John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  He blushed to himself, and lay still for a while, And his modesty curbed his desire; But strait I convinced all his fear with a smile, Which added new flames to his fire. O Sylvia, said he, you are cruel, To keep your poor lover in awe! Then once more he prest with his hand to my breast, But was dashed with, A ha, ha, ha, ha!

  I knew ’twas his passion that caused all his fear, And therefore I pitied his case; I whispered him softly, There’s nobody near, And laid my cheek close to his face: But as he grew bolder and bolder, A shepherd came by us and saw; And just as our bliss we began with a kiss, He laughed out with, A ha, ha, ha, ha!

  Wild. If you dare be the Sylvia, lady, I have brought you a more confident Amyntas, than that bashful gentleman in your song.

  [Goes to lay hold of her.

  Jac. Hold, hold, sir; I am only an ambassadress sent you from a lady: I hope you will not violate the laws of nations.

  Wild. I was only searching for your letters of credence: but methinks, with that beauty, you look more like a herald that comes to denounce war to all mankind.

  Jac. One of the ladies in the masque to-night has taken a liking to you; and sent you by me this purse of gold, in recompence of that she saw you lose.

  Wild. And she expects in return of it, that I should wait on her: I’ll do’t, — where lives she? I am desperately in love with her.

  Jac. Why, can you love her unknown?

  Wild. I have a bank of love, to supply every one’s occasions; some for her, some for another, and some for you; charge what you will upon me, I pay all at sight, and without questioning who brought the bill.

  Jac. Hey-day! you dispatch your mistresses as fast, as if you meant to o’er-run all womankind: Sure you aim at the universal-monarchy.

  Wild. Now I think on’t, I have a foolish fancy to send the lady a taste of my love by thee.

  Jac. ’Tis impossible your love should be so humble, to descend to a mulatto.

  Wild. One would think so, but I cannot help it. Gad, I think the reason is, because there’s something more of sin in thy colour than in ours. I know not what’s the matter, but a turkey-cock is not more provoked at red, than I bristle at the sight of black. Come, be kinder to me. Young, and slip an opportunity? ’Tis an evening lost out of your life.

  Jac. These fine things you have said over a thousand times; your cold compliment’s the cold pye of love, which you serve up to every guest whom you invite.

  Wild. Come; because thou art very moving, here’s part of the gold, which thou brought’st to corrupt me for thy lady: Truth is, I had promised a sum to a Spanish lady; but thy eyes have allured it from me.

  Jac. You’ll repent it to-morrow.

  Wild. Let to-morrow starve, or provide for himself, as to-night has done: To-morrow is a cheat in love, and I will not trust it.

  Jac. Ay, but heaven, that sees all things ——

  Wild. Heaven, that sees all things, will say nothing: That is all eyes, and no tongue; Et la lune, et les estoiles, — you know the song.

  Jac. A poor slave, as I am ——

  Wild. It has been always my humour to love downward. I love to stoop to my prey, and to have it in my power to souse at, when I please. When a man comes to a great lady, he is fain to approach her with fear and reverence; methinks there’s something of godliness in’t.

  Jac. Yet I cannot believe, but the meanness of my habit must needs scandalize you.

  Wild. I tell thee, my friend, and so forth, that I exceedingly honour coarse linen; ’tis as proper sometimes in an under garment, as a coarse towel is to rub and scrub me.

  Jac. Now I am altogether of the other side; I can love no where but above me: Methinks the rattling of a coach and six sounds more eloquently than the best harangue a wit could make me.

  Wild. Do you make no more esteem of a wit then?

  Jac. His commendations serve only to make others have a mind to me; he does but say grace to me like a chaplain, and, like him, is the last that shall fall on. He ought to get no more by it, than a poor silk-weaver does by the ribband which he works, to make a gallant fine.

  Wild. Then what is a gentleman to hope from you?

  Jac. To be admitted to pass my time with, while a better comes: To be the lowest step in my staircase, for a knight to mount upon him, and a lord upon him, and a marquis upon him, and a duke upon him, till I get as high as I can climb.

