ACT V. SCENE I.

_Enter_ LOPEZ, AURELIA, _and_ CAMILLA.

_Lop._ 'Tis true, if he had continued constant to you, I should have thought myself obliged in honour to be his friend; but I could no longer suffer him to abuse a person of your worth and beauty, with a feigned affection.

_Aur._ But is it possible Don Melchor should be false to love? I'll be sworn I did not imagine such a treachery could have been in nature; especially to a lady who had so obliged him.

_Lop._ 'Twas this, madam, which gave me the confidence to wait upon you at an hour, which would be otherwise unseasonable.

_Aur._ You are the most obliging person in the world.

_Lop._ But to clear it to you that he is false, he is, at this very minute, at an assignation with your cousin in the garden; I am sure he was endeavouring it not an hour ago.

_Aur._ I swear this evening's air begins to incommode me extremely with a cold: but yet, in hope of detecting this perjured man, I am content to stay abroad.

_Lop._ But withal, you must permit me to tell you, madam, that it is but just I should have some share in a heart, which I endeavour to redeem: In the law of arms, you know that they, who pay the ransom, have right to dispose of the prisoner.

_Aur._ The prize is so very inconsiderable, that 'tis not worth the claiming.

_Lop._ If I thought the boon were small, I would not importune my princess with the asking it: But since my life depends upon the grant--

_Cam._ Ma'am, I must needs tell your la'ship, that Don Lopez has deserved you, for he has acted all along like a cavalier, and more for your interest than his own. Besides, ma'am, Don Melchor is as poor as he is false: For my part, I shall never endure to call him master.

_Aur._ Don Lopez, go along with me. I can promise nothing, but I swear I will do my best to disengage my heart from this furious tender, which I have for him.

_Cam._ If I had been a man, I could never have forsaken you: Ah those languishing casts, ma'am; and that pouting lip of your la'ship, like a cherry-bough, weighed down with the weight of fruit!

_Aur._ And that sigh too, I think, is not altogether disagreeable; but something _charmante_ and _mignonne_.

_Cam._ Well, Don Lopez, you'll be but too happy.

_Lop._ If I were once possessor--

_Enter_ BELLAMY _and_ THEODOSIA.

_Theo._ O we are surprised.

_Bel._ Fear nothing, madam; I think, I know them: Don Lopez?

_Lop._ Our famous astrologer, how come you here?

_Bel._ I am infinitely happy to have met you with Donna Aurelia, that you may do me the favour to satisfy this lady of a truth, which I can scarce persuade her to believe.

_Lop._ I am glad our concernments are so equal; for I have the like favour to ask from Donna Theodosia.

_Theo._ Don Lopez is too noble to be refused any thing within my power; and I am ready to do him any service, after I have asked my cousin, if ever Don Melchor pretended to her?

_Aur._ 'Tis the very question which I was furiously resolved to have asked of you.

_Theo._ I must confess he has made some professions to me: And withal, I will acknowledge my own weakness so far as to tell you, I have given way he should often visit me, when the world believed him absent.

_Aur._ O cavalier astrologer, how have you betrayed me! did you not assure me, that Don Melchor's tender and inclination was for me only?

_Bel._ I had it from his star, madam, I do assure you; and if that twinkled false, I cannot help it. The truth is, there's no trusting the planet of an inconstant man; he was moving to you when I looked on it, and if since it has changed the course, I am not to be blamed for it.

_Lop._ Now, madam, the truth is evident. And for this cavalier, he might easily be deceived in Melchor; for I dare affirm it to you both, he never knew to which of you he was most inclined: For he visited one, and writ letters to the other.

_Bel._ to _Theo._ Then, madam, I must claim your promise, (since I have discovered to you that Don Melchor is unworthy of your favours) that you would make me happy, who, amongst my many imperfections, can never be guilty of such a falsehood.

_Theo._ If I have been deceived in Melchor, whom I have known so long, you cannot reasonably expect, I should trust you at a day's acquaintance.

_Bel._ For that, madam, you may know as much of me in a day, as you can in all your life: All my humours circulate like my blood, at farthest within twenty-four hours. I am plain and true, like all my countrymen; you see to the bottom of me as easily, as you do to the gravel of a clear stream in autumn.

_Lop._ You plead so well, sir, that I desire you would speak for me too: My cause is the same with yours, only it has not so good an advocate.

_Aur._ Since I cannot make myself happy, I will have the glory to felicitate another: and, therefore, I declare, I will reward the fidelity of Don Lopez.

_Theo._ All that I can say at present is, that I will never be Don Melchor's: The rest, time and your service must make out.

_Bel._ I have all I can expect, to be admitted as eldest servant; as preferment falls, I hope you will remember my seniority.

_Cam._ Ma'am, Don Melchor.

_Aur._ Cavaliers, retire a little; we shall see to which of us he will make his court. [_The men withdraw._

_Enter_ DON MELCHOR.

Don Melchor, I thought you had been a-bed before this time.

_Mel._ Fair Aurelia, this is a blessing beyond expectation, to see you again so soon.

_Aur._ What important business brought you hither?

_Mel._ Only to make my peace with you before I slept. You know you are the saint to whom I pay my devotions.

_Aur._ And yet it was beyond your expectances to meet me? This is furiously incongruous.

_Theo._ [_advancing_.] Don Melchor, whither were you bound so late?

_Mel._ What shall I say? I am so confounded, that I know not to which of them I should excuse myself. [_Aside._

_Theo._ Pray answer me truly to one question: Did you ever make any addresses to my cousin?

_Mel._ Fie, fie, madam, there's a question indeed.

