by John Dryden
PROLOGUE.
When first our poet set himself to write, Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night; He laid about him, and did so bestir him, His muse could never lie in quiet for him: But now his honey-moon is gone and past, Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last: And he is bound, as civil husbands do, To strain himself, in complaisance to you: To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss, Like the faint smacking of an after-kiss. But you, like wives ill pleased, supply his want; Each writing monsieur is a fresh gallant: And though, perhaps, ’twas done as well before, Yet still there’s something in a new amour. Your several poets work with several tools, One gets you wits, another gets you fools: This pleases you with some by-stroke of wit, This finds some cranny that was never hit. But should these janty lovers daily come To do your work, like your good man at home, Their fine small-timbered wits would soon decay; These are gallants but for a holiday. Others you had, who oftner have appeared, Whom, for mere impotence, you have cashiered: Such as at first came on with pomp and glory, But, overstraining, soon fell flat before ye. Their useless weight, with patience, long was born, But at the last you threw them off with scorn. As for the poet of this present night, } Though now he claims in you a husband’s right, } He will not hinder you of fresh delight. } He, like a seaman, seldom will appear; And means to trouble home but thrice a-year: That only time from your gallants he’ll borrow; Be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Wildblood,} } Two young English gentlemen. Bellamy,}
Maskall, their servant.
Don Alonzo de Ribera, an old Spanish gentleman.
Don Lopez de Gamboa, a young noble Spaniard.
Don Melchor de Guzman, a gentleman of a great family; but of a decayed fortune.
Donna Theodosia, } } Daughters to Don Alonzo. Donna Jacintha,}
Donna Aurelia, their cousin.
Beatrix, woman and confident to the two Sisters.
Camilla, woman to Aurelia.
Servants to Don Lopez and Don Alonzo.
SCENE — Madrid, in the Year 1665.
The Time, the last Evening of the Carnival.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Don Lopez, and a Servant walking over the stage. Enter another Servant, and follows him.
Serv. Don Lopez.
Lop. Any new business?
Serv. My master had forgot this letter, Which he conjures you, as you are his friend, To give Aurelia from him.
Lop. Tell Don Melchor, ’Tis a hard task which he enjoins me: He knows I love her, and much more than he; For I love her alone, but he divides His passion betwixt two. Did he consider How great a pain ’tis to dissemble love, He would never practise it.
Serv. He knows his fault, but cannot mend it.
Lop. To make the poor Aurelia believe He’s gone for Flanders, whilst he lies concealed, And every night makes visits to her cousin — When will he leave this strange extravagance?
Serv. When he can love one more, or t’other less.
Lop. Before I loved myself, I promised him To serve him in his love; and I’ll perform it, Howe’er repugnant to my own concernments.
Serv. You are a noble cavalier. [Exit Servant.
Enter Bellamy, Wildblood, and Maskall.
Serv. Sir, your guests, of the English ambassador’s retinue.
Lop. Cavaliers, will you please to command my coach to take the air this evening?
Bel. We have not yet resolved how to dispose of ourselves; but, however, we are highly acknowledging to you for your civility.
Lop. You cannot more oblige me, than by laying your commands on me.
Wild. We kiss your hand. [Exeunt Lopez and Serv.
Bel. Give the Don his due, he entertained us nobly this carnival.
Wild. Give the devil the Don, for any thing I liked in his entertainment.
Bel. I hope we had variety enough.
Wild. Ay, it looked like variety, till we came to taste it; there were twenty several dishes to the eye, but in the palate, nothing but spices. I had a mind to eat of a pheasant, and as soon as I got it into my mouth, I found I was chewing a limb of cinnamon; then I went to cut a piece of kid, and no sooner it had touched my lips, but it turned to red pepper: At last I began to think myself another kind of Midas, that every thing I touched should be turned to spice.
Bel. And, for my part, I imagined his Catholic majesty had invited us to eat his Indies. But pr’ythee, let’s leave the discourse of it, and contrive together how we may spend the evening; for in this hot country, ’tis as in the creation, the evening and the morning make the day.
