ACT V.--SCENE I.

_Enter_ WOODALL _and_ JUDITH.

_Jud._ Well, you are a lucky man! Mrs Brainsick is fool enough to believe you wholly innocent; and that the adventure of the garden-house, last night, was only a vision of Mrs Saintly's.

_Wood._ I knew, if I could once speak with her, all would be set right immediately; for, had I been there, look you--

_Jud._ As you were, most certainly.

_Wood._ Limberham must have found me out; that _fe-fa-fum_ of a keeper would have smelt the blood of a cuckold-maker: They say, he was peeping and butting about in every cranny.

_Jud._ But one. You must excuse my unbelief, though Mrs Brainsick is better satisfied. She and her husband, you know, went out this morning to the New Exchange: There she has given him the slip; and pretending to call at her tailor's to try her stays for a new gown--

_Wood._ I understand thee;--she fetched me a short turn, like a hare before her muse, and will immediately run hither to covert?

_Jud._ Yes; but because your chamber will be least suspicious, she appoints to meet you there; that, if her husband should come back, he may think her still abroad, and you may have time--

_Wood._ To take in the horn-work. It happens as I wish; for Mrs Tricksy, and her keeper, are gone out with father Aldo, to complete her settlement; my landlady is safe at her morning exercise with my man Gervase, and her daughter not stirring: the house is our own, and iniquity may walk bare-faced.

_Jud._ And, to make all sure, I am ordered to be from home. When I come back again, I shall knock at your door, with, _Speak, brother, speak;_ [_Singing._ _Is the deed done?_

_Wood._ _Long ago, long ago;_--and then we come panting out together. Oh, I am ravished with the imagination on't!

_Jud._ Well, I must retire; good-morrow to you, sir. [_Exit._

_Wood._ Now do I humbly conceive, that this mistress in matrimony will give me more pleasure than the former; for your coupled spaniels, when they are once let loose, are afterwards the highest rangers.

_Enter Mrs_ BRAINSICK, _running._

_Mrs Brain._ Oh dear Mr Woodall, what shall I do?

_Wood._ Recover breath, and I'll instruct you in the next chamber.

_Mrs Brain._ But my husband follows me at heels.

_Wood._ Has he seen you?

_Mrs Brain._ I hope not: I thought I had left him sure enough at the Exchange; but, looking behind me, as I entered into the house, I saw him walking a round rate this way.

_Wood._ Since he has not seen you, there is no danger; you need but step into my chamber, and there we will lock ourselves up, and transform him in a twinkling.

_Mrs Brain._ I had rather have got into my own; but Judith is gone out with the key, I doubt.

_Wood._ Yes, by your appointment. But so much the better; for when the cuckold finds no company, he will certainly go a sauntering again.

_Mrs Brain._ Make haste, then.

_Wood._ Immediately.--[_Goes to open the Door hastily, and breaks his Key._] What is the matter here? the key turns round, and will not open! As I live, we are undone! with too much haste it is broken!

_Mrs Brain._ Then I am lost; for I cannot enter into my own.

_Wood._ This next room is Limberham's. See! the door's open; and he and his mistress are both abroad.

_Mrs Brain._ There is no remedy, I must venture in; for his knowing I am come back so soon, must be cause of jealousy enough, if the fool should find me.

_Wood._ [_Looking in._] See there! Mrs Tricksy has left her Indian gown upon the bed; clap it on, and turn your back: he will easily mistake you for her, if he should look in upon you.

_Mrs Brain._ I will put on my vizor-mask, however, for more security. [_Noise._] Hark! I hear him. [_Goes in._

_Enter_ BRAINSICK.

_Brain._ What, in a musty musing, monsieur Woodall! Let me enter into the affair.

_Wood._ You may guess it, by the post I have taken up.

_Brain._ O, at the door of the damsel Tricksy! your business is known by your abode; as the posture of a porter before a gate, denotes to what family he belongs. [_Looks in._] It is an assignation, I see; for yonder she stands, with her back toward me, drest up for the duel, with all the ornaments of the east. Now for the judges of the field, to divide the sun and wind betwixt the combatants, and a tearing trumpeter to sound the charge.

_Wood._ It is a private quarrel, to be decided without seconds; and therefore you would do me a favour to withdraw.

_Brain._ Your Limberham is nearer than you imagine: I left him almost entering at the door.

_Wood._ Plague of all impertinent cuckolds! they are ever troublesome to us honest lovers: so intruding!

_Brain._ They are indeed, where their company is not desired.

_Wood._ Sure he has some tutelar devil to guard his brows! just when she had bobbed him, and made an errand home, to come to me!

_Brain._ It is unconscionably done of him. But you shall not adjourn your love for this: the Brainsick has an ascendant over him; I am your guarantee; he is doomed a cuckold, in disdain of destiny.

_Wood._ What mean you?

_Brain._ To stand before the door with my brandished blade, and defend the entrance: He dies upon the point, if he approaches.

_Wood._ If I durst trust it, it is heroic.

_Brain._ It is the office of a friend: I will do it.

_Wood._ [_Aside._] Should he know hereafter his wife were here, he would think I had enjoyed her, though I had not; it is best venturing for something. He takes pains enough, on conscience, for his cuckoldom; and, by my troth, has earned it fairly.--But, may a man venture upon your promise?

_Brain._ Bars of brass, and doors of adamant, could not more secure you.

_Wood._ I know it; but still gentle means are best: You may come to force at last. Perhaps you may wheedle him away: it is but drawing a trope or two upon him.

_Brain._ He shall have it, with all the artillery of eloquence.

_Wood._ Ay, ay; your figure breaks no bones. With your good leave.-- [_Goes in._

_Brain._ Thou hast it, boy. Turn to him, madam; to her Woodall: and St George for merry England. _Tan ta ra ra ra, ra ra! Dub, a dub, dub; Tan ta ra ra ra._

_Enter_ LIMBERHAM.

_Limb._ How now, bully Brainsick! What, upon the _Tan ta ra_, by yourself?

_Brain._ Clangor, _taratantara,_ murmur.

_Limb._ Commend me to honest _lingua Franca_. Why, this is enough to stun a Christian, with your Hebrew, and your Greek, and such like Latin.

_Brain._ Out, ignorance!

_Limb._ Then ignorance, by your leave; for I must enter. [_Attempts to pass._

_Brain._ Why in such haste? the fortune of Greece depends not on it.

_Limb._ But Pug's fortune does: that is dearer to me than Greece, and sweeter than ambergrease.

_Brain._ You will not find her here. Come, you are jealous; you are haunted with a raging fiend, that robs you of your sweet repose.

_Limb._ Nay, an you are in your perbole's again! Look you, it is Pug is jealous of her jewels: she has left the key of her cabinet behind, and has desired me to bring it back to her.

_Brain._ Poor fool! he little thinks she is here before him!--Well, this pretence will never pass on me; for I dive deeper into your affairs; you are jealous. But, rather than my soul should be concerned for a sex so insignificant--Ha! the gods! If I thought my proper wife were now within, and prostituting all her treasures to the lawless love of an adulterer, I would stand as intrepid, as firm, and as unmoved, as the statue of a Roman gladiator.

_Limb._ [_In the same tone._] Of a Roman gladiator!--Now are you as mad as a March hare; but I am in haste, to return to Pug: yet, by your favour, I will first secure the cabinet.

_Brain._ No, you must not.

_Limb._ Must not? What, may not a man come by you, to look upon his own goods and chattels, in his own chamber?