_Aur._ How, monster of ingratitude! can you deny the declaration of your passion to me?

_Mel._ I say nothing, madam.

_Theo._ Which of us is it, for whom you are concerned?

_Mel._ For that, madam, you must excuse me; I have more discretion than to boast a lady's favour.

_Aur._ Did you counterfeit an address to me?

_Mel._ Still I say nothing, madam; but I will satisfy either of you in private; for these matters are too tender for public discourse.

_Enter_ LOPEZ _and_ BELLAMY _hastily, with their swords drawn_.

Bellamy and Lopez! This is strange!

_Lop._ Ladies, we would not have disturbed you, but as we were walking to the garden door, it opened suddenly against us, and we confusedly saw, by moonlight, some persons entering, but who they were we know not.

_Bel._ You had best retire into the garden-house, and leave us to take our fortunes, without prejudice to your reputations.

_Enter_ WILDBLOOD, MASKALL, JACINTHA, _and_ BEATRIX.

_Wild._ [_To Jacintha entering_.] Do not fear, madam, I think I heard my friend's voice.

_Bel._ Marry hang you, is it you that have given us this hot alarm?

_Wild._ There's more in it than you imagine; the whole house is up: For seeing you two, and not knowing you, after I had entered the garden-door, I made too much haste to get out again, and have left the key broken in it. With the noise, one of the servants came running in, whom I forced back; and, doubtless, he is gone for company, for you may see lights running through every chamber.

_Theo. Jac._ What will become of us?

_Bel._ We must have recourse to our former resolution. Let the ladies retire into the garden-house. And, now I think on it, you gentlemen shall go in with them, and leave me and Maskall to bear the brunt of it.

_Mask._ Me, sir! I beseech you let me go in with the ladies too; dear Beatrix, speak a good word for me! I protest 'tis more out of love to thy company than for any fear I have.

_Bel._ You dog, I have need of your wit and counsel. We have no time to deliberate. Will you stay, sir? [_To_ MASKALL.

_Mask._ No, sir, 'tis not for my safety.

_Bel._ Will you in, sir? [_To_ MELCHOR.

_Mel._ No, sir, 'tis not for my honour, to be assisting to you: I'll to Don Alonzo, and help to revenge the injury you are doing him.

_Bel._ Then we are lost, I can do nothing.

_Wild._ Nay, an you talk of honour, by your leave, sir. I hate your Spanish honour, ever since it spoiled our English plays, with faces about and t'other side. [_Falls upon him and throws him down._

_Mel._ What do you mean, you will not murder me? Must valour be oppressed by multitudes?

_Wild._ Come yarely, my mates, every man to his share of the burden. Come, yarely, hay. [_The four men take him each by a limb, and carry him out, he crying murder._

_Theo._ If this Englishman save us now, I shall admire his wit.

_Beat._ Good wits never think themselves admired till they are well rewarded: You must pay him in specie, madam; give him love for his wit.

_Enter the Men again._

_Bel._ Ladies, fear nothing, but enter into the garden-house with these cavaliers.

_Mask._ O that I were a cavalier too! [_Is going with them._

_Bel._ Come you back, sirrah. [_Stops him_.] Think yourselves as safe as in a sanctuary; only keep quiet, whatever happens.

_Jac._ Come away then, they are upon us. [_Exeunt all but_ BEL. _and_ MASK.

_Mask._ Hark, I hear the foe coming: Methinks they threaten too, sir; pray let me go in for a guard to the ladies and poor Beatrix. I can fight much better, when there is a wall betwixt me and danger.

_Bel._ Peace, I have occasion for your wit to help me to lie.

_Mask._ Sir, upon the faith of a sinner, you have had my last lie already; I have not one more to do me credit, as I hope to be saved, sir.

Bel. _Victoire, victoire!_ knock under, you rogue, and confess me conqueror, and you shall see I'll bring all off.

_Enter_ DON ALONZO, _and six Servants; with lights, and swords drawn._

_Alon._ Search about there.

_Bel._ Fear nothing, do but vouch what I shall say.

_Mask._ For a passive lie I can yet do something.

_Alon._ Stand: who goes there?

_Bel._ Friends.

_Alon._ Friends! Who are you?

_Bel._ Noble Don Alonzo, such as are watching for your good.

_Alon._ Is it you, Sennor Inglis? Why all this noise and tumult? Where are my daughters and my niece? But, in the first place, though last named, how came you hither, sir?

_Bel._ I came hither--by astrology, sir.

_Mask._ My master's in; heavens send him good shipping with his lie, and all kind devils stand his friends!

_Alon._ How! by astrology, sir? Meaning, you came hither by art magic.

_Bel._ I say by pure astrology, sir; I foresaw by my art, a little after I had left you, that your niece and daughters would this night run a risque of being carried away from this very garden.

_Alon._ O the wonders of this speculation!

_Bel._ Thereupon I called immediately for my sword, and came in all haste to advertise you; but I see there's no resisting destiny; for just as I was entering the garden door, I met the women with their gallants all under sail, and outward bound.

_Mask._ Thereupon what does me he, but draws, by my advice--

_Bel._ How now, Mr Rascal? Are you itching to be in? [_Aside._

_Mask._ Pray, sir, let me go snip with you in this lie, and be not too covetous of honour. You know I never stood with you; now my courage is come to me, I cannot resist the temptation. [_Aside._

_Bel._ Content; tell on.

_Mask._ So, in short, sir, we drew, first I, and then my master; but, being overpowered, they have escaped us, so that I think you may go to bed, and trouble yourself no further, for gone they are.

