John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Set. Where is the grateful sense of all your favours? Come, fiends, with flesh-hooks, tear the wretch in pieces, And bear his soul upon your leather wings, Below the fountain of the dark abyss.

  Lov. What, are you a-conjuring? If you are good at that sport, I can conjure as well as you — [Draws his sword.

  Const. Hold; for Heaven’s sake, hold! I am no spirit; touch but my hand; ghosts have no flesh and blood. [Discovering.

  Lov. My lady Constance! I began to suspect it might be a trick, but never could imagine you the author. It seems you are desirous I should father this hans en kelder here?

  Const. I know not how, without a blush, to tell you, it was a cheat I practised for your love.

  Set. A mere tympany, sir, raised by a cushion; you see ’tis gone already.

  Const. Setstone was sent to have acquainted you; but, by the way, unfortunately missed you.

  Lev. Twas you, then, that supplied me all this while with money? pretty familiar, I hope to make thee amends ere I sleep to-night. Come, parson, pr’ythee make haste and join us. I long to be out of her debt, poor rogue.

  [The parson takes them to the side of the stage; they turn their backs to the audience, while he mumbles to them.

  Set. I’ll be the clerk; Amen — give you joy, Mr Bridegroom, and Mrs Bride.

  Lov. Const. Thanks, honest Setstone.

  [BIBBER, FRANCES, and music without — they play.

  Music. God give your worship a good even, Mr Loveby.

  Const. Hark! what noise is that! Is this music of your providing, Setstone?

  Set. Alas, madam, I know nothing of it.

  Lov. We are betrayed to your father; but the best on’t is, he comes too late to hinder us — fear not, madam, I’ll bear you through them all.

  [As they rush out, BIBBER, FRANCES, and Music are entering in; BIBBER and FRANCES are beaten down. — Exeunt LOVEBY; CONSTANCE, SETSTONE, and Parson.

  All cry out. Oh the devil! the devil! the devil!

  Bib. Lord bless us, where are you, Frances!

  Fran. Here, William! this is a judgment, as they say, upon you, William, for trusting wits, and calling gentlemen to the tavern, William.

  Bib. No; ’twas a judgment upon you, for desiring preferment at court, Frances. Let’s call up the watch, and Justice Trice, to have the house searched.

  Fran. Ay, ay; there’s more devils there, I warrant you. [Exeunt.

  Enter LOVEBY, CONSTANCE, and SETSTONE again.

  Lov. It was certainly Will Bibber and his wife, with music; for, now I remember myself, I ‘pointed him this hour at your father’s house: but we frighted them worse than they frighted us.

  Const. Our parson ran away too, when they cried out the devil!

  Lov. He was the wiser; for if the devil had come indeed, he has preached so long against him, it would have gone hard with him.

  Set. Indeed, I have always observed parsons to be more fearful of the devil than other people.

  Lov. Oh, the devil’s the spirit, and the parson’s the flesh; and betwixt those two there must be a war; yet, to do them both right, I think in my conscience they quarrel only like lawyers for their fees, and meet good friends in private, to laugh at their clients.

  Const. I saw him run in at my cousin Isabella’s chamber door, which was wide open; I believe she’s returned: We’ll fetch a light from the gallery, and give her joy.

  Lov. Why, is she married, madam?

  Const. I’ll tell you as we go. [Exeunt.

  SCENE III.

  BURR and the Parson enter, meeting in the dark.

  Burr. My lady Constance, are you come again? That’s well; I have waited sufficiently for you in the dark.

  Par. Help, help, help, good Christian people! the devil, the devil’s here.

  Burr. ’Tis I, madam; what do you mean?

  Par. Avoid, Satan! avoid, avoid.

  Burr. What have I here, the hairy woman?

  Enter LOVEBY, and CONSTANCE with the light.

  Ha! yonder’s my lady Constance! who have I got? a stone priest, by this good light. How’s this, Loveby too!

  Lov. Burr a-beating my reverend clergy? What makes you here at this unseasonable hour? I’ll know your business. [Draws.

  Burr. Will you, sir? [They fight.

  Const. Set. Par. Help, murder, murder!

  Enter, at one door, TRICE drunk, with the Watch; BIBBER and FRANCES following; at the other, NONSUCH and Servants, and FAILER.

