John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Courage proves guilt, when merits swell to pride.

  Aca. Darest thou, who didst thy prince’s life betray,

  Once name that duty, thou hast thrown away?

  Like thy injustice to this stranger shown,

  To tax him with a guilt, that is thy own? —

  Can you, brave soldiers, suffer him to die,

  That gave you life, in giving victory?

  Look but upon this stranger, see those hands,

  That brought you freedom, fettered up in bands.

  Not one looks up, —

  Lest sudden pity should their hearts surprise,

  And steal into their bosoms through their eyes.

  Zemp. Why thus, in vain, are thy weak spirits prest? Restore thyself to thy more needful rest.

  Aca. And leave Orazia! —

  Zemp. Go, you must resign: For she must be the gods’; not yours, nor mine.

  Aca. You are my mother, and my tongue is tied

  So much by duty, that I dare not chide. —

  Divine Orazia!

  Can you have so much mercy to forgive?

  I do not ask it with design to live,

  But in my death to have my torments cease:

  Death is not death, when it can bring no peace.

  Oraz. I both forgive, and pity; —

  Aca. O, say no more, lest words less kind destroy

  What these have raised in me of peace and joy:

  You said, you did both pity and forgive;

  You would do neither, should Acacis live.

  By death alone the certain way appears,

  Thus to hope mercy, and deserve your tears.

  [Stabs himself.

  Zemp. O, my Acacis! What cruel cause could urge this fatal deed? —

  [Weeps.

  He faints! — help, help! some help! or he will bleed

  His life, and mine, away! —

  Some water there! — Not one stirs from his place!

  I’ll use my tears to sprinkle on his face.

  Aca. Orazia, —

  Zemp. Fond child! why dost thou call upon her name? I am thy mother.

  Aca. No, you are my shame.

  That blood is shed that you had title in,

  And with your title may it end your sin! —

  Unhappy prince, you may forgive me now,

  Thus bleeding for my mother’s cruel vow.

  Inca. Be not concerned for me; Death’s easier than the changes I have seen: I would not live to trust the world again.

  Mont. Into my eyes sorrow begins to creep; When hands are tied, it is no shame to weep.

  Aca. Dear Montezuma,

  I may be still your friend, though I must die

  Your rival in her love: Eternity

  Has room enough for both; there’s no desire,

  Where to enjoy is only to admire:

  There we’ll meet friends, when this short storm is past.

  Mont. Why must I tamely wait to perish last?

  Aca. Orazia weeps, and my parched soul appears

  Refreshed by that kind shower of pitying tears;

  Forgive those faults my passion did commit,

  ’Tis punished with the life that nourished it;

  I had no power in this extremity

  To save your life, and less to see you die.

  My eyes would ever on this object stay,

  But sinking nature takes the props away.

  Kind death,

  To end with pleasures all my miseries,

  Shuts up your image in my closing eyes.

  [Dies.

  Enter a Messenger.

  Mess. To arms, to arms!

  Trax. From whence this sudden fear?

  Mess. Stand to your guard, my lord, the danger’s near: From every quarter crowds of people meet, And, leaving houses empty, fill the street.

  [Exit Mess.

  Trax. Fond queen, thy fruitless tears a while defer;

  Rise, we must join again — Not speak, nor stir!

  I hear the people’s voice like winds that roar,

  When they pursue the flying waves to shore.

  Enter Second Messenger.

  Mess. Prepare to fight, my lord; the banished queen, With old Garucca, in the streets are seen.

  Trax. We must go meet them or it be too late; Yet, madam, rise; have you no sense of fate?

  Enter third Messenger.

  Mess. King Montezuma their loud shouts proclaim,

  The city rings with their new sovereign’s name;

  The banished queen declares he is her son,

  And to his succour all the people run.

  [ZEMPOALLA rises.

  Zemp. Can this be true? O love! O fate! have I Thus doated on my mortal enemy?

  Trax. To my new prince I thus my homage pay; Your reign is short, young king —

  Zemp. Traxalla, stay— ’Tis to my hand that he must owe his fate, I will revenge at once my love and hate.

  [She sets a dagger to MONTEZUMA’S breast.

  Trax. Strike, strike, the conquering enemy is near. My guards are passed, while you detain me here.

  Zemp. Die then, ungrateful, die; Amexia’s son

  Shall never triumph on Acacis’ throne.

  Thy death must my unhappy flames remove:

  Now where is thy defence — against my love?

  [She cuts the cords, and gives him the dagger.

  Trax. Am I betrayed? [He draws and thrusts at MONTEZUMA, he puts it by and kills him.

  Mont. So may all rebels die: This end has treason joined with cruelty.

  Zemp. Live thou whom I must love, and yet must hate; She gave thee life, who knows it brings her fate.

  Mont. Life is a trifle which I would not take,

  But for Orazia’s and her father’s sake:

  Now, Inca, hate me, if thou canst; for he,

  Whom thou hast scorned, will die, or rescue thee.

  As he goes to attack the guards with TRAXALLA’S sword, enter AMEXIA, GARUCCA, Indians, driving some of the other party before them.

  Gar. He lives; ye gods, he lives! great queen, see here Your coming joys, and your departing fear.

  Amex. Wonder and joy so fast together flow,

  Their haste to pass has made their passage slow;

  Like struggling waters in a vessel pent,

  Whose crowding drops choak up the narrow vent.

  My son! —

  [She embraces him.

  Mont. I am amazed! it cannot be That fate has such a joy in store for me.

  Amex. Can I not gain belief that this is true?

  Mont. It is my fortune I suspect, not you.

  Gar. First ask him if he old Garucca know.

  Mont. My honoured father! let me fall thus low.

  Gar. Forbear, great prince; ’tis I must pay to you

  That adoration, as my sovereign’s due:

  For, from my humble race you did not spring;

  You are the issue of our murdered king,

  Sent by that traitor to his blest abode,

  Whom, to be made a king, he made a god:

  The story is too full of fate to tell,

  Or what strange fortune our lost queen befel.

  Amex. That sad relation longer time will crave;

  I lived obscure, he bred you in a cave,

  But kept the mighty secret from your ear,

  Lest heat of blood to some strange course should steer

  Your youth.

  Mont. I owe him all, that now I am;

  He taught me first the noble thirst of fame.

  Shewed me the baseness of unmanly fear,

  Till the unlicked whelp I plucked from the rough bear,

  And made the ounce and tyger give me way,

  While from their hungry jaws I snatched the prey:

  ’Twas he that charged my young arms first with toils,

  And drest me glorious in my savage spoils.

  Gar. You spent in shady forest all the day,

  And joyed, returning, to shew me the
prey,

  To tell the story, to describe the place,

  With all the pleasures of the boasted chace;

  Till fit for arms, I reaved you from your sport,

  To train your youth in the Peruvian court:

  I left you there, and ever since have been

  The sad attendant of my exiled queen.

  Zemp. My fatal dream comes to my memory;

  That lion, whom I held in bonds, was he,

  Amexia was the dove that broke his chains;

  What now but Zempoalla’s death remains?

  Mont. Pardon, fair princess, if I must delay

  My love a while, my gratitude to pay.

  Live, Zempoalla — free from dangers live,

  For present merits I past crimes forgive:

  Oh, might she hope Orazia’s pardon, too!

  Oraz. I would have none condemned for loving you; In me her merit much her fault o’erpowers; She sought my life, but she preserved me yours.

  Amex. Taught by my own, I pity her estate, And wish her penitence, but not her fate.

  Inca. I would not be the last to bid her live; Kings best revenge their wrongs, when they forgive.

  Zemp. I cannot yet forget what I have been:

  Would you give life to her, that was a queen?