_Brain._ No; with this sabre I defy the destinies, and dam up the passage with my person; like a rugged rock, opposed against the roaring of the boisterous billows. Your jealousy shall have no course through me, though potentates and princes--

_Limb._ Pr'ythee, what have we to do with potentates and princes? Will you leave your troping, and let me pass?

_Brain._ You have your utmost answer.

_Limb._ If this maggot bite a little deeper, we shall have you a citizen of Bethlem yet, ere dog-days. Well, I say little; but I will tell Pug on it. [_Exit._

_Brain._ She knows it already, by your favour-- [_Knocking._ Sound a retreat, you lusty lovers, or the enemy will charge you in the flank, with a fresh reserve: March off, march off upon the spur, ere he can reach you.

_Enter_ WOODALL.

_Wood._ How now, baron Tell-clock[12], is the passage clear?

_Brain._ Clear as a level, without hills or woods, and void of ambuscade.

_Wood._ But Limberham will return immediately, when he finds not his mistress where he thought he left her.

_Brain._ Friendship, which has done much, will yet do more. [_Shows a key._] With this _passe par tout_, I will instantly conduct her to my own chamber, that she may out-face the keeper, she has been there; and, when my wife returns, who is my slave, I will lay my conjugal commands upon her, to affirm, they have been all this time together.

_Wood._ I shall never make you amends for this kindness, my dear Padron. But would it not be better, if you would take the pains to run after Limberham, and stop him in his way ere he reach the place where he thinks he left his mistress; then hold him in discourse as long as possibly you can, till you guess your wife may be returned, that so they may appear together?

_Brain._ I warrant you: _laissez faire a Marc Antoine._ [_Exit._

_Wood._ Now, madam, you may venture out in safety.

_Mrs Brain._ [_Entering._] Pray heaven I may. [_Noise._

_Wood._ Hark! I hear Judith's voice: it happens well that she's returned: slip into your chamber immediately, and send back the gown.

_Mrs Brain._ I will:--but are not you a wicked man, to put me into all this danger? [_Exit._

_Wood._ Let what can happen, my comfort is, at least, I have enjoyed. But this is no place for consideration. Be jogging, good Mr Woodall, out of this family, while you are well; and go plant in some other country, where your virtues are not so famous. [_Going._

_Enter_ TRICKSY, _with a box of writings._

_Trick._ What, wandering up and down, as if you wanted an owner? Do you know that I am lady of the manor; and that all wefts and strays belong to me?

_Wood._ I have waited for you above an hour; but friar Bacon's head has been lately speaking to me,--that time is past. In a word, your keeper has been here, and will return immediately; we must defer our happiness till some more favourable time.

_Trick._ I fear him not; he has this morning armed me against himself, by this settlement; the next time he rebels, he gives me a fair occasion of leaving him for ever.

_Wood._ But is this conscience in you? not to let him have his bargain, when he has paid so dear for it?

_Trick._ You do not know him: he must perpetually be used ill, or he insults. Besides, I have gained an absolute dominion over him: he must not see, when I bid him wink. If you argue after this, either you love me not, or dare not.

_Wood._ Go in, madam: I was never dared before. I'll but scout a little, and follow you immediately. [TRICK. _goes in._] I find a mistress is only kept for other men: and the keeper is but her man in a green livery, bound to serve a warrant for the doe, whenever she pleases, or is in season.

_Enter_ JUDITH, _with the Night-gown._

_Jud._ Still you're a lucky man! Mr Brainsick has been exceeding honourable: he ran, as if a legion of bailiffs had been at his heels, and overtook Limberham in the street. Here, take the gown; lay it where you found it, and the danger's over.

_Wood._ Speak softly; Mrs Tricksy is returned. [_Looks in._] Oh, she's gone into her closet, to lay up her writings: I can throw it on the bed, ere she perceive it has been wanting. [_Throws it in._

_Jud._ Every woman would not have done this for you, which I have done.

_Wood._ I am sensible of it, little Judith; there's a time to come shall pay for all. I hear her returning: not a word; away. [_Exit_ JUDITH.

_Re-enter_ TRICKSY.

_Trick._ What, is a second summons needful? my favours have not been so cheap, that they should stick upon my hands. It seems, you slight your bill of fare, because you know it; or fear to be invited to your loss.

_Wood._ I was willing to secure my happiness from interruption. A true soldier never falls upon the plunder, while the enemy is in the field.

_Trick._ He has been so often baffled, that he grows contemptible. Were he here, should he see you enter into my closet; yet--

_Wood._ You are like to be put upon the trial, for I hear his voice.

_Trick._ 'Tis so: go in, and mark the event now: be but as unconcerned, as you are safe, and trust him to my management.

_Wood._ I must venture it; because to be seen here would have the same effect, as to be taken within. Yet I doubt you are too confident. [_He goes in._

_Enter_ LIMBERHAM _and_ BRAINSICK.

_Limb._ How now, Pug? returned so soon!

_Trick._ When I saw you came not for me, I was loth to be long without you.

_Limb._ But which way came you, that I saw you not?

_Trick._ The back way; by the garden door.

_Limb._ How long have you been here?

_Trick._ Just come before you.

_Limb._ O, then all's well. For, to tell you true, Pug, I had a kind of villainous apprehension that you had been here longer: but whatever thou sayest is an oracle, sweet Pug, and I am satisfied.

_Brain._ [_Aside._] How infinitely she gulls him! and he so stupid not to find it! [_To her._] If he be still within, madam, (you know my meaning?) here's Bilbo ready to forbid your keeper entrance.

_Trick._ [_Aside._] Woodall must have told him of our appointment.--What think you of walking down, Mr Limberham?

_Limb._ I'll but visit the chamber a little first.

_Trick._ What new maggot's this? you dare not, sure, be jealous!

_Limb._ No, I protest, sweet Pug, I am not: only to satisfy my curiosity; that's but reasonable, you know.

_Trick._ Come, what foolish curiosity?

_Limb._ You must know, Pug, I was going but just now, in obedience to your commands, to enquire of the health and safety of your jewels, and my brother Brainsick most barbarously forbade me entrance:--nay, I dare accuse you, when Pug's by to back me;--but now I am resolved I will go see them, or somebody shall smoke for it.

_Brain._ But I resolve you shall not. If she pleases to command my person, I can comply with the obligation of a cavalier.

_Trick._ But what reason had you to forbid him, then, sir?

_Limb._ Ay, what reason had you to forbid me, then, sir?

_Brain._ 'Twas only my caprichio, madam.--Now must I seem ignorant of what she knows full well. [_Aside._

_Trick._ We'll enquire the cause at better leisure; come down, Mr Limberham.

_Limb._ Nay, if it were only his caprichio, I am satisfied; though I must tell you, I was in a kind of huff, to hear him _Tan ta ra, tan ta ra,_ a quarter of an hour together; for _Tan ta ra_ is but an odd kind of sound, you know, before a man's chamber.

_Enter_ PLEASANCE.

_Pleas._ [_Aside._] Judith has assured me, he must be there; and, I am resolved, I'll satisfy my revenge at any rate upon my rivals.

_Trick._ Mrs Pleasance is come to call us: pray let us go.

_Pleas._ Oh dear, Mr Limberham, I have had the dreadfullest dream to-night, and am come to tell it you: I dreamed you left your mistress's jewels in your chamber, and the door open.

_Limb._ In good time be it spoken; and so I did, Mrs Pleasance.

