No More Learning

Footnote:
1. Voyages de Tavernier, seconde partie; livre seconde.




TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JOHN,

EARL OF MULGRAVE,

GENTLEMAN OF HIS MAJESTY'S BED-CHAMBER,

AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER

OF THE GARTER[1].


MY LORD,

It is a severe reflection which Montaigne has made on princes, that we
ought not, in reason, to have any expectations of favour from them;
and that it is kindness enough, if they leave us in possession of our
own. The boldness of the censure shows the free spirit of the author:
And the subjects of England may justly congratulate to themselves,
that both the nature of our government, and the clemency of our king,
secure us from any such complaint. I, in particular, who subsist
wholly by his bounty, am obliged to give posterity a far other account
of my royal master, than what Montaigne has left of his. Those
accusations had been more reasonable, if they had been placed on
inferior persons: For in all courts, there are too many, who make it
their business to ruin wit; and Montaigne, in other places, tells us,
what effects he found of their good natures. He describes them such,
whose ambition, lust, or private interest, seem to be the only end of
their creation. If good accrue to any from them, it is only in order
to their own designs: conferred most commonly on the base and
infamous; and never given, but only happening sometimes on
well-deservers. Dulness has brought them to what they are; and malice
secures them in their fortunes. But somewhat of specious they must
have, to recommend themselves to princes, (for folly will not easily
go down in its own natural form with discerning judges,) and diligence
in waiting is their gilding of the pill; for that looks like love,
though it is only interest. It is that which gains them their
advantage over witty men; whose love of liberty and ease makes them
willing too often to discharge their burden of attendance on these
officious gentlemen. It is true, that the nauseousness of such company
is enough to disgust a reasonable man; when he sees, he can hardly
approach greatness, but as a moated castle; he must first pass through
the mud and filth with which it is encompassed. These are they, who,
wanting wit, affect gravity, and go by the name of solid men; and a
solid man is, in plain English, a solid, solemn fool. Another disguise
they have, (for fools, as well as knaves, take other names, and pass
by an _alias_) and that is, the title of honest fellows. But this
honesty of theirs ought to have many grains for its allowance; for
certainly they are no farther honest, than they are silly: They are
naturally mischievous to their power; and if they speak not
maliciously, or sharply, of witty men, it is only because God has not
bestowed on them the gift of utterance. They fawn and crouch to men of
parts, whom they cannot ruin; quote their wit when they are present,
and, when they are absent steal their jests; but to those who are
under them, and whom they can crush with ease, they shew themselves in
their natural antipathy; there they treat wit like the common enemy,
and giving no more quarter, than a Dutchman would to an English vessel
in the Indies; they strike sail where they know they shall be
mastered, and murder where they can with safety.

This, my lord, is the character of a courtier without wit; and
therefore that which is a satire to other men, must be a panegyric to
your lordship, who are a master of it. If the least of these
reflections could have reached your person, no necessity of mine could
have made me to have sought so earnestly, and so long, to have
cultivated your kindness. As a poet, I cannot but have made some
observations on mankind; the lowness of my fortune has not yet brought
me to flatter vice; and it is my duty to give testimony to virtue. It
is true, your lordship is not of that nature, which either seeks a
commendation, or wants it. Your mind has always been above the
wretched affectation of popularity. A popular man is, in truth, no
better than a prostitute to common fame, and to the people. He lies
down to every one he meets for the hire of praise; and his humility is
only a disguised ambition. Even Cicero himself, whose eloquence
deserved the admiration of mankind, yet, by his insatiable thirst of
fame, he has lessened his character with succeeding ages; his action
against Catiline may be said to have ruined the consul, when it saved
the city; for it so swelled his soul, which was not truly great, that
ever afterwards it was apt to be over-set with vanity. And this made
his virtue so suspected by his friends, that Brutus, whom of all men
he adored, refused him a place in his conspiracy. A modern wit has
made this observation on him; that, coveting to recommend himself to
posterity, he begged it as an alms of all his friends, the historians,
to remember his consulship: And observe, if you please, the oddness of
the event; all their histories are lost, and the vanity of his request
stands yet recorded in his own writings. How much more great and manly
in your lordship, is your contempt of popular applause, and your
retired virtue, which shines only to a few; with whom you live so
easily and freely, that you make it evident, you have a soul which is
capable of all the tenderness of friendship, and that you only retire
yourself from those, who are not capable of returning it. Your
kindness, where you have once placed it, is inviolable; and it is to
that only I attribute my happiness in your love. This makes me more
easily forsake an argument, on which I could otherwise delight to
dwell; I mean, your judgment in your choice of friends; because I have
the honour to be one. After which I am sure you will more easily
permit me to be silent, in the care you have taken of my fortune;
which you have rescued, not only from the power of others, but from my
worst of enemies, my own modesty and laziness; which favour, had it
been employed on a more deserving subject, had been an effect of
justice in your nature; but, as placed on me, is only charity. Yet,
withal, it is conferred on such a man, as prefers your kindness
itself, before any of its consequences; and who values, as the
greatest of your favours, those of your love, and of your
conversation. From this constancy to your friends, I might reasonably
assume, that your resentments would be as strong and lasting, if they
were not restrained by a nobler principle of good nature and
generosity; for certainly, it is the same composition of mind, the
same resolution and courage, which makes the greatest friendships, and
the greatest enmities. And he, who is too lightly reconciled, after
high provocations, may recommend himself to the world for a Christian,
but I should hardly trust him for a friend. The Italians have a
proverb to that purpose, "To forgive the first time, shows me a good
Catholic; the second time, a fool. " To this firmness in all your
actions, though you are wanting in no other ornaments of mind and
body, yet to this I principally ascribe the interest your merits have
acquired you in the royal family. A prince, who is constant to
himself, and steady in all his undertakings; one with whom that
character of Horace will agree,

