John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Ant. [Aside.] Most divinely argued; she’s the best casuist in all Africk. [He rushes out, and embraces her.] I can hold no longer from embracing thee, my dear Morayma; the old unconscionable whoreson, thy father, could he expect cold chastity from a child of his begetting?

  Joh. What nonsense do you talk? do you take me for the Mufti’s daughter?

  Ant. Why, are you not, madam?[Throwing off her barnus.

  Joh. I find you had an appointment with Morayma.

  Ant. By all that’s good, the nauseous wife![Aside.

  Joh. What! you are confounded, and stand mute?

  Ant. Somewhat nonplust, I confess, to hear you deny your name so positively. Why, are not you Morayma, the Mufti’s daughter? Did not I see you with him: did not he present me to you? were you not so charitable as to give me money? ay, and to 372 tread upon my foot, and squeeze my hand too, if I may be so bold to remember you of past favours?

  Joh. And you see I am come to make them good; but I am neither Morayma, nor the Mufti’s daughter.

  Ant. Nay, I know not that: but I am sure he is old enough to be your father; and either father, or reverend father, I heard you call him.

  Joh. Once again, how came you to name Morayma?

  Ant. Another damned mistake of mine: for, asking one of my fellow-slaves, who were the chief ladies about the house, he answered me, Morayma and Johayma; but she, it seems, is his daughter, with a pox to her, and you are his beloved wife.

  Joh. Say your beloved mistress, if you please; for that’s the title I desire. This moonshine grows offensive to my eyes; come, shall we walk into the arbour? there we may rectify all mistakes.

  Ant. That’s close and dark.

  Joh. And are those faults to lovers?

  Ant. But there I cannot please myself with the sight of your beauty.

  Joh. Perhaps you may do better.

  Ant. But there’s not a breath of air stirring.

  Joh. The breath of lovers is the sweetest air; but you are fearful.

  Ant. I am considering indeed, that, if I am taken with you —

  Joh. The best way to avoid it is to retire, where we may not be discovered.

  Ant. Where lodges your husband?

  Joh. Just against the face of this open walk.

  Ant. Then he has seen us already, for aught I know.

  Joh. You make so many difficulties, I fear I am displeasing to you.

  Ant. [Aside.] If Morayma comes, and takes me in the arbour with her, I have made a fine exchange of that diamond for this pebble.

  Joh. You are much fallen off, let me tell you, from the fury of your first embrace.

  Ant. I confess I was somewhat too furious at first, but you will forgive the transport of my passion; now I have considered it better, I have a qualm of conscience.

  Joh. Of conscience! why, what has conscience to do with two young lovers that have opportunity?

  Ant. Why, truly, conscience is something to blame for interposing in our matters: but how can I help it, if I have a scruple to betray my master?

  Joh. There must be something more in’t; for your conscience was very quiet when you took me for Morayma.

  Ant. I grant you, madam, when I took you for his daughter; for then I might have made you an honourable amends by marriage.

  Joh. You Christians are such peeking sinners! you tremble at a shadow in the moonshine.

  Ant. And you Africans are such termagants, you stop at nothing. I must be plain with you, — you are married, and to a holy man, the head of your religion: go back to your chamber; go back, I say, and consider of it for this night, as I will do on my part: I will be true to you, and invent all the arguments I can to comply with you; and who knows but at our next meeting the sweet devil may have more power over me? I am true flesh and blood, I can tell you that for your comfort.

  Joh. Flesh without blood, I think thou art; or, if any, it is as cold as that of fishes. But I’ll teach thee, to thy cost, what vengeance is in store for refusing a lady who has offered thee her love. — Help, 374 help, there! will nobody come to my assistance?

  Ant. What do you mean, madam? for heaven’s sake, peace; your husband will hear you; think of your own danger, if you will not think of mine.

  Joh. Ungrateful wretch, thou deservest no pity! — Help, help, husband, or I shall be ravished! the villain will be too strong for me! Help, help, for pity of a poor distressed creature!

  Ant. Then I have nothing but impudence to assist me: I must drown her clamour, whatever comes on’t.

