Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  Search back thro’ all my fame, thou’lt find it fair.

  But love, long breeding, to worst pain does turn:

  Outward unharm’d — within, within I burn!

  As the young bull, or courser yet untam’d,

  When yok’d or bridled first, are pinch’d and maim’d;

  So my unpractis’d heart in love can find

  No rest, th’ unwonted weight so toils my mind:

  When young, love’s pangs by arts we may remove, ‘

  But in our riper years with rage we love.

  To thee I yield, then, all my dear renown,

  And pr’y thee let’s together be undone.

  Who would not pluck the new-blown blushing rose,

  Or the ripe fruit that courts him as it grows?

  But if my virtue hitherto has gain’d

  Esteem for spotless, shall it now be stain’d!

  Oh, in thy love I shall no hazard run;

  Tis not a sin but when ’tis coarsely done.

  And now should Juno leave her Jove to me,

  I’d quit that Jove, Hippolytus, for thee:

  Believe me too, with strange desires I change,

  Amongst wild beasts I long with thee to range.

  To thy delights and Delia I incline,

  Make her my goddess too, because she’s thine.

  I long to know the woods, to drive the deer,

  And o’er the mountains’ tops my hounds to cheer,

  Shaking my dart; then, the chase ended, lie

  Stretch’d on the grass: and would’st not thou be by!

  Oft in light chariots I with pleasure ride,

  And love myself the furious steeds to guide;

  Now, like a Bacchanal, more wild I stray,

  Or old Cybele’s priests, as mad as they,

  When under Ida’s hills they off’rings pay:

  Ev’n mad as those the deities of night

  And water, fauns and dryads do affright;

  But still each little interval I gain,

  Easily find ’tis love breeds all my pain.

  Sure on our race love like a fate does fall,

  And Venus will have tribute of us all.

  Jove lov’d Europa, whence my father came,

  And, to a bull transform’d, enjoy’d the dame:

  She, like my mother, languish’d to obtain,

  And fill’d her womb with shame as well as pain.

  The faithless Theseus, by my sister’s aid,

  The monster slew, and a safe conquest made:

  Now, in that family, my right to save,

  I am at last on the same terms a slave:

  Twas fatal to my sister and to me,

  She lov’d thy father, but my choice was thee.

  Let monuments of triumph then be shown

  For two unhappy nymphs by you undone.

  When first our vows were to Eleusis paid,

  Would I had in a Cretan grave been laid;

  Twas there thou didst a perfect conquest gain,

  Whilst love’s fierce fever rag’d in ev’ry vein:

  White was thy robe, a garland deck’d thy head,

  A modest blush thy comely face o’erspread:

  That face, which may be terrible in arms,

  But graceful seem’d to me, and full of charms:

  I love the man whose fashion’s least his care,

  And hate my sex’s coxcombs fine and fair;

  For whilst thus plain thy careless locks let fly,

  Th’ unpolish’d form is beauty in my eye.

  If thou but ride, or shake the trembling dart,

  I fix my eyes, and wonder at thy art:

  To see thee poize the javelin moves delight,

  And all thou dost is lovely in my sight:

  But to the woods thy cruelty resign,

  Nor treat it with so poor a life as mine.

  Must cold Diana be ador’d alone,

  Must she have all thy vows, and Venus none?

  That pleasure palls, if ’tis enjoy’d too long;

  Love makes the weary firm, the feeble strong.

  For Cynthia’s sake unbend and ease thy bow,

  Else to thy arm ‘twill weak and useless grow.

  Famous was Cephalus in wood and plain,

  And by him many a boar and pard was slain;

  Yet to Aurora’s love be did incline.

  Who wisely left old age for youth like thine.

  Under the spreading shades her am’rous boy,

  The fair Adonis, Venus could enjoy;

  Atlanta’s love too Meleager sought,

  And to her tribute-paid of all he caught.

  Be thou and I the next blest sylvan pair;

  Where love’s a stranger, woods but desarts are.

  With thee, thro’ dangerous ways unknown before,

  I’ll rove, and fearless face the dreadful boar.

  Between two seas a little isthmus lies,

  Where on each side the beating billows rise,

  There in Trazena I thy love will meet,

  More blest and pleas’d than in my native” Crete.

  As we could wish, old Theseus is away

  At Thessaly, where always let him stay

  With his Perithous, whom well I see

  Preferr’d above Hippolytus or me.

  Nor has he only thus exprest his hate;

  We both have suffer’d wrongs of mighty weight:

  My brother first he cruelly did slay,

  Then from my sister falsely ran away,

  And left expos’d to ev’ry beast a prey:

  A warlike queen to thee thy being gave,

  A mother worthy of a son so brave,

  From cruel Theseus yet her death did find,

  Nor, tho’ she gave him thee, could make him kind.

  Unwedded too he murder’d her in spite,

  To bastardize, and rob thee of thy right:

  And if, to wrong thee more, two sons I’ve brought,

  Believe it his, and none of Phædra’s fault:

  Rather, thou fairest thing the earth contains,

  I wish at first I’d died of mothers’ pains.