_Bel._ You tell a lie! you have curtailed my invention: You are not fit to invent a lie for a bawd, when she would wheedle a young squire. [_Aside._

_Alon._ Call up the officers of justice, I'll have the town searched immediately.

_Bel._ 'Tis in vain, sir; I know, by my art, you'll never recover them: Besides, 'tis an affront to my friends, the stars, who have otherwise disposed of them.

_Enter a Servant._

_Ser._ Sir, the key is broken in the garden-door, and the door locked, so that of necessity they must be in the garden yet.

_Alon._ Disperse yourselves, some into the wilderness, some into the alleys, and some into the parterre: You, Diego, go try to get out the key, and run to the corrigidor for his assistance: In the mean time, I'll search the garden-house myself. [_Exeunt all the servants but one._

_Mask._ I'll be unbetted again, if you please, sir, and leave you all the honour of it. [_To_ BELLAMY _aside_.

_Alon._ Come, cavalier, let us in together.

_Bel._ [_holding him_.] Hold, sir, for the love of heaven! you are not mad?

_Alon._ We must leave no place unsearched. A light there.

_Bel._ Hold, I say! do you know what you are undertaking? And have you armed yourself with resolution for such an adventure?

_Alon._ What adventure?

_Bel._ A word in private--The place you would go into is full of enchantments; there are at this time, for aught I know, a legion of spirits in it.

_Alon._ You confound me with wonder, sir!

_Bel._ I have been making there my magical operations, to know the event of your daughters' flight; and, to perform it rightly, have been forced to call up spirits of several orders: And there they are humming like a swarm of bees, some stalking about upon the ground, some flying, and some sticking upon the walls like rear-mice.

_Mask._ The devil's in him, he's got off again.

_Alon._ Now, sir, I shall try the truth of your friendship to me. To confess the secret of my soul to you, I have all my life been curious to see a devil; and to that purpose have conned Agrippa through and through, and made experiment of all his rules, _Pari die et incremento Lunæ_, and yet could never compass the sight of one of these _dæmoniums_: If you will ever oblige me, let it be on this occasion.

_Mask._ There's another storm arising.

_Bel._ You shall pardon me, sir; I'll not expose you to that peril for the world, without due preparations of ceremony.

_Alon._ For that, sir, I always carry a talisman about me, that will secure me: And therefore I will venture in, a God's name, and defy them all at once. [_Going in._

_Mask._ How the pox will he get off from this?

_Bel._ Well, sir, since you are so resolved, send off your servant, that there may be no noise made on't, and we'll take our venture.

_Alon._ Pedro, leave your light, and help the fellows to search the garden. [_Exit Servant._

_Mask._ What does my incomprehensible master mean?

_Bel._ Now, I must tell you, sir, you will see that, which will very much astonish you, if my art fail me not. [_Goes to the door_.] You spirits and intelligences, that are within there, stand close, and silent, at your peril, and fear nothing, but appear in your own shapes, boldly.--Maskall, open the door.

[MASKALL _goes to one side of the scene, which draws, and discovers_ THEO. JAC. AUR. BEAT. CAM. LOP. WILD., _standing all without motion in a rank_.

Now, sir, what think you?

_Alon._ They are here, they are here: We need search no farther. Ah you ungracious baggages! [_Going toward them._

_Bel._ Stay, or you'll be torn in pieces: These are the very shapes I conjured up, and truly represent to you in what company your niece and daughters are, this very moment.

_Alon._ Why, are they not they? I durst have sworn that some of them had been my own flesh and blood.--Look; one of them is just like that rogue, your comrade. [WILD. _shakes his head, and frowns at him._

_Bel._ Do you see how you have provoked that English devil? Take heed of him; if he gets you once into his clutches-- [WILD. _embracing_ JAC.

_Alon._ He seems to have got possession of the spirit of my Jacintha, by his hugging her.

_Bel._ Nay, I imagined as much: Do but look upon his physiognomy--you have read Baptista Porta? Has he not the leer of a very lewd, debauched spirit?

_Alon._ He has indeed: Then there's my niece Aurelia, with the spirit of Don Lopez; but that's well enough; and my daughter Theodosia all alone: Pray how comes that about?

_Bel._ She's provided for with a familiar too: One that is in this very room with you, and by your elbow; but I'll shew you him some other time.

_Alon._ And that baggage Beatrix, how I would swinge her, if I had her here: I'll lay my life she was in the plot for the flight of her mistresses. [BEAT. _claps her hands at him._

_Bel._ Sir, you do ill to provoke her; for being the spirit of a woman, she is naturally mischievous: You see she can scarce hold her hands from you already.

_Mask._ Let me alone to revenge your quarrel upon Beatrix: If e'er she come to light, I'll take a course with her, I warrant you, sir.

_Bel._ Now come away, sir, you have seen enough; the spirits are in pain whilst we are here: We keep them too long condensed in bodies; if we were gone, they would rarify into air immediately.--Maskall, shut the door. [MASK. _goes to the scene, and it closes._

Alon. _Monstrum hominis!_ O prodigy of science!

_Enter two Servants with Don_ MELCHOR.

_Bel._ Now help me with a lie, Maskall, or we are lost.

_Mask._ Sir, I could never lie with man or woman in a fright.

_Serv._ Sir, we found this gentleman bound and gagged, and he desired us to bring him to you with all haste imaginable.

_Mel._ O, sir, sir! your two daughters and your niece----

_Bel._ They are gone; he knows it:--But are you mad, sir, to set this pernicious wretch at liberty?

_Mel._ I endeavoured all that I was able----

_Mask._ Now, sir, I have it for you. [_Aside to his master_.]--He was endeavouring, indeed, to have got away with them; for your daughter Theodosia was his prize. But we prevented him, and left him in the condition in which you see him.