  Wild. For aught I see, the great ladies have the appetites, which you slaves should have; and you slaves the pride, which ought to be in ladies. For, I observe, that all women of your condition are like women of the play-house, still picking at each other, who shall go the best dressed, and the richest habits; till you work up one another by your high flying, as the heron and jerfalcon do. If you cannot out-shine your fellow with one lover, you fetch her up with another: And, in short, all you get by it is only to put finery out of countenance; and to make the ladies of quality go plain, because they will avoid the scandal of your bravery.

  Beat. [Running in.] Madam, come away; I hear company in the garden.

  Wild. You are not going?

  Jac. Yes, to cry out a rape, if you follow me.

  Wild. However, I am glad you have left your treasure behind you: Farewell, fairy!

  Jac. Farewell, changeling! — Come, Beatrix.

  [Exeunt Women.

  Mask. Do you know how you came by this money, sir? You think, I warrant, that it came by fortune.

  Wild. No, sirrah, I know it came by my own industry. Did not I come out diligently to meet this gold, in the very way it was to come? What could fate do less for me? They are such thoughtless, and undesigning rogues as you, that make a drudge of poor Providence, and set it a shifting for you. Give me a brave fellow like myself, that, if you throw him down into the world, lights every where upon his legs, and helps himself without being beholden to fate, that is the hospital of fools.

  Mask. But, after all your jollity, what think you if it was Jacintha that gave it you in this disguise? I am sure I heard her call Beatrix as she went away.

  Wild. Umh! thou awaken’st a most villainous apprehension in me! methought, indeed, I knew the voice: but the face was such an evidence against it! if it were so, she is lost for ever.

  Mask. And so is Beatrix.

  Wild. Now could I cut my throat for madness.

  Mask. Now could I break my neck for despair, if I could find a precipice absolutely to my liking.

  Wild. ’Tis in vain to consider on’t. There’s but one way; go you, Maskall, and find her out, and invent some excuse for me, and be sure to beg leave I may come and wait upon her with the gold, before she sleeps.

  Mask. In the mean time you’ll be thinking at your lodging.

  Wild. But make haste then to relieve me; for I think over all my thoughts in half an hour.

  [Exit Mask.

  Wild. [Solus.] Hang it! now I think on’t, I shall be but melancholic at my lodging; I’ll go pass my hour at the gaming-house, and make use of this money while I have tools, to win more to it. Stay, let me see, — I have the box and throw. My Don he sets me ten pistoles; I nick him: Ten more, I sweep them too. Now, in all reason, he is nettled, and sets me twenty: I win them too. Now he kindles, and butters me with forty. They are all my own: In fine, he is vehement, and bleeds on to fourscore or an hundred; and I, not willing to tempt fortune, come away a moderate winner of two hundred pistoles.

  SCENE II.

  The Scene opens and discovers Aurelia and Camilla: Behind them a table and lights set on it. The Scene is a Garden with an arbour in it.

  The garden-door opens! How now, Aurelia and Camilla in expectation of Don Melchor at the garden door! I’ll away, least I prevent the design, and within this half hour come sailing back with full pockets, as wantonly as a laden galleon from the Indies.

  [Exit.

  Aur. But dost thou think the Englishman can keep his promise? For, I confess, I furiously desire to see the idea of Don Melchor.

  Cam. But, madam, if you should see him, it will not be he, but
the devil in his likeness; and then why should you desire it?

  Aur. In effect ’tis a very dark enigma; and one must be very spiritual to understand it. But be what it will, body or phantom, I am resolved to meet it.

  Cam. Can you do it without fear?

  Aur. No; I must avow it, I am furiously fearful; but yet I am resolved to sacrifice all things to my love. Therefore, let us pass over that chapter.

  [Don Melchor, without.

  Cam. Do you hear, madam, there’s one treading already; how if it be he?

  Aur. If it be he! that is to say his spectre, that is to say his phantom, that is to say his idea, that is to say, he, and not he.

  Cam. [Crying out.] Ah, madam, ’tis he himself; but he’s as big again as he used to be, with eyes like saucers. I’ll save myself.

  [Runs under the table.

  Enter Don Melchor: They both shriek.

  Aur. Oh heaven! humanity is not able to support it.

  [Running.

  Mel. Dear Aurelia, what mean you?

  Aur. The tempter has imitated his voice too; avoid, avoid, spectre.

  Cam. If he should find me under the table now!

