John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Makes not noise cease, but deafens it to murmurs.

  Bend. Night wastes apace; when, when will he appear!

  Ham. He only waits your summons.

  Bend. Haste their coming.

  Let secrecy and silence be enjoined

  In their close march. What news from the lieutenant?

  Ham. I left him at the gate, firm to your interest,

  To admit the townsmen at their first appearance.

  Bend. Thus far ’tis well: Go, hasten Mustapha. [Exit Hamet.

  Enter Orchan, the third Servant.

  O, Orchan, did I think thy diligence

  Would lag behind the rest! — What from the Mufti?

  Orc. I sought him round his palace; made inquiry

  Of all the slaves; in short, I used your name,

  And urged the importance home; but had for answer,

  That, since the shut of evening, none had seen him.

  Bend. O the curst fate of all conspiracies!

  They move on many springs; if one but fail,

  The restiff machine stops. In an ill hour he’s absent;

  ’Tis the first time, and sure will be the last,

  That e’er a Mufti was not in the way,

  When tumults and rebellion should be broached.

  Stay by me; thou art resolute and faithful;

  I have employment worthy of thy arm.[Walks.

  Enter Muley-Zeydan.

  Mul. Zeyd. You see me come, impatient of my hopes,

  And eager as the courser for the race:

  Is all in readiness?

  Bend. All but the Mufti.

  Mul. Zeyd. We must go on without him.

  Bend. True, we must;

  For ’tis ill stopping in the full career,

  Howe’er the leap be dangerous and wide.

  Orc. [Looking out.]

  I see the blaze of torches from afar,

  And hear the trampling of thick-beating feet;

  This way they move.

  Bend. No doubt, the emperor.

  We must not be surprised in conference.

  Trust to my management the tyrant’s death,

  And haste yourself to join with Mustapha.

  The officer, who guards the gate, is yours:

  When you have gained that pass, divide your force;

  Yourself in person head one chosen half,

  And march to oppress the faction in consult

  With dying Dorax. Fate has driven them all

  Into the net; you must be bold and sudden:

  Spare none; and if you find him struggling yet

  With pangs of death, trust not his rolling eyes

  And heaving gasps; for poison may be false, —

  The home thrust of a friendly sword is sure.

  Mul. Zeyd. Doubt not my conduct; they shall be surprised.

  Mercy may wait without the gate one night,

  At morn I’ll take her in.

  Bend. Here lies your way;

  You meet your brother there.

  Mul. Zeyd. May we ne’er meet!

  For, like the twins of Leda, when I mount,

  He gallops down the skies.[Exit Mul. Zeyd.

  Bend. He comes: — Now, heart,

  Be ribbed with iron for this one attempt;

  Set ope thy sluices, send the vigorous blood

  Through every active limb for my relief;

  Then take thy rest within thy quiet cell,

  For thou shalt drum no more.

  Enter Emperor, and Guards attending him.

  Emp. What news of our affairs, and what of Dorax?

  Is he no more? say that, and make me happy.

  Bend. May all your enemies be like that dog,

  Whose parting soul is labouring at the lips.

  Emp. The people, are they raised?

  Bend. And marshalled too;

  Just ready for the march.

  Emp. Then I’m at ease.

  Bend. The night is yours; the glittering host of heaven

  Shines but for you; but most the star of love,

  That twinkles you to fair Almeyda’s bed.

  Oh, there’s a joy to melt in her embrace,

  Dissolve in pleasure,

  And make the gods curse immortality,

  That so they could not die.

  But haste, and make them yours.

  Emp. I will; and yet

  A kind of weight hangs heavy at my heart;

  My flagging soul flies under her own pitch,

  Like fowl in air too damp, and lugs along,

  As if she were a body in a body,

  And not a mounting substance made of fire.

  My senses, too, are dull and stupified,

  Their edge rebated: — sure some ill approaches,

  And some kind sprite knocks softly at my soul,

  To tell me, fate’s at hand.

  Bend. Mere fancies all.

