No More Learning

And now, my lord, I must confess, that what I have written, looks more
like a Preface, than a Dedication; and, truly, it was thus far my
design, that I might entertain you with somewhat in my own art, which
might be more worthy of a noble mind, than the stale exploded trick of
fulsome panegyrics. It is difficult to write justly on any thing, but
almost impossible in praise. I shall therefore wave so nice a subject;
and only tell you, that, in recommending a protestant play to a
protestant patron, as I do myself an honour, so I do your noble family
a right, who have been always eminent in the support and favour of our
religion and liberties. And if the promises of your youth, your
education at home, and your experience abroad, deceive me not, the
principles you have embraced are such, as will no way degenerate from
your ancestors, but refresh their memory in the minds of all true
Englishmen, and renew their lustre in your person; which, my lord, is
not more the wish, than it is the constant expectation, of

Your lordship's
Most obedient, faithful servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.


Footnotes:
1. John, Lord Haughton, eldest son of the Earl of Clare. succeeded to
his father, was created Marquis of Clare, and died 1711, leaving an
only daughter, who married the eldest son of the famous Robert
Harley, Earl of Oxford.

2. See note on OEdipus, p. 151.

3. Dryden appears to have alluded to the following passage in Strada,
though without a very accurate recollection of its contents: _"Sane
Andreas Naugerius Valerio Martiali acriter infensus, solemne jam
habebat in illum aliquanto petulantius jocari. Etenim natali suo,
accitis ad geniale epulum amicis, postquam prolixe de poeticæ
laudibus super mensam disputaverat; ostensurum se aiebat a cæna,
quo tandem modo laudari poesim deceret: Mox aferri jubebat
Martialis volumen, (hæc erat mensæ appendix) atque igni proprior
factus, illustri conflagratione absumendum flammis imponebat:
addebatque eo incendio litare se Musis, Manibusque Virgilij, cujus
imitatorem cultoremque prestare se melius haud posset, quam si
vilia poetarum capita per undas insecutus ac flammas perpetuo
perdidisset. Nec se eo loco tenuit, sed cum Silvas aliquot ab se
conscriptas legisset, audissetque Statianu characteri similes
videri, iratus sibi, quod a Martiale fugiens alio declinasset a
Virgilio, cum primum se recessit domum, in Silvas conjecit ignem. "_
_Stradæ Prolusiones_, Lib. II. Pro. 5. From this passage, it is
obvious, that it was Martial, not Statius, whom Andreas Navagero
sacrificed to Virgil, although he burned his own verses when they
were accused of a resemblance to the style of the author of the
Thebaid. In the same prolusion, Strada quotes the "blustering"
line, afterwards censured by Dryden; but erroneously reads,

Super imposito moles _gemmata_ colosso.

4. "Bussy D'Ambois," a tragedy, once much applauded, was the favourite
production of George Chapman. If Dryden could have exhausted every
copy of this bombast performance in one holocaust, the public would
have been no great losers, as may be apparent from the following
quotations:

_Bussy. _ I'll sooth his plots, and strew my hate with smiles,
Till, all at once, the close mines of my heart
Rise at full state, and rush into his blood.
I'll bind his arm in silk, and rub his flesh,
To make the veine swell, that his soule may gush
Into some kennel, where it loves to lie;
And policy be flanked with policy.
Yet shall the feeling centre, where we meet.
Groan with the weight of my approaching feet.
I'll make the inspired threshold of his court
Sweat with the weather of my horrid steps,
Before I enter; yet, I will appear
Like calm securitie, befor a ruin.
A politician must, like lightning, melt
The very marrow, and not taint the skin;
His wayes must not be seen through, the superficies
Of the green centre must not taste his feet,
When hell is plowed up with the wounding tracts,
And all his harvest reap't by hellish facts.