Wild. I have a little serious business.
Bel. Put it off till a fitter season: For the truth is, business is then only tolerable, when the world and the flesh have no baits to set before us for the day.
Wild. But mine, perhaps, is public business.
Bel. Why, is any business more public than drinking and wenching? Look on those grave plodding fellows, that pass by us as though they were meditating the reconquest of Flanders: Fly them to a mark, and I’ll undertake three parts of four are going to their courtezans. I tell thee, Jack, the whisking of a silk gown, and the rush of a tabby petticoat, are as comfortable sounds to one of these rich citizens, as the chink of their pieces of eight.
Wild. This being granted to be the common design of human kind, it is more than probable it is yours; therefore I’ll leave you to the prosecution of it.
Bel. Nay, good Jack, mine is but a mistress in embryo; the possession of her is at least some days off; and till that time, thy company will be pleasant, and may be profitable to carry on the work. I would use thee like an under kind of chemist, to blow coals; it will be time enough for me to be alone, when I come to projection.
Wild. You must excuse me, Frank; I have made an appointment at the gaming-house.
Bel. What to do there, I pr’ythee? To mis-spend that money, which kind fortune intended for a mistress? Or to learn new oaths and curses to carry into England? That is not it — I heard you were to marry when you left home: Perhaps that may be still running in your head, and keep you virtuous.
Wild. Marriage, quotha! what, dost thou think I have been bred in the deserts of Africa, or among the savages of America? Nay, if I had, I must needs have known better things than so; the light of nature would not have let me go so far astray.
Bel. Well, what think you of the Prado this evening?
Wild. Pox upon’t, ’tis worse than our contemplative Hyde-Park.
Bel. Oh, but we must submit to the custom of the country for courtship: Whatever the means are, we are sure the end is still the same in all places. But who are these?
Enter Don Alonzo de Ribera, with his two Daughters, Theodosia and Jacintha, and Beatrix, their Woman, passing by.
Theo. Do you see those strangers, sister, that eye us so earnestly?
Jac. Yes, and I guess them to be feathers of the English ambassador’s train; for I think I saw them at the grand audience — and have the strongest temptation in the world to talk to them: A mischief on this modesty!
Beat. A mischief of this father of yours, that haunts you so.
Jac. ’Tis very true, Beatrix; for though I am the younger sister, I should have the grace to lay modesty first aside: However, sister, let us pull up our veils, and give them an essay of our faces.
[They pull up their veils, and pull them down again.
Wild. Ah, Bellamy! undone, undone! Dost thou see those beauties?
Bel. Pr’ythee, Wildblood, hold thy tongue, and do not spoil my contemplation: I am undoing myself as fast as ever I can, too.
Wild. I must go to them.
Bel. Hold, madman! Dost thou not see their father? Hast thou a mind to have our throats cut?
Wild. By a Hector of fourscore? Hang our throats: What! a lover, and cautious?
[Is going towards them.
Alon. Come away, daughters; we shall be late else.
Bel. Look you, they are on the wing already.
&
nbsp; Wild. Pr’ythee, dear Frank, let’s follow them: I long to know who they are.
Mask. Let me alone, I’ll dog them for you.
Bel. I am glad on’t; for my shoes so pinch me, I can scarce go a step farther.
Wild. Cross the way there lives a shoemaker: Away quickly, that we may not spoil our design.
[Exeunt Bel. and Wild.
Alon. [offers to go off.] Now, friend! what’s your business to follow us?
Mask. Noble Don, ’tis only to recommend my service to you: A certain violent passion I have had for your worship, since the first moment that I saw you.
Alon. I never saw thee before, to my remembrance.
Mask. No matter, sir; true love never stands upon ceremony.
Alon. Pr’ythee be gone, my saucy companion, or I’ll clap an alguazil upon thy heels: I tell thee I have no need of thy service.
Mask. Having no servant of your own, I cannot, in good manners, leave you destitute.
Alon. I’ll beat thee, if thou followest me.
Mask. I am your spaniel, sir; the more you beat me, the better I’ll wait on you.
Alon. Let me entreat thee to be gone; the boys will hoot at me to see me followed thus against my will.
Mask. Shall you and I concern ourselves for what the boys do, sir? Pray do you hear the news at court?
Alon. Pr’ythee, what’s the news to thee or me?
Mask. Will you be at the next juego de cannas?
Alon. If I think good.
Mask. Pray go on, sir; we can discourse as we walk together: And whither were you now a-going, sir?
Alon. To the devil, I think.
Mask. O, not this year or two, sir, by your age.
Jac. My father was never so matched for talking in all his life before; he who loves to hear nothing but himself: Pr’ythee, Beatrix, stay behind, and see what this impudent Englishman would have.
Beat. Sir, if you’ll let my master go, I’ll be his pawn.
Mask. Well, sir, I kiss your hand, in hope to wait on you another time.
Alon. Let us mend our pace, to get clear of him.
Theo. If you do not, he’ll be with you again, like Atalanta in the fable, and make you drop another of your golden apples.
[Exeunt Alon. Theo. and Jacintha.
[Maskall whispers Beatrix the while.
Beat. How much good language is here thrown away, to make me betray my ladies?
Mask. If you will discover nothing of them, let me discourse with you a little.
Beat. As little as you please.
Mask. They are rich, I suppose?
Beat. Now you are talking of them again: But they are as rich, as they are fair.
Mask. Then they have the Indies: Well, but their names, my sweet mistress.
Beat. Sweet servant, their names are ——
Mask. Their names are — out with it boldly —
Beat. A secret — not to be disclosed.
Mask. A secret, say you? Nay, then, I conjure you, as you are a woman, tell it me.
Beat. Not a syllable.
Mask. Why, then, as you are a waiting-woman; as you are the sieve of all your lady’s secrets, tell it me.
Beat. You lose your labour; nothing will strain through me.
Mask. Are you so well stopped in the bottom?
Beat. It was enjoined me strictly as a secret.
Mask. Was it enjoined thee strictly, and canst thou hold it? Nay, then, thou art invincible: But, by that face, that more than ugly face, which I suspect to be under thy veil, disclose it to me.
Beat. By that face of thine, which is a natural visor, I will not tell thee.
Mask. By thy ——
Beat. No more swearing, I beseech you.
Mask. That woman’s worth little, that is not worth an oath: Well, get thee gone; now I think on’t, thou shalt not tell me.
Beat. Shall I not? Who shall hinder me? They are Don Alonzo de Ribera’s daughters.
Mask. Out, out: I’ll stop my ears.
Beat. They live hard by, in the Calle maior.
Mask. O, infernal tongue —
Beat. And are going to the next chapel with their father.
Mask. Wilt thou never have done tormenting me? In my conscience, anon thou wilt blab out their names too.
Beat. Their names are Theodosia and Jacintha.
Mask. And where’s your great secret now?
Beat. Now, I think, I am revenged on you, for running down my poor old master.
Mask. Thou art not fully revenged, till thou hast told me thy own name too.
Beat. ’Tis Beatrix, at your service, sir; pray remember I wait on them.
Mask. Now I have enough, I must be going.
Beat. I perceive you are just like other men; when you have got your ends, you care not how soon you are going. Farewell: — you’ll be constant to me?
Mask. If thy face, when I see it, do not give me occasion to be otherwise.
Beat. You shall take a sample, that you may praise it, when you see it next.
[She pulls up her veil.
Enter Wildblood and Bellamy.
Wild. Look, there’s your dog with a duck in’s mouth. — Oh, she’s got loose, and dived again.
[Exit Beatrix.
Beat. Well, Maskall, what news of the ladies of the lake?
Mask. I have learned enough to embark you in an adventure. They are daughters to one Don Alonzo de Ribera, in the Calle maior, their names Theodosia and Jacintha, and they are going to their devotions in the next chapel.
Wild. Away then, let us lose no time. I thank heaven, I never found myself better inclined to godliness, than at this present.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II. — A Chapel.
