John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Queen. Some people may speak ill, and yet mean well:

  Remember you were not confined; and yet

  Your fault was great. In short, I love him,

  And that excuses all; but be not jealous;

  His rising shall not be your overthrow,

  Nor will I ever marry him.

  Phil. That’s some comfort yet; He shall not be a king.

  Queen. He never shall. But you are discomposed; Stay here a little; I have somewhat for you, Shall shew, you still are in my favour.

  [Exeunt Queen and ASTERIA.

  Enter to him CANDIOPE, weeping.

  Phil. How now, in tears, my fair Candiope?

  So, through a watry cloud,

  The sun, at once, seems both to weep and shine.

  For what forefather’s sin do you afflict

  Those precious eyes? For sure you have

  None of your own to weep.

  Cand. My crimes both great and many needs must shew,

  Since heaven will punish them with losing you.

  Phil. Afflictions, sent from heaven without a cause,

  Make bold mankind enquire into its laws.

  But heaven, which moulding beauty takes such care,

  Makes gentle fates on purpose for the fair:

  And destiny, that sees them so divine,

  Spins all their fortunes in a silken twine:

  No mortal hand so ignorant is found,

  To weave coarse work upon a precious ground.

  Cand. Go preach this doctrine in my mother’s ears.

  Phil. Has her severity produced these tears?

  Cand. She has recalled those hopes she gave before, And strictly bids me ne’er to see you more.

  Phil. Changes in froward age are natural;

  Who hopes for constant weather in the fall?

  ’Tis in your power your duty to transfer,

  And place that right in me, which was in her.

  Cand. Reason, like foreign foes, would ne’er o’ercome, But that I find I am betrayed at home; You have a friend, that fights for you within.

  Phil. Let reason ever lose, so love may win.

  Enter Queen with a picture in her hand, and ASTERIA

  Queen. See there, Asteria,

  All we have done succeeds still to the worse;

  We hindered him from seeing her at home,

  Where I but only heard they loved; and now

  She comes to court, and mads me with the sight on’t.

  Ast. Dear madam, overcome yourself a little, Or they’ll perceive how much you are concerned.

  Queen. I struggle with my heart — But it will have some vent. Cousin, you are a stranger at the court. [To CAND.

  Cand. It was my duty, I confess, To attend oftner on your majesty.

  Queen. Asteria, mend my cousin’s handkerchief;

  It sits too narrow there, and shows too much

  The broadness of her shoulders — Nay, fie, Asteria,

  Now you put it too much backward, and discover

  The bigness of her breasts.

  Cand. I beseech your majesty, Give not yourself this trouble.

  Queen. Sweet cousin, you shall pardon me;

  A beauty such as yours

  Deserves a more than ordinary care,

  To set it out.

  Come hither, Philocles, do but observe,

  She has but one gross fault in all her shape,

  That is, she bears up here too much,

  And the malicious workman has left it

  Open to your eye.

  Phil. Where, and please your majesty? Methinks ’tis very well.

  Queen. Do not you see it? Oh how blind is love!

  Cand. And how quick-sighted malice! [Aside.

  Queen. But yet, methinks, those knots of sky do not So well with the dead colour of her face.

  Ast. Your majesty mistakes, she wants no red.

  [The Queen here plucks out her glass, and looks sometimes on herself, sometimes on her rival.

  Queen. How do I look to-day, Asteria? Methinks, not well.

  Ast. Pardon me, madam, most victoriously.

  Queen. What think you, Philocles? come, do not flatter.

  Phil. Paris was a bold man, who presumed, To judge the beauty of a goddess.

  Cand. Your majesty has given the reason why He cannot judge; his love has blinded him.

  Queen. Methinks, a long patch here, beneath her eye, Might hide that dismal hollowness. What think you, Philocles?

  Cand. Beseech you, madam, ask not his opinion: What my faults are it is no matter; He loves me with them all.

  Queen. Ay, he may love; but when he marries you,

  Your bridal shall be kept in some dark dungeon.

  Farewell, and think of that, too easy maid!

  I blush, thou sharest my blood.

