SCENE II.--_A Prison.

_Enter_ CLEOMENES.

_Cleom._ No food, and this the third arising sun! But what have I to do with telling suns, And measuring time, that runs no more for me? Yet sure the gods are good: I would think so, If they would give me leave; But virtue in distress, and vice in triumph, Make atheists of mankind.--

_Enter_ CRATESICLEA.

What comfort, mother?

_Crat._ A soul, not conscious to itself of ill, Undaunted courage, and a master mind; No comfort else but death, Who, like a lazy master, stands aloof, And leaves his work to the slow hands of famine.

_Cleom._ All I would ask of heaven, Is, but to die alone, a single ruin; But to die o'er and o'er, in each of you, With my own hunger pinched, but pierced with yours!

_Crat._ Grieve not for me.

_Cleom._ What! not for you, my mother? I'm strangely tempted to blaspheme the gods, For giving me so good, so kind a parent; And this is my return, to cause her death.

_Crat._ Peace! your misfortunes cause it, not your fault.

_Enter_ CLEORA.

_Cleom._ What! my Cleora? I stretched my bounds as far as I could go, To shun the sight of what I cannot help; A flower withering on the stalk, for want Of nourishment from earth, and showers from heaven, All I can give thee is but rain of eyes. [_Wiping his Eyes._

_Cleor._ Alas! I have not wherewithal to weep; My eyes grow dim, and, stiffened up with drought, Can hardly roll, and walk their feeble round. Indeed I am faint.

_Crat._ And so am I, heaven knows! However, [_Aside._ In pity of them both, I keep it secret; Nor shall he see me fall. [_Exit_ CRAT.

_Cleom._ How does your helpless infant?

_Cleor._ It wants the breast, its kindly nourishment; And I have none to give from these dry cisterns, Which, unsupplied themselves, can yield no more. It pulled, and pulled but now, but nothing came: At last it drew so hard, that the blood followed; And that red milk I found upon its lips, Which made me swoon with fear.

_Cleom._ Go in and rest thee, And hush the child asleep.-- [_Exit_ CLEORA. Look down, ye gods! Look, Hercules, thou author of my race, And jog thy father, Jove, that he may look On his neglected work of humankind! Tell him, I do not curse him; but devotion Will cool in after-times, if none but good men suffer.-- What! another increase of grief?

_Enter_ CLEONIDAS.

_Cleon._ O father!

_Cleom._ Why dost thou call me by so kind a name? A father! that implies presiding care; Cheerful to give; willing himself to want Whate'er thy needs require.

_Cleon._ A little food! Have you none, father? One poor hungry morsel; Or give me leave to die, as I desired; For, without your consent, heaven knows, I dare not.

_Cleom._ I pr'ythee stay a little:--I am loth To say hard things of heaven!

_Cleon._ But what if heaven Will do hard things, must not hard things be said? You've often told me, that the souls of kings Are made above the rest of human race; Have they not fortunes fitted for those souls? Did ever king die starved?

_Cleom._ I know not that; Yet still be firm in this,--The gods are good, Though thou and I may perish.

_Cleon._ Indeed, I know not, That ever I offended heaven in thought; I always said my prayers.

_Cleom._ Thou didst thy duty.

_Cleon._ And yet you lost the battle, when I prayed.

_Cleom._ 'Twas in the Fates I should: but hold thee there; The rest is all unfathomable depth. This we well know, that, if there be a bliss Beyond this present life, 'tis purchased here, And virtue is its price.

_Cleon._ But are you sure Our souls shall be immortal?

_Cleom._ Why that question?

_Cleon._ Because I find, that, now my body starves, My soul decays. I think not as I did; My head goes round; and now you swim before me. Methinks my soul is like a flame unfed With oil, that dances up and down the lamp, But must expire ere long.

_Cleom._ I pr'ythee try to hold it, while thou canst.

_Cleon._ I would obey you, As I have always done, but I am faint; And when you please to let me die, I'll thank you.

_Cleom._ Thou shall have food; I promise thee, thou shalt.

_Cleon._ Then you shall promise to have food for yourself too; For, if you have it not, I would refuse to eat; Nay, I would chuse to die, that you might feed on me.

_Cleom._ Mark, heaven, his filial love! And if a family of such as these Must perish thus, your model is destroyed, By which you made good men.

_Enter_ PANTHEUS, _hastily_.

_Panth._ Be cheerful, sir, the gods have sent us food.

_Cleom._ They tried me of the longest; but by whom?

_Panth._ Go in and see.

_Cleon._ Good father, do not stay to ask, but go.

_Cleom._ Go thou; thy youth calls fiercer than my age.

_Cleon._ But then make haste, and come to take your part: Hunger may make me impious, to eat all, And leave you last to starve. [_Exit_ CLEONIDAS.

_Panth._ Sir, will you go?

_Cleom._ I know not; I am half seas o'er to death; And, since I must die once, I would be loth To make a double work of what's half finished; Unless I could be sure the gods would still Renew these miracles.[44]--Who brought this food?

_Panth._ He's here that can resolve you. [_Exit_ PANTHEUS.

_Enter_ CLEANTHES, _with a Sword in his Hand_.

_Cleom._ How darest thou come again within my sight? Thou art,--but 'tis no matter what thou art. I'll not consider thee so far to think Thee worth reproach.--Away, away, Egyptian! That's all the name that's left thee.

_Clean._ Such I appear indeed.

_Cleom._ Why then for once, that which thou seem'st, thou art.-- Begone!

_Clean._ Oh I have been too long away!

_Cleom._ Too soon thou art returned, To triumph o'er my fate.

_Clean._ Forgive me, that I seemed your foe.

_Cleom._ Forgive me, heaven, for thinking thee my friend.-- No more; 'tis loss of time to talk.

_Clean._ Indeed it is, When hunger calls so loud for sustenance. But whether friend or foe, 'tis food I bring.

_Cleom._ 'Tis poison; and my mother, and my wife, And my poor famished boy, are eating death. Thou would'st not have me think, that thou repent'st?

_Clean._ Heaven knows, I do not!

_Cleom._ Well said, man! Go on; and be not bashful, To own the merits of thy wickedness.

_Clean._ What need has innocence of a repentance?

_Cleom._ Shuffling again! Pr'ythee, be of a piece. A little steadiness becomes a villain.

_Clean._ Oh, friend!--for yet I dare to call you so; Which, if I were a villain, sure I durst not,-- Hear me, or kill me!

_Cleom._ So, by heaven, I would, For thy profaning friendship's holy name; But, for thou see'st no justice hanging here, On this bare side, thou talk'st secure of vengeance.

_Clean._ Then, if you had a sword, my death's resolved?