_Si fractus illabatur orbis,
Impavidum ferient ruinæ_[2];--

such an one cannot but place an esteem, and repose a confidence on
him, whom no adversity, no change of courts, no bribery of interests,
or cabals of factions, or advantages of fortune, can remove from the
solid foundations of honour and fidelity:

_Ille meos, primus qui me sibi junxit, amores
Abstulit; ille habeat secum, servetque sepulcro. _

How well your lordship will deserve that praise, I need no inspiration
to foretell. You have already left no room for prophecy: Your early
undertakings have been such, in the service of your king and country,
when you offered yourself to the most dangerous employment, that of
the sea; when you chose to abandon those delights, to which your youth
and fortune did invite you, to undergo the hazards, and, which was
worse, the company of common seamen, that you have made it evident,
you will refuse no opportunity of rendering yourself useful to the
nation, when either your courage or conduct shall be required[3]. The
same zeal and faithfulness continue in your blood, which animated one
of your noble ancestors to sacrifice his life in the quarrels of his
sovereign[4]; though, I hope, both for your sake, and for the public
tranquillity, the same occasion will never be offered to your
lordship, and that a better destiny will attend you. But I make haste
to consider you as abstracted from a court, which (if you will give me
leave to use a term of logic) is only an adjunct, not a propriety of
happiness. The academics, I confess, were willing to admit the goods
of fortune into their notion of felicity; but I do not remember, that
any of the sects of old philosophers did ever leave a room for
greatness. Neither am I formed to praise a court, who admire and covet
nothing, but the easiness and quiet of retirement. I naturally
withdraw my sight from a precipice; and, admit the prospect be never
so large and goodly, can take no pleasure even in looking on the
downfal, though I am secure from the danger. Methinks, there is
something of a malignant joy in that excellent description of
Lucretius;

_Suave, mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis,
E terrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem;
Non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas,
Sed, quibus ipse malis careas, quia cernere suave est. _

I am sure his master Epicurus, and my better master Cowley, preferred
the solitude of a garden, and the conversation of a friend, to any
consideration, so much as a regard, of those unhappy people, whom, in
our own wrong, we call the great. True greatness, if it be any where
on earth, is in a private virtue; removed from the notion of pomp and
vanity, confined to a contemplation of itself, and centering on
itself:

_Omnis enim per se Divûm natura necesse est
Immortali ævo summâ cum pace fruatur;
--curâ semota, metuque,
Ipsa suis pollens opibus_[5].

If this be not the life of a deity, because it cannot consist with
Providence, it is, at least, a god-like life. I can be contented, (and
I am sure I have your lordship of my opinion) with an humbler station
in the temple of virtue, than to be set on the pinnacle of it:

_Despicere unde queas alios, passimque videre
Errare, atque viam palantes quærere vitæ. _

The truth is, the consideration of so vain a creature as man, is not
worth our pains. I have fool enough at home, without looking for it
abroad; and am a sufficient theatre to myself of ridiculous actions,
without expecting company, either in a court, a town, or a play-house.
It is on this account that I am weary with drawing the deformities of
life, and lazars of the people, where every figure of imperfection
more resembles me than it can do others. If I must be condemned to
rhyme, I should find some ease in my change of punishment. I desire to
be no longer the Sisyphus of the stage; to roll up a stone with
endless labour, (which, to follow the proverb, gathers no moss) and
which is perpetually falling down again. I never thought myself very
fit for an employment, where many of my predecessors have excelled me
in all kinds; and some of my contemporaries, even in my own partial
judgement have outdone me in Comedy. Some little hopes I have yet
remaining, and those too, considering my abilities, may be vain, that
I may make the world some part of amends, for many ill plays, by an
heroic poem. Your lordship has been long acquainted with my design;
the subject of which you know is great, the story English, and neither
too far distant from the present age, nor too near approaching it.
Such it is in my opinion, that I could not have wished a nobler
occasion to do honour by it to my king, my country, and my friends;
most of our ancient nobility being concerned in the action[6]. And
your lordship has one particular reason to promote this undertaking,
because you were the first who gave me the opportunity of discoursing
it to his majesty, and his royal highness: They were then pleased,
both to commend the design, and to encourage it by their commands. But
the unsettledness of my condition has hitherto put a stop to my
thoughts concerning it. As I am no successor to Homer in his wit, so
neither do I desire to be in his poverty. I can make no rhapsodies nor
go a begging at the Grecian doors, while I sing the praises of their
ancestors. The times of Virgil please me better, because he had an
Augustus for his patron; and, to draw the allegory nearer you, I am
sure I shall not want a Mecænas with him. It is for your lordship to
stir up that remembrance in his majesty, which his many avocations of
business have caused him, I fear, to lay aside; and, as himself and
his royal brother are the heroes of the poem, to represent to them the
images of their warlike predecessors; as Achilles is said to be roused
to glory, with the sight of the combat before the ships. For my own
part, I am satisfied to have offered the design, and it may be to the
advantage of my reputation to have it refused me.

In the mean time, my lord, I take the confidence to present you with a
tragedy, the characters of which are the nearest to those of an heroic
poem. It was dedicated to you in my heart, before it was presented on
the stage. Some things in it have passed your approbation, and many
your amendment. You were likewise pleased to recommend it to the
king's perusal, before the last hand was added to it, when I received
the favour from him, to have the most considerable event of it
modelled by his royal pleasure. It may be some vanity in me to add his
testimony then, and which he graciously confirmed afterwards, that it
was the best of all my tragedies; in which he has made authentic my
private opinion of it; at least, he has given it a value by his
commendation, which it had not by my writing.

That which was not pleasing to some of the fair ladies in the last act
of it, as I dare not vindicate, so neither can I wholly condemn, till
I find more reason for their censures. The procedure of Indamora and
Melesinda seems yet, in my judgment, natural, and not unbecoming of
their characters. If they, who arraign them, fail not more, the world
will never blame their conduct; and I shall be glad, for the honour of
my country, to find better images of virtue drawn to the life in their
behaviour, than any I could feign to adorn the theatre. I confess, I
have only represented a practical virtue, mixed with the frailties and
imperfections of human life. I have made my heroine fearful of death,
which neither Cassandra nor Cleopatra would have been; and they
themselves, I doubt it not, would have outdone romance in that
particular. Yet their Mandana (and the Cyrus was written by a lady,)
was not altogether so hard-hearted: For she sat down on the cold
ground by the king of Assyria, and not only pitied him, who died in
her defence; but allowed him some favours, such, perhaps, as they
would think, should only be permitted to her Cyrus[7]. I have made my
Melesinda, in opposition to Nourmahal, a woman passionately loving of
her husband, patient of injuries and contempt, and constant in her
kindness, to the last; and in that, perhaps, I may have erred, because
it is not a virtue much in use. Those Indian wives are loving fools,
and may do well to keep themselves in their own country, or, at least,
to keep company with the Arrias and Portias of old Rome: Some of our
ladies know better things. But, it may be, I am partial to my own
writings; yet I have laboured as much as any man, to divest myself of
the self-opinion of an author; and am too well satisfied of my own
weakness, to be pleased with any thing I have written. But, on the
other side, my reason tells me, that, in probability, what I have
seriously and long considered may be as likely to be just and natural,
as what an ordinary judge (if there be any such among those ladies)
will think fit, in a transient presentation, to be placed in the room
of that which they condemn. The most judicious writer is sometimes
mistaken, after all his care; but the hasty critic, who judges on a
view, is full as liable to be deceived. Let him first consider all the
arguments, which the author had, to write this, or to design the
other, before he arraigns him of a fault; and then, perhaps, on second
thoughts, he will find his reason oblige him to revoke his censure.
Yet, after all, I will not be too positive. _Homo sum, humani à me
nihil alienum puto. _ As I am a man, I must be changeable; and
sometimes the gravest of us all are so, even upon ridiculous
accidents. Our minds are perpetually wrought on by the temperament of
our bodies; which makes me suspect, they are nearer allied, than
either our philosophers or school-divines will allow them to be. I
have observed, says Montaigne, that when the body is out of order, its
companion is seldom at his ease. An ill dream, or a cloudy day, has
power to change this wretched creature, who is so proud of a
reasonable soul, and make him think what he thought not yesterday. And
Homer was of this opinion, as Cicero is pleased to translate him for
us:

_Tales sunt hominum mentes, quali pater ipse
Jupiter auctiferâ lustravit lampade terras. _

