John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Bel. They move faster than you imagine; for I have got me an argol, and an English almanack, by help of which, in one half hour, I have learned to cant with an indifferent good grace: Conjunction, opposition, trine, square, and sextile, are now no longer bugbears to me, I thank my stars for’t.

  Enter Wildblood.

  Monsieur Wildblood, in good time! What, you have been taking pains, too, to divulge my talent?

  Wild. So successfully, that shortly there will be no talk in town, but of you only: Another miracle or two, and a sharp sword, and you stand fair for a new prophet.

  Bel. But where did you begin to blow the trumpet?

  Wild. In the gaming-house, where I found most of the town-wits; the prose-wits playing, and the verse-wits rooking.

  Bel. All sorts of gamesters are so superstitious, that I need not doubt of my reception there.

  Wild. From thence I went to the latter end of a comedy, and there whispered it to the next man I knew, who had a woman by him.

  Mask. Nay, then, it went like a train of powder, if once they had it by the end.

  Wild. Like a squib upon a line, i’faith; it ran through one row, and came back upon me in the next. At my going out I met a knot of Spaniards, who were formally listening to one, who was relating it; but he told the story so ridiculously, with his marginal notes upon it, that I was forced to contradict him.

  Bel. ’Twas discreetly done.

  Wild. Ay, for you, but not for me: What, says he, must such Boracho’s as you take upon you to vilify a man of science? I tell you, he’s of my intimate acquaintance, and I have known him long for a prodigious person. — When I saw my Don so fierce, I thought it not wisdom to quarrel for so slight a matter as your reputation, and so withdrew.

  Bel. A pox of your success! now shall I have my chamber besieged to-morrow morning: There will be no stirring out for me; but I must be fain to take up their questions in a cleft-cane, or a begging-box, as they do charity in prisons.

  Wild. Faith, I cannot help what your learning has brought you to. Go in and study; I foresee you will have but few holidays: In the mean time, I’ll not fail to give the world an account of your endowments. Farewell: I’ll to the gaming-house.

  [Exit Wild.

  Mask. O, sir, here is the rarest adventure, and, which is more, come home to you!

  Bel. What is it?

  Mask. A fair lady, and her woman, wait in the outer room to speak with you.

  Bel. But how know you she is fair?

  Mask. Her woman plucked up her veil when she spoke to me; so that having seen her this evening, I know her mistress to be Donna Aurelia, cousin to your mistress Theodosia, and who lodges in the same house with her: She wants a star or two, I warrant you.

  Bel. My whole constellation is at her service: But what is she for a woman?

  Mask. Fair enough, as Beatrix has told me; but sufficiently impertinent. She is one of those ladies, who make ten visits in an afternoon; and entertain her they see, with speaking ill of the last, from whom they parted: In few words, she is one of the greatest coquettes in Madrid; and to shew she is one, she cannot speak ten words without some affected phrase that is in fashion.

  Bel. For my part, I can suffer any impertinence from a woman, provided she be handsome: My business is with her beauty, not with her morals; let her confessor look to them.

  Mask. I wonder what she has to say to you?

  Bel. I know not; but I sweat for fear I should be gravelled.

  Mask. Venture out of your depth, and plunge boldly, sir; I warrant you will swim.

  Bel. Do not leave me, I charge you; but when I look mournfully upon you, help me out.

  Enter Aurelia and Camilla.

  Mask. Here they are already.

  [Aur. plucks up her veil.

  Aur. How am I dressed to-night, Camilla? is nothing disordered in my head?

  Cam. Not the least hair, madam.

  Aur. No! let me see: Give me the counsellor of the graces.

  Cam. The counsellor of the graces, madam!

  Aur. My glass, I mean: What, will you never be so spiritual as to understand refined language?

  Cam. Madam!

  Aur. Madam me no madam, but learn to retrench your words; and say ma’am; as, yes ma’am, and no ma’am, as other ladies’ women do. Madam! ’tis a year in pronouncing.

  Cam. Pardon me, madam.

  Aur. Yet again, ignorance! Par-don, madam! fie, fie, what a superfluity is there, and how much sweeter the cadence is — parn me, ma’am! and for your ladyship, your la’ship. — Out upon’t, what a furious indigence of ribbands is here upon my head! This dress is a libel to my beauty; a mere lampoon. Would any one, that had the least revenue of common sense, have done this?

