John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Crat. You heard me not; Cleanthes is —

  Cleom. He was — no more, good mother;

  He tore a piece of me away, and still

  The void place aches within me. — O my boy,

  I have bad news to tell thee,

  Cleon. None so bad,

  As that I am a boy. Cleanthes scorned me;

  And, when I drove a thrust, home as I could,

  To reach his traitor heart, he put it by,

  And cried, as in derision, — Spare the stripling.

  O that insulting word! I would have swopped

  Youth for old age, and all my life behind,

  To have been then a momentary man.

  Cleom. Alas! thy manhood, like a forward spring,

  Before it comes to bear the promised fruit,

  Is blighted in the bud. Never, my boy,

  Canst thou fetch manhood up, with thy short steps,

  While, with long strides, the giant stalks before thee.

  Cleon. Am I to die before I am a man?

  Cleom. Yes, thou must die with me, and I with her,

  Who gave me life; and our poor infant too within

  Must die before it knows what dying means.

  Three different dates of nature, one would think;

  But fate has crammed us all into one lease,

  And that even now expiring.

  Panth. Yet we live.

  Cleom. No, even now we die; death is within us,

  And keeps our life; for nourishment is life,

  And we have fed our last; hunger feeds death.

  Crat. A lingering doom, but four days hence the same;

  And we can shorten those, turn days to hours,

  And hours to moments; death is in our call.

  Panth. The sooner, then, the better.

  Cleon. So say I.

  Panth. While we have spirits left to meet him boldly.

  Cleon. I’ll hold my breath,

  And keep my soul a prisoner in my body;

  There let it creep and wander in the dark,

  Till, tired to find no outlet, it retreats

  Into my Spartan heart, and there lies pleased;

  So, we two are provided. Sir, your choice?

  [To Cleomenes.

  Cleom. Not this despatch, for we may die at leisure.

  This famine has a sharp and meagre face:

  ’Tis death in an undress of skin and bone;

  Where age and youth, their landmark ta’en away,

  Look all one common furrow.

  Crat. Yet you choose it,

  To please our foes; that, when they view our skeletons,

  And find them all alike, they may cry out, —

  Look how these dull, obedient Spartans died,

  Just as we wished, as we prescribed their death,

  And durst not take a nobler, nearer way!

  Cleom. Not so; but that we durst not tempt the gods,

  To break their images without their leave.

  The moment ere Cassandra came, I had

  A note without a name, the hand unknown,

  That bade me not despair, but still hope well.

  Then die not yet;

  For heaven has means to free us; if not me,

  Yet these and you. I am the hunted stag,

  Whose life may ransom yours.

  Crat. No more of that:

  I find your distant drift, — to die alone;

  An unkind accusation of us all,

  As if we durst not die; I’ll not survive you.

  Panth. Nor I.

  Cleon. Nor I.

  Cleom. But hear my reasons. —

  Enter Cleora, in a black veil.

  Ha! What shadow’s this? this, that can glide through walls,

  Or pass its subtle limbs through bolts and bars!

  Black, too! like what it represents, our fate.

  Cleor. Too true a shadow I, and you the substance. — [Lifts up her veil.

  Omnes. Cleora!

  Cleom. Thus let me grow again to thee,

  Too close for fate to sever!

  Or let death find me in these dear, dear arms;

  And, looking on thee, spare my better part,

  And take me willing hence.

  Crat. What! are you dreaming, son, with eyes cast upwards,

  Like a mad prophet in an ecstasy?

  Cleom. Musing on what we saw. Just such is death,

  With a black veil, covering a beauteous face.

  Feared afar off

  By erring nature; a mistaken phantom;

  A harmless, lambent fire. She kisses cold;

  But kind, and soft, and sweet, as my Cleora.

  Oh, could we know

  What joys she brings, at least what rest from grief;

  How should we press into her friendly arms,

  And be pleased not to be, or to be happy!

  Crat. Look what we have forgot! The joy to see

  Cleora here, has kept us from inquiring,

  By what strange means she entered.

  Cleom. Small joy, heaven knows, to be adopted here,

  Into the meagre family of famine!

  The house of hunger! therefore asked I not;

  So am I pleased to have her company,

  And so displeased to have it but in death.

  Cleor. I know not how, or why, my surly gaoler,

  Hard as his irons, and insolent as power

  When put in vulgar hands, Cleanthes gone,

  Put off the brute; and with a gloomy smile,

  That showed a sullen loathness to be kind,

  Screened me within this veil, then led me forth;

  And, using to the guards Cassandra’s name,

  Made that my passport: every door flew ope,

  To admit my entrance; and then clapped behind me,

  To bar my going back.

  Cleom. Some new resolve.

  Cassandra plots, and then refines on malice;

  Plays with revenge. With rage she snatched you hence,

  And renders you with scorn: I thought to show you

  How easy ’twas to die by my example,

  And handsel fate before you; but thy presence

  Has changed my mind, to drag this lingering life,

  To share thy sorrows, and assist thy weakness. —

  Come in, my friends, and let us practise death;

  Stroke the grim lion, till he grow familiar. —

  Cleora, thou and I, as lovers should,

  Will hand in hand to the dark mansions go,

  Where life no more can cheat us into woe;

  That sucking in each other’s latest breath,

  We may transfuse our souls, and put the change on death. — [Exeunt.

  ACT V.

  SCENE I.

  Enter CASSANDRA and SOSIBIUS.

  Sosib. And what have you determined?

  Cas. He shall die.

  Sosib. A wholesome resolution. Have you fixed

  The time?

  Cas. He daily dies, by hours and moments;

  All vital nourishment but air is wanting.

  Three rising days and two descending nights

  Have changed the face of heaven by turns,

  But brought no kind vicissitude to him;

  His state is still the same, with hunger pinched,

  Waiting the slow approaches of his death;

  Which, halting onwards, as his life goes back,

  Still gains upon his ground.

  Sosib. But ere fate reach him,

  The mercy of the king may interpose.

  You have the signet?

  Cas. Yes, in your despite.

  Sosib. Be not displeased, — suppose he should escape?

  Cas. Suppose he should have wings: impossible!

  Sosib. Yet, keepers have been bribed. To whom can Ptolemy

  Impute that crime, but you?

  Cas. He may; but let him if he dares. —

  Come, statesman, do not shuffle in your pace;

 
You would expose me to the people’s hatred,

  By hurrying on this act of violence:

  You know a little thing provokes the crowd

  Against a mistress; she’s the public mark:

  Therefore content yourself; I will be safe,

  Nor shall the prisoner die a speedier death,

  Than what my doom decreed; unless the king

  Reverse his orders, by my messenger.

  Sosib. May I presume to ask you, whom you sent?

  Cas. Thy son, unknown to thee; for so I charged him;

  And this the promised hour of his return. — Nay, wonder not;

  I chose him with design, that, whatsoe’er

  The king ordains, you both should share the event,

  And stand or fall with me. Ponder on that, and leave me!

  Sosib. [Aside.] What can she mean? She neither kills, nor saves. [Exit Sosibius.

  Cas. Now tell me, heart, now answer for thyself!

  What wilt thou do, and what dost thou desire? —

  His life? No, he’s ungrateful; or, his death?

  I tremble at that word. — What then? His love! —

  His love! my heart. What! by restraint and famine?

  Are these the means to compass thy design? —

  Revenge! My hand’s so soft, his heart so hard,

  The blow recoils, and hurts me while I strike.

  Like the mad viper, scourged into a rage,

  I shoot into myself my fatal sting.

  Enter MARINER.

  Mar. The ship is ready, when you please to sail,

  And waits but your command: the wind stands fair.

  Cas. Be secret, and attend my further pleasure. —

  [Gives him a purse, and exit Mariner.

  So; this was time well managed: in three days

  To hire a vessel, put my wealth on board,

  Send off the observing son, and fool the father. —

  See him I will, to sound his last resolves,

  If love can soften him, or fear can bow.

  If both should fail, the ungrateful wretch shall find

  Rage has no bounds in slighted womankind.

  [Exit.

  SCENE II. — A Prison.

  Enter CLEOMENES.

  Cleom. No food, and this the third arising sun!

  But what have I to do with telling suns,

  And measuring time, that runs no more for me?

  Yet sure the gods are good: I would think so,

  If they would give me leave;

  But virtue in distress, and vice in triumph,

  Make atheists of mankind. —

  Enter CRATESICLEA.

  What comfort, mother?

  Crat. A soul, not conscious to itself of ill,

  Undaunted courage, and a master mind;

  No comfort else but death,

  Who, like a lazy master, stands aloof,

  And leaves his work to the slow hands of famine.

  Cleom. All I would ask of heaven,

  Is, but to die alone, a single ruin;

  But to die o’er and o’er, in each of you,

  With my own hunger pinched, but pierced with yours!

  Crat. Grieve not for me.

  Cleom. What! not for you, my mother?

  I’m strangely tempted to blaspheme the gods,

  For giving me so good, so kind a parent;

  And this is my return, to cause her death.

  Crat. Peace! your misfortunes cause it, not your fault.

  Enter CLEORA.

  Cleom. What! my Cleora?

  I stretched my bounds as far as I could go,

  To shun the sight of what I cannot help;

  A flower withering on the stalk, for want

  Of nourishment from earth, and showers from heaven.

  All I can give thee is but rain of eyes.

  [Wiping his eyes.

  Cleor. I have not wherewithal to weep;

  My eyes grow dim, and, stiffened up with drought,

  Can hardly roll, and walk their feeble round.

  Indeed I am faint.

  Crat. And so am I, heaven knows! However,

  [Aside.

  In pity of them both, I keep it secret;

  Nor shall he see me fall. [Exit Cratesiclea.

  Cleom. How does your helpless infant?

  Cleor. It wants the breast, its kindly nourishment;

  And I have none to give from these dry cisterns,

  Which, unsupplied themselves, can yield no more.

  It pulled, and pulled but now, but nothing came,

  At last it drew so hard, that the blood followed;

  And that red milk I found upon its lips,

  Which made me swoon with fear.

  Cleom. Go in and rest thee,

  And hush the child asleep. — [Exit Cleora.

  Look down, ye gods!

  Look, Hercules, thou author of my race,

  And jog thy father, Jove, that he may look

  On his neglected work of humankind!

  Tell him, I do not curse him; but devotion

  Will cool in after-times, if none but good men suffer. —

  What! another increase of grief?

  Enter CLEONIDAS.

  Cleon. O father!

  Cleom. Why dost thou call me by so kind a name?

  A father! that implies presiding care;

  Cheerful to give; willing himself to want

  Whate’er thy needs require.

  Cleon. A little food!

  Have you none, father? One poor hungry morsel;

  Or give me leave to die, as I desired;

  For, without your consent, heaven knows I dare not.

  Cleom. I pr’ythee stay a little: — I am loath

  To say hard things of heaven!

  Cleon. But what if heaven

  Will do hard things, must not hard things be said?

  You’ve often told me, that the souls of kings

  Are made above the rest of human race;

  Have they not fortunes fitted for those souls?

  Did ever king die starved?

  Cleom. I know not that;

  Yet still be firm in this, — The gods are good,

  Though thou and I may perish.

  Cleon. Indeed, I know not,

  That ever I offended heaven in thought;

  I always said my prayers.

  Cleom. Thou didst thy duty.

  Cleon. And yet you lost the battle when 1 prayed.

  Cleom. ’Twas in the Fates I should: but hold thee there;

  The rest is all unfathomable depth.

  This we well know, that, if there be a bliss

  Beyond this present life, ’tis purchased here,

  And virtue is its price.

  Cleon. But are you sure

  Our souls shall be immortal?

  Cleom. Why that question?

  Cleon. Because I find, that, now my body starves,

  My soul decays. I think not as I did;

  My head goes round; and now you swim before me.

  Methinks my soul is like a flame unfed

  With oil, that dances up and down the lamp,

  But must expire ere long.

  Cleom. I pr’ythee try to hold it, while thou canst.

  Cleon. I would obey you,

  As I have always done, but I am faint;

  And when you please to let me die, I’ll thank you.

  Cleom. Thou shalt have food; I promise thee, thou shalt

  Cleon. Then you shall promise to have food for yourself too;

  For, if you have it not, I would refuse to eat;

  Nay, I would choose to die, that you might feed on me.

  Cleom. Mark, heaven, his filial love!

  And if a family of such as these

  Must perish thus, your model is destroyed,

  By which you made good men.

  Enter Pantheus hastily.

  Panth. Be cheerful, sir, the gods have sent us food.

  Cleom. They tried me of the longest; bu
t by whom?

  Panth. Go in and see.

  Cleon. Good father, do not stay to ask, but go.

  Cleom. Go thou; thy youth calls fiercer than my age.

  Cleon. But then make haste, and come to take your part:

  Hunger may make me impious, to eat all,

  And leave you last to starve. [Exit Cleonidas.

  Panth. Sir, will you go?

  Cleom. I know not; I am half seas o’er to death;

  And, since I must die once, I would be loath

  To make a double work of what’s half finished;

  Unless I could be sure the gods would still

  Renew these miracles. — W ho brought this food?

  Panth. He’s here that can resolve you.

  [Exit Pantheus.

  Enter Cleanthes, with a Sword in his hand.

  Cleom. How darest thou come again within my sight?

  Thou art, — but ’tis no matter what thou art.

  I’ll not consider thee so far to think

  Thee worth reproach. — Away, away, Egyptian!

  That’s all the name that’s left thee.

  Clean. Such I appear indeed.

  Cleom. Why, then, for once, that which thou seem’st, thou art. —

  Begone!

  Clean. Oh, I have been too long away!

  Cleom. Too soon thou art returned,

  To triumph o’er my fate.

  Clean. Forgive me, that I seemed your foe.

  Cleom. Forgive me, heaven, for thinking thee my friend. —

  No more; ’tis loss of time to talk.

  Clean. Indeed it is,

  When hunger calls so loud for sustenance.

  But whether friend or foe, ’tis food I bring.

  Cleom. ’Tis poison; and my mother, and my wife,

  And my poor famished boy, are eating death.

  Thou wouldst not have me think, that thou repent’st?

  Clean. Heaven knows, I do not!

  Cleom. Well said, man! Go on; and be not bashful,

  To own the merits of thy wickedness.

  Clean. What need has innocence of a repentance?

  Cleom. Shuffling again! Pr’ythee, be of a piece.

  A little steadiness becomes a villain.

  Clean. O friend! — for yet I dare to call you so;

  Which, if I were a villain, sure I durst not, —

  Hear me, or kill me!

  Cleom. So, by heaven, I would,

  For thy profaning friendship’s holy name;

  But, for thou seest no justice hanging here,

  On this bare side, thou talk’st secure of vengeance.

  Clean. Then, if you had a sword, my death’s resolved?

  Cleom. Thy conscience answers thee.

  Clean. Without more evidence than bare surmise;

  At most, appearance of a crime unproved;

  And, while unproved, uncertain?

  Cleom. Traitor, no more! ’tis fulsome.

  Clean. Take the sword. [Throws it to him.

  Cleom. I thank thee; draw thy own.