Enter Alonzo, Theodosia, Jacintha, Beatrix, other Ladies, and Cavaliers at their devotions.
Alon. By that time you have told your beads, I’ll be again with you.
[Exit.
Jac. Do you think the Englishmen will come after us?
Beat. Do you think they can stay from you?
Jac. For my part, I feel a certain qualm upon my heart, which makes me believe I am breeding love to one of them.
Theo. How, love, Jacintha! in so short a time? Cupid’s arrow was well feathered, to reach you so suddenly.
Jac. Faith, as good at first as at last, sister; ’tis a thing that must be done, and therefore ’tis best dispatching it out o’the way.
Theo. But you do not mean to tell him so, whom you love?
Jac. Why should I keep myself and servant in pain, for that which may be cured at a day’s warning?
Beat. My lady tells you true, madam; long tedious courtship may be proper for cold countries, where their frosts are long a thawing; but, heaven be praised, we live in a warm climate.
Theo. The truth is, in other countries they have opportunities of courtship, which we have not; they are not mewed up with double locks and grated windows; but may receive addresses at their leisure.
Jac. But our love here is like our grass; if it be not mowed quickly, ’tis burnt up.
Enter Bellamy, Wildblood, and Maskall: They look about them.
Theo. Yonder are your gallants; send you comfort of them: I am for my devotions.
Jac. Now for my heart can I think of no other prayer, but only that they may not mistake us. Why, sister, sister, will you pray? What injury have I ever done you, that you should pray in my company? If your servant Don Melchor were here, we should have you mind heaven as little as the best of us.
Beat. They are at a loss, madam; shall I put up my veil, that they may take aim?
Jac. No, let them take their fortune in the dark: We shall see what archers these English are.
Bel. Which are they, think’st thou?
Wild. There’s no knowing them, they are all children of darkness.
Bel. I’ll be sworn they have one sign of godliness among them, there’s no distinction of persons here.
Wild. Pox o’this blind-man’s-buff; they may be ashamed to provoke a man thus
, by their keeping themselves so close.
Bel. You are for the youngest, you say; ’tis the eldest has smitten me. And here I fix; if I am right, happy man be his dole.
[By Theodosia.
Wild. I’ll take my fortune here.
[By Jacintha.
Madam, I hope a stranger may take the liberty, without offence, to offer his devotions by you?
Jac. That, sir, would interrupt mine, without being any advantage to your own.
Wild. My advantage, madam, is very evident; for the kind saint, to whom you pray, may, by the neighbourhood, mistake my devotions for yours.
Jac. O, sir! our saints can better distinguish between the prayers of a Catholic and a Lutheran.
Wild. I beseech you, madam, trouble not yourself for my religion; for, though I am a heretic to the men of your country, to your ladies I am a very zealous Catholic; and for fornication and adultery, I assure you I hold with both churches.
Theo. to Bel. Sir, if you will not be more devout, be at least more civil; you see you are observed.
Bel. And pray, madam, what do you think the lookers on imagine I am employed about?
Theo. I will not trouble myself to guess.
Bel. Why, by all circumstances, they must conclude that I am making love to you; and, methinks, it were scarce civil to give the opinion of so much good company the lie.
Theo. If this were true, you would have little reason to thank them for their divination.
Bel. Meaning, I should not be loved again?
Theo. You have interpreted my riddle, and may take it for your pains.
Enter Alonzo, and goes apart to his devotion.
Beat. Madam, your father is returned.
Bel. She has nettled me; would, I could be revenged on her!
Wild. Do you see their father? Let us make as though we talked to one another, that we may not be suspected.
Beat. You have lost your Englishmen.
Jac. No, no, ’tis but design, I warrant you: You shall see these island cocks wheel about immediately.
[The English gather up close to them.
Beat. Perhaps they thought they were observed.
Wild. to Bel. Talk not of our country ladies: I declare myself for the Spanish beauties.
Bel. Pr’ythee, tell me what thou canst find to doat on in these Castilians?