_Alon._ I thought somewhat was the matter, that Theodosia had not a spirit by her, as her sister had.

_Bel._ This was he I meant to shew you.

_Mel._ Do you believe him, sir?

_Bel._ No, no, believe him, sir: You know his truth, ever since he stole your daughter's diamond.

_Mel._ I swear to you, by my honour--

_Alon._ Nay, a thief I knew him; and yet, after that, he had the impudence to ask me for my daughter.

_Bel._ Was he so impudent? The case is plain, sir; put him quickly into custody.

_Mel._ Hear me but one word, sir, and I'll discover all to you.

_Bel._ Hear him not, sir; for my art assures me, if he speaks one syllable more, he will cause great mischief.

_Alon._ Will he so? I'll stop my ears; away with him.

_Mel._ Your daughters are yet in the garden, hidden by this fellow and his accomplices.

_Alon._ [_At the same time, drowning him_.] I'll stop my ears, I'll stop my ears.

_Bel. Mask._ [_At the same time also_.] A thief, a thief! away with him. [_Servants carry_ MELCHOR _off struggling_.

_Alon._ He thought to have borne us down with his confidence.

_Enter another Servant._

_Serv._ Sir, with much ado we have got out the key, and opened the door.

_Alon._ Then, as I told you, run quickly to the corrigidor, and desire him to come hither in person to examine a malefactor. [WILDBLOOD _sneezes within_.] Hark! what noise is that within? I think one sneezes.

_Bel._ One of the devils, I warrant you, has got a cold, with being so long out of the fire.

_Alon._ Bless his devilship, as I may say. [WILDBLOOD _sneezes again._

_Serv._ [_To Don_ ALONZO.] This is a man's voice; do not suffer yourself to be deceived so grossly, sir.

_Mask._ A man's voice! that's a good one indeed, that you should live to these years, and yet be so silly as not to know a man from a devil.

_Alon._ There's more in't than I imagined: Hold up your torch, and go in first, Pedro, and I'll follow you.

_Mask._ No, let me have the honour to be your usher. [_Takes the torch and goes in._

_Mask._ [_Within_.] Help, help, help!

_Alon._ What's the matter?

_Bel._ Stir not upon your life, sir.

_Enter_ MASKALL _again, without the torch_.

_Mask._ I was no sooner entered, but a huge giant seized my torch, and felled me along, with the very whiff of his breath, as he passed by me.

_Alon._ Bless us!

_Bel._ [_At the door to them within_.] Pass out now, while you have time, in the dark: The officers of justice will be here immediately; the garden-door is open for you.

_Alon._ What are you muttering there, sir?

_Bel._ Only dismissing these spirits of darkness, that they may trouble you no further.--Go out, I say. [_They all come out upon the stage, groping their way_. WILDBLOOD _falls into_ ALONZO'S _hands_.

_Alon._ I have caught somebody: Are these your spirits? Another light quickly, Pedro.

_Mask._ [_Slipping between_ ALON. _and_ WILD.] 'Tis Maskall you have caught, sir; do you mean to strangle me, that you press me so hard between your arms?

_Alon._ [_Letting_ WILD. _go_.] Is it thee, Maskall? I durst have sworn it had been another.

_Bel._ Make haste now, before the candle comes. [AURELIA _falls into_ ALONZO'S _arms_.

_Alon._ Now I have another.

_Aur._ 'Tis Maskall you have caught, sir.

_Alon._ No, I thank you, niece, this artifice is too gross: I know your voice a little better. What ho, bring lights there!

_Bel._ Her impertinence has ruined all.

_Enter Servants with lights, and swords drawn._

_Serv._ Sir, the corrigidor is coming, according to your desire: In the mean time, we have secured the garden doors.

_Alon._ I'm glad on't: I'll make some of them severe examples.

_Wild._ Nay, then, as we have lived merrily, so let us die together: But we'll shew the Don some sport first.

_Theo._ What will become of us!

_Jac._ We'll die for company: Nothing vexes me, but that I am not a man, to have one thrust at that malicious old father of mine before I go.

_Lop._ Let us break our way through the corrigidor's band.

_Jac._ A match, i'faith. We'll venture our bodies with you: You shall put the baggage in the middle.

_Wild._ He that pierces thee, I say no more, but I shall be somewhat angry with him.--[_To_ ALON.] In the mean time, I arrest you, sir, in the behalf of this good company. As the corrigidor uses us, so we'll use you.

_Alon._ You do not mean to murder me!

_Bel._ You murder yourself, if you force us to it.

_Wild._ Give me a razor there, that I may scrape his weeson, that the bristles may not hinder me, when I come to cut it.

_Bel._ What need you bring matters to that extremity? You have your ransom in your hand: Here are three men, and there are three women; you understand me.

_Jac._ If not, here's a sword, and there's a throat; you understand me.

_Alon._ This is very hard!

_Theo._ The propositions are good, and marriage is as honourable as it used to be.

_Beat._ You had best let your daughters live branded with the name of strumpets; for whatever befals the men, that will be sure to be their share.

_Alon._ I can put them into a nunnery.

_All the Women._ A nunnery!

_Jac._ I would have thee to know, thou graceless old man, that I defy a nunnery: Name a nunnery once more, and I disown thee for my father.

_Lop._ You know the custom of the country, in this case, sir: 'Tis either death or marriage. The business will certainly be public; and if they die, they have sworn you shall bear them company.

_Alon._ Since it must be so, run, Pedro, and stop the corrigidor: Tell him it was only a carnival merriment, which I mistook for a rape and robbery.

