SCENE III.--_Changes to the Rising Sun, and a number of Aërial Spirits

in the Air_; ARIEL _flying from the Sun, advances towards the Pit_.

_Alon._ Heaven! What are these we see?

_Prosp._ They are spirits, with which the air abounds In swarms, but that they are not subject To poor feeble mortal eyes.

_Anto._ O wondrous skill!

_Gonz._ O power divine!

ARIEL, _and the rest, sing the following Song._

_Where the bee sucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bed I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the swallow's wings I fly, After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough._

_Song ended_, ARIEL _speaks, hovering in the air_.

_Ariel._ My noble master! May theirs and your blest joys never impair! And for the freedom I enjoy in air. I will be still your Ariel, and wait On airy accidents that work for fate. Whatever shall your happiness concern, From your still faithful Ariel you shall learn.

_Prosp._ Thou hast been always diligent and kind. Farewell, my long-loved Ariel! thou shalt find I will preserve thee ever in my mind. Henceforth this isle to the afflicted be A place of refuge, as it was to me: The promises of blooming spring live here, And all the blessings of the ripening year. On my retreat let heaven and nature smile, And ever flourish the Enchanted Isle. [_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE.

Gallants, by all good signs it does appear, That sixty-seven's a very damning year, For knaves abroad, and for ill poets here.

Among the muses there's a general rot, The rhiming monsieur, and the Spanish plot: Defy or court, all's one, they go to pot.

The ghosts of poets walk within this place, And haunt us actors wheresoe'er we pass, In visions bloodier than King Richard's was.

For this poor wretch, he has not much to say, But quietly brings in his part o'th' play, And begs the favour to be damned to-day,

He sends me only like a sheriff's man here, To let you know the malefactor's near, And that he means to die, _en cavalier_.

For, if you should be gracious to his pen, The example will prove ill to other men, And you'll be troubled with them all again.

AN

EVENING'S LOVE;

OR, THE

MOCK ASTROLOGER.

A

COMEDY.

TO HIS GRACE, WILLIAM, DUKE OF NEWCASTLE[G],

ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL, AND OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &c.

* * * * *

MAY IT PLEASE YOUR GRACE,

Amongst those few persons of wit and honour, whose favourable opinion I have desired, your own virtue, and my great obligations to your grace, have justly given you the precedence. For what could be more glorious to me, than to have acquired some part of your esteem, who are admired and honoured by all good men; who have been, for so many years together, the pattern and standard of honour to the nation; and whose whole life has been so great an example of heroic virtue, that we might wonder how it happened into an age so corrupt as ours, if it had not likewise been a part of the former. As you came into the world with all the advantages of a noble birth and education, so you have rendered both yet more conspicuous by your virtue. Fortune, indeed, has perpetually crowned your undertakings with success, but she has only waited on your valour, not conducted it. She has ministered to your glory like a slave, and has been led in triumph by it; or, at most, while honour led you by the hand to greatness, fortune only followed to keep you from sliding back in the ascent. That, which Plutarch accounted her favour to Cymon and Lucullus, was but her justice to your grace; and, never to have been overcome where you led in person, as it was more than Hannibal could boast, so it was all that Providence could do for that party, which it had resolved to ruin. Thus, my lord, the last smiles of victory were on your arms; and, everywhere else declaring for the rebels, she seemed to suspend herself, and to doubt, before she took her flight, whether she were able wholly to abandon that cause, for which you fought[H].

But the greatest trials of your courage and constancy were yet to come: Many had ventured their fortunes, and exposed their lives to the utmost dangers for their king and country, who ended their loyalty with the war; and, submitting to the iniquity of the times, chose rather to redeem their former plenty, by acknowledging an usurper, than to suffer with an unprofitable fidelity (as those meaner spirits called it) for their lawful sovereign. But, as I dare not accuse so many of our nobility, who were content to accept their patrimonies from the clemency of the conqueror, and to retain only a secret veneration for their prince, amidst the open worship which they were forced to pay to the usurper, who had dethroned him; so, I hope, I may have leave to extol that virtue which acted more generously; and which was not satisfied with an inward devotion to monarchy, but produced itself to view, and asserted the cause by open martyrdom. Of these rare patterns of loyalty, your grace was chief: Those examples you could not find, you made. Some few Cato's there were with you, whose invincible resolution could not be conquered by that usurping Cæsar. Your virtue opposed itself to his fortune, and overcame it, by not submitting to it. The last and most difficult enterprize he had to effect, when he had conquered three nations, was to subdue your spirit; and he died weary of that war, and unable to finish it.

