by Thomas Otway
[Stabs himself.
Friar. Damnable deed!
Pier. Now thou’st indeed been faithful.
This was done nobly. We have deceived the Senate.
Jaff. Bravely.
Pier. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, oh! [Dies.
Jaff. Now, ye cursed rulers,
Thus of the blood you’ve shed I make libation,
And sprinkle it mingling: may it rest upon you,
And all your race! Be henceforth peace a stranger
Within your walls! Let plagues and famine waste
Your generations! — O poor Belvidera!
Sir, I’ve a wife; bear this in safety to her, —
A token that with my dying breath I blessed her,
And the dear little infant left behind me.
I’m sick — I’m quiet — [Dies.
Offi. Bear this news to the Senate,
And guard their bodies till there’s farther order:
Heaven grant I die so well! [The Scene closes.
SCENE IV. — A Room in Priuli’s House.
Soft Music. Enter Belvidera distracted, led by two of her Women, Priuli, and Servants.
Priu. Strengthen her heart with patience, pitying Heaven!
Belv. Come, come, come, come — nay, come to bed,
Pr’ythee, my love. The winds! hark how they whistle!
And the rain beats: oh, how the weather shrinks me!
You’re angry now; who cares? pish, no, indeed!
Choose then; I say you shall not go, you shall not.
Whip your ill-nature; get you gone then — oh!
[Jaffier’s Ghost rises.
Are you returned? See, father, here he’s come again:
Am I to blame to love him? O, thou dear one!
[Ghost sinks.
Why do you fly me? are you angry still then?
Jaffier! where art thou? Father, why do you do thus?
Stand off, don’t hide him from me. He’s here somewhere.
Stand off, I say! what, gone? remember it, tyrant!
I may revenge myself for this trick one day.
I’ll do’t — I’ll do’t. Renault’s a nasty fellow:
Hang him, hang him, hang him!
Enter Officer and others.
Priu. News — what news? [Officer whispers Priuli.
Offi. Most sad, sir.
Jaffier, upon the scaffold, to prevent
A shameful death, stabbed Pierre, and next himself:
Both fell together.
Priu. Daughter!
[The Ghosts of Jaffier and Pierre rise together, both bloody.
Belv. Ha, look there!
My husband bloody, and his friend too! Murder!
Who has done this? speak to me, thou sad vision; [Ghosts sink.
On these poor trembling knees I beg it. Vanished! —
Here they went down. Oh, I’ll dig, dig the den up.
You shan’t delude me thus. Ho, Jaffier, Jaffier,
Peep up and give me but a look. I have him!
I’ve got him, father: oh, now how I’ll smuggle him!
My love! my dear! my blessing! help me! help me!
They’ve hold on me, and drag me to the bottom.
Nay — now they pull so hard — farewell! [Dies.
Maid. She’s dead —
Breathless and dead.
Priu. Then guard me from the sight on’t.
Lead me into some place that’s fit for mourning,
Where the free air, light, and the cheerful sun
May never enter; hang it round with black;
Set up one taper that may last a day,
As long as I’ve to live; and there all leave me, —
Sparing no tears when you this tale relate;
But bid all cruel fathers dread my fate. [Exeunt.
EPILOGUE
The text is done, and now for application,
And when that’s ended, pass your approbation.
Though the conspiracy’s prevented here,
Methinks I see another hatching there;
And there’s a certain faction fain would sway,
If they had strength enough, and damn this play.
But this the author bade me boldly say: —
If any take his plainness in ill part,
He’s glad on’t from the bottom of his heart;
Poets in honour of the truth should write,
With the same spirit brave men for it fight;
And though against him causeless hatreds rise,
And daily where he goes of late, he spies
The scowls of sullen and revengeful eyes,
’Tis what he knows with much contempt to bear,
And serves a cause too good to let him fear.
He fears no poison from an incensed drab,
No ruffian’s five-foot-sword, nor rascal’s stab,
Nor any other snares of mischief laid, —
Not a Rose-alley cudgel-ambuscade,
From any private cause where malice reigns,
Or general pique all blockheads have to brains:
Nothing shall daunt his pen when truth does call —
No, not the picture-mangler at Guildhall.