  Must you then give, and must I take? there’s yet

  One way, that’s by refusing, to be great:

  You bid me live — bid me be wretched too;

  Think, think, what pride, unthroned, must undergo:

  Look on this youth, Amexia, look, and then

  Suppose him yours, and bid me live again;

  A greater sweetness on these lips there grows,

  Than breath shut out from a new-folded rose:

  What lovely charms on these cold cheeks appear!

  Could any one hate death, and see it here?

  But thou art gone —

  Mont. O that you would believe

  Acacis lives in me, and cease to grieve.

  Zemp. Yes, I will cease to grieve, and cease to be.

  His soul stays watching in his wound for me;

  All that could render life desired is gone,

  Orazia has my love, and you my throne,

  And death, Acacis — yet I need not die,

  You leave me mistress of my destiny;

  In spite of dreams, how am I pleased to see,

  Heaven’s truth, or falsehood, should depend on me!

  But I will help the Gods;

  The greatest proof of courage we can give,

  Is then to die when we have power to live. [Kills herself.

  Mont. How fatally that instrument of death Was hid —

  Amex. She has expired her latest breath.

  Mont. But there lies one, to whom all grief is due.

  Oraz. None e’er was so unhappy and so true.

  Mont. Your pardon, royal sir.

  Inca. You have my love. [Gives him ORAZIA.

  Amex. The gods, my son, your happy choice approve.

  Mont. Come, my Orazia, then, and pay with me, [Leads her to ACACIS. Some tears to poor Acacis’ memory; So strange a fate for men the gods ordain, Our clearest sunshine should be mixt with rain; How equally our joys and sorrows move! Death’s fatal triumphs, joined with those of love. Love crowns the dead, and death crowns him that lives, Each gains the conquest, which the other gives. [Exeunt omnes.

  EPILOGUE.

  SPOKEN BY MONTEZUMA.

  You see what shifts we are enforced to try,

  To help out wit with some variety;

  Shows may be found that never yet were seen,

  ’Tis hard to find such wit as ne’er has been:

  You have seen all that this old world can do,

  We, therefore, try the fortune of the new,

  And hope it is below your aim to hit

  At untaught nature with your practised wit:

  Our naked Indians, then, when wits appear,

  Would as soon chuse to have the Spaniards here.

  ’Tis true, you have marks enough, the plot, the show,

  The poet’s scenes, nay, more, the painter’s too;

  If all this fail, considering the cost,

  ’Tis a true voyage to the Indies lost:

  But if you smile on all, then these designs,

  Like the imperfect treasure of our minds,

  Will pass for current wheresoe’er they go,

  When to your bounteous hands their stamps they owe.

  THE INDIAN EMPEROR

  OR, THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO BY THE SPANIARDS.

  BEING THE SEQUEL OF THE INDIAN QUEEN.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  ACT III.

  ACT IV.

  ACT V.

  EPILOGUE

  Dum relego, scripsisse pudet, quia plurima cerno,

  Me quoque, qui feci, judice, digna limi. OVID.

  TO THE MOST EXCELLENT AND MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCESS, ANNE, DUCHESS OF MONMOUTH AND BUCCLEUCH, WIFE TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AND HIGH-BORN PRINCE, JAMES, DUKE OF MONMOUTH.