In the mean time, you lived more happily in your exile, than the other on his throne. Your loyalty made you friends and servants amongst foreigners; and you lived plentifully without a fortune; for you lived on your own desert and reputation. The glorious name of the valiant and faithful Newcastle, was a patrimony which could never be exhausted.

Thus, my lord, the morning of your life was clear and calm; and, though it was afterwards overcast, yet, in that general storm, you were never without a shelter. And now you are happily arrived to the evening of a day, as serene as the dawn of it was glorious; but such an evening as, I hope, and almost prophecy, is far from night: 'Tis the evening of a summer's sun, which keeps the day-light long within the skies. The health of your body is maintained by the vigour of your mind: Neither does the one shrink from the fatigue of exercise, nor the other bend under the pains of study. Methinks, I behold in you another Caius Marius, who, in the extremity of his age, exercised himself almost every morning in the Campus Martius, amongst the youthful nobility of Rome. And afterwards in your retirements, when you do honour to poetry, by employing part of your leisure in it, I regard you as another Silius Italicus, who, having passed over his consulship with applause, dismissed himself from business, and from the gown, and employed his age, amongst the shades, in the reading and imitation of Virgil.

In which, lest any thing should be wanting to your happiness, you have, by a rare effect of fortune, found, in the person of your excellent lady, not only a lover, but a partner of your studies; a lady whom our age may justly equal with the Sappho of the Greeks, or the Sulpitia of the Romans; who, by being taken into your bosom, seems to be inspired with your genius; and, by writing the history of your life[I], in so masculine a style, has already placed you in the number of the heroes. She has anticipated that great portion of fame, which envy often hinders a living virtue from possessing; which would, indeed, have been given to your ashes, but with a later payment; and of which you could have no present use, except it were by a secret presage of that which was to come, when you were no longer in a possibility of knowing it. So that if that were a praise, or satisfaction to the greatest of emperors, which the most judicious of poets gives him--

_Præsenti tibi maturos largimur honores, &c._

that the adoration, which was not allowed to Hercules and Romulus till after death, was given to Augustus living, then certainly it cannot be denied, but that your grace has received a double satisfaction: the one, to see yourself consecrated to immortality while you are yet alive; the other, to have your praises celebrated by so dear, so just, and so pious an historian.

It is the consideration of this that stops my pen; though I am loth to leave so fair a subject, which gives me as much field as poetry could wish, and yet no more than truth can justify. But to attempt any thing of a panegyric, were to enterprize on your lady's right; and to seem to affect those praises, which none but the duchess of Newcastle can deserve, when she writes the actions of her lord. I shall, therefore, leave that wider space, and contract myself to those narrow bounds, which best become my fortune and employment.

I am obliged, my lord, to return you not only my own acknowledgments, but to thank you in the names of former poets; the names of Jonson and D'Avenant[J] seem to require it from me, that those favours, which you placed on them, and which they wanted opportunity to own in public, yet might not be lost to the knowledge of posterity, with a forgetfulness unbecoming of the Muses, who are the daughters of memory. And give me leave, my lord, to avow so much of vanity, as to say, I am proud to be their remembrancer: For, by relating how gracious you have been to them, and are to me, I, in some measure, join my name with theirs: And the continued descent of your favours to me is the best title which I can plead for my succession. I only wish, that I had as great reason to be satisfied with myself, in the return of our common acknowledgments, as your grace may justly take in the conferring them: For I cannot but be very sensible, that the present of an ill comedy, which I here make you, is a very unsuitable way of giving thanks for them, who, themselves, have written so many better. This pretends to nothing more, than to be a foil to those scenes, which are composed by the most noble poet of our age and nation; and to be set as a water-mark of the lowest ebb, to which the wit of my predecessor has sunk, and run down in me. But, though all of them have surpassed me in the scene, there is one part of glory, in which I will not yield to any of them: I mean, my lord, that honour and veneration which they had for you in their lives; and which I preserve after them, more holily than the vestal fires were maintained from age to age; but with a greater degree of heat, and of devotion, than theirs, as being with more respect and passion than they ever were.

