John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Wild. Their wit and beauty.

  Theo. Now for our champion, St Jago, for Spain.

  Bel. Faith, I can speak no such miracles of either; for their beauty, ’tis much as the Moors left it; not altogether so deep a black as the true Ethiopian; a kind of beauty that is too civil to the lookers-on to do them any mischief.

  Jac. This was your frowardness, that provoked him, sister.

  Theo. But they shall not carry it off so.

  Bel. As for their wit, you may judge it by their breeding, which is commonly in a nunnery; where the want of mankind, while they are there, makes them value the blessing ever after.

  Theo. Pr’ythee, dear Jacintha, tell me, what kind of creatures were those we saw yesterday at the audience? Those, I mean, that looked so like Frenchmen in their habits, but only became their apishness so much worse.

  Jac. Englishmen, I think, they called them.

  Theo. Cry you mercy; they were of your wild English, indeed; that is, a kind of northern beast, that is taught its feats of activity in Monsieurland; and, for doing them too lubberly, is laughed at all the world over.

  Bel. Wildblood, I perceive the women understand little of discourse; their gallants do not use them to it: They get upon their jennets, and prance before their ladies’ windows; there the palfrey curvets and bounds, and, in short, entertains them for his master.

  Wild. And this horseplay they call making love.

  Beat. Your father, madam ——

  Alon. Daughters! what cavaliers are those which were talking by you?

  Jac. Englishmen, I believe, sir, at their devotions. — Cavalier, would you would try to pray a little better than you have rallied.

  [Aside to Wild.

  Wild. Hang me if I put all my devotions out of order for you: I remember I prayed but on Tuesday last, and my time comes not till Tuesday next.

  Mask. You had as good pray, sir: she will not stir till you have: Say any thing.

  Wild. Fair lady, though I am not worthy of the least of your favours, yet give me the happiness this evening to see you at your father’s door, that I may acquaint you with part of my sufferings.

  [Aside to Jac.

  Alon. Come, daughters, have you done?

  Jac. Immediately, sir. — Cavalier, I will not fail to be there at the time appointed, if it be but to teach you more wit, henceforward, than to engage your heart so lightly.

  [Aside to Wild.

  Wild. I have engaged my heart with so much zeal and true devotion to your divine beauty, that ——

  Alon. What means this cavalier?

  Jac. Some zealous ejaculation.

  Alan. May the saint hear him!

  Jac. I’ll answer for her.

  [Exeunt Father and Daughters.

  Wild. Now, Bellamy, what success?

  Bel. I prayed to a more marble saint than that was in the shrine; but you, it seems, have been successful.

  Wild. And so shalt thou; let me alone for both.

  Bel. If you’ll undertake it, I’ll make bold to indulge my love, and within these two hours be a desperate inamorato. I feel I am coming apace to it.

  Wild. Faith, I can love at any time with a wish, at my rate: I give my heart according to the old law of pawns, to be returned me before sunset.

  Bel. I love only that I may keep my heart warm; for a man’s a pool, if love stir him not; and to bring it to that pass, I first resolve whom to love, and presently after imagine I am in love: for a strong imagination is required in a lover as much as in a witch.

  Wild. And is this all your receipt?

  Bel. These are my principal ingredients; as for piques, jealousies, duels, daggers, and halters, I let them alone to the vulgar.

  Wild. Pr’ythee, let’s round the street a little; till Maskall watches for their woman.

  Bel. That’s well thought on: He shall about it immediately. immediately. We will attempt the mistress by the maid: Women by women still are best betrayed. [Exeunt.

  ACT II.

  SCENE I.

  Enter Wildblood, Bellamy, and Maskall.

  Wild. Did you speak with her woman?

  Mask. Yes, but she was in haste, and bid me wait her hereabouts when she returned.

  Bel. Then you have discovered nothing more?

  Mask. Only, in general, that Donna Theodosia is engaged elsewhere; so that all your courtship will be to no purpose — But for your mistress, sir, [To Wild.] she is waded out of her depth in love to you already.

  Wild. That’s very hard, when I am scarce knee-deep with her: ’Tis true, I have given her hold of my heart; but, if she take not heed, it will slip through her fingers.

  Bel. You are prince of the soil, sir, and may take your pleasure when you please; but I am the eve to your holiday, and must fast for being joined to you.

  Wild. Were I as thou art, I would content myself with having but one fair flight at her, without wearying myself on the wing for a retrieve; for, when all is done, the quarry is but a woman.

  Bel. Thank you, sir, you would fly them both yourself; and while I turn tail, we should have you come, gingling with your bells in the neck of my partridge. Do you remember who encouraged me to love, and promised me his assistance?

  Wild. Ay, while there was hope, Frank! while there was hope! but there’s no contending with one’s destiny.

  Bel. Nay, it may be I care as little for her as another man; but, while she flies before me, I must follow: I can love a woman first with ease; but if she begins to fly before me, I grow opiniatre as the devil.

  Wild. What a secret have you found out? Why, ’tis the nature of all mankind: We love to get our mistresses, and purr over them, as cats do over mice, and let them go a little way; and all the pleasure is, to pat them back again: But yours, I take it, Frank, is gone too far. Pr’ythee, how long dost thou intend to love at this rate?

  Bel. Till the evil constellation be past over me: Yet, I believe, it would hasten my recovery, if I knew whom she loved.

  Mask. You shall not be long without that satisfaction.

  Wild. ‘St, the door opens; and two women are coming out.

  Bel. By their stature, they should be thy gracious mistress and Beatrix.

  Wild. Methinks you should know your cue then, and withdraw.

  Bel. Well, I’ll leave you to your fortune; but, if you come to close fighting, I shall make bold to run in, and part you.

  [Bellamy and Maskall, withdrawing.

  Wild. Yonder she comes, with full sails i’faith! I’ll hail her amain, for England.

  Enter Jacintha and Beatrix, at the other end of the stage.

  Beat. You do love him then?

  Jac. Yes, most vehemently!

  Beat. But set some bounds to your affection.

  Jac. None but fools confine their pleasure: What usurer ever thought his coffers held too much? No, I’ll give myself the swing, and love without reserve. If I keep a passion, I’ll not starve it in my service.

  Beat. But are you sure he will deserve this kindness?

  Jac. I never trouble myself so long beforehand. Jealousies and disquiets are the dregs of an amour; but I’ll leave mine before I have drawn it off so low. When it once grows troubled, I’ll give vent to a fresh draught.

  Beat. Yet it is but prudence to try him first; no pilot ventures on an unknown coast without sounding.

  Jac. Well, to satisfy thee, I am content; partly, too, because I find a kind of pleasure in laying baits for him.

  Beat. The two great virtues of a lover are constancy and liberality; if he possess those two, you may be happy in him.

  Jac. Nay, if he be not lord and master of both those qualities, I disown him —— But who goes there?

  Beat. He, I warrant you, madam; for his servant told me he was waiting hereabout.

  Jac. Watch the door; give me notice, if any come.

  Beat. I’ll secure you, madam.

  [Exit Beat.

  Jac. [To Wild.] What, have you laid an ambush for me?

  Wild. Only to make a reprisal
of my heart.

  Jac. ’Tis so wild, that the lady, who has it in her keeping, would be glad she were well rid on’t, it does so flutter about the cage. ’Tis a mere Bajazet; and if it be not let out the sooner, will beat out its brains against the grates.

  Wild. I am afraid the lady has not fed it, and ’tis wild for hunger.

  Jac. Or, perhaps it wants company; shall she put another to it?

  Wild. Ay; but then it were best to trust them out of the cage together; let them hop about at liberty.

  Jac. But, if they should lose one another in the wide world!

  Wild. They’ll meet at night, I warrant them.

  Jac. But is not your heart of the nature of those birds, that breed in one country, and go to winter in another?

  Wild. Suppose it does so; yet, I take my mate along with me. And now, to leave our parables, and speak in the language of the vulgar, what think you of a voyage to merry England?

  Jac. Just as Æsop’s frog did, of leaping into a deep well in a drought: If he ventured the leap, there might be water; but, if there were no water, how should he get out again?

  Wild. Faith, we live in a good honest country, where we are content with our old vices; partly because we want wit to invent more new. A colony of Spaniards, or spiritual Italians, planted among us, would make us much more racy. ’Tis, true, our variety is not much; but, to speak nobly of our way of living, ’tis like that of the sun, which rises, and looks upon the same thing he saw yesterday, and goes to bed again.

  Jac. But I hear your women live most blessedly; there is no such thing as jealousy among the husbands; if any man has horns, he bears them as loftily as a stag, and as inoffensively.

  Wild. All this, I hope, gives you no ill character of the country?

  Jac. But what need we go into another climate? as our love was born here, so let it live and die here, and be honestly buried in its native country.

  Wild. Faith, agreed with all my heart. For I am none of those unreasonable lovers, that propose to themselves the loving to eternity. The truth is, a month is commonly my stint; but, in that month, I love so dreadfully, that it is after a twelve-month’s rate of common love.

  Jac. Or, would not a fortnight serve our turn? for, in troth, a month looks somewhat dismally; ’tis a whole Egyptian year. If a moon changes in my love, I shall think my Cupid grown dull, or fallen into an apoplexy.

  Wild. Well, I pray heaven we both get off as clear as we imagine; for my part, I like your humour so damnably well, that I fear I am in for a week longer than I proposed: I am half afraid your Spanish planet and my English one have been acquainted, and have found out some by-room or other in the twelve houses: I wish they have been honourable.

  Jac. The best way for both were to take up in time; yet I am afraid our forces are engaged so far, that we must make a battle on’t. What think you of disobliging one another from this day forward; and shewing all our ill humours at the first, which lovers use to keep as a reserve, till they are married?

  Wild. Or let us encourage one another to a breach, by the dangers of possession: I have a song to that purpose.

  Jac. Pray let me hear it: I hope it will go to the tune of one of our Passa-calles.

  SONG.

  You charmed me not with that fair face, Though it was all divine; To be another’s is the grace, That makes me wish you mine. The gods and fortune take their part, Who, like young monarchs, fight, And boldly dare invade that heart, Which is another’s right. First, mad with hope, we undertake To pull up every bar; But, once possessed, we faintly make A dull defensive war. Now, every friend is turned a foe, In hope to get our store: And passion make us cowards grow, Which made us brave before.

  Jac. Believe it, cavalier, you are a dangerous person: Do you hold forth your gifts, in hopes to make me love you less?

  Wild. They would signify little, if we were once married: Those gaieties are all nipt and frost-bitten in the marriage-bed, i’faith.

  Jac. I am sorry to hear ’tis so cold a place: But ’tis all one to us, who do not mean to trouble it. The truth is, your humour pleases me exceedingly; how long it will do so, I know not; but so long as it does, I am resolved to give myself the content of seeing you. For, if I should once constrain myself, I might fall in love in good earnest: But I have stayed too long with you, and would be loth to surfeit you at first.

  Wild. Surfeit me madam? why, you have but tantalized me all this while!

  Jac. What would you have?

  Wild. A hand, or lip, or any thing that you can spare; when you have conjured up a spirit, he must have some employment, or he’ll tear you apieces.

  Jac. Well, here’s my picture, to help your contemplation in my absence.

  Wild. You have already the original of mine: But some revenge you must allow me: A locket of diamonds, or some such trifle, the next time I kiss your hand.

  Jac. Fie, fie! you do not think me mercenary? Yet, now I think on’t, I’ll put you into our Spanish mode of love: Our ladies here use to be the bankers of their servants, and to have their gold in keeping.

  Wild. This is the least trial you could have made of me: I have some three hundred pistoles by me; those I’ll send by my servant.

  Jac. Confess freely, you mistrust me: But if you find the least qualm about your gold, pray keep it for a cordial.

  Wild. The cordial must be applied to the heart, and mine’s with you, madam. Well; I say no more; but these are dangerous beginnings for holding on: I find my month will have more than one-and-thirty days in’t.

  Enter Beatrix, running.

  Beat. Madam, your father calls in haste for you, and is looking for you about the house.