The rebel tribe, of which that vermin’s one,
Have now set forward, and their course begun;
And while that prince’s figure they deface,
As they before had massacred his name,
Durst their base fears but look him in the face,
They’d use his person as they’ve used his fame:
A face in which such lineaments they read
Of that great martyr’s, whose rich blood they shed,
That their rebellious hate they still retain,
And in his son would murder him again.
With indignation, then, let each brave heart
Rouse and unite to take his injured part;
Till Royal love and goodness call him home,
And songs of triumph meet him as he come;
Till Heaven his honour and our peace restore,
And villains never wrong his virtue more.
The Atheist
OR, THE SECOND PART OF THE SOLDIER’S FORTUNE
CONTENTS
TO THE LORD ELANDE, ELDEST SON TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE MARQUISS OF HALLIFAX.
PROLOGUE.
EPILOGUE BY MR. DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.
THE ACTORS’ NAMES.
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
ACT V.
— Hic noster Authores habet;
Quorum oemulari exoptat negligentiam
Potius, quam istorum obscuram diligentiam.
Dehinc ut quiescant porrò moneo, & desinant
Maledicere, malefacta ne noscant sua.
TERENCE.
TO THE LORD ELANDE, ELDEST SON TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE MARQUISS OF HALLIFAX.
My Lord,
IT was not without a great deal of debate with my self, that I could resolve to make this Present to Your Lordship: For though Epistles Dedicatory be lately grown so Epidemical, that either sooner or later, no man of Quality (whom the least Author has the least pretence to be troublesome to) can escape them; yet methought Your Lordship should be as much above the common Perplexities that attend Your Quality, as You are above the common Level of it, as well in the most Exalted Degrees of a Noble Generous Spirit, as in a piercing Apprehension, good Understanding, and daily ripening Judgment, all sweetned by an obliging Affability and Condescention; of which I have often, in the Honour of Your Conversation, had particular cause to be proud; and for which therefore, a more than ordinary reason, now, to be Grateful.
And it is upon that pretence, I here presume to shelter this Trifle under Your Protection; for indeed, it has great need of such Protection: having at its first coming into the World met with many Enemies, and very industrious ones too; but this way I was sure it must live: Would He but once vouchsafe to espouse its Defence, whose Generosity will over
throw the ignoblest Envy; whose good Nature, cannot but confound the most inveterate Malice; and whose Wit must baffle the sauciest Ignorance.
My Lord, It would but argue me of the meanest Impertinence and Formality, to pretend here an Harangue of those Praises You deserve: For he who tells the World whose Son You are, has said enough to those who do not know You; and the happy few, whom You have pick’d and chosen for Your Conversation, cannot but every hour You are pleased to bestow upon them, be sensible of more than I could tell them in a Volume: Your Lordship being the best Panegyrick upon Your self; the Son of that Great Father of his Country, who when all manner of Confusion, Ruin, and Destruction, was breaking in upon us, like the Guardian Angel of these Kingdoms, stood up; and with the Tongue of an Angel too, confounded the Subtleties of that Infernal Serpent, who would have debauched us from our Obedience, and turned our Eden into a Wilderness. Certainly His Name must be for ever Honourable, Precious His Memory, and Happy His Generation, who durst exert his Loyalty, when it was grown almost a reproach to have any, and stem a torrent of Faction, popular Fury, and fermenting Rebellion, to the Preserving of the best of Kings in his Throne, and the happiest of People in their Liberties.
May he live long to compleat the Reparations he has made in our Defence; still by the strength of his Judgment, to foresee those Evils that may yet threaten us, and by the Power of his Wisdom to prevent them; to root out the Footing and Foundations of the Kings open (nay, and bosome) Enemies: As a watchful, bold, and sincere Counsellor to his Master; to be a driver of Treacherous, Grinning, Self-ended Knaves, Insinuating Spies, and useless unprofitable Fools from his Service: A Patron and Promoter of Honesty, Merit, and Ability, which else too often, by neglect, are corrupted to their Contraries.