Your GRACE'S

Most obliged, most humble,

and most obedient Servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

[Footnote G: William Cavendish, duke of Newcastle, distinguished himself in the civil wars of Charles I. He might have possessed himself of Hull, had the king more early resolved on an open rupture with the parliament. When the war broke out, he levied an army of 8000 men, secured the northern counties for the king, and raised the siege of York. The invasion of the Scots prevented his farther success; but he defeated the parliamentary forces in several actions, and shewed all the talents of a great soldier. After the loss of the battle of Marston Moor, which Prince Rupert hazarded in opposition to his advice, he left England in disgust, and did not return till the Restoration. He was much respected when abroad, and acquired the favour of many princes, and, amongst others, of Don John of Austria. His skill in the equestrian art was, perhaps, as great a recommendation, as his noble birth and unstained loyalty. During the wars, he had been raised from the rank of earl to that of marquis; and after the Restoration he was created duke of Newcastle. He wrote several plays, of which we know only the names; "The Country Captain," "Variety," "The Humourous Lovers," and "The Triumphant Widow." He also translated Moliere's "_L'Etourdi,"_ which our author converted into "Sir Martin Mar-all". But his most noted work is a splendid folio on Horsemanship, with engravings; in which, after his grace has been represented in every possible attitude and dress, he is at length depicted mounted on Pegasus, and in the act of ascending from a circle of Houyhnhnms, kneeling around him in the act of adoration.

His once celebrated duchess was Margaret, daughter of Sir Charles Lucas. She was his grace's second wife, and married to him during his exile. A most voluminous author; she wrote nineteen plays, besides philosophical essays, letters, and orations. For the former she has condescended to leave the following apology:

The Latin phrases I could never tell, But Jonson could, which made him write so well. Greek, Latin poets I could never read, Nor their historians, but our English Speed. I could not steal their wit, nor plots out-take, All my plays plots my own poor brain did make. From Plutarch's story I ne'er took a plot, Nor from romances, nor from Don Quixote.

Her grace's assiduity was equal to her originality. She kept a bevy of maidens of honour, who were obliged, at all hours of the night, to attend the summons of her bell, with a light, and materials "to register her grace's conceptions," which, we beg the reader to understand, were all of a literary or philosophical nature.

The good duchess's conceptions are now forgotten; but it should not be forgotten, that her kind solicitude soothed and supported her husband through a weary exile of eighteen years, when their fortunes were reduced to the lowest ebb. In gratitude, he appears to have encouraged her pursuits, and admired the productions of her muse. In the "Sessions of Poets" he is introduced as founding upon her literary pretensions, rather than his own.

Newcastle and's horse for entrance next strives, Well-stuffed was his cloak-bag, and so was his breeches, And ---- ---- Pulled out his wife's poems, plays, essays, and speeches. Whoop! quoth Apollo, what a devil have we here? Put up thy wife's trumpery, good noble marquis, And home again, home again take thy career, To provide her fresh straw, and a chamber that dark is.

Such were the noble personages whom Dryden deemed worthy of the fine strains of eulogy conveyed in this dedication.]

[Footnote H: This compliment is overstrained. But though Charles gained many advantages after the earl of Newcastle had left England, the north was irrecoverably lost to his cause.]

[Footnote I: The duchess wrote her husband's Life, which was translated into Latin. It is certainly the best of her grace's performances.]

[Footnote J: Jonson and D'Avenant were both protected by the duke of Newcastle. Jonson has addressed several verses to him, and composed a Masque for the splendid entertainment which he gave to Charles I., at his house at Wellbeck, when the king was on his first northern journey.]

AN EVENING'S LOVE.

Our author acknowledges, that this play of "The Mock Astrologer" is founded on "_Le feint Astrologue_," by the younger Corneille, which he, in his turn, had imitated from "_El Astrologo fingido_" of Calderon. But Dryden has also laid Moliere under contribution. Most part of the quarrelling scene betwixt Wildblood and Jacintha, in the fourth act, is literally copied from that betwixt Lucile Eraste, Marinette, and Gros René, in "_Le Depit Amoureux_." The absurd loquacity of Don Alonzo, and his friend's mode of silencing him, by ringing a bell in his ears, is imitated from the scene betwixt Albert and Metaphraste, in the same play; and, it must be allowed, it is an expedient which might be more decently resorted to against an inundation of nonsense from a pedantic schoolmaster, as in Moliere, than to stop the mouth of a noble old Spaniard, the uncle of Don Lopez' mistress. The play itself is more lively than most of Dryden's comedies. Wildblood and Jacintha are far more pleasant than their prototypes, Celadon and Florimel; and the Spanish bustle of the plot is well calculated to keep up the attention. The character of Aurelia was perhaps suggested by the "_Precieuses Ridicules_" of Moliere, but cannot, with any justice, be said to be copied from them. The Preface contains some excellent remarks on the old comedy. There is also an elaborate defence, the first our poet deigned to make, against the charge of plagiarism. On this point he quotes the words of Charles II., who had only desired, that they, who accused Dryden of theft, would steal him such plays as Dryden's: And he vindicates the right of an author to take his plot where he could best find it, in history or romance, providing that the conduct and disposition of the action, with the dialogue, character, and poetical ornaments, were original. Our author's use of the terms and technical phrases of judicial astronomy intimate his acquaintance with that pretended science, in which he is known to have placed some confidence.

