No More Learning

_ Hell, show me such another tortured wretch as Troilus!

_Diom. _ Nay, grieve not; I resign her freely up;
I'm satisfied; and dare engage for Cressida,
That, if you have a promise of her person,
She shall be willing to come out of debt.

_Cres. _ [_Kneeling. _]
My only lord, by all those holy vows,
Which, if there be a Power above, are binding,
Or, if there be a hell below, are fearful,
May every imprecation, which your rage
Can wish on me, take place, if I am false!

_Diom. _ Nay, since you're so concerned to be believed,
I'm sorry I have pressed my charge so far:
Be what you would be thought; I can be grateful.

_Troil. _ Grateful! Oh torment! now hell's bluest flames
Receive her quick, with all her crimes upon her!
Let her sink spotted down! let the dark host
Make room, and point, and hiss her as she goes!
Let the most branded ghosts of all her sex
Rejoice, and cry,--"Here comes a blacker fiend! "
Let her--

_Cres. _ Enough, my lord; you've said enough.
This faithless, perjured, hated Cressida,
Shall be no more the subject of your curses:
Some few hours hence, and grief had done your work;
But then your eyes had missed the satisfaction,
Which thus I give you,--thus--
[_She stabs herself; they both run to her. _

_Diom. _ Help! save her, help!

_Cres. _ Stand off, and touch me not, thou traitor Diomede;--
But you, my only Troilus, come near:
Trust me, the wound, which I have given this breast,
Is far less painful than the wound you gave it.
Oh, can you yet believe, that I am true?

_Troil. _ This were too much, even if thou hadst been false!
But oh, thou purest, whitest innocence,--
For such I know thee now, too late I know it! --
May all my curses, and ten thousand more,
Heavier than they, fall back upon my head;
Pelion and Ossa, from the giants' graves
Be torn by some avenging deity,
And hurled at me, a bolder wretch than they,
Who durst invade the skies!

_Cres. _ Hear him not, heavens;
But hear me bless him with my latest breath!
And, since I question not your hard decree,
That doomed my days unfortunate and few,
Add all to him you take away from me;
And I die happy, that he thinks me true. [_Dies. _

_Troil. _ She's gone for ever, and she blest me dying!
Could she have cursed me worse! she died for me,
And, like a woman, I lament for her.
Distraction pulls me several ways at once:
Here pity calls me to weep out my eyes,
Despair then turns me back upon myself,
And bids me seek no more, but finish here.
[_Points his Sword to his Breast. _
Ha, smilest thou, traitor! thou instruct'st me best,
And turn'st my just revenge to punish thee.

_Diom. _ Thy worst, for mine has been beforehand with thee;
I triumph in thy vain credulity,
Which levels thy despairing state to mine;
But yet thy folly, to believe a foe,
Makes thine the sharper and more shameful loss.

_Troil. _ By my few moments of remaining life,
I did not hope for any future joy;
But thou hast given me pleasure ere I die,
To punish such a villain. --Fight apart; [_To his Soldiers. _
For heaven and hell have marked him out for me,
And I should grudge even his least drop of blood
To any other hand. [TROILUS _and_ DIOMEDE _fight, and both Parties
engage at the same time. The Trojans make
the Greeks retire, and_ TROILUS _makes_ DIOMEDE
_give ground, and hurts him. Trumpets
sound. _ ACHILLES _enters with his Myrmidons,
on the backs of the Trojans, who fight in a
ring, encompassed round. _ TROILUS, _singling_
DIOMEDE, _gets him down, and kills him; and_
ACHILLES _kills_ TROILUS _upon him. All the
Trojans die upon the place,_ TROILUS _last. _

_Enter_ AGAMEMNON, MENELAUS, ULYSSES, NESTOR, AJAX, _and
Attendants. _

_Achil. _ Our toils are done, and those aspiring walls,
The work of gods, and almost mating heaven,
Must crumble into rubbish on the plain.

_Agam. _ When mighty Hector fell beneath thy sword,
Their old foundations shook; their nodding towers
Threatened from high the amazed inhabitants;
And guardian-gods, for fear, forsook their fanes.

_Achil. _ Patroclus, now be quiet; Hector's dead;
And, as a second offering to thy ghost,
Lies Troilus high upon a heap of slain;
And noble Diomede beneath, whose death
This hand of mine revenged.