In fine, to continue (as he is) a kind Indulgent Father to Your Lordship, so much every way his Son, and fit to Inherit his Honours, as in the strong and shining Virtues of Your Mind, the fixt and steady disposition of Your Loyalty, the goodness and obliging temper of Your Nature, is apparent; by which only I must ever humbly confess, and no presumptive Merit of my own, I have been incouraged to take this Opportunity of telling the World how much I desire to be thought,
Your Lordships Humble Servant to be Commanded, Tho. Otway.
PROLOGUE.
THOUGH Plays and Prologues ne’er did more abound,
Ne’er were good Prologues harder to be found.
To me the Cause seems eas’ly understood:
For there are Poets prove not very good,
Who, like base Sign-Post Dawbers, wanting Skill,
Steal from Great Masters Hands, and Copy ill.
Thus, if by chance, before a Noble Feast
Of Gen’rous Wit, to whet and fit your Taste,
Some poignant Satyr in a Prologue rise,
And growing Vices handsomly chastise;
Each Poetaster thence presumes on Rules,
And ever after calls ye downright Fools.
These Marks describe him. —
Writing by rote; Small Wit, or none to spare;
Jangle and Chime’s his Study, Toil, and Care:
He always in One Line upbraids the Age;
And a good Reason why; it Rymes to Stage.
With Wit and Pit he keeps a hideous pother;
Sure to be damn’d by One, for want of T’other:
But if, by chance, he get the French Word Raillery,
Lord, how he fegues the Vizor-Masques with Gallery!
’Tis said, Astrologers strange Wonders find
To come, in two great Planets lately joyn’d.
From our Two Houses joyning, most will hold,
Vast Deluges of Dulness were foretold.
Poor Holborn Ballads now being born away
By Tides of duller Madrigals than they;
Jockeys and Jennyes set to Northern Airs,
While Lowsie Thespis chaunts at Country Fairs
Politick Ditties, full of Sage Debate,
And Merry Catches, how to Rule the State.
Vicars n•gl•ct their Flocks, to turn Translators,
And Barley-water Whey-fac’d Beau’s write Satyrs;
Though none can guess to which most Praise belongs,
To the Learn’d Versions, Scandals, or the Songs.
For all things now by Contraries succeed;
Of Wit or Vertue there’s no longer need:
Beauty submits to him who loudliest rails;
She fears the sawcie Fop, and he prevails.
Who for his best Preferment would devise,
Let him renounce all Honesty, and rise.
Villains and Parasites Success will gain;
But in the Court of Wit, shall Dulness Reign?
No: Let th’ angry ‘Squire give his Iambicks o’re,
Twirl Crevat-strings, but write Lampoons no more;
Rhymesters get Wit, e’er they pretend to shew it,
Nor think a Game at Cramboe makes a Poet:
Else is our Author hopeless of Success,
But then his Study shall be next time less:
He’ll find out Ways to your Applause, more easie;
That is, write worse and worse, till he can please ye.
EPILOGUE BY MR. DUKE OF CAMBRIDGE.
IT is not long since in the Noisie Pit
Tumultuous Faction sate the Iudge of Wit;
There Knaves applauded what their Blockheads writ.
At a Whig-Brother’s Play, the Bawling Crowd
Burst out in Shouts, as zealous, and as loud,
As when some Member’s stout Election-Beer
Gains the mad Voice of a whole Drunken Shire.
And yet, even then, our Poet’s Truth was try’d,
Tho ’twas a Dev’lish pull to stem the Tyde;
And tho he ne’er did Line of Treason write,
Nor made one Rocket on Queen Besse’s Night,
Such was his Fortune, or so good his Cause,
Even then he fail’d not wholly of Applause.
He that could then escape, now bolder grows:
Since the Whig-Tyde runs out, the Loyal flows.