_Pleas._ And that a great swinging thief came in, and whipt them out.

_Limb._ Marry, heaven forbid!

_Trick._ This is ridiculous: I'll speak to your mother, madam, not to suffer you to eat such heavy suppers.

_Limb._ Nay, that's very true; for, you may remember she fed very much upon larks and pigeons; and they are very heavy meat, as Pug says.

_Trick._ The jewels are all safe; I looked on them.

_Brain._ Will you never stand corrected, Mrs Pleasance?

_Pleas._ Not by you; correct your matrimony.--And methought, of a sudden this thief was turned to Mr Woodall; and that, hearing Mr Limberham come, he slipt for fear into the closet.

_Trick._ I looked all over it; I'm sure he is not there.--Come away, dear.

_Brain._ What, I think you are in a dream too, brother Limberham.

_Limb._ If her dream should come out now! 'tis good to be sure, however.

_Trick._ You are sure; have not I said it?--You had best make Mr Woodall a thief, madam.

_Pleas._ I make him nothing, madam: but the thief in my dream was like Mr Woodall; and that thief may have made Mr Limberham something.

_Limb._ Nay, Mr Woodall is no thief, that's certain; but if a thief should be turned to Mr Woodall, that may be something.

_Trick._ Then I'll fetch out the jewels: will that satisfy you?

_Brain._ That shall satisfy him.

_Limb._ Yes, that shall satisfy me.

_Pleas._ Then you are a predestinated fool, and somewhat worse, that shall be nameless. Do you not see how grossly she abuses you? my life on't, there's somebody within, and she knows it; otherwise she would suffer you to bring out the jewels.

_Limb._ Nay, I am no predestinated fool; and therefore, Pug, give way.

_Trick._ I will not satisfy your humour.

_Limb._ Then I will satisfy it myself: for my generous blood is up, and I'll force my entrance.

_Brain._ Here's Bilbo, then, shall bar you; atoms are not so small, as I will slice the slave. Ha! fate and furies!

_Limb._ Ay, for all your fate and furies, I charge you, in his majesty's name, to keep the peace: now, disobey authority, if you dare.

_Trick._ Fear him not, sweet Mr Brainsick.

_Pleas._ to _Brain._ But, if you should hinder him, he may trouble you at law, sir, and say you robbed him of his jewels.

_Limb._ That is well thought on. I will accuse him heinously; there--and therefore fear and tremble.

_Brain._ My allegiance charms me: I acquiesce. The occasion is plausible to let him pass.--Now let the burnished beams upon his brow blaze broad, for the brand he cast upon the Brainsick. [_Aside._

_Trick._ Dear Mr Limberham, come back, and hear me.

_Limb._ Yes, I will hear thee, Pug.

_Pleas._ Go on; my life for yours, he is there.

_Limb._ I am deaf as an adder; I will not hear thee, nor have no commiseration. [_Struggles from her, and rushes in._

_Trick._ Then I know the worst, and care not. [LIMBERHAM _comes running out with the Jewels, followed by_ WOODALL, _with his Sword drawn._

_Limb._ O save me, Pug, save me! [_Gets behind her._

_Wood._ A slave, to come and interrupt me at my devotions! but I will--

_Limb._ Hold, hold, since you are so devout; for heaven's sake, hold!

_Brain._ Nay, monsieur Woodall!

_Trick._ For my sake, spare him.

_Limb._ Yes, for Pug's sake, spare me.

_Wood._ I did his chamber the honour, when my own was not open, to retire thither; and he to disturb me, like a profane rascal as he was.

_Limb._ [_Aside._] I believe he had the devil for his chaplain, an' a man durst tell him so.

_Wood._ What is that you mutter?

_Limb._ Nay, nothing; but that I thought you had not been so well given. I was only afraid of Pug's jewels.

_Wood._ What, does he take me for a thief? nay then--

_Limb._ O mercy, mercy!

_Pleas._ Hold, sir; it was a foolish dream of mine that set him on. I dreamt, a thief, who had been just reprieved for a former robbery, was venturing his neck a minute after in Mr Limberham's closet.

_Wood._ Are you thereabouts, i'faith! A pox of Artemidorus[13].

_Trick._ I have had a dream, too, concerning Mrs Brainsick, and perhaps--

_Wood._ Mrs Tricksy, a word in private with you, by your keeper's leave.

_Limb._ Yes, sir, you may speak your pleasure to her; and, if you have a mind to go to prayers together, the closet is open.

_Wood._ [_To_ TRICK.] You but suspect it at most, and cannot prove it: if you value me, you will not engage me in a quarrel with her husband.

_Trick._ Well, in hope you will love me, I will obey.

_Brain._ Now, damsel Tricksy, your dream, your dream!

_Trick._ It was something of a flagelet, that a shepherd played upon so sweetly, that three women followed him for his music, and still one of them snatched it from the other.

_Pleas._ [_Aside._] I understand her; but I find she is bribed to secrecy.

_Limb._ That flagelet was, by interpretation,--but let that pass; and Mr Woodall, there, was the shepherd, that played the _tan ta ra_ upon it: but a generous heart, like mine, will endure the infamy no longer; therefore, Pug, I banish thee for ever.

_Trick._ Then farewell.

_Limb._ Is that all you make of me?

_Trick._ I hate to be tormented with your jealous humours, and am glad to be rid of them.

_Limb._ Bear witness, good people, of her ingratitude! Nothing vexes me, but that she calls me jealous; when I found him as close as a butterfly in her closet.

_Trick._ No matter for that; I knew not he was there.

_Limb._ Would I could believe thee!

_Wood._ You have both our words for it.

_Trick._ Why should you persuade him against his will?

_Limb._ Since you won't persuade me, I care not much; here are the jewels in my possession, and I'll fetch out the settlement immediately.

_Wood._ [_Shewing the Box._] Look you, sir, I'll spare your pains; four hundred a-year will serve to comfort a poor cast mistress.

_Limb._ I thought what would come of your devil's _pater nosters_!

_Brain._ Restore it to him for pity, Woodall.

_Trick._ I make him my trustee; he shall not restore it.

_Limb._ Here are jewels, that cost me above two thousand pounds; a queen might wear them. Behold this orient necklace, Pug! 'tis pity any neck should touch it, after thine, that pretty neck! but oh, 'tis the falsest neck that e'er was hanged in pearl.

_Wood._ 'Twould become your bounty to give it her at parting.

_Limb._ Never the sooner for your asking. But oh, that word parting! can I bear it? if she could find in her heart but so much grace, as to acknowledge what a traitress she has been, I think, in my conscience I could forgive her.

_Trick._ I'll not wrong my innocence so much, nor this gentleman's; but, since you have accused us falsely, four hundred a-year betwixt us two will make us some part of reparation.

_Wood._ I answer you not, but with my leg, madam.

_Pleas._ [_Aside._] This mads me; but I cannot help it.

_Limb._ What, wilt thou kill me, Pug, with thy unkindness, when thou knowest I cannot live without thee? It goes to my heart, that this wicked fellow--

_Wood._ How's that, sir?

_Limb._ Under the rose, good Mr Woodall; but, I speak it with all submission, in the bitterness of my spirit, that you, or any man, should have the disposing of my four hundred a-year _gratis_; therefore dear Pug, a word in private, with your permission, good Mr Woodall.

_Trick._ Alas, I know, by experience, I may safely trust my person with you. [_Exeunt_ LIMB. _and_ TRICK.

_Enter_ ALDO.