Montsurry, when he discovers that the Friar had acted as confident
in the intrigue betwixt his lady and d'Ambois, thus elegantly
expresses the common idea of the world being turned _upside down. _

Now, is it true, earth moves, and heaven stands still;
Even heaven itself must see and suffer ill.
The too huge bias of the world hath swayed
Her back-part upwards, and with _that_ she braves
This hemisphere, that long her month hath mocked.
The gravity of her religious face,
Now grown too weighty with her sacrilege,
And here discerned sophisticate enough,
Turns to the antipodes, and all the forms
That here allusions have impressed in her,
Have eaten through her back, and now all see
How she is riveted with hypocrisie.

Yet, I observe, from the prologue to the edition of 1641, that the
part of D'Ambois was considered as a high test of a players'
talents:

--Field is gone,
Whose action first did give it name; and one
Who came the neatest to him, is denied,
By his grey beard, to shew the height and pride
Of d'Ambois' youth and braverie. Yet to hold
Our title still a-foot, and not grow cold,
By giving't o'er, a third man with his best
Of care and paines defends our interest.
As Richard he was liked, nor do we fear,
In personating d'Ambois, heile appear
To faint, or goe lesse, so your free consent,
As heretofore, give him encouragement.

I believe the successor of Field, in this once favourite character,
was Hart. The piece was revived after the Restoration with great
success.

5. Dryden has elsewhere ridiculed this absurd passage. The original
has "periwig with _wool_. "




PROLOGUE.


Now, luck for us, and a kind hearty pit;
For he, who pleases, never fails of wit:
Honour is yours;
And you, like kings at city-treats, bestow it;
The writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet;
But you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow;
You dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow:
You cry the same sense up, and down again,
Just like brass-money once a year in Spain:
Take you in the mood, whate'er base metal come,
You coin as fast as groats at Birmingham:
Though 'tis no more like sense, in antient plays,
Than Rome's religion like St Peter's days.
In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind,
You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind.
'Twere well your judgments but in plays did range,
But e'en your follies and debauches change
With such a whirl, the poets of our age
Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage;
Unless each vice in short-hand they indict,
Even as notch'd prentices whole sermons write[1].
The heavy Hollanders no vices know,
But what they used a hundred years ago;
Like honest plants, where they were stuck, they grow.
They cheat, but still from cheating sires they come;
They drink, but they were christened first in mum.
Their patrimonial sloth the Spaniards keep,
And Philip first taught Philip how to sleep.
The French and we still change; but here's the curse,
They change for better, and we change for worse;
They take up our old trade of conquering,
And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing:
Our fathers did, for change, to France repair,
And they, for change, will try our English air;
As children, when they throw one toy away,
Strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play:
So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking,
Leave whoring, and devoutly fall to drinking.
Scowering the watch grows out-of-fashion wit:
Now we set up for tilting in the pit,
Where 'tis agreed by bullies chicken-hearted,
To fright the ladies first, and then be parted.
A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made,
To hire night murderers, and make death a trade[2].
When murder's out, what vice can we advance?
Unless the new-found poisoning trick of France:
And, when their art of rats-bane we have got,
By way of thanks, we'll send them o'er our plot.


Footnotes
1. It was anciently a part of the apprentice's duty, not only to carry
the family bible to church, but to take notes of the sermon for the
edification of his master or mistress.

2. Alluding apparently to the assassination of Thomas Thynne, esq. in
Pall-Mall, by the hired bravoes of count Coningsmark.




DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.


TORRISMOND, _Son of_ SANCHO, _the deposed King, believing
himself Son of_ RAYMOND.
BERTRAN, _a Prince of the blood. _
ALPHONSO, _a general Officer, Brother to_ RAYMOND.
LORENZO, _his Son. _
RAYMOND, _a Nobleman, supposed Father of_ TORRISMOND.
PEDRO, _an Officer. _
GOMEZ, _an old Usurer. _
DOMINICK, _the Spanish Friar. _

LEONORA, _Queen of Arragon. _
TERESA, _Woman to_ LEONORA.
ELVIRA, _Wife to_ GOMEZ.




