John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Phil. Interest makes all seem reason, that leads to it. Interest, that does the zeal of sects create, To purge a church, and to reform a state.

  Lys. In short, the queen hath sent to part you two: — What more she means to her, I know not.

  Phil. To her, alas! — Why, will not you protect her?

  Lys. With you I can; but where’s my power alone?

  Cand. You know she loves me not: You lately heard her,

  How she insulted over me: How she

  Despised that beauty, which you say I have. —

  I see, she purposes my death.

  Phil. Why do you fright me with it? ’Tis in your brother’s power to let us ‘scape, And then you run no danger.

  Lys. True, I may; But then my head must pay the forfeit of it.

  Phil. O wretched Philocles! whither would love Hurry thee headlong?

  Lys. Cease these exclamations.

  There’s no danger on your side: ’tis but to

  Live without my sister; resolve that,

  And you have shot the gulf.

  Phil. To live without her! Is that nothing, think you? The damned in hell endure no greater pain, Than seeing heaven from far with hopeless eyes.

  Cand. Candiope must die, and die for you: — See it not unrevenged at least.

  Phil. Ha, unrevenged! On whom should I revenge it? —

  But yet she dies, and I may hinder it?

  ’Tis I then murder my Candiope: —

  And yet, should I take arms against my queen!

  That favoured me, raised me to what I am? —

  Alas! it must not be.

  Lys. He cools again. — [Aside.

  True, she once favoured you;

  But now I am informed.

  She is besotted on an upstart wretch

  So far, that she intends to make him master

  Both of her crown and person.

  Phil. Knows he that!

  Then, what I dreaded most is come to pass. — [Aside.

  I am convinced of the necessity;

  Let us make haste to raze

  That action from the annals of her reign:

  No motive but her glory could have wrought me.

  I am a traitor to her, to preserve her

  From treason to herself: Yet heaven knows,

  With what a heavy heart

  Philocles turns reformer. But have care

  This fault of her strange passion take no air.

  Let not the vulgar blow upon her fame.

  Lys. I will be careful: — Shall we go, my lord?

  Phil. Time wastes apace; each first prepare his men. — Come, my Candiope. [Exeunt PHIL. and CAND.

  Lys. This ruins him forever with the queen;

  The odium’s half his, the profit all my own.

  Those who, like me, by others’ help would climb,

  To make them sure, must dip them in their crime. [Exit.

  SCENE II. — The Queen’s apartments.

  Enter Queen and ASTERIA.

  Queen. No more news yet from Philocles?

  Ast. None, madam, since Flavia’s return.

  Queen. O, my Asteria! if you loved me, sure You would say something to me of my Philocles! I could speak ever of him.

  Ast. Madam, you commanded me no more to name him to you.

  Queen. Then I command you now, speak of nothing else: — I charge you here, on your allegiance, tell me What I should do with him?

  Ast. When you gave orders that he should be taken, You seemed resolved how to dispose of him.

  Queen. Dull Asteria! not to know,

  Mad people never think the same thing twice! —

  Alas! I’m hurried restless up and down: —

  I was in anger once, and then I thought

  I had put into shore:

  But now a gust of love blows hard against me,

  And bears me off again.

  Ast. Shall I sing the song, you made of Philocles, And called it Secret Love?

  Queen. Do; for that’s all kindness. And while thou singest it, I can think nothing but what pleases me.

  SONG.

  I feed a flame within, which so torments me,

  That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:

  ’Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love if,

  That I had rather die, than once remove it.

  Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;

  My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.

  Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,

  But they fall silently, like dew on roses.

  Thus, to prevent my love from being cruel,

  My heart’s the sacrifice, as ’tis the fuel:

  And while I suffer this to give him quiet,

  My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

  On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;

  While I conceal my love no frown can fright me:

  To be more happy, I dare not aspire;

  Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.

  Queen. Peace! — Methinks I hear the noise Of clashing swords, and clattering arms below.

  Enter FLAVIA.

  Now; what news, that you press in so rudely?