  Jac. Adieu, servant; be a good manager of your stock of love, that it may hold out your month; I am afraid you’ll waste so much of it before to-morrow night, that you’ll shine but with a quarter moon upon me.

  Wild. It shall be a crescent.

  [Exeunt Wild. and Jac. severally.

  [Beatrix is going, and Maskall runs and stops her.

  Mask. Pay your ransom; you are my prisoner.

  Beat. What! do you fight after the French fashion; take towns before you declare a war?

  Mask. I shall be glad to imitate them so far, to be in the middle of the country before you could resist me.

  Beat. Well, what composition, monsieur?

  Mask. Deliver up your lady’s secret; what makes her so cruel to my master?

  Beat. Which of my ladies, and which of your masters? For, I suppose, we are factors for both of them.

  Mask. Your eldest lady, Theodosia.

  Beat. How dare you press your mistress to an inconvenience?

  Mask. My mistress? I understand not that language; the fortune of the valet ever follows that of the master; and his is desperate: if his fate were altered for the better, I should not care if I ventured upon you for the worse.

  Beat. I have told you already, Donna Theodosia loves another.

  Mask. Has he no name?

  Beat. Let it suffice, he is born noble, though without a fortune. His poverty makes him conceal his love from her father; but she sees him every night in private; and, to blind the world, about a fortnight ago he took a solemn leave of her, as if he were going into Flanders: In the mean time, he lodges at the house of Don Lopez de Gamboa; and is himself called Don Melchor de Guzman.

  Mask. Don Melchor de Guzman! O heavens!

  Beat. What amazes you?

  Theo. [Within.] Why, Beatrix, where are you?

  Beat. You hear I am called. — Adieu; and be sure you keep my counsel.

  Mask. Come, sir, you see the coast is clear. [Exit Beat.

  Enter Bellamy.

  Bel. Clear, dost thou say? No, ’tis full of rocks and quicksands: Yet nothing vexes me so much, as that she is in love with such a poor rogue.

  Mask. But that she should lodge privately in the same house with us! ’twas oddly contrived of fortune.

  Bel. Hang him, rogue! methinks I see him, perching, like an owl, by day, and not darin
g to flutter out till moonlight. The rascal invents love, and brews his compliments all day, and broaches them at night; just as some of our dry wits do their stories, before they come into company. Well, if I could be revenged on either of them!

  Mask. Here she comes again, with Beatrix; but, good sir, moderate your passion.

  Enter Theodosia and Beatrix.

  Bel. Nay, madam; you are known; and must not pass till I have spoken with you.

  [Bel. lifts up Theodosia’s veil.

  Theo. This rudeness to a person of my quality may cost you dear. Pray, when did I give you encouragement for so much familiarity?

  Bel. When you scorned me in the chapel.

  Theo. The truth is, I denied you as heartily as I could, that I might not be twice troubled with you.

  Bel. Yet you have not this aversion for all the world: However, I was in hope, though the day frowned, the night might prove as propitious to me as it is to others.

  Theo. I have now a quarrel both to the sun and moon, because I have seen you both by their lights.

  Bel. Spare the moon, I beseech you, madam; she is a very trusty planet to you.

  Beat. O, Maskall, you have ruined me!

  Mask. Dear sir, hold yet!

  Bel. Away!

  Theo. Pray, sir, expound your meaning; for, I confess, I am in the dark.

  Bel. Methinks you should discover it by moonlight. Or, if you would have me speak clearer to you, give me leave to wait on you at a midnight assignation; and, that it may not be discovered, I’ll feign a voyage beyond sea, as if I were going a captaining to Flanders.

  Mask. A pox on his memory! he has not forgot one syllable!

  Theo. Ah, Beatrix! you have betrayed and sold me!

  Beat. You have betrayed and sold yourself, madam, by your own rashness to confess it; heaven knows I have served you but too faithfully.

  Theo. Peace, impudence! and see my face no more!

  Mask. Do you know what work you have made, sir?

  Bel. Let her see what she has got by slighting me.

  Mask. You had best let Beatrix be turned away for me to keep: If you do, I know whose purse shall pay for’t.