The "Mock Astrologer" appears to have been acted and published in 1668.

THE

PREFACE.

* * * * *

I had thought, reader, in this preface, to have written somewhat concerning the difference betwixt the plays of our age, and those of our predecessors, on the English stage: To have shewn in what parts of dramatic poesy we were excelled by Ben Jonson, I mean, humour, and contrivance of comedy; and in what we may justly claim precedence of Shakespeare and Fletcher, namely in heroic plays: But this design I have waved on second considerations; at least, deferred it till I publish The Conquest of Granada, where the discourse will be more proper. I had also prepared to treat of the improvement of our language since Fletcher's and Jonson's days, and consequently of our refining the courtship, raillery, and conversation of plays: But as I am willing to decline that envy which I should draw on myself from some old _opiniatre_ judges of the stage, so likewise I am prest in time so much that I have not leisure, at present, to go through with it. Neither, indeed, do I value a reputation gained from comedy, so far as to concern myself about it, any more than I needs must in my own defence: For I think it, in its own nature, inferior to all sorts of dramatick writing. Low comedy especially requires, on the writer's part, much of conversation with the vulgar, and much of ill nature in the observation of their follies. But let all men please themselves according to their several tastes: That which is not pleasant to me, may be to others who judge better: And, to prevent an accusation from my enemies, I am sometimes ready to imagine, that my disgust of low comedy proceeds not so much from my judgment as from my temper; which is the reason why I so seldom write it; and that when I succeed in it, (I mean so far as to please the audience) yet I am nothing satisfied with what I have done; but am often vexed to hear the people laugh, and clap, as they perpetually do, where intended them no jest; while they let pass the better things, without taking notice of them. Yet even this confirms me in my opinion of slighting popular applause, and of contemning that approbation which those very people give, equally with me, to the zany of a mountebank; or to the appearance of an antick on the theatre, without wit on the poet's part, or any occasion of laughter from the actor, besides the ridiculousness of his habit and his grimaces.

But I have descended, before I was aware, from comedy to farce; which consists principally of grimaces. That I admire not any comedy equally with tragedy, is, perhaps, from the sullenness of my humour; but that I detest those farces, which are now the most frequent entertainments of the stage, I am sure I have reason on my side. Comedy consists, though of low persons, yet of natural actions and characters; I mean such humours, adventures, and designs, as are to be found and met with in the world. Farce, on the other side, consists of forced humours, and unnatural events. Comedy presents us with the imperfections of human nature: Farce entertains us with what is monstrous and chimerical. The one causes laughter in those who can judge of men and manners, by the lively representation of their folly or corruption: The other produces the same effect in those who can judge of neither, and that only by its extravagances. The first works on the judgment and fancy; the latter on the fancy only: There is more of satisfaction in the former kind of laughter, and in the latter more of scorn. But, how it happens, that an impossible adventure should cause our mirth, I cannot so easily imagine. Something there may be in the oddness of it, because on the stage it is the common effect of things unexpected, to surprise us into a delight: and that is to be ascribed to the strange appetite, as I may call it, of the fancy; which, like that of a longing woman, often runs out into the most extravagant desires; and is better satisfied sometimes with loam, or with the rinds of trees, than with the wholesome nourishments of life. In short, there is the same difference betwixt farce and comedy, as betwixt an empirick, and a true physician: Both of them may attain their ends; but what the one performs by hazard, the other does by skill. And as the artist is often unsuccessful, while the mountebank succeeds; so farces more commonly take the people than comedies. For, to write unnatural things, is the most probable way of pleasing them, who understand not nature. And a true poet often misses of applause, because he cannot debase himself to write so ill as to please his audience.

After all, it is to be acknowledged, that most of those comedies, which have been lately written, have been allied too much to farce: And this must of necessity fall out, till we forbear the translation of French plays: For their poets, wanting judgment to make or to maintain true characters, strive to cover their defects with ridiculous figures and grimaces. While I say this, I accuse myself as well as others: And this very play would rise up in judgment against me, if I would defend all things I have written to be natural: But I confess I have given too much to the people in it, and am ashamed for them as well as for myself, that I have pleased them at so cheap a rate. Not that there is any thing here which I would not defend to an ill-natured judge; (for I despise their censures, who I am sure would write worse on the same subject:) but, because I love to deal clearly and plainly, and to speak of my own faults with more criticism, than I would of another poet's. Yet I think it no vanity to say, that this comedy has as much of entertainment in it, as many others which have been lately written: And, if I find my own errors in it, I am able, at the same time, to arraign all my contemporaries for greater. As I pretend not that I can write humour, so none of them can reasonably pretend to have written it as they ought. Jonson was the only man, of all ages and nations, who has performed it well; and that but in three or four of his comedies: The rest are but a _crambe bis cocta_; the same humours a little varied and written worse. Neither was it more allowable in him, than it is in our present poets, to represent the follies of particular persons; of which many have accused him. _Parcere personis, dicere de vitiis_, is the rule of plays. And Horace tells you, that the old comedy amongst the Grecians was silenced for the too great liberties of the poets:

----_In vitium libertas excidit et vim Dignam lege regi: Lex est accepta, chorusque Turpiter obticuit, sublato jure nocendi._

Of which he gives you the reason in another place: where, having given the precept,

_Neve immunda crepent, ignominiosaque dicta,_

He immediately subjoins,

_Offenduntur enim quibus est equus, et pater, et res._

But Ben Jonson is to be admired for many excellencies; and can be taxed with fewer failings than any English poet. I know I have been accused as an enemy of his writings; but without any other reason, than that I do not admire him blindly, and without looking into his imperfections. For why should he only be exempted from those frailties, from which Homer and Virgil are not free? Or why should there be any _ipse dixit_ in our poetry, any more than there is in our philosophy? I admire and applaud him where I ought: Those, who do more, do but value themselves in their admiration of him; and, by telling you they extol Ben Jonson's way, would insinuate to you that they can practise it. For my part, I declare that I want judgment to imitate him; and should think it a great impudence in myself to attempt it. To make men appear pleasantly ridiculous on the stage, was, as I have said, his talent; and in this he needed not the acumen of wit, but that of judgment. For the characters and representations of folly are only the effects of observation; and observation is an effect of judgment. Some ingenious men, for whom I have a particular esteem, have thought I have much injured Ben Jonson, when I have not allowed his wit to be extraordinary: But they confound the notion of what is witty, with what is pleasant. That Ben Jonson's plays were pleasant, he must want reason who denies: But that pleasantness was not properly wit, or the sharpness of conceit; but the natural imitation of folly: Which I confess to be excellent in its kind, but not to be of that kind which they pretend. Yet if we will believe Quintilian, in his chapter _de movendo risu_, he gives his opinion of both in these following words: _Stulta reprehendere facillimum est; nam per se sunt ridicula, et à derisu non procul abest risus: Sed rem urbanam facit aliqua ex nobis adjectio_.

And some perhaps would be apt to say of Jonson, as it was said of Demosthenes,--_non displicuisse illi jocos, sed non contigisse_. I will not deny, but that I approve most the mixt way of comedy; that which is neither all wit, nor all humour, but the result of both. Neither so little of humour as Fletcher shews, nor so little of love and wit as Jonson; neither all cheat, with which the best plays of the one are filled, nor all adventure, which is the common practice of the other. I would have the characters well chosen, and kept distant from interfering with each other; which is more than Fletcher or Shakespeare did: But I would have more of the _urbana, venusta, salsa, faceta_, and the rest which Quintilian reckons up as the ornaments of wit; and these are extremely wanting in Ben Jonson. As for repartee, in particular; as it is the very soul of conversation, so it is the greatest grace of comedy, where it is proper to the characters. There may be much of acuteness in a thing well said; but there is more in a quick reply: _Sunt enim longè venustiora omnia in respondendo quàm in provocando_. Of one thing I am sure, that no man ever will decry wit, but he who despairs of it himself; and who has no other quarrel to it, but that which the fox had to the grapes. Yet, as Mr Cowley (who had a greater portion of it than any man I know) tells us in his _Character of Wit_,--rather than all wit, let there be none. I think there is no folly so great in any poet of our age, as the superfluity and waste of wit was in some of our predecessors: particularly we may say of Fletcher and of Shakespeare, what was said of Ovid, _In omni ejus ingenio, facilius quod rejici, quàm quod adjici potest, invenies:_ The contrary of which was true in Virgil, and our incomparable Jonson.

Some enemies of repartee have observed to us, that there is a great latitude in their characters, which are made to speak it: and that it is easier to write wit than humour; because, in the characters of humour, the poet is confined to make the person speak what is only proper to it; whereas, all kind of wit is proper in the character of a witty person. But, by their favour, there are as different characters in wit as in folly. Neither is all kind of wit proper in the mouth of every ingenious person. A witty coward, and a witty brave, must speak differently. _Falstaff_ and the _Liar_ speak not like _Don John_ in the "Chances," and _Valentine_ in "Wit without Money." And Jonson's _Truewit_ in the "Silent Woman," is a character different from all of them. Yet it appears, that this one character of wit was more difficult to the author, than all his images of humour in the play: for those he could describe and manage from his observations of men; this he has taken, at least a part of it, from books; Witness the speeches in the first act, translated _verbatim_ out of Ovid, "_De Arte Amandi_." To omit what afterwards he borrowed from the sixth satire of Juvenal against women.

However, if I should grant, that there were a greater latitude in characters of wit, than in those of humour; yet that latitude would be of small advantage to such poets, who have too narrow an imagination to write it. And to entertain an audience perpetually with humour, is to carry them from the conversation of gentlemen, and treat them with the follies and extravagancies of Bedlam.

I find I have launched out farther than I intended in the beginning of this preface; and that, in the heat of writing, I have touched at something, which I thought to have avoided. It is time now to draw homeward; and to think rather of defending myself, than assaulting others. I have already acknowledged, that this play is far from perfect: But I do not think myself obliged to discover the imperfections of it to my adversaries, any more than a guilty person is bound to accuse himself before his judges. It is charged upon me that I make debauched persons (such as, they say, my Astrologer and Gamester are) my protagonists, or the chief persons of the drama; and that I make them happy in the conclusion of my play; against the law of comedy, which is to reward virtue, and punish vice. I answer, first, that I know no such law to have been constantly observed in comedy, either by the ancient or modern poets. _Chærea_ is made happy in the "Eunuch," after having deflowered a virgin; and Terence generally does the same through all his plays, where you perpetually see, not only debauched young men enjoy their mistresses, but even the courtezans themselves rewarded and honoured in the catastrophe. The same may be observed in Plautus almost everywhere. Ben Jonson himself, after whom I may be proud to err, has given me more than once the example of it. That in "The Alchemist" is notorious, where _Face_, after having contrived and carried on the great cozenage of the play, and continued in it without repentance to the last, is not only forgiven by his master, but enriched, by his consent, with the spoils of those whom he had cheated. And, which is more, his master himself, a grave man, and a widower, is introduced taking his man's counsel, debauching the widow first, in hope to marry her afterward. In the "Silent Woman," _Dauphine_ (who, with the other two gentlemen, is of the same character with my _Celadon_ in the "Maiden Queen," and with _Wildblood_ in this) professes himself in love with all the collegiate ladies: and they likewise are all of the same character with each other, excepting only _Madam Otter_, who has something singular: Yet this naughty _Dauphine_ is crowned in the end with the possession of his uncle's estate, and with the hopes of enjoying all his mistresses; and his friend, _Mr Truewit_, (the best character of a gentleman which Ben Jonson ever made) is not ashamed to pimp for him. As for Beaumont and Fletcher, I need not allege examples out of them; for that were to quote almost all their comedies. But now it will be objected, that I patronise vice by the authority of former poets, and extenuate my own faults by recrimination. I answer, that as I defend myself by their example, so that example I defend by reason, and by the end of all dramatic poesy. In the first place, therefore, give me leave to shew you their mistake, who have accused me. They have not distinguished, as they ought, betwixt the rules of tragedy and comedy. In tragedy, where the actions and persons are great, and the crimes horrid, the laws of justice are more strictly observed; and examples of punishment to be made, to deter mankind from the pursuit of vice. Faults of this kind have been rare amongst the ancient poets: for they have punished in _Oedipus_, and in his posterity, the sin which he knew not he had committed. _Medea_ is the only example I remember at present, who escapes from punishment after murder. Thus tragedy fulfils one great part of its institution; which is, by example, to instruct. But in comedy it is not so; for the chief end of it is divertisement and delight: and that so much, that it is disputed, I think, by Heinsius, before Horace's "Art of Poetry," whether instruction be any part of its employment. At least I am sure it can be but its secondary end: for the business of the poet is to make you laugh: when he writes humour, he makes folly ridiculous; when wit, he moves you, if not always to laughter, yet to a pleasure that is more noble. And if he works a cure on folly, and the small imperfections in mankind, by exposing them to public view, that cure is not performed by an immediate operation: For it works first on the ill-nature of the audience; they are moved to laugh by the representation of deformity; and the shame of that laughter teaches us to amend what is ridiculous in our manners. This being then established, that the first end of comedy is delight, and instruction only the second; it may reasonably be inferred, that comedy is not so much obliged to the punishment of faults which it represents, as tragedy. For the persons in comedy are of a lower quality, the action is little, and the faults and vices are but the sallies of youth, and the frailties of human nature, and not premeditated crimes: such to which all men are obnoxious; not such as are attempted only by few, and those abandoned to all sense of virtue: such as move pity and commiseration; not detestation and horror: such, in short, as may be forgiven; not such as must of necessity be punished. But, lest any man should think that I write this to make libertinism amiable, or that I cared not to debase the end and institution of comedy, so I might thereby maintain my own errors, and those of better poets, I must further declare, both for them and for myself, that we make not vicious persons happy, but only as Heaven makes sinners so; that is, by reclaiming them first from vice. For so it is to be supposed they are, when they resolve to marry; for then, enjoying what they desire in one, they cease to pursue the love of many. So _Chærea_ is made happy by Terence, in marrying her whom he had deflowered: and so are _Wildblood_ and the _Astrologer_ in this play.

There is another crime with which I am charged, at which I am yet much less concerned, because it does not relate to my manners, as the former did, but only to my reputation as a poet: a name of which I assure the reader I am nothing proud; and therefore cannot be very solicitous to defend it. I am taxed with stealing all my plays, and that by some, who should be the last men from whom I would steal any part of them. There is one answer which I will not make; but it has been made for me, by him to whose grace and patronage I owe all things,

_Et spes et ratio studiorum in Cæsare tantum_--

and without whose command they should no longer be troubled with any thing of mine;--that he only desired, that they, who accused me of theft, would always steal him plays like mine. But though I have reason to be proud of this defence, yet I should wave it, because I have a worse opinion of my own comedies than any of my enemies can have. It is true, that wherever I have liked any story in a romance, novel, or foreign play, I have made no difficulty, nor ever shall, to take the foundation of it, to build it up, and to make it proper for the English stage. And I will be so vain to say, it has lost nothing in my hands: But it always cost me so much trouble to heighten it for our theatre, (which is incomparably more curious in all the ornaments of dramatic poesy than the French or Spanish,) that when I had finished my play, it was like the hulk of Sir Francis Drake, so strangely altered, that there scarcely remained any plank of the timber which first built it. To witness this, I need go no farther than this play: it was first Spanish, and called "El Astrologo Fingido;" then made French by the younger Corneille; and is now translated into English, and in print, under the name of "The Feigned Astrologer." What I have performed in this will best appear by comparing it with those: You will see that I have rejected some adventures which I judged were not divertising; that I have heightened those which I have chosen; and that I have added others, which were neither in the French nor Spanish. And, besides, you will easily discover, that the walk of the _Astrologer_ is the least considerable in my play: For the design of it turns more on the parts of _Wildblood_ and _Jacinta_, who are the chief persons in it. I have farther to add, that I seldom use the wit and language of any romance or play, which I undertake to alter: because my own invention (as bad as it is) can furnish me with nothing so dull as what is there. Those who have called Virgil, Terence, and Tasso, plagiaries, (though they much injured them) had yet a better colour for their accusation; for Virgil has evidently translated Theocritus, Hesiod, and Homer, in many places; besides what he has taken from Ennius in his own language. Terence was not only known to translate Menander, (which he avows also in his prologues) but was said also to be helped in those translations by Scipio the African, and Lælius. And Tasso, the most excellent of modern poets, and whom I reverence next to Virgil, has taken both from Homer many admirable things, which were left untouched by Virgil, and from Virgil himself, where Homer could not furnish him. Yet the bodies of Virgil's and Tasso's poems were their own; and so are all the ornaments of language and elocution in them. The same (if there were any thing commendable in this play) I could say for it. But I will come nearer to our own countrymen. Most of Shakespeare's plays, I mean the stories of them, are to be found in the "Hecatomithi," or "Hundred Novels" of Cinthio. I have myself read in his Italian, that of "Romeo and Juliet," the "Moor of Venice," and many others of them. Beaumont and Fletcher had most of theirs from Spanish novels: Witness "The Chances," "The Spanish Curate," "Rule a Wife and have a Wife," "The Little French Lawyer," and so many others of them as compose the greatest part of their volume in folio. Ben Jonson, indeed, has designed his plots himself; but no man has borrowed so much from the ancients as he has done: and he did well in it, for he has thereby beautified our language.

