by John Dryden
Carl. I foreboded this, and yet was fool enough to trust thee. Give me back my letter.
Dal. What, deliver up my evidence, that’s the testimony of my virtue, and thy wickedness?
Carl. I’ll search your petticoat.
Dal. Dare but touch my petticoat, and I’ll cry out a rape against thee.
Carl. O thou Eve of Genesis! thou wouldst
(have tempted the serpent, if thou hadst been
(there.
Dal. The next news you hear is of my wedding; be patient, and you shall be invited to the dinner.
Carl. I say no more; but I’ll go home and indite iambics: thou shalt not want for an epithalamium; I’ll do thy business in verse. [Exit.
Dal. My comfort is, I have done your business in prose already.
The wittiest men are all but women’s tools;
’Tis our prerogative, to make them fools.
For one sweet look, the rich, the beaux, the braves,
And all mankind, run headlong to be slaves.
Ours is the harvest which those Indians mow;
They plough the deep, but we reap what they sow. — [Exit.
ACT V.
SCENE I. — Lopez’s House.
Enter Sancho, Lopez, Dalinda; Carlos meeting them.
Carl. Give you joy, Mr. Bridegroom and Mrs.
Bride; you see I have accepted your invitation.
San. And thou art welcome, as a witness of my triumph.
Carl. I could tell tales that would spoil your appetite, both to your dinner and your bride. —
You think you are married to a vast fortune.
Dal. A better, perhaps, than you imagine.
Lop. For, if Sancho looks into his writings, he’ll find that my estate was mortgaged to his father.
San. Then would I had looked into my writings, before I had looked so far into your daughter.
Dal. My father’s fortune will be yours at last; and I have but redeemed it for you.
San. I’m sure I’m married without redemption!
Carl. You must take the good and the bad together; he that keeps a tame cat must be content to be scratched a little.
Dal. The count’s sister, I hope, has claws for you too.
Carl. That was invented only in hopes of you, Dalinda; though now I thank my stars that I have missed you: for two wits without fortunes would be like two millstones without corn betwixt them; they would only grind upon one another, and make a terrible noise, but no meal would follow.
Enter a Nurse, leading a Boy and Girl.
Nurse. Madam, here are two poor orphans, that, hearing you are married, come to dine with you. —
Dal. [Aside.] My two bastards! I am undone: what shall I do with them?
Lop. [Aside.] The devil take my damned grandchildren for their unseasonable visit.
San. Welcome, welcome! They’re come a mumming to grace my wedding, I’ll warrant you.
Carl. I begin to suspect they come to sup and lodge, as well as dine here.
Lop. [To Nurse.] There’s two pistoles for you; take them away, and bring them again tomorrow morning.
Nurse. Thank your honour. — Come away, children; but first I must deliver a note to this gentleman. — Don Carlos, I am sure you remember me. — [Gives him a note.
Carl. Did not you wait on Donna Leonora, the Conde’s sister?
Nurse. Have you forgotten Inez, the faithful trustee of your affection? Read your letter; there’s better news than you deserve.
[Carlos reads his letter to himself.
Dal. [To Nurse.] Steal away, dear nurse, while he’s reading, and there’s more money for you: — fear not, you shall be duly paid; for I am married to one who can provide for them.
Nurse. [To her.] Well, I’ll keep your credit; but remember. [Exit Nurse, with the Children.
Carl. [After reading.] Poor loving creature, she is e’en too constant; I could never have expected this from her. — Look you here, you shall see I have no reason to envy your fortune,
Sancho. — [Looks about him.] How now, what’s become of the nurse and the two children?
Dal. They would have been but too troublesome guests, and are gone away.
Carl. By your favour, I shall make bold to call them back again. — [Exit Carlos.
Dal. [To Lop.] O barbarous villain! he’ll discover all.
Lop. The best on’t is, you ‘re already married.
Dal. But we have not consummated. I could have so wheedled Mr. Bridegroom to-night, that ere to-morrow morning he should have forgiven me.
Re-enter Carlos, with Nurse and Children.
Carl. Come, nurse, no more mincing matters; your lady’s orders in my letter must be obeyed:
I must find a father and mother for the children in this company.
San. Whose pretty children are these, Carlos, that you are to provide for?
Carl. E’en your bride’s, Sancho, at your service. — Children, do your duty to your mother.
Children. [Kneeling.] Mamma, your blessing.
San. Heyday, what’s here to do? Are these the issue of your body, Madam Bride?
Carl. Yes; and they are now your children by the mother’s side. The late Conde presents his service to you, with these two pledges of his affection to your wife.
San. Is it even thus, Dalinda?
Lop. Christian patience, son-in-law.
San. Christian patience! I say pagan fury. This is enough to make me turn Jew again, like my father of Hebrew memory.
Carl. You may make your assault, colonel, without danger; the breach is already made to your hands.
San. Ay, the devil take him that stormed it first!
Carl. Speak well of the dead.
Dal. [Kneeling.] And forgive the living!
San. O Dalinda! no more Dalinda, but Delilah the Philistine! could you find none but me to practise on?