  Your soul has been before-hand with your body,

  And drunk so deep a draught of promised bliss,

  She slumbers o’er the cup; no danger’s near,

  But of a surfeit at too full a feast.

  Emp. It may be so; it looks so like the dream

  That overtook me, at my waking hour,

  This morn; and dreams, they say, are then divine,

  When all the balmy vapours are exhaled,

  And some o’erpowering god continues sleep.

  ’Twas then, methought, Almeyda, smiling, came,

  Attended with a train of all her race,

  Whom, in the rage of empire, I had murdered:

  But now, no longer foes, they gave me joy

  Of my new conquest, and, with helping hands,

  Heaved me into our holy prophet’s arms,

  Who bore me in a purple cloud to heaven.

  Bend. Good omen, sir; I wish you in that heaven

  Your dream portends you, —

  Which presages death.[Aside.

  Emp. Thou too wert there;

  And thou, methought, didst push me from below,

  With thy full force, to Paradise.

  Bend. Yet better.

  Emp. Ha! what’s that grizly fellow, that attends thee?

  Bend. Why ask you, sir?

  Emp. For he was in my dream,

  And helped to heave me up.

  Bend. With prayers and wishes;

  For I dare swear him honest.

  Emp. That may be;

  But yet he looks damnation.

  Bend. You forget

  The face would please you better. Do you love,

  And can you thus forbear?

  Emp. I’ll head my people,

  Then think of dalliance when the danger’s o’er.

  My warlike spirits work now another way,

  And my soul’s tuned to trumpets.

  Bend. You debase yourself,

  To think of mixing with the ignoble herd;

  Let such perform the servile work of war,

  Such who have no Almeyda to enjoy.

  What, shall the people know their god-like prince

  Skulked in a nightly skirmish? Stole a conquest,

  Headed a rabble, and profaned his person,

  Shouldered with filth, borne in a tide of ordure,

  And stifled with their rank offensive sweat?

  Emp. I am off again; I will not prostitute

  The regal dignity so far, to head them.

  Bend. There spoke a king.

  Dismiss your guards, to be employed elsewhere

  In ruder combats; you will want no seconds

  In those alarms you seek.

  Emp. Go, join the crowd; — [To the Guards.

  Benducar, thou shalt lead them in my place.[Exeunt Guards.

  The God of Love once more has shot his fires

  Into my soul, and my whole heart receives him.

  Almeyda now returns with all her charms;

  I feel her as she glides along my veins,

  And dances in my blood. So when our prophet
r />   Had long been hammering, in his lonely cell,

  Some dull, insipid, tedious Paradise,

  A brisk Arabian girl came tripping by;

  Passing she cast at him a side-long glance,

  And looked behind, in hopes to be pursued:

  He took the hint, embraced the flying fair,

  And, having found his heaven, he fixed it there.[Exit Emperor.

  Bend. That Paradise thou never shalt possess.

  His death is easy now, his guards are gone,

  And I can sin but once to seize the throne;

  All after-acts are sanctified by power.

  Orc. Command my sword and life.

  Bend. I thank thee, Orchan,

  And shall reward thy faith. This master-key

  Frees every lock, and leads us to his person;

  And, should we miss our blow, — as heaven forbid! —

  Secures retreat. Leave open all behind us;

  And first set wide the Mufti’s garden gate,

  Which is his private passage to the palace;

  For there our mutineers appoint to meet,

  And thence we may have aid. — Now sleep, ye stars,

  That silently o’erwatch the fate of kings!

  Be all propitious influences barred,

  And none but murderous planets mount the guard. [Exit with Orchan.

  SCENE II. — A Night-Scene of the Mufti’s Garden.

  Enter the Mufti alone, in a Slave’s Habit, like that of Antonio.

  Muf. This it is to have a sound head-piece; by this I have got to be chief of my religion; that is, honestly speaking, to teach others what I neither know nor believe myself. For what’s Mahomet to me, but that I get by him? Now for my policy of this night: I have mewed up my suspected spouse in her chamber; — no more embassies to that lusty young stallion of a gardener. Next, my habit of a slave; I have made myself as like him as I can, all but his youth and vigour; which when I had, I passed my time as well as any of my holy predecessors. Now, walking under the windows of my seraglio, if Johayma look out, she will certainly take me for Antonio, and call to me; and by that I shall know what concupiscence is working in her. She cannot come down to commit iniquity, there’s my safety; but if she peep, if she put her nose abroad, there’s demonstration of her pious will; and I’ll not make the first precedent for a churchman to forgive injuries.

  Enter Morayma, running to him with a Casket in her hand, and embracing him.

  Mor. Now I can embrace you with a good conscience; here are the pearls and jewels, here’s my father.

  Muf. I am indeed thy father; but how the devil didst thou know me in this disguise? and what pearls and jewels dost thou mean?

  Mor. [Going back.] What have I done, and what will now become of me!

  Muf. Art thou mad, Morayma?

  Mor. I think you’ll make me so.

  Muf. Why, what have I done to thee? Recollect thyself, and speak sense to me.

  Mor. Then give me leave to tell you, you are the worst of fathers.

  Muf. Did I think I had begotten such a monster! — Proceed, my dutiful child, proceed, proceed.

  Mor. You have been raking together a mass of wealth, by indirect and wicked means: the spoils of orphans are in these jewels, and the tears of widows in these pearls.

  Muf. Thou amazest me!

  Mor. I would do so. This casket is loaded with your sins; ’tis the cargo of rapines, simony, and extortions; the iniquity of thirty years muftiship converted into diamonds.

  Muf. Would some rich railing rogue would say as much to me, that I might squeeze his purse for scandal!

  Mor. No, sir, you get more by pious fools than railers, when you insinuate into their families, manage their fortunes while they live, and beggar their heirs, by getting legacies, when they die. And do you think I’ll be the receiver of your theft? I discharge my conscience of it: Here, take again your filthy mammon, and restore it, you had best, to the true owners.

  Muf. I am finely documented by my own daughter!

  Mor. And a great credit for me to be so: Do but think how decent a habit you have on, and how becoming your function to be disguised like a slave, and eaves-dropping under the women’s windows, to be saluted, as you deserve it richly, with a piss-pot. If I had not known you casually by your shambling gait, and a certain reverend awkwardness that is natural to all of your function, 391 here you had been exposed to the laughter of your own servants; who have been in search of you through the whole seraglio, peeping under every petticoat to find you.

  Muf. Pr’ythee, child, reproach me no more of human failings; they are but a little of the pitch and spots of the world, that are still sticking on me; but I hope to scour them out in time. I am better at bottom than thou thinkest; I am not the man thou takest me for.

  Mor. No, to my sorrow, sir, you are not.

  Muf. It was a very odd beginning though, methought, to see thee come running in upon me with such a warm embrace; pr’ythee, what was the meaning of that violent hot hug?

  Mor. I am sure I meant nothing by it, but the zeal and affection which I bear to the man of the world, whom I may love lawfully.

  Muf. But thou wilt not teach me, at this age, the nature of a close embrace?

  Mor. No, indeed; for my mother-in-law complains, that you are past teaching: But if you mistook my innocent embrace for sin, I wish heartily it had been given where it would have been more acceptable.

  Muf. Why this is as it should be now; take the treasure again, it can never be put into better hands.

  Mor. Yes, to my knowledge, but it might. I have confessed my soul to you, if you can understand me rightly. I never disobeyed you till this night; and now, since, through the violence of my passion, I have been so unfortunate, I humbly beg your pardon, your blessing, and your leave, that, upon the first opportunity, I may go for ever from your sight; for heaven knows, I never desire to see you more.

  Muf. [Wiping his eyes.] Thou makest me weep at thy unkindness; indeed, dear daughter, we will not part.

  Mor. Indeed, dear daddy, but we will.

  Muf. Why, if I have been a little pilfering, or so, I take it bitterly of thee to tell me of it, since it was to make thee rich; and I hope a man may make bold with his own soul, without offence to his own child. Here, take the jewels again; take them, I charge thee, upon thy obedience.