_Cleom._ Thy conscience answers thee.

_Clean._ Without more evidence than bare surmise; At most, appearance of a crime unproved; And, while unproved, uncertain.

_Cleom._ Traitor, no more! 'tis fulsome.

_Clean._ Take the sword. [_Throws it to him._

_Cleom._ I thank thee; draw thy own. [_Takes it up._

_Clean._ No; take that too. [_Draws his, and offers it._

_Cleom._ Fool! would'st thou die without defence?

_Clean._ I would not: But you forbade me to defend myself, Then, when you would not hear me.

_Cleom._ Can falsehood have a better argument, Than force for its defence? Trust to that topic, And bear thee like a man.

_Clean._ I think, I do.

_Cleom._ What kind of man is that, who dares not fight?

_Clean._ The man, who dares not when his honour calls, Is what you mean, but what I never was; For honour never summons without reason. Force is the law of brutes: the dumb creation, Where words and reason want, appeal to might. I thought a king, and, what you boast, a Spartan, Might have known this, without the Egyptian's telling.

_Cleom._ Come, come; thou dar'st not fight.

_Clean._ By heaven, I dare! But first my honour must be justified, If you dare be my judge; For, in this crude and indigested quarrel, If I should fall unheard, you kill your friend, The man, who loved you best, and holds you dearest; And should you perish in the unjust attempt, The sword, that slew you, should revenge your death; For I should soon o'ertake you in the way, To quit myself before you reached the shades, And told your tale to Minos.

_Cleom._ Then I must hear; but swear, swear first, I charge thee, That, when I have pronounced, thou wilt no more Prolong thy prattle with some new excuse; And pr'ythee cut it short, because I faint, And long to kill thee first--Oh, I am going! A rising vapour rumbles in my brains, I hear my words far off:--stand, stand, thou traitor, And swim not thus before me;--'tis too late;

[_Puts the Point upon the Ground, once or twice; leans on it, and staggers._

And I fall unrevenged.-- [_Offers to run at him, and is falling._

_Clean._ What ho, Pantheus! [_Runs to him, and takes him in his arms._ The best of men is dying in my arms, And I want power to save him.

_Enter_ PANTHEUS.

_Panth._ O heavens! what means this direful object?

_Clean._ Ask not, with unassisting pity; bow him forward. Rub his numbed temples, while I wipe the sweat From his cold clammy face.

_Panth._ His mounting heart Bounces against my hands, as if it would Thrust off his manly soul.

_Clean._ Wrench ope his mouth, While I infuse these sovereign drops, whose power Will soon recall his wandered sense-- [_He instills somewhat out of a Vial into his Mouth._ He stirs, And stretches now, and seems to essay his limbs.

_Cleom._ Where am I? [_Standing a while; they support him._

_Clean._ In his arms, who died with you, And, now you live, revives.

_Cleom._ Art thou Pantheus?

_Panth._ Believe your eyes, I am.

_Cleom._ Speak then, and truly, (for I trust not him,) Who brought me back to life?

_Panth._ Who, but he, who was left single with you, Who caught you, falling, in his faithful arms; And, not alone sufficient to restore you, Called loud for my assistance. I found him, propping you with trembling hands; His eyes so hagard, I could scarce distinguish Who was the living friend, and who the dead.

_Cleom._ All this, Cleanthes! This, what this Cleanthes?

_Panth._ Yes, your Cleanthes.

_Clean._ Your suspected friend, Much wronged, but ever faithful.

_Cleom._ Art thou sure I live? Or am I in the regions of the dead, And hear the fables there, myself a fable?

_Panth._ Go in, and see your chearful family Eating his bread, brought in their last distress; And, with a good mistaking piety, First blessing him, then heaven.

_Cleom._ When I hear this, I have no need of food; I am restored without it.

_Clean._ Then, now hear me; How I was forced into this seeming falsehood, To save myself, the only means remaining To save the man I love beyond myself, And gain a needful credit with Cassandra: And yet even then deceived, and sent far off For three long days, unknowing of your wants, Not thinking she, who loved, could use you thus. By famishment to----

_Cleom._ O, no more! no more! For now I understand, ere thou canst speak it half: To thee I owed the seizing of my sword, Lest I should fall by odds; my wife's return, All, all to thee; and thou art more than all. Canst thou forgive me? Canst thou, my Cleanthes? Can I deserve thus to grow here once more? [_Embracing him._ Let me embrace myself quite into thee.

_Clean._ Come, come as fiercely as thou wilt, I meet thee; [_Embraces_ CLEOM. I close within thee, and am thou again.

_Panth._ Why, this is as it should be.

_Cleom._ I could not thus have taken to the death Another's falsehood, but thine, only thine; For infinitely, infinitely loving, 'Twas a wide gap thou mad'st within my bosom, And as my soul rent from me.

_Clean._ But thy hunger! This violent transport of my reconcilement Makes me forget thy wants; when I embraced thee, Thy spungy body dwindled in my arms, And, like a ghost, fled from me.

_Cleom._ I could eat-- [_Going in._ Now my first appetite of love is served; And that was much the keenest: Let us in, For life looks lovely now, and worth preserving.

_Clean._ Not that way, friend; It leads you to the women, and the boy.

_Cleom._ And why must I avoid those tender blessings?

_Clean._ Even such because they are, you must avoid them. For I must tell you, friend, you have but time To snatch a hasty morsel, and away: Nothing of manhood must be clogged, or softened, With womanish sighs and tears, and kind adieus, And those ill-timed remorses of good nature, When your whole soul is needful.

_Panth._ You tell us wonders!

_Clean._ At the king's return, Which daily we expect, your death's resolved. This hour's your own; take it, and tempt your fortune Some few brave friends I hope to add; If not, all Egypt's numbered in myself.

_Cleom._ I'm all on fire.--Now for a lucky pull At fate's last lottery! I long to see the colour, white or black: That's the gods' work; and if I fall their shame, Let them ne'er think of making heroes more, If cowards must prevail.

_Panth._ The fewer hands, The fewer partners in the share of honour.

_Cleom._ Come, my Pantheus;--lead, my best Cleanthes! We three to all the world.

_Clean._ Magas, and liberty, let be the word: Magas is loved, and liberty desired. A short refection waits at the lieutenant's, That honest friend, who sent you back your wife. We'll drink a bowl of wine, and pour the rest, Not to the dog Anubis, but to Jove, The freer and avenger. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ CRATESICLEA, CLEORA, CLEONIDAS.

_Cleor._ Gone, and without taking leave!

_Crat._ The better. He bated me the forms, and you the fondness.

_Cleon._ Pantheus, too, and he, who brought the food, The brave Egyptian, vanished altogether.

