John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Carl. The best part of your entertainment, I suppose, was the dessert of the fair Dalinda after dinner; and how, and how go matters?

  San. Better than thou wouldst have them; thou wouldst have put a spoke in my wheel, I know it.

  Carl. No; fortune always sets those of your admirable understanding uppermost. But, remember, Dalinda was once mine, however.

  San. Thou wouldst not have me give the box away, when I have thrown seven? Come, set upon it what thou darest, and I’ll give thee leave to do thy worst.

  Carl. You are very confident of your good

  , luck.

  San. Thou knowest I have a perpetual ascendant over thee.

  Carl. And you are sure to carry her?

  San. She is fond of my person; she ogled me all dinner-time; she put her foot under the table and trod upon mine; and if these are not certain symptoms of passion, the devil’s in womankind.

  Carl. And her father?

  San. The goodest old man! he drank my health to his daughter; and I, to comply with my obligation, answered the challenge. There,

  I think, I was with her again.

  Carl. You have no more to do but to take out a licence.

  San. Indeed, I have her licence for it.

  Carl. What, quibbling too in your prosperity?

  If you let another, I shall be enraged. But you have not told me that her father is consenting.

  San. In a manner; but —

  Carl. But what? is he not absolutely yours?

  San. There is a small demur upon the matter: in short, he hit me in the teeth with a damnable rich old Conde; who, I find, has been dabbling with this covetous old hunks; but, bating him,

  Don Lopez tells me I shall be the welcomest man alive.

  Carl Do you know that Conde’s name?

  San. Don something de Cardona, whom the devil confound!

  Carl. My old acquaintance; he charged with me in the battle, but what became of him I know not. If he be the man, despair betimes, Sancho; he’ll revenge my quarrel, and carry her in spite of you.

  San. I am cunning, you know; and I believe he named that cursed Conde, only to draw me on the faster.

  Carl. And do you think a gentleman can succeed against a Conde with a woman?

  San. Why not?

  Carl. No more than a Conde against a duke, and so upwards; — abandon her, I say.

  San. No; I am resolute.

  Carl. To be the shoeing-horn for the Conde?

  San. I confess I would not be the shoeinghom, to draw him on.

  Carl. No, for that’s to be a pimp for him.

  San. Right; therefore I will leave her.

  Carl. Then go back, and quarrel with her and her father; go, I say, immediately, before your virtue cools.

  San. I’ll give them their own, I’ll warrant them. What, make a shoeing-horn of a man of honour? — [Exit Sancho.

  Carl. [Alone.] If the Conde be in love, then why should Lopez admit of Sancho for a suitor? if not, the fool is in the right, that it was only feigned, to draw him on. However, my advice will strike on both sides; for, if Sancho quarrels, he’s discarded; and for the Conde — stay a little

  — what if I should play this Conde? I know him, and can mimic him exactly; ’tis but a jest if I am discovered; and if the Conde loves her, and she him, then I marry her in his shape. —

  Oh, they are coming out to quarrel in the open air, for the house is grown too hot for them; but I dare not stay to see the battle, for fear of getting blows on both sides. [Exit Carlos.

  Enter Lopez, Dalinda, and Sancho.

  Lop. I’ll wait upon you out of my house, however.

  San. Father-in-law, that might have been, no more ceremonies; I’ll be no shoeing-horn for any man.

  Lop. You would not be my daughter’s hindrance?

  San. There’s no more to be said on’t; but either a bargain, or no bargain.

  Lop. A bargain, if the Conde comes not on.

  San. Then, as he comes on, I must go off, with a pox to you and to your daughter!

  Dal.. At least it shall not be a pox of your giving.

  San. The Conde’s pox take you, then! that’s an honourable pox, descended in a right line from

  Don Roderic the Goth, I’ll warrant you.

  Lop. Indeed, if your estate were as great as his —

  San. Nay, for that matter, I can drop gold with him, as little as I care for her.

  Dal. But then his title?

  San. I have more gold yet, to weigh down his parchment: and then my wit against a

  Conde’s wit; that’s for overplus; for, though I say it —

  Lop. Who should not say it —

  San. Yet I do say it, and will say it, especially as lords go now. Come, there’s no more to be said, Lopez; but take back your trumpery, I mean your daughter; or I’ll send for the scavenger with a dung-cart.

  Lop. This is insufferable; and by this honourable beard —

  San. Which I’ll pull off by handfuls, if you swagger ——

  Lop. [Aside to Dal.] What shall we do with this madman, daughter?

  Dal. You should send for analguazil to order him, if I were sure that the Conde would come on again; but, since that’s uncertain, go in, father, and let me alone with him; if I make him your son-in-law, that’s punishment sufficient for him.

  Lop. Well, cavalier, you may chance to hear of me. — [Exit Lopez.

  San. Yes, and of your daughter too, in the next lampoon, I doubt not. — [To Dalinda.]

  Why don’t you follow him? What do you and

  I together, madam countess?

  Dal. Nay, I know not.

  San. Nor I neither.

  Dal. I hope you will not beat me.

  [She looks languishingly upon him.

  San. I can’t tell that; thou hast a damnable kind of leer, that would provoke me to something — I say not what.

  Dal. Beat me with my own hand, if I deserve it; there ’tis for you.

  [Gives him her hand, and squeezes his.

  San. If I should beat thee now, as thou hast deserved richly, I could make thee satisfaction.

  Dal. Indeed they say an old man should never beat a young woman, because he cannot make her satisfaction.

  San. Abominable chuck! if I did not hate thee mortally, I could be content to love thee for a quarter of an hour or so. — Why, what’s here to do? you are at your old tricks again.

  Pr’ythee, sweet devil, do not ogle me, nor squeeze my palm so feelingly; thou dear infernal, do not.

  Dal. Why, do I hurt you?

  San. No, but thou ticklest me to the very heart-strings, most wickedly.

  Dal. You command me, then, to leave you?

  [Seems to be going.

  San. Not command you neither, not absolutely.

  Dal. I go then —

  San. Then I do command thee — I mean to stay a little longer. Thou hast fired my blood most horribly with that squeezing: hast not thou the itch? speak, damnation! I think I have got the infection of thee.

  [He shakes his hands.

  Dal. I’ll go and comfort my poor old father for the affronts you gave him.

  San. No, perverseness; I’ll make thee stay: in very spite of thy proud sex, I’ll humble thee.

  Dal. But was not you a grievous man to use him so? you shall tell me, or I break your fingers.

  San. Not a word, to save thee from perdition;

  I am as dumb as a heathen oracle.

  Dal. Then I must squeeze it out of you.

  [Pressing his hand again.

  San. Ah, ha! it runs through me like wildfire. — [Panting.

  Dal. Did not Carlos give you this naughty counsel?

  San. I should not answer thee, I know it.

  Heartlykins! this is just cramping a man when he’s asleep, to make him tell his dream. Let go my hand, and Carlos did not advise me; but hold it, and he did: — now, will you be at quiet with me?

  Dal. Not till you promise me to be friends with my father.

  San. Wel
l, confound thee, I am friends with him.

  Dal. And to banish Carlos for an evil counsellor.

  San. Upon condition you’ll discharge the count from seeing you.

  Dal. No conditions: either surrender upon discretion, or I’ll put you to the sword.

  San. Pox on thee for being so tyrannical; but I can’t help myself, and therefore I totally submit.

  Dal. Now, then, you shall perceive how gracious a princess I intend to be. My father doats upon this count, but I despise him.

  San. That’s a good girl; for love of me, I’ll warrant you.

  Dal. You think I coax you now.

  San. No, I know my own merit too well for that.

  Dal. Then do what I advise you. My father has not often seen this count; what if you should pass for him?

  San. Hum! I do not apprehend thee.

  Dal. A man of your wit, and be so stupid! you shall counterfeit the count.