Or, as the same author, in his "Tusculan Questions," speaks, with more
modesty than usual, of himself: _Nos in diem vivimus; quodcunque
animos nostros probabilitate percussit, id dicimus. _ It is not
therefore impossible but that I may alter the conclusion of my play,
to restore myself into the good graces of my fair critics; and your
lordship, who is so well with them, may do me the office of a friend
and patron, to intercede with them on my promise of amendment. The
impotent lover in Petronius, though his was a very unpardonable crime,
yet was received to mercy on the terms I offer. _Summa excusationis
meæ hæc est: Placebo tibi, si culpam emendare permiseris. _

But I am conscious to myself of offering at a greater boldness, in
presenting to your view what my meanness can produce, than in any
other error of my play; and therefore make haste to break off this
tedious address, which has, I know not how, already run itself into so
much of pedantry, with an excuse of Tully's, which he sent with his
books "De Finibus," to his friend Brutus: _De ipsis rebus autem,
sæpenumerò, Brute, vereor ne reprehendar, cum hæc ad te scribam, qui
tum in poesi,_ (I change it from _philosophiâ_) _tum in optimo genere
poeseos tantum processeris. Quod si facerem quasi te erudiens, jure
reprehenderer. Sed ab eo plurimùm absum: Nec, ut ea cognoscas quæ tibi
notissima sunt, ad te mitto; sed quià facillimè in nomine tuo
acquiesco, et quia te habeo æquissimum eorum studiorum, quæ mihi
communia tecum sunt, æstimatorem et judicem. _ Which you may please, my
lord, to apply to yourself, from him, who is,

Your Lordship's
Most obedient,
Humble servant,
DRYDEN.


Footnotes:
1. John Sheffield, earl of Mulgrave, afterwards created marquis of
Normanby, and at length duke of Buckingham, made a great figure
during the reigns of Charles II. of his unfortunate successor, of
William the Third, and of Queen Anne. His bravery as a soldier, and
abilities as a statesman, seem to have been unquestioned; but for
his poetical reputation, he was probably much indebted to the
assistance of those wits whom he relieved and patronized. As,
however, it has been allowed a sufficient proof of wisdom in a
monarch, that he could chuse able ministers, so it is no slight
commendation to the taste of this rhyming peer, that in youth he
selected Dryden to supply his own poetical deficiencies, and in age
became the friend and the eulogist of Pope. We may observe,
however, a melancholy difference betwixt the manner in which an
independent man of letters is treated by the great, and that in
which they think themselves entitled to use one to whom their
countenance is of consequence. In addressing Pope, Sheffield
contents himself with launching out into boundless panegyric, while
his praise of Dryden, in his "Essay on Poetry," is qualified by a
gentle sneer at the "Hind and Panther," our bard's most laboured
production. His lordship is treating of satire:

The laureat here may justly claim our praise,
Crowned by Mack Flecnoe with immortal bays;
Yet once his Pegasus has borne dead weight,
Rid by some lumpish minister of state.

Lord Mulgrave, to distinguish him by his earliest title, certainly
received considerable assistance from Dryden in "The Essay on
Satire," which occasioned Rochester's base revenge; and was
distinguished by the name of the _Rose-Alley Satire_, from the
place in which Dryden was way-laid and beaten by the hired bravoes
of that worthless profligate. It is probable, that the patronage
which Dryden received from Mulgrave, was not entirely of an empty
and fruitless nature. It is at least certain, that their friendship
continued uninterrupted till the death of our poet. The "Discourse
upon Epic Poetry" is dedicated to Lord Mulgrave, then duke of
Buckingham, and in high favour with Queen Anne, for whom he is
supposed to have long cherished a youthful passion. After the grave
of Dryden had remained twenty years without a memorial, this
nobleman had the honour to raise the present monument at his own
expence; being the latest, and certainly one of the most honourable
acts of his life.

Mr Malone, from Macky's "Secret Services," gives the following
character of Sheffield, duke of Buckingham:--"He is a nobleman of
learning and good natural parts, but of no principles. Violent for
the high church, yet seldom goes to it. Very proud, insolent, and
covetous, and takes all advantages. In paying his debts unwilling,
and is neither esteemed nor beloved; for notwithstanding his great
interest at court, it is certain he has none in either house of
parliament, or in the country. He is of a middle stature, of a
brown complexion, with a sour lofty look. " Swift sanctioned this
severe character, by writing on the margin of his copy of Macky's
book, "_This character is the truest of any. _" To so bitter a
censure, let us contrast the panegyric of Pope:

Muse, 'tis enough; at length thy labour ends,
And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends;
Let crowds of critics now my verse assail,
Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail,
This more than pays whole years of thankless pain--
Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain.
Sheffield approves; consenting Phoebus bends,
And I and Malice from this hour are friends.

It may be worth the attention of the great to consider the value of
that genius, which can hand them down to posterity in an
interesting and amiable point of view, in spite of their own
imbecilities, errors, and vices. While the personal character of
Mulgrave has nothing to recommend it, and his poetical effusions
are sunk into oblivion, we still venerate the friend of Pope, and
the protector of Dryden.

Sheffield, duke of Buckingham, marquis of Normanby, and earl of
Mulgrave, was born in 1649, and died in 1720. He was therefore
twenty-seven years old when he received this dedication.

2. On perusing such ill applied flattery, I know not whether we ought
to feel most for Charles II. or for Dryden.

3. The earl of Mulgrave, in the Dutch war of 1672, served as a
volunteer on board the Victory, commanded by the earl of Ossory. He
behaved with distinguished courage himself, and has borne witness
to that of his unfortunate admiral, James Duke of York. His
intrepid coolness appears from a passage in his Memoirs, containing
the observations he made during the action, on the motion of cannon
bullets in the recoil, and their effect when passing near the human
body. His bravery was rewarded by his promotion to command the
Katharine, the second best ship in the fleet. This vessel had been
captured by the Dutch during the action, but was retaken by the
English crew before she could be carried into harbour. Lord
Mulgrave had a picture of the Katherine at his house in St James's
Park. --See CARLETON'S _Memoirs_, p. 5.

4. In 1548-9, there were insurrections in several counties of England,
having for their object the restoration of the Catholic religion,
and the redress of grievances. The insurgents in Northamptonshire
were 20,000 strong, headed by one Ket, a tanner, who possessed
himself of Norwich. The earl of Northampton, marching rashly and
hastily against him, at the head of a very inferior force, was
defeated with loss. In the rout lord Sheffield, ancestor of the
earl of Mulgrave, and the person alluded to in the text, fell with
his horse into a ditch, and was slain by a butcher with a club. The
rebels were afterwards defeated by the earl of Warwick. --DUGDALE'S
_Baron_, vol. ii. p. 386. HOLLINSHED, p. 1035. ]

5. The entire passage of Lucretius is somewhat different from this
quotation:

_Quæ bene, et eximie quamvis disposta ferantur,
Longe sunt tamen a verâ ratione repulsa.
Omnia enim per se Divum natura necesse est
Immortali ævo summâ cum pace fruatur,
Semota a nostris rebus, sejunctaque longè.
Nam privata dolore omni, privata periclis,
Ipsa suis pollens opibus, nihil indiga nostri,
Nec bene promeritis capitur, nec tangitur ira. _
LIB. II.

Dryden ingeniously applies, to the calm of philosophical
retirement, the Epicurean tranquillity of the Deities of Lucretius.

6. The subject of this intended poem, was probably the exploits of the
Black Prince. See Life.

7. An incident in "Artèmenes, ou Le Grand Cyrus," a huge romance,
written by Madame Scuderi.




PROLOGUE.


Our author, by experience, finds it true,
'Tis much more hard to please himself than you;
And out of no feigned modesty, this day
Damns his laborious trifle of a play:
Not that its worse than what before he writ,
But he has now another taste of wit;
And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.
Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
And nature flies him like enchanted ground:
What verse can do, he has performed in this,
Which he presumes the most correct of his;
But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred name:
Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,
He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
And to an age less polished, more unskilled,
Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.
As with the greater dead he dares not strive,
He would not match his verse with those who live:
Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast,
The first of this, and hindmost of the last.
A losing gamester, let him sneak away;
He bears no ready money from the play.
The fate, which governs poets, thought it fit
He should not raise his fortunes by his wit.
The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar;
Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war:
All southern vices, heaven be praised, are here:
But wit's a luxury you think too dear.
When you to cultivate the plant are loth,
'Tis a shrewd sign 'twas never of your growth;
And wit in northern climates will not blow,
Except, like orange-trees, 'tis housed from snow.
There needs no care to put a playhouse down,
'Tis the most desart place of all the town:
We and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are,
Like monarchs, ruined with expensive war;
While, like wise English, unconcerned you sit,
And see us play the tragedy of wit.




DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.


_The Old Emperor. _
AURENG-ZEBE, _his Son. _
MORAT, _his younger Son. _
ARIMANT, _Governor of Agra. _
DIANET, }
SOLYMAN, }
MIR BABA, } _Indian Lords, or Omrahs, of several
ABAS, } Factions. _
ASAPH CHAN, }
FAZEL CHAN, }

NOURMAHAL, _the Empress. _
INDAMORA, _a Captive Queen. _
MELESINDA, _Wife to Morat. _
ZAYDA, _favourite Slave to the Empress. _


SCENE--_Agra,_ in the year 1660.




AURENG-ZEBE.


ACT I. SCENE I.

_Enter_ ARIMANT, ASAPH CHAN, _and_ FAZEL CHAN.

_Arim. _ Heaven seems the empire of the east to lay
On the success of this important day:
Their arms are to the last decision bent,
And fortune labours with the vast event:
She now has in her hand the greatest stake,
Which for contending monarchs she can make.
Whate'er can urge ambitious youth to fight,
She pompously displays before their sight;
Laws, empire, all permitted to the sword,
And fate could ne'er an ampler scene afford.

_Asaph. _ Four several armies to the field are led,
Which, high in equal hopes, four princes head:
Indus and Ganges, our wide empire's bounds,
Swell their dyed currents with their natives' wounds:
Each purple river winding, as he runs,
His bloody arms about his slaughtered sons.

_Fazel. _ I well remember you foretold the storm,
When first the brothers did their factions form:
When each, by cursed cabals of women, strove
To draw the indulgent king to partial love.

_Arim. _ What heaven decrees, no prudence can prevent.
To cure their mad ambition, they were sent
To rule a distant province each alone:
What could a careful father more have done?
He made provision against all, but fate,
While, by his health, we held our peace of state.
The weight of seventy winters prest him down,
He bent beneath the burden of a crown:
Sickness, at last, did his spent body seize,
And life almost sunk under the disease:
Mortal 'twas thought, at least by them desired,
Who, impiously, into his years inquired:
As at a signal, strait the sons prepare
For open force, and rush to sudden war:
Meeting, like winds broke loose upon the main,
To prove, by arms, whose fate it was to reign.

_Asaph. _ Rebels and parricides!

_Arim. _ Brand not their actions with so foul a name:
Pity at least what we are forced to blame.
When death's cold hand has closed the father's eye,
You know the younger sons are doomed to die.
Less ills are chosen greater to avoid,
And nature's laws are by the state's destroyed.
What courage tamely could to death consent,
And not, by striking first, the blow prevent?
Who falls in fight, cannot himself accuse,
And he dies greatly, who a crown pursues.

_To them_ SOLYMAN AGA.

_Solym. _ A new express all Agra does affright:
Darah and Aureng-Zebe are joined in fight;
The press of people thickens to the court,
The impatient crowd devouring the report.

_Arim. _ T' each changing news they changed affections bring,
And servilely from fate expect a king.

_Solym. _ The ministers of state, who gave us law,
In corners, with selected friends, withdraw:
There, in deaf murmurs, solemnly are wise;
Whispering, like winds, ere hurricanes arise.
The most corrupt are most obsequious grown,
And those they scorned, officiously they own.

_Asaph. _ In change of government,
The rabble rule their great oppressors' fate;
Do sovereign justice, and revenge the state.

_Solym. _ The little courtiers, who ne'er come to know
The depth of factions, as in mazes go,
Where interests meet and cross so oft, that they,
With too much care, are wildered in their way.

_Arim. _ What of the emperor?

_Solym. _ Unmoved, and brave, he like himself appears,
And, meriting no ill, no danger fears:
Yet mourns his former vigour lost so far,
To make him now spectator of a war:
Repining that he must preserve his crown
By any help or courage but his own:
Wishes, each minute, he could unbeget
Those rebel sons, who dare usurp his seat;
To sway his empire with unequal skill,
And mount a throne, which none but he can fill.

_Arim. _ Oh! had he still that character maintained,
Of valour, which, in blooming youth, he gained!
He promised in his east a glorious race;
Now, sunk from his meridian, sets apace.
But as the sun, when he from noon declines,
And, with abated heat, less fiercely shines,
Seems to grow milder as he goes away,
Pleasing himself with the remains of day;
So he, who, in his youth, for glory strove,
Would recompense his age with ease and love.

_Asaph. _ The name of father hateful to him grows,
Which, for one son, produces him three foes.

_Fazel. _ Darah, the eldest, bears a generous mind,
But to implacable revenge inclined:
Too openly does love and hatred show;
A bounteous master, but a deadly foe.

_Solym. _ From Sujah's valour I should much expect,
But he's a bigot of the Persian sect;
And by a foreign interest seeks to reign,
Hopeless by love the sceptre to obtain.

_Asaph. _ Morat's too insolent, too much a brave;
His courage to his envy is a slave.
What he attempts, if his endeavours fail
To effect, he is resolved no other shall.

_Arim. _ But Aureng-Zebe, by no strong passion swayed,
Except his love, more temperate is, and weighed:
This Atlas must our sinking state uphold;
In council cool, but in performance bold:
He sums their virtues in himself alone,
And adds the greatest, of a loyal son:
His father's cause upon his sword he wears,
And with his arms, we hope, his fortune bears.

_Solym. _ Two vast rewards may well his courage move,
A parent's blessing, and a mistress' love.
If he succeed, his recompence, we hear,
Must be the captive queen of Cassimere.

_To them_ ABAS.

_Abas. _ Mischiefs on mischiefs, greater still, and more!
The neighbouring plain with arms is covered o'er:
The vale an iron-harvest seems to yield,
Of thick-sprung lances in a waving field.
The polished steel gleams terribly from far,
And every moment nearer shows the war.
The horses' neighing by the wind is blown,
And castled-elephants o'er-look the town.

_Arim. _ If, as I fear, Morat these powers commands,
Our empire on the brink of ruin stands:
The ambitious empress with her son is joined,
And, in his brother's absence, has designed
The unprovided town to take with ease,
And then the person of the king to seize.

_Solym. _ To all his former issue she has shown
Long hate, and laboured to advance her own.

_Abas. _ These troops are his.
Surat he took; and thence, preventing fame,
By quick and painful marches hither came.
Since his approach, he to his mother sent,
And two long hours in close debate were spent.

_Arim. _ I'll to my charge, the citadel, repair,
And show my duty by my timely care.

_To them the Emperor, with a letter in his hand: After him, an
Ambassador, with a train following. _

_Asaph. _ But see, the emperor! a fiery red
His brows and glowing temples does o'erspread;
Morat has some displeasing message sent.

_Amb. _ Do not, great sir, misconstrue his intent;
Nor call rebellion what was prudent care,
To guard himself by necessary war:
While he believed you living, he obeyed;
His governments but as your viceroy swayed:
But, when he thought you gone
To augment the number of the blessed above,
He deemed them legacies of royal love:
Nor armed, his brothers' portions to invade,
But to defend the present you had made.

_Emp. _ By frequent messages, and strict commands,
He knew my pleasure to discharge his bands:
Proof of my life my royal signet made;
Yet still he armed, came on, and disobeyed.

_Amb. _ He thought the mandate forged, your death concealed;
And but delayed, till truth should be revealed.

_Emp. _ News of my death from rumour he received;
And what he wished, he easily believed:
But long demurred, though from my hand he knew
I lived, so loth he was to think it true.
Since he pleads ignorance to that command,
Now let him show his duty, and disband.

_Amb. _ His honour, sir, will suffer in the cause;
He yields his arms unjust, if he withdraws:
And begs his loyalty may be declared,
By owning those he leads to be your guard.

_Emp. _ I, in myself, have all the guard I need!
Bid the presumptuous boy draw off with speed:
If his audacious troops one hour remain,
My cannon from the fort shall scour the plain.

_Amb. _ Since you deny him entrance, he demands
His wife, whom cruelly you hold in bands:
Her, if unjustly you from him detain,
He justly will, by force of arms, regain.

_Emp. _ O'er him and his a right from Heaven I have;
Subject and son, he's doubly born my slave.
But whatsoe'er his own demerits are,
Tell him, I shall not make on women war.
And yet I'll do her innocence the grace,
To keep her here, as in the safer place.
But thou, who dar'st this bold defiance bring,
May'st feel the rage of an offended king.
Hence, from my sight, without the least reply!
One word, nay one look more, and thou shalt die. [_Exit Ambassador. _

_Re-enter_ ARIMANT.

_Arim. _ May heaven, great monarch, still augment your bliss
With length of days, and every day like this!
For, from the banks of Gemna news is brought,
Your army has a bloody battle fought:
Darah from loyal Aureng-Zebe is fled,
And forty thousand of his men lie dead.
To Sujah next your conquering army drew;
Him they surprised, and easily o'erthrew.

_Emp. _ 'Tis well.

_Arim. _ But well! what more could at your wish be done,
Than two such conquests gained by such a son?
Your pardon, mighty sir;
You seem not high enough your joys to rate;
You stand indebted a vast sum to fate,
And should large thanks for the great blessing pay.

_Emp. _ My fortune owes me greater every day;
And should my joy more high for this appear,
It would have argued me, before, of fear.
How is heaven kind, where I have nothing won,
And fortune only pays me with my own?

_Arim. _ Great Aureng-Zebe did duteous care express,
And durst not push too far his good success;
But, lest Morat the city should attack,
Commanded his victorious army back;
Which, left to march as swiftly as they may,
Himself comes first, and will be here this day,
Before a close-formed siege shut up his way.

_Emp. _ Prevent his purpose! hence, with all thy speed!
Stop him; his entrance to the town forbid.

_Arim. _ How, sir? your loyal, your victorious son?

_Emp. _ Him would I, more than all the rebels, shun.

_Arim. _ Whom with your power and fortune, sir, you trust.
Now to suspect is vain, as 'tis unjust.
He comes not with a train to move your fear,
But trusts himself to be a prisoner here.
You knew him brave, you know him faithful now:
He aims at fame, but fame from serving you.
'Tis said, ambition in his breast does rage:
Who would not be the hero of an age?
All grant him prudent: Prudence interest weighs,
And interest bids him seek your love and praise.
I know you grateful; when he marched from hence,
You bade him hope an ample recompence:
He conquered in that hope; and, from your hands,
His love, the precious pledge he left, demands.

_Emp. _ No more; you search too deep my wounded mind,
And show me what I fear, and would not find.
My son has all the debts of duty paid:
Our prophet sends him to my present aid.
Such virtue to distrust were base and low:
I'm not ungrateful--or I was not so!
Inquire no farther, stop his coming on:
I will not, cannot, dare not, see my son.

_Arim. _ 'Tis now too late his entrance to prevent,
Nor must I to your ruin give consent;
At once your people's heart, and son's, you lose,
And give him all, when you just things refuse.

_Emp. _ Thou lov'st me, sure; thy faith has oft been tried,
In ten pitched fields not shrinking from my side,
Yet giv'st me no advice to bring me ease.

_Arim. _ Can you be cured, and tell not your disease?
I asked you, sir.

_Emp. _ Thou shouldst have asked again:
There hangs a secret shame on guilty men.
Thou shouldst have pulled the secret from my breast,
Torn out the bearded steel, to give me rest;
At least, thou should'st have guessed--
Yet thou art honest, thou couldst ne'er have guessed.
Hast thou been never base? did love ne'er bend
Thy frailer virtue, to betray thy friend?
Flatter me, make thy court, and say, It did;
Kings in a crowd would have their vices hid.
We would be kept in count'nance, saved from shame,
And owned by others who commit the same.
Nay, now I have confessed.
Thou seest me naked, and without disguise:
I look on Aureng-Zebe with rival's eyes.
He has abroad my enemies o'ercome,
And I have sought to ruin him at home.

_Arim. _ This free confession shows you long did strive;
And virtue, though opprest, is still alive.
But what success did your injustice find?

_Emp. _ What it deserved, and not what I designed.
Unmoved she stood, and deaf to all my prayers,
As seas and winds to sinking mariners.
But seas grow calm, and winds are reconciled:
Her tyrant beauty never grows more mild;
Prayers, promises, and threats, were all in vain.

_Arim. _ Then cure yourself, by generous disdain.

_Emp. _ Virtue, disdain, despair, I oft have tried,
And, foiled, have with new arms my foe defied.
This made me with so little joy to hear
The victory, when I the victor fear.

_Arim. _ Something you swiftly must resolve to do,
Lest Aureng-Zebe your secret love should know.
Morat without does for your ruin wait;
And would you lose the buckler of your state?
A jealous empress lies within your arms,
Too haughty to endure neglected charms.

Your son is duteous, but, as man, he's frail,
And just revenge o'er virtue may prevail.

_Emp. _ Go then to Indamora; say, from me,
Two lives depend upon her secrecy.
Bid her conceal my passion from my son:
Though Aureng-Zebe return a conqueror,
Both he and she are still within my power.
Say, I'm a father, but a lover too;
Much to my son, more to myself I owe.
When she receives him, to her words give law,
And even the kindness of her glances awe.
See, he appears! [_After a short whisper,_ ARIMANT _departs. _

_Enter_ AURENG-ZEBE, DIANET, _and_ Attendants. --AURENG-ZEBE _kneels
to his Father, and kisses his hand. _

_Aur. _ My vows have been successful as my sword;
My prayers are heard, you have your health restored.
Once more 'tis given me to behold your face;
The best of kings and fathers to embrace.
Pardon my tears; 'tis joy which bids them flow,
A joy which never was sincere till now.
That, which my conquest gave, I could not prize;
Or 'twas imperfect till I saw your eyes.

_Emp. _ Turn the discourse: I have a reason why
I would not have you speak so tenderly.
Knew you what shame your kind expressions bring,
You would, in pity, spare a wretched king.

_Aur. _ A king! you rob me, sir, of half my due;
You have a dearer name,--a father too.

_Emp. _ I had that name.

_Aur. _ What have I said or done,
That I no longer must be called your son?
'Tis in that name, heaven knows, I glory more,
Than that of prince, or that of conqueror.

_Emp. _ Then you upbraid me; I am pleased to see
You're not so perfect, but can fail, like me.
I have no God to deal with.

_Aur. _ Now I find,
Some sly court-devil has seduced your mind;
Filled it with black suspicions not your own,
And all my actions through false optics shown.
I ne'er did crowns ambitiously regard;
Honour I sought, the generous mind's reward.
Long may you live! while you the sceptre sway,
I shall be still most happy to obey.

_Emp. _ Oh, Aureng-Zebe! thy virtues shine too bright,
They flash too fierce: I, like the bird of night,
Shut my dull eyes, and sicken at the sight.
Thou hast deserved more love than I can show;
But 'tis thy fate to give, and mine to owe.
Thou seest me much distempered in my mind;
Pulled back, and then pushed forward to be kind.
Virtue, and--fain I would my silence break,
But have not yet the confidence to speak.
Leave me, and to thy needful rest repair.

_Aur. _ Rest is not suiting with a lover's care.
I have not yet my Indamora seen. [_Is going. _

_Emp. _ Somewhat I had forgot; come back again:
So weary of a father's company?

_Aur. _ Sir, you were pleased yourself to license me.