THE

SPANISH FRIAR:

OR THE

DOUBLE DISCOVERY.


ACT I. --SCENE I.

ALPHONSO _and_ PEDRO _meet, with Soldiers on each Side, Drums, &c. _

_Alph. _ Stand: give the word.

_Ped. _ The queen of Arragon.

_Alph. _ Pedro? --how goes the night?

_Ped. _ She wears apace.

_Alph. _ Then welcome day-light; we shall have warm work on't.
The Moor will 'gage
His utmost forces on this next assault,
To win a queen and kingdom.

_Ped. _ Pox on this lion-way of wooing, though.
Is the queen stirring yet?

_Alph. _ She has not been abed, but in her chapel
All night devoutly watched, and bribed the saints
With vows for her deliverance.

_Ped. _ O, Alphonso!
I fear they come too late. Her father's crimes
Sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers.
A crown usurped; a lawful king deposed,
In bondage held, debarred the common light;
His children murdered, and his friends destroyed,--
What can we less expect than what we feel,
And what we fear will follow?

_Alph. _ Heaven avert it!

_Ped. _ Then heaven must not be heaven. Judge the event
By what has passed. The usurper joyed not long
His ill-got crown:--'tis true, he died in peace,--
Unriddle that, ye powers! --but left his daughter,
Our present queen, engaged upon his death-bed,
To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father
Had helped to make him great.
Hence, you well know, this fatal war arose;
Because the Moor Abdalla, with whose troops
The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused;
And, as an infidel, his love despised.

_Alph. _ Well, we are soldiers, Pedro; and, like lawyers,
Plead for our pay.

_Ped. _ A good cause would do well though:
It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran
Has now three times been beaten by the Moors:
What hope we have, is in young Torrismond,
Your brother's son.

_Alph. _ He's a successful warrior,
And has the soldiers' hearts: upon the skirts
Of Arragon our squandered troops he rallies.
Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes
Expect his swift arrival.

_Ped. _ It must be swift, or it will come too late.

_Alph. _ No more. --Duke Bertran.

_Enter_ BERTRAN _attended. _

_Bert. _ Relieve the sentries that have watched all night.
[_To Ped. _] Now, colonel, have you disposed your men,
That you stand idle here?

_Ped. _ Mine are drawn off
To take a short repose.

_Bert. _ Short let it be:
For, from the Moorish camp, this hour and more,
There has been heard a distant humming noise,
Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives.
What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?

_Ped. _ As much as when physicians shake their heads,
And bid their dying patient think of heaven.
Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain;
The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching,
And harassed out with duty.

_Bert. _ Good-night all, then.

_Ped. _ Nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life
I have to lose. I'll plant my colours down
In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot;
Say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble
Of my new friends above; and then expect
The next fair bullet.

_Alph. _ Never was known a night of such distraction;
Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds.
That run, and know not whither; torches gliding,
Like meteors, by each other in the streets.

_Ped. _ I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar,--
With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin
Might rest upon it; a true son of the church;
Fresh-coloured, well thriven on his trade,--
Come puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir,
And fumbling o'er his beads in such an agony,
He told them false, for fear. About his neck
There hung a wench, the label of his function,
Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly.
It seems the holy stallion durst not score
Another sin, before he left the world.

_Enter a Captain. _

_Capt. _ To arms, my lord, to arms!
From the Moors' camp the noise grows louder still:
Rattling of armour, trumpets, drums, and ataballes;
And sometimes peals of shouts that rend the heavens,
Like victory: then groans again, and howlings,
Like those of vanquished men; but every echo
Goes fainter off, and dies in distant sounds.

_Bert. _ Some false attack: expect on t'other side.
One to the gunners on St Jago's tower; bid them, for shame,
Level their cannon lower: On my soul
They are all corrupted with the gold of Barbary,
To carry over, and not hurt the Moor.