  Fla. Madam, the worst that can be: — Your guards upon the sudden are surprised, Disarmed; some slain; all scattered.

  Queen. By whom?

  Fla. Prince Lysimantes, and Lord Philocles.

  Queen. It cannot be; Philocles is a prisoner.

  Fla. What my eyes saw, —

  Queen. Pull them out; they are false spectacles.

  Ast. O, virtue! impotent and blind as fortune! Who would be good, or pious, if this queen, Thy great example, suffers!

  Queen. Peace, Asteria! accuse not virtue; She has but given me a great occasion Of showing what I am, when fortune leaves me.

  Ast. Philocles to do this!

  Queen. Ay, Philocles! — I must confess ’twas hard! —

  But there’s a fate in kindness,

  Still to be least returned, where most ’tis given. —

  Where’s Candiope?

  Fla. Philocles was whispering to her.

  Queen. Hence, screech-owl! — Call my guards quickly there! —

  Put them apart in several prisons! —

  Alas! I had forgot, I have no guards,

  But those which are my jailors.

  Never ‘till now unhappy queen!

  The use of power, till lost, is seldom known;

  Now, I should strike, I find my thunder gone.

  [Exeunt Queen and FLAV.

  PHILOCLES enters, and meets ASTERIA going out.

  Phil. Asteria, where’s the queen?

  Ast. Ah, my lord! what have you done? I came to seek you.

  Phil. Is it from her you come?

  Ast. No; but on her behalf: — Her heart’s too great, In this low ebb of fortune, to entreat.

  Phil. Tis but a short eclipse, Which past, a glorious day will soon ensue. — But I would ask a favour too from you.

  Ast. When conquerors petition, they command: Those, that can captive queens, who can withstand?

  Phil. She, with her happiness, might mine create;

  Yet seems indulgent to her own ill fate:

  But she in secret hates me, sure; for why,

  If not, should she Candiope deny?

  Ast. If you dare trust my knowledge of her mind,

  She has no thoughts of you that are unkind.

  Phil. I could my sorrows with some patience bear,

  Did they proceed from any one but her:

  But from the queen! whose person I adore,

  By duty much, by inclination more.

  Ast. He is inclined already; did he know, That she loved him, how would his passion grow! [Aside.

  Phil. That her fair hand with destiny combines!

  Fate ne’er strikes deep, but when unkindness joins:

  For, to confess the secret of my mind,

  Something so tender for the queen I find,

  Th
at even Candiope can scarce remove,

  And, were she lower, I should call it love.

  Ast. She charged me, not this secret to betray;

  But I best serve her, if I disobey.

  For, if he loves, ’twas for her interest done;

  If not, he’ll keep it secret for his own. [Aside.

  Phil. Why are you in obliging me so slow?

  Ast. The thing’s of great importance, you would know; And you must first swear secresy to all.

  Phil. I swear.

  Ast. Yet hold; your oath’s too general: Swear that Candiope shall never know.

  Phil. I swear.

  Ast. No; not the queen herself.

  Phil. I vow.

  Ast. You wonder why I am so cautious grown,

  In telling what concerns yourself alone:

  But spare my vow, and guess what it may be,

  That makes the queen deny Candiope:

  ’Tis neither heat, nor pride, that moves her mind;

  Methinks the riddle is not hard to find.

  Phil. You seem so great a wonder to intend, As were, in me, a crime to apprehend.

  Ast. ’Tis not a crime to know; but would be one, To prove ungrateful when your duty’s known.

  Phil. Why would you thus my easy faith abuse:

  I cannot think the queen so ill would chuse.

  But stay, now your imposture will appear;

  She has herself confessed she loved elsewhere:

  On some ignoble choice has placed her heart,

  One, who wants quality, and more, desert.

  Ast. This, though unjust, you have most right to say;

  For, if you’ll rail against yourself, you may.

  Phil. Dull that I was!

  A thousand things now crowd my memory.

  That make me know it could be none but I.

  Her rage was love; and its tempestuous flame,

  Like lightning, showed the heaven from whence it came.