_Jac._ Why now you are a dutiful father again, and I receive you into grace.

_Bel._ Among the rest of your mistakes, sir, I must desire you to let my astrology pass for one: My mathematics, and art magic, were only a carnival device; and now that's ending, I have more mind to deal with the flesh, than with the devil.

_Alon._ No astrologer! 'tis impossible!

_Mask._ I have known him, sir, these seven years, and dare take my oath, he has been always an utter stranger to the stars; and indeed to any thing that belongs to heaven.

_Lop._ Then I have been cozened among the rest.

_Theo._ And I; but I forgive him.

_Beat._ I hope you will forgive me, madam, who have been the cause on't; but what he wants in astrology, he shall make up to you some other way, I'll pass my word for him.

_Alon._ I hope you are both gentlemen?

_Bel._ As good as the cid himself, sir.

_Alon._ And for your religion, right Romans----

_Wild._ As ever was Mark Anthony.

_Alon._ For your fortunes and courages----

_Mask._ They are both desperate, sir; especially their fortunes.

_Theo._ [_To_ BEL.] You should not have had my consent so soon, but only to revenge myself upon the falseness of Don Melchor.

_Aur._ I must avow, that gratitude for Don Lopez is as prevalent with me, as revenge against Don Melchor.

_Alon._ Lent, you know, begins to-morrow; when that's over, marriage will be proper.

_Jac._ If I stay till after Lent, I shall be to marry when I have no love left: I'll not bate you an ace of to-night, father; I mean to bury this man ere Lent be done, and get me another before Easter.

_Alon._ Well, make a night on't then. [_Giving his daughters._

_Wild._ Jacintha Wildblood, welcome to me: Since our stars have doomed it so, we cannot help it; but 'twas a mere trick of fate, to catch us thus at unawares; to draw us in, with a what do you lack, as we passed by: Had we once separated to-night, we should have had more wit, than ever to have met again to-morrow.

_Jac._ 'Tis true, we shot each other flying: We were both upon the wing, I find; and, had we passed this critical minute, I should have gone for the Indies, and you for Greenland, ere we had met in a bed, upon consideration.

_Mask._ You have quarrelled twice to-night without bloodshed; beware the third time.

Jac. _Apropos!_ I have been retrieving an old song of a lover, that was ever quarrelling with his mistress: I think it will fit our amour so well, that, if you please, I'll give it you for an epithalamium; and you shall sing it. [_Gives him a paper._

_Wild._ I never sung in all my life; nor ever durst try, when I was alone, for fear of braying.

_Jac._ Just me, up and down; but for a frolic, let's sing together; for I am sure, if we cannot sing now, we shall never have cause when we are married.

_Wild._ Begin then; give me my key, and I'll set my voice to't.

_Jac._ Fa la, fa la, fa la.

_Wild._ Fala, fala, fala. Is this your best, upon the faith of a virgin?

_Jac._ Ay, by the muses, I am at my pitch.

_Wild._ Then do your worst; and let the company be judge who sings worst.

_Jac._ Upon condition the best singer shall wear the breeches. Prepare to strip, sir; I shall put you into your drawers presently.

_Wild._ I shall be revenged, with putting you into your smock anon; St George for me.

_Jac._ St James for me: Come, start, sir.

SONG.

Damon. _Celimena, of my heart None shall e'er bereave you: If, with your good leave, I may Quarrel with you once a day, I will never leave you._

Celimena. _Passion's but an empty name, Where respect is wanting: Damon, you mistake your aim; Hang your heart, and burn your flame, If you must be ranting._

Damon. _Love as dull and muddy is, As decaying liquor: Anger sets it on the lees, And refines it by degrees, Till it works the quicker._

Celimena. _Love by quarrels to beget Wisely you endeavour; With a grave physician's wit, Who, to cure an ague fit, Put me in a fever._

Damon. _Anger rouses love to fight, And his only bait is, 'Tis the spur to dull delight, And is but an eager bite, When desire at height is._

Celimena. _If such drops of heat can fall In our wooing weather; If such drops of heat can fall, We shall have the devil and all When we come together._

_Wild._ Your judgment, gentlemen; a man, or a maid?

_Bel._ An you make no better harmony after you are married, than you have before, you are the miserablest couple in Christendom.

_Wild._ 'Tis no great matter; if I had had a good voice, she would have spoiled it before to-morrow.

_Bel._ When Maskall has married Beatrix, you may learn of her.

_Mask._ You shall put her life into a lease, then.

_Wild._ Upon condition, that when I drop into your house from hunting, I may set my slippers at your door, as a Turk does at a Jew's, that you may not enter.

_Theo._ And while you refresh yourself within, he shall wind the horn without.

_Mask._ I'll throw up my lease first.

_Bel._ Why, thou wouldst not be so impudent, to marry Beatrix for thyself only?

_Beat._ For all his ranting and tearing now, I'll pass my word, he shall degenerate into as tame and peaceable a husband, as a civil woman would wish to have.

_Enter Don_ MELCHOR, _with a Servant_.

_Mel._ Sir----

_Alon._ I know what you would say, but your discovery comes too late now.

_Mel._ Why, the ladies are found.

_Aur._ But their inclinations are lost, I can assure you.

_Jac._ Look you, sir, there goes the game: Your plate-fleet is divided; half for Spain, and half for England.

_Theo._ You are justly punished for loving two.

_Mel._ Yet I have the comfort of a cast lover: I will think well of myself, and despise my mistresses. [_Exit._

DANCE.

_Bel._ Enough, enough; let's end the carnival abed.

_Wild._ And for these gentlemen, whene'er they try, May they all speed as soon, and well as I. [_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE.

My part being small, I have had time to-day, To mark your various censures of our play. First, looking for a judgment or a wit, Like Jews, I saw them scattered through the pit; And where a knot of smilers lent an ear To one that talked, I knew the foe was there. The club of jests went round; he, who had none, Borrowed o'the next, and told it for his own. Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir, In whispering that he stole the Astrologer; And said, betwixt a French and English plot, He eased his half-tired muse, on pace and trot. Up starts a Monsieur, new come o'er, and warm In the French stoop, and the pull-back o'the arm; _Morbleu, dit il_, and cocks, I am a rogue, But he has quite spoiled the feigned _Astrologue_. 'Pox, says another, here's so great a stir With a son of a whore farce that's regular, A rule, where nothing must decorum shock! Damme, 'tis as dull, as dining by the clock. An evening! Why the devil should we be vext, Whether he gets the wench this night or next? When I heard this, I to the poet went, } Told him the house was full of discontent, } And asked him what excuse he could invent. } He neither swore or stormed, as poets do, But, most unlike an author, vowed 'twas true; Yet said, he used the French like enemies, And did not steal their plots, but made them prize. But should he all the pains and charges count Of taking them, the bill so high would mount, That, like prize-goods, which through the office come, He could have had them much more cheap at home. He still must write; and, banquier-like, each day Accept new bills, and he must break, or pay. When through his hands such sums must yearly run, You cannot think the stock is all his own. His haste his other errors might excuse, But there's no mercy for a guilty muse; For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall, And please you to a height, or not at all.

TYRANNIC LOVE;

OR, THE

ROYAL MARTYR.

A

TRAGEDY.

TYRANNIC LOVE.

The "Royal Martyr" is one of Dryden's most characteristic productions. The character of Maximin, in particular, is drawn on his boldest plan, and only equalled by that of Almanzor, in the "Conquest of Granada." Indeed, although, in action, the latter exhibits a larger proportion of that extravagant achievement peculiar to the heroic drama, it may be questioned, whether the language of Maximin does not abound more with the flights of fancy, which hover betwixt the confines of the grand and the bombast, and which our author himself has aptly termed the Dalilahs of the theatre. Certainly, in some of those rants which occasionally burst from the emperor, our poet appears shorn of his locks; as for example,

Look to it, Gods; for you the aggressors are: Keep you your rain and sunshine in your skies, And I'll keep back my flame and sacrifice; Your trade of heaven will soon be at a stand, And all your goods lie dead upon your hand.

Indeed, Dryden himself acknowledged, in the Dedication to the "Spanish Friar," that some verses of Maximin and Almanzor cry vengeance upon him for their extravagance, and heartily wishes them in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. But he pleads in apology, that he knew they were bad enough to please, even when he wrote them, although he is now resolved no longer to seek credit from the approbation of fools. Johnson has doubted, with apparent reason, whether this confession be sufficiently ample; and whether the poet did not really give his love to those enticing seducers of his imagination, although he contemned them in his more sober judgment. In the Prologue, he has boldly stated and justified his determination to rush forwards, and hazard the disgrace of a fall, rather than the loss of the race. Certainly a genius, which dared so greatly as that of Dryden, cannot always be expected to check its flight upon the verge of propriety; and we are often hurried along with it into the extravagant and bombast, when we can seldom discover the error till a second reading of the passage. Take, for example, the often quoted account of the death of Charinus;

With a fierce haste he led our troops the way; While fiery showers of sulphur on him rained; Nor left he, till the battlements he gained: There with a forest of their darts he strove, And stood, like Capaneus defying Jove. With his broad sword the boldest beating down, While fate grew pale, lest he should win the town, And turned the iron leaves of its dark book, To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook: Till sought by many deaths, he sunk, though late, And by his fall asserted doubtful fate.

Although this passage, upon examination, will be found to contain much tumid bombast, yet, like others in the same tone, it conveys, at first, a dark impression of grandeur and sublimity, which only vanishes on a critical examination. Such passages, pronounced with due emphasis on the stage, will always meet with popular applause. They are like the fanciful shapes into which a mist is often wreathed; it requires a near approach, and an attentive consideration, to discover their emptiness and vanity. On the other hand, we meet with many passages in Maximin, where the impression of sublimity becomes more deep, in proportion to the attention we bestow on them. Such is the speech of St Catharine to her mother:

Could we live always, life were worth our cost; But now we keep with care what must be lost. Here we stand shivering on the bank, and cry, When we should plunge into eternity. One moment ends our pain; And yet the shock of death we dare not stand, By thought scarce measured, and too swift for sand: 'Tis but because the living death ne'er knew, They fear to prove it, as a thing that's new. Let me the experiment before you try, I'll show you first how easy 'tis to die.

In the same scene occurs an instance of a different kind of beauty, less commonly found in Dryden. The tender description given by Felicia of her attachment to her child, in infancy, is exquisitely beautiful.

The introduction of magic, and of the astral spirits, who have little to do with the catastrophe, was perhaps contrived for the sake of music and scenery. The supernatural has, however, been fashionable at all periods; and we learn, from a passage in the dedication to "Prince Arthur," that the Duchess of Monmouth, whom Dryden calls his first and best patroness, was pleased with the parts of airy and earthy spirits, and with that fairy kind of writing, which depends upon the force of imagination. It is probable, therefore, that, in a play inscribed to her husband, that style of composition was judiciously intermingled, to which our poet knew the duchess was partial. There is much fine description in the first account of the wizard; but the lyrical dialogue of the spirits is rather puerile, and is ridiculed, with great severity, in the "Rehearsal."

