John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Suave, mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis,

  E terrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem;

  Non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas,

  Sed, quibus ipse malis careas, quia cernere suave est.

  I am sure his master Epicurus, and my better master Cowley, preferred the solitude of a garden, and the conversation of a friend, to any consideration, so much as a regard, of those unhappy people, whom, in our own wrong, we call the great. True greatness, if it be any where on earth, is in a private virtue; removed from the notion of pomp and vanity, confined to a contemplation of itself, and centering on itself:

  Omnis enim per se Divûm natura necesse est

  Immortali ævo summâ cum pace fruatur;

  — curâ semota, metuque,

  Ipsa suis pollens opibus.

  If this be not the life of a deity, because it cannot consist with Providence, it is, at least, a god-like life. I can be contented, (and I am sure I have your lordship of my opinion) with an humbler station in the temple of virtue, than to be set on the pinnacle of it:

  Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre

  Errare, atque viam palantes quærere vitæ.

  The truth is, the consideration of so vain a creature as man, is not worth our pains. I have fool enough at home, without looking for it abroad; and am a sufficient theatre to myself of ridiculous actions, without expecting company, either in a court, a town, or a play-house. It is on this account that I am weary with drawing the deformities of life, and lazars of the people, where every figure of imperfection more resembles me than it can do others. If I must be condemned to rhyme, I should find some ease in my change of punishment. I desire to be no longer the Sisyphus of the stage; to roll up a stone with endless labour, (which, to follow the proverb, gathers no moss) and which is perpetually falling down again. I never thought myself very fit for an employment, where many of my predecessors have excelled me in all kinds; and some of my contemporaries, even in my own partial judgement have outdone me in Comedy. Some little hopes I have yet remaining, and those too, considering my abilities, may be vain, that I may make the world some part of amends, for many ill plays, by an heroic poem. Your lordship has been long acquainted with my design; the subject of which you know is great, the story English, and neither too far distant from the present age, nor too near approaching it. Such it is in my opinion, that I could not have wished a nobler occasion to do honour by it to my king, my country, and my friends; most of our ancient nobility being concerned in the action. And your lordship has one particular reason to promote this undertaking, because you were the first who gave me the opportunity of discoursing it to his majesty, and his royal highness: They were then pleased, both to commend the design, and to encourage it by their commands. But the unsettledness of my condition has hitherto put a stop to my thoughts concerning it. As I am no successor to Homer in his wit, so neither do I desire to be in his poverty. I can make no rhapsodies nor go a begging at the Grecian doors, while I sing the praises of their ancestors. The times of Virgil please me better, because he had an Augustus for his patron; and, to draw the allegory nearer you, I am sure I shall not want a Mecænas with him. It is for your lordship to stir up that remembrance in his majesty, which his many avocations of business have caused him, I fear, to lay aside; and, as himself and his royal brother are the heroes of the poem, to represent to them the images of their warlike predecessors; as Achilles is said to be roused to glory, with the sight of the combat before the ships. For my own part, I am satisfied to have offered the design, and it may be to the advantage of my reputation to have it refused me.

  In the mean time, my lord, I take the confidence to present you with a tragedy, the characters of which are the nearest to those of an heroic poem. It was dedicated to you in my heart, before it was presented on the stage. Some things in it have passed your approbation, and many your amendment. You were likewise pleased to recommend it to the king’s perusal, before the last hand was added to it, when I received the favour from him, to have the most considerable event of it modelled by his royal pleasure. It may be some vanity in me to add his testimony then, and which he graciously confirmed afterwards, that it was the best of all my tragedies; in which he has made authentic my private opinion of it; at least, he has given it a value by his commendation, which it had not by my writing.