  [He takes out his Flute, and plays as loud as he can possibly, and she continues crying out.

  Enter the Mufti, in his Night-gown, and two Servants.

  Muf. O thou villain, what horrible impiety art thou committing! what, ravishing the wife of my bosom! — Take him away; ganch him, impale him, rid the world of such a monster!

  [Servants seize him.

  Ant. Mercy, dear master, mercy! hear me first, and after, if I have deserved hanging, spare me not. What have you seen to provoke you to this cruelty?

  Muf. I have heard the outcries of my wife; the bleatings of the poor innocent lamb. — Seen nothing, sayst thou? If I see the lamb lie bleeding, and the butcher by her with his knife drawn, and bloody, is not that evidence sufficient of the murder? I come too late, and the execution is already done.

  Ant. Pray think in reason, sir; is a man to be put to death for a similitude? No violence has been committed; none intended; the lamb’s alive: and, if I durst tell you so, no more a lamb than I am a butcher.

  Joh. How’s that, villain, dar’st thou accuse me?

  Ant. Be patient, madam, and speak but truth, and I’ll do any thing to serve you: I say again, and swear it too, I’ll do any thing to serve you.

  [Aside.

  Joh. [Aside.] I understand him; but I fear it is now too late to save him: — Pray, hear him speak, husband; perhaps he may say something for himself; I know not.

  Muf. Speak thou, has he not violated my bed, and thy honour?

  Joh. I forgive him freely, for he has done nothing. What he will do hereafter to make me satisfaction, himself best knows.

  Ant. Any thing, any thing, sweet madam: I shall refuse no drudgery.

  Muf. But did he mean no mischief? was he endeavouring nothing?

  Joh. In my conscience, I begin to doubt he did not.

  Muf. It’s impossible: — then what meant all those outcries?

  Joh. I heard music in the garden, and at an unseasonable time of night; and I stole softly out of my bed, as imagining it might be he.

  Muf. How’s that, Johayma? imagining it was he, and yet you went?

  Joh. Why not, my lord? am not I the mistress of the family? and is it not my place to see good order kept in it? I thought he might have allured some of the she-slaves to him, and was resolved to prevent what might have been betwixt him and 376 them; when, on the sudden, he rushed out upon me, caught me in his arms with such a fury —

  Muf. I have heard enough. — Away with him!

  Joh. Mistaking me, no doubt, for one of his fellow-slaves: with that, affrighted as I was, I discovered myself, and cried aloud; but as soon as ever he knew me, the villain let me go; and I must needs say, he started back as if I were some serpent; and was more afraid of me than I of him.

  Muf. O thou corrupter of my family, that’s cause enough of death! — once again, away with him.

  Joh. What, for an intended trespass? No harm has been done, whatever may be. He cost you five hundred crowns, I take it.

  Muf. Thou say’st true, a very considerable sum: he shall not die, though he had committed folly with a slave; it is too much to lose by him.

  Ant. My only fault has ever been to love playing in the dark; and the more she cried, the more I played, that it might be seen I intended nothing to her.

  Muf. To your kennel, sirrah; mortify your flesh, and consider in whose family you are.

  Joh. And one thing more, — remember from henceforth to obey better.

  Muf. [Aside.] For al
l her smoothness, I am not quite cured of my jealousy; but I have thought of a way that will clear my doubts.

  [Exit Muf. with Joh. and Servants.

  Ant. I am mortified sufficiently already, without the help of his ghostly counsel. Fear of death has gone farther with me in two minutes, than my conscience would have gone in two months. I find myself in a very dejected condition, all over me; poor sin lies dormant; concupiscence is retired to his winter-quarters; and if Morayma should now 377 appear, — I say no more; but, alas for her and me!

  [Morayma comes out of the Arbour, she steals behind him, and claps him on the Back.

  Mor. And if Morayma should appear, as she does appear, — alas! you say, for her and you.

  Ant. Art thou there, my sweet temptation! my eyes, my life, my soul, my all!

  Mor. A mighty compliment! when all these, by your own confession, are just nothing.