Mr Malone has fixed the first acting of this play to the end of 1668, or beginning of 1669. It was printed in 1670, and a revised edition came forth in 1672.

TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE,

JAMES,

DUKE OF MONMOUTH AND BUCCLEUGH,

ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY-COUNCIL; AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &C.[K]

Sir,

The favourable reception which your excellent lady afforded to one of my former plays[L], has encouraged me to double my presumption, in addressing this to your grace's patronage. So dangerous a thing it is to admit a poet into your family, that you can never afterwards be free from the chiming of ill verses, perpetually sounding in your ears, and more troublesome than the neighbourhood of steeples. I have been favourable to myself in this expression; a zealous fanatick would have gone farther, and have called me the serpent, who first presented the fruit of my poetry to the wife, and so gained the opportunity to seduce the husband. Yet, I am ready to avow a crime so advantageous to me; but the world, which will condemn my boldness, I am sure will justify and applaud my choice. All men will join with me in the adoration which I pay you; they would wish only I had brought you a more noble sacrifice. Instead of an heroick play, you might justly expect an heroick poem, filled with the past glories of your ancestors, and the future certainties of your own. Heaven has already taken care to form you for an hero. You have all the advantages of mind and body, and an illustrious birth, conspiring to render you an extraordinary person. The Achilles and the Rinaldo are present in you, even above their originals; you only want a Homer, or a Tasso, to make you equal to them. Youth, beauty, and courage (all which you possess in the height of their perfection) are the most desirable gifts of heaven: and heaven is never prodigal of such treasures, but to some uncommon purpose. So goodly a fabric was never framed by an Almighty architect for a vulgar guest. He shewed the value which he set upon your mind, when he took care to have it so nobly, and so beautifully lodged. To a graceful fashion and deportment of body, you have joined a winning conversation, and an easy greatness, derived to you from the best, and best-beloved of princes. And with a great power of obliging, the world has observed in you a desire to oblige, even beyond your power. This, and all that I can say on so excellent and large a subject, is only history, in which fiction has no part; I can employ nothing of poetry in it, any more than I do in that humble protestation which I make, to continue ever

Your Grace's most obedient

And most devoted servant,

JOHN DRYDEN.

[Footnote K: For some account of the Duke of Monmouth, we refer our readers to the poem of Absalom and Achitophel, in which Dryden has described that unfortunate young nobleman under the character of Absalom].

[Footnote L: See the Dedication to the "Indian Emperor."]

PREFACE.

I was moved to write this play by many reasons: Amongst others, the commands of some persons of honour, for whom I have a most particular respect, were daily sounding in my ears, that it would be of good example to undertake a poem of this nature. Neither were my own inclinations wanting to second their desires. I considered that pleasure was not the only end of poesy; and that even the instructions of morality were not so wholly the business of a poet, as that the precepts and examples of piety were to be omitted. For, to leave that employment altogether to the clergy, were to forget that religion was first taught in verse, which the laziness, or dulness, of succeeding priesthood, turned afterwards into prose; and it were also to grant (which I never shall) that representations of this kind may not as well be conducing to holiness, as to good manners. Yet far be it from me to compare the use of dramatick poesy with that of divinity: I only maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, and equally removed from the extremes of superstition and profaneness, may be of excellent use to second the precepts of our religion. By the harmony of words we elevate the mind to a sense of devotion, as our solemn musick, which is inarticulate poesy, does in churches; and by the lively images of piety, adorned by action, through the senses allure the soul; which while it is charmed in a silent joy of what it sees and hears, is struck, at the same time, with a secret veneration of things celestial: and is wound up insensibly into the practice of that which it admires. Now if, instead of this, we sometimes see on our theatres the examples of vice rewarded, or, at least, unpunished; yet it ought not to be an argument against the art, any more than the extravagances and impieties of the pulpit, in the late times of rebellion, can be against the office and dignity of the clergy.

But many times it happens, that poets are wrongfully accused; as it is my own case in this very play; where I am charged by some ignorant or malicious persons, with no less crimes than profaneness and irreligion.

The part of _Maximin_, against which these holy critics so much declaim, was designed by me to set off the character of _St Catharine_. And those, who have read the Roman history, may easily remember, that Maximin was not only a bloody tyrant, _vastus corpore, animo ferus_, as Herodian describes him; but also a persecutor of the church, against which he raised the Sixth Persecution. So that whatsoever he speaks or acts in this tragedy, is no more than a record of his life and manners; a picture, as near as I could take it, from the original. If, with much pains, and some success, I have drawn a deformed piece, there is as much of art, and as near an imitation of nature, in a lazar, as in a Venus. Maximin was an heathen, and what he speaks against religion, is in contempt of that which he professed. He defies the gods of Rome, which is no more than St Catharine might with decency have done. If it be urged, that a person of such principles, who scoffs at any religion, ought not to be presented on the stage; why then are the lives and sayings of so many wicked and profane persons, recorded in the Holy Scriptures? I know it will be answered, That a due use may be made of them; that they are remembered with a brand of infamy fixed upon them; and set as sea-marks for those who behold them to avoid. And what other use have I made of Maximin? have I proposed him as a pattern to be imitated, whom, even for his impiety to his false gods, I have so severely punished? Nay, as if I had foreseen this objection, I purposely removed the scene of the play, which ought to have been at Alexandria in Egypt, where St Catharine suffered, and laid it under the walls of Aquileia in Italy, where Maximin was slain; that the punishment of his crime might immediately succeed its execution.

