by Thomas Otway
Where so your goodness, so your justice sway’d,
You but appear’d, and the wild plague was stay’d.
When, from the filthy dunghill-faction bred,
New-form’d rebellion durst rear up it’s head,
Answer me all: who struck the monster dead?
See, see, the injur’d prince, and bless his name,
Think on the martyr from whose loins he came;
Think on the blood was shed for you before,
And curse the parricides that thirst for more.
His foes are your’s, then of their wiles beware:
Lay, lay him in your hearts, and guard him there.
Where let his wrongs your zeal for him improve;
He wears a sword will justify your love.
With blood still ready for your good t’ expend,
And has a heart that ne’er forgot his friend.
His duteous loyalty before you lay,
And learn of him, unmurmuring to obey.
Think what he has borne, your quiet to restore;
Repent your madness, and rebel no more.
No more let boutefeus hope to lead petitions,
Scriv’ners to be treasurers; pedlars, politicians;
Nor ev’ry fool, whose wife has tript at court,
Pluck up a spirit, and turn rebel fort.
In lands where cuckolds multiply like our’s,
What prince can be too jealous of their powers,
Or can too often think himself alarm’d?
They’re mal contents that ev’ry where go arm’d:
And when the horned herd’s together got,
Nothing portends a common-wealth like that.
Cast, oast your idols off, your gods of wood,
Ere yet Philistines fatten with your blood:
Renounce your priests of Baal, with amen faces,
Your Wapping feasts, and your Mile-end high places.
Nail all your medals on the gallows’ post,
In recompense th’ original was lost:
[The earl of Shaftesbury was committed to the Tower on the 2nd July 1681; and the 24th November following, a bill was preferred against him for high treason, and rejected by the grand jury. This occasioned much joy to the whigs; and a medal was struck, bearing the likeness of the earl, and on the reverse, a representation of the City, with a sun rising over the Tower and dispelling a cloud; the motto LÆTAMUR. This medal, attached to a ribbon, was worn at the left breast by his partizans.]
At these, illustrious repentance pay,
In his kind hands your humble off’rings lay:
Let royal pardon be by him implor’d,
Th’ atoning brother of your anger’d lord:
He only brings a medicine fit t’assuage
A people’s folly, and rous’d monarch’s rage.
An infant prince, yet lab ring in the womb,
Fated with wondrous happiness to come,
He goes to fetch the mighty blessings home:
[The Duke was about to return to Scotland to bring home his family. The return of the Duchess to England is celebrated in the ensuing address.]
Send all your wishes with him, let the air
With gentle breezes waft it safely there,
The seas, like what they’ll carry, calm and fair:
Let the illustrious mother touch our land
Mildly, as hereafter may her son command;
While our glad monarch welcomes her to shore,
With kind assurance she shall part no more.
Be the majestic babe then smiling born,
And all good signs of fate his birth adorn,
So live and grow, a constant pledge to stand,
Of Caesar’s love to an obedient land.
SPOKEN TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, ON HER RETURN FROM SCOTLAND, IN THE YEAR 1682.
[The duchess of York returned with her husband from Scotland, in May 1682. This address was spoken as a prologue to “Venice Preserved,” on occasion of her appearing at the Duke’s Theatre, May 31st]
ALL you, who this day’s jubilee attend,
And ev’ry loyal muse’s loyal friend,
That come to treat your longing wishes here,
Turn your desiring eyes, and feast ’em there.
Thus falling on your knees, with me implore,
May this poor land ne’er lose that presence more!
But if there any in this circle be,
That come so curst to envy what they see;
From the vain fool that would be great too soon,
To the dull knave that writ the last lampoon!
Let such, as victims to that beauty’s fame,
Hang their vile blasted heads, and die with shame.
Our mighty blessing is at last return’d,
The joy arriv’d for which so long we mourn’d:
From whom our present peace we expect increas’d,
And all our future generations blest.
Time, have a care! bring safe the hour of joy,
When some blest tongue proclaims a royal boy:
And when ’tis born, let Nature’s hand be strong;
Bless him with days of strength, and make ’em long;
Till charg’d with honours we behold him stand,
Three kingdoms’ banners waiting his command,
His father’s conquering sword within his hand:
Then th’ English lions in the air advance,
And with them roaring music in the dance,
Carry a Quo Warranto into France
[Rather a clumsy adaptation of the means by which the city was deprived of its charter, and reduced to dependence upon the court, to that of humbling the French nation.]
A PASTORAL ON THE DEATH OF HIS LATE MAJESTY.
[Printed among a collection of Mrs. Behn’s poem, 8vo. 1685]
WHAT horror’s this that dwells upon the plain,
And thus disturbs the shepherd’s peaceful reign?
A dismal sound breaks thro’ the yielding air,
Forewarning us some dreadful storm is near.