_Pleas._ O, father Aldo, we have wanted you! Here has been made the rarest discovery!

_Brain._ With the most comical catastrophe!

_Wood._ Happily arrived, i'faith, my old sub-fornicator; I have been taken up on suspicion here with Mrs Tricksy.

_Aldo._ To be taken, to be seen! Before George, that's a point next the worst, son Woodall.

_Wood._ Truth is, I wanted thy assistance, old Methusalem; but, my comfort is, I fell greatly.

_Aldo._ Well, young Phæton, that's somewhat yet, if you made a blaze at your departure.

_Enter_ GILES, _Mrs_ BRAINSICK, _and_ JUDITH.

_Giles._ By your leave, gentlemen, I have followed an old master of mine these two long hours, and had a fair course at him up the street; here he entered, I'm sure.

_Aldo._ Whoop holyday! our trusty and well-beloved Giles, most welcome! Now for some news of my ungracious son.

_Wood._ [_Aside._] Giles here! O rogue, rogue! Now, would I were safe stowed over head and ears in the chest again.

_Aldo._ Look you now, son Woodall, I told you I was not mistaken; my rascal's in town, with a vengeance to him.

_Giles._ Why, this is he, sir; I thought you had known him.

_Aldo._ Known whom?

_Giles._ Your son here, my young master.

_Aldo._ Do I dote? or art thou drunk, Giles?

_Giles._ Nay, I am sober enough, I'm sure; I have been kept fasting almost these two days.

_Aldo._ Before George, 'tis so! I read it in that leering look: What a Tartar have I caught!

_Brain._ Woodall his son!

_Pleas._ What, young father Aldo!

_Aldo._ [_Aside._] Now cannot I for shame hold up my head, to think what this young rogue is privy to!

_Mrs Brain._ The most dumb interview I ever saw!

_Brain._ What, have you beheld the Gorgon's head on either side?

_Aldo._ Oh, my sins! my sins! and he keeps my book of conscience too! He can display them, with a witness! Oh, treacherous young devil!

_Wood._ [_Aside._] Well, the squib's run to the end of the line, and now for the cracker: I must bear up.

_Aldo._ I must set a face of authority on the matter, for my credit.--Pray, who am I? do you know me, sir?

_Wood._ Yes, I think I should partly know you, sir: You may remember some private passages betwixt us.

_Aldo._ [_Aside._] I thought as much; he has me already!--But pray, sir, why this ceremony amongst friends? Put on, put on; and let us hear what news from France. Have you heard lately from my son? does he continue still the most hopeful and esteemed young gentleman in Paris? does he manage his allowance with the same discretion? and, lastly, has he still the same respect and duty for his good old father?

_Wood._ Faith, sir, I have been too long from my catechism, to answer so many questions; but, suppose there be no news of your _quondam_ son, you may comfort up your heart for such a loss; father Aldo has a numerous progeny about the town, heaven bless them.

_Aldo._ It is very well, sir; I find you have been searching for your relations, then, in Whetstone's Park[14]!

_Wood._ No, sir; I made some scruple of going to the foresaid place, for fear of meeting my own father there.

_Aldo._ Before George, I could find in my heart to disinherit thee.

_Pleas._ Sure you cannot be so unnatural.

_Wood._ I am sure I am no bastard; witness one good quality I have. If any of your children have a stronger tang of the father in them, I am content to be disowned.

_Aldo._ Well, from this time forward, I pronounce thee--no son of mine.

_Wood._ Then you desire I should proceed to justify I am lawfully begotten? The evidence is ready, sir; and, if you please, I shall relate, before this honourable assembly, those excellent lessons of morality you gave me at our first acquaintance. As, in the first place--

_Aldo._ Hold, hold; I charge thee hold, on thy obedience. I forgive thee heartily: I have proof enough thou art my son; but tame thee that can, thou art a mad one.

_Pleas._ Why this is as it should be.

_Aldo._ [_To him._] Not a word of any passages betwixt us; it is enough we know each other; hereafter we will banish all pomp and ceremony, and live familiarly together. I'll be Pylades, and thou mad Orestes, and we will divide the estate betwixt us, and have fresh wenches, and _ballum rankum_ every night.

_Wood._ A match, i'faith: and let the world pass.

_Aldo._ But hold a little; I had forgot one point: I hope you are not married, nor engaged?

_Wood._ To nothing but my pleasures, I.

_Aldo._ A mingle of profit would do well though. Come, here is a girl; look well upon her; it is a mettled toad, I can tell you that: She will make notable work betwixt two sheets, in a lawful way.

_Wood._ What, my old enemy, Mrs Pleasance!

_Mrs Brain._ Marry Mrs Saintly's daughter!

_Aldo._ The truth is, she has past for her daughter, by my appointment; but she has as good blood running in her veins, as the best of you. Her father, Mr Palms, on his death-bed, left her to my care and disposal, besides a fortune of twelve hundred a year; a pretty convenience, by my faith.

_Wood._ Beyond my hopes, if she consent.

_Aldo._ I have taken some care of her education, and placed her here with Mrs Saintly, as her daughter, to avoid her being blown upon by fops, and younger brothers. So now, son, I hope I have matched your concealment with my discovery; there is hit for hit, ere I cross the cudgels.

_Pleas._ You will not take them up, sir?

_Wood._ I dare not against you, madam: I am sure you will worst me at all weapons. All I can say is, I do not now begin to love you.

_Aldo._ Let me speak for thee: Thou shalt be used, little Pleasance, like a sovereign princess: Thou shalt not touch a bit of butchers' meat in a twelve-month; and thou shall be treated--

_Pleas._ Not with _ballum rankum_ every night, I hope!

_Aldo._ Well, thou art a wag; no more of that. Thou shall want neither man's meat, nor woman's meat, as far as his provision will hold out.

_Pleas._ But I fear he is so horribly given to go a house-warming abroad, that the least part of the provision will come to my share at home.

_Wood._ You will find me so much employment in my own family, that I shall have little need to look out for journey-work.

_Aldo._ Before George, he shall do thee reason, ere thou sleepest.

_Pleas._ No; he shall have an honourable truce for one day at least; for it is not fair to put a fresh enemy upon him.

_Mrs Brain._ [_To_ PLEAS.] I beseech you, madam, discover nothing betwixt him and me.

_Pleas._ [_To her._] I am contented to cancel the old score; but take heed of bringing me an after-reckoning.

_Enter_ GERVASE, _leading_ SAINTLY.

_Gerv._ Save you, gentlemen; and you, my _quondam_ master: You are welcome all, as I may say.

_Aldo._ How now, sirrah? what is the matter?

_Gerv._ Give good words, while you live, sir; your landlord, and Mr Saintly, if you please.

_Wood._ Oh, I understand the business; he is married to the widow.

_Saint._ Verily the good work is accomplished.

_Brain._ But, why Mr Saintly?

_Gerv._ When a man is married to his betters, it is but decency to take her name. A pretty house, a pretty situation, and prettily furnished! I have been unlawfully labouring at hard duty; but a parson has soldered up the matter: Thank your worship, Mr Woodall--How? Giles here!

_Wood._ This business is out, and I am now Aldo. My father has forgiven me, and we are friends.

_Gerv._ When will Giles, with his honesty, come to this?

_Wood._ Nay, do not insult too much, good Mr Saintly: Thou wert but my deputy; thou knowest the widow intended it to me.

