John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  [Cleomenes, Cleanthes, Cleonidas, and their party go off the Stage, to fight the

  Egyptians. Trumpets, drums, shouts, and clashings within.

  Re-enter both parties; the Egyptians first, driven by Cleomenes; Pantheus ready to Mil

  Sosibius, as having him down: Cleanthes runs to him and interposes.

  Clean. Pantheus, hold; or turn thy sword on me.

  Panth. [To Sosib.] Rise, sir; and thank your son.

  Clean. [To Panth.] Pursue the foes: I have no joy of conquest,

  Till I have set my father safe.

  Sosib. The gods reward thy pious care.

  [Cleanthes leads off his father; while

  Pantheus follows Cleomenes: the

  Egyptians are driven to the bottom of the Stage: they make a wheeling fight; still retiring before the Spartans;

  Cleomenes advances eagerly after the

  Egyptians, and with Pantheus, drives them off: Cleonidas is left behind: so is Cœnus, who had skulked.

  Cœnus. This was well watched: the boy is left unguarded. [Thrusts at Cleon, behind.

  Cleon. Oh! I am slain by treason!

  Revenge me, royal father.

  Re-enter CLEOMENES.

  Cleom. ’Twas sure his voice: —

  [Sees him on the ground.

  Too sure! — Pity and rage

  Distract my soul: But rage will first be served.

  [Runs at Cœnus, and Mils him.

  There’s justice for myself, and for my son! —

  Look up, sweet boy,

  And tell me that thou livest.

  Cleon. Fain I would live,

  To comfort you! I bleed, and am ashamed

  To say I faint, and call myself your son. —

  O traitor Cœnus! What’s become of him?

  Cleom. Look, there he lies.

  Cleon. I am glad on’t: —

  Forgive me, Heaven: I hope ’tis no offence

  To say I am glad, because he killed me basely. —

  Still I grow fainter: Hold me, hold me, father.

  Cleom. Cheer up, and thou shalt live.

  Cleon. No; I’m just dying.

  Cleom. What shall I lose?

  Cleon. A boy; that’s all. I might have lived to manhood;

  But once I must have died.

  Cleom. But not before thy father.

  Cleon. Nay, then you envy me, that I’m first happy.

  I go; and, when you come, pray find me out,

  And own me for your son! — [Dies.

  Cleom. There went his soul! — Fate, thou hast done thy worst,

  And all thou canst henceforth is but mean slaughter,

  The gleanings of this harvest.

  Enter PANTHEUS.

  Panth. Sir, y’are well found. Our enemies are fled:

  I left our men pursuing, and made haste

  To bring this joyful news.

  Cleom. Look there, and, if thou darest, now give me joy.

  Panth. Enough: y’ have stopped my mouth.

  — What? Cœnus killed?

  I ask no questions then of who killed who;

  The bodies tell their story as they lie.

  Haste, and revenge!

  Cleom. Where are our enemies?

  Panth. Skulking, dispersed in garrets, and in cellars.

  Enter CLEANTHES.

  Cleom. Not worth the seeking. Are these fit to atone

  For Cleomenes’ mother, son, and wife?

  But what the gods have left us, we must take.

  Clean. ’Tis all in vain: we have no further work.

  The people will not be dragged out to freedom;

  They bar their doors against it. Nay, the prisoners

  Even guard their chains, as their inheritance,

  And man their very dungeons for their masters,

  Lest godlike liberty, the common foe,

  Should enter in, and they be judged hereafter

  Accomplices of freedom.

  Panth. Then we may sheathe our swords.

  Clean. We may, Pantheus;

  But, so as brave men should, each in his bosom;

  That only way is left us to die free.

  Cleom. All’s lost for which I once desired to live.

  Panth. Come to our business, then. Be speedy, sir,

  And give the word; I’ll be the first, to charge

  The grim foe, Death.

  Cleom. Fortune, thou hast reduced me very low,

  To do the drudgery of fate myself.

  What! not one brave Egyptian! not one worthy

  To do me manly right in single combat!

  To fall beneath my fury? — for that’s justice:

  But then to drag me after: — for, to die,

  And yet in death to conquer, is my wish.

  Clean. Then have your wish: the gods at last are kind,

  And have provided you a sword that’s worthy

  To match your own: ’tis an Egyptian’s too.

  Cleom. Is there that hidden treasure in thy country?

  The gods be praised, for such a foe I want.

  Clean. Not such a foe, but such a friend am I.

  I would fall first, for fear I should survive you,

  And pull you after to make sure in death,

  To be your undivided friend for ever.

  Cleom. Then enter we into each other’s breasts,

  ’Tis a sharp passage, yet a kind one too.

  But, to prevent the blind mistake of swords,

  Lest one drop first, and leave his friend behind,

  Both thrust at once, and home, and at our hearts:

  Let neither stand on guard, but let our bosoms

  Lie open to each other in our death,

  As in our life they were.

  Clean. I seal it thus. [Kiss and embrace.

  Panth. And where’s my part? you shut me out, like churls,

  While you devour the feast of death betwixt you.

  Cleom. Cheer up thy soul, and thou shalt die,

  Pantheus,

  But in thy turn; there’s death enough for all.

  But, as I am thy master, wait my leisure,

  And honestly compose my limbs to rest,

  Then serve thyself. — Now, are you ready, friend?

  Clean. I am.

  Cleom. Then this to our next happy meeting.

  [They both push together, then stagger backwards, and fall together in each other’s arms.

  Clean. Speak, have I served you to your wish, my friend?

  Cleom. Yes, friend — thou hast — 1 have thee in my heart —

  Say — art thou sped?

  Clean. I am,:— ’tis my last breath.

  Cleom. And mine — then both are happy.

  [Both die.

  Panth. So, this was well performed, and soon despatched;

  Both sound asleep already,

  And farewell both for one short moment.

  [Trumpets sound victory within.

  Those are the foes: our little band is lost

  For want of these defenders. I must hasten,

  Lest I be forced to live, and led in triumph,

  Defrauded of my fate. I’ve earned it well,

  And finished all my task: this is my place,

  Just at my master’s feet. — Guard him, ye gods,

  And save his sacred corpse from public shame.

  [He falls on his sword, and lies at the foot of Cleomenes. — Dies.

  Enter SOSIBIUS, CASSANDRA, and Egyptians.

  Sosib. ’Twas what my heart foreboded: there he lies,

  Extended by the man whom best he loved!

  A better friend than son.

  Cas. What’s he, or thou? or Ptolemy? or

  Egypt?

  Or all the world, to Cleomenes lost?

  Sosib. Then I suspected right. If my revenge

  Can ease my sorrow, this the king shall know,

  That thou may’st reap the due reward of treason,

  And violated love.

  Cas. Thy worst, old
dotard.

  (c) — wish to die; but if my mind should change,

  So well I know my power, that thou art lost.

  Sosib. The king’s arrival shall decide our fate. —

  Meantime, to show how much I honour virtue,

  Take up that hero’s body, bear it high,

  Like the procession of a deity:

  Let his armed figure on his tomb be set,

  And we, like slaves, lie grovelling at his feet,

  Whose glories growing till his latest breath,

  Excelled all others, and his own, in death.

  [Exeunt.

  EPILOGUE.

  SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE.

  THIS day, the Poet, bloodily inclined.

  Has made me die, full sore against my mind!

  Some of you naughty men, I fear, will cry,

  Poor rogue! would I might teach thee how to die!

  Thanks for your love; but I sincerely say,

  I never mean to die, your wicked way.

  Well, since it is decreed all flesh must go,

  (And I am flesh, — at least for aught you know)

  I first declare, I die with pious mind,

  In perfect charity with all mankind.

  Next for my will — I have, in my dispose,

  Some certain moveables would please you beaux;

  As, first, my youth; for, as I have been told,

  Some of you modish sparks are devilish old.

  My chastity I need not leave among ye;

  For, to suspect old fops, were much to wrong ye.

  You swear you ‘re sinners; but for all your haste,

  Your misses shake their heads, and find you chaste.

  I give my courage to those bold commanders,

  Who stay with us, and dare not go for Flanders.

  I leave my truth (to make his plot more clear)

  To Mr. Fuller, when he next shall swear.

  I give my judgment, craving all your mercies,

  To those that leave good plays for damned dull farces.

  My small devotion let the gallants share.

  That come to ogle us at evening prayer.

  I give my person — let me well consider, —

  Faith, e’en to him that is the fairest bidder;

  To some rich hunks, if any be so bold

  To say those dreadful words, To have and hold.

  But stay — to give, and be bequeathing still,

  When I’m so poor, is just like Wickham’s will:

  Like that notorious cheat, vast sums I give,

  Only that you may keep me while I live.

  Buy a good bargain, gallants, while you may;

  (d)— ‘ll cost you but your half-a-crown a day.

  LOVE TRIUMPHANT

  OR, NATURE WILL PREVAIL

  A TRAGI-COMEDY.

  THIS piece, which concluded our author’s labours as a dramatic poet, was unsuccessful when represented, and affords very little pleasure when perused. If we except “Amboyna,” our author never produced a play where the tragic part had less interest, or the comic less humour. For | the faults of “Amboyna,” Dryden pleaded the barren nature of the subject, chosen not with a view to dramatic effect, but to attain a political purpose, and the hurry of writing upon a temporary theme. But that he should have failed, in a play avowedly intended to crown his’ dramatic labours, where the story was of his own device, and the composition at his own leisure, can only be imputed to that occasional flatness, or cessation of the divine influence, as an ancient would have expressed it, from which men of the highest poetic genius are not exempted. In despite of all cold reasoning upon this subject, the fact is irresistible, that our capacity of exerting mental talents is not more absolute than that which we possess over our bodily powers. We are in each case limited by a thousand external and internal circumstances, which occasion the greatest and most involuntary inequalities, between our happier and our inferior efforts, of mental abilities or of corporeal strength. It can only be to the temporary failure of the poetic inspiration, which, like the wind of heaven, bloweth where it listeth, and neither to want of labour, nor to impaired talents, that we are to attribute the inferiority of “Love Triumphant” to almost all Dryden’s other compositions.

  The plot is unhappily chosen. For, as we had already occasion to notice, stories turning, or appearing to turn, upon incestuous passion, have seldom heen successful upon the modern stage. Davies, in his “Dramatic Miscellanies,” attributes Garrick’s renouncing his intention of reviving the admirable old play of “King and no King” to the ardent passion which Arbaces conceives for his supposed sister; and which that excellent judge suspected would not be tolerated in our age. “Phædra and Hippolitus,” though most powerfully supported, both by actors and admirers, failed for the same reason; and, according to Davies, even the various excellences of “Don Sebastian” were unable to expiate the disgust excited by the unpleasing discovery of his relation to Almeyda. While “Love Triumphant “labours under this capital and disagreeable defect, little ingenuity can be discovered in the story, abstracted from that consideration.

  The King of Castile suffers his sole and only offspring to remain in the court of a rival and hostile monarch, and even to head armies against him, supposing himself the son of his enemy. The virtuous Queen of Arragon cultivates and encourages a passion having all the moral guilt of an incestuous attachment, between her own daughter and her supposed son. The tyrant Veramond is the only person who acts upon rational principles through the piece. He refuses the liberty of a rival king to the petulant demand of Alphonso; and not very unreasonably proposes to separate his son and daughter, before worse consequences arose from their infamous and impudently avowed passion. But by this very natural conduct he gains the hatred of his wife, his children, and his subjects —

  Miranda canit, sed non credenda, poeta.

  After so many and such violent stretches of probability, the author does not deign to wind up the plot otherwise than by a sudden change in the temper and resolutions of Veramond, a conclusion which he himself admits in general to be grossly inartificial, and which in the present case is peculiarly infelicitous. The ruling passion of Veramond seems to be a hatred of his rival Ramirez, and a sort of instinctive antipathy to Alphonso, even when he believes him to be his own son, just arrived from conquest in his behalf. This hatred and aversion were not likely to be abated by the objects of them turning out to be father and son, nor much soothed by the circumstance of their making him prisoner in his own metropolis. Yet, in this situation, moved by a few soft speeches from Celidea, who had taken a fancy to the intended husband of her sister, the tyrant of Arragon alters his whole family arrangements and habits of mind, and takes his hated foes into his family and bosom, merely that the play may be concluded. The author of these inconsistencies can hardly escape the censure of Aristotle, against which he has pleaded in the Preface.

  With regard to the poetry of “Love Triumphant,” it is somewhat remarkable, that, in the most laboured scenes oft this last effort of his tragic muse, Dryden has had recourse to his discarded mistress, Rhyme. As this could hardly arise from an alteration of his final opinion, it may have been owing to a consciousness that there was some deficiency in the piece, which the harmony of numbers might veil, though it could not supply. The turn of the dialogue, also, is quite in our poet’s early manner. The lovers, in the first scene of the second act, burning with a horrible passion which they felt it death to conceal, and infamy and mortal sin to avow, communicate their feelings to each other in alternate couplets, like two contending Arcadians. Their horror evaporates in antithesis, and their passion in quaint prettinesses. Witness the speech of Alphonso —

  Alph, O raging, impious, and yet hopeless fire!

  Not daring to possess what I desire;

  Condemn’d to suffer what I cannot bear;

  Tortured with love, and furious with despair.

  Of all the pains which wretched mortals prove,

  The fewest reme
dies belong to love:

  But ours has none; for if we should enjoy,

  Our fatal cure must both of us destroy.

  O dear Victoria, cause of all my pain!

  O dear Victoria, whom I would not gain!

  Victoria, for whose sake I would survive:

  Victoria, for whose sake I dare not live.

  If the tragic part of “Love Triumphant” have little merit, the comic has even less. The absurdity of the two gallants disguising themselves, in hopes to pass for the deceased Conde upon a mistress, who had borne him two children, is too gross for a puppet-show or pantomime, and there is nothing in the dialogue to atone for the flatness and extravagance of the plot. It may, however, be remarked, that

  Sancho, a tawdry and conceited coxcomb, the son of a Jewish usurer, and favoured by the father of his mistress only for his wealth, has some resemblance in manners and genealogy to a much more pleasant character, that of Isaac in the “Duenna.” It is impossible to dismiss the performance of Dryden without some tribute of praise. The verse, where it is employed, possesses, as usual, all the dignity which numbers can give to language; and the Song upon Jealousy, as well as that in the character of a Girl, have superior merit. The play was received as ill as might be; so, at least, we are informed by a curious letter, preserved by Mr. Malone, dated 22d March 1693-4, in which the writer, after chuckling over the failure of “The Double Dealer,” and the absolute damnation of “Love Triumphant,” concludes that the success of Southerne’s “Fatal Marriage” will encourage the minor poets, “and vex huffing Dryden, and Congreve, to madness.” Dryden himself, it may be noticed, says nothing in the Preface concerning the reception of the piece: all authorities, however, state it to have been unfavourable; and thus, as Dr. Johnson has remarked, this great poet opened and closed his theatrical career with bad success; a fact which may secure the inexperienced author from despondence, and teach him who has gained reputation how little he ought to presume on its stability. “Love Triumphant “was first acted and published in 1693-4.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE.

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  ACT I.

  ACT II.

  ACT III.

  ACT IV.

  ACT V.

  EPILOGUE.

  TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JAMES, EARL OF SALISBURY, ETC.

  MY LORD,

  This poem, being the last which I intend for the theatre, ought to have the same provision made for it which old men make for their youngest child, which is commonly a favourite.