_Enter a second Captain. _

_2 Capt. _ My lord, here's fresh intelligence arrived.
Our army, led by valiant Torrismond,
Is now in hot engagement with the Moors;
'Tis said, within their trenches.

_Bert. _ I think all fortune is reserved for him! --
He might have sent us word though;
And then we could have favoured his attempt
With sallies from the town.

_Alph. _ It could not be:
We were so close blocked up, that none could peep
Upon the walls and live. But yet 'tis time.

_Bert. _ No, 'tis too late; I will not hazard it:
On pain of death, let no man dare to sally.

_Ped. _ Oh envy, envy, how it works within him! [_Aside. _
How now? what means this show?

_Alph. _ 'Tis a procession.
The queen is going to the great cathedral,
To pray for our success against the Moors.

_Ped. _ Very good: she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison,
and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing. Oh religion and
roguery, how they go together!
[_A Procession of Priests and Choristers in White,
with Tapers, followed by the Queen and Ladies,
goes over the Stage: the Choristers singing,_

_Look down, ye blessed above, look down,
Behold our weeping matrons' tears,
Behold our tender virgins' fears,
And with success our armies crown.

Look down, ye blessed above, look down:
Oh! save us, save as, and our state restore;
For pity, pity, pity, we implore:
For pity, pity, pity, we implore. _
[_The Procession goes off; and shout within. Then_

_Enter_ LORENZO, _who kneels to_ ALPHONSO.

_Bert. _ [_To Alph. _] A joyful cry; and see your son
Lorenzo. Good news, kind heaven!

_Alph. _ [_To Lor. _]
O welcome, welcome! is the general safe?
How near our army? when shall we be succoured?
Or, are we succoured? are the Moors removed?
Answer these questions first, and then a thousand more;
Answer them all together.

_Lor. _ Yes, when I have a thousand tongues, I will.
The general's well; his army too is safe,
As victory can make them. The Moors' king
Is safe enough, I warrant him, for one.
At dawn of day our general cleft his pate,
Spite of his woollen night-cap: a slight wound;
Perhaps he may recover.

_Alph. _ Thou reviv'st me.

_Ped.
_ By my computation now, the victory was gained before the
procession was made for it; and yet it will go hard but the priests
will make a miracle of it.

_Lor. _ Yes, faith; we came like bold intruding guests,
And took them unprepared to give us welcome.
Their scouts we killed, then found their body sleeping;
And as they lay confused, we stumbled o'er them,
And took what joint came next, arms, heads, or legs,
Somewhat indecently. But when men want light,
They make but bungling work.

_Bert. _ I'll to the queen,
And bear the news.

_Ped. _ That's young Lorenzo's duty.

_Bert. _ I'll spare his trouble. --
This Torrismond begins to grow too fast;
He must be mine, or ruined. [_Aside, and Exit. _

_Lor. _ Pedro a word:--[_whisper. _]

_Alph. _ How swift he shot away! I find it stung him,
In spite of his dissembling.
[_To Lorenzo. _] How many of the enemy are slain?

_Lor. _ Troth, sir, we were in haste, and could not stay
To score the men we killed; but there they lie:
Best send our women out to take the tale;
There's circumcision in abundance for them. [_Turns to_ PEDRO _again. _

_Alph. _ How far did you pursue them?

_Lor. _ Some few miles. --
[_To Pedro_] Good store of harlots, say you, and dog-cheap?
Pedro, they must be had, and speedily;
I've kept a tedious fast. [_Whisper again. _

_Alph. _ When will he make his entry? he deserves
Such triumphs as were given by ancient Rome:
Ha, boy, what say'st thou?

_Lor. _ As you say, sir, that Rome was very ancient.
[_To Pedro. _] I leave the choice to you; fair, black, tall, low,
Let her but have a nose; and you may tell her,
I am rich in jewels, rings, and bobbing pearls,
Plucked from Moors' ears.