  [Exeunt Queen and ASTERIA.

  Cand. Inhuman queen! Thou canst not be more willing to resign Thy part in me, than I to give up mine.

  Phil. Love, how few subjects do thy laws fulfil, And yet those few, like us, thou usest ill!

  Cand. The greatest slaves, in monarchies, are they,

  Whom birth sets nearest to imperial sway;

  While jealous power does sullenly o’erspy,

  We play, like deer, within the lion’s eye.

  ‘Would I for you some shepherdess had been,

  And, but each May, ne’er heard the name of queen!

  Phil. If you were so, might I some monarch be,

  Then, you should gain what now you lose by me;

  Then, you in all my glories should have part,

  And rule my empire, as you rule my heart.

  Cand. How much our golden wishes are in vain! When they are past, we are ourselves again.

  Enter Queen and ASTERIA above.

  Queen. Look, look, Asteria, yet they are not gone. Hence we may hear what they discourse alone.

  Phil. My love inspires me with a generous thought,

  Which you, unknowing in those wishes, taught.

  Since happiness may out of courts be found,

  Why stay we here on this enchanted ground;

  And chuse not rather with content to dwell

  (If love and joy can find it) in a cell?

  Cand. Those who, like you, have once in courts been great,

  May think they wish, but wish not, to retreat.

  They seldom go, but when they cannot stay;

  As losing gamesters throw the dice away.

  Even in that cell, where you repose would find,

  Visions of court will haunt your restless mind;

  And glorious dreams stand ready to restore

  The pleasing shapes of all you had before.

  Phil. He, who with your possession once is blest,

  On easy terms will part with all the rest.

  All my ambition will in you be crowned;

  And those white arms shall all my wishes bound.

  Our life shall be but one long nuptial day,

  And, like chafed odours, melt in sweets away;

  Soft as the night our minutes shall be worn,

  And chearful as the birds, that wake the morn.

  Cand. Thus hope misleads itself in pleasant way,

  And takes more joys on trust, than love can pay:

  But, love with long possession once decayed,

  That face, which now you court, you will upbraid.

  Phil. False lovers broach these tenets, to remove The fault from them, by placing it on love.

  Cand. Yet grant, in youth you keep alive your fire,

  Old age will come, and then it must expire:

  Youth but a while does at love’s temple stay,

  As some fair inn, to lodge it on the way.

  Phil. Your doubts are kind; but, to be satisfied I can be true, I beg I may be tried.

  Cand. Trials of love too dear the making cost; For if successless, the whole venture’s lost. What you propose, brings wants and care along.

  Phil. Love can bear both.
<
br />   Cand. But is your love so strong?

  Phil. They do not want, who wish not to have more; Who ever said an anchoret was poor?

  Cand. To answer generously, as you have done,

  I should not by your arguments be won:

  I know, I urge your ruin by consent;

  Yet love too well, that ruin to prevent.

  Phil. Like water given to those whom fevers fry, You kill but him, who must without it die.

  Cand. Secure me, I may love without a crime; Then, for our flight, appoint both place and time.

  Phil. The ensuing hour my plighted vows shall be; The time’s not long; or only long to me.

  Cand. Then, let us go where we shall ne’er be seen By my hard mother.

  Phil. Or my cruel queen.

  [Exeunt PHIL. and CAND.

  Queen above. O, Philocles, unkind to call me cruel!

  So false Aeneas did from Dido fly;

  But never branded her with cruelty.

  How I despise myself for loving so!

  Ast. At once you hate yourself, and love him too.

  Queen. No, his ingratitude has cured my wound: A painful cure indeed!

  Ast. And yet not sound. His ignorance of your true thoughts Excuses this; you did seem cruel, madam.

  Queen. But much of kindness still mixed with it. Who could mistake so grossly, not to know A Cupid frowning, when he draws his bow?

  Ast. He’s going now to smart for his offence.

  Queen. Should he, without my leave, depart from hence?

  Ast. No matter; since you hate him, let him go.

  Queen. But I my hate by my revenge will show: Besides, his head’s a forfeit to the state.