  San. Counterfeit the count! that’s a pure quibble; but I can make no more on’t.

  Dal. He’s an old fellow, and a fool: now, you shall take upon you to be this count, to deceive my father; and I’ll keep your counsel, and teach you how to represent him.

  San. Oh, now I understand you! but ’tis impossible for me to counterfeit a fool.

  Dal. I’ll warrant you; trust nature.

  San. A man of my sense can never hide his parts.

  Dal. No, but you may show them. Go back to your lodgings; I’ll provide you clothes, and send you directions in writing how to behave yourself before my father. — One word more; be sure you manage this in private, and shut out Carlos, lest he should discover our intrigue.

  San. Well, I will strive for once to get the better of my wit, and play the natural as naturally as I can: but you had better come yourself and teach me, for you have put me in a pure way of taking your instructions. [Exit Sancho.

  Dal. [Alone.] When I consider what has passed between the count and me, there’s little reason to believe a man should put on a foul shirt again, when he has put it off already, and has change of linen by him. However, my father shall know nothing of this disguise; for he, that sold my first maidenhead to the lord, may sell my second to the fool; and that would be too much in conscience, that a woman, once in twice, should not have the letting her own freehold. And therefore I will have the selling of myself, and Sancho shall have the refusal of the bargain.

  Wise heaven, in pity to the sex, designed

  Fools for the last relief of womankind.

  Two married wits no quiet can enjoy;

  Two fools together would the house destroy:

  But providence, to level human life,

  Made the fool husband for the witty wife.

  [Exit Dalinda.

  ACT III.

  SCENE I. — Victoria’s Chamber.

  Enter Alphonso, with Music.

  A Song is sung; when it is beginning, Victoria enters.

  SONG OF JEALOUSY.

  What state of life can be so blest

  As love, that warms a lover’s breast?

  Two souls in one, the same desire

  To grant the bliss, and to require!

  But if in heaven a hell we find,

  ’Tis all from thee,

  O Jealousy!

  ’Tis all from thee,

  O Jealousy!

  Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,

  Thou tyrant of the mind!

  All other ills, though sharp they prove,

  Serve to refine, and perfect love:

  In absence, or unkind disdain,

  Sweet hope relieves the lover’s pain.

  But, ah! no cure but death we find,

  To set us free

  From Jealousy:

  O Jealousy!

  Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,

  Thou tyrant of the mind.

  False in thy glass all objects are,

  Some set too near, and some too far;

  Thou art the fire of endless night,

  The fire that burns, and gives no light.

  All torments of the damned we find

  In only thee,

  O Jealousy!

  Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,

  Thou tyrant of the mind!

  [Exeunt Musicians.

  Alph. ’Tis true, my tyrant father has confined me;

  But love, who traverses the world at will,

  Who knows not awe, nor law, nor parentage,

  Has broke my tether, and enlarged my bounds.

  Vict. Retire betimes; the court is full of eyes,

  As eagles sharp, fatal as basilisks,

  Who live on looking, and who see no death.

  Alph. I come but to depart, and go for ever,

  Because denied the common rights of nature,

  Which the first brother and first sister had.

  Why were not you and I that happy pair?

  But nature doats with age.

  Vict. Whate’er it be, ’tis past redress, Alphonso.

  Alph. But, then, shall Garcia take thee in his arms,

  Glutted with joys which I would die to taste!

  No, let me stab the wretch in every vein,

  And leave him dry of pleasure, ere we part.

  Vict. Alphonso, no; you cannot kill Don

  Garcia,

  But you declaret the cause, and own your love.

  Alph. And what care I, what after-ages say

  Alphonso did, to make Alphonso happy?

  But oh, you love! and would preserve his life

  To be for ever his.

  Vict. My dearest brother,

  I hate your rival, and I die for you:

  All but my spotless honour shall be yoUrs.

  Alph. By heaven! — but that word heaven comes ‘cross my thoughts —

  Vict. Beware: for by my own I guess your passion.

  You would, I fear —

  Alph. Enjoy my heaven one moment —

  Vict. And part with it for ever: think on that.

  Alph. That moment were eternity in little:

  A mighty sum, but taken on content,

  To save the tedious telling o’er and o’er.

  Vict. Oh, we are too long together.

  Alph. Fear you that?

  Vict. I ought to fear it, but I trust my virtue.

  Depart, my soul, — I will not ask you whither,

  For fear I should repent of my repentance,

  And follow you to death.

  Alph. I go, Victoria,

  For love’s cold fit of jealousy returns.

  You must not be Don Garcia’s; swear you will not.

  Vict. I swear I will not, by my own consent.

  Alph. You may be forced; — O cursed jealousy,

  Thou bastard son of Love, unlike thy father,

  Why dost thou still torment me?

  Vict. Trust my honour.

  Alph. That may be chafed into a warmth,

  Victoria.

  Talk, seeing, touching, are incendiaries;

  And these may mount your young desires like straw,

  To meet the jet that draws you. — .

  Vict. Trust my love.

  Alph. I swear I trust it, but I fear your beauty:

  ’Tis a fair fruit that hangs upon the bough,

  Tempts, and is tempted.

  Vict. ’Tis indeed a fruit,

  Seen and desired by all, while yet unpulled,

  But can be gathered by one only hand.

  Alph. That one is Garcia; still the fit returns

  I wish my jealousy could quench my love.

  Vict. It cannot, if I measure yours by mine;

  Or, if extinguished, like a trail of smoke

  From a wax taper, soon would hght again.

  Alph. ’Tis so; for when I say I will not love,

  Then I love most. Farewell, my only joy!

  I go to hide me from the world and you.

  Vict. As, when the sun is down,

  His light is dipt into a thousand stars,

  So you
r sweet image, though you shine not on me,

  Will gild the horror of the night, and make

  A pleasing scene of solitary grief.

  Enter Veramond and Ximena, he with an

  Ovid in his hand.

  Vera. How darest thou, rebel, thus provoke my patience

  Beyond all sufferance, and transgress thy bounds?

  Alph. When kings and fathers, on their sons and subjects

  Exact intolerable things to bear,

  Nature and self-defence dispense with duty.

  Vera. O heaven! what horrid sin have I committed,

  That I was punished to beget this son?

  Alph. I could ask heaven another question too,

  But that ’tis not so decent. In few words;

  Hither I came to take my latest leave

  Of dear Victoria, then depart for ever;

  And, buried in some solitary cave,

  Forgetting and forgotten, end my days.

  Vera. ’Tis what thou hast deserved: perform thy penance.

  Xim. So hard a sentence for so small a fault?

  Are you a father, sir?

  Vera. Is he a son?

  Thou knowest not his offence.

  But mark the glowing blood, the guilty flush

  Upon Victoria’s face, and read it there.

  Xim. I know not what you mean.

  Vera. Victoria, speak,

  And clear yourself: — she answers not a word.

  Nay, then my fears are true, on both sides guilty.

  Vict. ’Tis found, and we are lost. [Aside.

  Vera. But what needs more conviction? know you this? [Showing the Ovid to Alphonso.

  This book, the tutor of incestuous love?

  The page is doubled down, and points thee to thy crime.

  I feared, before, from every rolling glance,

  How quick they shot upon thy sister’s face;

  And she received them all, like smoking flax,;

  Confessed the fire, and answered to the flame.

  Vict. I love my brother, and avow that fire!

  His love to me has raised his noble thoughts

  To brave achievements for your crown and you:

  For love’s the steel that strikes upon the flint;

  Gives coldness heat, exerts the hidden flame,

  And spreads the sparkles round, to warm the world.

  Vera. O heavens, she makes a merit of her crime!

  Victoria, I would yet think better of thee,

  And therefore dare I not inquire too far,

  Willing to doubt the guilt I fear to find.

  Depart, and answer not. — [Exit Victoria.

  For thee, whom I abhor to call my son,

  [To Alphonso.