_Gerv._ But I am satisfied she performed it with me, sir. Well, there is much good will in these precise old women; they are the most zealous bed-fellows! Look, an' she does not blush now! you see there is grace in her.

_Wood._ Mr Limberham, where are you? Come, cheer up, man! How go matters on your side of the country? Cry him, Gervase.

_Gerv._ Mr Limberham, Mr Limberham, make your appearance in the court, and save your recognizance.

_Enter_ LIMBERHAM _and_ TRICKSY.

_Wood._ Sir, I should now make a speech to you in my own defence; but the short of all is this: If you can forgive what is past, your hand, and I'll endeavour to make up the breach betwixt you and your mistress: If not, I am ready to give you the satisfaction of a gentleman.

_Limb._ Sir, I am a peaceable man, and a good Christian, though I say it, and desire no satisfaction from any man. Pug and I are partly agreed upon the point already; and therefore lay thy hand upon thy heart, Pug, and, if thou canst, from the bottom of thy soul, defy mankind, naming no body, I'll forgive thy past enormities; and, to give good example to all Christian keepers, will take thee to be my wedded wife; and thy four hundred a-year shall be settled upon thee, for separate maintenance.

_Trick._ Why, now I can consent with honour.

_Aldo._ This is the first business that was ever made up without me.

_Wood._ Give you joy, Mr Bridegroom.

_Limb._ You may spare your breath, sir, if you please; I desire none from you. It is true, I am satisfied of her virtue, in spite of slander; but, to silence calumny, I shall civilly desire you henceforth, not to make a chapel-of-ease of Pug's closet.

_Pleas._ [_Aside._] I'll take care of false worship, I'll warrant him. He shall have no more to do with Bel and the Dragon.

_Brain._ Come hither, wedlock, and let me seal my lasting love upon thy lips. Saintly has been seduced, and so has Tricksy; but thou alone art kind and constant. Hitherto I have not valued modesty, according to its merit; but hereafter, Memphis shall not boast a monument more firm than my affection.

_Wood._ A most excellent reformation, and at a most seasonable time! The moral of it is pleasant, if well considered. Now, let us to dinner.--Mrs Saintly, lead the way, as becomes you, in your own house. [_The rest going off._

_Pleas._ Your hand, sweet moiety.

_Wood._ And heart too, my comfortable importance. Mistress and wife, by turns, I have possessed: He, who enjoys them both in one, is blessed.

Footnotes: 1. The Mahommedan doctrine of predestination is well known. They reconcile themselves to all dispensations, by saying, "They are written on the forehead" of him, to whose lot they have fallen.

2. The custom of drinking _supernaculum_, consisted in turning down the cup upon the thumb-nail of the drinker after his pledge, when, if duly quaffed off, no drop of liquor ought to appear upon his nail.

With that she set it to her nose, And off at once the rumkin goes; No drops beside her muzzle falling, Until that she had supped it all in: Then turning't topsey on her thumb, Says--look, here's _supernaculum._ _Cotton's Virgil travestie._

This custom seems to have been derived from the Germans, who held, that if a drop appeared on the thumb, it presaged grief and misfortune to the person whose health was drunk.

3. This piece of dirty gallantry seems to have been fashionable:

Come, Phyllis, thy finger, to begin the go round; How the glass in thy hand with charms does abound! You and the wine to each other lend arms, And I find that my love Does for either improve, For that does redouble, as you double your charms.

4. Dapper, a silly character in Jonson's Alchemist, tricked by an astrologer, who persuades him the queen of fairies is his aunt.

5. The mask, introduced in the first act of the Maid's Tragedy, ends with the following dialogue betwixt Cinthia and Night:

_Cinthia_ Whip up thy team, The day breaks here, and yon sun-flaring beam Shot from the south. Say, which way wilt thou go?

_Night._ I'll vanish into mists.

_Cinthia._ I into day.

6. In spring 1677, whilst the treaty of Nimeguen was under discussion, the French took the three important frontier towns, Valenciennes, St Omer, and Cambray. The Spaniards seemed, with the most passive infatuation, to have left the defence of Flanders to the Prince of Orange and the Dutch.

7. Alluding to the imaginary history of Pine, a merchant's clerk, who, being wrecked on a desert island in the South Seas, bestowed on it his own name, and peopled it by the assistance of his master's daughter and her two maid servants, who had escaped from the wreck by his aid.

8. Sulli, the famous composer.

9. It would seem that about this time the French were adopting their present mode of pronunciation, so capriciously distinct from the orthography.

10. "Queen Dido, or the wandering Prince of Troy," an old ballad, printed in the "Reliques of Ancient Poetry," in which the ghost of queen Dido thus addresses the perfidious Æneas:

Therefore prepare thy flitting soul, To wander with me in the air; When deadly grief shall make it howl, Because of me thou took'st no care. Delay not time, thy glass is run, Thy date is past, thy life is done.

11. _Pricking_, in hare-hunting, is tracking the foot of the game by the eye, when the scent is lost.]

12. The facetious Tom Brown, in his 2d dialogue on Mr Bayes' changing his religion, introduces our poet saying,

"Likewise he (Cleveland) having the misfortune to call that domestic animal a cock,

The Baron Tell-clock of the night,

I could never, igad, as I came home from the tavern, meet a watchman or so, but I presently asked him, 'Baron Tell-clock of the night, pr'ythee how goes the time?"

13. Artemidorus, the sophist of Cnidos, was the soothsayer who prophesied the death of Cæsar. Shakespeare has introduced him in his tragedy of "Julius Cæsar."

14. A common rendezvous of the rakes and bullies of the time; "For when they expected the most polished hero in Nemours, I gave them a ruffian reeking from Whetstone's Park." Dedication to Lee's "Princess of Cleves." In his translation of Ovid's "Love Elegies," Lib. II, Eleg. XIX. Dryden mentions, "an easy Whetstone whore."

EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY LIMBERHAM.

I beg a boon, that, ere you all disband, Some one would take my bargain off my hand: To keep a punk is but a common evil; To find her false, and marry,--that's the devil. Well, I ne'er acted part in all my life, But still I was fobbed off with some such wife. I find the trick; these poets take no pity Of one that is a member of the city. We cheat you lawfully, and in our trades; You cheat us basely with your common jades. Now I am married, I must sit down by it; But let me keep my dear-bought spouse in quiet. Let none of you damned Woodalls of the pit, Put in for shares to mend our breed in wit; We know your bastards from our flesh and blood, Not one in ten of yours e'er comes to good. In all the boys, their fathers' virtues shine, But all the female fry turn Pugs--like mine. When these grow up, Lord, with what rampant gadders Our counters will be thronged, and roads with padders! This town two bargains has, not worth one farthing,-- A Smithfield horse, and wife of Covent-Garden[1].

Footnote: 1. Alluding to an old proverb, that whoso goes to Westminster for a wife, to St Paul's for a man, and to Smithfield for a horse, may meet with a whore, a knave, and a jade. Falstaff, on being informed that Bardolph is gone to Smithfield to buy him a horse, observes, "I bought him in Paul's, and he'll buy me a horse in Smithfield; an I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were manned, horsed, and wived." _Second Part of Henry IV._ Act I. Scene II.

* * * * *

OEDIPUS.

A

TRAGEDY.

_Hi proprium decus et partum indignantur honorem, Ni teneant--_ VIRG.

_Vos exemplaria Græca Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ._ HORAT.

OEDIPUS.