  How canst thou rev’rence then thy father’s bed,

  From which himself so abjectly is fled?

  The thought affrights not me, but me inflames;

  Mother and son are notions, very names

  Of worn-out piety, in fashion then

  When old dull Saturn rul’d the race of men;

  But braver Jove taught pleasure was no sin,

  And with his sister did himself begin.

  Nearness of blood and kindred best we prove,

  When we express it in the closest love.

  Nor need we fear our fault should be reveal’d;

  ‘Twill under near relation be conceal’d:

  And all who hear our loves, with praise shall crown

  A mother’s kindness to a grateful son.

  No need at midnight in the dark to stray,

  T’ unlock the gates, and cry, My love, this way!

  No busy spies our pleasures to betray.

  But in one house, as heretofore, we’ll live;

  In public, kisses take; in public, give:

  Tho’ in my bed thou’rt seen, ‘twill gain applause

  From all, whilst none have sense to guess the cause:

  Only make haste, and let this league be sign’d;

  So may my tyrant, Love, to thee be kind.

  For this I am an humble suppliant grown;

  Now where are all my boasts of greatness gone?

  I swore I ne’er would yield, resolv’d to fight,

  Deceiv’d by Love, that’s seldom in the right;

  Now on my own I crawl, to clasp thy knees;

  What’s decent no true lover cares or sees:

  Shame, like a beaten soldier, leaves the place,

  But beauty’s blushes still are in my face.

  Forgive this fond confession which I make,

  And then some pity on m
y suff’rings take.

  What tho’ midst seas my father’s empire lies?

  Tho’ my great grandsire thunder from the skies 1

  What tho’ my father’s sire, in beams drest gay,

  Drives round the burning chariot of the dayl

  Their honour all in me to Love’s a slave,

  Then, tho’ thou wilt not me, their honour save.

  Jove’s famous island, Crete, in dow’r I’ll bring,

  And there shall my Hippolytus be king:

  For Venus’ sake then hear and grant my pray’r,

  So may’st thou never love a scornful fair;

  In fields so may Diana grace thee still,

  And ev’ry wood afford thee game to kill;

  So may the mountain gods, and satyrs, all

  Be kind; so may the boar before thee fall;

  So may the water-nymphs in heat of day,

  Tho’ thou their sex despise, thy thirst allay.

  Millions of tears to these my pray’rs I join,

  Which as thou read’st with those dear eyes of thine,

  Think that thou seest the streams that flow from mine.

  THE SIXTEENTH ODE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

  [Published in “Miscellany Poems, &c.” the same work in which the epistle to Mr. Duke made its first appearance.]

  IN storms when clouds the moon do bide,

  And no kind stars the pilot guide,

  Shew me at sea the boldest there,

  Who does not wish (or quiet here.

  For quiet (friend) the soldier fights,

  ‘ Bears weary marches, sleepless nights,

  For this feeds hard, and lodges cold;

  Which can’t be bought with hills of gold.

  Since wealth and pow’r too weak we find,

  To quell the tumults of the mind;

  Or from the monarch’s roofs of state

  Drive thence the cares that round him wait.

  Happy the man with little blest,

  Of what his father left possest:

  No base desires corrupt his head,

  No fears disturb him in his bed.

  What then in life, which soon must end,

  Can all our vain designs intend?

  From shore to shore why should we run,

  When none his tiresome self can shun I

  For baneful care will still prevail,

  And overtake us under sail,

  ‘Twill dodge the great man’s train behind,

  Out-run the roe, out-fly the wind.

  If then thy soul rejoice to-day,

  Drive far to-morrow’s cares away.

  In laughter let them all be drown’d:

  No perfect good is to be found.

  One mortal feels fate’s sudden blow,

  Another’s ling’ring death comes slow;

  And what of life they take from thee,

  The gods may give to punish me.

  Thy portion is a wealthy stock,

  A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock;

  Horses and chariots for thy ease,

  Rich robes to deck and make thee please.

  For me, a little cell I choose,

  Fit for my mind, fit for my Muse,

  Which soft content does best adorn,

  Shunning the knaves and fools I scorn.

  PROLOGUE TO MRS. BEHN’S CITY HEIRESS, 1682.

  How vain have prov’d the labours of the stage,

  In striving to reclaim a vicious age!

  Poets may write, the mischief to impeach;

  You care as little what the poets teach

  As you regard at church what parsons preach.

  But where such follies and such vices reign,

  What honest pen has patience to refrain?

  At church, in pews, ye most devoutly snore,

  And here, got dully drunk, ye come to roar;

  Ye go to church, to gloat and ogle there,

  And come to meet more lewd convenient here:

  With equal zeal ye honour either place,

  And run so very evenly your race,

  Y’improve in wit just as ye do in grace.

  It must be so; some daemon has possest

  Our laud, and we have never since been blest.

  Y’have seen it all, and beard of it’s renown,

  In reverend shape it stalk’d about the town,

  Six yeomen tall attending on it’s frown.