  Ant. Nothing, till thou camest to new create me; thou dost not know the power of thy own charms: Let me embrace thee, and thou shalt see how quickly I can turn wicked.

  Mor. [Stepping back.] Nay, if you are so dangerous, it is best keeping you at a distance, I have no mind to warm a frozen snake in my bosom; he may chance to recover, and sting me for my pains.

  Ant. Consider what I have suffered for thy sake already, and make me some amends; two disappointments in a night: O cruel creature!

  Mor. And you may thank yourself for both. I came eagerly to the charge before my time, through the back-walk behind the arbour; and you, like a fresh-water soldier, stood guarding the pass before. If you missed the enemy, you may thank your own dulness.

  Ant. Nay, if you will be using stratagems, you shall give me leave to make use of my advantages, now I have you in my power: we are fairly met; I’ll try it out, and give no quarter.

  Mor. By your favour, sir, we meet upon treaty now, and not upon defiance.

  Ant. If that be all, you shall have carte blanche immediately; for I long to be ratifying.

  Mor. No; now I think on’t, you are already 378 entered into articles with my enemy Johayma:— “Any thing to serve you, madam; I shall refuse no drudgery:” — Whose words were those, gentleman? was that like a cavalier of honour?

  Ant. Not very heroic; but self-preservation is a point above honour and religion too. Antonio was a rogue, I must confess; but you must give me leave to love him.

  Mor. To beg your life so basely, and to present your sword to your enemy; Oh, recreant!

  Ant. If I had died honourably, my fame indeed would have sounded loud, but I should never have heard the blast: — Come, don’t make yourself worse-natured than you are; to save my life, you would be content I should promise any thing.

  Mor. Yes, if I were sure you would perform nothing.

  Ant. Can you suspect I would leave you for Johayma?

  Mor. No; but I can expect you would have both of us. Love is covetous; I must have all of you; heart for heart is an equal trick. In short, I am younger, I think handsomer, and am sure I love you better. She has been my stepmother these fifteen years: You think that is her face you see, but it is only a daubed vizard; she wears an armour of proof upon it; an inch thick of paint, besides the wash. Her face is so fortified, that you can make no approaches to it without a shovel; but, for her constancy, I can tell you for your comfort, she will love till death, I mean till yours; for when she has worn you out, she will certainly dispatch you to another world, for fear of telling tales, as she has already served three slaves, your predecessors, of happy memory, in her favours. She has made my pious father a three-piled cuckold to my knowledge; and now she would be robbing me of my single sheep too.

  Ant. Pr’ythee, prevent her then; and at least take the shearing of me first.

  Mor. No; I’ll have a butcher’s pennyworth of you; first secure the carcase, and then take the fleece into the bargain.

  Ant. Why, sure, you did not put yourself and me to all this trouble for a dry come-off; by this hand —

  [Taking it.

  Mor. Which you shall never touch, but upon better assurances than you imagine.

  [Pulling her hand away.

  Ant. I’ll marry thee, and make a Christian of thee, thou pretty damned infidel.

  Mor. I mean you shall; but no earnest till the bargain be made before witness: there is love enough to be had, and as much as you can turn you to, never doubt; but all upon honourable terms.

  Ant. I vow and swear by Love; and he’s a deity in all religions.

  Mor. But never to be trusted in any: he has another name too, of a worse sound. Shall I trust an oath, when I see your eyes languishing, your cheeks flushing, and can hear your heart throbbing? No, I’ll not come near you: he’s a foolish physician, who will feel the pulse of a patient, that has the plague-spots upon him.

  Ant. Did one ever hear a little moppet argue so perversely against so good a cause! Come, pr’ythee, let me anticipate a little of my revenue.

  Mor. You would fain be fingering your rents before-hand; but that makes a man an ill husband ever after. Consider, marriage is a painful vocation, as you shall prove it; manage your incomes as thriftily as you can, you shall find a hard task on’t to make even at the year’s end, and yet to live decently.

  Ant. I came with a Christian intention to revenge 380 myself upon thy father, for being the head of a false religion.