  Cam. Ma’am, the cavalier approaches your la’ship.

  Bel. to Mask. Maskall, pump the woman; and see if you can discover any thing to save my credit.

  Aur. Out upon it! now I should speak, I want assurance.

  Bel. Madam, I was told you meant to honour me with your commands.

  Aur. I believe, sir, you wonder at my confidence in this visit; but I may be excused for waving a little modesty, to know the only person of the age.

  Bel. I wish my skill were more, to serve you, madam.

  Aur. Sir, you are an unfit judge of your own merits: For my own part, I confess, I have a furious inclination for the occult sciences; but at present, ’tis my misfortune ——

  [Sighs.

  Bel. But why that sigh, madam?

  Aur. You might spare me the shame of telling you; since I am sure you can divine my thoughts: I will, therefore, tell you nothing.

  Bel. What the devil will become of me now!

  [Aside.

  Aur. You may give me an essay of your science, by declaring to me the secret of my thoughts.

  Bel. If I know your thoughts, madam, ’tis in vain for you to disguise them to me: Therefore, as you tender your own satisfaction, lay them open without bashfulness.

  Aur. I beseech you let us pass over that chapter; for I am shame-faced to the last point. Since, therefore, I cannot put off my modesty, succour it, and tell me what I think.

  Bel. Madam, madam, that bashfulness must be laid aside: Not but that I know your business perfectly; and will, if you please, unfold it to you all immediately.

  Aur. Favour me so far, I beseech you, sir; for I furiously desire it.

  Bel. But then I must call up before you a most dreadful spirit, with head upon head, and horns upon horns: Therefore, consider how you can endure it.

  Aur. This is furiously furious; but rather than fail of my expectances, I’ll try my assurance.

  Bel. Well then, I find you will force me to this unlawful, and abominable act of conjuration: Remember the sin is yours too.

  Aur. I espouse the crime also.

  Bel. I see, when a woman has a mind to’t, she’ll never boggle at a sin. Pox on her, what shall I do? [Aside.] — Well, I’ll tell you your thoughts, madam; but after that expect no farther service from me; for ’tis your confidence must make my art successful. —— Well, you are obstinate, then; I must tell you your thoughts?

  Aur. Hold, hold, sir; I am content to pass over that chapter, rather than be deprived of your assistance.

  Bel. ’Tis very well; what need these circumstances between us two? Confess freely; is not love your business?

  Aur. You have touched me to the quick, sir.

  Bel. Look you there! you see I knew it; nay, I’ll tell you more, ’tis a man you love.

  Aur. O prodigious science! I confess I love a man most furiously, to the last point, sir.

  Bel. Now proceed, lady, your way is open; I am resolved, I’ll not tell you a word farther.

  Aur. Well then, since I must acquaint you with what you know much better than myself, I will tell you. I loved a cavalier, who was noble, young, and handsome; this gentleman is since gone for Flanders; now whether he has preserved his passion inviolate, or not, is that which causes my inquietude.

  Bel. T
rouble not yourself, madam; he’s as constant as a romance hero.

  Aur. Sir, your good news has ravished me most furiously; but that I may have a confirmation of it, I beg only, that you would lay your commands upon his genius, or idea, to appear to me this night, that I may have my sentence from his mouth. This, sir, I know is a slight effect of your science, and yet will infinitely oblige me.

  Bel. What the devil does she call a slight effect! [Aside.] — Why, lady, do you consider what you say? you desire me to shew you a man, whom yourself confess to be in Flanders.

  Aur. To view him in a glass is nothing; I would speak with him in person, I mean his idea, sir.

  Bel. Ay, but, madam, there is a vast sea betwixt us and Flanders; and water is an enemy to conjuration. A witch’s horse, you know, when he enters into water, returns into a bottle of hay again.

  Aur. But, sir, I am not so ill a geographer, or, to speak more properly, a chorographer, as not to know there is a passage by land from hence to Flanders.

  Bel. That’s true, madam; but magic works in a direct line. Why should you think the devil such an ass to go about? ‘Gad, he’ll not stir a step out of his road for you, or any man.