The dreadful subject of this piece has been celebrated by several ancient and modern dramatists. Of seven tragedies of Sophocles which have reached our times, two are founded on the history of OEdipus. The first of these, called "OEdipus Tyrannus," has been extolled by every critic since the days of Aristotle, for the unparalleled art with which the story is managed. The dreadful secret, the existence of which is announced by the pestilence, and by the wrath of the offended deities, seems each moment on the verge of being explained, yet, till the last act, the reader is still held in horrible suspense. Every circumstance, resorted to for the purpose of evincing the falsehood of the oracle, tends gradually to confirm the guilt of OEdipus, and to accelerate the catastrophe; while his own supposed consciousness of innocence, at once interests us in his favour, and precipitates the horrible discovery. Dryden, who arranged the whole plan of the following tragedy, although assisted by Lee in the execution, was fully aware of the merit of the "OEdipus Tyrannus;" and, with the addition of the under-plot of Adrastus and Eurydice, has traced out the events of the drama, in close imitation of Sophocles. The Grecian bard, however, in concurrence with the history or tradition of Greece, has made OEdipus survive the discovery of his unintentional guilt, and reserved him, in blindness and banishment, for the subject of his second tragedy of "OEdipus Coloneus." This may have been well judged, considering that the audience were intimately acquainted with the important scenes which were to follow among the descendants of OEdipus, with the first and second wars against Thebes, and her final conquest by the ancestors of those Athenians, before whom the play was rehearsed, led on by their demi-god Theseus. They were also prepared to receive, with reverence and faith, the belief on which the whole interest turns, that if OEdipus should be restored to Thebes, the vengeance of the gods against the devoted city might be averted; and to applaud his determination to remain on Athenian ground, that the predestined curse might descend on his unnatural sons and ungrateful country. But while the modern reader admires the lofty tone of poetry and high strain of morality which pervades "OEdipus Coloneus," it must appear more natural to his feelings, that the life of the hero, stained with unintentional incest and parricide, should be terminated, as in Dryden's play, upon the discovery of his complicated guilt and wretchedness. Yet there is something awful in the idea of the monarch, blind and exiled, innocent in intention, though so horribly criminal in fact, devoted, as it were, to the infernal deities, and sacred from human power and violence by the very excess of his guilt and misery. The account of the death of OEdipus Coloneus reaches the highest tone of sublimity. While the lightning flashes around him, he expresses the feeling, that his hour is come; and the reader anticipates, that, like Malefort in the "Unnatural Combat," he is to perish by a thunder-bolt. Yet, for the awful catastrophe, which we are artfully led to expect, is substituted a mysterious termination, still more awful. OEdipus arrays himself in splendid apparel, and dismisses his daughters and the attending Athenians. Theseus alone remains with him. The storm subsides, and the attendants return to the place, but OEdipus is there no longer--he had not perished by water, by sword, nor by fire--no one but Theseus knew the manner of his death. With an impressive hint, that it was as strange and wonderful as his life had been dismally eventful, the poet drops a curtain over the fate of his hero. This last sublime scene Dryden has not ventured to imitate; and the rants of Lee are a poor substitute for the calm and determined despair of the "OEdipus Coloneus."

Seneca, perhaps to check the seeds of vice in Nero, his pupil, to whom incest and blood were afterwards so familiar[1], composed the Latin tragedy on the subject of OEdipus, which is alluded to by Dryden in the following preface. The cold declamatory rhetorical stile of that philosopher was adapted precisely to counteract the effect, which a tale of terror produces on the feelings and imagination. His taste exerted itself in filling up and garnishing the more trifling passages, which Sophocles had passed over as unworthy of notice, and in adjusting incidents laid in the heroic age of Grecian simplicity, according to the taste and customs of the court of Nero[2]. Yet though devoid of dramatic effect, of fancy, and of genius, the OEdipus of Seneca displays the masculine eloquence and high moral sentiment of its author; and if it does not interest us in the scene of fiction, it often compels us to turn our thoughts inward, and to study our own hearts.

The OEdipe of Corneille is in all respects unworthy of its great author. The poet considering, as he states in his introduction, that the subject of OEdipus tearing out his eyes was too horrible to be presented before ladies, qualifies its terrors by the introduction of a love intrigue betwixt Theseus and Dirce. The unhappy propensity of the French poets to introduce long discussions upon _la belle passion_, addressed merely to the understanding, without respect to feeling or propriety, is nowhere more ridiculously displayed than in "OEdipe." The play opens with the following polite speech of Theseus to Dirce:

_N'ecoutez plus, madame, une pitie cruelle, Qui d'un fidel amant vous ferait un rebelle: La gloire d'obeir n'a rien que me soit doux, Lorsque vous m'ordonnez de m'eloigner de vous. Quelque ravage affreux qu'etale ici la peste, L'absence aux vrais amans est encore plus funeste; Et d'un si grand peril l'image s'offre en vain, Quand ce peril douteux epargne un mal certain._ Act premiere, Scene premiere.

It is hardly possible more prettily to jingle upon the _peril douteux_, and the _mal certain_; but this is rather an awkward way of introducing the account of the pestilence, with which all the other dramatists have opened their scene. OEdipus, however, is at once sensible of the cause which detained Theseus at his melancholy court, amidst the horrors of the plague:

_Je l'avais bien juge qu'_ un interet d'amour _Fermait ici vos yeux aux perils de ma cour._

_OEdipo conjectere opus est_--it would have been difficult for any other person to have divined such a motive. The conduct of the drama is exactly suitable to its commencement; the fate of OEdipus and of Thebes, the ravages of the pestilence, and the avenging of the death of Laius, are all secondary and subordinate considerations to the loves of Theseus and Dirce, as flat and uninteresting a pair as ever spoke _platitudes_ in French hexameters. So much is this the engrossing subject of the drama, that OEdipus, at the very moment when Tiresias is supposed to be engaged in raising the ghost of Laius, occupies himself in a long scene of scolding about love and duty with Dirce; and it is not till he is almost bullied by her off the stage, that he suddenly recollects, as an apology for his retreat,

_Mais il faut aller voir ce qu'a fait Tiresias._

Considering, however, the declamatory nature of the French dialogue, and the peremptory rule of their drama, that love, or rather gallantry, must be the moving principle of every performance, it is more astonishing that Corneille should have chosen so masculine and agitating a subject, than that he should have failed in treating it with propriety or success.

In the following tragedy, Dryden has avowedly adopted the Greek model; qualified, however, by the under plot of Adrastus and Eurydice, which contributes little either to the effect or merit of the play. Creon, in his ambition and his deformity, is a poor copy of Richard III., without his abilities; his plots and treasons are baffled by the single appearance of OEdipus; and as for the loves and woes of Eurydice, and the prince of Argos, they are lost in the horrors of the principal story, like the moonlight amid the glare of a conflagration. In other respects, the conduct of the piece closely follows the "OEdipus Tyrannus," and, in some respects, even improves on that excellent model. The Tiresias of Sophocles, for example, upon his first introduction, denounces OEdipus as the slayer of Laius, braves his resentment, and prophesies his miserable catastrophe. In Dryden's play, the first anathema of the prophet is levelled only against the unknown murderer; and it is not till the powers of hell have been invoked, that even the eye of the prophet can penetrate the horrible veil, and fix the guilt decisively upon OEdipus. By this means, the striking quarrel betwixt the monarch and Tiresias is, with great art, postponed to the third act; and the interest, of course, is more gradually heightened than in the Grecian tragedy.