  May it please Your Grace, The favour which heroic plays have lately found upon our theatres, has been wholly derived to them from the countenance and approbation they have received at court. The most eminent persons for wit and honour in the royal circle having so far owned them, that they have judged no way so fit as verse to entertain a noble audience, or to express a noble passion; and among the rest which have been written in this kind, they have been so indulgent to this poem, as to allow it no inconsiderable place. Since, therefore, to the court I owe its fortune on the stage; so, being now more publicly exposed in print, I humbly recommend it to your grace’s protection, who by all knowing persons are esteemed a principal ornament of the court. But though the rank which you hold in the royal family might direct the eyes of a poet to you, yet your beauty and goodness detain and fix them. High objects, it is true, attract the sight; but it looks up with pain on craggy rocks and barren mountains, and continues not intent on any object, which is wanting in shades and greens to entertain it. Beauty, in courts, is so necessary to the young, that those, who are without it, seem to be there to no other purpose than to wait on the triumphs of the fair; to attend their motions in obscurity, as the moon and stars do the sun by day; or, at best, to be the refuge of those hearts which others have despised; and, by the unworthiness of both, to give and take a miserable comfort. But as needful as beauty is, virtue and honour are yet more: The reign of it without their support is unsafe and short, like that of tyrants. Every sun which looks on beauty wastes it; and, when it once is decaying, the repairs of art are of as short continuance, as the after-spring, when the sun is going further off. This, madam, is its ordinary fate; but yours, which is accompanied by virtue, is not subject to that common destiny. Your grace has not only a long time of youth in which to flourish, but you have likewise found the way, by an untainted preservation of your honour, to make that perishable good more lasting: And if beauty, like wines, could be preserved, by being mixed and embodied with others of their own natures, then your grace’s would be immortal, since no part of Europe can afford a parallel to your noble lord in masculine beauty, and in goodliness of shape. To receive the blessings and prayers of mankind, you need only to be seen together: We are ready to conclude, that you are a pair of angels sent below to make virtue amiable in your persons, or to sit to poets when they would pleasantly instruct the age, by drawing goodness in the most perfect and alluring shape of nature. But though beauty be the theme on which poets love to dwell, I must be forced to quit it as a private praise, since you have deserved those which are more public: For goodness and humanity, which shine in you, are virtues which concern mankind; and, by a certain kind of interest, all people agree in their commendation, because the profit of them may extend to many. It is so much your inclination to do good, that you stay not to be asked; which is an approach so nigh the Deity, that human natu
re is not capable of a nearer. It is my happiness, that I can testify this virtue of your grace’s by my own experience; since I have so great an aversion from soliciting court-favours, that I am ready to look on those as very bold, who dare grow rich there without desert. But I beg your grace’s pardon for assuming this virtue of modesty to myself, which the sequel of this discourse will no way justify: For in this address I have already quitted the character of a modest man, by presenting you this poem as an acknowledgment, which stands in need of your protection; and which ought no more to be esteemed a present, than it is accounted bounty in the poor, when they bestow a child on some wealthy friend, who will better breed it up. Offsprings of this nature are like to be so numerous with me, that I must be forced to send some of them abroad; only this is like to be more fortunate than his brothers, because I have landed him on a hospitable shore. Under your patronage Montezuma hopes he is more safe than in his native Indies; and therefore comes to throw himself at your grace’s feet, paying that homage to your beauty, which he refused to the violence of his conquerors. He begs only, that when he shall relate his sufferings, you will consider him as an Indian Prince, and not expect any other eloquence from his simplicity, than what his griefs have furnished him withal. His story is, perhaps, the greatest which was ever represented in a poem of this nature; the action of it including the discovery and conquest of a new world. In it I have neither wholly followed the truth of the history, nor altogether left it; but have taken all the liberty of a poet, to add, alter, or diminish, as I thought might best conduce to the beautifying of my work: it being not the business of a poet to represent historical truth, but probability. But I am not to make the justification of this poem, which I wholly leave to your grace’s mercy. It is an irregular piece, if compared with many of Corneille’s, and, if I may make a judgment of it, written with more flame than art; in which it represents the mind and intentions of the author, who is with much more zeal and integrity, than design and artifice,

  MADAM,

  Your Grace’s most obedient,

  And most obliged servant,

  JOHN DRYDEN,

  October 12. 1667.

  Betwixt 1664, when our author assisted Sir Robert Howard in composing the preceding play, and the printing of the Indian Emperor in 1668, some disagreement had arisen betwixt them. Sir Robert appears to have given the first provocation, by prefixing to his tragedy of the Duke of Lerma, or Great Favourite, in 1668, some remarks, which drew down the following severe retort. It is therefore necessary to mention the contents of the offensive preface.