  Aur. Yes, for a lady, sir; I hope he’s a person that wants not that civility for a lady; especially a spirit that has the honour to belong to you, sir.

  Bel. For that matter, he’s your servant, madam; but his education has been in the fire, and he’s naturally an enemy to water, I assure you.

  Aur. I beg his pardon, for forgetting his antipathy; but it imports not much, sir; for I have lately received a letter from my servant, that he is yet in Spain, and stays for a wind in St Sebastian’s.

  Bel. Now I am lost, past all redemption. — Maskall, must you be smickering after wenches, while I am in calamity?

  [Aside.

  Mask. It must be he, I’ll venture on’t. [Aside.] — Alas, sir, I was complaining to myself of the condition of poor Don Melchor, who, you know, is wind-bound at St Sebastian’s.

  Bel. Why, you impudent villain, must you offer to name him publicly, when I have taken so much care to conceal him all this while?

  Aur. Mitigate your displeasure, I beseech you; and, without making farther testimony of it, gratify my expectances.

  Bel. Well, madam, since the sea hinders not, you shall have your desire. Look upon me with a fixed eye —— so —— or a little more amorously, if you please —— good. Now favour me with your hand.

  Aur. Is it absolutely necessary you should press my hand thus?

  Bel. Furiously necessary, I assure you, madam; for now I take possession of it in the name of the idea of Don Melchor. Now, madam, I am farther to desire of you, to write a note to his genius, wherein you desire him to appear, and this we men of art call a compact with the ideas.

  Aur. I tremble furiously.

  Bel. Give me your hand, I’ll guide it.

  [They write.

  Mask. to Cam. Now, lady mine, what think you of my master?

  Cam. I think, I would not serve him for the world: Nay, if he can know our thoughts by looking on us, we women are hypocrites to little purpose.

  Mask. He can do that and more; for, by casting his eyes but once upon them, he knows whether they are maids, better than a whole jury of mid-wives.

  Cam. Now heaven defend me from him!

  Mask. He has a certain small familiar, which he carries still about him, that never fails to make discovery.

  Cam. See, they have done writing; not a word more, for fear he knows my voice.

  Bel. One thing I had forgot, madam; you must subscribe your name to it.

  Aur. There ’tis; farewell, cavalier, keep your promise, for I expect it furiously.

  Cam. If he sees me, I am undone.

  [Hiding her face.

  Bel. Camilla!

  Cam. [starts and shrieks.] Ah, he has found me; I am ruined!

  Bel. You hide your face in vain; for I see into your heart.

  Cam. Then, sweet sir, have pity on my frailty; for if my lady has the least inkling of what we did last night, the poor coachman will be turned away.

  [Exit after her Lady.

  Mask. Well, sir, how like you your new profession?

  Bel. Would I were well quit on’t; I sweat all over.

  Mask. But what faint-hearted devils yours are, that will not go by water! Are they all Lancashire devils, of the brood of Tybert and Grimalkin, that they dare not wet their feet?

  Bel. Mine are honest land devils, good plain foot-posts, that beat upon the hoof for me: But to save their labour, here take this, and in some disguise deliver it to Don Melchor.

  Mask. I’ll serve it upon him within this hour, when he sallies out to his assignation with Theodosia: ’Tis but counterfeiting my voice a little; for he cannot know me in the dark. But let me see, what are the words?

  Reads.] Don Melchor, if the magic of love have any power upon your spirit, I conjure you to appear this night before me: You may guess the greatness of my passion, since it has forced me to have recourse to art; but no shape which resembles you can fright

  Aurelia.

  Bel. Well, I am glad there’s one point gained; for, by this means, he will be hindered to-night from entertaining Theodosia. — Pox on him, is he here again?

  Enter Don Alonzo.

  Alon. Cavalier Inglis, I have been seeking you: I have a present in my pocket for you; read it by your art, and take it.

  Bel. That I could do easily: But, to shew you I am generous, I’ll none of your present; do you think I am mercenary?

  Alon. I know you will say now ’tis some astrological question; and so ’tis perhaps.

  Bel. Ay, ’tis the devil of a question, without dispute.

  Alon. No, ’tis within dispute: ’Tis a certain difficulty in the art; a problem, which you and I will discuss, with the arguments on both sides.