  Mor. And so you shall; I offer you his daughter for your second. But since you are so pressing, meet me under my window to-morrow night, body for body, about this hour; I’ll slip down out of my lodging, and bring my father in my hand.

  Ant. How, thy father!

  Mor. I mean, all that’s good of him; his pearls and jewels, his whole contents, his heart and soul; as much as ever I can carry! I’ll leave him his Alcoran, that’s revenue enough for him; every page of it is gold and diamonds. He has the turn of an eye, a demure smile, and a godly cant, that are worth millions to him. I forgot to tell you, that I will have a slave prepared at the postern gate, with two horses ready saddled. — No more, for I fear I may be missed; and think I hear them calling for me. — If you have constancy and courage —

  Ant. Never doubt it; and love in abundance, to wander with thee all the world over.

  Mor. The value of twelve hundred thousand crowns in a casket! —

  Ant. A heavy burden, heaven knows! but we must pray for patience to support it.

  Mor. Besides a willing titt, that will venture her corps with you. Come, I know you long to have a parting blow with me; and therefore, to shew I am in charity —

  [He kisses her.

  Ant. Once more for pity, that I may keep the flavour upon my lips till we meet again.

  Mor. No, frequent charities make bold beggars; and, besides, I have learned of a falconer, never to feed up a hawk when I would have him fly. That’s enough; but, if you would be nibbling, here’s a hand to stay your stomach.

  [Kissing her hand.

  Ant. Thus conquered infidels, that wars may cease,

  Are forced to give their hands, and sign the peace.

  Mor. Thus Christians are outwitted by the foe;

  You had her in your power, and let her go.

  If you release my hand, the fault’s not mine;

  You should have made me seal, as well as sign.

  [She runs off, he follows her to the door; then comes back again, and goes out at the other.

  ACT IV.

  SCENE I. — BENDUCAR’S Palace, in the Castle of Alcazar.

  Benducar solus.

  Bend. My future fate, the colour of my life,

  My all, depends on this important hour:

  This hour my lot is weighing in the scales,

  And heaven, perhaps, is doubting what to do.

  Almeyda and a crown have pushed me forward:

  ’Tis fixed, the tyrant must not ravish her;

  He and Sebastian stand betwixt my hopes;

  He most, and therefore first to be dispatched.

  These, and a thousand things, are to be done

/>   In the short compass of this rolling night;

  And nothing yet performed,

  None of my emissaries yet returned.

  Enter Haly, first Servant.

  Oh Haly, thou hast held me long in pain.

  What hast thou learnt of Dorax? is he dead?

  Haly. Two hours I warily have watched his palace;

  All doors are shut, no servant peeps abroad;

  Some officers, with striding haste, passed in,

  While others outward went on quick dispatch.

  Sometimes hushed silence seemed to reign within;

  Then cries confused, and a joint clamour, followed;

  Then lights went gliding by, from room to room,

  And shot, like thwarting meteors, cross the house.

  Not daring further to inquire, I came

  With speed, to bring you this imperfect news.

  Bend. Hence I conclude him either dead, or dying.

  His mournful friends, summoned to take their leaves,

  Are thronged about his couch, and sit in council.

  What those caballing captains may design,

  I must prevent, by being first in action. —

  To Muley-Zeydan fly with speed, desire him

  To take my last instructions; tell the importance,

  And haste his presence here. — [Exit Haly.

  How has this poison lost its wonted way?

  It should have burnt its passage, not have lingered

  In the blind labyrinths and crooked turnings

  Of human composition; now it moves

  Like a slow fire, that works against the wind,

  As if his stronger stars had interposed. —

  Enter Hamet.

  Well, Hamet, are our friends, the rabble, raised?

  From Mustapha what message?

  Ham. What you wish.

  The streets are thicker in this noon of night,

  Than at the mid-day sun; a drowsy horror

  Sits on their eyes, like fear, not well awake;

  All crowd in heaps, as, at a night alarm,

  The bees drive out upon each others backs,

  To imboss their hives in clusters; all ask news;

  Their busy captain runs the weary round,

  To whisper orders; and, commanding silence,