This, reader, is what I owed to my just defence, and the due reverence of that religion which I profess, to which all men, who desire to be esteemed good, or honest, are obliged. I have neither leisure nor occasion to write more largely on this subject, because I am already justified by the sentence of the best and most discerning prince in the world, by the suffrage of all unbiassed judges, and, above all, by the witness of my own conscience, which abhors the thought of such a crime; to which I ask leave to add my outward conversation, which shall never be justly taxed with the note of atheism or profaneness.

In what else concerns the play, I shall be brief: For the faults of the writing and contrivance, I leave them to the mercy of the reader. For I am as little apt to defend my own errors, as to find those of other poets. Only, I observe, that the great censors of wit and poetry, either produce nothing of their own, or what is more ridiculous than any thing they reprehend. Much of ill nature, and a very little judgment, go far in finding the mistakes of writers.

I pretend not that any thing of mine can be correct: This poem, especially, which was contrived, and written in seven weeks, though afterwards hindered by many accidents from a speedy representation, which would have been its just excuse.

Yet the scenes are every where unbroken, and the unities of place and time more exactly kept, than perhaps is requisite in a tragedy; or, at least, than I have since preserved them in the "Conquest of Granada."

I have not everywhere observed the equality of numbers, in my verse; partly by reason of my haste; but more especially, because I would not have my sense a slave to syllables.

It is easy to discover, that I have been very bold in my alteration of the story, which of itself was too barren for a play; and that I have taken from the church two martyrs, in the persons of Porphyrius, and the empress, who suffered for the Christian faith, under the tyranny of Maximin.

I have seen a French play, called the "Martyrdom of St Catharine:" But those, who have read it, will soon clear me from stealing out of so dull an author. I have only borrowed a mistake from him, of one Maximin for another; for finding him in the French poet, called the son of a Thracian herdsman, and an Alane woman, I too easily believed him to have been the same Maximin mentioned in Herodian. Till afterwards, consulting Eusebius and Metaphrastes, I found the Frenchman had betrayed me into an error, when it was too late to alter it, by mistaking that first Maximin for a second, the contemporary of Constantine the Great, and one of the usurpers of the eastern empire.

But neither was the other name of my play more fortunate; for, as some, who had heard of a tragedy of St Catharine, imagined I had taken my plot from thence; so others, who had heard of another play, called "L'Amour Tyrannique," with the same ignorance, accused me to have borrowed my design from it, because I have accidentally given my play the same title; not having to this day seen it, and knowing only by report that such a comedy is extant in French, under the name of "Monsieur Scudery."

As for what I have said of astral or aërial spirits, it is no invention of mine, but taken from those who have written on that subject. Whether there are such beings or not, it concerns not me; it is sufficient for my purpose, that many have believed the affirmative; and that these heroic representations, which are of the same nature with the epic, are not limited, but with the extremest bounds of what is credible.

For the little critics, who pleased themselves with thinking they have found a flaw in that line of the prologue,

And he, who servilely creeps after sense, Is safe, &c.[M],

as if I patronized my own nonsense, I may reasonably suppose they have never read Horace. _Serpit humi tutus_, &c. are his words: He, who creeps after plain, dull, common sense, is safe from committing absurdities; but can never reach any height, or excellence of wit; and sure I could not mean, that any excellence were to be found in nonsense. With the same ignorance, or malice, they would accuse me for using--_empty arms_, when I write of a ghost, or shadow; which has only the appearance of a body or limbs, and is empty, or void, of flesh and blood; and _vacuis amplectitur ulnis_, was an expression of Ovid's on the same subject. Some fool before them had charged me in "The Indian Emperor" with nonsense in these words,

And follow fate, which does too fast pursue;

Which was borrowed from Virgil, in the eleventh of his Æneids,

_Eludit gyro interior, sequiturque sequentem_[N].

I quote not these to prove, that I never writ nonsense; but only to shew, that they are so unfortunate as not to have found it.

VALE.

[Footnote M: See the prologue to this play.]

[Footnote N: We may be allowed to suspect that this resemblance was discovered _ex post facto_.]

PROLOGUE.

Self-love, which, never rightly understood, Makes poets still conclude their plays are good, And malice, in all critics, reigns so high, That for small errors, they whole plays decry; So that to see this fondness, and that spite, You'd think that none but madmen judge or write. Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fit T' impose upon you what he writes for wit; So hopes, that, leaving you your censures free, } You equal judges of the whole will be: } They judge but half, who only faults will see. } Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare, They spoil their business with an over-care; And he, who servilely creeps after sense, Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence. Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring, Allowed his fancy the full scope and swing. But when a tyrant for his theme he had, He loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mad: And though he stumbles in a full career, Yet rashness is a better fault than fear. He saw his way; but in so swift a pace, To chuse the ground might be to lose the race. They then, who of each trip the advantage take, Find but those faults, which they want wit to make.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

MAXIMIN, _Tyrant of Rome_.

PORPHYRIUS, _Captain of the Prætorian Bands_.

CHARINUS, _the Emperor's son_.

PLACIDIUS, _a great officer_.

VALERIUS, } } _Tribunes of the army_. ALBINUS, }

NIGRINUS, _a Tribune and conjurer_.

AMARIEL, _guardian-angel to St_ CATHARINE.

APOLLONIUS, _a Heathen philosopher_.

BERENICE, _wife to_ MAXIMIN.

VALERIA, _daughter to_ MAXIMIN.

_St_ CATHERINE, _Princess of Alexandria_.

FELICIA, _her mother_.

EROTION, } } _Attendants_. CYDNON, }

SCENE--_The camp of Maximin, under the walls of Aquileia_.

TYRANNIC LOVE,

OR, THE

ROYAL MARTYR.