_Ajax. _ Revenged it basely:
For Troilus fell by multitudes opprest,
And so fell Hector; but 'tis vain to talk.

_Ulys. _ Hail, Agamemnon! truly victor now!
While secret envy, and while open pride,
Among thy factious nobles discord threw;
While public good was urged for private ends,
And those thought patriots, who disturbed it most;
Then, like the headstrong horses of the sun,
That light, which should have cheered the world, consumed it:
Now peaceful order has resumed the reins,
Old Time looks young, and Nature seems renewed.
Then, since from home-bred factions ruin springs,
Let subjects learn obedience to their kings. [_Exeunt. _




EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY THERSITES.


These cruel critics put me into passion;
For, in their lowering looks I read damnation:
You expect a satire, and I seldom fail;
When I'm first beaten, 'tis my part to rail.
You British fools, of the old Trojan stock,
That stand so thick, one cannot miss the flock,
Poets have cause to dread a keeping pit,
When women's cullies come to judge of wit.
As we strew rat's-bane when we vermin fear,
'Twere worth our cost to scatter fool-bane here;
And, after all our judging fops were served,
Dull poets, too, should have a dose reserved;
Such reprobates, as, past all sense of shaming,
Write on, and ne'er are satisfied with damning:
Next, those, to whom the stage does not belong,
Such whose vocation only is--to song;
At most to prologue, when, for want of time,
Poets take in for journey-work in rhime.
But I want curses for those mighty shoals
Of scribbling Chloris's, and Phyllis' fools:
Those oafs should be restrained, during their lives,
From pen and ink, as madmen are from knives.
I could rail on, but 'twere a task as vain,
As preaching truth at Rome, or wit in Spain:
Yet, to huff out our play was worth my trying;
John Lilburn 'scaped his judges by defying:[1]
If guilty, yet I'm sure o' the church's blessing,
By suffering for the plot, without confessing.


Footnote:
1. Lilburn, the most turbulent, but the boldest and most upright of
men, had the merit of defying and resisting the tyranny of the
king, of the parliament, and of the protector. He was convicted in
the star-chamber, but liberated by the parliament; he was tried on
the parliamentary statute for treasons in 1651, and before
Cromwell's high court of justice in 1654; and notwithstanding an
audacious defence,--which to some has been more perilous than a
feeble cause,--he was, in both cases, triumphantly acquitted.


* * * * *


THE

SPANISH FRIAR;

OR,

THE DOUBLE DISCOVERY.


_Ut melius possis fallere, sume togam. _
--MART.


_--Alterna revisens
Lasit, et in solido rursus fortuna locavit. _
--VIRG.




THE SPANISH FRIAR.


The Spanish Friar, or the Double Discovery, is one of the best and
most popular of our poet's dramatic efforts. The plot is, as Johnson
remarks, particularly happy, for the coincidence and coalition of the
tragic and comic plots. The grounds for this eminent critic's encomium
will be found to lie more deep than appears at first sight. It was,
indeed, a sufficiently obvious connection, to make the gay Lorenzo an
officer of the conquering army, and attached to the person of
Torrismond. This expedient could hardly have escaped the invention of
the most vulgar playwright, that ever dovetailed tragedy and comedy
together. The felicity of Dryden's plot, therefore, does not consist
in the ingenuity of his original conception, but in the minutely
artificial strokes, by which the reader is perpetually reminded of the
dependence of the one part of the play on the other. These are so
frequent, and appear so very natural, that the comic plot, instead of
diverting our attention from the tragic business, recals it to our
mind by constant and unaffected allusion. No great event happens in
the higher region of the camp or court, that has not some indirect
influence upon the intrigues of Lorenzo and Elvira; and the part which
the gallant is called upon to act in the revolution that winds up the
tragic interest, while it is highly in character, serves to bring the
catastrophe of both parts of the play under the eye of the spectator,
at one and the same time. Thus much seemed necessary to explain the
felicity of combination, upon which Dryden justly valued himself, and
which Johnson sanctioned by his high commendation. But, although
artfully conjoined, the different departments of this tragi-comedy are
separate subjects of critical remark.

The comic part of the Spanish Friar, as it gives the first title to
the play, seems to claim our first attention. Indeed, some precedence
is due to it in another point of view; for, though the tragic scenes
may be matched in All for Love, Don Sebastian, and else where, the
Spanish Friar contains by far the most happy of Dryden's comic
effusions. It has, comparatively speaking, this high claim to
commendation, that, although the intrigue is licentious, according to
the invariable licence of the age, the language is, in general, free
from the extreme and disgusting coarseness, which our author too
frequently mistook for wit, or was contented to substitute in its
stead. The liveliness and even brilliancy of the dialogue, shows that
Dryden, from the stores of his imagination, could, when he pleased,
command that essential requisite of comedy; and that, if he has seldom
succeeded, it was only because he mistook the road, or felt difficulty
in travelling it. The character of Dominic is of that broadly
ludicrous nature, which was proper to the old comedy. It would be
difficult to show an ordinary conception more fully brought out. He
is, like Falstaff, a compound of sensuality and talent, finely varied
by the professional traits with which it suited the author's purpose
to adorn his character. Such an addition was, it is true, more comic
than liberal; but Dryden, whose constant dislike to the clerical order
glances out in many of his performances, was not likely to be
scrupulous, when called upon to pourtray one of their members in his
very worst colours. To counterbalance the Friar's scandalous
propensities of every sort, and to render him an object of laughter,
rather than abhorrence, the author has gifted this reprobate churchman
with a large portion of wit; by means of which, and by a ready
presence of mind, always indicative of energy, he preserves an
ascendence over the other characters, and escapes detection and
disgrace, until poetical justice, and the conclusion of the play,
called for his punishment. We have a natural indulgence for an amusing
libertine; and, I believe, that, as most readers commiserate the
disgrace of Falstaff, a few may be found to wish that Dominic's
penance had been of a nature more decent and more theatrical than the
poet has assigned him[1]. From the dedication, as well as the
prologue, it appears that Dryden, however contrary to his sentiments
at a future period, was, at present, among those who held up to
contempt and execration the character of the Roman catholic
priesthood. By one anonymous lampoon, this is ascribed to a temporary
desertion of the court party, in resentment for the loss, or
discontinuance of his pension. This allowance, during the pressure
upon the Exchequer, was, at least, irregularly paid, of which Dryden
repeatedly complains, and particularly in a letter to the Earl of
Rochester. But the hardship was owing entirely to the poverty of the
public purse; and, when the anonymous libeller affirms, that Dryden's
pension was withdrawn, on account of his share in the Essay on Satire,
he only shows that his veracity is on a level with his poverty[2]. The
truth seems to be, that Dryden partook in some degree of the general
ferment which the discovery of the Popish Plot had excited; and we may
easily suppose him to have done so without any impeachment to his
monarchial tenets, since North himself admits, that at the first
opening of the plot, the chiefs of the loyal party joined in the cry.
Indeed, that mysterious transaction had been investigated by none more
warmly than by Danby, the king's favourite minister, and a high
favourer of the prerogative. Even when writing Absalom and Achitophel,
our author by no means avows an absolute disbelief of the whole plot,
while condemning the extraordinary exaggerations, by which it had been
rendered the means of much bloodshed and persecution[3]. It seems,
therefore, fair to believe, that, without either betraying or
disguising his own principles, he chose, as a popular subject for the
drama, an attack upon an obnoxious priesthood, whom he, in common with
all the nation, believed to have been engaged in the darkest intrigues
against the king and government. I am afraid that this task was the
more pleasing, from that prejudice against the clergy, of all
countries and religions, which, as already noticed, our author
displays, in common with other wits of that licentious age[4]. The
character of the Spanish Friar was not, however, forgotten, when
Dryden became a convert to the Roman Catholic persuasion; and, in many
instances, as well as in that just quoted, it was assumed as the means
of fixing upon him a charge of inconsistency in politics, and
versatility in religion[5].

The tragic part of the "Spanish Friar" has uncommon merit. The opening
of the Drama, and the picture of a besieged town in the last
extremity, is deeply impressive, while the description of the noise of
the night attack, and the gradual manner in which the intelligence of
its success is communicated, arrests the attention, and prepares
expectation for the appearance of the hero, with all the splendour
which ought to attend the principal character in tragedy. The
subsequent progress of the plot is liable to a capital objection, from
the facility with which the queen, amiable and virtuous, as we are
bound to suppose her, consents to the murder of the old dethroned
monarch. We question if the operation of any motive, however powerful,
could have been pleaded with propriety, in apology for a breach of
theatrical decorum, so gross, and so unnatural. But, in fact, the
queen is only actuated by a sort of reflected ambition, a desire to
secure to her lover a crown, which she thought in danger; but which,
according to her own statement, she only valued on his account. This
is surely too remote and indirect a motive, to urge a female to so
horrid a crime. There is also something vilely cold-hearted, in her
attempt to turn the guilt and consequences of her own crime upon
Bertran, who, whatever faults he might have to others, was to the
queen no otherwise obnoxious, than because the victim of her own
inconstancy. The gallant, virtuous, and enthusiastic character of
Torrismond, must be allowed, in some measure, to counterbalance that
of his mistress, however unhappily he has placed his affections. But
the real excellence of these scenes consists less in peculiarity of
character, than in the vivacity and power of the language, which,
seldom sinking into vulgarity, or rising into bombast, maintains the
mixture of force and dignity, best adapted to the expression of tragic
passion. Upon the whole, as the comic part of this play is our
author's master-piece in comedy, the tragic plot may be ranked with
his very best efforts of that kind, whether in "Don Sebastian," or
"All for Love. "

The "Spanish Friar" appears to have been brought out shortly after Mr
Thynne's murder, which is alluded to in the Prologue, probably early
in 1681-2. The whimsical caricature, which it presented to the public,
in Father Dominic, was received with rapture by the prejudiced
spectators, who thought nothing could be exaggerated in the character
of a Roman Catholic priest. Yet, the satire was still more severe in
the first edition, and afterwards considerably softened[6]. It was, as
Dryden himself calls it, a Protestant play; and certainly, as Jeremy
Collier somewhere says, was rare Protestant diversion, and much for
the credit of the Reformation. Accordingly, the "Spanish Friar" was
the only play prohibited by James II. after his accession; an
interdict, which may be easily believed no way disagreeable to the
author, now a convert to the Roman church. It is very remarkable,
that, after the Revolution, it was the first play represented by order
of queen Mary, and honoured with her presence; a choice, of which she
had abundant reason to repent, as the serious part of the piece gave
as much scope for malicious application against herself, as the comic
against the religion of her father[7].


Footnotes:
1. Collier remarks the injustice of punishing the agent of Lorenzo's
vice, while he was himself brought off with flying colours. He
observes, "'Tis not the fault which is corrected, but the priest.
The author's discipline is seldom without a bias. He commonly gives
the laity the pleasure of an ill action, and the clergy the
punishment. " _View of the Immorality and Profaneness of the Stage_,
p. 100.


2. To satire next thy talent was addressed,
Fell foul on all thy friends among the rest;
Nay, even thy royal patron was not spared,
But an obscene, a sauntering wretch declared.
Thy loyal libel we can still produce,
Beyond example, and beyond excuse.
O strange return, to a forgiving king,
(But the warmed viper wears the greatest sting,)
For pension lost, and justly without doubt;
When servants snarl we ought to kick them out.
They that disdain their benefactor's bread.
No longer ought by bounty to be fed.
That lost, the visor changed, you turn about,
And straight a true-blue protestant crept out.
The Friar now was writ, and some will say,
They smell a malcontent through all the play.
The papist too was damned, unfit for trust,
Called treacherous, shameless, profligate, unjust,
And kingly power thought arbitrary lust.
This lasted till thou didst thy pension gain,
And that changed both thy morals and thy strain.
_The Laureat, 24th October, 1678. _

3. From hence began that plot, the nation's curse,
Bad in itself, but represented worse.
Raised in extremes, and in extremes decryed,
With oaths affirmed, with dying vows denied;
Nor weighed nor winnowed by the multitude,
But swallowed in the mass unchewed and crude.
Some truth there was, but dashed and bruised with lies,
To please the fools, and puzzle all the wise.
Succeeding times did equal folly call.
Believing nothing, or believing all.

4. "Thus we see," says Collier, "how hearty these people are in their
ill-will; how they attack religion under every form, and pursue the
priesthood through all the subdivisions of opinion. Neither Jews
nor Heathens, Turk nor Christians, Rome nor Geneva, church nor
conventicle, can escape them. They are afraid lest virtue should
have any quarters, undisturbed conscience any corner to retire to,
or God worshipped in any place. " _Short View, &c. _ p. 110.

5. "I have read somewhere in Mons. Rapin's _Reflections sur la
Poetique_, that a certain Venetian nobleman, Andrea Naugeria by
name, was wont every year to sacrifice a Martial to the manes of
Catullus: In imitation of this, a celebrated poet, in the preface
before the Spanish Friar, is pleased to acquaint the world, that he
has indignation enough to burn a Bussy D'Amboys, annually, to the
memory of Ben Jonson. Since the modern ceremony, of offering up one
author at the altar of another, is likely to advance into a
fashion; and having already the authority of two such great men to
recommend it, the courteous reader may be pleased to take notice,
that the author of the following dialogue is resolved, (God
willing) on the festival of the Seven Sleepers, as long as he
lives, to sacrifice the Hind and Panther to the memory of Mr
Quarels and John Bunyan: Or, if a writer that has notoriously
contradicted himself, and espoused the quarrel of two different
parties, may be considered under two distinct characters, he
designs to deliver up the author of the Hind and Panther, to be
lashed severely by, and to beg pardon of, the worthy gentleman that
wrote the Spanish Friar, and the Religion Laici. " _The reason of Mr
Bayes' changing his religion. _ Preface.

6. "The Revolter," a tragi-comedy, 1687, p. 29.

7. It is impossible to avoid transcribing the whole account of this
representation, with some other curious particulars, contained in a
letter from the earl of Nottingham, published by Sir John
Dalrymple, from a copy given him by the bishop of Dromore; and also
inserted by Mr Malone in his third volume of Dryden's prose works.

"I am loth to send blank paper by a carrier, but am rather willing
to send some of the tattle of the town, than nothing at all; which
will at least serve for an hour's chat,--and then convert the
scrawl to its proper use.

"The only day her Majesty gave herself the diversion of a play, and
that on which she designed to see another, has furnished the town
with discourse for near a month. The choice of the play was THE
SPANISH FRIAR, the only play forbid by the late K[ing], Some
unhappy expressions, among which those that follow, put her in some
disorder, and forced her to hold up her fan, and often look behind
her, and call for her palatine and hood, and any thing she could
next think of; while those who were in the pit before her, turned
their heads over their shoulders, and all in general directed their
looks towards her, whenever their fancy led them to make any
application of what was said. In one place, where the queen of
Arragon is going to church in procession, 'tis said by a spectator,
'Very good; she usurps the throne, keeps the old king in prison,
and, at the same time, is praying for a blessing on her army;'--And
when said, 'That 'tis observed at Court, who weeps, and who wears
black for good king Sancho's death,' 'tis said, 'Who is that, that
can flatter a Court like this? Can I sooth tyranny? seem pleas'd to
see my Royal Master murthered; his crown usurped; a distaff in the
throne? '--And 'What title has this queen, but lawless force; and
force must pull her down'--Twenty more things are said, which may
be wrested to what they were never designed: but however, the
observations then made furnished the town with talk, till something
else happened, which gave it much occasion for discourse; for
another play being ordered to be acted, the queen came not, being
taken up with other diversion. She dined with Mrs Gradens, the
famous woman in the hall, that sells fine laces and head-dresses;
from thence she went to the Jew's, that sells Indian things; to Mrs
Ferguson's, De Vett's, Mrs Harrison's, and other Indian houses; but
not to Mrs Potter's, though in her way; which caused Mrs Potter to
say, that she might as well have hoped for that honour as others,
considering that the whole design of bringing the queen and king
was managed at her house, and the consultations held there; so that
she might as well have thrown away a little money in raffling
there, as well as at the other houses: but it seems that my lord
Devonshire has got Mrs Potter to be laundress: she has not much
countenance of the queen, her daughter still keeping the Indian
house her mother had. The same day the queen went to one Mrs
Wise's, a famous woman for telling fortunes, but could not prevail
with her to tell anything; though to others she has been very true,
and has foretold that king James shall came in again, and the duke
of Norfolk shall lose his head: the last, I suppose, will naturally
be the consequence of the first. These things, however innocent,
have passed the censure of the town: and, besides a private
reprimand given, the king gave one in _public_; saying to the
queen, that he heard she dined at a bawdy-house, and desired the
next time she went, he might go. She said, she had done nothing but
what the late queen had done. He asked her, if she meant to make
her, her example. More was said on this occasion than ever was
known before; but it was borne with all the submission of a good
wife, who leaves all to the direction of the k----, and diverts
herself with walking six or seven miles a-day, and looking after
her buildings, making of fringes, and such like innocent things;
and does not meddle in government, though she has better title to
do it than the late queen had. "




TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JOHN,

LORD HAUGHTON[1].


MY LORD,

When I first designed this play, I found, or thought I found, somewhat
so moving in the serious part of it, and so pleasant in the comic, as
might deserve a more than ordinary care in both; accordingly, I used
the best of my endeavour, in the management of two plots, so very
different from each other, that it was not perhaps the talent of every
writer to have made them of a piece. Neither have I attempted other
plays of the same nature, in my opinion, with the same judgment,
though with like success. And though many poets may suspect themselves
for the fondness and partiality of parents to their youngest children,
yet I hope I may stand exempted from this rule, because I know myself
too well to be ever satisfied with my own conceptions, which have
seldom reached to those ideas that I had within me; and consequently,
I may presume to have liberty to judge when I write more or less
pardonably, as an ordinary marksman may know certainly when he shoots
less wide at what he aims. Besides, the care and pains I have bestowed
on this, beyond my other tragi-comedies, may reasonably make the world
conclude, that either I can do nothing tolerably, or that this poem is
not much amiss. Few good pictures have been finished at one sitting;
neither can a true just play, which is to bear the test of ages, be
produced at a heat, or by the force of fancy, without the maturity of
judgment. For my own part, I have both so just a diffidence of myself,
and so great a reverence for my audience, that I dare venture nothing
without a strict examination; and am as much ashamed to put a loose
indigested play upon the public, as I should be to offer brass money
in a payment; for though it should be taken, (as it is too often on
the stage) yet it would be found in the second telling; and a
judicious reader will discover, in his closet, that trashy stuff,
whose glittering deceived him in the action. I have often heard the
stationer sighing in his shop, and wishing for those hands to take off
his melancholy bargain, which clapped its performance on the stage. In
a playhouse, every thing contributes to impose upon the judgment; the
lights, the scenes, the habits, and, above all, the grace of action,
which is commonly the best where there is the most need of it,
surprise the audience, and cast a mist upon their understandings; not
unlike the cunning of a juggler, who is always staring us in the face,
and over-whelming us with gibberish, only that he may gain the
opportunity of making the cleaner conveyance of his trick. But these
false beauties of the stage are no more lasting than a rainbow; when
the actor ceases to shine upon them, when he gilds them no longer with
his reflection, they vanish in a twinkling. I have sometimes wondered,
in the reading, what was become of those glaring colours which amazed
me in "Bussy D'Amboys" upon the theatre; but when I had taken up what
I supposed a fallen star, I found I had been cozened with a jelly[2];
nothing but a cold, dull mass, which glittered no longer than it was
shooting; a dwarfish thought, dressed up in gigantic words, repetition
in abundance, looseness of expression, and gross hyperboles; the sense
of one line expanded prodigiously into ten; and, to sum up all,
uncorrect English, and a hideous mingle of false poetry, and true
nonsense; or, at best, a scantling of wit, which lay gasping for life,
and groaning beneath a heap of rubbish. A famous modern poet used to
sacrifice every year a Statius to Virgil's manes[3]; and I have
indignation enough to burn a D'AMBOIS annually, to the memory of
Jonson[4]. But now, my lord, I am sensible, perhaps too late, that I
have gone too far: for, I remember some verses of my own Maximin and
Almanzor, which cry vengeance upon me for their extravagance, and
which I wish heartily in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. All I
can say for those passages, which are, I hope, not many, is, that I
knew they were bad enough to please, even when I wrote them; but I
repent of them amongst my sins; and, if any of their fellows intrude
by chance into my present writings, I draw a stroke over all those
Dalilah's of the theatre; and am resolved I will settle myself no
reputation by the applause of fools. It is not that I am mortified to
all ambition, but I scorn as much to take it from half-witted judges,
as I should to raise an estate by cheating of bubbles. Neither do I
discommend the lofty style in tragedy, which is naturally pompous and
magnificent; but nothing is truly sublime, that is not just and
proper.
If the antients had judged by the same measure, which a common
reader takes, they had concluded Statius to have written higher than
Virgil, for,

_Quæ super-imposito moles geminata Colosso_

carries a more thundering kind of sound, than

_Tityre, tu patulæ recubans sub tegmine fagi:_

yet Virgil had all the majesty of a lawful prince, and Statius only
the blustering of a tyrant. But when men affect a virtue which they
cannot easily reach, they fall into a vice, which bears the nearest
resemblance to it. Thus, an injudicious poet, who aims at loftiness,
runs easily into the swelling puffy style, because it looks like
greatness. I remember, when I was a boy, I thought inimitable Spencer
a mean poet, in comparison of Sylvester's "Dubartas," and was wrapt
into an ecstasy when I read these lines:

Now, when the winter's keener breath began
To crystalize the Baltic ocean;
To glaze the lakes, to bridle up the floods,
And periwig with snow the bald-pate woods:--[5]

I am much deceived if this be not abominable fustian, that is,
thoughts and words ill-sorted, and without the least relation to each
other; yet I dare not answer for an audience, that they would not clap
it on the stage: so little value there is to be given to the common
cry, that nothing but madness can please madmen, and the poet must be
of a piece with the spectators, to gain a reputation with them. But,
as in a room, contrived for state, the height of the roof should bear
a proportion to the area; so, in the heightenings of poetry, the
strength and vehemence of figures should be suited to the occasion,
the subject, and the persons. All beyond this is monstrous: it is out
of nature, it is an excrescence, and not a living part of poetry. I
had not said thus much, if some young gallants, who pretend to
criticism, had not told me, that this tragi-comedy wanted the dignity
of style; but, as a man, who is charged with a crime of which he
thinks himself innocent, is apt to be too eager in his own defence;
so, perhaps, I have vindicated my play with more partiality than I
ought, or than such a trifle can deserve. Yet, whatever beauties it
may want, it is free at least from the grossness of those faults I
mentioned: what credit it has gained upon the stage, I value no
farther than in reference to my profit, and the satisfaction I had, in
seeing it represented with all the justness and gracefulness of
action. But, as it is my interest to please my audience, so it is my
ambition to be read: that I am sure is the more lasting and the nobler
design: for the propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden
beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of
action: all things are there beheld, as in a hasty motion, where the
objects only glide before the eye, and disappear. The most discerning
critic can judge no more of these silent graces in the action, than he
who rides post through an unknown country can distinguish the
situation of places, and the nature of the soil. The purity of phrase,
the clearness of conception and expression, the boldness maintained to
majesty, the significancy and sound of words, not strained into
bombast, but justly elevated; in short, those very words and thoughts,
which cannot be changed, but for the worse, must of necessity escape
our transient view upon the theatre; and yet, without all these, a
play may take. For, if either the story move us, or the actor help the
lameness of it with his performance, or now and then a glittering beam
of wit or passion strike through the obscurity of the poem, any of
these are sufficient to effect a present liking, but not to fix a
lasting admiration; for nothing but truth can long continue; and time
is the surest judge of truth. I am not vain enough to think that I
have left no faults in this, which that touchstone will not discover;
neither, indeed, is it possible to avoid them in a play of this
nature. There are evidently two actions in it; but it will be clear to
any judicious man, that with half the pains I could have raised a play
from either of them; for this time I satisfied my humour, which was to
tack two plays together; and to break a rule for the pleasure of
variety. The truth is, the audience are grown weary of continued
melancholy scenes; and I dare venture to prophecy, that few tragedies,
except those in verse, shall succeed in this age, if they are not
lightened with a course of mirth; for the feast is too dull and solemn
without the fiddles. But how difficult a task this is, will soon be
tried; for a several genius is required to either way; and, without
both of them, a man, in my opinion, is but half a poet for the stage.
Neither is it so trivial an undertaking, to make a tragedy end
happily; for it is more difficult to save, than it is to kill. The
dagger and the cup of poison are always in a readiness; but to bring
the action to the last extremity, and then by probable means to
recover all, will require the art and judgement of a writer; and cost
him many a pang in the performance.

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!