by Thomas Otway
Let ’em behold my Portion, and despair.
What shall I doe? how will the Gods dispose me?
Oh! I could rend these Walls with Lamentation,
Tear up the Dead from their corrupted Graves,
And dawb the face of Earth with her own Bowels.
Enter Marius senior, and Guards driving in Metellus.
Mar. sen.
Pursue the Slave; let not his Gods protect him.
Lavin.
More Mischiefs? hah! my Father?
Metell.
Oh! I am slain.
[Falls down and dies.
Lavin.
And murther’d too. When will my Woes have end?
Come, cruel Tyrant.
Mar. sen.
Sure I have known that Face.
Lavin.
And canst thou think of any one good Turn
That I have done thee, and not kill me for’t?
Mar. sen.
Art thou not call’d Lavinia?
Lavin.
Once I was:
But by my Woes may now be better known.
Mar. sen.
I cannot see thy Face.....
Lavin.
You must, and hear me.
By this, you must: nay, I will hold you fast....
[Seizes his Sword.
Mar. sen.
What wouldst thou say? where’s all my Rage gone now?
Lavin.
I am Lavinia, born of Noble race.
My blooming Beauty conquer’d many Hearts,
But prov’d the greatest Torment of my own:
Though my Vows prosper’d, and my Love was answer’d
By Marius, the noblest, goodliest Youth
That Man e’re envy’d at, or Virgin sigh’d for.
He was the Son of an unhappy Parent,
And banish’d with him when our Joys were young;
Scarce a night old.
Mar. sen.
I do remember’t well,
And thou art She, that Wonder of thy kind,
That couldst be true to exil’d Misery,
And to and fro through barren Desarts range,
To find th’unhappy Wretch thy Soul was fond of.
Lavin.
Do you remember’t well?
Mar. sen.
In every point.
Lavin.
You then were gentle, took me in your Arms,
Embrac’d me, blest me, us’d me like a Father.
And sure I was not thankless for the Bounty.
Mar. sen.
No; thou wert next the Gods my onely Comfort.
When I lay fainting on the dry parcht Earth,
Beneath the scorching heat of burning Noon,
Hungry and dry, no Food nor Friend to chear me:
Then Thou, as by the Gods some Angel sent,
Cam’st by, and in Compassion didst relieve me.
Lavin.
Did I all this?
Mar. sen.
Thou didst, thou sav’dst my Life.
Else I had sunk beneath the weight of Want,
And bin a Prey to my remorseless Foes.
Lavin.
And see how well I am at last rewarded.
All could not balance for the short-term’d life
Of one Old man: You have my Father butcher’d,
The onely Comfort I had left on Earth.
The Gods have taken too my Husband from me.
See where he lies, your and my onely Joy.
This Sword yet reeking with my Father’s Gore,
Plunge it into my Breast: plunge, plunge it thus.
And now let Rage, Distraction and Despair
Seize all Mankind, till they grow mad as I am.
[Stabs her self with his Sword.
Mar. sen.
Nay, now thou hast outdone me much in Cruelty.
Be Nature’s Light extinguisht; let the Sun
Withdraw his Beams, and put the world in Darkness,
Whilst here I howl away my Life in Sorrows.
Oh! let me bury Me and all my Sins
Here with this good Old man. Thus let me kiss
Thy pale sunk Cheeks, embalm thee with my Tears.
My Son, how cam’st thou by this wretched End?
We might have all bin Friends, and in one House
Enjoy’d the Blessings of eternal Peace.
But oh! my cruel Nature has undone me.
Enter Messenger.
Mess.
My Lord, I bring you most disastrous News.
Sylla’s return’d: his Army’s on their march
From Capua, and to morrow will reach Rome.
At which the Rabble are in new Rebellion,
And your Sulpitius mortally is wounded.
Enter Sulpitius (led in by two of the Guards) and Granius.
Mar. sen.
Oh! then I’m ruin’d from this very moment.
Has my good Genius left me? Hope forsakes me.
The Name of Sylla’s banefull to my Fortune.
Be warn’d by me, ye Great ones, how y’ embroil
Your Country’s Peace, and dip your Hands in Slaughter
Ambition is a Lust that’s never quencht,
Grows more inflam’d and madder by Enjoyment.
Bear me away, and lay me on my Bed,
A hopelesse Vessel bound for the dark Land
Of loathsome Death, and loaded deep with Sorrows.
[He is led off.
Sulpit.
A Curse on all Repentance! how I hate it!
I’d rather hear a Dog howl then a Man whine.
Gran.
You’re wounded, Sir: I hope it is not much.
Sulpit.
No; ’tis not so deep as a Well, nor so wide as a Church-door. But ’tis enough; ‘twill serve; I am pepper’d I warrant, I warrant for this world. A Pox on all Mad-men hereafter. If I get a Monument, let this be my Epitaph:
Sulpitius lies here, that troublesome Slave,
That sent many honester men to the Grave,
And dy’d like a Fool when h’ had liv’d like a Knave.
[Ex. omnes.
FINIS.
EPILOGUE
Spoke by Mrs. Barry, who acted Lavinia.
A Mischief on’t! though I’m agen alive,
May I believe this Play of ours shall thrive?
This Drumming, Trumpetting, and Fighting Play?
Why, what a Devil will the People say?
The Nation that’s without, and hears the Din,
Will swear w’are raising Volunteers agen.
For know, our Poet, when this Play was made,
Had nought but Drums and Trumpets in his head.
H’had banish’d Poetry and all her Charms,
And needs the Fool would be a Man at Arms.
No Prentice e’re grown weary of Indentures
Had such a longing mind to seek Adventures.
Nay, sure at last th’ Infection generall grew;
For t’other day I was a Captain too:
Neither for Flanders nor for France to roam,
But, just as you were all, to stay at home.
And now for you who here come wrapt in Cloaks,
Only for love of Underhill and Nurse Nokes;
Our Poet says, one day to a Play ye come,
Which serves ye half a year for Wit at home.
But which amongst you is there to be found,
Will take his third day’s Pawn for Fifty pound?
Or, now is he Cashier’d, will fairly venture
To give him ready Money for’s Debenture?
Therefore when he receiv’d that Fatall Doom,
This Play came forth, in hopes his Friends would come
To help a poor Disbanded Souldier home.
The Orphan
OR, THE UNHAPPY MARRIAGE
CONTENTS
THE ORPHAN; OR, THE UNHAPPY MARRIAGE.
TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUCHESS.
PROLOGUE.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ACT THE FIRST.
ACT THE SECOND.
ACT THE THIRD.
ACT THE FOURTH.
ACT THE FIFTH.
EPILOGUE.
THE ORPHAN; OR, THE UNHAPPY MARRIAGE.
Qui pelago credit, magno se fœnore tollit;
Qui pugnas et castra petit, præcingitur auro;
Vilis adulator picto jacet ebrius ostro,
Et qui sollicitat nuptas, ad præmia peccat:
Sola pruinosis horret facundia pannis
Atque inopi lingua desertas invocat Artes. —
Petron. Arb. Satyric., Ca.
“The Orphan” was first represented in 1680, and printed during the same year. Thornton, following Langbaine, states that the play was founded on the story of Brandon, which he reprints in his edition of Otway, and which forms part of a novel entitled “English Adventures by a Person of Honour,” published in 1676, and said to be by Roger Boyle, Earl of Orrery. The adventures are supposed to occur to Henry VIII., who, when young, is reported to have often wandered abroad in disguise, like Haroun-Al-Raschid. He is represented going about with Brandon, a young nobleman, afterwards married to Henry’s sister, widow of Louis XII., and founder of the Suffolk family. Brandon relates the circumstances (which are in substance identical with the story of The Orphan) as having happened to himself, the main incidents being alleged to be true. A yet earlier play, The Hog hath lost his Pearl, by Robert Tailor (1612-13), has very much the same foundation. As to the possibility of Monimia’s deception through the personation of one twin brother by another, we must remember that this took place in darkness, and that not a word was spoken, total silence having been agreed upon when the secret meeting with Castalio was arranged, on account of the proximity of Acasto’s chamber. Acasto, the guardian of Monimia, is believed to be a portrait of the first Duke of Ormond (see Carte’s “Life of Ormond”).
The Orphan was acted at Covent Garden in 1815, and subsequently at the Bath Theatre in 1819, when Miss O’Neill performed the part of Monimia. The celebrated Mrs. Bracegirdle appeared in the character of Cordelio, Polydore’s page, when she was a child about six years old.
TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUCHESS.
Madam,
After having a great while wished to write something that might be worthy to lay at your Highness’s feet, and finding it impossible: since the world has been so kind to me to judge of this poem to my advantage, as the most pardonable fault which I have made in its kind, I had sinned against myself, if I had not chosen this opportunity to implore (what my ambition is most fond of) your favour and protection.
For, though Fortune would not so far bless my endeavours as to encourage them with your Royal Highness’s presence, when this came into the world, yet I cannot but declare it was my design and hopes it might have been your divertisement in that happy season when you returned again to cheer all those eyes that had before wept for your departure, and enliven all hearts that had drooped for your absence. When Wit ought to have paid its choicest tributes in, and Joy have known no limits, then I hoped my little mite would not have been rejected; though my ill fortune was too hard for me, and I lost a greater honour, by your Royal Highness’s absence, than all the applauses of the world besides can make me reparation for.
Nevertheless, I thought myself not quite unhappy, so long as I had hopes this way yet to recompense my disappointment past; when I considered also that poetry might claim right to a little share in your favour: for Tasso and Ariosto, some of the best, have made their names eternal by transmitting to after-ages the glory of your ancestors; and under the spreading of that shade, where two of the best have planted their laurels, how honoured should I be, who am the worst, if but a branch might grow for me!
I dare not think of offering anything in this address, that might look like a panegyric, for fear lest, when I have done my best, the world should condemn me for saying too little, and you yourself check me for meddling with a task unfit for my talent.
For the description of virtues and perfections so rare as yours are ought to be done by as deliberate, as skilful a hand; the features must be drawn very fine, to be like; hasty daubing would but spoil the picture, and make it so unnatural as must want false lights to set it off: and your virtue can receive no more lustre from praises than your beauty can be improved by art; which, as it charms the bravest Prince that ever amazed the world with his virtue, so let but all other hearts inquire into themselves, and then judge how it ought to be praised.
Your love, too, as none but that great hero who has it could deserve it, and therefore, by a particular lot from Heaven, was destined to so extraordinary a blessing, so matchless for itself, and so wondrous for its constancy, shall be remembered to your immortal honour, when all other transactions of the age you live in shall be forgotten.
But I forget that I am to ask pardon for the fault I have been all this while committing. Wherefore, I beg your Highness to forgive me this presumption, and that you will be pleased to think well of one who cannot help resolving, with all the actions of life, to endeavour to deserve it: nay, more, I would beg, and hope it may be granted, that I may, through yours, never want an advocate in his favour, whose heart and mind you have so entire a share in: it is my only portion and my fortune; I cannot but be happy so long as I have but hopes I may enjoy it, and I must be miserable should it ever be my ill fate to lose it.
This, with eternal wishes for your Royal Highness’s content, happiness, and prosperity, in all humility is presented by
Your most obedient, and devoted Servant,
THO. OTWAY.
PROLOGUE.
To you, great judges in this writing age,
The sons of wit, and patrons of the stage,
With all those humble thoughts which still have swayed
His pride, much doubting, trembling, and afraid
Of what is to his want of merit due,
And awed by every excellence in you,
The author sends to beg you would be kind,
And spare those many faults you needs must find.
You to whom wit a common foe is grown,
The thing ye scorn and publicly disown;
Though now perhaps you’re here for other ends,
He swears to me, ye ought to be his friends:
For he ne’er called ye yet insipid tools;
Nor wrote one line to tell you ye were fools:
But says of wit ye have so large a store,
So very much, you never will have more.
He ne’er with libel treated yet the town,
The names of honest men bedaubed and shown;
Nay, never once lampooned the harmless life
Of suburb-virgin, or of city-wife.
Satire’s the effect of poetry’s disease,
Which, sick of a lewd age, she vents for ease,
But now her only strife should be to please;
Since of ill fate the baneful cloud’s withdrawn,
And happiness again begins to dawn;
Since back with joy and triumph he is come,
That always drove fears hence, ne’er brought them home.
Oft has he ploughed the boisterous ocean o’er,
Yet ne’er more welcome to the longing shore,
Not when he brought home victories before.
For then fresh laurels flourished on his brow,
And he comes crowned with olive-branches now;
Receive him! oh, receive him as his friends;
Embrace the blessings which he recommends:
Such quiet as your foes shall ne’er destroy;
Then shake off fears, and clap your hands for joy.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
Acasto, a Nobleman retired from Court, and living privately in the Country.
Castalio, } Twin Sons of Acasto.
Polydore, }
Chamont, a young Soldier of Fortune.
Ernesto, } Servants to Acasto.
Paulino, }
&n
bsp; Cordelio, Polydore’s Page.
Chaplain.
Servants.
Monimia, the Orphan, left under the Guardianship of Acasto.
Serina, Acasto’s Daughter.
Florella, Monimia’s Woman.
SCENE — Bohemia.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE I. — An Ante-Room in Acasto’s House.
Enter Paulino and Ernesto.
Paul. ’Tis strange, Ernesto, this severity
Should still reign powerful in Acasto’s mind,
To hate the court, where he was bred, and lived,
All honours heaped on him that power could give.
Ern. ’Tis true; he thither came a private gentleman,
But young and brave, and of a family
Ancient and noble as the empire holds.
The honours he has gained are justly his, —
He purchased them in war; thrice has he led
An army ‘gainst the rebels, and as often
Returned with victory: the world has not
A truer soldier, or a better subject.
Paul. It was his virtue at first made me serve him;
He is the best of masters, as of friends.
I know he has lately been invited thither;
Yet still he keeps his stubborn purpose; cries,
He’s old, and willingly would be at rest:
I doubt there’s deep resentment in his mind,
For the late slight his honour suffered there.
Ern. Has he not reason? When, for what he had borne, —
Long, hard, and faithful toil, — he might have claimed
Places in honour, and employment high,
A huffing, shining, flattering, cringing coward,
A canker-worm of peace, was raised above him.
Paul. Yet still he holds just value for the king,
Nor ever names him but with highest reverence.
’Tis noble that —
Ern. Oh! I have heard him, wanton in his praise,
Speak things of him might charm the ears of envy.
Paul. Oh! may he live till Nature’s self grow old,
And from her womb no more can bless the earth!
For, when he dies, farewell all honour, bounty,
All generous encouragement of arts!
For Charity herself becomes a widow.
Ern. No, he has two sons, that were ordained to be
As well his virtues’, as his fortune’s heirs.
Paul. They’re both of nature mild, and full of sweetness;