_Cleor._ Oh, my foreboding soul! he's gone to death! And that Cleanthes, whom thou call'st the brave, Has basely trained him to his destruction!

_Crat._ Suspect him not; when fate was in his power, And by a method so secure as famine, To save us then, shows he had little need To trick my son to death. I have a better prospect of the event.

_Cleor._ Dear mother! comfort me, and tell your thoughts; For I see nothing but a gathering tempest, Horror on horror, to the end of heaven!

_Crat._ No, no; you are not of a soul to bear The mighty good and ill, that meet midway, As from two goals; and which comes first upon us, Fate only knows.

_Cleon._ Then speak to me, for I can stand the shock; Like a young plant, that fastens in a storm, And deeper drives the root.

_Crat._ Thy soul's too strong; thy body yet too weak, To bear the crush. Be still, and wait thy doom. [_A cry within_: Liberty, liberty! Magas, Magas! To arms for Magas, and for liberty!

_Cleon._ What noble sound was that, so smart and vigorous, A soul in every word?

_Crat._ Why, that was it, I thought was doing; but I durst not tell, Till now it shows itself. The work's begun, my boy; the work's begun; There was thy father in that warlike shout, Stemming the tide of Egypt.

_Cleor._ O comfort me, my husband's mother! say, My lord may live and conquer!

_Crat._ Possibly; But still make sure of death; trust we to that, As to our last reserve.

_Cleor._ Alas! I dare not die.

_Crat._ Come, come, you dare: Do not belye your courage.

_Cleor._ Heaven help me, I have none.

_Crat._ Then dare you be a slave to base Egyptians? For that must be, if you outlive your husband.

_Cleor._ I think, I durst, to save myself from death.

_Crat._ Then, as a slave, you durst be ravished too?

_Cleor._ The Gods forbid!

_Crat._ The Gods cannot forbid it By any way but death.

_Cleor._ Then I dare die.

_Crat._ I told you so; you did not know your virtue. Poor trembling thing, I'll warm thee in my bosom, And make thee take death kindly. [_Another Shout within_--Liberty and Magas!

_Cleon._ What must become of me?

_Crat._ More trouble yet about this paltry being? For shame, no more such qualms!

_Cleon._ No more such vile mistakes! I would die warm, And not in women's company, but men's. Whether some god inspires me to this act, Or fate inevitably calls me on, I will not, cannot stay: But, as a generous, unfleshed hound, that hears From far the hunters' horn and chearful cry, So will I haste; and, by the music led, Come up with death or honour. [_Exit._

_Cleor._ Stop him, dear mother; he may comfort us, But cannot help his father.

_Crat._ The hero's blood is not to be controuled; Even in a child 'tis madly masterful. But wait we patient with our petty stakes, Which on those greater gamesters must depend; For, as they throw, our little lots must follow, Like sweepings of their heap.

[CRAT. _and_ CLEORA _go in. Trumpets; a Shout within_--Liberty, Liberty, and Magas!

_Enter_ CLEOMENES, CLEANTHES, PANTHEUS, _followed by some few Egyptians_.

_Cleom._ What, is this populous city turned a desert? The cry of "Liberty" runs on before us, And yet none appears! By Hercules, we drive them through their town: They dare not stay to welcome their deliverers.

_Clean._ The cowards are afraid of what they wish; And, could they be their own, they would be ours.

_Cleom._ They're gone; we talk to houses and to walls.

_Panth._ Not so; I see some peeping from their doors.-- What are you? friends, or foes?

_Four Egyptians appear, peeping from the opposite Entrances of the Stage._

_1 Egypt._ Friends, friends; all honest men, And hearty to the cause.

_Clean._ Explain what cause; and give the general cry.

_1 and 2 Egypt._ Liberty and Magas.

_Cleom._ [_In their Tone._] Liberty and Magas! The cowards whisper liberty so softly, As if they were afraid the gods would hear it, And take them at their word.

_1 Egypt._ No, friend: We vulgar never fear the gods; but we whisper, for fear our o'erthwart neighbours should hear us cry, Liberty, and betray us to the government.

_Clean._ Of what side are you there? [_To the opposite Egyptian._

_3 Egypt._ That's according as you succeed: of your side hitherto.

_Panth._ If you are men, come join with us.

_4 Egypt._ You are too few for us to join with you; but get the greater party of your side, and we'll be sure to help the common cry.

_Cleom._ Dare you do nothing to assert your freedom?

_3 Egypt._ Yes,--we'll pray devoutly for you.

_Clean._ The brave pray with their swords; that's a man's part.

_4 Egypt._ Praying with our swords, the law calls fighting; and fighting is bloodshed; and bloodshed is hanging; and hanging is the part of a dog, and not of a man, in my opinion.

_1 Egypt._ Every one for himself. [_Egyptian Trumpets within._

The government is a coming. [_They shrink back in a Fright, and clap the Doors._

_Clean._ Run! couch, you cowards, to your tyrant lords. A dog you worship, and partake his nature; A race of speaking spaniels.

_Panth._ Let them go; we'll do our work without them.

_Clean._ The comfort is, our foes are like our friends; Holiday heroes, drawn out once a month, At public charge, to eat, and to be drunk; Mere mouths of war.

_Enter_ SOSIBIUS _and_ CŒNUS, _at the Head of many Egyptians: They, who spoke before, bolt out of their Doors, and join with them_.

_Sosib._ 'Twas what I always feared,--even when I saved thee,-- To find thee thus engaged among my foes: But yet, submit; and I can yet forgive thee. Consider,--for 'tis all I've time to say,-- Thou fight'st against thy father.

_Clean._ Against my father's cause, but not my father: If you would needs become yourself a slave, And get me such, I must redeem us both, And will, or perish in the brave attempt.

_Sosib._ Withdraw thyself from ruin, I command thee.

_Clean._ Command I cannot; but I beg you, sir, Engage not for an arbitrary power, That odious weight upon a free-born soul.

_Sosib._ This is too much.--Fall on, but spare my son.

_Enter_ CASSANDRA, _attended_.

_Cas._ Sosibius, hold! Withdraw your men to distance. You know this signet: Obey your king in me. [_Shews the Signet._

_Sosib._ Never more gladly; though my son's a rebel, Yet nature works to save him.

_Cas._ Then rather than he should untimely fall, [CŒNUS _draws off_ SOSIBIUS'S _Men_. I would forgive the rest, and offer life Even to that fugitive, if he please to treat.

_Cleom._ Be short; and, if you can, for once, sincere.

_Cas._ What can you hope from this unequal fight, Where numbers rise from every foe you kill, And grow from their defeat?

_Cleom._ We come resolved; And to die killing, is a kind of conquest.

_Cas._ But are not life and freedom worth accepting, When offered; and, with such conditions too, As make them both more pleasing? Your friend's safety, Your son, your mother, and that only she Who loves you best, for your companion home:-- You know what she I mean. [_Aside to him._

_Cleom._ No private parley; [_Stepping back._ Spartans do all in public.

_Clean._ We know your reasons for these secret whispers; And to your infamy--

_Cleom._ [_Aside to him._] Peace, peace, my friend. No injuries from women can provoke A man of honour to expose their fame.-- Madam, we understand each other well: My son, my mother, and my wife restored, 'Tis peace; if not, 'tis war.

_Sosib._ A fair proposal: Be it peace.

_Cas._ No, fool! 'tis war.--Know, heavy hero, know, I gained this time for my secure revenge; To seize thy wife and mother: and, to stab thee On both sides of thy heart, they're gone to die, To make thy death more painful. Farewell, traitor! And thank thyself, not me. [_Ex._ CAS. _and_ SOSIB.

_Cleom._ Revenge, revenge, And speedy death, or conquest!--Hold, Cleanthes!

_Enter_ CLEONICAS.

Poor boy! By heaven, I'm pleased to see thee safe this moment, Though I expect the next to lose thee.--Guard him, Cleanthes: Set him safe behind the front.

_Clean._ Come, sir, you are now my charge.

_Cleon._ The gods forbid That I should seek this danger, and not share it.-- [_To_ CLEON.] Forgive me, sir, that once I disobey you, To prove myself your son; living, or dying, I'll not be less than man.

_Cleom._ Oh! I could chide thee; But there's no time for love and anger both. Fight by my side; and heaven protect thy courage.

[CLEOMENES, CLEANTHES, CLEONIDAS, _and their Party go off the Stage, to fight the Egyptians. Trumpets, Drums, Shouts, and Clashings within._

_Re-enter both Parties; the Egyptians first, driven by_ CLEOMENES; PANTHEUS _ready to kill_ SOSIBIUS, _as having him down:_ CLEANTHES _runs to him and interposes_.

_Clean._ Pantheus, hold; or turn thy sword on me.

_Panth._ [_To_ SOSIB.] Rise, sir; and thank your son.

_Clean._ [_To_ PANTH.] Pursue the foes: I have no joy of conquest, Till I have set my father safe.

_Sosib._ The gods reward thy pious care.

[CLEANTHES _leads off his Father; while_ PANTHEUS _follows_ CLEOMENES: _The Egyptians are driven to the bottom of the Stage: They make a wheeling Fight; still retiring before_ _the Spartans:_ CLEOMENES _advances eagerly after the Egyptians, and, with_ PANTHEUS, _drives them off_: CLEONIDAS _is left behind: So is_ CŒNUS, _who had skulked_.

_Cœnus._ This was well watched: The boy is left unguarded. [_Thrusts at_ CLEON. _behind_.

_Cleon._ Oh! I am slain by treason! Revenge me, royal father.

_Re-enter_ CLEOMENES.

_Cleom._ 'Twas sure his voice:-- [_Sees him on the ground._ Too sure!--Pity and rage Distract my soul: But rage will first be served. [_Runs at_ CŒNUS, _and kills him_. There's justice for myself, and for my son!-- Look up, sweet boy, And tell me that thou livest.

_Cleon._ Fain I would live, To comfort you! I bleed, and am ashamed To say I faint, and call myself your son.-- O traitor Cœnus! What's become of him?

_Cleom._ Look, there he lies.

_Cleon._ I am glad on't:-- Forgive me, heaven: I hope 'tis no offence To say I am glad, because he killed me basely.-- Still I grow fainter: Hold me, hold me, father.

_Cleom._ Chear up, and thou shalt live.

_Cleon._ No; I am just dying.

_Cleom._ What shall I lose?

_Cleon._ A boy; that's all. I might have lived to manhood; But once I must have died.

_Cleom._ But not before thy father.

_Cleon._ Nay, then you envy me, that I'm first happy. I go; and, when you come, pray find me out, And own me for your son! [_Dies._

_Cleom._ There went his soul!--Fate, thou hast done thy worst, And all thou canst henceforth is but mean slaughter, The gleanings of this harvest.

_Enter_ PANTHEUS.

_Panth._ Sir, you're well found. Our enemies are fled: I left our men pursuing, and made haste To bring this joyful news.

_Cleom._ Look there, and, if thou darest, now give me joy.

_Panth._ Enough: you've stopped my mouth.--What? Cœnus killed? I ask no questions then of who killed who; The bodies tell their story as they lie. Haste, and revenge!

_Cleom._ Where are our enemies?

_Panth._ Sculking, dispersed in garrets, and in cellars.

_Enter_ CLEANTHES.

_Cleom._ Not worth the seeking. Are these fit to atone For Cleomenes' mother, son, and wife? But what the gods have left us, we must take.

_Clean._ 'Tis all in vain: we have no further work. The people will not be dragged out to freedom; They bar their doors against it. Nay, the prisoners Even guard their chains, as their inheritance, And man their very dungeons for their masters, Lest godlike liberty, the common foe, Should enter in, and they be judged hereafter Accomplices of freedom.

_Panth._ Then we may sheath our swords.

_Clean._ We may, Pantheus; But, as brave men should, each in his bosom; That only way is left us to die free.

_Cleom._ All's lost for which I once desired to live.

_Panth._ Come to our business then. Be speedy, sir, And give the word; I'll be the first, to charge The grim foe, death.

_Cleom._ Fortune, thou hast reduced me very low, To do the drudgery of fate myself. What! not one brave Egyptian! not one worthy To do me manly right in single combat! To fall beneath my fury?--for that's justice: But then to drag me after:--for, to die, And yet in death to conquer, is my wish.

_Clean._ Then have your wish: The gods at last are kind, And have provided you a sword that's worthy To match your own: 'Tis an Egyptian's too.

_Cleom._ Is there that hidden treasure in thy country? The gods be praised, for such a foe I want.

_Clean._ Not such a foe, but such a friend am I. I would fall first, for fear I should survive you, And pull you after to make sure in death, To be your undivided friend for ever.

_Cleom._ Then enter we into each other's breasts, 'Tis a sharp passage, yet a kind one too. But, to prevent the blind mistake of swords, Lest one drop first, and leave his friend behind, Both thrust at once, and home, and at our hearts: Let neither stand on guard, but let our bosoms Lie open to each other in our death, As in our life they were.

_Clean._ I seal it thus. [_Kiss and embrace._

_Panth._ And where's my part? You shut me out, like churls, While you devour the feast of death betwixt you.