  But in her kindness my own shame I see;

  Have I dethroned her, then for loving me?

  I hate myself for that which I have done,

  Much more, discovered, than I did unknown.

  How does she brook her strange imprisonment?

  Ast. As great souls should, that make their own content.

  The hardest term, she for your act could find,

  Was only this, O Philocles, unkind!

  Then, setting free a sigh, from her fair eyes

  She wiped two pearls, the remnant of wild showers,

  Which hung like drops upon the bells of flowers:

  And thanked the heavens,

  Which better did, what she designed, pursue,

  Without her crime, to give her power to you.

  Phil. Hold, hold! you set my thoughts so near a crown,

  They mount above my reach, to pull them down:

  Here constancy, ambition there does move;

  On each side beauty, and on both sides love.

  Ast. Methinks the least you can, is to receive This love with reverence, and your former leave.

  Phil. Think but what difficulties come between!

  Ast. ’Tis wondrous difficult to love a queen.

  Phil. For pity, cease more reasons to provide,

  I am but too much yielding to your side;

  And, were my heart but at my own dispose,

  I should not make a scruple now to chuse.

  Ast. Then if the queen will my advice approve, Her hatred to you shall expel her love.

  Phil. Not to be loved by her as hard would be, As to be hated by Candiope.

  Ast. I leave you to resolve while you have time; You must be guilty, but may chuse your crime. [Exit ASTERIA.

  Phil. One thing I have resolved; and that I’ll do, Both for my love, and for my honour too; But then (ingratitude and falsehood weighed), I know not which would most my soul upbraid. Fate shoves me headlong down a rugged way; Unsafe to run, and yet too steep to stay. [Exit PHIL.

  ACT V.

  SCENE I. — The Court.

  FLORIMEL in man’s habit.

  Flor. ‘Twill be rare now, if I can go through with it, to outdo this mad Celadon in all his tricks, and get both his mistresses from him; then I shall revenge myself upon all three, and save my own stake into the bargain; for I find I do love the rogue, in spite of all his infidelities. Yonder they are, and this way they must come. If clothes and a bon mien will take them, I shall do it. — Save you, Monsieur Florimel! Faith, me thinks you are a very janty fellow, poudré et ajusté, as well as the best of ‘em. I can manage the little comb; set my hat, shake my garniture, toss about my empty noddle, walk with a courant slur, and at every step peck down my head: If I should be mistaken for some courtier now, pray where’s the difference?

  Enter, to her, CELADON, OLINDA, and SABINA.

  Olin. Never mince the matter!

  Sab. You have left your heart behind with Florimel; we know it.

  Cel. You know you wrong me: when I am with Florimel, ’tis still your prisoner, it only draws a longer chain after it.

  Flo. Is it e’en so! then farewell, poor Florimel! thy maidenhead is condemned to die with thee.

  Cel. But let’s leave this discourse; ’tis all digression, that does not speak of your beauties.

  Flo. Now for me, in the name of impudence! — [Comes forward.] They are the greatest beauties, I confess, that ever I beheld —

  Cel. How now, what’s the meaning of this young fellow?

  Flo. And therefore I cannot wonder that this gentleman, who has the honour to be known to you, should admire you, since I, that am a stranger —

  Cel. And a very impudent one, as I take it, sir.

  Flo. Am so extremely surprised, that I admire, love, am wounded, and am dying, all in a moment.

  Cel. I have seen him somewhere, but where I know not: — Pry’thee, my friend, leave us; dost thou think, we do not know our way in court?

  Flo. I pretend not to instruct you in your way; you see I do not go before you; but you cannot possibly deny me the happiness to wait upon these ladies; me, who —

  Cel. Thee, who shalt be beaten most unmercifully, if thou dost follow them.

  Flo. You will not draw in court, I hope?

  Cel. Pox on him, let’s walk away faster, and be rid of him.

  Flo. O, take no care for me, sir! you shall not lose me; I’ll rather mend my pace, than not wait on you.

