John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  Enter Ramirez, attended by Carlos; Ramirez embraces Alphonso.

  Ram. Prop of my age, and pattern of my youth,

  But such as far excels the original,

  Ten thousand blessings on thee for this deed!

  Alph. Heaven and my fate speak other language to me.

  No blessings, none, but millions of their curses,

  Like burning-glasses, with contracted beams,

  Are pointed on my head.

  Bam. What words are these, on this auspicious day?

  Alph. Oh, fly me, fly me, sir;

  Lest the contagion of my woes

  Pollute my father’s joys; Victoria’s gone,

  And with her went Alphonso’s life and soul.

  Ram. You had her in your power, and were too easy.

  Alph. Or, rather, she too cruel.

  Her duty forced her hence, in scorn of love.

  Ram. You must resume your arms,

  And force her father’s will, to make her yours.

  Why, like a woman, stand you thus complaining,

  Born to the strength and courage of a man?

  Rouse up your spirits to a just revenge,

  Like lightning wasteful, and like thunder loud.

  Rivers of blood shall run about the town,

  For which you were so lavish of your own.

  Garcia shall die, and by his death remove

  The cause of jealousy and injured love;

  The king himself, the ungrateful king, shall fall;

  Of all our ills the cursed original.

  Alph. Beseech you, sir, no more.

  Ram. Your reason, son?

  Alph. For you have given my soul so large a swing,

  That it bounds back again with double force,

  Only because you carried it too far.

  You’ve set an image of so vast destruction

  Before my sight, that reason shuns the approach,

  And dares not view the fearful precipice.

  Ram. Is vengeance, which is said so sweet a morsel,

  That heaven reserves it for its proper taste,

  Is it so soon disrelished?

  Alph. What have the people done, the sheep of princes,

  That they should perish for the shepherd’s fault?

  They bring their yearly wool, to clothe their owners;

  And yet, when bare themselves, are culled for slaughter.

  Should I do this, what could the wolf do more

  Than what the master did?

  Ram. Then Garcia, must he scape?

  Alph. ’Tis true, I had him at my mercy once;

  I should have killed him then, or, once forgiven,

  Should spare him now.,

  Ram. [Aside.] His noble soul relents.

  Alph. But then I give Victoria to his arms;

  And make my own destruction my own act.

  That fires my blood again — yet if she loves him,

  Is killing him she loves the way to gain her?

  No, let him live — but Veramond shall die;

  Who, when he was my father as he thought,

  When I deserved his love, then hated me.

  Ram. Oh, now the tempest drives another way. — [Aside.

  Alph. No more deliberation, — there it goes;

  I’ll kill him first, to satisfy my vengeance,

  And then, to atone her anger, kill myself.

  [Seems going hastily.

  Ram. Hold, hold, Alphonso! heaven, and earth, and I,

  Who have a father’s title to your life,

  Forbid that parricide.

  Alph. Would you refuse a madman leave to sleep?

  ’Tis sleep must cure me, and that sleep is death.

  Ram. A madman must be cooled, to make him sleep.

  I have prepared a gentle opiate for you;

  One moment’s patience, and I will refuse it.

  You see me dispossessed of all my state?

  Alph. Yes, to my grief; and, to enhance that grief,

  ’Tis to my sword my father owes his ruin.

  Ram. And ’tis that only sword that can restore me.

  It must, and ought; you owe it to your duty.

  Alph. Duty was what Victoria urged to me:

  I hate that fatal word, because she used it,

  And, for a cruel father, left her love.

  Ram. Could she do that for Veramond, a tyrant,

  Which you refuse to me?

  The conquering troops of Arragon are yours;

  You are their life, their idol, and their soul.

  Conduct me home, and, with their aid, restore me;

  And, that once done, we shall not need to treat;

  For Veramond himself will send, and sue

  For that alliance which his pride now scorns.

  Alph. Long ere that time, Victoria will be

  Garcia’s:

  Her father will not lose one moment’s space,

  To gratify his vengeance with my ruin.

  If I would force him, this must be the time;

  Which, since I now refuse, ’tis lost for ever. —

  Hear, then, and take it as my last resolve:

  Lead you the troops; you need not fear their faith,

  The guilt of their rebellion makes them yours.

  With them, and with your own, restore yourself.

  Ram. Then what becomes of you?

  Alph. No matter what.

  Provide yourself of some more worthy heir,

  For I am lost, beyond redemption lost.

  Farewell the joys of empire, from this moment!

  Farewell the honours of the dusty field!

  Here I lay down this instrument of death,

  [Ungirds Ms sword and lays it down.

  And may it gird some happier soldier’s side;

  For nothing it could gain can countervail

  To me the loss of my Victoria’s love.

  Your blessing, and farewell! — [Kneels.

  Ram. Alas! I fear some fatal resolution

  Is harboured in your soul: if thus you leave me,

  My mind forbodes we never more shall meet.

  Alph. Give not so black an omen to this parting,

  For we may meet again, if heaven thinks fit:

  A beam of comfort, like the moon through clouds,

  Gilds the brown horror, and directs my way. —

  Blast not my purpose, by refusing leave,

  Nor ask the means; but know, I will not die

  Till I have proved the extremest remedy.

  And if, unarmed, I go to tempt my fate,

  Think my despair is from Victoria’s hate.

  [Exit Alphonso.

  Ram. I might have used the power heaven gives to parents,

  And hindered his departure;

  But somewhat of divine controlled my tongue:

  For heroes’ souls, irregular to us,

  Yet move like planets in their proper sphere;

  Performing even course,

  In paths uneven to beholders’ eyes. —

  [Pauses a little.

  [To Carlos.] His words, mysterious as they were, imported

  Some desperate design, which I must watch,

  And therefore dare not lead the forces far;

  But, camped without the town, at some small distance,

  To expect the issue, and prevent his death.

  Carl. Sir, what orders give you? for you are now our general.

  Ram. Follow, and you shall know.

  [Exit Ramirez.

  Carl. Follow! whither? no plunder, when the town was fairly taken! there’s a hopeful general to follow. The son and father are both gone away, without providing for me, who betrayed the city to them; a fine encouragement for virtue! Well, these monarchs make no more of us soldiers, when their turn is served, than we make of our old battered horses. To put us off for stallions, is the best that can become of us; and those indeed are my present circumstances. Dalinda will none, and Sancho is just mounting, if I get not between, and t
hrust him off; for which purpose I have insinuated to him that I have left Dalinda for his sake, and am upon another scent. — Yonder he comes: this, and another lie which I have ready coined, will go near to spoil his market.

  Enter Sancho.

  San. Well, Carlos, the hurly burly’s quite over. I met Ramirez marching off the army; and just afterwards appeared a fellow in a fool’s coat, on horseback, with three trumpets. Herod,

  I think they called him; some such Jewish name.

  Carl. A herald at arms, you mean.

  San. It may be so; but I should have taken him for some pardoner, for he scattered indulgences, by handfuls, to the people; but only they paid nothing for them.

  Carl. But did he proclaim nothing?

  San. Oh yes; and now I remember, he began his speech with, O yes, too: he proclaimed a general pardon to all rebels, of which number, you know, you and I, Carlos, were ringleaders.

  Carl. Then farewell Ramirez; even trudge on by yourself, for there is an end of my expedition.

  I will lay down my arms like a dutiful subject, and submit to his majesty, when I can rebel no longer.

  San. Very good; and try the other touch for

  Dalinda, will you?

  Carl. You know I have quitted her for your sake, and now am altogether for — let me see, what lady am I for?

  San. Pump, pump, Carlos, for that’s to be invented yet.

  Carl. Only out of my head a little:— ’tis the dead count’s sister; a great fortune since her brother died, but somewhat homely: she has already made some advances to me, or else I lie.

  San. And will you say To have and to hold, with an ugly woman?

  Carl. Yes, and For better for worse, — that is, for virgin, or for whore; as you will, Sancho, who are listing yourself into the honourable company of cuckolds.

  San. What, a hero as I am, to be a cuckold?

  Carl. Do not disdain your calling; Julius Cæsar was one before you. The count has had her by her own confession; so she’s a nobleman’s dowager, for your comfort.

  San. Pugh, she denied it afterwards; that was but a copy of her countenance.

  Carl. What if it prove a copy of the Conde’s countenance? do you think she had not a bastard by him?

  San. That was only a plot betwixt us to cheat her father.

  Carl. Did her father know nothing of it?

  San. Not a syllable.

  Carl. Then, when he believed you to be the count, how came he to charge you with enjoying her?

  San. That is something to the purpose; — but now I think on’t, ’tis nothing neither; ’tis but asking her the question, and I know she’ll satisfy me.

  Carl. And you are resolved to take her word?

  San. Rather than yours; for you may have a mind to have a lick at the honey-pot yourself.

  Carl. Farewell; you know I have other business upon the stocks. — [Seems going out.

  San. Stay, Carlos; I am afraid you know something more of this bawdy business than you confess.

  Carl. Fecks, not I.

  San. Fecks! what a sneaking oath is that for a man of honour? swear me bloodily like a soldier, if you would be believed.

  Carl. Without swearing, I believe her honest; therefore make sure of her immediately.

  San. That is, take a rival’s counsel, and make sure of being an antedated cuckold.

  Carl. If you won’t believe me, I cannot help it. But marry Dalinda, and be happy; for I may prevent you, if you make not haste.

  San. Thou hast cheated me so often, that I cannot credit one syllable thou sayest.

  Carl. [Going out.] Then take your fortune. —

  [Carlos pulls out Ms handkerchief to wipe his face, and drops a letter.

  Yonder comes Dalinda; I know her by her trip. I’ll watch their greeting. — [Exit.

  San. The rogue’s malicious, and would have me marry her in spite; besides he is off and on at so devilish a rate, a man knows not where to have him. Well, I am resolved, in the first place, not to follow the rogue’s counsel. I will not marry her, because he advised me to it; — and yet I will marry her, because he counselled me not to marry her. — Heyday! I will marry her, and I will not marry her! what’s the meaning of this, friend Sancho? That’s taking the rogue’s advice one way or t’other. [Sees the letter, and takes it up.] What, has he dropped a letter! To whom is it directed? to Don Carlos D’Ybarra; — that is himself.

  [Mutters, as reading to himself.

  Dalinda s fair, and a fortune; but marry her not; for to my knowledge (pox confound him for his knowledge!) she has had a — (What a — Mr. Friend? why — ) a bastard, by the late Conde: (Ay, I thought as much. ) But his sister Leonora is in love with you. Damn it, I will read no more: it agrees with what he first told me; and therefore it must be all orthodox. Here she comes, too, just in the nick of my revenge; but I shall be very laconic with her.

  Enter Dalinda.

  Dal. Now, servant.

  San. Now, cockatrice.

  Dal. You ‘re pretty familiar —

  San. So have you been —

  Dal. With your mistress.

  San. With the Conde, of whoring memory.

  Dal. A fine salutation!

  San. A final parting.

  Dal. What’s the meaning of this? will you come in?

  San. Will you go in?

  Dal. Come, look upon me.

  [She makes the doux yeux to him.

  San. I have no eyes.

  Dal. Then I must take you by the hand.

  [She offers, and he pulls back.

  San. I have no hands neither.

  Dal. How’s this? I have been but too kind —

  San. Yes, to the Conde.

  Dal. Pugh, that was a jest, you know.

  San. ’Tis turned to earnest.

  Dal. You know ’twas of my conception.

  San. And of your bringing forth too.

  Dal. What did I bring forth?

  San. A bastard.

  Dal. O impudent!

  San. Woman.

  Dal. What proof have you of that scandal?

  San. This, with a pox t’ ye.

  [Throws her the letter.

  Patience, O ye gods! — [Exit.

  [She takes up the note, and, as she is reading it, re-enter Carlos.

  Carl. Much good may do you with your note, madam; now I think I am revenged at full: your cully has forsaken you.

  Dal. Well, I did not expect this from you, cousin Carlos.

  Carl. What did you take me for? King Log in Æsop’s Fables, for you to insult me, and play at leap-frog over me? Did not you forsake me for a fool?

  Dal. But was not this a terrible revenge of yours? must you needs show him the letter, which has ruined my reputation, and lost my fortune? Am I the first frail creature, that had the misfortune of two great bellies, and yet afterwards was decently married, and passed for a virgin?

  Carl. Nay, do not aggravate the matter: consult your note, and you will find but one bastard charged upon you; you see I was not for laying loaders.

  Dal. A great courtesy, to bate me one, as if that was not enough to do my business.

  Carl. Well, suppose I should discover this contrivance of mine, and set all right again?

  Dal. [Aside.] Contrivance! O heaven! I have undone myself, by confessing all too soon.

  Carl. If I should prove you innocent, you would prove ungrateful?

  Dal. No, you know I always loved you.

  Carl. You have shown it most abundantly, in choosing Sancho.

  Dal. You speak more truly than you think. I have shown it; for, since I must confess the truth to you, I am no fortune: my father, though he bears it high, to put me off, has mortgaged his estate: we keep servants for show; and when we should pay their wages, pick a quarrel with their service, and turn them off penniless. There is neither sheet nor shirt in the whole family; the lodging-rooms are furnished with loam; and bare mattresses are the beds. The dining-room plays the hypocrite for all the house; for all the furniture is there. Wh
en strangers dine with us, we eat before the servants, and then they fast; but when we dine alone, ’tis all a muss; t they scramble for victuals, before ’tis served up, and then we fast.

  Carl. The spirit of famine comes upon me, at the very description of it.

  Dal. Now, since neither you nor I have fortunes, what should we do together, unless we should turn cannibals, and eat up one another? But if you would make up this foul business, and help me to that rich fool Sancho, I say no more, but ——

  Carl. But thou wouldst be kind to me? speak out, for I dare not trust thee, thou art such a woman.

  Dal. You should —

  Carl-. What should I?

  Dal. Why, you should —

  Carl. Well, well, I will believe thee, though my heart misgives me plaguily. And therefore, in the first place, I beg your pardon for the scandal I have laid upon you. In the next, I restore your virginity, and take away your bastard.

  Dal. And you’ll tell Sancho ’twas a forged letter?

  Carl. No doubt on’t; for I wrote it to myself; and out of revenge invented the whole story. Dai But suppose, dear cousin, that Sancho should not believe all this to be your invention; and should still suspect the letter to be true?

  Carl. I can easily convince him, by writing the same hand again, in which that letter was indited.

  Dal. That’s an excellent expedient; but do it now; for a woman can never be cleared too soon.

  Carl. But when you are cleared, you will forget your promise to me —

  Dal. But if I am not cleared, I cannot marry him; nor be put in a way to keep my promise.

  Come, I’ll hold my hand; write upon it, I always carry pen and ink about me.

  Carl. Let me seal my affection first. [Kisses her hand.] Now, what should I write?

  Dal. Only these words at the bottom of the note, in the same character: — This letter was wholly forged by me, Carlos.

  [He kneels and writes.

  Carl. There ’tis. —

  [Gives it her; she puts it in her pocket.

  But now tell me truly, what made you confess a couple of bastards? have you indeed been dabbling?

  Dal. Who, I confess it! O thou impudent fellow! I only soothed thee up in thy villainy, to make thee betray thy own plot. I confessed seemingly, to make thee confess really. Heaven and thy own conscience know I did.

  [Seems to weep.

  Carl. But when you’re married, you’ll remember your promise?

  Dal. What promise?

  Carl. That I should —

  Dal. Should what?

  Carl. Must I tell you?

  Dal. No, I’ll tell you; I said you should — and so you shall — be cozened in your expectation.