_Cleom._ Cheer up thy soul, and thou shalt die, Pantheus, But in thy turn; there's death enough for all. But, as I am thy master, wait my leisure, And honestly compose my limbs to rest, Then serve thyself.--Now, are you ready, friend?

_Clean._ I am.

_Cleom._ Then this to our next happy meeting.

[_They both push together, then stagger backwards, and fall together in each other's Arms._

_Clean._ Speak, have I served you to your wish, my friend?

_Cleom._ Yes, friend----thou hast----I have thee in my heart---- Say----art thou sped?

_Clean._ I am,--'tis my last breath.

_Cleom._ And mine----then both are happy. [_Both die._

_Panth._ So, this was well performed, and soon dispatched; Both sound asleep already, And farewell both for one short moment. [_Trumpets sound Victory within._ Those are the foes; our little band is lost For want of these defenders. I must hasten, Lest I be forced to live, and led in triumph, Defrauded of my fate. I've earned it well, And finished all my task: This is my place, Just at my master's feet.--Guard him, ye gods, And save his sacred corpse from public shame. [_He falls on his Sword, and lies at the foot of_ CLEOMENES.--_Dies._

_Enter_ SOSIBIUS, CASSANDRA, _and Egyptians_.

_Sosib._ 'Twas what my heart foreboded: There he lies, Extended by the man whom best he loved! A better friend than son.

_Cas._ What's he, or thou? or Ptolemy? or Egypt? Or all the world, to Cleomenes lost?

_Sosib._ Then I suspected right. If my revenge Can ease my sorrow, this the king shall know, That thou may'st reap the due reward of treason, And violated love.

_Cas._ Thy worst, old dotard. I wish to die; but if my mind should change, So well I know my power, that thou art lost.

_Sosib._ The king's arrival shall decide our fate.-- Mean time, to show how much I honour virtue, Take up that hero's body, bear it high, Like the procession of a deity: Let his armed figure on his tomb be set, And we, like slaves, lie grovelling at his feet, Whose glories growing till his latest breath, Excelled all others, and his own in death. [_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE.

This day, the Poet, bloodily inclined, Has made me die, full sore against my mind! Some of you naughty men, I fear, will cry, Poor rogue! would I might teach thee how to die! Thanks for your love; but I sincerely say, I never mean to die, your wicked way. Well, since it is decreed all flesh must go, (And I am flesh,--at least for aught you know) I first declare, I die with pious mind, In perfect charity with all mankind. Next for my will:----I have, in my dispose, Some certain moveables would please you beaux; As, first, my youth; for, as I have been told, Some of you modish sparks are devilish old. My chastity I need not leave among ye; For, to suspect old fops, were much to wrong ye. You swear you're sinners; but for all your haste, Your misses shake their heads, and find you chaste. I give my courage to those bold commanders, Who stay with us, and dare not go for Flanders. I leave my truth (to make his plot more clear) To Mr Fuller, when he next shall swear[45]. I give my judgment, craving all your mercies, To those that leave good plays, for damned dull farces. My small devotion let the gallants share, That come to ogle us at evening prayer. I give my person----let me well consider,---- Faith e'en to him that is the fairest bidder; To some rich hunks, if any be so bold To say those dreadful words, _To have and hold_. But stay--to give, and be bequeathing still, When I'm so poor, is just like Wickham's will: Like that notorious cheat, vast sums I give, Only that you may keep me while I live[46]. Buy a good bargain, gallants, while you may; I'll cost you but your half-a-crown a day.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 41: Ægiatis was the first wife of Cleomenes. The reader will find an account of the modest custom of Sparta here alluded to, with a curious advantage taken of it by a stranger, in "Les Voyages D'Antenor."]

[Footnote 42: It is surprising that Dryden has not here availed himself of the beautiful and affectionate apostrophe of Cleomenes, when he saw his brother Eucleidas overpowered in the battle of Sellasia: "Thou art lost, dear brother! lost for ever, thou brave example to our Spartan youth, and theme of our matrons' songs!"]

[Footnote 43: This very appropriate simile is taken literally from Plutarch. See the prefixed Life of Cleomenes, p. 239.]

[Footnote 44: This sentiment was used, and absolutely acted upon, by the famous Hewet, in very similar circumstances to those of Cleomenes. "Being taken with a suppression of urine," says Smollet, "he resolved, in imitation of Pomponius Atticus, to take himself off by abstinence; and this resolution he executed like an ancient Roman. He saw company to the last, cracked his jokes, conversed freely, and entertained his guests with music. On the third day of his fast, he found himself entirely freed of his complaint, but refused taking sustenance. He said, the most disagreeable part of the voyage was past; and he should be a cursed fool indeed to put about ship, when he was just entering the harbour. In these sentiments he persisted, without any marks of affectation; and thus finished his course with such ease and serenity, as would have done honour to the firmest Stoic of antiquity."--_Note upon the Expedition of Humphrey Clinker._]

[Footnote 45: William Fuller was an informer, who pretended, about this time, to make discovery of a formidable plot, by the Jacobites, against the government. But his luck was not so great as that of his prototype, Titus Oates; for the House of Commons finding him unable to produce the witnesses, to whom he referred for support of his tale, on the 24th February 1691, declared him "a notorious impostor, a cheat, and a false accuser, having scandalized their Majesties, and their government, abused this house, and falsely accused several persons of honour and quality." Fuller was prosecuted by the Attorney General for this offence, and punished by the pillory; notwithstanding which he did not profit by Mrs Bracegirdle's legacy, so as to make "his next plot more clear;" for, in 1702, he was sentenced to the same painful elevation, for publishing an impudent forgery, concerning the birth of the Prince of Wales, son to James II.--See State Trials, vol. VI. p. 442; and the Journals of the House of Commons, for February 1691.]

[Footnote 46: Of Wickham I can learn nothing; but the nature of his imposture is easily to be gathered from the text.]

LOVE TRIUMPHANT:

OR

NATURE WILL PREVAIL.

A

TRAGI-COMEDY.

----_Quod optanti Divûm promittere nemo Auderet, volvenda dies, en, attulit ultrò._ VIRG.

LOVE TRIUMPHANT.

This piece, which concluded our author's labours as a dramatic poet, was unsuccessful when represented, and affords very little pleasure when perused. If we except "Amboyna," our author never produced a play, where the tragic part had less interest, or the comic less humour. For the faults of "Amboyna," Dryden pleaded the barren nature of the subject, chosen not with a view to dramatic effect, but to attain a political purpose, and the hurry of writing upon a temporary theme. But that he should have failed, in a play avowedly intended to crown his dramatic labours, where the story was of his own device, and the composition at his own leisure, can only be imputed to that occasional flatness, or cessation of the divine influence, as an ancient would have expressed it, from which men of the highest poetic genius are not exempted. In despite of all cold reasoning upon this subject, the fact is irresistible, that our capacity of exerting mental talents, is not more absolute than that which we possess over our bodily powers. We are in each case limited by a thousand external and internal circumstances, which occasion the greatest and most involuntary inequalities, between our happier and our inferior efforts, of mental abilities or of corporeal strength. It can only be to the temporary failure of the poetic inspiration, which, like the wind of heaven, bloweth where it listeth, and neither to want of labour, nor to impaired talents, that we are to attribute the inferiority of "Love Triumphant," to almost all Dryden's other compositions.

The plot is unhappily chosen. For, as we have had already occasion to notice, stories turning, or appearing to turn, upon incestuous passion, have seldom been successful upon the modern stage[47]. Davies, in his "Dramatic Miscellanies," attributes Garrick's renouncing his intention of reviving the admirable old play of "King and no King," to the ardent passion which Arbaces conceives for his supposed sister; and which that excellent judge suspected would not be tolerated in our age. "Phædra and Hippolitus," though most powerfully supported, both by actors and admirers, failed for the same reason; and, according to Davies, even the various excellencies of "Don Sebastian" were unable to expiate the disgust, excited by the unpleasing discovery of his relation to Almeyda. While "Love Triumphant" labours under this capital and disagreeable defect, little ingenuity can be discovered in the story, abstracted from that consideration. The king of Castile suffers his sole and only offspring to remain in the court of a rival and hostile monarch, and even to head armies against him, supposing himself the son of his enemy. The virtuous Queen of Arragon cultivates and encourages a passion, having all the moral guilt of an incestuous attachment, between her own daughter and her supposed son. The tyrant Veramond is the only person who acts upon rational principles through the piece. He refuses the liberty of a rival king to the petulant demand of Alphonso; and not very unreasonably proposes to separate his son and daughter, before worse consequences arose from their infamous and impudently avowed passion. But by this very natural conduct, he gains the hatred of his wife, his children, and his subjects:

_Miranda canit, sed non credenda, poeta._

After so many and such violent stretches of probability, the author does not deign to wind up the plot, otherwise than by a sudden change in the temper and resolutions of Veramond, a conclusion which he himself admits in general to be grossly inartificial, and which in the present case is peculiarly infelicitous. The ruling passion of Veramond seems to be a hatred of his rival Ramirez, and a sort of instinctive antipathy to Alphonso, even when he believes him to be his own son, just arrived from conquest in his behalf. This hatred and aversion was not likely to be abated, by the objects of them turning out to be father and son; nor much soothed, by the circumstance of their making him prisoner in his own metropolis. Yet, in this situation, moved by a few soft speeches from Celidea, who had taken a fancy to the intended husband of her sister, the tyrant of Arragon alters his whole family arrangements, and habits of mind; and takes his hated foes into his family and bosom, merely that the play may be concluded. The author of these inconsistencies can hardly escape the censure of Aristotle, against which he has pleaded in the preface.

With regard to the poetry of "Love Triumphant," it is somewhat remarkable, that, in the most laboured scenes of this last effort of his tragic muse, Dryden has had recourse to his discarded mistress, Rhyme. As this could hardly arise from an alteration of his final opinion, it may have been owing to a consciousness, that there was some deficiency in the piece, which the harmony of numbers might veil, though it could not supply. The turn of the dialogue, also, is quite in our poet's early manner. The lovers, in the first scene of the second act, burning with a horrible passion, which they felt it death to conceal, and infamy and mortal sin to avow, communicate their feelings to each other in alternate couplets, like two contending Arcadians. Their horror evaporates in antithesis, and their passion in quaint prettinesses. Witness the speech of Alphonso:

_Alph._ Oh raging, impious, and yet hopeless fire! Not daring to possess what I desire; Condemn'd to suffer what I cannot bear; Tortur'd with love, and furious with despair. Of all the pains which wretched mortals prove, The fewest remedies belong to love: But ours has none; for if we should enjoy, Our fatal cure must both of us destroy. Oh dear Victoria, cause of all my pain! Oh dear Victoria, whom I would not gain! Victoria, for whose sake I would survive: Victoria, for whose sake I dare not live.

If the tragic part of "Love Triumphant" have little merit, the comic has even less. The absurdity of the two gallants disguising themselves, in hopes to pass for the deceased Conde upon a mistress, who had borne him two children, is too gross for a puppet-show, or pantomime; and there is nothing in the dialogue to attone for the flatness, and extravagance of the plot. It may, however, be remarked, that Sancho, a tawdry and conceited coxcomb, the son of a Jewish usurer, and favoured by the father of his mistress, only for his wealth, has some resemblance in manners and genealogy to a much more pleasant character, that of Isaac in the "Duenna."

It is impossible to dismiss a performance of Dryden, without some tribute of praise. The verse, where it is employed, possesses, as usual, all the dignity which numbers can give to language; and the Song upon Jealousy, as well as that in the character of a Girl, have superior merit.

The play was received as ill as might be; so at least we are informed by a curious letter, preserved by Mr Malone, dated 22d March 1693-4, in which the writer, after chuckling over the failure of the "Double Dealer," and the absolute damnation of "Love Triumphant," concludes, that the success of Southerne's "Fatal Marriage" will encourage the minor poets, "and vex huffing Dryden, and Congreve, to madness[48]." Dryden himself, it may be noticed, says nothing in the preface concerning the reception of the piece: all authorities, however, state it to have been unfavourable; and thus, as Dr Johnson has remarked, this great poet opened and closed his theatrical career with bad success; a fact, which may secure the inexperienced author from despondence, and teach him who has gained reputation, how little he ought to presume on its stability.

"Love Triumphant" was first acted and published in 1693-4.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 47: See Introduction to Oedipus, vol. VI. p. 121.]

[Footnote 48: "The second play is Mr Dryden's, called "Love Triumphant, or Nature will prevail." It is a tragi-comedy; but, in my opinion, one of the worst he ever writ, if not the very worst: the comical part descends beneath the style and show of a Bartholomew-Fair droll. It was damned by the universal cry of the town, _nemine contradicente_ but the conceited poet. He says in his prologue, that this is the last the town must expect from him; he had done himself a kindness, had he taken his leave before."]

TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JAMES,

EARL OF SALISBURY, &c.[49]

MY LORD,

This poem, being the last which I intend for the theatre, ought to have the same provision made for it, which old men make for their youngest child, which is commonly a favourite. They, who were born before it, carry away the patrimony by right of eldership; this is to make its fortune in the world, and since I can do little for it, natural affection calls upon me to put it out, at least, into the best service which I can procure for it; and, as it is the usual practice of our decayed gentry to look about them for some illustrious family, and their endeavour to fix their young darling, where he may be both well educated and supported;[50] I have herein also followed the custom of the world, and am satisfied in my judgment, that I could not have made a more worthy choice. It is true, I am not vain enough to think that anything of mine can in any measure be worthy of your lordship's patronage; and yet I should be ashamed to leave the stage, without some acknowledgment of your former favours, which I have more than once experienced. Besides the honour of my wife's relation to your noble house,[51] to which my sons may plead some title, though I cannot; you have been pleased to take a particular notice of me, even in this lowness of my fortunes, to which I have voluntarily reduced myself; and of which I have no reason to be ashamed. This condescension, my lord, is not only becoming of your antient family, but of your personal character in the world; and, if I value myself the more for your indulgence to me, and your opinion of me, it is because any thing which you like, ought to be considered as something in itself; and therefore I must not undervalue my present labours, because I have presumed to make you my patron. A man may be just to himself, though he ought not to be partial; and I dare affirm, that the several manners which I have given to the persons of this drama, are truly drawn from nature, all perfectly distinguished from each other; that the fable is not injudiciously contrived; that the turns of fortune are not managed unartfully; and that the last revolution is happily enough invented. Aristotle, I acknowledge, has declared, that the catastrophe which is made from the change of will, is not of the first order of beauty; but it may reasonably be alledged, in defence of this play, as well as of the "Cinna," (which I take to be the very best of Corneille's,) that the philosopher, who made the rule, copied all the laws, which he gave for the theatre, from the authorities and examples of the Greek poets, which he had read; and from their poverty of invention, he could get nothing but mean conclusions of wretched tales: where the mind of the chief actor was, for the most part, changed without art or preparation; only because the poet could not otherwise end his play. Had it been possible for Aristotle to have seen the "Cinna," I am confident he would have altered his opinion; and concluded, that a simple change of will might be managed with so much judgment, as to render it the most agreeable, as well as the most surprising part of the whole fable; let Dacier, and all the rest of the modern critics, who are too much bigotted to the ancients, contend ever so much to the contrary. I was afraid that I had been the inventor of a new sort of designing, when, in my third act, I make a discovery of my Alphonso's true parentage. If it were so, what wonder had it been, that dramatic poetry, though a limited art, yet might be capable of receiving some innovations for the better? But afterwards I casually found, that Menander and Terence, in the "Heautontimoroumenos," had been before me; and made the same kind of discovery in the same act. As for the mechanic unities;--that of time is much within the compass of an astrological day, which begins at twelve, and ends at the same hour the day following: that of place is not observed so justly by me, as by the ancients; for their scene was always one, and almost constantly in some public place. Some of the late French poets, and, amongst the English, my most ingenious friend, Mr Congreve, have observed this rule strictly; though the place was not altogether so public as a street. I have followed the example of Corneille, and stretched the latitude to a street and palace, not far distant from each other in the same city. They, who will not allow this liberty to a poet, make it a very ridiculous thing for an audience to suppose themselves, sometimes to be in a field, sometimes in a garden, and at other times in a chamber. There are not, indeed, so many absurdities in their supposition, as in ours; but it is an original absurdity for the audience to suppose themselves to be in any other place, than in the very theatre in which they sit; which is neither chamber, nor garden, nor yet a public place of any business, but that of the representation. For my action it is evidently double; and in that I have the most of the ancients for my examples. Yet I dare not defend this way by reason, much less by their authority; for their actions, though double, were of the same species; that is to say, in their comedies, two amours; and their persons were better linked in interests than mine. Yet even this is a fault which I should often practise, if I were to write again, because it is agreeable to the English genius. We love variety more than any other nation; and so long as the audience will not be pleased without it, the poet is obliged to humour them. On condition they were cured of this public vice, I could be content to change my method, and gladly give them a more reasonable pleasure. This digression, my lord, is not altogether the purpose of an epistle dedicatory; yet it is expected, that somewhat should be said, even here, in relation to criticism; at least in vindication of my address, that you may not be desired to patronize a poem, which is wholly unworthy of your protection. Though, after all, I doubt not but some will liken me to the lover in a modern comedy, who was combing his peruke,[52] and setting his cravat before his mistress; and being asked by her, when he intended to begin his court, replied, "He had been doing it all this while." Yet thus it happens, my lord, that self will come into all addresses of this nature, though it is the most unmannerly word of the world in civil conversation, and the most ungrateful to all hearers. For which reason, I, who have nothing to boast of, but my misfortunes, ought to be the first to banish it; especially since I have so large a field before me, as your inborn goodness, your evenness of temper, your humility in so ample a share of fortune as you possess, your humanity to all men, and your kindness to your friends; besides your natural and acquired endowments, and your brotherly love to your relations. _Notus in fratres animo paterno_, was the great commendation which Horace gave to one of his patrons; and it is that praise which particularly crowns your other virtues. But here, my lord, I am obliged, in common prudence to stop short, and to cast under a veil some other of your praises, as the chemists use to shadow the secret of their great elixir, lest, if it were made public, the world should make a bad use of it.[53] To enjoy our own quiet, without disturbing that of others, is the practice of every moral man; and, for the rest, to live chearfully and splendidly, as it is becoming your illustrious birth, so it is likewise to thank God for his benefits in the best manner. It is unnecessary to wish you more worldly happiness or content of mind, than you enjoy; but the continuance of both to yourself, and your posterity, is earnestly desired by all who have the honour to be known to you, and more particularly by,

MY LORD, Your lordship's most obedient and most humbly devoted servant, JOHN DRYDEN.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 49: James, the fourth Earl of Salisbury, was strongly attached to the religion and cause of his former master, James II., a reason, doubtless, for Dryden inscribing to him his last dramatic offspring. There was also a connection betwixt our poet's lady and the Earl, which is alluded to in the dedication. The Earl succeeded to the title in 1683.]

[Footnote 50: It was an ancient custom derived from the days of chivalry, but which long survived them, that, as formerly the future knight had to go through a preliminary course of education, as page and squire to some person of rank and valour; so the pages of the quality, so late as the Revolution, were the sons of gentlemen, and in no way derogated from their birth by accepting that menial situation. This is often alluded to in the old plays. In the "New Inn" for example, when Lovel asks of the Host his son for a page, we have an account of the decay of the institution from its original purposes and respectability.

_Lovel._ Call you that desperate, which by a line Of institution from our ancestors Hath been derived down to us, and received In a succession, for the noblest way Of breeding up our youth in letters, arms, Fair mien, discourses, civil exercise, And all the blazon of a gentleman? Where can he learn to vault, to ride, to fence, To move his body gracefuller? to speak His language purer? or tune his mind And manners more to the harmony of nature, Than in these nurseries of nobility?----

_Host._ Aye, that was when the nurseries self was noble, And only virtue made it, not the market, That titles were not vented at the drum Or common outcry: Goodness gave the greatness, And greatness worship: Every house became An academy of honour, and those parts We see departed in the practice now Quite from the institution.

_Lovel._ Why do you say so, Or think so enviously? do they not still Learn there the centaur's skill, the art of Thrace, To ride? or Pollux' mystery, to fence? The Pyrrhick gesture, both to dance and spring In armour? to be active for the wars? To study figures, numbers, and proportions, May yield them great in counsel? and the arts, Grave Nestor and the wise Ulysses practised, To make their English sweet upon their tongue, As reverend Chaucer says?

_Host._ Sir, you mistake.-- To play Sir Pandarus my copy hath it, And carry messages to Madam Cresside; Instead of backing the brave steed o' mornings, To mount the chamber-maid, and, for a leap O' the vaulting horse, to ply the vaulting house; For exercise of arms, a bale of dice, Or two or three packs of cards, to shew the cheat, And nimbleness of hand; mistake a cloak From my lord's back, and pawn it; ease his pockets Of a superfluous watch; or geld a jewel Of an odd stone or so; twinge two or three buttons From off my lady's gown. These are the arts, Or seven liberal deadly sciences Of pagery, or rather paganism, As the tides run; to which if he apply him, He may perhaps take a degree at Tyburn A year the earlier; come to read a lecture Upon Aquinas at St Thomas a watering's, And so go forth a laureat in hemp circle.

_New Inn._ Act I. Scene 3d.]

[Footnote 51: The second earl of Salisbury married an aunt of Lady Elizabeth Dryden; his son, lord Cranbourne, was grandfather of James, the fourth earl; and therein consisted the relationship between Dryden's sons, and the family of his patron, to which it is somewhat difficult, in modern days, to give an exact name.]

[Footnote 52: This attitude and employment, however inconsistent with our modern ideas of good breeding, seems to have been an air frequently assumed by the beaus of the seventeenth century. In a play by Killigrew, called the "Parson's Wedding," we have this direction: "Enter Jack Constant, Will Sad, Jolly, and a footman: they comb their heads, and talk." Our author alludes to the same fashion, in the Prologue to the "Conquest of Grenada," Part II.

Straight every man who thinks himself a wit, Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace, With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face.

The same custom is alluded to by Congreve, and is supposed to have remained fashionable during Queen Anne's time.]

[Footnote 53: Mr Malone conjectures, with great probability, that this virtue, which would not bear the light, must have been lord Salisbury's secret attachment to the exiled monarch.]

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON.

As when some treasurer lays down the stick, Warrants are signed for ready money thick, And many desperate debentures paid, Which never had been, had his lordship staid: So now, this poet, who forsakes the stage, Intends to gratify the present age. One warrant shall be signed for every man; All shall be wits that will, and beaux that can: Provided still, this warrant be not shown, And you be wits but to yourselves alone;[54] Provided too, you rail at one another, For there's no one wit, will allow a brother; Provided also, that you spare this story, Damn all the plays that e'er shall come before ye. If one by chance prove good in half a score, Let that one pay for all, and damn it more. For if a good one 'scape among the crew, } And you continue judging as you do, } Every bad play will hope for damning too. } You might damn this, if it were worth your pains; } Here's nothing you will like; no fustian scenes, } And nothing too of--you know what he means. } No double _entendres_, which you sparks allow, To make the ladies look they know not how; Simply as 'twere, and knowing both together, Seeming to fan their faces in cold weather. But here's a story, which no books relate, Coin'd from our own old poet's addle-pate. The fable has a moral too, if sought; } But let that go; for, upon second thought, } He fears but few come hither to be taught. } Yet if you will be profited, you may; And he would bribe you too, to like his play. He dies, at least to us, and to the stage, And what he has, he leaves this noble age. He leaves you, first, all plays of his inditing, The whole estate, which he has got by writing. The beaux may think this nothing but vain praise; } They'll find it something, the testator says; } For half their love is made from scraps of plays. } To his worst foes, he leaves his honesty, That they may thrive upon't as much as he. He leaves his manners to the roaring boys, Who come in drunk, and fill the house with noise. He leaves to the dire critics of his wit, His silence and contempt of all they writ. To Shakespear's critic, he bequeaths the curse, To find his faults; and yet himself make worse;[55] A precious reader, in poetic schools, Who by his own examples damns his rules. Last, for the fair, he wishes you may be, From your dull critics, the lampooners, free. Though he pretends no legacy to leave you, An old man may at least good wishes give you. Your beauty names the play; and may it prove To each, an omen of triumphant love!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 54: This seems to be an allusion to the pretended dukedom of Marine, in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Noble Gentleman," which had been revived in 1688, by Tom D'urfey, under the title of the "Three Dukes of Dunstable."

_Gent._ Hark you, sir, the king doth know you are a duke.

_Mar._ No! does he?

_Gent._ Yes, and is content you shall be; but with this caution, That none know't but yourself; for, if you do, He'll take't away by act of parliament.

_Mar_. There is my hand, and, whilst I live or breathe, No living wight shall know I am a duke,]

[Footnote 55: I do not know if any individual is here levelled at. Shakespeare has had his critics in all ages, who, like the inexpert tinker, have generally made two holes in patching one. In the end of the seventeenth century, his plays were usually acted in a sophisticated state, as altered by Tate, D'Avenant, Crowne, Ravenscroft, and others. The last, in the preface to his alteration of "Titus Andronicus," has the impudence to say, "That if the reader will compare the old play with his copy, he will find that none in all that author's works ever received greater alterations or additions, the language not only refined, but many scenes entirely new, besides most of the principal characters heightened, and the plot much increased."]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

VERAMOND, _King of Arragon_. ALPHONSO, _his supposed Son_. GARCIA, _King of Navarre_. RAMIREZ, _King of Castile_. SANCHO, } CARLOS, } _Two Colonels_. LOPEZ, _an old Courtier_.

XIMENA, _Queen of Arragon_. VICTORIA, _eldest daughter to the King and Queen_, CELIDEA, _her Sister_. DALINDA, _Daughter to_ LOPEZ. _A Nurse with two Children._

SCENE,--_Saragossa in Spain_.

LOVE TRIUMPHANT;

OR,

NATURE WILL PREVAIL.