The bleating flocks in wild confusion stray,
The early larks forsake their wand’ring way,
And cease to welcome in the new-born day.
Each nymph, possest with a distracted fear.
Disorder’d hangs her loose dishevell’d hair.
Diseases with her strong convulsions reign;
And deities, not known before to pain,
Are now with apoplectic seizures slain.
Hence flow our sorrows, hence increase our fears,
Each humble plant does drop her silver tears.
Ye tender lambs, stray not so fast away,
To weep and mourn let us together stay:
O’er all the universe let it be spread,
That now the shepherd of the flock is dead.
The royal Pan, that shepherd of the sheep,
He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,
Is gone, ah gone! ne’er to return from death’s eternal sleep!
Begin, Damela, let thy numbers fly
Aloft, where the safe milky way does lie;
Mopsus, who Daphnis to the stars did sing,
Shall join with you, and thither waft our king.
Play gently on your reeds a mournful strain,
And tell in notes thro’ all th’ Arcadian plain,
The royal Pan, the shepherd of the sheep,
He, who to leave his flock did dying weep,
Is gone, ah gone! ne’er to return from death’s eternal sleep!
A SONG. TO A SCOTCH TUNE.
I LOVE, I doat, I rave with pain,
No quiet’s in my mind,
Tho’ ne’er could be a happier swain,
Were Sylvia less unkind.
For when, as long her chains I’ve worn,
I ask relief from smart,
She only gives me looks of scorn;
Alas! ‘twill break my heart!
My rivals, rich in worldly sto
re,
May offer heaps of gold;
But surely I a heav’n adore
Too precious to be sold.
Can Sylvia such a coxcomb prize,
For wealth, and not desert;
And my poor sighs and tears despise?
Alas! ‘twill break my heart!
When, like some panting, hov’ring dove,
I for my bliss contend,
And plead the cause of eager love,
She coldly calls me friend!
Ah, Sylvia! thus in vain you strive
To act a healer’s part;
‘Twill keep but ling’ring pain alive,
Alas! and break my heart!
When on my lonely, pensive bed
I lay me down to rest,
In hope to calm my raging head,
And cool my burning breast,
Her cruelty all ease denies:
With some sad dream I start;
All drown’d with tears I find my eyes,
And breaking feel my heart.
Then, rising, thro’ the path I rove
That leads me where she dwells,
Where, to the senseless waves, my love
It’s mournful story tells:
With sighs I dew and kiss the door,
Till morning bids depart;
Then vent ten thousand sighs, and more:
Alas! ‘twill break my heart!
But, Sylvia, when this conquest’s won,
And I am dead and cold,
Renounce the cruel deed you’ve done,
Nor glory when ’tis told;
For ev’ry lovely, gen’rous maid
Will take my injur’d part,
And curse thee, Sylvia, I’m afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.
THE ENJOYMENT.
I.
CLASPT in the arms of her I love,
In vain, alas! for life I strove;
My fluttering spirits, wrapt in fire,
By love’s mysterious art,
Borne on the wings of fierce desire,
Flew from my flaming heart.
II.
Thus lying in a trance for dead,
Her swelling breasts bore up my head;
When waking from a pleasing dream,
I saw her killing eyes,
Which did in fiery glances seem
To say, Now Coelia dies!
III.
Fainting, she press’d me in her arms,
And trembling lay, dissolv’d in charms;
When, with a shiv’ring voice, she cried,
Must I alone, then, die?
No, no, I languishing replied,
I’ll bear thee company.
IV.
Melting our souls thus into one,
Swift joys our wishes did out-run:
Then launch’d in rolling seas of bliss,
We bid the world adieu;
Swearing, by ev’ry charming kiss,
To be for ever true.
THE ENCHANTMENT.
I.
I DID but look and love a-while,
’Twas but for one half hour;
Then to resist I had no will,
And now I have no power.
II.
To sigh, and wish, is all my ease:
Sighs, which do heat impart,
Enough to melt the coldest ice;
Yet cannot warm your heart.
III.
O! would your pity give my heart
One corner of your breast,
’Twould learn of your’s the winning art,
And quickly steal the rest.
The Plays
As a youth, Otway attended Winchester College, an independent boarding school, situated in Winchester, Hampshire. It has existed in its present location for over 600 years.
Alcibiades
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
ACT FIRST.
ACT SECOND.
ACT THIRD.
ACT FOURTH.
ACT FIFTH.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Agis, King of Sparta.
Alcibiades, General of Athens, but fled thence in discontent, and made General of Sparta, betrothed to Timandra.
Tissaphernes, the old General of Sparta.
Patroclus, his Son, friend to Alcibiades.
Theramnes, the now Athenian General, in love with Timandra.
Polyndus, a Young Noble of Athens, his Friend.
Deidamia, Queen of Sparta, in love with Alcibiades.
Timamdra, a Noble Athenian Lady, betrothed to Alcibiades.
Draxilla, Sister to Alcibiades, and her Friend.
Ardella, Lady of Honour to the Queen of Sparta.
Priests and Priestesses of Hymen, Spirits, Guards, Messengers, &c.
ACT FIRST.
SCENE FIRST, A PALACE.
Timandra and Draxilla shouts without, Theramnes, Theramnes, Theramnes.
Enter Servant.
Tim.
WHAT mean these shouts?
Serv.
— Oh all your hopes are crost,
The Gallant Alcibiades is lost.
Tim.
Hah! —
Serv.
— When last Night the Youth of Athens late
Rose up the Orgia to Celebrate
The Bacchanals all hot and Drunk with Wine,
He led to the Almighty Thund’rers shrine,
And there his Image seated on a Throne
They violently took and tumbled down:
This opportunity Theramnes got,
To supplant him, and his own ends promote;
For by the Senate he was doom’d to bleed,
And that his Rival shou’d in all succeed;
But he the threat’ning danger to evade,
Is to the Spartan Camp for Refuge fled:
And now by order from the Senate, all
With shouts proclaim Theramnes General.
Tim.
But is he fled? has he so meanly done,
To leave me to be wretched here alone.
Is this thy plighted Faith, is this thy Truth?
Oh too unkind, false and unconstant Youth!
[Exit Serv.
Drax.
Madam, believe not but my Brothers just,
You wrong his honour by this mean distrust;
Think you that distance can his Love rebate.
Tim.
Thy young Experience never felt the weight
Of Lovers fears; if Just, he’ll easily
Excuse that Love that breeds this Jealousie.
Drax.
But Madam, for these doubts no grounds you have.
Tim.
Alas! goe ask of Mad-men why they Rave.
What more could Fate do to Augment my Woe?
I Love, am Mad, and know not what I do.
I, who before had nothing in my Eyes,
But Glory and Love growing to delight,
Like Chymists waiting for their labours prize;
My hopes are dash’t and ruin’d in their height.
Drax.
Alas, we but with weak intelligence
Read Heaven’s decrees, Th’are writ in Mystick since;
For were they open lay’d to Mortal Eyes,
Men would be Gods, or they no Dieties.
Perhaps the wiser pow’rs thought fit this way
To give your growing happiness allay,
Lest should it in its high perfection come,
Your soul for the Reception might want roome.
Tim.
Thy Reasons kind Draxilla, weakly move,
What Woman e’re complain’d of too much Love?
No, had I naked to the World been left,
Of Honour, and its gawdy Plumes berest:
Yet all these I with gladness could resign,
So Alcibiades had still been mine;
But he remov’d, what can they give alone?
What is the casket when the Jewel’s gone?
&nb
sp; Drax.
Madam, if he be gone, ’tis to obtain
A nobler lustre, and return again:
Think you his great soul could with patience see,
His rifl’d Honours heap’d on’s Enemy;
And not his Rage have grown to that excess,
As must have ruin’d all your happiness.
But he withdrew, and like a Zealous Hermit did forgoe
Those little Toys, to gain a Heav’n in you.
Tim.
That Zeal must needs be very weak and faint,
That lets the Votary forsake his Saint;
No, he is happy in some other flame,
And from his breast has blotted out my name:
So that there nothing more remains for me,
But a kind Death, or a long Misery.
But Death alone’s th’unhappy Lovers ease,
That Seals up to us an Eternal Peace
By that our souls to endless pleasures move,
And we enjoy an Everlasting Love.
Yet e’re I dye, as dye I feel I must,
To Alcibiades I would be just;
Fain would I let him know how I resign
All in him, that his past Vows had made mine;
Then to its seat in peace my soul should flye,
And calmly at my Lovers feet I’d dye.
Draxilla, for thy Friend, what couldst thou do?
Drax.
Madam, I could do any thing for you;
I know not what you’d ask me I’d deny,
Except that cruel thing, to see you dye.
Tim.
Some safe disguises for us then provide,
From watchful eyes our sudden flight to hide;
Hence to the Spartan Camp I’le forthwith move,
Born on the wings of Jealousy and Love;
For I’m resolv’d to know the worst of Fate
I wou’d be blest; can be unfortunate;
Since ’tis the only thing of Heav’n I crave,
To meet a faithful Lover, or a Grave.
Theramnes at the Door.
Th.
— Stay kind Polyndus here
Whilst I go pay my just devotion there:
[Steping to Tim.
See fairest Queen of Love and Beauty here,
Your faithfullest & humblest Worshiper.
Distance adds to their Loves a Violence;
And their souls hold from far Intelligence.
Thus my mistaking Policy out-run
My Fate; and I’m by my own Plots undone.
Pol.
Why do you let your soul be so opprest?
’Tis Patience best befits a gallant Breast.