  Ast. When you take that, I will believe you hate. Let him possess, and then he’ll soon repent; And so his crime will prove his punishment.

  Queen. He may repent; but he will first possess.

  Ast. O, madam, now your hatred you confess: If his possessing her your rage does move, ’Tis jealousy, the avarice of love.

  Queen. No more, Asteria.

  Seek Lysimantes out, bid him set his guards

  Through all the court and city.

  Prevent their marriage first; then stop their flight.

  Some fitting punishments I will ordain,

  But speak not you of Philocles again:

  ’Tis bold to search, and dangerous to find,

  Too much of heaven’s, or of a prince’s mind.

  [Queen descends, and exit.

  As the Queen has done speaking, FLAVIA is going hastily over the stage; ASTERIA sees her.

  Ast. Flavia, Flavia, whither so fast?

  Fla. Did you call, Asteria?

  Ast. The queen has business with Prince Lysimantes; Speak to any gentleman in the court, to fetch him. [Exit ASTERIA from above.

  Fla. I suspect somewhat, but I’ll watch you close;

  Prince Lysimantes has not chose in me

  The worst spy of the court —

  Celadon! what makes he here?

  Enter CELADON, OLINDA, and SABINA; they walk over the stage together, he seeming to court them.

  Olind. Nay, sweet Celadon —

  Sab. Nay, dear Celadon.

  Fla. O ho! I see his business now; ’tis with Melissa’s two daughters: Look, look, how he peeps about, to see if the coast be clear; like an hawk that will not plume, if she be looked on.

  [Exeunt CEL. OLIND. and SAB.

  So — at last he has trussed his quarry.

  Enter FLORIMEL.

  Flo. Did you see Celadon this way?

  Fla. If you had not asked the question, I should have thought you had come from watching him; he’s just gone off with Melissa’s daughters.

  Flo. Melissa’s daughters! he did not court ‘em, I hope?

  Fla. So busily, he lost no time: While he was teaching the one a tune, he was kissing the other’s hand.

  Flo. O fine gentleman!

  Fla. And they so greedy of him! did you never see two fishes about a bait, tugging it this way and t’other way? for my part, I looked at least he should have lost a leg or arm i’the service. — Nay, never vex yourself, but e’en resolve to break with him.

  Flo. No, no, ’tis not come to that yet; I’ll correct him first, and then hope the best from time.

  Fla. From time! believe me, there’s little good to be expected from him. I never knew the old gentleman with the scythe and hour-glass bring any thing but grey hair, thin cheeks, and loss of teeth: You see Celadon loves others.

  Flo. There’s the more hope he may love me among the rest: Hang it, I would not marry one of these solemn fops; they are good for nothing, but to make cuckolds. Give me a servant, that is an high flier at all games, that is bounteous of himself to many women; and yet, whenever I pleased to throw out the lure of matrimony, should come down with a swing, and fly the better at his own quarry.

  Fla. But are you sure you can take him down when you think good?

  Flo. Nothing more certain.

  Fla. What wager will you venture upon the trial?

  Flo. Any thing.

  Fla. My maidenhead to yours.

  Flo. That’s a good one; who shall take the forfeit?

  Fla. I’ll go and write a letter, as from these two sisters, to summon him immediately; it shall be delivered before you. I warrant, you see a strange combat betwixt the flesh and the spirit: If he leaves you to go to them, you’ll grant he loves them better?

  Flo. Not a jot the more: A bee may pick of many flowers, and yet like some one better than all the rest.

  Fla. But then your bee must not leave his sting behind him.

  Flo. Well; make the experiment however: I hear him coming, and a whole noise of fidlers at his heels. Hey-day, what a mad husband shall I have! —

  Enter CELADON.

  Fla. And what a mad wife will he have! Well, I must go a little way, but I’ll return immediately, and write it: You’ll keep him in discourse the while? [Exit FLA.

  Cel. Where are you, madam? What, do you mean to run away thus? Pray stand to’t, that we may despatch this business.