But these little critics do not well consider what is the work of a poet, and what the graces of a poem: the story is the least part of either: I mean the foundation of it, before it is modelled by the art of him who writes it; who forms it with more care, by exposing only the beautiful parts of it to view, than a skilful lapidary sets a jewel. On this foundation of the story, the characters are raised: and, since no story can afford characters enough for the variety of the English stage, it follows, that it is to be altered and enlarged with new persons, accidents, and designs, which will almost make it new. When this is done, the forming it into acts and scenes, disposing of actions and passions into their proper places, and beautifying both with descriptions, similitudes, and propriety of language, is the principal employment of the poet; as being the largest field of fancy, which is the principal quality required in him: for so much the word [Greek: poiêtês] implies. Judgment, indeed, is necessary in him; but it is fancy that gives the life-touches, and the secret graces to it; especially in serious plays, which depend not much on observation. For, to write humour in comedy, (which is the theft of poets from mankind) little of fancy is required; the poet observes only what is ridiculous and pleasant folly, and by judging exactly what is so, he pleases in the representation of it.

But, in general, the employment of a poet is like that of a curious gunsmith, or watchmaker: the iron or silver is not his own; but they are the least part of that which gives the value: the price lies wholly in the workmanship. And he who works dully on a story, without moving laughter in a comedy, or raising concernment in a serious play, is no more to be accounted a good poet, than a gunsmith of the Minories is to be compared with the best workman of the town.

But I have said more of this than I intended; and more, perhaps, than I needed to have done: I shall but laugh at them hereafter, who accuse me with so little reason; and withal contemn their dulness, who, if they could ruin that little reputation I have got, and which I value not, yet would want both wit and learning to establish their own; or to be remembered in after ages for any thing, but only that which makes them ridiculous in this.

PROLOGUE.

When first our poet set himself to write, Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night; He laid about him, and did so bestir him, His muse could never lie in quiet for him: But now his honey-moon is gone and past, Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last: And he is bound, as civil husbands do, To strain himself, in complaisance to you: To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss, Like the faint smacking of an after-kiss. But you, like wives ill pleased, supply his want; Each writing monsieur is a fresh gallant: And though, perhaps, 'twas done as well before, Yet still there's something in a new amour. Your several poets work with several tools, One gets you wits, another gets you fools: This pleases you with some by-stroke of wit, This finds some cranny that was never hit. But should these janty lovers daily come To do your work, like your good man at home, Their fine small-timbered wits would soon decay; These are gallants but for a holiday. Others you had, who oftner have appeared, Whom, for mere impotence, you have cashiered: Such as at first came on with pomp and glory, But, overstraining, soon fell flat before ye. Their useless weight, with patience, long was born, But at the last you threw them off with scorn. As for the poet of this present night, } Though now he claims in you a husband's right, } He will not hinder you of fresh delight. } He, like a seaman, seldom will appear; And means to trouble home but thrice a-year: That only time from your gallants he'll borrow; Be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

WILDBLOOD, } } _Two young English gentlemen_. BELLAMY, }

MASKALL, _their servant_.

_Don_ ALONZO DE RIBERA, _an old Spanish gentleman_.

_Don_ LOPEZ DE GAMBOA, _a young noble Spaniard_.

_Don_ MELCHOR DE GUZMAN, _a gentleman of a great family; but of a decayed fortune_.

_Donna_ THEODOSIA, } } _Daughters to Don_ ALONZO. _Donna_ JACINTHA, }

_Donna_ AURELIA, _their cousi_.

BEATRIX, _woman and confident to the two Sisters_.

CAMILLA, _woman to_ AURELIA.

_Servants to Don_ LOPEZ _and Don_ ALONZO.

SCENE--_Madrid, in the Year 1665_.

_The Time, the last Evening of the Carnival_.

AN

EVENING'S LOVE;

OR, THE

MOCK ASTROLOGER.