,

  To give you time for decent thanks to Garcia.

  Vera. You rather went where more affection called you.

  Alph. I may have been too slack in outward show;

  But when your service, and my honour called,

  None was more forward in the fighting part.

  Vera. The rugged business of the war is over;

  Softness and sweetness, and a gentle air,

  Would make a mixture, that would temper well

  That inborn fierceness of your boiling mind.

  Alph. I stand corrected, sir; and let me tell you now,

  That sweetness, which so well you have advised,

  Fortune has put in your own hand to practise

  Upon this royal soldier; till we fought,

  [Showing Ramirez.

  Your equal, now your prisoner of the war;

  And once (alas, that still it is not so!)

  The partner of your thoughts, and bosom friend.

  Xim. [Aside.] Heaven, that inspired thee with this pious thought,

  Add virtue and persuasion to thy words,

  And bend my stubborn lord!

  Vera. Say, have you more to speak on his behalf?

  Alph. Much more; his fair behaviour in the war,

  Not plundering towns, nor burning villages;

  His bravery of mind, his dauntless courage,

  When, hand to hand, he made me stoop beneath

  His weighty blows, and often forced to doubt

  The fortune of my yout
h against his age.

  Vera. Proceed, proceed; for this is but to say,

  That thou wert almost worsted in the combat.

  Alph. I have already said much more than needs,

  To move a noble mind;

  Such as my father’s is, or ought to be.

  Vera. Come, let me hear my duty from my son.

  Alph. If more be wanting on so plain a theme,

  Think on the slippery state of human things,

  The strange vicissitudes and sudden turns

  Of war, and fate recoiling on the proud,

  To crush a merciless and cruel victor.

  Think, there are bounds of fortune set above,

  Periods of time, and progress of success,

  Which none can stop before the appointed limits,

  And none can push beyond.

  Xim. He reasons justly, sir.

  Alph. Ramirez is an honourable foe;

  Use him like what he is, and make him yours.

  Vera. By heaven, I think,

  That, when you coped with him in single fight,

  You had so much ado to conquer then,

  You fear to engage him in a second combat.

  Alph. The world knows how I fought:

  But old men have prerogative of tongue,

  And kings of power, and parents that of nature.

  Your pardon, royal sir.

  Vera. I give it you;

  Your battle now is paid at the full price.

  [Ximena whispers Alphonso for a moment.

  Alph. Fear not, I curb myself. [To Ximena.

  Ram. [To Vera.] Your son has mentioned honourable terms;

  Propose them, Veramond, and for his sake,

  So much his valour and rare courtesy

  Have wrought upon my soul, I will accept them.

  Vera. Who gave you leave

  To speak of terms, or even to speak at all?

  Ram. And who should give me liberty of speaking,

  But heaven, who gave me speech?

  Vera. How dares my captive

  Assume this boldness to his conqueror?

  Ram. You have not conquered me; you could not, Veramond.

  ’Tis to Alphonso’s arms that I am prisoner.

  Vera. Under my auspices Alphonso fought;