  Olin. I begin to like this fellow.

  Cel. You make very bold here in my seraglio, and I shall find a time to tell you so, sir.

  Flo. When you find a time to tell me on’t, I shall find a time to answer you: But, pray, what do you find in yourself so extraordinary, that you should serve these ladies better than I? Let me know what ’tis you value yourself upon, and let them judge betwixt us.

  Cel. I am somewhat more a man than you.

  Flo. That is, you are so much older than I: — Do you like a man ever the better for his age, ladies?

  Sab. Well said, young-gentleman.

  Cel. Pish, thee! a young raw creature; thou hast ne’er been under the barber’s hands yet.

  Flo. No, nor under the surgeon’s neither, as you have been.

  Cel. ‘Slife, what would’st thou be at? I am madder than thou art.

  Flo. The devil you are! I’ll tope with you; I’ll sing with you; I’ll dance with you; — I’ll swagger with you —

  Cel. I’ll fight with you.

  Flo. Out upon fighting; ’tis grown so common a fashion, that a modish man condemns it; a man of garniture and feather is above the dispensation of the sword.

  Olin. Uds my life! here’s the queen’s music just going to us; you shall decide your quarrel by a dance.

  Sab. Who stops the fiddles?

  Cel. Base and treble, by your leaves, we arrest you at these ladies’ suits.

  Flo. Come on, sirs, play me a jig; you shall see how I’ll baffle him.

  DANCE.

  Flo. Your judgment, ladies.

  Olin. Y
ou, sir; you, sir: This is the rarest gentleman! I could live and die with him —

  Sab. Lord, how he sweats! please you, sir, to make use of my handkerchief?

  Olin. You and I are merry, and just of an humour, sir; therefore we two should love one another.

  Sab. And you and I are just of an age, sir; and therefore, methinks, we should not hate one another.

  Cel. Then I perceive, ladies, I am a castaway, a reprobate, with you: Why, ‘faith, this is hard luck now, that I should be no less than one whole hour in getting your affections, and now must lose ‘em in a quarter of it.

  Olin. No matter, let him rail; does the loss afflict you, sir?

  Cel. No, in faith, does it not; for if you had not forsaken me, I had you: So the willows may flourish, for any branches I shall rob ‘em of.

  Sab. However, we have the advantage to have left you; not you us.

  Cel. That’s only a certain nimbleness in nature, you women have, to be first inconstant; but if you had not made the more haste, the wind was veering too upon my weathercock: The best on’t is, Florimel is worth both of you.

  Flo. ’Tis like she’ll accept of their leavings.

  Cel. She will accept on’t, and she shall accept on’t: I think I know more than you of her mind, sir.

  Enter MELISSA.

  Mel. Daughters, there’s a poor collation within, that waits for you.

  Flo. Will you walk, musty sir?

  Cel. No, marry, sir, I will not; I have surfeited of that old woman’s face already.

  Flo. Begin some frolic, then; what will you do for her?

  Cel. Faith, I am no dog, to show tricks for her; I cannot come aloft to an old woman.

  Flo. Dare you kiss her?

  Cel. I was never dared by any man. By your leave, old madam — [He plucks off her ruff.

  Mel. Help! help! do you discover my nakedness?

  Cel. Peace, Tiffany! no harm! [He puts on the ruff.] Now, Sir, here’s Florimel’s health to you. [Kisses her.

  Mel. Away, sir! — A sweet young man as you are, to abuse the gift of nature so!

  Cel. Good mother, do not commend me so; I am flesh and blood, and you do not know what you may pluck upon that reverend person of yours. — Come on, follow your leader.

  [Gives FLORIMEL the ruff; she puts it on.

  Flo. Stand fair, mother —

  Cel. What, with your hat on? Lie thou there; — and thou, too —

  [Plucks off her hat and peruke, and discovers FLORIMEL.

  All. Florimel!

  Flo. My kind mistresses, how sorry I am, I can do you no further service! I think I had best resign you to Celadon, to make amends for me.