  Mor. Well then, in virtue of obedience, I will take them; but, on my soul, I had rather they were in a better hand.

  Muf. Meaning mine, I know it.

  Mor. Meaning his, whom I love better than my life.

  Muf. That’s me again.

  Mor. I would have you think so.

  Muf. How thy good nature works upon me! Well, I can do no less than venture damning for thee; and I may put fair for it, if the rabble be ordered to rise to-night.

  Enter Antonio, in a rich African habit.

  Ant. What do you mean, my dear, to stand talking in this suspicious place, just underneath Johayma’s window? — [To the Mufti.] You are well met, comrade; I know you are the friend of our flight: are the horses ready at the postern gate?

  Muf. Antonio, and in disguise! now I begin to smell a rat.

  Ant. And I another, that out-stinks it. False Morayma, hast thou thus betrayed me to thy father!

  Mor. Alas! I was betrayed myself. He came disguised like you, and I, poor innocent, ran into his hands.

  Muf. In good time you did so; I laid a trap for a bitch-fox, and a worse vermin has caught himself in it. You would fain break loose now, though you left a limb behind you; but I am yet in my own territories, and in call of company; that’s my comfort.

  Ant. [Taking him by the throat.] No; I have a trick left to put thee past thy squeaking. I have given thee the quinsy; that ungracious tongue shall preach no more false doctrine.

  Mor. What do you mean? you will not throttle him? consider he’s my father.

  Ant. Pr’ythee, let us provide first for our own safety; if I do not consider him, he will consider us, with a vengeance, afte
rwards.

  Mor. You may threaten him for crying out; but, for my sake, give him back a little cranny of his windpipe, and some part of speech.

  Ant. Not so much as one single interjection. — Come away, father-in-law, this is no place for dialogues; when you are in the mosque, you talk by hours, and there no man must interrupt you. This is but like for like, good father-in-law; now I am in the pulpit, it is your turn to hold your tongue. [He struggles.] Nay, if you will be hanging back, I shall take care you shall hang forward.

  [Pulls him along the Stage, with his Sword at his Reins.

  Mor. The other way to the arbour with him; and make haste, before we are discovered.

  Ant. If I only bind and gag him there, he may commend me hereafter for civil usage; he deserves not so much favour by any action of his life.

  Mor. Yes, pray bate him one, — for begetting your mistress.

  Ant. I would, if he had not thought more of thy 394 mother than of thee. Once more, come along in silence, my Pythagorean father-in-law.

  Joh. [At the Balcony.] A bird in a cage may peep, at least, though she must not fly. — What bustle’s there beneath my window? Antonio, by all my hopes! I know him by his habit. But what makes that woman with him, and a friend, a sword drawn, and hasting hence? This is no time for silence: — Who’s within? call there, where are the servants? why, Omar, Abedin, Hassan, and the rest, make haste, and run into the garden; there are thieves and villains; arm all the family, and stop them.

  Ant. [Turning back.] O that screech owl at the window! we shall be pursued immediately; which way shall we take?

  Mor. [Giving him the Casket.] ’Tis impossible to escape them; for the way to our horses lies back again by the house, and then we shall meet them full in the teeth. Here, take these jewels; thou mayst leap the walls, and get away.

  Ant. And what will become of thee, then, poor kind soul?

  Mor. I must take my fortune. When you are got safe into your own country, I hope you will bestow a sigh on the memory of her who loved you.

  Ant. It makes me mad to think, how many a good night will be lost betwixt us! Take back thy jewels; ’tis an empty casket without thee: besides, I should never leap well with the weight of all thy father’s sins about me; thou and they had been a bargain.

  Mor. Pr’ythee take them, ‘twill help me to be revenged on him.

  Ant. No, they’ll serve to make thy peace with him.

  Mor. I hear them coming; shift for yourself at least; remember I am yours for ever.

  [Servants crying, “this way, this way,” behind the Scenes.

  Ant. And I but the empty shadow of myself without thee! — Farewell, father-in-law, that should have been, if I had not been curst in my mother’s belly. — Now, which way, Fortune?