  Mel. Is it thus, my dear, that you treat your servant?

  Aur. I am not thy dear; I renounce thee, spirit of darkness!

  Mel. This spirit of darkness is come to see an angel of light by her command; and to assure her of his constancy, that he will be her’s eternally.

  Aur. Away, infernal! ’tis not thee; ’tis the true Don Melchor that I would see.

  Mel. Hell and furies!

  Aur. Heaven and angels! Ah ——

  [Runs out, shrieking.

  Mel. This is a riddle past my finding out, to send for me, and then to shun me; but here’s one shall resolve it for me: Camilla, what dost thou there?

  Cam. Help, help! I shall be carried away bodily.

  [She rises up, overthrows the table and lights,

  and runs out. The scene shuts.

  Mel. [Alone.] Why, Aurelia, Camilla! they are both run out of hearing! this amazes me; what can the meaning of it be? Sure she has heard of my unfaithfulness, and was resolved to punish me by this contrivance! to put an affront upon me by this abrupt departure, as I did on her by my seeming absence.

  Enter Theodosia and Beatrix.

  Theo. Don Melchor! is it you, my love, that have frighted Aurelia so terribly?

  Mel. Alas, madam! I know not; but, coming hither by your appointment, and thinking myself secure in the night without disguise, perhaps it might work upon her fancy, because she thought me absent.

  Theo. Since ’tis so unluckily fallen out, that she knows you are at Madrid, it can no longer be kept a secret; therefore, you must now pretend openly to me, and run the risk of a denial from my father.

  Mel. O, madam, there’s no question but he’ll refuse me: For, alas! what is it he can see in me worthy of that honour? Or, if he should be so partial to me, as some in the world are, to think me valiant, learned, and not altogether a fool, yet my want of fortune would weigh down all.

  Theo. When he has refused you his consent, I may with justice dispose of myself; and that, while you are constant, shall never be to any but yourself: In witness of which, accept this diamond, as a pledge of my heart’s firmness to you.

  Beat. Madam, your father is coming this way.

  Theo. ’Tis no matter; do not stir: since he must know you are returned, let him now see you.

  Enter Don Alonzo.

  Alon. Daughter, what make you here at this unseasonable hour?

  Theo. Sir ——

  Alon. I know what you would say, that you heard a noise, and ran hither to see what it might be —— Bless us! who is this with you?

  Mel. ’Tis your servant, Don Melchor; just returned from St Sebastians.

  Alon. But, sir, I thought you had been upon the sea for Flanders.

  Mel. I had so designed it.

  Alon. But, why came you back from St Sebastians?

  Mel. As for that, sir, ’tis not material.

  Theo. An unexpected law-suit has called him back from St Sebastians.

  Alon. And how fares my son-in-law, that lives there?

  Mel. In Catholic health, sir.

  Alon. Have you brought no letters from him?

  Mel. I had, sir, but I was set upon by the way, by picarons: and, in spite of my resistance, robbed, and my portmanteau taken from me.

  Theo. And this was that which he was now desiring me to excuse to you.

  Alon. If my credit, friends, or counsel, can do you any service in your suit, I hope you will command them freely.

  Mel. When I have dispatched some private business, I shall not fail to trouble you; till then, humbly kisses your hands the most obliged of your servants.

  [Exit Melchor.

  Alon. Daughter, now this cavalier is gone, what occasion brought you out so late? — I know what you would say, that it is melancholy; a tincture of the hypochondria you mean: But, what cause have you for this melancholy? Give me your hand, and answer me without ambages, or ambiguities.

  Theo. He will find out I have given away my ring — I must prevent him — Sir, I am ashamed to confess it to you; but, in hope of your indulgence, I have lost the table diamond you gave me.

  Alon. You would say, The fear of my displeasure has caused the perturbation in you; well, do not disquiet yourself too much; you say ’tis gone, I say so too. ’Tis stolen; and that by some thief, I take it: But, I will go and consult the astrologer immediately.

  [He is going.

  Theo. What have I done? To avoid one inconvenience, I have run into another: This devil of an astrologer will discover that Don Melchor has it.

  [Aside.

  Alon. When did you lose this diamond? The minute and second I should know; but the hour will serve for the degree ascending.

  Theo. Sir, the precise time I know not; but it was betwixt six and seven in the evening, as near as I can guess.