  That which was not pleasing to some of the fair ladies in the last act of it, as I dare not vindicate, so neither can I wholly condemn, till I find more reason for their censures. The procedure of Indamora and Melesinda seems yet, in my judgment, natural, and not unbecoming of their characters. If they, who arraign them, fail not more, the world will never blame their conduct; and I shall be glad, for the honour of my country, to find better images of virtue drawn to the life in their behaviour, than any I could feign to adorn the theatre. I confess, I have only represented a practical virtue, mixed with the frailties and imperfections of human life. I have made my heroine fearful of death, which neither Cassandra nor Cleopatra would have been; and they themselves, I doubt it not, would have outdone romance in that particular. Yet their Mandana (and the Cyrus was written by a lady,) was not altogether so hard-hearted: For she sat down on the cold ground by the king of Assyria, and not only pitied him, who died in her defence; but allowed him some favours, such, perhaps, as they would think, should only be permitted to her Cyrus. I have made my Melesinda, in opposition to Nourmahal, a woman passionately loving of her husband, patient of injuries and contempt, and constant in her kindness, to the last; and in that, perhaps, I may have erred, because it is not a virtue much in use. Those Indian wives are loving fools, and may do well to keep themselves in their own country, or, at least, to keep company with the Arrias and Portias of old Rome: Some of our ladies know better things. But, it may be, I am partial to my own writings; yet I have laboured as much as any man, to divest myself of the self-opinion of an author; and am too well satisfied of my own weakness, to be pleased with any thing I have written. But, on the other side, my reason tells me, that, in probability, what I have seriously and long considered may be as likely to be just and natural, as what an ordinary judge (if there be any such among those ladies) will think fit, in a transient presentation, to be placed in the room of that which they condemn. The most judicious writer is sometimes mistaken, after all his care; but the hasty critic, who judges on a view, is full as liable to be deceived. Let him first consider all the arguments, which the author had, to write this, or to design the other, before he arraigns him of a fault; and then, perhaps, on second thoughts, he will find his reason oblige him to revoke his censure. Yet, after all, I will not be too positive. Homo sum, humani à me nihil alienum puto. As I am a man, I must be changeable; and sometimes the gravest of us all are so, even upon ridiculous accidents. Our minds are perpetually wrought on by the temperament of our bodies; which makes me suspect, they are nearer allied, than either our philosophers or school-divines will allow them to be. I have observed, says Montaigne, that when the body is out of order, its companion is seldom at his ease. An ill dream, or a cloudy day, has power to change this wretched creature, who is so proud of a reasonable soul, and make him think what he thought not yesterday. And Homer was of this opinion, as Cicero is pleased to translate him for us:

  Tales sunt hominum mentes, quali pater ipse

  Jupiter auctiferâ lustravit lampade terras.

  Or, as the same author, in his “Tusculan Questions,” speaks, with more modesty than usual, of himself: Nos in diem vivimus; quodcunque animos nostros probabilitate percussit, id dicimus. It is not therefore impossible but that I may alter the conclusion of my play, to restore myself into the good graces of my fair critics; and your lordship, who is so well with them, may do me the office of a friend and patron, to intercede with them on my promise of amendment. The impotent lover in Petronius, though his was a very unpardonable crime, yet was received to mercy on the terms I offer. Summa excusationis meæ hæc est: Placebo tibi, si culpam emendare permiseris. />
  But I am conscious to myself of offering at a greater boldness, in presenting to your view what my meanness can produce, than in any other error of my play; and therefore make haste to break off this tedious address, which has, I know not how, already run itself into so much of pedantry, with an excuse of Tully’s, which he sent with his books “De Finibus,” to his friend Brutus: De ipsis rebus autem, sæpenumerò, Brute, vereor ne reprehendar, cum hæc ad te scribam, qui tum in poesi, (I change it from philosophiâ) tum in optimo genere poeseos tantum processeris. Quod si facerem quasi te erudiens, jure reprehenderer. Sed ab eo plurimùm absum: Nec, ut ea cognoscas quæ tibi notissima sunt, ad te mitto; sed quià facillimè in nomine tuo acquiesco, et quia te habeo æquissimum eorum studiorum, quæ mihi communia tecum sunt, æstimatorem et judicem. Which you may please, my lord, to apply to yourself, from him, who is,

  Your Lordship’s

  Most obedient,

  Humble servant,

  Dryden.

  PROLOGUE.

  Our author, by experience, finds it true,

  ’Tis much more hard to please himself than you;

  And out of no feigned modesty, this day

  Damns his laborious trifle of a play:

  Not that its worse than what before he writ,

  But he has now another taste of wit;

  And, to confess a truth, though out of time,

  Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.

  Passion’s too fierce to be in fetters bound,

  And nature flies him like enchanted ground:

  What verse can do, he has performed in this,

  Which he presumes the most correct of his;

  But spite of all his pride, a secret shame

  Invades his breast at Shakespeare’s sacred name:

  Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,

  He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;

  And to an age less polished, more unskilled,

  Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.

  As with the greater dead he dares not strive,

  He would not match his verse with those who live:

  Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast,

  The first of this, and hindmost of the last.

  A losing gamester, let him sneak away;

  He bears no ready money from the play.

  The fate, which governs poets, thought it fit

  He should not raise his fortunes by his wit.

  The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar;

  Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war:

  All southern vices, heaven be praised, are here:

  But wit’s a luxury you think too dear.

  When you to cultivate the plant are loth,

  ’Tis a shrewd sign ’twas never of your growth;

  And wit in northern climates will not blow,

  Except, like orange-trees, ’tis housed from snow.

  There needs no care to put a playhouse down,

  ’Tis the most desart place of all the town:

  We and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are,

  Like monarchs, ruined with expensive war;

  While, like wise English, unconcerned you sit,

  And see us play the tragedy of wit.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  The Old Emperor.

  Aureng-Zebe, his Son.

  Morat, his younger Son.

  Arimant, Governor of Agra.

  Dianet,

  Solyman,

  Mir Baba,

  Abas,

  Asaph Chan,

  Fazel Chan,}

  Indian Lords, or Omrahs, of several Factions.