  Bel. At this time I am not problematically given; I have a humour of complaisance upon me, and will contradict no man.

  Alon. We’ll but discuss a little.

  Bel. By your favour, I’ll not discuss; for I see by the stars, that, if I dispute to-day, I am infallibly threatened to be thought ignorant all my life after.

  Alon. Well then, we’ll but cast an eye together upon my eldest daughter’s nativity.

  Bel. Nativity! ——

  Alon. I know what you would say now, that there wants the table of direction for the five hylegiacalls; the ascendant, medium coeli, sun, moon, and stars: But we’ll take it as it is.

  Bel. Never tell me that, sir ——

  Alon. I know what you would say again, sir ——

  Bel. ’Tis well you do, for I’ll be sworn I do not. ——

  [Aside.

  Alon. You would say, sir ——

  Bel. I say, sir, there is no doing without the sun and moon, and all that, sir; and so you may make use of your paper for your occasions. Come to a man of art without the sun and moon, and all that, sir ——

  [Tears it.

  Alon. ’Tis no matter; this shall break no squares betwixt us. [Gathers up the torn papers.] I know what you would say now, that men of parts are always choleric; I know it by myself, sir.

  [He goes to match the papers.

  Enter Don Lopez.

  Lop. Don Alonzo in my house! this is a most happy opportunity to put my other design in execution; for, if I can persuade him to bestow his daughter on Don Melchor, I shall serve my friend, though against his will; and, when Aurelia sees she cannot be his, perhaps she will accept my love.

  Alon. I warrant you, sir, ’tis all pieced right, both top, sides, and bottom; for, look you, sir, here was Aldeboran, and there Cor Scorpii ——

  Lop. Don Alonzo, I am happy to see you under my roof; and shall take it ——

  Alon. I know what you would say, sir; that though I am your neighbour, this is the first time I have been here. — [To Bellamy.] But, come, sir, by Don Lopez’ permission, let us return to our nativity.

  Bel. Would thou wert there, in thy mother’
s belly again!

  [Aside.

  Lop. But, sennor ——

  [To Alonzo.

  Alon. It needs not, sennor; I’ll suppose your compliment; you would say, that your house, and all things in it, are at my service. — But let us proceed, without this interruption.

  Bel. By no means, sir; this cavalier is come on purpose to perform the civilities of his house to you.

  Alon. But, good sir ——

  Bel. I know what you would say, sir.

  [Exeunt Bellamy and Maskall.

  Lop. No matter, let him go, sir. I have long desired this opportunity, to move a suit to you in the behalf of a friend of mine, if you please to allow me the hearing of it.

  Alon. With all my heart, sir.

  Lop. He is a person of worth and virtue, and is infinitely ambitious of the honour ——

  Alon. Of being known to me; I understand you, sir.

  Lop. If you will please to favour me with your patience, which I beg of you a second time.

  Alon. I am dumb, sir.

  Lop. This cavalier, of whom I was speaking, is in love ——

  Alon. Satisfy yourself, sir, I’ll not interrupt you.

  Lop. Sir, I am satisfied of your promise.

  Alon. If I speak one syllable more, the devil take me! Speak when you please.

  Lop. I am going, sir.

  Alon. You need not speak twice to me to be silent: Though I take it somewhat ill of you to be tutored.

  Lop. This eternal old man will make me mad.

  [Aside.

  Alon. Why, when do you begin, sir? How long must a man wait for you? Pray make an end of what you have to say quickly, that I may speak in my turn too.

  Lop. This cavalier is in love ——

  Alon. You told me that before, sir; do you speak oracles, that you require this strict attention? Either let me share the talk with you, or I am gone.

  Lop. Why, sir, I am almost mad to tell you, and you will not suffer me.

  Alon. Will you never have done, sir? I must tell you, sir, you have tattled long enough; and ’tis now good manners to hear me speak. Here’s a torrent of words indeed; a very impetus dicendi; will you never have done?

  Lop. I will be heard in spite of you.

  [This next speech of Lopez, and the next of Alonzo’s, with both their replies, are to be spoken at one time, both raising their voices by little and little, till they bawl, and come up close to shoulder one another.