  Sometimes, with humble note and zealous lore,

  ’Twould play the apostolic function o’er:

  But heav’n have mercy on us when it swore!

  Whene’er it swore, to prove the oaths were true,

  Out of his mouth at random halters flew

  Round some unwary neck, by magic thrown,

  Tho’ still the cunning devil sav’d his own:

  For when th’ enchantment could no longer last,

  The subtle pug most dexterously uncast,

  Left awful form for one more seeming pious,

  And in a moment varied to defy us;

  From silken doctor, homespun Annanias:

  Left the lewd court, and did in city fix,

  Where still by it’s old arts it plays new tricks,

  And fills the heads of fools with politics.

  This daemon lately drew in many a guest,

  To part with zealous guinea for — no feast [see note below].

  Who, but the most incorrigible fops,

  For ever doom’d in dismal cells, call’d shops,

  To cheat and damn themselves to get their livings,

  Would lay sweet money out in sham thanksgivings?

  Sham plots you may have paid for o’er and o’er;

  But whoe’er paid for a sham treat before?

  Had you not better sent your offerings all

  Hither to us, than Sequestrator’s Hall?

  I being your steward, justice had been done ye;

  I could have entertain’d you worth your money.

  [Note: This and the following verses refer to an occurrence much talked of, especially among the Tories, who were the laughers upon this occasion. The duke of York having been invited to dine with the Artillery Company at Merchant-Tailors’ Hall, on the 21st April, 1682; an opposition dinner was projected by the Shaftesbury party at Haberdashers’ Hall, and tickets were presently issued at one guinea each; for the purpose, as it was declared, of commemorating the providential escape of the nation from the hellish designs of the papists, &c. The king, however, issued an order forbidding the meeting, as an illegal one: and this incident supplied the Tories with new channels of ridicule and abuse against their antagonists, who were somewhat depressed by their disappointment.]

  PROLOGUE TO N. LEE’S CONSTANTINE THE GREAT.

  [Represented at the Theatre Royal, 1684. Dryden wrote an epilogue for the same piece.]

  WHAT think ye meant wise Providence, when first

  Poets were made? I’d tell you, if I durst,

  That ’twas in contradiction to heav’n’s word;

  That when it’s spirit o’er the waters stirr’d,

  When it saw all, and said that all was good,

  The creature Poet was not understood.

  For, were it worth the pains of six long days,

  To mould retailers of dull third-day plays,

  That starve out threescore years in hopes of bays?

  Tis plain they ne’er were of the first creation,

  But came by mere equiv’cal generation?

  Like rats in ships, without coition bred;

  As hated too as they are, and unfed.

  Nature their species sure must needs disown,

  Scarce knowing poets, less by poets known.

  Yet this poor thing, so scorn’d and set at nought,

  Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought.

  Disabled wasting whoremasters are not

  Prouder to own the brats they never got,

  Than fumbling, itching rhymers of the town

  T adopt some base-b
orn song that’s not their own.

  Spite of his state, my lord sometimes descends,

  To please the importunity of friends.

  The dullest he, thought most for business fit,

  Will venture his bought place to aim at wit;

  And tho’ he sinks with his employs of state,

  Till common sense forsake him, he’ll translate.

  The poet and the whore alike complains

  Of trading quality, that spoils their gains;

  The lords will write, and ladies will have swains!

  Therefore, all you who have male issue born

  Under the starving sign of capricorn,

  Prevent the malice of their stars in time,

  And warn them early from the sin of rhyme:

  Tell ’em how Spenser starv’d, how Cowley mourn’d,

  How Butler’s faith and service was return’d [see note below];

  And if such warning they refuse to take,

  This last experiment, O parents, make!

  With hands behind them see th’ offender tied,

  The parish whip and beadle by his side;

  Then lead him to some stall that does expose

  The authors he loves most; there rub his nose;

  Till, like a spaniel lash’d to know command,

  He by the due correction understand,

  To keep his brain clean, and not foul the land;

  Till he against his nature learn to strive,

  And get the knack of dulness how to thrive.

  [Note: Succeeding writers have added Otway’s name to the melancholy catalogue.]

  EPILOGUE, SPOKEN UPON HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF YORK COMING TO THE THEATRE, FRIDAY APRIL 21, 1682.

  [This was probably the duke’s first public appearance after his return from Scotland. The dinner at Merchant-Tailors’ Hall, referred to in the prologue to Mrs. Behn’s “City Heiress,” (p. 297) took place on the same day. Our author’s “Venice Preserved” was the play acted upon this occasion, and Dryden furnished an occasional prologue.]

  WHEN too much plenty, luxury and ease,

  Had surfeited this isle to a disease;

  When noisome blains did it’s best parts overspread,

  And on the rest their dire infection shed;

  Our great physician, who the nature knew

  Of the distemper, and from whence it grew,

  Fix’d for three kingdoms’ quiet, sir, on you:

  He cast his searching eyes o’er all the frame,

  And finding whence before one sickness came,

  How once before our mischiefs foster’d were,

  Knew well your virtue, and applied you there [He alludes to Scotland, where the duke had become extremely popular]: