Chapter 20

INDAMORA _alone._

_Ind._ The night seems doubled with the fear she brings, And o'er the citadel new-spreads her wings. The morning, as mistaken, turns about, And all her early fires again go out. Shouts, cries, and groans, first pierce my ears, and then A flash of lightning draws the guilty scene, And shows me arms, and wounds, and dying men. Ah, should my Aureng-Zebe be fighting there, And envious winds, distinguished to my ear, His dying groans and his last accents bear!

_To her,_ MORAT, _attended._

_Mor._ The bloody business of the night is done, And, in the citadel, an empire won. Our swords so wholly did the fates employ, That they, at length, grew weary to destroy, Refused the work we brought, and, out of breath, Made sorrow and despair attend for death. But what of all my conquest can I boast? My haughty pride, before your eyes, is lost: And victory but gains me to present That homage, which our eastern world has sent.

_Ind._ Your victory, alas, begets my fears: Can you not then triumph without my tears? Resolve me; (for you know my destiny Is Aureng-Zebes) say, do I live or die?

_Mor._ Urged by my love, by hope of empire fired, 'Tis true, I have performed what both required: What fate decreed; for when great souls are given, They bear the marks of sovereignty from heaven. My elder brothers my fore-runners came; Rough-draughts of nature, ill designed, and lame: Blown off, like blossoms never made to bear; Till I came, finished, her last-laboured care.

_Ind._ This prologue leads to your succeeding sin: Blood ended what ambition did begin.

_Mor._ 'Twas rumour'd,--but by whom I cannot tell,-- My father 'scaped from out the citadel; My brother too may live.

_Ind._ He may?

_Mor._ He must: I kill'd him not: and a less fate's unjust. Heaven owes it me, that I may fill his room, A phoenix-lover, rising from his tomb; In whom you'll lose your sorrows for the dead; More warm, more fierce, and fitter for your bed.

_Ind._ Should I from Aureng-Zebe my heart divide, To love a monster, and a parricide? These names your swelling titles cannot hide. Severe decrees may keep our tongues in awe; But to our thoughts, what edict can give law? Even you yourself, to your own breast, shall tell Your crimes; and your own conscience be your hell.

_Mor._ What business has my conscience with a crown? She sinks in pleasures, and in bowls will drown. If mirth should fail, I'll busy her with cares, Silence her clamorous voice with louder wars: Trumpets and drums shall fright her from the throne, As sounding cymbals aid the labouring moon.

_Ind._ Repelled by these, more eager she will grow, Spring back more strongly than a Scythian bow. Amidst your train, this unseen judge will wait; Examine how you came by all your state; Upbraid your impious pomp; and, in your ear, Will hollow,--"Rebel, tyrant, murderer!" Your ill-got power wan looks and care shall bring, Known but by discontent to be a king. Of crowds afraid, yet anxious when alone, You'll sit and brood your sorrows on a throne.

_Mor._ Birth-right's a vulgar road to kingly sway; 'Tis every dull-got elder brother's way. Dropt from above, he lights into a throne; Grows of a piece with that he sits upon; Heaven's choice, a low, inglorious, rightful drone. But who by force a sceptre does obtain, Shows he can govern that, which he could gain. Right comes of course, whate'er he was before; Murder and usurpation are no more.

_Ind._ By your own laws you such dominion make, As every stronger power has right to take: And parricide will so deform your name, That dispossessing you will give a claim. Who next usurps, will a just prince appear, So much your ruin will his reign endear.

_Mor._ I without guilt would mount the royal seat; But yet 'tis necessary to be great.

_Ind._ All greatness is in virtue understood: 'Tis only necessary to be good. Tell me, what is't at which great spirits aim, What most yourself desire?

_Mor._ Renown and fame, And power, as uncontrouled as is my will.

_Ind._ How you confound desires of good and ill. For true renown is still with virtue joined; But lust of power lets loose the unbridled mind. Yours is a soul irregularly great, Which, wanting temper, yet abounds with heat, So strong, yet so unequal pulses beat; A sun, which does, through vapours, dimly shine; What pity 'tis, you are not all divine! New moulded, thorough lightened, and a breast So pure, to bear the last severest test; Fit to command an empire you should gain By virtue, and without a blush to reign.

_Mor._ You show me somewhat I ne'er learnt before; But 'tis the distant prospect of a shore, Doubtful in mists; which, like enchanted ground, Flies from my sight, before 'tis fully found.

_Ind._ Dare to be great, without a guilty crown; View it, and lay the bright temptation down: 'Tis base to seize on all, because you may; That's empire, that, which I can give away: There's joy when to wild will you laws prescribe, When you bid fortune carry back her bribe: A joy, which none but greatest minds can taste; A fame, which will to endless ages last.

_Mor._ Renown, and fame, in vain, I courted long, And still pursued them, though directed wrong. In hazard, and in toils, I heard they lay; Sailed farther than the coast, but missed my way: Now you have given me virtue for my guide; And, with true honour, ballasted my pride. Unjust dominion I no more pursue; I quit all other claims, but those to you.

_Ind._ Oh be not just by halves! pay all you owe: Think there's a debt to Melesinda too. To leave no blemish on your after-life, Reward the virtue of a suffering wife.

_Mor._ To love, once past, I cannot backward move; Call yesterday again, and I may love. 'Twas not for nothing I the crown resigned; I still must own a mercenary mind; I, in this venture, double gains pursue, And laid out all my stock, to purchase you.

_To them,_ ASAPH CHAN.

Now, what success? does Aureng-Zebe yet live?

_Asaph._ Fortune has given you all that she can give. Your brother--

_Mor._ Hold; thou showest an impious joy, And think'st I still take pleasure to destroy: Know, I am changed, and would not have him slain.

_Asaph._ 'Tis past; and you desire his life in vain. He, prodigal of soul, rushed on the stroke Of lifted weapons, and did wounds provoke: In scorn of night, he would not be concealed; His soldiers, where he fought, his name revealed. In thickest crowds, still Aureng-Zebe did sound; The vaulted roofs did Aureng-Zebe rebound; Till late, and in his fall, the name was drowned.

_Ind._ Wither that hand which brought him to his fate, And blasted be the tongue which did relate!

_Asaph._ His body--

_Mor._ Cease to enhance her misery: Pity the queen, and show respect to me. 'Tis every painter's art to hide from sight, And cast in shades, what, seen, would not delight.-- Your grief in me such sympathy has bred, [_To her._ I mourn, and wish I could recal the dead. Love softens me; and blows up fires, which pass Through my tough heart, and melt the stubborn mass.

_Ind._ Break, heart; or choak, with sobs, my hated breath! Do thy own work: admit no foreign death. Alas! why do I make this useless moan? I'm dead already, for my soul is gone.

_To them,_ MIR BABA.

_Mir._ What tongue the terror of this night can tell, Within, without, and round the citadel! A new-formed faction does your power oppose; The fight's confused, and all who meet are foes: A second clamour, from the town, we hear; And the far noise so loud, it drowns the near. Abas, who seemed our friend, is either fled, Or, what we fear, our enemies does head: Your frighted soldiers scarce their ground maintain.

_Mor._ I thank their fury; we shall fight again: They rouse my rage; I'm eager to subdue: 'Tis fatal to with-hold my eyes from you. [_Exit with the two Omrahs._

_Enter_ MELESINDA.

_Mel._ Can misery no place of safety know? The noise pursues me wheresoe'er I go, As fate sought only me, and, where I fled, Aimed all its darts at my devoted head. And let it; I am now past care of life; The last of women; an abandoned wife.

_Ind._ Whether design or chance has brought you here, I stand obliged to fortune, or to fear: Weak women should, in danger, herd like deer. But say, from whence this new combustion springs? Are there yet more Morats? more fighting kings?

_Mel._ Him from his mother's love your eyes divide, And now her arms the cruel strife decide.

_Ind._ What strange misfortunes my vext life attend! Death will be kind, and all my sorrows end. If Nourmahal prevail, I know my fate.

_Mel._ I pity, as my own, your hard estate: But what can my weak charity afford? I have no longer interest in my lord: Nor in his mother, he: she owns her hate Aloud, and would herself usurp the state.

_Ind._ I'm stupified with sorrow, past relief Of tears; parched up, and withered with my grief.

_Mel._ Dry mourning will decays more deadly bring, As a north wind burns a too forward spring. Give sorrow vent, and let the sluices go.

_Ind._ My tears are all congealed, and will not flow.

_Mel._ Have comfort; yield not to the blows of fate.

_Ind._ Comfort, like cordials after death, comes late. Name not so vain a word; my hopes are fled: Think your Morat were kind, and think him dead.

_Mel._ I can no more-- Can no more arguments, for comfort, find: Your boding words have quite o'erwhelmed my mind. [_Clattering of weapons within._

_Ind._ The noise increases, as the billows roar, When rolling from afar they threat the shore. She comes; and feeble nature now, I find, Shrinks back in danger, and forsakes my mind. I wish to die, yet dare not death endure; Detest the medicine, yet desire the cure. I would have death; but mild, and at command: I dare not trust him in another's hand. In Nourmahal's, he would not mine appear; But armed with terror, and disguised with fear.

_Mel._ Beyond this place you can have no retreat: Stay here, and I the danger will repeat. I fear not death, because my life I hate; And envious death will shun the unfortunate.

_Ind._ You must not venture.

_Mel._ Let me: I may do Myself a kindness, in obliging you. In your loved name, I'll seek my angry lord; And beg your safety from his conquering sword: So his protection all your fears will ease, And I shall see him once, and not displease. [_Exit._

_Ind._ O wretched queen! what power thy life can save? A stranger, and unfriended, and a slave!

_Enter_ NOURMAHAL, ZAYDA, _and_ ABAS, _with Soldiers._

Alas, she's here! [INDAMORA _retires._

_Nour._ Heartless they fought, and quitted soon their ground, While ours with easy victory were crowned. To you, Abas, my life and empire too, And, what's yet dearer, my revenge, I owe.

_Abas._ The vain Morat, by his own rashness wrought, Too soon discovered his ambitious thought; Believed me his, because I spoke him fair, And pitched his head into the ready snare: Hence 'twas I did his troops at first admit; But such, whose numbers could no fears beget: By them the emperor's party first I slew, Then turned my arms the victors to subdue.

_Nour._ Now let the head-strong boy my will controul! Virtue's no slave of man; no sex confines the soul: I, for myself, the imperial seat will gain, And he shall wait my leisure for his reign.-- But Aureng-Zebe is no where to be found, And now, perhaps, in death's cold arms he lies! I fought, and conquered, yet have lost the prize.

_Zayd._ The chance of war determined well the strife, That racked you, 'twixt the lover and the wife. He's dead, whose love had sullied all your reign, And made you empress of the world in vain.

_Nour._ No; I my power and pleasure would divide: The drudge had quenched my flames, and then had died. I rage, to think without that bliss I live, That I could wish what fortune would not give: But, what love cannot, vengeance must supply; She, who bereaved me of his heart, shall die.

_Zayd._ I'll search: far distant hence she cannot be. [_Goes in._

_Nour._ This wondrous master-piece I fain would see; This fatal Helen, who can wars inspire, Make kings her slaves, and set the world on fire. My husband locked his jewel from my view; Or durst not set the false one by the true.

_Re-enter_ ZAYDA, _leading_ INDAMORA.

_Zayd._ Your frighted captive, ere she dies, receive; Her soul's just going else, without your leave.

_Nour._ A fairer creature did my eyes ne'er see! Sure she was formed by heaven, in spite to me! Some angel copied, while I slept, each grace, And moulded every feature from my face. Such majesty does from her forehead rise, Her cheeks such blushes cast, such rays her eyes, Nor I, nor envy, can a blemish find.-- The palace is, without, too well designed: Conduct me in, for I will view thy mind. [_To her._ Speak, if thou hast a soul, that I may see, If heaven can make, throughout, another me.

_Ind._ My tears and miseries must plead my cause; [_Kneeling._ My words, the terror of your presence awes: Mortals, in sight of angels, mute become; The nobler nature strikes the inferior dumb.

_Nour._ The palm is, by the foe's confession, mine; But I disdain what basely you resign. Heaven did, by me, the outward model build; Its inward work, the soul, with rubbish filled. Yet, oh! the imperfect piece moves more delight; 'Tis gilded o'er with youth, to catch the sight. The gods have poorly robbed my virgin bloom, And what I am, by what I was, o'ercome. Traitress! restore my beauty and my charms, Nor steal my conquest with my proper arms.

_Ind._ What have I done thus to inflame your hate? I am not guilty, but unfortunate.

_Nour._ Not guilty, when thy looks my power betray, Seduce mankind, my subject, from my sway, Take all my hearts and all my eyes away? My husband first; but that I could forgive; He only moved, and talked, but did not live. My Aureng-Zebe!--for I dare own the name, The glorious sin, and the more glorious flame,-- Him from my beauty have thy eyes misled, And starved the joys of my expected bed.

_Ind._ His love so sought, he's happy that he's dead. O had I courage but to meet my fate, That short dark passage to a future state, That melancholy riddle of a breath!

_Nour._ That something, or that nothing, after death: Take this, and teach thyself. [_Giving a Dagger._

_Ind._ Alas!

_Nour._ Why dost thou shake? Dishonour not the vengeance I designed: A queen, and own a base Plebeian mind! Let it drink deep in thy most vital part; Strike home, and do me reason in thy heart.

_Ind._ I dare not.

_Nour._ Do't, while I stand by and see, At my full gust, without the drudgery. I love a foe, who dares my stroke prevent, Who gives me the full scene of my content; Shows me the flying soul's convulsive strife, And all the anguish of departing life. Disdain my mercy, and my rage defy; Curse me with thy last breath, and make me see A spirit, worthy to have rivalled me.

_Ind._ Oh, I desire to die, but dare not yet! Give me some respite, I'll discharge the debt. Without my Aureng-Zebe I would not live.

_Nour._ Thine, traitress! thine! that word has winged thy fate, And put me past the tedious forms of hate: I'll kill thee with such eagerness and haste, As fiends, let loose, would lay all nature waste. [INDAMORA _runs back: As_ NOURMAHAL _is running to her, clashing of swords is heard within._

_Sold._ Yield, you're o'erpowered: Resistance is in vain. [_Within._

_Mor._ Then death's my choice: Submission I disdain. [_Within._

_Nour._ Retire, ye slaves! Ah, whither does he run [_At the door._ On pointed swords? Disarm, but save my son.

_Enter_ MORAT _staggering, and upheld by Soldiers._

_Mor._ She lives! and I shall see her once again! I have not thrown away my life in vain. [_Catches hold of_ INDAMORA'S _gown, and falls by her: She sits._ I can no more; yet even in death I find My fainting body biassed by my mind: I fall toward you; still my contending soul Points to your breast, and trembles to its pole.

_To them_ MELESINDA, _hastily casting herself on the other side of_ MORAT.

_Mel._ Ah woe, woe, woe! the worst of woes I find! Live still; Oh live; live e'en to be unkind!-- With half-shut eyes he seeks the doubtful day; But, ah! he bends his sight another way. He faints! and in that sigh his soul is gone; Yet heaven's unmoved, yet heaven looks careless on.

_Nour._ Where are those powers which monarchs should defend? Or do they vain authority pretend O'er human fates, and their weak empire show, Which cannot guard their images below? If, as their image, he was not divine, They ought to have respected him as mine. I'll waken them with my revenge; and she, Their Indamora, shall my victim be, And helpless heaven shall mourn in vain, like me. [_As she is going to stab_ INDAMORA, MORAT _raises himself, and holds her hand._

_Mor._ Ah, what are we, Who dare maintain with heaven this wretched strife, Puft with the pride of heaven's own gift, frail life? That blast which my ambitious spirit swelled, See by how weak a tenure it was held! I only stay to save the innocent; Oh envy not my soul its last content!

_Ind._ No, let me die; I'm doubly summoned now; First by my Aureng-Zebe, and since by you. My soul grows hardy, and can death endure; Your convoy makes the dangerous way secure.

_Mel._ Let me at least a funeral marriage crave, Nor grudge my cold embraces in the grave. I have too just a title in the strife; By me, unhappy me, he lost his life: I called him hither, 'twas my fatal breath, And I the screech-owl that proclaimed his death. [_Shout within._

_Abas._ What new alarms are these? I'll haste and see. [_Exit._

_Nour._ Look up and live; an empire shall be thine.

_Mor._ That I condemned, even when I thought it mine.-- Oh, I must yield to my hard destinies, [_To_ IND. And must for ever cease to see your eyes!

_Mel._ Ah turn your sight to me, my dearest lord! Can you not one, one parting look afford? Even so unkind in death:--but 'tis in vain; I lose my breath, and to the winds complain. Yet 'tis as much in vain your cruel scorn; Still I can love, without this last return. Nor fate, nor you, can my vowed faith controul; Dying, I follow your disdainful soul: A ghost, I'll haunt your ghost; and, where you go, With mournful murmurs fill the plains below.

_Mor._ Be happy, Melesinda; cease to grieve, And for a more deserving husband live:-- Can you forgive me?

_Mel._ Can I! Oh, my heart! Have I heard one kind word before I part? I can, I can forgive: Is that a task To love like mine? Are you so good to ask! One kiss--Oh, 'tis too great a blessing this! [_Kisses him._ I would not live to violate the bliss,

_Re-enter_ ABAS.

_Abas._ Some envious devil has ruined us yet more: The fort's revolted to the emperor; The gates are opened, the portcullis drawn, And deluges of armies from the town Come pouring in: I heard the mighty flaw, When first it broke; the crowding ensigns saw, Which choked the passage; and, what least I feared, The waving arms of Aureng-Zebe appeared, Displayed with your Morat's: In either's flag the golden serpents bear Erected crests alike, like volumes rear, And mingle friendly hissings in the air. Their troops are joined, and our destruction nigh.

_Neur._ 'Tis vain to fight, and I disdain to fly. I'll mock the triumphs which our foes intend, And spite of fortune, make a glorious end. In poisonous draughts my liberty I'll find, And from the nauseous world set free my mind. [_Exit._

_At the other end of the Stage enter_ AURENG-ZEBE, DIANET, _and Attendants._ AURENG-ZEBE _turns back, and speaks entering._

_Aur._ The lives of all, who cease from combat, spare; My brother's be your most peculiar care: Our impious use no longer shall obtain; Brothers no more by brothers shall be slain.-- [_Seeing_ INDAMORA _and_ MORAT. Ha! do I dream? Is this my hoped success? I grow a statue, stiff and motionless. Look, Dianet; for I dare not trust these eyes; They dance in mists, and dazzle with surprise.

_Dia._ Sir, 'tis Morat; dying he seems, or dead; And Indamora's hand--

_Aur._ Supports his head. [_Sighing._ Thou shalt not break yet, heart, nor shall she know My inward torments by my outward show: To let her see my weakness were too base; Dissembled quiet sit upon my face: My sorrow to my eyes no passage find, But let it inward sink, and drown my mind. Falsehood shall want its triumph: I begin To stagger, but I'll prop myself within. The specious tower no ruin shall disclose, Till down at once the mighty fabric goes,

_Mor._ In sign that I die yours, reward my love, [_To_ IND. And seal my passport to the blessed above. [_Kissing her hand._

_Ind._ Oh stay; or take me with you when you go; There's nothing now worth living for below.

_Mor._ I leave you not; for my expanded mind Grows up to heaven, while it to you is joined: Not quitting, but enlarged! A blazing fire, Fed from the brand. [_Dies._

_Mel._ Ah me! he's gone! I die! [_Swoons._

_Ind._ Oh, dismal day! Fate, thou hast ravished my last hope away! [_She turns, and sees_ AURENG-ZEBE _standing by her, and starts._ O heaven! my Aureng-Zebe--What strange surprise! Or does my willing mind delude my eyes, And shows the figure always present there? Or liv'st thou? am I blessed, and see thee here?

_Aur._ My brother's body see conveyed with care, [_Turning from her, to her Attendants._ Where we may royal sepulture prepare. With speed to Melesinda bring relief: Recal her spirits, and moderate her grief-- [_Half turning to_ IND. I go, to take for ever from your view, Both the loved object, and the hated too. [_Going away after the bodies, which are carried off._

_Ind._ Hear me! yet think not that I beg your stay; [_Laying hold of him._ I will be heard, and, after, take your way. Go; but your late repentance shall be vain: [_He struggles still: she lets him go._ I'll never, never see your face again. [_Turning away._

_Aur._ Madam, I know whatever you can say: You might be pleased not to command my stay. All things are yet disordered in the fort; I must crave leave your audience may be short.

_Ind._ You need not fear I shall detain you long: Yet you may tell me your pretended wrong.

_Aur._ Is that the business? then my stay is vain.

_Ind._ How are you injured?

_Aur._ When did I complain?

_Ind._ Leave off your forced respect, And show your rage in its most furious form: I'm armed with innocence to brave the storm. You heard, perhaps, your brother's last desire, And, after, saw him in my arms expire; Saw me, with tears, so great a loss, bemoan; Heard me complaining my last hopes were gone.

_Aur._ "Oh stay, or take me with you when you go, There's nothing now worth living for below." Unhappy sex! whose beauty is your snare: Exposed to trials; made too frail to bear. I grow a fool, and show my rage again: 'Tis nature's fault; and why should I complain?

_Ind._ Will you yet hear me?

_Aur._ Yes, till you relate What powerful motives did your change create. You thought me dead, and prudently did weigh Tears were but vain, and brought but youth's decay. Then, in Morat, your hopes a crown designed; And all the woman worked within your mind.-- I rave again, and to my rage return, To be again subjected to your scorn.

_Ind._ I wait till this long storm be over-blown.

_Aur._ I'm conscious of my folly: I have done.-- I cannot rail; but silently I'll grieve. How did I trust! and how did you deceive! Oh, Arimant, would I had died for thee! I dearly buy thy generosity.

_Ind._ Alas, is he then dead?

_Aur._ Unknown to me, He took my arms; and, while I forced my way Through troops of foes, which did our passage stay, My buckler o'er my aged father cast, Still fighting, still defending as I past, The noble Arimant usurped my name; Fought, and took from me, while he gave me, fame. To Aureng-Zebe, he made his soldiers cry, And, seeing not, where he heard danger nigh, Shot, like a star, through the benighted sky, A short, but mighty aid: At length he fell. My own adventures 'twere lost time to tell; Or how my army, entering in the night, Surprised our foes; The dark disordered fight: How my appearance, and my father shown, Made peace; and all the rightful monarch own. I've summed it briefly, since it did relate The unwelcome safety of the man you hate.

_Ind._ As briefly will I clear my innocence: Your altered brother died in my defence. Those tears you saw, that tenderness I showed, Were just effects of grief and gratitude. He died my convert.

_Aur._ But your lover too: I heard his words, and did your actions view; You seemed to mourn another lover dead: My sighs you gave him, and my tears you shed. But, worst of all, Your gratitude for his defence was shown: It proved you valued life, when I was gone.

_Ind._ Not that I valued life, but feared to die: Think that my weakness, not inconstancy.

_Aur._ Fear showed you doubted of your own intent: And she, who doubts, becomes less innocent. Tell me not you could fear; Fear's a large promiser; who subject live To that base passion, know not what they give. No circumstance of grief you did deny; And what could she give more, who durst not die?

_Ind._ My love, my faith.

_Aur._ Both so adulterate grown, When mixed with fear, they never could be known. I wish no ill might her I love befal; But she ne'er loved, who durst not venture all. Her life and fame should my concernment be; But she should only be afraid for me.

_Ind._ My heart was yours; but, oh! you left it here, Abandoned to those tyrants, hope and fear; If they forced from me one kind look, or word, Could you not that, not that small part afford?

_Aur._ If you had loved, you nothing yours could call; Giving the least of mine, you gave him all. True love's a miser; so tenacious grown, He weighs to the least grain of what's his own; More delicate than honour's nicest sense, Neither to give nor take the least offence. With, or without you, I can have no rest: What shall I do? you're lodged within my breast: Your image never will be thence displaced; But there it lies, stabbed, mangled, and defaced.

_Ind._ Yet to restore the quiet of your heart, There's one way left.

_Aur._ Oh, name it.

_Ind._ 'Tis to part. Since perfect bliss with me you cannot prove, I scorn to bless by halves the man I love.

_Aur._ Now you distract me more: Shall then the day, Which views my triumph, see our loves decay? Must I new bars to my own joy create? Refuse myself what I had forced from fate? What though I am not loved? Reason's nice taste does our delights destroy: Brutes are more blessed, who grossly feed on joy.

_Ind._ Such endless jealousies your love pursue, I can no more be fully blessed than you. I therefore go, to free us both from pain: I prized your person, but your crown disdain. Nay, even my own-- I give it you; for, since I cannot call Your heart my subject, I'll not reign at all. [_Exit._

_Aur._ Go: Though thou leav'st me tortured on the rack, 'Twixt shame and pride, I cannot call thee back.-- She's guiltless, and I should submit; but oh! When she exacts it, can I stoop so low? Yes; for she's guiltless; but she's haughty too. Great souls long struggle ere they own a crime: She's gone; and leaves me no repenting time. I'll call her now; sure, if she loves, she'll stay; Linger at least, or not go far away. [_Looks to the door, and returns._ For ever lost! and I repent too late. My foolish pride would set my whole estate, Till, at one throw, I lost all back to fate.

_To him the Emperor, drawing in_ INDAMORA: _Attendants._

_Emp._ It must not be, that he, by whom we live, Should no advantage of his gift receive. Should he be wholly wretched? he alone, In this blessed day, a day so much his own? [_To_ IND. I have not quitted yet a victor's right: I'll make you happy in your own despite. I love you still; and, if I struggle hard To give, it shows the worth of the reward.

_Ind._ Suppose he has o'ercome; must I find place Among his conquered foes, and sue for grace? Be pardoned, and confess I loved not well? What though none live my innocence to tell, I know it: Truth may own a generous pride: I clear myself, and care for none beside.

_Aur._ Oh, Indamora, you would break my heart! Could you resolve, on any terms, to part? I thought your love eternal: Was it tied So loosely, that a quarrel could divide? I grant that my suspicions were unjust; But would you leave me, for a small distrust? Forgive those foolish words-- [_Kneeling to her._ They were the froth my raging folly moved, When it boiled up: I knew not then I loved; Yet then loved most.

_Ind._ [_To_ AUR.] You would but half be blest! [_Giving her hand, smiling._

_Aur._ Oh do but try My eager love: I'll give myself the lie. The very hope is a full happiness, Yet scantly measures what I shall possess. Fancy itself, even in enjoyment, is But a dumb judge, and cannot tell its bliss.

_Emp._ Her eyes a secret yielding do confess, And promise to partake your happiness. May all the joys I did myself pursue, Be raised by her, and multiplied on you!

_A Procession of Priests, Slaves following, and, last,_ MELESINDA _in white._

_Ind._ Alas! what means this pomp?

_Aur._ 'Tis the procession of a funeral vow, Which cruel laws to Indian wives allow, When fatally their virtue they approve; Cheerful in flames, and martyrs of their love.

_Ind._ Oh, my foreboding heart! the event I fear: And see! sad Melesinda does appear.

_Mel._ You wrong my love; what grief do I betray? This is the triumph of my nuptial day, My better nuptials; which, in spite of fate, For ever join me to my dear Morat. Now I am pleased; my jealousies are o'er: He's mine; and I can lose him now no more.

_Emp._ Let no false show of fame, your reason blind.

_Ind._ You have no right to die; he was not kind.

_Mel._ Had he been kind, I could no love have shown: Each vulgar virtue would as much have done. My love was such, it needed no return; But could, though he supplied no fuel, burn. Rich in itself, like elemental fire, Whose pureness does no aliment require. In vain you would bereave me of my lord; For I will die:--Die is too base a word, I'll seek his breast, and, kindling by his side, Adorned with flames, I'll mount a glorious bride. [_Exit._

_Enter_ NOURMAHAL, _distracted, with_ ZAYDA.

_Zay._ She's lost, she's lost! but why do I complain, For her, who generously did life disdain! Poisoned, she raves-- The envenomed body does the soul attack; The envenomed soul works its own poison back.

_Nour._ I burn, I more than burn; I am all fire. See how my mouth and nostrils flame expire! I'll not come near myself-- Now I'm a burning lake, it rolls and flows; I'll rush, and pour it all upon my foes. Pull, pull that reverend piece of timber near: Throw't on--'tis dry--'twill burn-- Ha, ha! how my old husband crackles there! Keep him down, keep him down; turn him about: I know him,--he'll but whiz, and strait go out. Fan me, you winds: What, not one breath of air? I'll burn them all, and yet have flames to spare. Quench me: Pour on whole rivers. 'Tis in vain: Morat stands there to drive them back again: With those huge billows in his hands, he blows New fire into my head: My brain-pan glows. See! see! there's Aureng-Zebe too takes his part; But he blows all his fire into my heart[4].

_Aur._ Alas, what fury's this?

_Nour._ That's he, that's he! [_Staring upon him, and catching at him._ I know the dear man's voice: And this my rival, this the cursed she. They kiss; into each other's arms they run: Close, close, close! must I see, and must have none? Thou art not hers: Give me that eager kiss. Ungrateful! have I lost Morat for this? Will you?--before my face?--poor helpless I See all, and have my hell before I die! [_Sinks down._

_Emp._ With thy last breath thou hast thy crimes confest: Farewell; and take, what thou ne'er gav'st me, rest. But you, my son, receive it better here: [_Giving him_ INDAMORA'S _hand._ The just rewards of love and honour wear. Receive the mistress, you so long have served; Receive the crown, your loyalty preserved. Take you the reins, while I from cares remove, And sleep within the chariot which I drove. [_Exeunt._

Footnotes: 1. --_Magne regnator deum, Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides? Ecquando sæva fulmen emittes manu, Si nunc serenum est? --Me velox cremet, Transactus ignis. Sum nocens, merui mori, Placui novercæ._--Hippolitus apud Senecam.

See Langbaine, on this play.

2. In Dryden's time it was believed, that some Indian tribes devoured the bodies of their parents; affirming, they could shew no greater mark of respect, than to incorporate their remains with their own substance.

3. Langbaine traces this speech also to Seneca's Hippolitus.

_--Thesei vultus amo; Illos priores quos tulit quondam puer, Cum prima puras barba signaret genas._

4. I wish the duty of an editor had permitted me to omit this extravagant and ludicrous rhapsody.

EPILOGUE

A pretty task! and so I told the fool, Who needs would undertake to please by rule: He thought, that if his characters were good, The scenes entire, and freed from noise and blood; The action great, yet circumscribed by time, The words not forced, but sliding into rhyme, The passions raised, and calm by just degrees, As tides are swelled, and then retire to seas; He thought, in hitting these, his business done, Though he, perhaps, has failed in every one: But, after all, a poet must confess, His art's like physic, but a happy guess. Your pleasure on your fancy must depend: The lady's pleased, just as she likes her friend. No song! no dance! no show! he fears you'll say: You love all naked beauties, but a play. He much mistakes your methods to delight; And, like the French, abhors our target-fight: But those damned dogs can ne'er be in the right. True English hate your Monsieur's paltry arts, For you are all silk-weavers in your hearts[1]. Bold Britons, at a brave Bear-Garden fray, Are roused: And, clattering sticks, cry,--Play, play, play![2] Meantime, your filthy foreigner will stare, And mutters to himself,--_Ha! gens barbare!_ And, gad, 'tis well he mutters; well for him; Our butchers else would tear him limb from limb. 'Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be Infected with this French civility: But this, in after ages will be done: Our poet writes an hundred years too soon. This age comes on too slow, or he too fast: And early springs are subject to a blast! Who would excel, when few can make a test Betwixt indifferent writing and the best? For favours, cheap and common, who would strive, Which, like abandoned prostitutes, you give? Yet, scattered here and there, I some behold, Who can discern the tinsel from the gold: To these he writes; and, if by them allowed, 'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd. For he more fears, like a presuming man, Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can.

Footnotes: 1. Enemies, namely, like the English silk-weavers to the manufactures of France.

2. Alluding to the prize-fighting with broad-swords at the Bear-Garden: an amusement sufficiently degrading, yet more manly, and less brutal than that of boxing, as now practised. We have found, in the lowest deep, a lower still.

* * * * *

ALL FOR LOVE;

OR,

THE WORLD WELL LOST.

A

TRAGEDY.

ALL FOR LOVE.

The prologue to the preceding play has already acquainted us, that Dryden's taste for Rhyming, or Heroic Plays, was then upon the wane; and, accordingly "Aureng-Zebe" was the last tragedy which he formed upon that once admired model. "Henceforth a series of new times began," for, when given up by the only writer, whose command of flowing and powerful numbers had rendered it impressive, that department of the drama was soon abandoned by the inferior class of play-writers, to whom it presented multiplied difficulties, without a single advantage. The new taste, which our author had now decidedly adopted, was founded upon the stile of Shakespeare, of whose works he appears always to have been a persevering student, and, at length, an ardent admirer. Accordingly, he informs us, in the introduction, that this play is professedly written in imitation of "the divine Shakespeare." As if to bring this more immediately under the eye of the reader, he has chosen a subject upon which his immortal original had already laboured; and, perhaps, the most proper introduction to "All for Love" may be a parallel betwixt it and Shakespeare's "Antony and Cleopatra."

The first point of comparison is the general conduct, or plot, of the tragedy. And here Dryden, having, to use his own language, undertaken to shoot in the bow of Ulysses, imitates the wily Antinous in using art to eke out his strength, and suppling the weapon before he attempted to bend it.

Shakespeare, with the license peculiar to his age and character, had diffused the action of his play over Italy, Greece, and Egypt; but Dryden, who was well aware of the advantage to be derived from a simplicity and concentration of plot, has laid every scene in the city of Alexandria. By this he guarded the audience from that vague and puzzling distraction which must necessarily attend a violent change of place. It is a mistake to suppose, that the argument in favour of the unities depends upon preserving the deception of the scene; they are necessarily connected with the intelligibility of the piece. It may be true, that no spectator supposes that the stage before him is actually the court of Alexandria; yet, when he has once made up his mind to let it pass as such during the representation, it is a cruel tax, not merely on his imagination, but on his powers of comprehension, if the scene be suddenly transferred to a distant country. Time is lost before he can form new associations, and reconcile their bearings with those originally presented to him, and if he be a person of slow comprehension, or happens to lose any part of the dialogue, announcing the changes, the whole becomes unintelligible confusion. In this respect, and in discarding a number of uninteresting characters, the plan of Dryden's play must be unequivocally preferred to that of Shakespeare in point of coherence, unity, and simplicity. It is a natural consequence of this more artful arrangement of the story, that Dryden contents himself with the concluding scene of Antony's history instead of introducing the incidents of the war with Cneius Pompey, the negociation with Lepidus, death of his first wife, and other circumstances, which, in Shakespeare, only tend to distract our attention from the main interest of the drama. The union of time, as necessary as that of place to the intelligibility of the drama, has, in like manner, been happily attained; and an interesting event is placed before the audience with no other change of place, and no greater lapse of time, than can be readily adapted to an ordinary imagination.

But, having given Dryden the praise of superior address in managing the story, I fear he must be pronounced in most other respects inferior to his grand prototype. Antony, the principal character in both plays, is incomparably grander in that of Shakespeare. The majesty and generosity of the military hero is happily expressed by both poets; but the awful ruin of grandeur, undermined by passion, and tottering to its fall, is far more striking in the Antony of Shakespeare. Love, it is true, is the predominant; but it is not the sole ingredient in his character. It has usurped possession of his mind, but is assailed by his original passions, ambition of power, and thirst for military fame. He is, therefore, often, and it should seem naturally represented, as feeling for the downfall of his glory and power, even so intensely as to withdraw his thoughts from Cleopatra, unless considered as the cause of his ruin. Thus, in the scene in which he compares himself to "black Vesper's pageants," he runs on in a train of fantastic and melancholy similes, having relation only to his fallen state, till the mention of Egypt suddenly recalls the idea of Cleopatra. But Dryden has taken a different view of Antony's character, and more closely approaching to his title of "All for Love."--"He seems not now that awful Antony." His whole thoughts and being are dedicated to his fatal passion; and though a spark of resentment is occasionally struck out by the reproaches of Ventidius, he instantly relapses into love-sick melancholy. The following beautiful speech exhibits the romance of despairing love, without the deep and mingled passion of a dishonoured soldier, and dethroned emperor:

_Ant._ [_Throwing himself down._] Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor; The place, thou pressest on thy mother earth, Is all thy empire now: Now, it contains thee; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large, When thou'rt contracted in the narrow urn, Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then, Octavia, For Cleopatra will not live to see it, Octavia then will have thee all her own, And bear thee in her widowed hand to Cæsar; Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep, To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't. Give me some music; look that it be sad: I'll sooth my melancholy, 'till I swell, And burst myself with sighing-- [_Soft music._ 'Tis somewhat to my humour: Stay, I fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all; Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene, Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak, I lean my head upon the mossy bark, And look just of a piece, as I grew from it: My uncombed locks, matted like misletoe, Hang o'er my hoary face; a murmuring brook Runs at my foot.

_Ven._ Methinks I fancy Myself there too.

_Ant._ The herd come jumping by me, And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, And take me for their fellow-citizen.

Even when Antony is finally ruined, the power of jealousy is called upon to complete his despair, and he is less sensible to the idea of Cæsar's successful arms, than to the risque of Dolabella's rivalling him in the affections of Cleopatra. It is true, the Antony of Shakespeare also starts into fury, upon Cleopatra permitting Thyreus to kiss her hand; but this is not jealousy; it is pride offended, that she, for whom he had sacrificed his glory and empire, should already begin to court the favour of the conqueror, and vouchsafe her hand to be saluted by a "jack of Cæsars." Hence Enobarbus, the witness of the scene, alludes immediately to the fury of mortified ambition and falling power:

'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp, Than with an old one dying--

Having, however, adopted an idea of Antony's character, rather suitable to romance than to nature, or history, we must not deny Dryden the praise of having exquisitely brought out the picture he intended to draw. He has informed us, that this was the only play written to please himself; and he has certainly exerted in it the full force of his incomparable genius. Antony is throughout the piece what the author meant him to be; a victim to the omnipotence of love, or rather to the infatuation of one engrossing passion[1].

In the Cleopatra of Dryden, there is greatly less spirit and originality than in Shakespeare's. The preparation of the latter for death has a grandeur which puts to shame the same scene in Dryden, and serves to support the interest during the whole fifth act, although Antony has died in the conclusion of the fourth. No circumstance can more highly evince the power of Shakespeare's genius, in spite of his irregularities; since the conclusion in Dryden, where both lovers die in the same scene, and after a reconciliation, is infinitely more artful and better adapted to theatrical effect.

In the character of Ventidius, Dryden has filled up, with ability, the rude sketches, which Shakespeare has thrown off in those of Scæva and Eros. The rough old Roman soldier is painted with great truth; and the quarrel betwixt him and Antony, in the first act, is equal to any single scene that our author ever wrote, excepting, perhaps, that betwixt Sebastian and Dorax; an opinion in which the judgment of the critic coincides with that of the poet. It is a pity, as has often been remarked, that this dialogue occurs so early in the play, since what follows is necessarily inferior in force. Dryden, while writing this scene, had unquestionably in his recollection the quarrel betwixt Brutus and Cassius, which was justly so great a favourite in his time, and to which he had referred as inimitable in his prologue to "Aureng-Zebe.[2]"

The inferior characters are better supported in Dryden than in Shakespeare. We have no low buffoonery in the former, such as disgraces Enobarbus, and is hardly redeemed by his affecting catastrophe. Even the Egyptian Alexas acquires some respectability, from his patriotic attachment to the interests of his country, and from his skill as a wily courtier. He expresses, by a beautiful image, the effeminate attachment to life, appropriated to his character and country:

O, that I less could fear to lose this being, Which, like a snow-ball in my coward hand, The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away.

The Octavia of Dryden is a much more important personage than in the "Antony and Cleopatra" of Shakespeare. She is, however, more cold and unamiable; for, in the very short scenes in which the Octavia of Shakespeare appears, she is placed in rather an interesting point of view. But Dryden has himself informed us, that he was apprehensive the justice of a wife's claim upon her husband would draw the audience to her side, and lessen their interest in the lover and the mistress. He seems accordingly to have studiedly lowered the character of the injured Octavia, who, in her conduct towards her husband, shews much duty and little love; and plainly intimates, that her rectitude of conduct flows from a due regard to her own reputation, rather than from attachment to Antony's person, or sympathy with him in his misfortunes. It happens, therefore, with Octavia, as with all other very good selfish kind of people; we think it unnecessary to feel any thing for her, as she is obviously capable of taking very good care of herself. I must not omit, that her scolding scene with Cleopatra, although anxiously justified by the author in the preface, seems too coarse to be in character, and is a glaring exception to the general good taste evinced throughout the rest of the piece.

It would be too long a task to contrast the beauties of these two great poets in point of diction and style. But the reader will doubtless be pleased to compare the noted descriptions of the voyage of Cleopatra down the Cydnus. It is thus given in Shakespeare:

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne, Burned on the water: The poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them: The oars were silver; Which, to the tune of flutes, kept stroke, and made The water which they beat, to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggared all description: she did lie In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue), O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see, The fancy outwork nature; on each side her, Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With diverse coloured fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid, did. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereids, So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes, And made their bends adornings: At the helm A seeming mermaid steers: The silken tackle Swells with the touches of those flower-soft hands That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her; and Antony, Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone, Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy, Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in nature. _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act i. Scene 2.

The parallel passage in Dryden runs thus:

The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold, The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails: Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed; Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay,

_Dola._ No more: I would not hear it,

_Ant._ O, you must! She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand, And cast a look so languishingly sweet, As if secure of all beholders hearts, Neglecting she could take them: Boys, like Cupids, Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds That played about her face! But if she smiled, A darting glory secured to blaze abroad: That men's desiring eyes were never wearied, But hung upon the object: To soft flutes The silver oars kept time; and while they played, The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight; And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more; For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath To give their welcome voice. Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul? Was not thy fury quite disarmed with murder? Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes, And whisper in my ear, Oh, tell her not That I accused her of my brother's death?

In judging betwixt these celebrated passages, we feel almost afraid to avow a preference of Dryden, founded partly upon the easy flow of the verse, which seems to soften with the subject, but chiefly upon the beauty of the language and imagery, which is flowery without diffusiveness, and rapturous without hyperbole. I fear Shakespeare cannot be exculpated from the latter fault; yet I am sensible, it is by sifting his beauties from his conceits that his imitator has been enabled to excel him.

It is impossible to bestow too much praise on the beautiful passages which occur so frequently in "All for Love." Having already given several examples of happy expression of melancholy and tender feelings, I content myself with extracting the sublime and terrific description of an omen presaging the downfall of Egypt.

_Serap._ Last night, between the hours of twelve and one, In a lone isle of the temple while I walked, A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast, Shook all the dome: The doors around me clapt; The iron wicket, that defends the vault, Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid, Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead. From out each monument, in order placed, An armed ghost starts up: The boy-king last Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans Then followed, and a lamentable voice Cried,--"Egypt is no more!" My blood ran back, My shaking knees against each other knocked; On the cold pavement down I fell entranced, And so, unfinished, left the horrid scene.

Having quoted so many passages of exquisite poetry, and having set this play in no unequal opposition to that of Shakespeare, it is, perhaps, unnecessary to mention by what other poets the same subject has been treated. Daniel, Mary countess of Pembroke, May, and Sir Charles Sedley, each produced a play on the fortunes of Anthony. Of these pieces I have never read the three former, and will assuredly never read the last a second time[3].

"All for Love," as the most laboured performance of our author, received the full tribute of applause and popularity which had often graced his less perfect and more hurried performances. Davies gives us the following account of its first representation.

"In Dryden's "All for Love," Booth's dignified action and forcible elocution, in the part of Antony, attracted the public to that heavy, though, in many parts, well written play, six night's successively, without the assistance of pantomime, or farce, which, at that time, was esteemed something extraordinary.--But, indeed, he was well supported by an Oldfield, in his Cleopatra, who, to a most harmonious and powerful voice, and fine person, added grace and elegance of gesture. When Booth and Oldfield met in the second act, their dignity of deportment commanded the applause and approbation of the most judicious critics. When Antony said to Cleopatra,

You promised me your silence, and you break it Ere I have scarce begun,--

this check was so well understood by Oldfield, and answered with such propriety of behaviour, that, in Shakespeare's phrase; her "bendings were adornings."

"The elder Mills acted Ventidius with the true spirit of a rough and generous old soldier. To render the play as acceptable to the public as possible, Wilkes took the trifling part of Dolabella, nor did Colley Cibber disdain to appear in Alexas. These parts would scarcely be accepted now by third-rate actors. Still to add more weight to the performance, Octavia was a short character of a scene or two, in which Mrs Porter drew not only respect, but the more affecting approbation of tears from the audience. Since that time, "All for Love" has gradually sunk into forgetfulness."

If this last observation be true, it is, under Mr Davies' favour, a striking illustration of the caprice of the public taste. The play of "All for Love" was first acted and printed in 1678.

Footnotes: 1. Dryden has himself, in the prologue, alluded to this predominance of sentiment in his hero's character.

His hero, whom you wits his bully call, Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all; He's somewhat lewd; but a well meaning mind, Weeps much, fights little, but is wondrous kind.

2. But, spite of all his pride, a secret shame Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred name: Awed, when he hears his god-like Romans rage, He, in a just despair, would quit the stage, And, to an age less polished, more unskilled, Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.

3. Lest any reader should have anticipated better things of "Sedley's noble muse," the Lisideius of our author's dialogue on dramatic poetry, I subjoin a specimen, taken at hazard:

Gape, hell, and to thy dismal bottom take The lost Antonius; this was our last stake: Warned by my ruin, let no Roman more, Set foot on the inhospitable shore. Cowards and traitors filled this impious land, Faithless and fearful, without heart or hand, Some ran to Cæsar, like a headlong tide, The rest their fear made useless on our side.

"This passion, with the death of a dear friend, would go nigh to make one sad;" yet some of the authors of the day held a very different doctrine. Shadwell, in his dedication to "A true Widow," tells Sedley, "You have in that Mulberry Garden shewn the true wit, humour, and satire of a comedy; and, in Antony and Cleopatra, the true spirit of a tragedy; the only one, except two of Jonson's and one of Shakespeare's, wherein Romans are made to speak and do like Romans. There are to be found the true characters of Antony and Cleopatra, as they were; whereas a French author would have made the Egyptian and Roman both become French under his pen. And even our English authors are too much given to make history (in these plays) romantic and impossible; but, in this play, the Romans are true Romans, and their style is such; and I dare affirm, that there is not in any play of this age so much of the spirit of the classic authors, as in your Antony and Cleopatra." I cannot help suspecting that much of this hyperbolical praise of Sedley was obliquely designed to mortify Dryden.

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THOMAS, EARL OF DANBY,

VISCOUNT LATIMER, AND BARON OSBORNE OF KIVETON IN YORKSHIRE;

LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND, ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL, AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER[1].

MY LORD,

The gratitude of poets is so troublesome a virtue to great men, that you are often in danger of your own benefits: For you are threatened with some epistle, and not suffered to do good in quiet, or to compound for their silence whom you have obliged. Yet, I confess, I neither am or ought to be surprised at this indulgence; for your lordship has the same right to favour poetry, which the great and noble have ever had:

_Carmen amat, quisquis carmine digna gerit._

There is somewhat of a tie in nature betwixt those who are born for worthy actions, and those who can transmit them to posterity; and though ours be much the inferior part, it comes at least within the verge of alliance; nor are we unprofitable members of the commonwealth, when we animate others to those virtues, which we copy and describe from you.

It is indeed their interest, who endeavour the subversion of governments, to discourage poets and historians; for the best which can happen to them, is, to be forgotten: But such who, under kings, are the fathers of their country, and by a just and prudent ordering of affairs preserve it, have the same reason to cherish the chroniclers of their actions, as they have to lay up in safety the deeds and evidences of their estates; for such records are their undoubted titles to the love and reverence of after-ages. Your lordship's administration has already taken up a considerable part of the English annals; and many of its most happy years are owing to it. His majesty, the most knowing judge of men, and the best master, has acknowledged the ease and benefit he receives in the incomes of his treasury, which you found not only disordered, but exhausted. All things were in the confusion of a chaos, without form or method if not reduced beyond it, even to annihilation; so that you had not only to separate the jarring elements, but (if that boldness of expression might be allowed me) to create them. Your enemies had so embroiled the management of your office, that they looked on your advancement as the instrument of your ruin. And as if the clogging of the revenue, and the confusion of accounts, which you found in your entrance, were not sufficient, they added their own weight of malice to the public calamity, by forestalling the credit which should cure it. Your friends on the other side were only capable of pitying, but not of aiding you; no farther help or counsel was remaining to you, but what was founded on yourself; and that indeed was your security; for your diligence, your constancy, and your prudence, wrought more surely within, when they were not disturbed by any outward motion. The highest virtue is best to be trusted with itself; for assistance only can be given by a genius superior to that which it assists; and it is the noblest kind of debt, when we are only obliged to God and nature. This then, my lord, is your just commendation, that you have wrought out yourself a way to glory, by those very means that were designed for your destruction: You have not only restored, but advanced the revenues of your master, without grievance to the subject; and, as if that were little yet, the debts of the exchequer, which lay heaviest both on the crown, and on private persons, have by your conduct been established in a certainty of satisfaction.[2] An action so much the more great and honourable, because the case was without the ordinary relief of laws; above the hopes of the afflicted, and beyond the narrowness of the treasury to redress, had it been managed by a less able hand. It is certainly the happiest, and most unenvied part of all your fortune, to do good to many, while you do injury to none; to receive at once the prayers of the subject, and the praises of the prince; and, by the care of your conduct, to give him means of exerting the chiefest (if any be the chiefest) of his royal virtues, his distributive justice to the deserving, and his bounty and compassion to the wanting. The disposition of princes towards their people cannot be better discovered than in the choice of their ministers; who, like the animal spirits betwixt the soul and body, participate somewhat of both natures, and make the communication which is betwixt them. A king, who is just and moderate in his nature, who rules according to the laws, whom God has made happy by forming the temper of his soul to the constitution of his government, and who makes us happy, by assuming over us no other sovereignty than that wherein our welfare and liberty consists; a prince, I say, of so excellent a character, and so suitable to the wishes of all good men, could not better have conveyed himself into his people's apprehensions, than in your lordship's person; who so lively express the same virtues, that you seem not so much a copy, as an emanation of him. Moderation is doubtless an establishment of greatness; but there is a steadiness of temper which is likewise requisite in a minister of state; so equal a mixture of both virtues, that he may stand like an isthmus betwixt the two encroaching seas of arbitrary power, and lawless anarchy. The undertaking would be difficult to any but an extraordinary genius, to stand at the line, and to divide the limits; to pay what is due to the great representative of the nation, and neither to enhance, nor to yield up, the undoubted prerogatives of the crown. These, my lord, are the proper virtues of a noble Englishman, as indeed they are properly English virtues; no people in the world being capable of using them, but we who have the happiness to be born under so equal, and so well poised a government;--a government which has all the advantages of liberty beyond a commonwealth, and all the marks of kingly sovereignty, without the danger of a tyranny. Both my nature, as I am an Englishman, and my reason, as I am a man, have bred in me a loathing to that specious name of a republic; that mock appearance of a liberty, where all who have not part in the government, are slaves; and slaves they are of a viler note, than such as are subjects to an absolute dominion. For no Christian monarchy is so absolute, but it is circumscribed with laws; but when the executive power is in the law-makers, there is no farther check upon them; and the people must suffer without a remedy, because they are oppressed by their representatives. If I must serve, the number of my masters, who were born my equals, would but add to the ignominy of my bondage. The nature of our government, above all others, is exactly suited both to the situation of our country, and the temper of the natives; an island being more proper for commerce and for defence, than for extending its dominions on the Continent; for what the valour of its inhabitants might gain, by reason of its remoteness, and the casualties of the seas, it could not so easily preserve: And, therefore, neither the arbitrary power of One, in a monarchy, nor of Many, in a commonwealth, could make us greater than we are. It is true, that vaster and more frequent taxes might be gathered, when the consent of the people was not asked or needed; but this were only by conquering abroad, to be poor at home; and the examples of our neighbours teach us, that they are not always the happiest subjects, whose kings extend their dominions farthest. Since therefore we cannot win by an offensive war, at least a land war, the model of our government seems naturally contrived for the defensive part; and the consent of a people is easily obtained to contribute to that power which must protect it. _Felices nimium, bona si sua nórint, Angligenæ!_ And yet there are not wanting malecontents amongst us, who, surfeiting themselves on too much happiness, would persuade the people that they might be happier by a change. It was indeed the policy of their old forefather, when himself was fallen from the station of glory, to seduce mankind into the same rebellion with him, by telling him he might yet be freer than he was; that is, more free than his nature would allow, or, if I may so say, than God could make him. We have already all the liberty which free-born subjects can enjoy, and all beyond it is but licence. But if it be liberty of conscience which they pretend, the moderation of our church is such, that its practice extends not to the severity of persecution; and its discipline is withal so easy, that it allows more freedom to dissenters than any of the sects would allow to it. In the mean time, what right can be pretended by these men to attempt innovation in church or state? Who made them the trustees, or, to speak a little nearer their own language, the keepers of the liberty of England? If their call be extraordinary, let them convince us by working miracles; for ordinary vocation they can have none, to disturb the government under which they were born, and which protects them. He who has often changed his party, and always has made his interest the rule of it, gives little evidence of his sincerity for the public good; it is manifest he changes but for himself, and takes the people for tools to work his fortune. Yet the experience of all ages might let him know, that they, who trouble the waters first, have seldom the benefit of fishing; as they who began the late rebellion, enjoyed not the fruit of their undertaking, but were crushed themselves by the usurpation of their own instrument. Neither is it enough for them to answer, that they only intend a reformation of the government, but not the subversion of it: on such pretence all insurrections have been founded; it is striking at the root of power, which is obedience. Every remonstrance of private men has the seed of treason in it; and discourses, which are couched in ambiguous terms, are therefore the more dangerous, because they do all the mischief of open sedition, yet are safe from the punishment of the laws. These, my lord, are considerations, which I should not pass so lightly over, had I room to manage them as they deserve; for no man can be so inconsiderable in a nation, as not to have a share in the welfare of it; and if he be a true Englishman, he must at the same time be fired with indignation, and revenge himself as he can on the disturbers of his country. And to whom could I more fitly apply myself than to your lordship, who have not only an inborn, but an hereditary loyalty? The memorable constancy and sufferings of your father, almost to the ruin of his estate, for the royal cause, were an earnest of that, which such a parent and such an institution would produce in the person of a son. But so unhappy an occasion of manifesting your own zeal, in suffering for his present majesty, the providence of God, and the prudence of your administration, will, I hope, prevent; that, as your father's fortune waited on the unhappiness of his sovereign, so your own may participate of the better fate which attends his son. The relation, which you have by alliance to the noble family of your lady, serves to confirm to you both this happy augury. For what can deserve a greater place in the English chronicle, than the loyalty and courage, the actions and death, of the general of an army, fighting for his prince and country? The honour and gallantry of the earl of Lindsey is so illustrious a subject, that it is fit to adorn an heroic poem; for he was the proto-martyr of the cause, and the type of his unfortunate royal master[3].

Yet after all, my lord, if I may speak my thoughts, you are happy rather to us than to yourself; for the multiplicity, the cares, and the vexations of your employment, have betrayed you from yourself, and given you up into the possession of the public. You are robbed of your privacy and friends, and scarce any hour of your life you can call your own. Those, who envy your fortune, if they wanted not good-nature, might more justly pity it; and when they see you watched by a crowd of suitors, whose importunity it is impossible to avoid, would conclude, with reason, that you have lost much more in true content, than you have gained by dignity; and that a private gentleman is better attended by a single servant, than your lordship with so clamorous a train. Pardon me, my lord, if I speak like a philosopher on this subject; the fortune, which makes a man uneasy, cannot make him happy; and a wise man must think himself uneasy, when few of his actions are in his choice.

This last consideration has brought me to another, and a very seasonable one for your relief; which is, that while I pity your want of leisure, I have impertinently detained you so long a time. I have put off my own business, which was my dedication, till it is so late, that I am now ashamed to begin it; and therefore I will say nothing of the poem, which I present to you, because I know not if you are like to have an hour, which, with a good conscience, you may throw away in perusing it; and for the author, I have only to beg the continuance of your protection to him, who is,

My Lord,

Your Lordship's most obliged, Most humble, and Most obedient, servant, JOHN DRYDEN.

Footnotes: 1. The person, to whom these high titles now belonged, was Sir Thomas Osburne, a Baronet of good family, and decayed estate; part of which had been lost in the royal cause. He was of a bold undaunted character, and stood high for the prerogative. Hence he was thought worthy of being sworn into the Privy Council during the administration of the famous CABAL; and when that was dissolved by the secession of Shaftesbury and the resignation of Clifford, he was judged a proper person to succeed the latter as Lord High Treasurer. He was created Earl of Danby, and was supposed to be deeply engaged in the attempt to new-model our Constitution on a more arbitrary plan; having been even heard to say, when sitting in judgment, that a new proclamation from the Crown was superior to an old act of Parliament. Nevertheless, he was persecuted as well by the faction of the Duke of York, to whom he was odious for having officiously introduced the famous Popish plot to the consideration of parliament, as by the popular party, who hated him as a favourite minister. Accordingly, in 1678, he was impeached by a vote of the House of Commons, and in consequence, notwithstanding the countenance of the King, was deprived of all his offices, and finally committed to the tower, where he remained for four years. Sir John Reresby has these reflections on Lord Danby's greatness and sudden fall: "It was but a few months before, that few things were transacted at court, but with the privity or consent of this great man; the King's brother, and favourite mistress, were glad to be fair with him, and the general address of all men of business was to him, who was not only treasurer, but prime minister also, who not only kept the purse, but was the first, and greatest confident in all affairs of state. But now he is neglected of all, forced to hide his head as a criminal, and in danger of losing all he has got, and his life therewith: His family, raised from privacy to the degree of Marquis, (a patent was then actually passing to invest him with that dignity) is now on the brink of falling below the humble stand of a yeoman; nor would almost the meanest subject change conditions with him now, whom so very lately the greatest beheld with envy." _Memoirs_, p. 85.

As he was obnoxious to all parties, Lord Danby would probably have been made a sacrifice, had not the disturbances, which arose from the various plots of the time, turned the attention of his enemies to other subjects. He was liberated in 1683-4, survived the Revolution, was created Duke of Leeds, and died in 1712. His character was of the most decided kind; he was fertile in expedients and had always something new to substitute for those which failed; a faculty highly acceptable to Charles, who loved to be relieved even were it but in idea, from the labour of business, and the pressure of difficulty. In other points, he was probably not very scrupulous, since even Dryden found cause to say at length, that

Danby's matchless impudence Helped to support the knave.

2. This alludes to the stop of payments in exchequer, in 1671-2; a desperate measure recommended by Clifford, to secure money for the war against Holland.

3. The Earl of Lindsey was general in chief for King Charles I. at the breaking out of the civil war. As an evil omen of the royal cause, he was mortally wounded and made prisoner at the battle of Edgehill, the very first which was fought betwixt the king and parliament. Clarendon says, "He had very many friends, and very few enemies, and died generally lamented." His son Montague Bertie, Earl of Lindsey, was a sufferer in the same cause. Lord Danby was married to the Lady Bridget, the second daughter of that nobleman.

PREFACE.

The death of Antony and Cleopatra is a subject which has been treated by the greatest wits of our nation, after Shakespeare; and by all so variously, that their example has given me the confidence to try myself in this bow of Ulysses amongst the crowd of shooters; and, withal, to take my own measures, in aiming at the mark. I doubt not but the same motive has prevailed with all of us in this attempt; I mean the excellency of the moral: For the chief persons represented, were famous patterns of unlawful love; and their end accordingly was unfortunate. All reasonable men have long since concluded, that the hero of the poem ought not to be a character of perfect virtue, for then he could not, without injustice, be made unhappy; nor yet altogether wicked, because he could not then be pitied. I have therefore steered the middle course; and have drawn the character of Antony as favourably as Plutarch, Appian, and Dion Cassius would give me leave; the like I have observed in Cleopatra. That which is wanting to work up the pity to a greater heighth, was not afforded me by the story; for the crimes of love, which they both committed, were not occasioned by any necessity, or fatal ignorance, but were wholly voluntary; since our passions are, or ought to be, within our power. The fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place, and action, more exactly observed, than perhaps the English theatre requires. Particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only of the kind without episode, or underplot; every scene in the tragedy conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn of it. The greatest error in the contrivance seems to be in the person of Octavia; for, though I might use the privilege of a poet, to introduce her into Alexandria, yet I had not enough considered, that the compassion she moved to herself and children, was destructive to that which I reserved for Antony and Cleopatra; whose mutual love being founded upon vice, must lessen the favour of the audience to them, when virtue and innocence were oppressed by it. And, though I justified Antony in some measure, by making Octavia's departure to proceed wholly from herself; yet the force of the first machine still remained; and the dividing of pity, like the cutting of a river into many channels, abated the strength of the natural stream. But this is an objection which none of my critics have urged against me; and therefore I might have let it pass, if I could have resolved to have been partial to myself. The faults my enemies have found, are rather cavils concerning little and not essential decencies; which a master of the ceremonies may decide betwixt us. The French poets, I confess, are strict observers of these punctilios: They would not, for example, have suffered Cleopatra and Octavia to have met; or, if they had met, there must have only passed betwixt them some cold civilities, but no eagerness of repartee, for fear of offending against the greatness of their characters, and the modesty of their sex. This objection I foresaw, and at the same time contemned; for I judged it both natural and probable, that Octavia, proud of her new-gained conquest, would search out Cleopatra to triumph over her; and that Cleopatra thus attacked, was not of a spirit to shun the encounter: And it is not unlikely, that two exasperated rivals should use such satire as I have put into their mouths; for, after all, though the one were a Roman, and the other a queen, they were both women. It is true, some actions, though natural, are not fit to be represented; and broad obscenities in words, ought in good manners to be avoided: expressions therefore are a modest clothing of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are of our bodies. If I have kept myself within the bounds of modesty, all beyond it is but nicety and affectation; which is no more but modesty depraved into a vice. They betray themselves, who are too quick of apprehension in such cases, and leave all reasonable men to imagine worse of them, than of the poet.

Honest Montaigne goes yet farther: _Nous ne sommes que ceremonie; la ceremonie nous emporte, et laissons la substance des choses: Nous nous tenons aux branches, et abandonnons le tronc et le corps. Nous avons appris aux dames de rougir, oyans seulement nommer ce qu'elles ne craignent aucunement à faire; Nous n'esons appeller à droict nos membres, et ne craignons pas de les employer à toute sorte de debauche. La ceremonie nous defend d'exprimer par paroles les choses licites et naturelles, et nous l'en croyons; la raison nous defend de n'en faire point d'illicites et mauvaises, et personne ne l'en croit._ My comfort is, that by this opinion my enemies are but sucking critics, who would fain be nibbling ere their teeth are come.

Yet, in this nicety of manners does the excellency of French poetry consist. Their heroes are the most civil people breathing; but their good breeding seldom extends to a word of sense; all their wit is in their ceremony; they want the genius which animates our stage; and therefore it is but necessary, when they cannot please, that they should take care not to offend. But as the civillest man in the company is commonly the dullest, so these authors, while they are afraid to make you laugh or cry, out of pure good manners, make you sleep. They are so careful not to exasperate a critic, that they never leave him any work; so busy with the broom, and make so clean a riddance, that there is little left either for censure or for praise: For no part of a poem is worth our discommending, where the whole is insipid; as when we have once tasted of palled wine, we stay not to examine it glass by glass. But while they affect to shine in trifles, they are often careless in essentials. Thus, their Hippolitus is so scrupulous in point of decency, that he will rather expose himself to death, than accuse his step-mother to his father; and my critics I am sure will commend him for it: But we of grosser apprehensions are apt to think, that this excess of generosity is not practicable, but with fools and madmen. This was good manners with a vengeance; and the audience is like to be much concerned at the misfortunes of this admirable hero. But take Hippolitus out of his poetic fit, and I suppose he would think it a wiser part, to set the saddle on the right horse, and chuse rather to live with the reputation of a plain-spoken honest man, than to die with the infamy of an incestuous villain.[1] In the mean time we may take notice, that where the poet ought to have preserved the character as it was delivered to us by antiquity, when he should have given us the picture of a rough young man, of the Amazonian strain, a jolly huntsman, and both by his profession and his early rising a mortal enemy to love, he has chosen to give him the turn of gallantry sent him to travel from Athens to Paris, taught him to make love, and transformed the Hippolitus of Euripides into Monsieur Hippolite. I should not have troubled myself thus far with French poets, but that I find our _Chedreux_[2] critics wholly form their judgments by them. But for my part, I desire to be tried by the laws of my own country; for it seems unjust to me, that the French should prescribe here, till they have conquered. Our little sonetteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of poetry. Poets themselves are the most proper, though I conclude not the only critics. But till some genius, as universal as Aristotle, shall arise, one who can penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice of them, I shall think it reasonable that the judgment of an artificer in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. And this, I suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: For, first, the crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct, of what pleases or displeases them: Every man will grant me this; but then, by a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and will be distinguished from the multitude, of which other men may think him one. But, if I come closer to those who are allowed for witty men, either by the advantage of their quality, or by common fame, and affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly concerning poetry, I shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for most of them severally will exclude the rest, either from the number of witty men, or at least of able judges. But here again they are all indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit, that is, every man, will pretend at the same time to a right judgeing. But to press it yet farther, there are many witty men, but few poets; neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. And this is the rock on which they are daily splitting. Poetry, which is a picture of nature, must generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts of it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. Nor is every man who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must understand the excellencies of it too, or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a critic. From hence it comes that so many satires on poets, and censures of their writings, fly abroad. Men of pleasant conversation, (at least esteemed so) and endued with a trifling kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with some smattering of Latin, are ambitious to distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry;

_Rarus enim fermè; sensus communis in illâ Fortunâ._

And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose their nakedness to public view? Not considering that they are not to expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their flatterers after the third bottle. If a little glittering in discourse has passed them on us for witty men, where was the necessity of undeceiving the world? Would a man who has an ill title to an estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at Westminster? We who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of poverty to scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous? Horace was certainly in the right, where he said, "That no man is satisfied with his own condition." A poet is not pleased, because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented, because the poets will not admit them of their number. Thus the case is hard with writers: If they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please without their leave. But while they are so eager to destroy the fame of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem of their own is to lie produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the greater majesty[3].

Dionysius and Nero had the same longing, but with all their power they could never bring their business well about. 'Tis true, they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets they were, upon pain of death to any man who durst call them otherwise. The audience had a fine time on't, you may imagine; they sat in a bodily fear, and looked as demurely as they could: for it was a hanging matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were suspicious, as they had reason, that their subjects had them in the wind; so, every man, in his own defence, set as good a face upon the business as he could. It was known before-hand that the monarchs were to be crowned laureats; but when the show was over, and an honest man was suffered to depart quietly, he took out his laughter which he had stifled; with a firm resolution never more to see an emperor's play, though he had been ten years a making it. In the mean time the true poets were they who made the best markets, for they had wit enough to yield the prize with a good grace, and not contend with him who had thirty legions[4]. They were sure to be rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad writers, and that was somewhat better than to be martyrs for their reputation. Lucan's example was enough to teach them manners; and after he was put to death, for overcoming Nero, the emperor carried it without dispute for the best poet in his dominions. No man was ambitious of that grinning honour; for if he heard the malicious trumpeter proclaiming his name before his betters, he knew there was but one way with him. Mecænas took another course, and we know he was more than a great man, for he was witty too: But finding himself far gone in poetry, which Seneca assures us was not his talent, he thought it his best way to be well with Virgil and with Horace; that at least he might be a poet at the second hand; and we see how happily it has succeeded with him; for his own bad poetry is forgotten, and their panegyricks of him still remain. But they who should be our patrons, are for no such expensive ways to fame; they have much of the poetry of Mecænas, but little of his liberality. They are for persecuting Horace and Virgil, in the persons of their successors; for such is every man, who has any part of their soul and fire, though in a less degree. Some of their little zanies yet go farther; for they are persecutors even of Horace himself; as far as they are able, by their ignorant and vile imitations of him; by making an unjust use of his authority and turning his artillery against his friends. But how would he disdain to be copied by such hands! I dare answer for him, he would be more uneasy in their company, than he was with Crispinus, their forefather, in the Holy Way; and would no more have allowed them a place amongst the critics, than he would Demetrius the mimic, and Tigellius the buffoon;

--_Demetri, teque, Tigelli, Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras._

With what scorn would he look down on such miserable translators, who make doggrel of his Latin, mistake his meaning, mis-apply his censures, and often contradict their own? He is fixed as a landmark to set out the bounds of poetry:

--_Saxum antiquum, ingens,-- Limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis._

But other arms than theirs, and other sinews are required, to raise the weight of such an author; and when they would toss him against their enemies,

_Genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis. Tum lapis ipse, viri vacuum per inane volutus, Nec spatium evasit totum, nec pertulit ictum_[5].

For my part, I would wish no other revenge, either for myself, or the rest of the poets, from this rhyming judge of the twelve-penny gallery, this legitimate son of Sternhold, than that he would subscribe his name to his censure, or (not to tax him beyond his learning) set his mark: For, should he own himself publicly, and come from behind the lion's skin, they, whom he condemns, would be thankful to him, they, whom he praises, would chuse to be condemned; and the magistrates, whom he has elected, would modestly withdraw from their employment, to avoid the scandal of his nomination[6]. The sharpness of his satire, next to himself, falls most heavily on his friends, and they ought never to forgive him for commending them perpetually the wrong way, and sometimes by contraries. If he have a friend, whose hastiness in writing is his greatest fault, Horace would have taught him to have minced the matter, and to have called it readiness of thought, and a flowing fancy; for friendship will allow a man to christen an imperfection by the name of some neighbour virtue;

_Vellem in amicitiâ sic erraremus; et isti Errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum._

But he would never have allowed him to have called a slow man hasty, or a hasty writer a slow drudge[7], as Juvenal explains it:

--_Canibus pigris, scabieque vetustâ Lævibus, et siccæ lambentibus ora lucernæ, Nomen erit, Pardus, Tygris, Leo; si quid adhuc est Quod fremit in terris violentius_[8].

Yet Lucretius laughs at a foolish lover, even for excusing the imperfections of his mistress:

_Nigra [Greek: melichroos] est, immunda et foetida [Greek: akosmos]. Balba loqui non quit, [Greek: traulizei]; muta pudens est, &c._

But to drive it _ad Æthiopem cygnum_ is not to be endured. I leave him to interpret this by the benefit of his French version on the other side, and without farther considering him, than I have the rest of my illiterate censors, whom I have disdained to answer, because they are not qualified for judges. It remains that I acquaint the reader, that I have endeavoured in this play to follow the practice of the ancients, who, as Mr Rymer has judiciously observed, are and ought to be our masters[9]. Horace likewise gives it for a rule in his art of poetry.

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

Yet, though their models are regular, they are too little for English tragedy; which requires to be built in a larger compass. I could give an instance in the "Oedipus Tyrannus," which was the master piece of Sophocles; but I reserve it for a more fit occasion, which I hope to have hereafter. In my style, I have professed to imitate the divine Shakespeare; which that I might perform more freely, I have disincumbered myself from rhyme. Not that I condemn my former way, but that this is more proper to my present purpose. I hope I need not to explain myself, that I have not copied my author servilely: Words and phrases must of necessity receive a change in succeeding ages; but it is almost a miracle that much of his language remains so pure; and that he who began dramatic poetry amongst us, untaught by any, and, as Ben Jonson tells us, without learning, should by the force of his own genius perform so much, that in a manner he has left no praise for any who come after him. The occasion is fair, and the subject would be pleasant to handle the difference of styles betwixt him and Fletcher, and wherein, and how far they are both to be imitated. But since I must not be over-confident of my own performance after him, it will be prudence in me to be silent. Yet, I hope, I may affirm, and without vanity, that, by imitating him, I have excelled myself throughout the play; and particularly, that I prefer the scene betwixt Antony and Ventidius in the first act, to any thing which I have written in this kind.

Footnotes: 1. That the reader may himself judge of the justice of Dryden's censure, I subjoin the argument on this knotty point, as it is stated by Hippolytus and his mistress in the 5th act of the "Phedre" of Racine.

Aricie.

_Quoi vous pouvés vous taire en ce peril extreme? Vous laissés dans l'erreur un pere qui vous uime? Cruel, si de mes pleurs meprisant le pouvoir, Vous consentéz sans peine a ne me plus revoir, Partes, separés vous de la triste Aricie, Mais du moins en partaut assurés votre vie. Defendés votre honneur d' un reproche honteux, Et forcés votre pere a revoquer ses væux; Il en est tems encore. Pourguoi, par quel caprice, Laissés vous le champ libre a votre accusatrice? Ecclaircissés Thesée._

Hippolyte.

_Hé que nai-je point dit? Ai-je du mettre au jour l'opprobre de son lit? Devois-je en lui faisant un recit trop sincere, D'un indigne rougeur couvrir le front d'un pere? Vous seul avés percé ce mystere odieux, Mon coeur pour s'epancher, n'a que vous et les dieux: Je n'ai pu vous cacher, jugés si je vous aime, Tout ce que je voulois me cacher a moi-meme. Mais songés sous quel sceau je vous l'ai révélé; Oubliés, si se peut, que je vous ai parlé, Madame; et que jamais une bouche si pure Ne s'ouvre pour conter cette horrible avanture. Sur l'equité des dieux osons nous confier, Ils ont trop d'interet a me justifier, Et Phédre tot ou tard de son crime punie, N'en saúroit eviter la juste ignominié._

2. _Chedreux_ was the name of the fashionable periwigs of the day, and appears to have been derived from their maker. A French _peruqirier_, in one of Shadwell's comedies, says, "You talke of de Chedreux; he is no bodie to me. Dere is no man can travaille vis mee. Monsieur Wildish has got my peruke on his head. Let me see, here is de haire, de curie, de brucle, ver good, ver good. If dat foole Chedreux make de peruke like me, I vil be hanga." Bury Fair,