No More Learning

--And be free
Not heaven itself from thy impiety.

A synchysis, or ill-placing of words, of which Tully so much complains
in oratory.

The waves and dens of beasts could not receive
The bodies that those souls were frighted _from_.

The preposition in the end of the sentence; a common fault with him,
and which I have but lately observed in my own writings.

What all the several ills that visit earth,
Plague, famine, fire, could not reach _unto_,
The sword, nor surfeits, let thy fury do.

Here are both the former faults: for, besides that the preposition
_unto_ is placed last in the verse, and at the half period, and is
redundant, there is the former synchysis in the words "the sword, nor
surfeits" which in construction ought to have been placed before the
other.

Catiline says of Cethegus, that for his sake he would

_Go on upon_ the gods, kiss lightning, wrest
The engine from the Cyclops, and _give fire
At face of a full cloud_, and stand _his ire_.

To "go on upon," is only to go on twice[4]. To "give fire at face of a
full cloud," was not understood in his own time; "and stand _his
ire_," besides the antiquated word _ire_, there is the article _his_,
which makes false construction: and giving fire at the face of a
cloud, is a perfect image of shooting, however it came to be known in
those days to Catiline.

--Others there are,
Whom envy to the state draws and pulls on,
For contumelies received; and such are sure _ones_.

_Ones_, in the plural number: but that is frequent with him; for he
says, not long after,

Cæsar and Crassus, if they be ill men,
Are mighty _ones_.
Such men, _they_ do not succour more the cause, &c.

_They_ redundant.

Though heaven should speak with all _his_ wrath at once,
We should stand upright and _unfeared_.

_His_ is ill syntax with _heaven_; and by _unfeared_ he means
_unafraid_: Words of a quite contrary signification.

"The ports are open. " He perpetually uses ports for gates; which is an
affected error in him, to introduce Latin by the loss of the English
idiom; as, in the translation of Tully's speeches, he usually does.

Well-placing of words, for the sweetness of pronunciation was not
known till Mr Waller introduced it; and, therefore, it is not to be
wondered if Ben Jonson has many such lines as these:

"But being bred up in his father's needy fortunes; brought up in's
sister's prostitution," &c.

But meanness of expression one would think not to be his error in a
tragedy, which ought to be more high and sounding than any other kind
of poetry; and yet, amongst others in "Catiline," I find these four
lines together:

So Asia, thou art cruelly even
With us, for all the blows thee given;
When we, whose virtues conquered thee,
Thus by thy vices ruined be.

_Be_ there is false English for _are_; though the rhyme hides it.

But I am willing to close the book, partly out of veneration to the
author, partly out of weariness to pursue an argument which is so
fruitful in so small a compass. And what correctness, after this, can
be expected from Shakespeare or from Fletcher, who wanted that
learning and care which Jonson had? I will, therefore, spare my own
trouble of enquiring into their faults; who, had they lived now, had
doubtless written more correctly. I suppose it will be enough for me
to affirm, (as I think I safely may) that these, and the like errors,
which I taxed in the most correct of the last age, are such into which
we do not ordinarily fall. I think few of our present writers would
have left behind them such a line as this:

Contain your spirit in more stricter bounds.

But that gross way of two comparatives was then ordinary; and,
therefore, more pardonable in Jonson.

As for the other part of refining, which consists in receiving new
words and phrases, I shall not insist much on it. It is obvious that
we have admitted many, some of which we wanted, and therefore our
language is the richer for them, as it would be by importation of
bullion: Others are rather ornamental than necessary; yet, by their
admission, the language is become more courtly, and our thoughts are
better drest. These are to be found scattered in the writers of our
age, and it is not my business to collect them. They, who have lately
written with most care, have, I believe, taken the rule of Horace for
their guide; that is, not to be too hasty in receiving of words, but
rather stay till custom has made them familiar to us:

_Quern penes arbitrium est, et jus, et norma loquendi. _

For I cannot approve of their way of refining, who corrupt our English
idiom by mixing it too much with French: That is a sophistication of
language not an improvement of it; a turning English into French,
rather than a refining of English by French. We meet daily with those
fops, who value themselves on their travelling, and pretend they
cannot express their meaning in English, because they would put off to
us some French phrase of the last edition; without considering, that,
for aught they know, we have a better of our own. But these are not
the men who are to refine us; their talent is to prescribe fashions,
not words: at best, they are only serviceable to a writer, so as
Ennius was to Virgil. He may _aurum ex stercore colligere:_ For it is
hard if, amongst many insignificant phrases, there happen not
something worth preserving; though they themselves, like Indians, know
not the value of their own commodity.

There is yet another way of improving language, which poets especially
have practised in all ages; that is, by applying received words to a
new signification; and this, I believe, is meant by Horace, in that
precept which is so variously construed by expositors:

_Dixeris egregie, notum si callida verbum
Reddiderit junctura novum. _

And, in this way, he himself had a particular happiness; using all the
tropes, and particular metaphors, with that grace which is observable
in his Odes, where the beauty of expression is often greater than that
of thought; as, in that one example, amongst an infinite number of
others, "_Et vultus nimium lubricus aspici. _"

And therefore, though he innovated a little, he may justly be called a
great refiner of the Roman tongue. This choice of words, and
heightening of their natural signification, was observed in him by the
writers of the following ages; for Petronius says of him, "_Et Horatii
curiosa felicitas. _" By this graffing, as I may call it, on old words,
has our tongue been beautified by the three before-mentioned poets,
Shakespeare, Fletcher, and Jonson, whose excellencies I can never
enough admire; and in this they have been followed, especially by Sir
John Suckling and Mr Waller, who refined upon them. Neither have they,
who succeeded them, been wanting in their endeavours to adorn our
mother tongue: But it is not so lawful for me to praise my living
contemporaries, as to admire my dead predecessors.

I should now speak of the refinement of Wit; but I have been so large
on the former subject, that I am forced to contract myself in this. I
will therefore only observe to you, that the wit of the last age was
yet more incorrect than their language. Shakespeare, who many times
has written better than any poet, in any language, is yet so far from
writing wit always, or expressing that wit according to the dignity of
the subject, that he writes, in many places, below the dullest writers
of ours, or any precedent age. Never did any author precipitate
himself from such height of thought to so low expressions, as he often
does. He is the very Janus of poets; he wears almost every where two
faces; and you have scarce begun to admire the one, ere you despise
the other. Neither is the luxuriance of Fletcher, which his friends
have taxed in him, a less fault than the carelessness of Shakespeare.
He does not well always; and, when he does, he is a true
Englishman,--he knows not when to give over. If he wakes in one scene,
he commonly slumbers in another; and, if he pleases you in the first
three acts, he is frequently so tired with his labour, that he goes
heavily in the fourth, and sinks under his burden in the fifth.

For Ben Jonson, the most judicious of poets, he always writ properly,
and as the character required; and I will not contest farther with my
friends, who call that wit: it being very certain, that even folly
itself, well represented, is wit in a larger signification; and that
there is fancy, as well as judgment, in it, though not so much or
noble: because all poetry being imitation, that of folly is a lower
exercise of fancy, though perhaps as difficult as the other; for it is
a kind of looking downward in the poet, and representing that part of
mankind which is below him.

In these low characters of vice and folly, lay the excellency of that
inimitable writer; who, when at any time he aimed at wit in the
stricter sense, that is, sharpness of conceit, was forced either to
borrow from the ancients, as to my knowledge he did very much from
Plautus; or, when he trusted himself alone, often fell into meanness
of expression. Nay, he was not free from the lowest and most groveling
kind of wit, which we call clenches, of which "Every Man in his
Humour" is infinitely full; and, which is worse, the wittiest persons
in the drama speak them. His other comedies are not exempt from them.
Will you give me leave to name some few? Asper, in which character he
personates himself, (and he neither was nor thought himself a fool)
exclaiming against the ignorant judges of the age, speaks thus:

How monstrous and detested is't, to see
A fellow, that has neither art nor brain,
Sit like an _Aristarchus_, or _stark-ass_,
Taking men's lines, with a _tobacco face_,
In _snuff_, &c.

And presently after: "I marvel whose wit 'twas to put a prologue in
yond Sackbut's mouth. They might well think he would be out of tune,
and yet you'd play upon him too. "--Will you have another of the same
stamp? "O, I cannot abide these limbs of _sattin_, or rather _Satan_. "

But, it may be, you will object that this was Asper, Macilente, or
Carlo Buffone; you shall, therefore, hear him speak in his own person,
and that in the two last lines, or sting of an epigram. It is
inscribed to _Fine Grand_, who, he says, was indebted to him for many
things which he reckons there; and concludes thus:

Forty things more, dear _Grand_, which you know true,
For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.

This was then the mode of wit, the vice of the age, and not Ben
Jonson's; for you see, a little before him, that admirable wit, Sir
Philip Sidney, perpetually playing with his words. In his time, I
believe, it ascended first into the pulpit, where (if you will give me
leave to clench too) it yet finds the benefit of its clergy; for they
are commonly the first corrupters of eloquence, and the last reformed
from vicious oratory; as a famous Italian has observed before me, in
his Treatise of the Corruption of the Italian Tongue; which he
principally ascribes to priests and preaching friars.

But, to conclude with what brevity I can, I will only add this, in
defence of our present writers, that, if they reach not some
excellencies of Ben Jonson, (which no age, I am confident, ever shall)
yet, at least, they are above that meanness of thought which I have
taxed, and which is frequent in him.

That the wit of this age is much more courtly, may easily be proved,
by viewing the characters of gentlemen which were written in the last.
First, for Jonson:--True-wit, in the "Silent Woman," was his
master-piece; and Truewit was a scholar-like kind of man, a gentleman
with an allay of pedantry, a man who seems mortified to the world, by
much reading. The best of his discourse is drawn, not from the
knowledge of the town, but books; and, in short, he would be a fine
gentleman in an university. Shakespeare shewed the best of his skill
in his Mercutio; and he said himself, that he was forced to kill him
in the third act, to prevent being killed by him. But, for my part, I
cannot find he was so dangerous a person: I see nothing in him but
what was so exceeding harmless, that he might have lived to the end of
the play, and died in his bed, without offence to any man.

Fletcher's Don John is our only bugbear; and yet I may affirm, without
suspicion of flattery, that he now speaks better, and that his
character is maintained with much more vigour in the fourth and fifth
acts, than it was by Fletcher in the three former. I have always
acknowledged the wit of our predecessors, with all the veneration
which becomes me; but, I am sure, their wit was not that of gentlemen;
there was ever somewhat that was ill-bred and clownish in it, and
which confessed the conversation of the authors.

And this leads me to the last and greatest advantage of our writing,
which proceeds from conversation. In the age wherein those poets
lived, there was less of gallantry than in ours; neither did they keep
the best company of theirs. Their fortune has been much like that of
Epicurus, in the retirement of his gardens; to live almost unknown,
and to be celebrated after their decease. I cannot find that any of
them had been conversant in courts, except Ben Jonson; and his genius
lay not so much that way, as to make an improvement by it. Greatness
was not then so easy of access, nor conversation so free, as now it
is. I cannot, therefore, conceive it any insolence to affirm, that, by
the knowledge and pattern of their wit who writ before us, and by the
advantage of our own conversation, the discourse and raillery of our
comedies excel what has been written by them. And this will be denied
by none, but some few old fellows who value themselves on their
acquaintance with the Black Friars; who, because they saw their plays,
would pretend a right to judge ours. The memory of these grave
gentlemen is their only plea for being wits. They can tell a story of
Ben Jonson, and, perhaps, have had fancy enough to give a supper in
the Apollo, that they might be called his sons[5]: And, because they
were drawn in to be laughed at in those times, they think themselves
now sufficiently entitled to laugh at ours. Learning I never saw in
any of them; and wit no more than they could remember. In short, they
were unlucky to have been bred in an unpolished age, and more unlucky
to live to a refined one. They have lasted beyond their own, and are
cast behind ours; and, not contented to have known little at the age
of twenty, they boast of their ignorance at threescore.

Now, if they ask me, whence it is that our conversation is so much
refined? I must freely, and without flattery, ascribe it to the court;
and, in it, particularly to the king, whose example gives a law to it.
His own misfortunes, and the nation's, afforded him an opportunity,
which is rarely allowed to sovereign princes, I mean of travelling,
and being conversant in the most polished courts of Europe; and,
thereby, of cultivating a spirit which was formed by nature to receive
the impressions of a gallant and generous education. At his return, he
found a nation lost as much in barbarism as in rebellion: And, as the
excellency of his nature forgave the one, so the excellency of his
manners reformed the other. The desire of imitating so great a pattern
first awakened the dull and heavy spirits of the English from their
natural reservedness; loosened them from their stiff forms of
conversation, and made them easy and pliant to each other in
discourse. Thus, insensibly, our way of living became more free; and
the fire of the English wit, which was before stifled under a
constrained, melancholy way of breeding, began first to display its
force, by mixing the solidity of our nation with the air and gaiety of
our neighbours[6]. This being granted to be true, it would be a wonder
if the poets, whose work is imitation, should be the only persons in
three kingdoms who should not receive advantage by it; or, if they
should not more easily imitate the wit and conversation of the present
age than of the past.

Let us therefore admire the beauties and the heights of Shakespeare,
without falling after him into a carelessness, and, as I may call it,
a lethargy of thought, for whole scenes together. Let us imitate, as
we are able, the quickness and easiness of Fletcher, without proposing
him as a pattern to us, either in the redundancy of his matter, or the
incorrectness of his language. Let us admire his wit and sharpness of
conceit; but let us at the same time acknowledge, that it was seldom
so fixed, and made proper to his character, as that the same things
might not be spoken by any person in the play. Let us applaud his
scenes of love; but let us confess, that he understood not either
greatness or perfect honour in the parts of any of his women. In fine,
let us allow, that he had so much fancy, as when he pleased he could
write wit; but that he wanted so much judgment, as seldom to have
written humour, or described a pleasant folly. Let us ascribe to
Jonson, the height and accuracy of judgment in the ordering of his
plots, his choice of characters, and maintaining what he had chosen to
the end: But let us not think him a perfect pattern of imitation,
except it be in humour; for love, which is the foundation of all
comedies in other languages, is scarcely mentioned in any of his
plays: And for humour itself, the poets of this age will be more wary
than to imitate the meanness of his persons. Gentlemen will now be
entertained with the follies of each other; and, though they allow
Cobb and Tib to speak properly, yet they are not much pleased with
their tankard, or with their rags: And surely their conversation can
be no jest to them on the theatre, when they would avoid it in the
street.

To conclude all, let us render to our predecessors what is their due,
without confining ourselves to a servile imitation of all they writ;
and, without assuming to ourselves the title of better poets, let us
ascribe to the gallantry and civility of our age the advantage which
we have above them, and, to our knowledge of the customs and manners
of it, the happiness we have to please beyond them.

* * * * *

The bold Epilogue, which is here defended with so much animation, and
the censure which it threw on the fathers of the stage, seems to have
given great offence. It is thus severely assailed by Rochester:

But does not Dryden find even Jonson dull?
Beaumont and Fletcher incorrect, and full
Of lewd lines, as he calls them? Shakespeare's style
Stiff and affected? to his own, the while,
Allowing all the justice that his pride
So arrogantly had to these denied:
And may I not have leave impartially
To search and censure Dryden's works, and try
If those gross faults, his choice pen doth commit,
Proceed from want of judgment, or of wit?
Or if his lumpish fancy doth refuse
Spirit and grace to his loose slattern muse?
Five hundred verses, every morning writ,
Prove him no more a poet than a wit.

It is a bold, perhaps a presumptuous task, to attempt to separate the
true from the false criticism in the foregoing essay; for who is
qualified to be umpire betwixt Shakespeare and Dryden? Nevertheless,
our knowledge of the manners of the respective ages which these
extraordinary men adorned, and the remoteness of our own from both,
may enable us, with impartiality at least, to sift the grounds of
Dryden's censure. The nature of the stage in the days of Shakespeare
has been ascertained, by the sedulous exertions of his commentators. A
variety of small theatres, all of them accessible to the lowest of the
people, poor and rude in all the arts of decoration, were dispersed
through London when Shakespeare and Jonson wrote for the stage. It was
a natural consequence, that the writings of these great men were
biassed by the taste of those, for whom they wrote;

For those, who live to please, must please, to live.

Art was not demanded; and when used by Jonson, he complains it was not
duly appreciated. Men of a middle rank were then probably worse
educated than our mere vulgar. But the good old time bore rough and
manly spirits, who came prepared with a tribute of tears and laughter,
to bursts of pathos, or effusions of humour, although incapable of
receiving the delights which a cultivated mind derives from the
gradual developement of a story, the just dependence of its parts upon
each other, the minute beauties of language, and the absence of every
thing incongruous or indecorous. Dryden, on the other hand, wrote for
a stage patronized by a monarch and his courtiers, who were professed
judges of dramatic composition; while the rigour of religious
prejudice, and perhaps a just abhorrence of the licentious turn of the
drama, banished from the theatres a great proportion of the middle
classes, always the most valuable part of an audience; because, with a
certain degree of cultivation, they unite an unhacknied energy of
feeling. Art, therefore, became, in the days of Dryden, not only a
requisite qualification, but even the principal attribute of the
dramatic poet. He was to address himself to the heads and judgments of
his audience, on the acuteness of which they piqued themselves; not to
their feelings, stupified, probably, by selfish dissipation. Even the
acquisition and exercise of critical knowledge tends to blunt the
sense of natural beauties, as a refined harmonist becomes indifferent
to the strains of simple melody. Hence the sacrifices which
Shakespeare made, without being aware, to the taste of his age, were
amply compensated by his being called upon, and, as it were,
compelled, by the nature of his audience, to rouse them with his
thunder, and to melt them with his dew. I question much if the age of
Charles II. would have borne the introduction of Othello or Falstaff.
We may find something like Dryden's self-complacent opinion expressed
by the editor of Corneille, where he civilly admits, "_Corneille etoit
inegal comme Shakespeare, et plein de genie comme lui: mais le genie
de Corneille etoit a celui de Shakespeare ce qu' un seigneur est a
l'egard d'un homme de peuple, né avec le meme esprit que lui. _" In
other words, the works of the one retain the rough, bold tints of
nature and originality, while those of the other are qualified by the
artificial restraints which fashion imposes upon the _homme de
condition_. It is, therefore, unjustly, that Dryden dwells so long on
Shakespeare's irregularities, amongst which I cannot help suspecting
he includes some of his greatest beauties. While we do not defend his
quibbles and carwitchets, as Bibber would have termed them, we may
rejoice that he purchased, at so slight a sacrifice, the power and
privilege of launching into every subject with a liberty as unbounded
as his genius;

As there is music, uninformed by art,
In those wild notes, which, with a merry heart,
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Which better taught at home, yet please us less.


Footnotes:
1. In mitigation of the censure which must be passed on our author for
this hasty and ill-considered judgment, let us remember the very
inaccurate manner in which Shakespeare's plays were printed in the
early editions.

2. Mr Malone has judiciously remarked, that Dryden seems to have been
ignorant of the order in which Shakespeare wrote his plays; and
there will be charity in believing, that he was not intimately
acquainted with those he so summarily and unjustly censures.

3. In these criticisms, we see the effects of the refinement which our
stage had now borrowed from the French. It is probable, that, in
the age of heroic plays, any degree of dulness, or extravagance,
would have been tolerated in the dialogue, rather than an offence
against the decorum of the scene.

4. Jonson seems to have used it for to _go on against_.

5. The Apollo was Ben Jonson's favourite club-room in the Devil
Tavern. The custom of adopting his admirers and imitators, by
bestowing upon them the title of Son, is often alluded to in his
works. In Dryden's time, the fashion had so far changed, that the
poetical progeny of old Ben seem to have incurred more ridicule
than honour by this ambitious distinction. Oldwit, in Shadwell's
play, called Bury Fair, is described as "a paltry old-fashioned wit
and punner of the last age, that pretends to have been one of Ben
Jonson's sons, and to have seen plays at the Blackfriars. "

6. This passage, though complimentary to Charles, contains much sober
truth: Having considerable taste for the Belles Lettres, he
cultivated them during his exile, and was naturally swayed by the
French rules of composition, particularly as applicable to the
Theatre. These he imported with him at his Restoration; and hence
arose the Heroic Drama, so much cultivated by our author.


* * * * *


MARRIAGE A-LA-MODE:

A COMEDY.

_--Quicquid sum ego, quamvis
Infra Lucili censum ingeniumque, tamen me
Cum magnis vixisse, invita fatebitur usque
Invidia, et fragili quærens illidere dentem,
Offendet solido. _
HORAT. SERM.




MARRIAGE A-LA-MODE

Marriage a-la-mode was one of Dryden's most successful comedies. A
venerable praiser of the past time, in a curious letter printed in the
Gentleman's Magazine for 1745, gives us this account of its first
representation. "This comedy, acted by his Majesty's servants at the
Theatre-Royal, made its first appearance with extraordinary lustre.
Divesting myself of the old man, I solemnly declare, that you have
seen no such acting, no, not in any degree since. The players were
then, 1673, on a court establishment, seventeen men, and eight women. "
_Gent. Mag. _ Vol. xv. p. 99. From a copy of verses, to which this
letter is annexed, we learn the excellence of the various performers
by whom the piece was first presented. They are addressed to a young
actress.

Henceforth, in livelier characters excel,
Though 'tis great merit to act folly well;
Take, take from Dryden's hand Melantha's part,
The gaudy effort of luxuriant art,
In all imagination's glitter drest;
What from her lips fantastic Montfort caught,
And almost moved the thing the poet thought.
These scenes, the glory of a comic age,
(It decency could blanch each sullied page)
Peruse, admire, and give unto the stage;
Or thou, or beauteous Woffington, display
What Dryden's self, with pleasure, might survey.
Even he, before whose visionary eyes,
Melantha, robed in ever-varying dies,
Gay fancy's work, appears, actor renowned.
Like Roscius, with theatric laurels crowned,
Cibber will smile applause, and think again
Of Harte, and Mohun, and all the female train,
Coxe, Marshal, Dryden's Reeve, Bet Slade, and Charles's reign.

Mrs Monfort, who, by her second marriage, became Mrs Verbruggen, was
the first who appeared in the highly popular part of Melantha, and the
action and character appear to have been held incomparable by that
unquestionable judge of the humour of a coquette, or coxcomb, the
illustrious Colley Cibber. "Melantha" says Cibber, "is as finished an
impertinent as ever fluttered in a drawing-room; and seems to contain
the most complete system of female foppery that could possibly be
crowded into the tortured form of a fine lady. Her language, dress,
motion, manners, soul, and body, are in a continual hurry to be
something more than is necessary or commendable. And, though I doubt
it will be a vain labour to offer you a just likeness of Mrs Monfort's
action, yet the fantastic expression is still so strong in my memory,
that I cannot help saying something, though fantastically, about it.
The first ridiculous airs, that break from her, are upon a gallant
never seen before, who delivers her a letter from her father,
recommending him to her good graces as an honourable lover. Here, now,
one would think she might naturally shew a little of the sex's decent
reserve, though never so slightly covered. No, sir, not a tittle of
it: Modesty is a poor-souled country gentlewoman; she is too much a
court lady to be under so vulgar a confusion. She reads the letter,
therefore, with a careless dropping lip, and an erected brow, humming
it hastily over, as if she were impatient to outgo her father's
commands, by making a complete conquest of him at once; and, that the
letter might not embarrass the attack, crack! she crumbles it at once
into her palm, and pours down upon him her whole artillery of airs,
eyes, and motion; down goes her dainty diving body to the ground, as
it she were sinking under the conscious load of her own attractions;
then launches into a flood of fine language and compliment, still
playing her chest forward in fifty falls and risings, like a swan upon
waving water; and, to complete her impertinence, she is so rapidly
fond of her own wit, that she will not give her lover leave to praise
it. Silent assenting bows, and vain endeavours to speak, are all the
share of the conversation he is admitted to, which, at last, he is
removed from by her engagement to half a score of visits, which she
swims from him to make, with a promise to return in a twinkling. "
_Cibber's Apology_, p. 99.

By this lively sketch, some judgment may be formed of the effect
produced by the character of Melantha, when ably represented; but, to
say the truth, we could hardly have drawn the same deduction from a
simple perusal of the piece. Of the French phrases, which the affected
lady throws into her conversation, some have been since naturalized,
as _good graces_, _minuet_, _chagrin_, _grimace_, _ridicule_, and
others. Little can be said of the tragic part of the drama. The sudden
turn of fortune in the conclusion is ridiculed in "The Rehearsal. "

The researches of Mr Malone have ascertained that "Marriage A-la-Mode"
was first acted in 1673, in an old theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields,
occupied by the King's company, after that in Drury-Lane had been
burned, and during its re-building. The play was printed in the same
year.




TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE

EARL OF ROCHESTER[1].


MY LORD,

I humbly dedicate to your Lordship that poem, of which you were
pleased to appear an early patron, before it was acted on the stage. I
may yet go farther, with your permission, and say, that it received
amendment from your noble hands ere it was fit to be presented. You
may please likewise to remember, with how much favour to the author,
and indulgence to the play, you commended it to the view of his
Majesty, then at Windsor, and, by his approbation of it in writing,
made way for its kind reception on the theatre. In this dedication,
therefore, I may seem to imitate a custom of the ancients, who offered
to their gods the firstlings of the flock, (which, I think, they
called _Ver sacrum_) because they helped them to increase. I am sure,
if there be any thing in this play, wherein I have raised myself
beyond the ordinary lowness of my comedies, I ought wholly to
acknowledge it to the favour of being admitted into your lordship's
conversation. And not only I, who pretend not to this way, but the
best comic writers of our age, will join with me to acknowledge, that
they have copied the gallantries of courts, the delicacy of
expression, and the decencies of behaviour, from your lordship, with
more success, than if they had taken their models from the court of
France. But this, my lord, will be no wonder to the world, which knows
the excellency of your natural parts, and those you have acquired in a
noble education. That which, with more reason, I admire, is that being
so absolute a courtier, you have not forgot either the ties of
friendship, or the practice of generosity. In my little experience of
a court, (which, I confess, I desire not to improve) I have found in
it much of interest, and more of detraction: Few men there have that
assurance of a friend, as not to be made ridiculous by him when they
are absent. There are a middling sort of courtiers, who become happy
by their want of wit; but they supply that want by an excess of malice
to those who have it. And there is no such persecution as that of
fools: They can never be considerable enough to be talked of
themselves; so that they are safe only in their obscurity, and grow
mischievous to witty men, by the great diligence of their envy, and by
being always present to represent and aggravate their faults. In the
mean time, they are forced, when they endeavour to be pleasant, to
live on the offals of their wit whom they decry; and either to quote
it, (which they do unwillingly) or to pass it upon others for their
own. These are the men who make it their business to chace wit from
the knowledge of princes, lest it should disgrace their ignorance. And
this kind of malice your lordship has not so much avoided, as
surmounted. But if by the excellent temper of a royal master, always
more ready to hear good than ill; if by his inclination to love you;
if by your own merit and address; if by the charms of your
conversation, the grace of your behaviour, your knowledge of
greatness, and habitude in courts, you have been able to preserve
yourself with honour in the midst of so dangerous a course; yet at
least the remembrance of those hazards has inspired you with pity for
other men, who, being of an inferior wit and quality to you, are yet
persecuted, for being that in little, which your lordship is in
great[2]. For the quarrel of those people extends itself to any thing
of sense; and if I may be so vain to own it, amongst the rest of the
poets, has sometimes reached to the very borders of it, even to me. So
that, if our general good fortune had not raised up your lordship to
defend us, I know not whether any thing had been more ridiculous in
court than writers. It is to your lordship's favour we generally owe
our protection and patronage; and to the nobleness of your nature,
which will not suffer the least shadow of your wit to be contemned in
other men. You have been often pleased, not only to excuse my
imperfections, but to vindicate what was tolerable in my writings from
their censures; and, what I never can forget, you have not only been
careful of my reputation, but of my fortune. You have been solicitous
to supply my neglect of myself; and to overcome the fatal modesty of
poets, which submits them to perpetual wants, rather than to become
importunate with those people who have the liberality of kings in
their disposing, and who, dishonouring the bounty of their master,
suffer such to be in necessity who endeavour at least to please him;
and for whose entertainment he has generously provided, if the fruits
of his royal favour were not often stopped in other hands.
But your
lordship has given me occasion, not to complain of courts whilst you
are there. I have found the effects of your mediation in all my
concernments; and they were so much the more noble in you, because
they were wholly voluntary. I, became your lordship's, (if I may
venture on the similitude) as the world was made, without knowing him
who made it; and brought only a passive obedience to be your creature.
This nobleness of yours I think myself the rather obliged to own,
because otherwise it must have been lost to all remembrance: For you
are endowed with that excellent quality of a frank nature, to forget
the good which you have done.

But, my lord, I ought to have considered, that you are as great a
judge, as you are a patron; and that in praising you ill, I should
incur a higher note of ingratitude, than that I thought to have
avoided. I stand in need of all your accustomed goodness for the
dedication of this play; which, though perhaps it be the best of my
comedies, is yet so faulty, that I should have feared you for my
critic, if I had not, with some policy, given you the trouble of being
my protector. Wit seems to have lodged itself more nobly in this age,
than in any of the former; and people of my mean condition are only
writers, because some of the nobility, and your lordship in the first
place, are above the narrow praises which poesy could give you. But,
let those who love to see themselves exceeded, encourage your lordship
in so dangerous a quality; for my own part, I must confess, that I
have so much of self-interest, as to be content with reading some
papers of your verses, without desiring you should proceed to a scene,
or play; with the common prudence of those who are worsted in a duel,
and declare they are satisfied, when they are first wounded. Your
lordship has but another step to make, and from the patron of wit, you
may become its tyrant; and oppress our little reputations with more
ease than you now protect them. But these, my lord, are designs, which
I am sure you harbour not, any more than the French king is contriving
the conquest of the Swissers. It is a barren triumph, which is not
worth your pains; and would only rank him amongst your slaves, who is
already,

MY LORD,

Your Lordship's most obedient,
And most faithful servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.


Footnotes:
1. The patron, whom Dryden here addresses, was the famous John Wilmot,
Earl of Rochester, the wittiest, perhaps, and most dissolute, among
the witty and dissolute courtiers of Charles II. It is somewhat
remarkable, and may be considered as a just judgment upon the poet,
that he was, a few years afterwards, way-laid and severely beaten
by bravoes, whom Lord Rochester employed to revenge the share which
Dryden is supposed to have had in the Essay on Satire. The reader
is referred to the life of the author for the particulars of this
occurrence, which is here recalled to his recollection, as a
striking illustration of the inutility, as well as meanness, of ill
applied praise; since even the eulogy of Dryden, however liberally
bestowed and beautifully expressed, failed to save him from the
most unmanly treatment at the hands of the worthless and heartless
object, on whom it was wasted. It is melancholy to see Dryden, as
may be fairly inferred from his motto, piqueing himself on being
admitted into the society of such men as Rochester, and enjoying
their precarious favour. Mr Malone has remarked, that even in the
course of the year 1673, when this dedication came forth, Rochester
entertained the perverse ambition of directing the public favour,
not according to merit, but to his own caprice. Accordingly, he
countenanced Settle in his impudent rivalry of Dryden, and wrote a
prologue to the "Empress of Morocco," when it was exhibited at
Whitehall. Perhaps, joined to a certain envy of Dryden's talents,
the poet's intimacy with Sheffield Earl of Mulgrave gave offence to
Rochester. It is certain they were never afterwards reconciled; and
even after Rochester's death, Dryden only mentions his once valued
patron, as "a man of quality whose ashes he will not
disturb. "--_Essay on the Origin and Progress of Satire_, prefixed
to Juvenal. It would seem, however, that this dedication was very
favourably received by Rochester, since a letter of Dryden's to
that nobleman is still extant, in which he acknowledges a
flattering return of compliment from his Lordship in exchange for
it.

2. When this play was acted for the first time in 1673. But about
1675, Rochester contrived to give such offence as even the
excellent temper of his royal master was unable to digest. This was
by writing a lampoon called "The Insipids," in which the person and
character of Charles are treated with most merciless and irreverent
severity. It begins thus:

Chaste, pious, prudent, Charles the Second,
The miracle of thy Restoration
May like to that of quails be reckoned,
Rained on the Israelitish nation;
The wished-for blessing, from heaven sent,
Became their curse and punishment.

For this satiric effusion the author was banished from the court.




PROLOGUE.


Lord, how reformed and quiet are we grown,
Since all our braves and all our wits are gone!
Fop-corner now is free from civil war,
White-wig and vizard make no longer jar.
France, and the fleet, have swept the town so clear,
That we can act in peace, and you can hear.
'Twas a sad sight, before they marched from home,
To see our warriors in red waistcoats come,
With hair tucked up, into our tireing-room.
But 'twas more sad to hear their last adieu:
The women sobbed, and swore they would be true;
And so they were, as long as e'er they could,
But powerful guinea cannot be withstood,
And they were made of play-house flesh and blood.
Fate did their friends for double use ordain;
In wars abroad they grinning honour gain,
And mistresses, for all that stay, maintain.
Now they are gone, 'tis dead vacation here,
For neither friends nor enemies appear.
Poor pensive punk now peeps ere plays begin,
Sees the bare bench, and dares not venture in;
But manages her last half-crown with care,
And trudges to the Mall, on foot, for air.
Our city friends so far will hardly come,
They can take up with pleasures nearer home;
And see gay shows, and gaudy scenes elsewhere;
For we presume they seldom come to hear.
But they have now ta'en up a glorious trade,
And cutting Morecraft[1] struts in masquerade.
There's all our hope, for we shall shew to-day
A masking ball, to recommend our play;
Nay, to endear them more, and let them see
We scorn to come behind in courtesy,
We'll follow the new mode which they begin,
And treat them with a room, and couch within:
For that's one way, howe'er the play fall short,
To oblige the town, the city, and the court.


Footnote:
1. In the conclusion of Beaumont and Fletcher's play of "The Scornful
Lady," Morecraft, an usurer, turns a cutter, or, as we now say, a
buck. Dryden seems to allude to Ravenscroft's play of "The Citizen
turned Gentleman," a transmigration somewhat resembling that of
cutting Morecraft. This play was now acting by the Duke's company
in Dorset Gardens, which, from its situation, says Mr Malone, was
much frequented by citizens, as here insinuated.




DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

POLYDAMAS, _Usurper of Sicily. _
LEONIDAS, _the rightful Prince, unknown. _
ARGALEON, _favourite to_ POLYDAMAS.
HERMOGENES, _foster-father to_ LEONIDAS.
EUBULUS, _his friend and companion. _
RHODOPHIL, _captain of the guards. _
PALAMEDE, _a courtier. _

PALMYRA, _daughter to the Usurper. _
AMALTHEA, _sister to_ ARGALEON.
DORALICE, _wife to_ RHODOPHIL.
MELANTHA, _an affected lady. _
PHILOTIS, _woman to_ MELANTHA.
BELIZA, _woman to_ DORALICE.
ARTEMIS, _a court lady. _

SCENE,--_Sicily. _




MARRIAGE A-LA-MODE.


ACT I.

SCENE I. --_Walks near the Court. _

_Enter_ DORALICE _and_ BELIZA.

_Dor. _ Beliza, bring the lute into this arbour; the walks are empty: I
would try the song the princess Amalthea bade me learn.
[_They go in, and sing. _

I.

_Why should a foolish marriage vow,
Which long ago was made,
Oblige us to each other now,
When passion is decayed?
We loved, and we loved, as long as we could,
'Till our love was loved out in us both;
But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled:
'Twas pleasure first made it an oath. _

II.

_If I have pleasures for a friend,
And further love in store,
What wrong has he, whose joys did end,
And who could give no more? _
_'Tis a madness that he
Should be jealous of me,
Or that I should bar him of another:
For all we can gain,
Is to give ourselves pain,
When neither can hinder the other. _

_Enter_ PALAMEDE, _in a riding-habit, and hears the Song. Re-enter_
DORALICE _and_ BELIZA.

_Bel. _ Madam, a stranger.

_Dor. _ I did not think to have had witnesses of my bad singing.

_Pala. _ If I have erred, madam, I hope you'll pardon the curiosity of
a stranger; for I may well call myself so, after five years absence
from the court: but you have freed me from one error.

_Dor. _ What's that, I beseech you?

_Pala. _ I thought good voices, and ill faces, had been inseparable;
and that to be fair, and sing well, had been only the privilege of
angels.

_Dor. _ And how many more of these fine things can you say to me?

_Pala. _ Very few, madam; for if I should continue to see you some
hours longer, you look so killingly that I should be mute with wonder.

_Dor. _ This will not give you the reputation of a wit with me. You
travelling monsieurs live upon the stock you have got abroad, for the
first day or two: to repeat with a good memory, and apply with a good
grace, is all your wit; and, commonly, your gullets are sewed up, like
cormorants. When you have regorged what you have taken in, you are the
leanest things in nature.

_Pala. _ Then, madam, I think you had best make that use of me; let me
wait on you for two or three days together, and you shall hear all I
have learnt of extraordinary in other countries; and one thing which I
never saw 'till I came home, that is, a lady of a better voice, better
face, and better wit, than any I have seen abroad. And, after this, if
I should not declare myself most passionately in love with you, I
should have less wit than yet you think I have.

_Dor. _ A very plain, and pithy declaration. I see, sir, you have been
travelling in Spain or Italy, or some of the hot countries, where men
come to the point immediately. But are you sure these are not words of
course? For I would not give my poor heart an occasion of complaint
against me, that I engaged it too rashly, and then could not bring it
off.

_Pala. _ Your heart may trust itself with me safely; I shall use it
very civilly while it stays, and never turn it away, without fair
warning to provide for itself.

_Dor. _ First, then, I do receive your passion with as little
consideration, on my part, as ever you gave it me, on yours. And now,
see what a miserable wretch you have made yourself!

_Pala. _ Who, I miserable? Thank you for that. Give me love enough, and
life enough, and I defy Fortune.

_Dor. _ Know, then, thou man of vain imagination, know, to thy utter
confusion, that I am virtuous.

_Pala. _ Such another word, and I give up the ghost.

_Dor. _ Then, to strike you quite dead, know that I am married too.

_Pala. _ Art thou married? O thou damnable virtuous woman!

_Dor. _ Yes, married to a gentleman; young, handsome rich, valiant, and
with all the good qualities that will make you despair, and hang
yourself.

_Pala. _ Well, in spite of all that, I'll love you: Fortune has cut us
out for one another; for I am to be married within these three days;
married, past redemption to a young, fair, rich, and virtuous lady;
and it shall go hard but I will love my wife as little, as, I
perceive, you do your husband.

_Dor. _ Remember, I invade no propriety: my servant you are, only 'till
you are married.

_Pala. _ In the meantime, you are to forget you have a husband.

_Dor. _ And you, that you are to have a wife.

_Bel. _ [_aside, to her Lady. _] O madam, my lord's just at the end of
the walks! and, if you make not haste, will discover you.

_Dor. _ Some other time, new servant, we'll talk further of the
premises; in the mean while, break not my first commandment, that is,
not to follow me.

_Pala. _ But where, then, shall I find you again?

_Dor. _ At court. Yours, for two days, sir.

_Pala. _ And nights, I beseech you, madam.
[_Exeunt_ DORALICE _and_ BELIZ.

_Pala. _ Well, I'll say that for thee, thou art a very dexterous
executioner; thou hast done my business at one stroke: yet I must
marry another--and yet I must love this; and if it lead me into some
little inconveniencies, as jealousies, and duels, and death, and so
forth--yet, while sweet love is in the case, Fortune, do thy worst,
and avaunt, mortality!

_Enter_ RHODOPHIL, _who seems speaking to one within. _

_Rho. _ Leave 'em with my lieutenant, while I fetch new orders from the
king. --How? Palamede! [_Sees_ PALAMEDE.

_Pala. _ Rhodophil!

_Rho. _ Who thought to have seen you in Sicily?

_Pala. _ Who thought to have found the court so far from Syracuse?

_Rho. _ The king best knows the reason of the progress. But, answer me,
I beseech you, what brought you home from travel?

_Pala. _ The commands of an old rich father.

_Rho. _ And the hopes of burying him?

_Pala. _ Both together, as you see, have prevailed on my good nature.
In few words, my old man has already married me; for he has agreed
with another old man, as rich and as covetous as himself; the articles
are drawn, and I have given my consent, for fear of being
disinherited; and yet know not what kind of woman I am to marry.

_Rho. _ Sure your father intends you some very ugly wife, and has a
mind to keep you in ignorance till you have shot the gulf.

_Pala. _ I know not that; but obey I will, and must.

_Rho. _ Then I cannot chuse but grieve for all the good girls and
courtezans of France and Italy. They have lost the most kind-hearted,
doting, prodigal humble servant, in Europe.

_Pala. _ All I could do, in these three years I staid behind you, was
to comfort the poor creatures for the loss of you. But what's the
reason that, in all this time, a friend could never hear from you?

_Rho. _ Alas, dear Palamede! I have had no joy to write, nor indeed to
do any thing in the world to please me. The greatest misfortune
imaginable is fallen upon me.

_Pala. _ Pr'ythee, what's the matter?

_Rho. _ In one word, I am married: wretchedly married; and have been
above these two years. Yes, faith, the devil has had power over me, in
spite of my vows and resolutions to the contrary.

_Pala. _ I find you have sold yourself for filthy lucre; she's old, or
ill conditioned.

_Rho. _ No; none of these: I'm sure she's young; and, for her humour,
she laughs, sings, and dances eternally; and, which is more, we never
quarrel about it, for I do the same.

_Pala. _ You're very unfortunate indeed: then the case is plain, she is
not handsome.

_Rho. _ A great beauty too, as people say.

_Pala. _ As people say? why, you should know that best yourself.

_Rho. _ Ask those, who have smelt to a strong perfume two years
together, what's the scent.

_Pala.