_Alph. _ Lorenzo.

_Lor. _ Somewhat busy
About affairs relating to the public. --
A seasonable girl, just in the nick now-- [_To Pedro. _
[_Trumpets within. _

_Ped. _ I hear the general's trumpet. Stand and mark
How he will be received; I fear, but coldly.
There hung a cloud, methought, on Bertran's brow.

_Lor. _ Then look to see a storm on Torrismond's;
Looks fright not men. The general has seen Moors
With as bad faces; no dispraise to Bertran's.

_Ped. _ 'Twas rumoured in the camp, he loves the queen.

_Lor. _ He drinks her health devoutly.

_Alph. _ That may breed bad blood betwixt him and Bertran.

_Ped. _ Yes, in private.
But Bertran has been taught the arts of court,
To gild a face with smiles, and leer a man to ruin,
O here they come. --

_Enter_ TORRISMOND _and Officers on one Side,_ BERTRAN _attended on
the other; they embrace,_ BERTRAN _bowing low. _

Just as I prophesied. --

_Lor. _ Death and hell, he laughs at him! --in his face too.

_Ped. _ O you mistake him; 'twas an humble grin,
The fawning joy of courtiers and of dogs.

_Lor. _ Here are nothing but lies to be expected: I'll even go lose
myself in some blind alley, and try if any courteous damsel will think
me worth the finding. [_Aside, and Exit. _

_Alph. _ Now he begins to open.

_Bert. _ Your country rescued, and your queen relieved,--
A glorious conquest, noble Torrismond!
The people rend the skies with loud applause,
And heaven can hear no other name but yours.
The thronging crowds press on you as you pass,
And with their eager joy make triumph slow.

_Torr. _ My lord, I have no taste
Of popular applause; the noisy praise
Of giddy crowds, as changeable as winds;
Still vehement, and still without a cause;
Servant to chance, and blowing in the tide
Of swoln success; but veering with its ebb,
It leaves the channel dry.

_Bert. _ So young a stoick!

_Torr. _ You wrong me, if you think I'll sell one drop
Within these veins for pageants; but, let honour
Call for my blood, and sluice it into streams:
Turn fortune loose again to my pursuit,
And let me hunt her through embattled foes,
In dusty plains, amidst the cannons' roar,
There will I be the first.

_Bert. _ I'll try him farther. -- [_Aside. _
Suppose the assembled states of Arragon
Decree a statue to you, thus inscribed:
"To Torrismond, who freed his native land. "

_Alph. _ [_To Ped. _]
Mark how he sounds and fathoms him,
To find the shallows of his soul!

_Bert. _ The just applause
Of god-like senates, is the stamp of virtue,
Which makes it pass unquestioned through the world.
These honours you deserve; nor shall my suffrage
Be last to fix them on you. If refused,
You brand us all with black ingratitude:
For times to come shall say,--Our Spain, like Rome,
Neglects her champions after noble acts,
And lets their laurels wither on their heads.

_Torr. _ A statue, for a battle blindly fought,
Where darkness and surprise made conquest cheap!
Where virtue borrowed but the arms of chance,
And struck a random blow! --'Twas fortune's work,
And fortune take the praise.

_Bert. _ Yet happiness
Is the first fame. Virtue without success
Is a fair picture shewn by an ill light;
But lucky men are favourites of heaven:
And whom should kings esteem above heaven's darlings?
The praises of a young and beauteous queen
Shall crown your glorious acts.

_Ped. _ [_To Alph. _] There sprung the mine.

_Torr. _ The queen! that were a happiness too great!
Named you the queen, my lord?

_Bert. _ Yes: you have seen her, and you must confess,
A praise, a smile, a look from her is worth
The shouts of thousand amphitheatres.
She, she shall praise you, for I can oblige her:
To-morrow will deliver all her charms
Into my arms, and make her mine for ever. --
Why stand you mute?

_Torr. _ Alas! I cannot speak.