All you who lately here presum’d to bawl,
Take warning from your Brethren at Guild-hall:
The Spirit of Rebellion there is quell’d,
And here your Poet’s Acts are all repeal’d:
Impartial Justice has resum’d agen
Her awful Seat, nor bears the Sword in vain.
The Stage shall lash the Follies of the Times,
And the Laws Vengeance overtake the Crimes.
The Perjur’d Wretch shall no Protection gain
From his dishonour’d Robe, and Golden Chain;
But stand expos’d to all th’ insulting Town,
While Rotten Eggs bepaw the Scarlet Gown.
Pack hence betimes, you that were never sparing
To save the Land, and dam’ your selves, by Swearing.
Shou’d the Wise City now, to ease your Fears,
Erect an Office to Insure your Ears,
Thither such num’rous Shoals of Witnesses,
And Juries, conscious of their Guilt, wou’d press,
That to the Chamber hence might more be gain’d,
Than ever Mother Creswell from it drain’d;
And Perjury to the Orphans Bank restore
Whatever Whoredom robb’d it of before.
THE ACTORS’ NAMES.
Father to Beaugard. Mr. Leigh.
Beaugard. Mr. Betterton.
Courtine. Mr. Smith.
Daredevil. Mr. Underhill.
Theodoret. Mr. Wilshire.
Gratian. Mr. Perin.
Porcia. Mrs. Barry.
Lucretia. Mrs. Butler.
Sylvia, Courtine’s Wife. Mrs. Currer.
Mrs. Furnish, an Exchange-woman. Mrs. Osborn.
Phillis, Porcia’s Woman. Mrs. Percival.
Chloris, Lucretia’s Woman. Mrs. Norris.
Rosard, Gratian’s Man. Mr. Saunders.
Plunder, Beaugard�
��s Man. Mr. Richards.
Six Ruffians.
Footmen.
Dwarf.
A Page.
ACT I.
Beaugard and his Father.
Beaug.
SIR, I say, and say again, No Matrimony; I’ll not be noos’d. Why, I beseech you, Sir, tell me Plainly and fairly, What have I done, that I deserve to be married!
Fath.
Why, Sauce-box, I, your old Father, was married before you were born.
Beaug.
Ay, Sir; and I thank you, the next thing you did, was, you begot me; the Consequence of which was as follows: As soon as I was born, you sent me to Nurse, where I suckt two years at the dirty Dugs of a foul-feeding Witch, that liv’d in a thatch’t Sty upon the neighb’ring Common; as soon as I was big enough, that you might be rid of me, you sent me to a Place call’d a School, to be slash’t and box’t by a thick-fisted Blockhead, that could not read himself; where I learnt no Letters, nor got no Meat, but such as the old Succubus his Wife bought at a stinking Price, so over-run with Vermin, that it us’d to crawl home after her.
Fath.
Sirrah, it was the more nourishing, and made such young, idle Whoresons as you fat, fat, you Rogue. I remember the young Dog at twelve years old had a broad, shining, pufft, Bacon-face, like a Cherubim; and now he won’t marry.
Beaug.
My next Removal was home again; and then you did not know what to do with me farther, till after Twelve-months Deliberation, out of abundance of Fatherly Affection and Care of your Posterity, you very civilly and fairly turn’d me out of your Doors.
Fath.
The impudent, termagant, unruly Varlet rebell’d with too much Plenty, and took up Arms against my Concubine. Turn’d you out of my Doors!
Beaug.
Yes, turn’d me out of Doors, Sir.
Fath.
Had I not reason, Master Hector?
Beaug.
As I had then, so have I now too, Sir, more Manners than to dispute the Pleasure of a Father.
Fath.
Nay, the Rogue has Breeding, that’s the truth on’t; the Dog would be a very pretty Fellow, if I could but perswade him to marry.
Beaug.
Turn’d out of Doors as I was, you may remember, Sir, you gave me not a Shilling; my Industry and my Vertue was all I had to trust to.
Fath.
Bless us all! Industry and Vertue, quoth a! Nay, I have a very vertuous Son and Heir of him, that’s the truth on’t.