  Nourmahal, the Empress.

  Indamora, a Captive Queen.

  Melesinda, Wife to Morat.

  Zayda, favourite Slave to the Empress.

  SCENE — Agra, in the year 1660.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I.

  Enter Arimant, Asaph Chan, and Fazel Chan.

  Arim. Heaven seems the empire of the east to lay

  On the success of this important day:

  Their arms are to the last decision bent,

  And fortune labours with the vast event:

  She now has in her hand the greatest stake,

  Which for contending monarchs she can make.

  Whate’er can urge ambitious youth to fight,

  She pompously displays before their sight;

  Laws, empire, all permitted to the sword,

  And fate could ne’er an ampler scene afford.

  Asaph. Four several armies to the field are led,

  Which, high in equal hopes, four princes head:

  Indus and Ganges, our wide empire’s bounds,

  Swell their dyed currents with their natives’ wounds:

  Each purple river winding, as he runs,

  His bloody arms about his slaughtered sons.

  Fazel. I well remember you foretold the storm,

  When first the brothers did their factions form:

  When each, by cursed cabals of women, strove

  To draw the indulgent king to partial love.

  Arim. What heaven decrees, no prudence can prevent.

  To cure their mad ambition, they were sent

  To rule a distant province each alone:

  What could a careful father more have done?

  He made provision against all, but fate,

  While, by his health, we held our peace of state.

  The weight of seventy winters prest him down,

  He bent beneath the burden of a crown:

  Sickness, at last, did his spent body seize,

  And life almost sunk under the disease:

  Mortal ’twas thought, at least by them desired,

  Who, impiously, into his years inquired:

  As at a signal, strait the sons prepare

  For open force, and rush to sudden war:

  Meeting, like winds broke loose upon the main,

  To prove, by arms, whose fate it was to reign.

  Asaph. Rebels and parricides!

  Arim. Brand not their actions with so foul a name:

  Pity at least what we are forced to blame.

  When death’s cold hand has closed the father’s eye,

  You know the younger sons are doomed to die.

  Less ills are chosen greater to avoid,

  And nature’s laws are by the state’s destroyed.

  What courage tamely could to death consent,

  And not, by striking first, the blow prevent?

  Who falls in fight, cannot himself accuse,

  And he dies greatly, who a crown pursues.

  To them Solyman Aga.

  Solym. A new express all Agra does affright:

  Darah and Aureng-Zebe are joined in fight;

  The press of people thickens to the court,

  The impatient crowd devouring the report.

  Arim. T’ each changing news they changed affections bring,

  And servilely from fate expect a king.

  Solym. The ministers of state, who gave us law,

  In corners, with selected friends, withdraw:

  There, in deaf murmurs, solemnly are wise;

  Whispering, like winds, ere hurricanes arise.

  The most corrupt are most obsequious grown,

  And those they scorned, officiously they own.

  Asaph. In change of government,

  The rabble rule their great oppressors’ fate;

  Do sovereign justice, and revenge the state.

  Solym. The little courtiers, who ne’er come to know

  The depth of factions, as in mazes go,

  Where interests meet and cross so oft, that they,

  With too much care, are wildered in their way.

  Arim. What of the emperor?

  Solym. Unmoved, and brave, he like himself appears,

  And, meriting no ill, no danger fears:

  Yet mourns his former vigour lost so far,

  To make him now spectator of a war:
<
br />   Repining that he must preserve his crown

  By any help or courage but his own:

  Wishes, each minute, he could unbeget

  Those rebel sons, who dare usurp his seat;

  To sway his empire with unequal skill,

  And mount a throne, which none but he can fill.

  Arim. Oh! had he still that character maintained,

  Of valour, which, in blooming youth, he gained!

  He promised in his east a glorious race;

  Now, sunk from his meridian, sets apace.

  But as the sun, when he from noon declines,

  And, with abated heat, less fiercely shines,

  Seems to grow milder as he goes away,

  Pleasing himself with the remains of day;

  So he, who, in his youth, for glory strove,

  Would recompense his age with ease and love.

  Asaph. The name of father hateful to him grows,

  Which, for one son, produces him three foes.

  Fazel. Darah, the eldest, bears a generous mind,

  But to implacable revenge inclined:

  Too openly does love and hatred show;

  A bounteous master, but a deadly foe.

  Solym. From Sujah’s valour I should much expect,

  But he’s a bigot of the Persian sect;

  And by a foreign interest seeks to reign,

  Hopeless by love the sceptre to obtain.

  Asaph. Morat’s too insolent, too much a brave;

  His courage to his envy is a slave.

  What he attempts, if his endeavours fail

  To effect, he is resolved no other shall.

  Arim. But Aureng-Zebe, by no strong passion swayed,

  Except his love, more temperate is, and weighed:

  This Atlas must our sinking state uphold;

  In council cool, but in performance bold:

  He sums their virtues in himself alone,

  And adds the greatest, of a loyal son: