John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Why stood I stupid else, and missed a blow,

  Which heaven and daring folly made so fair?

  Qu. M. I still maintain, ’twas wisely done to spare him.

  Gril. A pox on this unseasonable wisdom!

  He was a fool to come; if so, then they,

  Who let him go, were somewhat.

  King. The event, the event will shew us what we were;

  For, like a blazing meteor hence he shot,

  And drew a sweeping fiery train along. —

  O Paris, Paris, once my seat of triumph,

  But now the scene of all thy king’s misfortunes;

  Ungrateful, perjured, and disloyal town,

  Which by my royal presence I have warmed

  So long, that now the serpent hisses out,

  And shakes his forked tongue at majesty,

  While I —

  Qu. M. While you lose time in idle talk,

  And use no means for safety and prevention.

  King. What can I do? O mother, Abbot, Grillon!

  All dumb! nay, then ’tis plain, my cause is desperate.

  Such an overwhelming ill makes grief a fool,

  As if redress were past.

  Gril. I’ll go to the next sheriff,

  And beg the first reversion of a rope:

  Dispatch is all my business; I’ll hang for you.

  Abb. ’Tis not so bad, as vainly you surmise;

  Some space there is, some little space, some steps

  Betwixt our fate and us: our foes are powerful,

  But yet not armed, nor marshalled into order;

  Believe it, sir, the Guise will not attempt,

  Till he have rolled his snow-ball to a heap.

  King. So then, my lord, we’re a day off from death:

  What shall to-morrow do?

  Abb. To-morrow, sir,

  If hours between slide not too idly by,

  You may be master of their destiny,

  Who now dispose so loftily of yours.

  Not far without the suburbs there are quartered

  Three thousand Swiss, and two French regiments.

  King. Would they were here, and I were at their head!

  Qu. M. Send Mareschal Byron to lead them up.

  King. It shall be so: by heaven there’s life in this!

  The wrack of clouds is driving on the winds,

  And shews a break of sunshine —

  Go Grillon, give my orders to Byron,

  And see your soldiers well disposed within,

  For safeguard of the Louvre.

  Qu. M. One thing more:

  The Guise (his business yet not fully ripe,)

  Will treat, at least, for shew of loyalty;

  Let him be met with the same arts he brings.

  King. I know, he’ll make exorbitant demands,

  But here your part of me will come in play;

  The Italian soul shall teach me how to sooth:

  Even Jove must flatter with an empty hand,

  ’Tis time to thunder, when he gripes the brand.[Exeunt.

  SCENE II. — A Night Scene.

  Enter Malicorn solus.

  Mal. Thus far the cause of God; but God’s or devil’s, —

  I mean my master’s cause, and mine, — succeed,

  What shall the Guise do next?[A flash of lightning.

  Enter the spirit Melanax.

  Mel. First seize the king, and after murder him.

  Mal. Officious fiend, thou comest uncalled to-night.

  Mel. Always uncalled, and still at hand for mischief.

  Mal. But why in this fanatic habit, devil?

  Thou look’st like one that preaches to the crowd;

  Gospel is in thy face, and outward garb,

  And treason on thy tongue.

  Mel. Thou hast me right:

  Ten thousand devils more are in this habit;

  Saintship and zeal are still our best disguise:

  We mix unknown with the hot thoughtless crowd,

  And quoting scriptures, (which too well we know,)

  With impious glosses ban the holy text,

  And make it speak rebellion, schism, and murder;

  So turn the arms of heaven against itself.

  Mal. What makes the curate of St. Eustace here?

  Mel. Thou art mistaken, master; ’tis not he,

  But ’tis a zealous, godly, canting devil,

  Who has assumed the churchman’s lucky shape,

  To talk the crowd to madness and rebellion.

  Mal. O true enthusiastic devil, true, —

  (For lying is thy nature, even to me,)

  Did’st thou not tell me, if my lord, the Guise,

  Entered the court, his head should then lie low?

  That was a lie; he went, and is returned.

  Mel. ’Tis false; I said, perhaps it should lie low;

  And, but I chilled the blood in Henry’s veins,

  And crammed a thousand ghastly, frightful thoughts,

  Nay, thrust them foremost in his labouring brain,

  Even so it would have been.

  Mal. Thou hast deserved me,

  And I am thine, dear devil: what do we next?

  Mel. I said, first seize the king.

  Mal. Suppose it done:

  He’s clapt within a convent, shorn a saint,

  My master mounts the throne.

  Mel. Not so fast, Malicorn;

  Thy master mounts not, till the king be slain.

  Mal. Not when deposed?

  Mel. He cannot be deposed:

  He may be killed, a violent fate attends him;

  But at his birth there shone a regal star.

  Mal. My master had a stronger.

  Mel. No, not a stronger, but more popular.

  Their births were full opposed, the Guise now strongest

  But if the ill influence pass o’er Harry’s head,

  As in a year it will, France ne’er shall boast

  A greater king than he; now cut him off,

  While yet his stars are weak.

  Mal. Thou talk’st of stars:

  Can’st thou not see more deep into events,

  And by a surer way?

  Mel. No, Malicorn;

  The ways of heaven are broken since our fall,

  Gulph beyond gulph, and never to be shot.

  Once we could read our mighty Maker’s mind,

  As in a crystal mirror, see the ideas

  Of things that always are, as he is always;

  Now, shut below in this dark sphere,

  By second causes dimly we may guess,

  And peep far off on heaven’s revolving orbs,

  Which cast obscure reflections from the throne.

  Mal. Then tell me thy surmises of the future.

  Mel. I took the revolution of the year,

  Just when the Sun was entering in the Ham:

  The ascending Scorpion poisoned all the sky,

  A sign of deep deceit and treachery.

  Full on his cusp his angry master sate,

  Conjoined with Saturn, baleful both to man:

  Of secret slaughters, empires overturned,

  Strife, blood, and massacres, expect to hear,

  And all the events of an ill-omened year.

  Mal. Then flourish hell, and mighty mischief reign!

  Mischief, to some, to others must be good.

  But hark! for now, though ’tis the dead of night,

  When silence broods upon our darkened world,

  Methinks I hear a murmuring hollow sound,

  Like the deaf chimes of bells in steeples touched.

  Mel. It is truly guessed;

  But know, ’tis from no nightly sexton’s hand.

  There’s not a damned ghost, nor hell-born fiend,

  That can from limbo ‘scape, but hither flies;

  With leathern wings they beat the dusky skies,

  To sacred churches all in swarms repair;

  Some crowd the spires, but most the ha
llowed bells,

  And softly toll for souls departing knells:

  Each chime, thou hear’st, a future death foretells,

  Now there they perch to have them in their eyes,

  ‘Till all go loaded to the nether skies.

  }

  }

  }

  Mal. To-morrow then.

  Mel. To-morrow let it be;

  Or thou deceiv’st those hungry, gaping fiends,

  And Beelzebub will rage.

  Mal. Why Beelzebub? hast thou not often said,

  That Lucifer’s your king?

  Mel. I told thee true;

  But Lucifer, as he who foremost fell,

  So now lies lowest in the abyss of hell,

  Chained till the dreadful doom; in place of whom

  Sits Beelzebub, vicegerent of the damned,

  Who, listening downward, hears his roaring lord,

  And executes his purpose. — But no more.

  The morning creeps behind yon eastern hill,

  And now the guard is mine, to drive the elves,

  And foolish fairies, from their moonlight play,

  And lash the laggers from the sight of day.[Descends.

  [Exit Mal.

  SCENE III.

  Enter Guise, Mayenne, Cardinal, and Archbishop.

  May. Sullen, methinks, and slow the morning breaks,

  As if the sun were listless to appear,

  And dark designs hung heavy on the day.

  Gui. You’re an old man too soon, you’re superstitious;

  I’ll trust my stars, I know them now by proof;

  The genius of the king bends under mine:

  Environed with his guards, he durst not touch me;

  But awed and cravened, as he had been spelled,

  Would have pronounced, Go kill the Guise, and durst not.

  Card. We have him in our power, coop’d in his court.

  Who leads the first attack? Now by yon heaven,

  That blushes at my scarlet robes, I’ll doff

  This womanish attire of godly peace,

  And cry, — Lie there, Lord Cardinal of Guise.

  Gui. As much too hot, as Mayenne is too cool.

  But ’tis the manlier fault of the two.

  Arch. Have you not heard the king, preventing day,

  Received the guards into the city gates,

  The jolly Swisses marching to their fifes?

  The crowd stood gaping, heartless and amazed,

  Shrunk to their shops, and left the passage free.

  Gui. I would it should be so, ’twas a good horror.

  First let them fear for rapes, and ransacked houses;

  That very fright, when I appear to head them,

  Will harden their soft city courages:

  Cold burghers must be struck, and struck like flints,

  Ere their hid fire will sparkle.

  Arch. I’m glad the king has introduced these guards.

  Card. Your reason.

  Arch. They are too few for us to fear;

  Our numbers in old martial men are more,

  The city not cast in; but the pretence,

  That hither they are brought to bridle Paris,

  Will make this rising pass for just defence.

  May. Suppose the city should not rise?

  Gui. Suppose, as well, the sun should never rise:

  He may not rise, for heaven may play a trick;

  But he has risen from Adam’s time to ours.

  Is nothing to be left to noble hazard?

  No venture made, but all dull certainty?

  By heaven I’ll tug with Henry for a crown,

  Rather than have it on tame terms of yielding:

  I scorn to poach for power.

  Enter a Servant, who whispers Guise.

  A lady, say’st thou, young and beautiful,

  Brought in a chair?

  Conduct her in. — [Exit Servant.

  Card. You would be left alone?

  Gui. I would; retire.[Exeunt May. Card. &c.

  Re-enter Servant with Marmoutiere, and exit.

  Starting back.] Is’t possible? I dare not trust my eyes!

  You are not Marmoutiere?

  Mar. What am I then?

  Gui. Why, any thing but she:

  What should the mistress of a king do here?

  Mar. Find him, who would be master of a king.

  Gui. I sent not for you, madam.

  Mar. I think, my lord, the king sent not for you.

  Gui. Do you not fear, your visit will be known?

  Mar. Fear is for guilty men, rebels, and traitors:

  Where’er I go, my virtue is my guard.

  Gui. What devil has sent thee here to plague my soul?

  O that I could detest thee now as much

  As ever I have loved, nay, even as much

  As yet, in spite of all thy crimes, I love!

  But ’tis a love so mixt with dark despair,

  The smoke and soot smother the rising flame,

  And make my soul a furnace. Woman, woman,

  What can I call thee more? if devil, ‘twere less.

  Sure, thine’s a race was never got by Adam,

  But Eve played false, engendering with the serpent,

  Her own part worse than his.

  Mar. Then they got traitors.

  Gui. Yes, angel-traitors, fit to shine in palaces,

  Forked into ills, and split into deceits;

  Two in their very frame. ’Twas well, ’twas well,

  I saw thee not at court, thou basilisk;

  For if I had, those eyes, without his guards,

  Had done the tyrant’s work.

  Mar. Why then it seems

  I was not false in all: I told you, Guise,

  If you left Paris, I would go to court:

  You see I kept my promise.

  Gui. Still thy sex:

  Once true in all thy life, and that for mischief.

  Mar. Have I said I loved you?

  Gui. Stab on, stab:

  ’Tis plain you love the king.

  Mar. Nor him, nor you,

  In that unlawful way you seem to mean.

  My eyes had once so far betrayed my heart,

  As to distinguish you from common men;

  Whate’er you said, or did, was charming all.

  Gui. But yet, it seems, you found a king more charming.

  Mar. I do not say more charming, but more noble,

  More truly royal, more a king in soul,

  Than you are now in wishes.

  Gui. May be so:

  But love has oiled your tongue to run so glib, —

  Curse on your eloquence!

  Mar. Curse not that eloquence that saved your life:

  For, when your wild ambition, which defied

  A royal mandate, hurried you to town;

  When over-weening pride of popular power

  Had thrust you headlong in the Louvre toils,

  Then had you died: For know, my haughty lord,

  Had I not been, offended majesty

  Had doomed you to the death you well deserved.

  Gui. Then was’t not Henry’s fear preserved my life?

  Mar. You know him better, or you ought to know him:

  He’s born to give you fear, not to receive it.

  Gui. Say this again; but add, you gave not up

  Your honour as the ransom of my life;

  For, if you did, ‘twere better I had died.

  Mar. And so it were.

  Gui. Why said you, so it were?

  For though ’tis true, methinks ’tis much unkind.

  Mar. My lord, we are not now to talk of kindness.

  If you acknowledge I have saved your life,

  Be grateful in return, and do an act,

  Your honour, though unasked by me, requires.

  Gui. By heaven, and you, whom next to heaven I love,

  (If I said more, I fear I should not lie,)

  I’ll do whate’er my
honour will permit.

  Mar. Go, throw yourself at Henry’s royal feet,

  And rise not till approved a loyal subject.

  Gui. A duteous loyal subject I was ever.

  Mar. I’ll put it short, my lord; depart from Paris.

  Gui. I cannot leave

  My country, friends, religion, all at stake.

  Be wise, and be before-hand with your fortune;

  Prevent the turn, forsake the ruined court;

  Stay here, and make a merit of your love.

  Mar. No; I’ll return, and perish in those ruins.

  I find thee now, ambitious, faithless, Guise.

  Farewell, the basest and the last of men!

  Gui. Stay, or — O heaven! — I’ll force you: Stay —

  Mar. I do believe

  So ill of you, so villainously ill,

  That, if you durst, you would:

  Honour you’ve little, honesty you’ve less;

  But conscience you have none:

  Yet there’s a thing called fame, and men’s esteem,

  Preserves me from your force. Once more, farewell.

  Look on me, Guise; thou seest me now the last;

  Though treason urge not thunder on thy head,

  This one departing glance shall flash thee dead.[Exit.

  Gui. Ha, said she true? Have I so little honour?

  Why, then, a prize so easy and so fair

  Had never ‘scaped my gripe: but mine she is;

  For that’s set down as sure as Henry’s fall.

  But my ambition, that she calls my crime; —

  False, false, by fate! my right was born with me.

  And heaven confest it in my very frame;

  The fires, that would have formed ten thousand angels,

  Were crammed together for my single soul.

  Enter Malicorn.

  Mal. My lord, you trifle precious hours away;

  The heavens look gaudily upon your greatness,

  And the crowned moments court you as they fly.

  Brisac and fierce Aumale have pent the Swiss,

  And folded them like sheep in holy ground;

  Where now, with ordered pikes, and colours furled,

  They wait the word that dooms them all to die:

  Come forth, and bless the triumph of the day.

  Gui. So slight a victory required not me:

  I but sat still, and nodded, like a god,

  My world into creation; now ’tis time

  To walk abroad, and carelessly survey

  How the dull matter does the form obey.[Exit with Malicorn.

  SCENE IV.

  Enter Citizens, and Melanax, in his fanatic Habit, at the head them.

  Mel. Hold, hold, a little, fellow citizens; and you, 083 gentlemen of the rabble, a word of godly exhortation to strengthen your hands, ere you give the onset.

  Cit. Is this a time to make sermons? I would not hear the devil now, though he should come in God’s name, to preach peace to us.