_Bert. _ Not speak, my lord! How were your thoughts employed?

_Torr. _ Nor can I think, or I am lost in thought.

_Bert. _ Thought of the queen, perhaps?

_Torr. _ Why, if it were,
Heaven may be thought on, though too high to climb.

_Bert. _ O, now I find where your ambition drives!
You ought not to think of her.

_Torr. _ So I say too,
I ought not; madmen ought not to be mad;
But who can help his frenzy?

_Bert. _ Fond young man!
The wings of your ambition must be clipt:
Your shame-faced virtue shunned the people's praise,
And senate's honours: But 'tis well we know
What price you hold yourself at. You have fought
With some success, and that has sealed your pardon.

_Torr. _ Pardon from thee! --O, give me patience, heaven! --
Thrice vanquished Bertran, if thou dar'st, look out
Upon yon slaughtered host, that field of blood;
There seal my pardon, where thy fame was lost.

_Ped. _ He's ruined, past redemption!

_Alph. _ [_To_ TORR. ] Learn respect
To the first prince of the blood.

_Bert. _ O, let him rave!
I'll not contend with madmen.

_Torr. _ I have done:
I know, 'twas madness to declare this truth:
And yet, 'twere baseness to deny my love.
'Tis true, my hopes are vanishing as clouds;
Lighter than children's bubbles blown by winds:
My merit's but the rash result of chance;
My birth unequal; all the stars against me:
Power, promise, choice, the living and the dead;
Mankind my foes; and only love to friend:
But such a love, kept at such awful distance,
As, what it loudly dares to tell a rival,
Shall fear to whisper there. Queens may be loved,
And so may gods; else why are altars raised?
Why shines the sun, but that he may be viewed?
But, oh! when he's too bright, if then we gaze,
'Tis but to weep, and close our eyes in darkness. [_Exit. _

_Bert. _ 'Tis well; the goddess shall be told, she shall,
Of her new worshipper. [_Exit. _

_Ped. _ So, here's fine work!
He has supplied his only foe with arms
For his destruction. Old Penelope's tale
Inverted; he has unravelled all by day,
That he has done by night. What, planet struck!

_Alph. _ I wish I were; to be past sense of this!

_Ped. _ Would I had but a lease of life so long,
As 'till my flesh and blood rebelled this way,
Against our sovereign lady;--mad for a queen?
With a globe in one hand, and a sceptre in t'other?
A very pretty moppet!

_Alph. _ Then to declare his madness to his rival!
His father absent on an embassy;
Himself a stranger almost; wholly friendless!
A torrent, rolling down a precipice,
Is easier to be stopt, than is his ruin.

_Ped. _ 'Tis fruitless to complain; haste to the court;
Improve your interest there for pardon from the queen.

_Alph. _ Weak remedies;
But all must be attempted. [_Exit. _


SCENE II.

_Enter_ LORENZO.

_Lor. _ Well, I am the most unlucky rogue! I have been ranging over
half the town; but have sprung no game. Our women are worse infidels
than the Moors: I told them I was one of the knight-errants, that
delivered them from ravishment; and I think in my conscience, that is
their quarrel to me.

_Ped. _ Is this a time for fooling? Your cousin is run honourably mad
in love with her majesty; he is split upon a rock, and you, who are in
chase of harlots, are sinking in the main ocean. I think, the devil's
in the family. [_Exit. _

_Lor. _ [_Solus. _] My cousin ruined, says he! hum, not that I wish my
kinsman's ruin; that were unchristian: but, if the general is ruined,
I am heir; there's comfort for a Christian! Money I have; I thank the
honest Moors for it; but I want a mistress. I am willing to be lewd;
but the tempter is wanting on his part.

_Enter_ ELVIRA, _veiled. _

_Elv. _ Stranger! Cavalier! --will you not hear me? you Moor-killer, you
Matador! --

_Lor. _ Meaning me, madam?

_Elv.