The first and third acts, which were wholly written by Dryden, maintain a decided superiority over the rest of the piece. Yet there are many excellent passages scattered through Lee's scenes; and as the whole was probably corrected by Dryden, the tragedy has the appearance of general consistence and uniformity. There are several scenes, in which Dryden seems to have indulged his newly adopted desire of imitating the stile of Shakespeare. Such are, in particular, the scene of OEdipus walking in his sleep, which bears marks of Dryden's pen; and such, also, is the incantation in the third act. Seneca and Corneille have thrown this last scene into narrative. Yet, by the present large size of our stages, and the complete management of light and shade, the incantation might be represented with striking effect; an advantage which, I fear, has been gained by the sacrifice of others, much more essential to the drama, considered as a dignified and rational amusement. The incantation itself is nobly written, and the ghost of Laius can only be paralleled in Shakespeare.

The language of OEdipus is, in general, nervous, pure, and elegant; and the dialogue, though in so high a tone of passion, is natural and affecting. Some of Lee's extravagancies are lamentable exceptions to this observation. This may be instanced in the passage, where Jocasta threatens to fire Olympus, destroy the heavenly furniture, and smoke the deities _like bees out of their ambrosial hives_; and such is the still more noted wish of OEdipus;

Through all the inmost chambers of the sky, May there not be a glimpse, one starry spark, But gods meet gods, and jostle in the dark!

These blemishes, however, are entitled to some indulgence from the reader, when they occur in a work of real genius. Those, who do not strive at excellence, will seldom fall into absurdity; as he, who is contented to walk, is little liable to stumble.

Notwithstanding the admirable disposition of the parts of this play, the gradual increase of the interest, and the strong impassioned language of the dialogue, the disagreeable nature of the plot forms an objection to its success upon a British stage. Distress, which turns upon the involutions of unnatural or incestuous passion, carries with it something too disgusting for the sympathy of a refined age; whereas, in a simple state of society, the feelings require a more powerful stimulus; as we see the vulgar crowd round an object of real horror, with the same pleasure we reap from seeing it represented on a theatre. Besides, in ancient times, in those of the Roman empire at least, such abominations really occurred, as sanctioned the story of OEdipus. But the change of manners has introduced not only greater purity of moral feeling, but a sensibility, which retreats with abhorrence even from a fiction turning upon such circumstances. Hence, Garrick, who well knew the taste of an English audience, renounced his intention of reviving the excellent old play of "King and no King;" and hence Massinger's still more awful tragedy of "The Unnatural Combat," has been justly deemed unfit for a modern stage. Independent of this disgusting circumstance, it may be questioned Whether the horror of this tragedy is not too powerful for furnishing mere amusement? It is said in the "Companion to the Playhouse," that when the piece was performing at Dublin, a musician, in the orchestra, was so powerfully affected by the madness of OEdipus, as to become himself actually delirious: and though this may be exaggerated, it is certain, that, when the play was revived about thirty years ago, the audience were unable to support it to an end; the boxes being all emptied before the third act was concluded. Among all our English plays, there is none more determinedly bloody than "OEdipus," in its progress and conclusion. The entrance of the unfortunate king, with his eyes torn from their sockets, is too disgusting for representation[3]. Of all the persons of the drama, scarce one survives the fifth act. OEdipus dashes out his brains, Jocasta stabs herself, their children are strangled, Creon kills Eurydice, Adrastus kills Creon, and the insurgents kill Adrastus; when we add to this, that the conspirators are hanged, the reader will perceive, that the play, which began with a pestilence, concludes with a massacre,

And darkness is the burier of the dead.

Another objection to OEdipus has been derived from the doctrine of fatalism, inculcated by the story. There is something of cant in talking much upon the influence of a theatre on public morals; yet, I fear, though the most moral plays are incapable of doing much good, the turn of others may make a mischievous impression, by embodying in verse, and rendering apt for the memory, maxims of an impious or profligate tendency. In this point of view, there is, at least, no edification in beholding the horrible crimes unto which OEdipus is unwillingly plunged, and in witnessing the dreadful punishment he sustains, though innocent of all moral or intentional guilt, Corneille has endeavoured to counterbalance the obvious conclusion, by a long tirade upon free-will, which I have subjoined, as it contains some striking ideas.[4] But the doctrine, which it expresses, is contradictory of the whole tenor of the story; and the correct deduction is much more justly summed up by Seneca, in the stoical maxim of necessity:

_Fatis agimur, cedite Fatis; Non solicitæ possunt curæ, Mutare rati stamina fusi; Quicquid patimur mortale genus, Quicquid facimus venit ex alto; Servatque sua decreta colus, Lachesis dura revoluta manu._

Some degree of poetical justice might have been preserved, and a valuable moral inculcated, had the conduct of OEdipus, in his combat with Laius, been represented as atrocious, or, at least, unwarrantable; as the sequel would then have been a warning, how impossible it is to calculate the consequences or extent of a single act of guilt. But, after all, Dryden perhaps extracts the true moral, while stating our insufficiency to estimate the distribution of good and evil in human life, in a passage, which, in excellent poetry, expresses more sound truth, than a whole shelf of philosophers:

The Gods are just-- But how can finite measure infinite? Reason! alas, it does not know itself! Yet man, vain man, would, with this, short-lined plummet, Fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice. Whatever is, is in its causes just, Since all things are by fate. But purblind man Sees but a part o'the chain; the nearest links; His eyes not carrying to that equal beam, That poises all above.--

The prologue states, that the play, if damned, may be recorded as the "first buried since the Woollen Act." This enables us to fix the date of the performance. By the 30th Charles II. cap. 3. all persons were appointed to be buried in woollen after 1st August, 1678. The play must therefore have been represented early in the season 1678-9. It was not printed until 1679.

Footnotes: 1. Nero is said to have represented the character of OEdipus, amongst others of the same horrible cast.--_Suetonius,_ Lib. VI. Cap. 21.

2. Thus Seneca is justly ridiculed by Dacier, for sending Laius forth with a numerous party of guards, to avoid the indecorum of a king going abroad too slenderly attended. The guards lose their way within a league of their master's capital; and, by this awkward contrivance, their absence is accounted for, when he is met by OEdipus.

3. Voltaire, however, held a different opinion. He thought a powerful effect might be produced by the exhibition of the blind king, indistinctly seen in the back ground, amid the shrieks of Jocasta, and the exclamations of the Thebans; provided the actor was capable of powerful gesture, and of expressing much passion, with little declamation.

4. _Quoi! la necessite des vertus et des vices D'un astre imperieux doit suivre les caprices? Et Delphes malgré nous conduit nos actions Au plus bizarre effet de ses predictions? L'ame est donc toute esclave; une loi soveraine Vers le bien ou le mal incessamment l'entraine; Et nous recevons ni crainte ni desir, De cette liberté qui n'a rien a choisir; Attachés sans relache á cet ordre sublime, Vertueux sans merite, et vicieux sans crime; Qu'on massare les rois, qu'on brise les autels, C'est la faute des dieux, et non pas des mortels; De toute la vertu sur la terre epandue Tout le prix ces dieux, toute la gloire est due; Ils agissent en nous, quand nous pensons agir, Alons qu'on delibere, on ne fait qu'obeir; Et notre volonté n'aime, hait, cherche, evite, Que suivant que d'en haut leur bras la precipite! D'un tel aveuglement daignez me dispenser Le ciel juste a punir, juste a recompenser, Pour rendre aux actions leur peine ou leur salaire, Doit nous offrir son aide et puis nous laisser faire._

PREFACE.