  Non. Murder, murder! beat down their weapons. Will you murder Sir Timorous, Mr Loveby? — [They disarm both.] Sir Timorous? — ha, Burr! Thieves, thieves! — sit down, good Mr Justice, and take their examinations. Now I shall know how my money went.

  Trice. They shall have justice, I warrant them. [Goes to sit, and misses the chair.

  Bib. The justice is almost dead drunk, my lord.

  Fran. But an’t please your worship, my lord, this is not the worst sight that we have seen here to-night in your worship’s house; we met three or four hugeous ugly devils, with eyes like saucers, that threw down my husband, that threw down me, that made my heart so panck ever since, as they say! —

  Non. The devil again in my house?

  Lov. Nay, here he was, that’s certain; he brought me hither, I know not how myself, and married me; Mr Setstone there can justify it: But the best is, I have a charm about me, that will lay him yet ere midnight.

  Fail. And I vow to gad, my lord, I know as little how I came hither as any man.

  Burr. Nor I.

  Trice. Nor I.

  Lot. No, I dare swear do’st thou not, Mr Justice.

  Trice. But I wonder how the devil durst come into our ward, when he knows I have been at the duties of — my family — this evening.

  Enter one of the Watch, with TIMOROUS and ISABELLA.

  Watch. An please your worship, I met this couple in the street late, and so, seeing them to be a man and woman, I brought them along with me, upon suspicion of felony together.

  Fran. This is the proud minx, that sought shelter in my house this afternoon, Mr Justice.

  Fail. Sir Timorous and Madam Isabella! I vow to gad, we are undone, Burr. —

  Isa. Do not you know me, Mr Justice?

  Lov. Justice is blind, he knows nobody.

  Isa. My name is Isabella.

  Fran. No, thy name is Jezebella; I warrant you, there’s none but rogues and papists would be abroad at this time of night.

  Bib. Hold, Frances. —

  Trice. She’s drunk, I warrant her, as any beast. I wonder, woman, you do not consider what a crying sin drunkenness is: Whom do you learn it from in our parish? I am sure you never see me worse.

  Isa. Burr and Failer, acknowledge yourselves a couple of recreant knights: Sir Timorous is mine: I have won him in fair field from you.

  Const. Give you joy, cousin, give you joy!

  Lov. Married!

  Isa. And in Diana’s grove, boy.

  Lov. Why, ’tis fine, by Heaven; ’tis wondrous fine; as the poet goes on sweetly.

  Tim. I am sure they had gagged me, and bound me, and stripped me almost stark naked, and locked me up as fast as a butterfly, ‘till she came and made me a man again; and therefore I have reason to love her the longest day I have to live.

  Isa. Ay, and the longest night too, or you are to blame. And you have one argument I love you, if the proverb be true, for I took you almost in your bare shirt.

  Burr. So much for us, Failer!

  Const. Well, my lord, it had as good out at first as at last: I must beg your lordship’s blessing for this gentleman and myself. [Both kneel.

  Non. Why, you are not married to him, I hope! he’s married to the devil.

  Lov. ’Twas a white devil of your lordship’s getting, then; Mr Setstone and the reverend here can witness it.

  Set. Par. We must speak truth, my lord.

  Non. Would I had another child for your sake! you should ne’er see a penny of my money.

  Lov. Thank you, my lord; but methinks ’tis much bett
er as it is.

  Isa. Come, nuncle, ’tis in vain to hold out, now ’tis past remedy: ’Tis like the last act of a play, when people must marry; and if fathers will not consent then, they should throw oranges at them from the galleries. Why should you stand off, to keep us from a dance?

  Non. But there’s one thing still that troubles me; that’s her great belly, and my own too.

  Const. Nay, for mine, my lord, ’tis vanished already; ’twas but a trick to catch the old one.

  Lov. But I’ll do my best; she shall not be long without another.

  Isa. But as for your great belly, nuncle, I know no way to rid you on’t, but by taking out your guts.

  Lov. ’Tis such a pretty smart rascal, ’tis well I am pleased with my own choice: but I could have got such Hectors, and poets, and gamesters, out of thee! —

  Const. No, no; two wits could never have lived well together; want would have so sharpened you upon one another.

  Isa. A wit should naturally be joined to a fortune; by the same reason your vintners feed their hungry wines.

  Const. And if Sir Timorous and I had married, we two fortunes must have built hospitals with our money; we could never have spent it else.

  Lov. Or what think you of paying courtiers’ debts with it?

  Isa. Well, to shew I am in charity with my enemies, I’ll make a motion: While we are in town, let us hire a large house, and live together: Burr and Failer —

  Fail. Shall be utterly discarded; I knew ‘twould come to that, I vow to gad.

  Isa. Shall be our guests.

  [BURR and FAILER throw up their caps, and cry, Vive Madam ISABELLA!

  Lov. And Bibber shall make our wedding clothes without trusting.

  Bib. No, henceforward I’ll trust none but landed men, and such as have houses and apple-trees in the country, now I have got a place in the custom-house.

  Fran. Nothing vexes me, but that this flirting gentlewoman should go before me; but I’ll to the herald’s office, and see whether the queen’s majesty’s dresser, should not take place of any knight’s wife in Christendom.

  Bib. Now all will out — no more, good Frances.

  Fran. I will speak, that I will, so I will: What! shall I be a dresser to the queen’s majesty, and nobody must know on’t? I’ll send Mr Church-warden word on’t; and, gentlemen, when you come to St Bride’s church (if ever you come to church, gentlemen), you shall see me in the pew that’s next the pulpit; thank Mr Loveby’s worship for it.

  Lov. Spare your thanks, good landlady; for the truth is, they came too late, the place is gone; and so is yours, Will; but you shall have two hundred pounds for one, if that will satisfy you.

  Fran. This is bitter news, as they say.

  Lov. Cheer up thy wife, Will. Where are the fiddles? A dance should do it.

  Bib. I’ll run and call them.

  Isa. I have found out that, will comfort her: Henceforward I christen her by the name of Madam Bibber.

  All. A Madam Bibber, a Madam Bibber!

  Fran. Why, I thank you, sweet gentlemen and ladies; this is a cordial to my drooping spirits: I confess I was a little eclipsed; but I’ll cheer up with abundance of love, as they say. Strike up, fiddles.

  Lov. That’s a good wench.

  DANCE.

  Trice. This music and a little nod has recovered me. I’ll in, and provide for the sack posset.

  Non. To bed, to bed; ’tis late. Son Loveby, get me a boy to-night, and I’ll settle three thousand a-year upon him the first day he calls me grandsire.

  Lov. I’ll do my best, To make the bargain sure before I sleep. Where love and money strike, the blow goes deep.

  [Exeunt omnes.

  EPILOGUE, WHEN IT WAS FIRST ACTED.

  The Wild Gallant has quite played out his game;

  He’s married now, and that will make him tame;

  Or if you think marriage will not reclaim him,

  The critics swear they’ll damn him, but they’ll tame him.

  Yet, though our poet’s threatened most by these,

  They are the only people he can please:

  For he, to humour them, has shown to-day,

  That which they only like, a wretched play:

  But though his play be ill, here have been shown

  The greatest wits, and beauties of the town;

  And his occasion having brought you here,

  You are too grateful to become severe.

  There is not any person here so mean,

  But he may freely judge each act and scene:

  But if you bid him chuse his judges, then,

  He boldly names true English gentlemen:

  For he ne’er thought a handsome garb or dress

  So great a crime, to make their judgment less:

  And with these gallants he these ladies joins,

  To judge that language, their converse refines.

  But if their censures should condemn his play,

  Far from disputing, he does only pray

  He may Leander’s destiny obtain:

  Now spare him, drown him when he comes again.

  EPILOGUE, WHEN REVIVED.

  Of all dramatic writing, comic wit,

  As ’tis the best, so ’tis most, hard to hit.

  For it lies all in level to the eye,

  Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.

  Humour is that, which every day we meet,

  And therefore known as every public street;

  In which, if e’er the poet go astray,

  You all can point, ’twas there he lost his way.

  But, what’s so common, to make pleasant too,

  Is more than any wit can always do.

  For ’tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;

  To make regalios out of common meat.

  But, in your diet, you grow savages:

  Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;

  And, as their feasts with slaughtered slaves began,

  So you, at each new play, must have a man.

  Hither you come, as to see prizes fought;

  If no blood’s drawn, you cry, the prize is naught.

  But fools grow wary now; and, when they see

  A poet eyeing round the company,

  Straight each-man for himself begins to doubt;

  They shrink like seamen when a press comes out.

  Few of them will be found for public use,

  Except you charge an oaf upon each house,

  Like the train bands, and every man engage

  For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage.

  And when, with much ado, you get him there,

  Where he in all his glory should appear,

  Your poets make him such rare things to say,

  That he’s more wit than any man i’ th’ play:

  But of so ill a mingle with the rest,

  As when a parrot’s taught to break a jest.

  Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,

  As tawdry squires in country churches do.

  Things well considered, ’tis so hard to make

  A comedy, which should the knowing take,

  That our dull poet, in despair to please,

  Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.

  ’Tis a land-tax, which he’s too poor to pay;

  You therefore must some other impost lay.

  Would you but change, for serious plot and verse,

  This motely garniture of fool and farce,

  Nor scorn a mode, because ’tis taught at home,

  Which does, like vests, our gravity become,

  Our poet yields you should this play refuse:

  As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose,

  With some content, their fripperies of France,

  In hope it may their staple trade advance.

  THE RIVAL LADIES

  A TRAGI-COMEDY

  This play, like that which preceded it, is a drama of intrigue, borrowed from the Spanish, and claiming merit only in proportion
to the diversity and ingenuity of the incidents represented. On this point every reader can decide for himself; and it would be an invidious task to point out blemishes, where, to own the truth, there are but few beauties. The ease with which the affections of almost every female in the drama are engrossed by Gonsalvo, and afterwards transferred to the lovers, upon whom the winding up of the plot made it necessary to devolve them, will, it is probable, strike every reader as unnatural. In truth, when the depraved appetite of the public requires to be gratified by trick and bustle, instead of nature and sentiment, authors must sacrifice the probable, as well as the simple, process of events.

  The author seems principally to have valued himself on this piece, because it contains some scenes executed in rhyme, in what was then called the heroic manner. Upon this opinion, which Dryden lived to retract, I have ventured to offer my sentiments in the Life of the Author. In other respects, though not slow in perceiving and avouching his own merit, our author seems to consider the “Rival Ladies” as no very successful dramatic effort.

  The “Rival Ladies” is supposed to have been first acted in 1663, and was certainly published in the year following. Of its success we know nothing particular. It is probable, the flowing verse, into which some part of the dialogue is thrown, with the strong point and antithesis, which distinguishes Dryden’s works, and particularly his argumentative poetry, tended to redeem the credit of the author of the “Wild Gallant.”

  THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROGER, EARL OF ORRERY.

  My Lord,

  This worthless present was designed you long before it was a play; when it was only a confused mass of thoughts, tumbling over one another in the dark; when the fancy was yet in its first work, moving the sleeping images of things towards the light, there to be distinguished, and then either chosen or rejected by the judgment; it was yours, my lord, before I could call it mine. And, I confess, in that first tumult of my thoughts, there appeared a disorderly kind of beauty in some of them, which gave me hope, something, worthy my lord of Orrery, might be drawn from them: But I was then in that eagerness of imagination, which, by overpleasing fanciful men, flatters them into the danger of writing; so that, when I had moulded it into that shape it now bears, I looked with such disgust upon it, that the censures of our severest critics are charitable to what I thought (and still think) of it myself: It is so far from me to believe this perfect, that I am apt to conclude our best plays are scarcely so; for the stage being the representation of the world, and the actions in it, how can it be imagined, that the picture of human life can be more exact than life itself is? He may be allowed sometimes to err, who undertakes to move so many characters and humours, as are requisite in a play, in those narrow channels which are proper to each of them; to conduct his imaginary persons through so many various intrigues and chances, as the labouring audience shall think them lost under every billow; and then, at length, to work them so naturally out of their distresses, that, when the whole plot is laid open, the spectators may rest satisfied, that every cause was powerful enough to produce the effect it had; and that the whole chain of them was with such due order linked together, that the first accident would naturally beget the second, till they all rendered the conclusion necessary.