Carl. Sooner upon you than upon any man; for nature has put a superscription upon a fool’s face, and all cheats are directed thither.
Lop. There’s no recalling what’s past and done.
San. You never said a truer word, father-in-law; ’tis done, indeed, to my sorrow.
Carl. If you could undo it, Sancho, it were something; but, since you cannot, your only remedy is to do it again.
San. That’s true; but the memory of that damned Conde is enough to turn one’s stomach to her. Do you remember what a devilish hunchback he had, when you and I played him?
Carl. For that reason you may be sure she’ll loathe the thought of him.
San. Do you think so, Carlos?
Dal. How can I do otherwise, when I have in my arms so handsome, so sweet, and so charming a cavalier as you?
San. Well, I am — I know not howish; she has a delicious tongue of her own, and I begin to mollify.
Carl. Do, Sancho: faith, you’ve held it out too long, in conscience, for so slight a quarrel; this is nothing among great ladies, man. How many fathers have I known, that have given their blessings to other men’s children? Come, bless them, bless them, honest daddy. — Kneel down, children.
Children. [Kneeling.] Your blessing, papa.
[Children cry.
San. It goes against the grain to give it them.
Carl. For shame, Sancho, take them up; you’ll break their pretty hearts else: ‘twould grieve a man’s soul to see them weep thus.
San. Ay, they learnt that trick of their mother; but I cannot be obdurate, the fault was none of theirs, I’m sure. [Crying.]Heaven e’en bless you, and I’ll provide for you; nay, and it shall go hard but I’ll get you some more play-fellows, if your mother be as fruitful as she used to be.
Lop. Why, this is as it should be.
Dal. Heaven reward you; and I’ll study obedience to you.
San. They say, children are great blessings; if they are, I have two great blessings ready gotten to my hands.
Carl. For your comfort, marriage, they say, is holy.
San. Ay, and so is martyrdom, as they say; but both of them are good
for just nothing, but to make an end of a man’s life.
Lop. Cheer up, son-in-law: your children are very towardly, you see they can ask blessings already.
Dal. If he does not like them, he may get the next himself.
Carl. I will not trouble the company with reading my letter from the dead count’s sister;
’tis enough to tell you, that I loved her once, and forsook her, because she was then no fortune.
But she has been kinder to me than I deserve; and has offered me her brother’s estate in dowry with her.
Dal. Which I hope you will accept.
Carl. Yes, and release you of a certain promise to me, without explaining. — She only recommended to me her brother’s children by Dalinda; and I think I have taken a decent care in providing them a rich father.
San. I always loved a harlot, and, now I have one of my own, I’ll e’en take up with her; for my youth is going, and my days of whoring, I mean emphatical whoring, are almost over. But for once, we’ll have a frolic; come, offspring, can either of you two dance?
1 Child. Yes, forsooth, father, and my sister can sing too, like an angel.
San. Then foot it featly, that you may say hereafter, you remember when your mother was first married, and danced at her wedding.
Carl. Hold a little; you may remember too,
Madam Bride, that I promised you an epithalamium. ’Twas meant a satire; but fortune has turned it to a jest. I have given it to the musicians, and brought them along with me; strike up, gentlemen.
[The Dance is first, then the Song, the last words of which are sung while the
Company is going out, and the Music plays before them.
SONG.
BY MR. CONGREVE.
I.
How happy’s the husband, whose wife has been tried!
Not damned to the bed of an ignorant bride!
Secure of what’s left, he ne’er misses the rest,
But where there’s enough, supposes a feast;
So, foreknowing the cheat,
He escapes the deceit,
And, in spite of the curse, resolves to be blest. ii.
If children are blessings, his comfort’s the more,
Whose spouse has been known to be fruitful before;
And the boy that she brings ready made to his hand,
May stand him instead, for an heir to his land,
Should his own prove a sot,
When he’s lawfully got,.
As whene’er ’tis so, if he dont l’il be hanged.
SONG.
FOR A GIRL.
I.
Young I am, and yet unskilled
How to make a lover yield:
How to keep, or how to gain,
When to love, and when to feign.
II.
Take me, take me, some of you,
While I yet am young and true;
Ere I can my soul disguise,
Heave my breasts, and roll my eyes.
III.
Stay not till I learn the way,
How to lie, and to betray:
He that has me first is blest,
For I may deceive the rest.
IV.
Could I find a blooming youth,
Full of love, and full of truth,
Brisk, and of a jaunty mien,
I should long to be fifteen. [Exeunt.
A Royal Chamber is discovered by drawing the former Scene; Veramond, Garcia, Ximena,
Victoria, Celidea, with a full train of
Courtiers and Guards: amongst the crowd
Ramirez disguised with some of his party.
Vera. [To Vict.] No more delays, but go.
Xim. This is inhuman,
To press her to a marriage made by force.
At least allow yourself and her this day,
That each of you may think, and one may change.
Vera. You mean, the times or accidents may change
And leave her for Alphonso.
Xim. Your enemies are but without your gates,
And soon they may return: forbear for fear.
Vera. The sooner then
II — must prevent the effect of their return.
What now remains, but to complete my vows,
And sacrifice to vengeance!
Xim. Your own daughter!
Vera. Even her, myself, and all the world together.
Vict. Can you refuse me one poor day to live?
Vera. Obey me, and be blest; if not, accurst.
A father’s curse has wings, remember that;
Through this world and the next it will pursue thee,
And sink thee down for ever.
Vict. ’Tis enough,
I know how far a daughter owes obedience;
But duty has a bound like other empires:
It reaches but to life, for all beyond it
Is the dominion of another world,
Where you have no command. —
For you, Don Garcia,
You know the power a mistress ought to have;
But, since you will be master, take your hour,
The next is mine.
Gar. I grant the debt of service which I owe you;
But ’tis a sum too vast to pay at sight.
If now you call it in, I must be bankrupt
To all my future bliss.
Vict. I find by you,
The laws of love are like the laws of heaven;
All know, but few will keep them. — To the temple,
Where I myself am victim.
Enter Alphonso, unarmed; all seem amazed.
Alph. Stay, Veramond.
Vera. Alphonso here! then all my hopes are blasted;
The town is his, and I once more a slave. [Aside.
Alph. Dismiss thy fears, and tremble not, old man;
I neither come with purpose, nor with power,
To avenge my wrongs, but single, and unarmed.
This head is necessary to thy peace,
And to Victoria’s violated vows,
Who, while I live, can never be Don Garcia’s.
Take then this odious life; securely take it,
And glut thy vengeance with Alphonso’s blood.
Behold the man, who forced thee in thy strength,
In thy imperial town made thee a captive.
Now give thy fury scope; revenge the affront,
And show more pity not to spare my life,
Than I, in sparing thine.
Xim. [To Cel.] O boundless courage, or extreme despair!
Cel. [To her.] I tremble for the event; see, the king reddens.
The fear which seized him at Alphonso’s sight,
And left his face forsaken of his blood,
Is vanished now;
And a new tide returns upon his cheeks,
And rage and vengeance sparkle in his eyes.
Vera. [Aside.] All things are hushed; no noise is in the streets,
Nor shouts of soldiers, nor the cries of matrons,
To speak a town in plunder. — Then I take
A traitor’s counsel once, and thou shalt die.
[To Alphonso.
Condemned by thy own sentence, go to death;
Nor shall thy seeming generosity,
And feigned assurance, save thee: ’tis despair,
To see thy frustrate hopes, that brought thee hither,
To meet my just revenge.
Alph. Yes, I will die, because I choose to die;
Which had I not desired, I had not come
Unarmed, unguarded, and alone, to tempt
Thy known ingratitude, and barbarous hate.
Boast not the advantage which thou hold’st of me,
But know thyself for what thou art, — no more
Than the mean minister of my despair.
Vera. Whether to heaven’s justice or thy choice,
I owe this happy hour of sweet revenge,
I’ll not be wanting to the wished occasion.
&n
bsp; Vict. You shall not die alone, my dear Alphonso,
Though much I blame this desperate enterprise.
You should have stayed, to see
The event of what I promised to perform;
For, had I been so base to be another’s,
That baseness might have cured your ill-placed love.
But this untimely rashness makes you guilty,
Both of your fate, and mine.
Alph. While I believed
My fife was precious to my dear Victoria,
I valued and preserved it for her sake:
But when you broke from your deliverer’s arms,
To put yourself into a tyrant’s power,
I threw a worthless, wretched being from me,
Abandoned first by you.
Vict. O cruel man!
Where, at what moment, did that change begin,
With which you tax my violated vows?
I left your lawless power, to put myself
Into a father’s chains, my lawful tyrant.
If this be my upbraided crime, even this,
On that occasion, would I do once more:
But could I, with my honour, safe have stayed
In your dear arms, bear witness, heaven and earth,
Nor threats, nor force, nor promises, nor fears,
Should take me from your love.
Alph. Oh, I believe you. —
Vanish my fears, and causeless jealousies!
Live, my Victoria, for yourself, not me,
But let the unfortunate Alphonso die;
My death will glut your cruel father’s rage.
When I am gone, and his revenge complete,
Pity, perhaps, may seize a parent’s mind,
To free you from a hated lover’s arms.
Cel. [To Xim.] Speak, mother, speak; my father gives you time;
He stands amazed, irresolute, and dumb,
Like the still face of heaven before a storm; —
Speak, and arrest the thunder, ere it rolls.
Xim. I stand suspected; but you, Celidea,
The favourite of his heart, his darling child,
May speak, and ought: your interest is concerned;
For, if Alphonso die, your hopes are lost.
I see your father’s soul, like glowing steel,
Is on the anvil; strike, while yet he’s hot:
Turn him, and ply him; set him straight betimes,
Lest he for ever warp.
Cel. I fear, and yet would speak; but will he hear me?
Xim. For what is all this silence, but to hear?
Bring him but to calm reasoning, and he’s gained.
Cel. Then heaven inspire my tongue! —