Though it be dangerous to raise too great an expectation, especially in works of this nature, where we are to please an insatiable audience, yet it is reasonable to prepossess them in favour of an author; and therefore, both the prologue and epilogue informed you, that OEdipus was the most celebrated piece of all antiquity; that Sophocles, not only the greatest wit, but one of the greatest men in Athens, made it for the stage at the public cost; and that it had the reputation of being his masterpiece, not only among the seven of his which are still remaining, but of the greater number which are perished. Aristotle has more than once admired it, in his Book of Poetry; Horace has mentioned it: Lucullus, Julius Cæsar, and other noble Romans, have written on the same subject, though their poems are wholly lost; but Seneca's is still preserved. In our own age, Corneille has attempted it, and, it appears by his preface, with great success. But a judicious reader will easily observe, how much the copy is inferior to the original. He tells you himself, that he owes a great part of his success, to the happy episode of Theseus and Dirce; which is the same thing, as if we should acknowledge, that we were indebted for our good fortune to the under-plot of Adrastus, Eurydice, and Creon. The truth is, he miserably failed in the character of his hero: If he desired that OEdipus should be pitied, he should have made him a better man. He forgot, that Sophocles had taken care to show him, in his first entrance, a just, a merciful, a successful, a religious prince, and, in short, a father of his country. Instead of these, he has drawn him suspicious, designing, more anxious of keeping the Theban crown, than solicitous for the safety of his people; hectored by Theseus, condemned by Dirce, and scarce maintaining a second part in his own tragedy. This was an error in the first concoction; and therefore never to be mended in the second or the third. He introduced a greater hero than OEdipus himself; for when Theseus was once there, that companion of Hercules must yield to none. The poet was obliged to furnish him with business, to make him an equipage suitable to his dignity; and, by following him too close, to lose his other king of Brentford in the crowd. Seneca, on the other side, as if there were no such thing as nature to be minded in a play, is always running after pompous expression, pointed sentences, and philosophical notions, more proper for the study than the stage: the Frenchman followed a wrong scent; and the Roman was absolutely at cold hunting. All we could gather out of Corneille was, that an episode must be, but not his way: and Seneca supplied us with no new hint, but only a relation which he makes of his Tiresias raising the ghost of Laius; which is here performed in view of the audience,--the rites and ceremonies, so far his, as he agreed with antiquity, and the religion of the Greeks. But he himself was beholden to Homer's Tiresias, in the "Odysses," for some of them; and the rest have been collected from Heliodore's "Ethiopiques," and Lucan's Erictho[1]. Sophocles, indeed, is admirable everywhere; and therefore we have followed him as close as possibly we could. But the Athenian theatre, (whether more perfect than ours, is not now disputed,) had a perfection differing from ours. You see there in every act a single scene, (or two at most,) which manage the business of the play; and after that succeeds the chorus, which commonly takes up more time in singing, than there has been employed in speaking. The principal person appears almost constantly through the play; but the inferior parts seldom above once in the whole tragedy. The conduct of our stage is much more difficult, where we are obliged never to lose any considerable character, which we have once presented. Custom likewise has obtained, that we must form an under-plot of second persons, which must be depending on the first; and their by-walks must be like those in a labyrinth, which all of them lead into the great parterre; or like so many several lodging chambers, which have their outlets into the same gallery. Perhaps, after all, if we could think so, the ancient method, as it is the easiest, is also the most natural, and the best. For variety, as it is managed, is too often subject to breed distraction; and while we would please too many ways, for want of art in the conduct, we please in none[2]. But we have given you more already than was necessary for a preface; and, for aught we know, may gain no more by our instructions, than that politic nation is like to do, who have taught their enemies to fight so long, that at last they are in a condition to invade them[3].

Footnotes: 1. Heliodorus, bishop of Trica, wrote a romance in Greek, called the "Ethiopiques," containing the amours of Theagenes and Chariclea. He was so fond of this production, that, the option being proposed to him by a synod, he rather chose to resign his bishopric than destroy his work. There occurs a scene of incantation in this romance. The story of Lucan's witch occurs in the sixth book of the Pharsalia.

Dryden has judiciously imitated Seneca, in representing necromancy as the last resort of Tiresias, after all milder modes of augury had failed.

2. It had been much to be wished, that our author had preferred his own better judgment, and the simplicity of the Greek plot, to compliance with this foolish custom.

3. This seems to allude to the French, who, after having repeatedly reduced the Dutch to extremity, were about this period defeated by the Prince of Orange, in the battle of Mons. See the next note.

PROLOGUE.

When Athens all the Grecian slate did guide, And Greece gave laws to all the world beside; Then Sophocles with Socrates did sit, Supreme in wisdom one, and one in wit: And wit from wisdom differed not in those, But as 'twas sung in verse, or said in prose. Then, OEdipus, on crowded theatres, Drew all admiring eyes and list'ning ears: The pleased spectator shouted every line, The noblest, manliest, and the best design! And every critic of each learned age, By this just model has reformed the stage. Now, should it fail, (as heaven avert our fear!) Damn it in silence, lest the world should hear. For were it known this poem did not please, You might set up for perfect savages: Your neighbours would not look on you as men, But think the nation all turned Picts again. Faith, as you manage matters, 'tis not fit You should suspect yourselves of too much wit: Drive not the jest too far, but spare this piece; And, for this once, be not more wise than Greece. See twice! do not pell-mell to damning fall, Like true-born Britons, who ne'er think at all: Pray be advised; and though at Mons[1] you won, On pointed cannon do not always run. With some respect to ancient wit proceed; You take the four first councils for your creed. But, when you lay tradition wholly by, And on the private spirit alone rely, You turn fanatics in your poetry. If, notwithstanding all that we can say, You needs will have your penn'orths of the play, And come resolved to damn, because you pay, Record it, in memorial of the fact, The first play buried since the woollen act.

Footnote: 1. On the 17th of August, 1678, the Prince of Orange, afterwards William III. marched to the attack of the French army, which blockaded Mons, and lay secured by the most formidable entrenchments. Notwithstanding a powerful and well-served artillery, the duke of Luxemburgh was forced to abandon his trenches, and retire with great loss. The English and Scottish regiments, under the gallant earl of Ossory, had their full share in the glory of the day. It is strongly suspected, that the Prince of Orange, when he undertook this perilous atchievement, knew that a peace had been signed betwixt France and the States, though the intelligence was not made public till next day. Carleton says, that the troops, when drawn up for the attack, supposed the purpose was to fire a _feu-de-joie_ for the conclusion of the war. The enterprize, therefore, though successful, was needless as well as desperate, and merited Dryden's oblique censure.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

OEDIPUS, _King of Thebes._ ADRASTUS, _Prince of Argos._ CREON, _Brother to_ JOCASTA. TIRESIAS, _a blind Prophet._ HÆMON, _Captain of the Guard._ ALCANDER, } DIOCLES, } _Lords of_ CREON'S _faction._ PYRACMON, } PHORBAS, _an old Shepherd._ DYMAS, _the Messenger returned from Delphos._ ÆGEON, _the Corinthian Embassador._ _Ghost of_ LAIUS, _the late King of Thebes._

JOCASTA, _Queen of Thebes._ EURYDICE, _her Daughter, by_ LAIUS, _her first husband._ MANTO, _Daughter of_ TIRESIAS.

_Priests, Citizens, Attendants,_ &c.

SCENE--_Thebes._

OEDIPUS.