  Flo. I think you mean to watch me, as they do witches, to make me confess I love you. Lord, what a bustle have you kept this afternoon? What with eating, singing, and dancing, I am so wearied, that I shall not be in case to hear any more love this fortnight.

  Cel. Nay, if you surfeit on’t before trial, Lord have mercy upon you, when I have married you.

  Flo. But what king’s revenue, do you think, will maintain this extravagant expence?

  Cel. I have a damnable father, a rich old rogue, if he would once die! Lord, how long does he mean to make it ere he dies!

  Flo. As long as ever he can, I’ll pass my word for him.

  Cel. I think, then, we had best consider him as an obstinate old fellow, that is deaf to the news of a better world; and ne’er stay for him.

  Flo. But e’en marry; and get him grandchildren in abundance, and great-grandchildren upon them, and so inch him and shove him out of the world by the very force of new generations — if that be the way, you must excuse me.

  Cel. But dost thou know what it is to be an old maid?

  Flo. No, nor hope I shan’t these twenty years.

  Cel. But when that time comes, in the first place, thou wilt be condemned to tell stories, how many men thou mightst have had; and none believe thee: Then thou growest forward, and impudently weariest all thy friends to solicit man for thee.

  Flo. Away with your old common-place-wit: I am resolved to grow fat, and look young till forty, and then slip out of the world, with the first wrinkle, and the reputation of five and twenty.

  Cel. Well, what think you now of a reckoning betwixt us?

  Flo. How do you mean?

  Cel. To discount for so many days of my years service, as I have paid in this morning.

  Flo. With all my heart.

  Cel. Imprimis, for a treat. Item, For my glass coach. Item, For sitting bare, and wagging your fan. And lastly, and principally, for my fidelity to you
this long hour and half.

  Flo. For this I bate you three weeks of your service; now hear your bill of faults; for your comfort ’tis a short one.

  Cel. I know it.

  Flo. Imprimis, item, and sum total, for keeping company with Melissa’s daughters.

  Cel. How the pox came you to know of that? Gad, I believe the devil plays booty against himself, and tells you of my sins. [Aside.

  Flo. The offence being so small, the punishment shall be but proportionable; I will set you back only half a year.

  Cel. You’re most unconscionable: When then do you think we shall come together? There’s none but the old patriarchs could live long enough to marry you at this rate. What, do you take me for some cousin of Methusalem’s, that I must stay an hundred years, before I come to beget sons and daughters?

  Flo. Here’s an impudent lover! he complains of me without ever offering to excuse himself; item, a fortnight more for that.

  Cel. So, there’s another puff in my voyage, has blown me back to the north of Scotland.

  Flo. All this is nothing to your excuse for the two sisters.

  Cel. ‘Faith, if ever I did more than kiss them, and that but once —

  Flo. What could you have done more to me?

  Cel. An hundred times more; as thou shalt know, dear rogue, at time convenient.

  Flo. You talk, you talk; could you kiss them, though but once, and ne’er think of me?

  Cel. Nay, if I had thought of thee, I had kissed them over a thousand times, with the very force of imagination.

  Flo. The gallants are mightily beholden to you; you have found them out a new way to kiss their mistresses, upon other women’s lips.

  Cel. What would you have? You are my Sultana Queen, the rest are but in the nature of your slaves; I may make some slight excursions into the enemy’s country for forage, or so, but I ever return to my head quarters.

  Enter one with a letter.

  Cel. To me?

  Mess. If your name be Celadon. [CEL. reads softly.

  Flo. He is swallowing the pill; presently we shall see the operation.

  Cel. to the page.] Child, come hither, child; here’s money for thee: So, begone quickly, good child, before any body examines thee: Thou art in a dangerous place, child — [Thrusts him out.] Very good; the sisters send me word, they will have the fiddles this afternoon, and invite me to sup there! — Now, cannot I forbear, an I should be damned, tho’ I have scap’d a scouring so lately for it. Yet I love Florimel better than both of them together; there’s the riddle on’t: But only for the sweet sake of variety. — [Aside.] Well, we must all sin, and we must all repent, and there’s an end on’t.