  Alon. ’Tis enough; by all the stars, I’ll have it for you: Therefore, go in, and suppose it on your finger.

  Beat. I’ll watch you at a distance, sir, that my Englishman may have wherewithal to answer you.

  [Aside. Exeunt Theo. Beat.

  Alon. This melancholy, wherewith my daughter laboureth, is — a — I know what I would say, is a certain species of the hysterical disease; or a certain motion, caused by a certain appetite, which, at a certain time, heaveth in her, like a certain motion of an earthquake —

  Enter Bellamy.

  Bel. This is the place, and very near the time that Theodosia appoints her meeting with Don Melchor. He is this night otherwise disposed of with Aurelia: ’Tis but trying my fortune, to tell her of his infidelity, and my love. If she yields, she makes me happy; if not, I shall be sure Don Melchor has not planted the arms of Spain in the fort before me. However, I’ll push my fortune, as sure as I am an Englishman.

  Alon. Sennor Inglis, I know your voice, though I cannot perfectly discern you.

  Bel. How the devil came he to cross me?

  Alon. I was just coming to have asked another favour of you.

  Bel. Without ceremony, command me, sir.

  Alon. My daughter Theodosia has lost a fair diamond from her finger, the time betwixt six and seven this evening; now, I desire you, sir, to erect a scheme for it, and if it be lost, or stolen, to restore it to me. This is all, sir.

  Bel. There is no end of this old fellow; thus will he bait me from day to day, till my ignorance be found out.

  [Aside.

  Alon. Now is he casting a figure by the art of memory, and making a judgment of it to himself. This astrology is a very mysterious speculation.

  [Aside.

  Bel. ’Tis a madness for me to hope I can deceive him longer. Since then he must know I am no astrologer, I’ll discover it myself to him, and blush once for all.

  [Aside.

  Alon. Well, sir, and what do the stars hold forth? What says nimble master Mercury to the matter?

  Bel. Sir
, not to keep you longer in ignorance, I must ingenuously declare to you, that I am not the man for whom you take me. Some smattering in astrology I have; which my friends, by their indiscretion, have blown abroad, beyond my intentions. But you are not a person to be imposed on like the vulgar: Therefore, to satisfy you in one word, my skill goes not far enough to give you knowledge of what you desire from me.

  Alon. You have said enough, sir, to persuade me of your science; if fame had not published it, yet this very humility of yours were enough to confirm me in the belief of it.

  Bel. Death, you make me mad, sir! Will you have me swear? As I am a gentleman, a man of the town, one who wears good cloaths, eats, drinks, and wenches abundantly, I am a damned ignorant, and senseless fellow.

  Enter Beatrix.

  Alon. How now, gentlewoman? — What, are you going to relief by moonshine?

  Beat. I was going on a very charitable office, to help a friend that was gravelled in a very doubtful business.

  Bel. Some good news, fortune, I beseech thee.

  Beat. But now I have found this learned gentleman, I shall make bold to propound a question to him from a lady.

  Alon. I will have my own question first resolved.

  Bel. O, sir, ’tis from a lady.

  Beat. If you please, sir, I’ll tell it in your ear — My lady has given Don Melchor the ring; in whose company her father found her just now at the garden-door.

  [In a whisper.

  Bel. [Aloud.] Come to me to-morrow, and you shall receive an answer.

  Beat. Your servant, sir.

  [Exit Beatrix.

  Alon. Sir, I shall take it very unkindly if you satisfy any other, and leave me in this perplexity.

  Bel. Sir, if my knowledge were according —

  Alon. No more of that, sir, I beseech you.

  Bel. Perhaps I may know something by my art concerning it; but, for your quiet, I wish you would not press me.

  Alon. Do you think I am not master of my passions?

  Bel. Since you will needs know what I would willingly have concealed, the person, who has your diamond, is he whom you saw last in your daughter’s company.

  Alon. You would say ’tis Don Melchor de Guzman. Who the devil would have suspected him of such an action? But he is of a decayed family, and poverty, it seems, has enforced him to it. Now I think on’t better, he has e’en stolen it for a fee, to bribe his lawyer; to requite a lie with a theft. I’ll seek him out, and tell him part of my mind before I sleep.