No More Learning

_Ind. _ I wait till this long storm be over-blown.

_Aur. _ I'm conscious of my folly: I have done. --
I cannot rail; but silently I'll grieve.
How did I trust! and how did you deceive!
Oh, Arimant, would I had died for thee!
I dearly buy thy generosity.

_Ind. _ Alas, is he then dead?

_Aur. _ Unknown to me,
He took my arms; and, while I forced my way
Through troops of foes, which did our passage stay,
My buckler o'er my aged father cast,
Still fighting, still defending as I past,
The noble Arimant usurped my name;
Fought, and took from me, while he gave me, fame.
To Aureng-Zebe, he made his soldiers cry,
And, seeing not, where he heard danger nigh,
Shot, like a star, through the benighted sky,
A short, but mighty aid: At length he fell.
My own adventures 'twere lost time to tell;
Or how my army, entering in the night,
Surprised our foes; The dark disordered fight:
How my appearance, and my father shown,
Made peace; and all the rightful monarch own.
I've summed it briefly, since it did relate
The unwelcome safety of the man you hate.

_Ind. _ As briefly will I clear my innocence:
Your altered brother died in my defence.
Those tears you saw, that tenderness I showed,
Were just effects of grief and gratitude.
He died my convert.

_Aur. _ But your lover too:
I heard his words, and did your actions view;
You seemed to mourn another lover dead:
My sighs you gave him, and my tears you shed.
But, worst of all,
Your gratitude for his defence was shown:
It proved you valued life, when I was gone.

_Ind. _ Not that I valued life, but feared to die:
Think that my weakness, not inconstancy.

_Aur. _ Fear showed you doubted of your own intent:
And she, who doubts, becomes less innocent.
Tell me not you could fear;
Fear's a large promiser; who subject live
To that base passion, know not what they give.
No circumstance of grief you did deny;
And what could she give more, who durst not die?

_Ind. _ My love, my faith.

_Aur. _ Both so adulterate grown,
When mixed with fear, they never could be known.
I wish no ill might her I love befal;
But she ne'er loved, who durst not venture all.
Her life and fame should my concernment be;
But she should only be afraid for me.

_Ind. _ My heart was yours; but, oh! you left it here,
Abandoned to those tyrants, hope and fear;
If they forced from me one kind look, or word,
Could you not that, not that small part afford?

_Aur. _ If you had loved, you nothing yours could call;
Giving the least of mine, you gave him all.
True love's a miser; so tenacious grown,
He weighs to the least grain of what's his own;
More delicate than honour's nicest sense,
Neither to give nor take the least offence.
With, or without you, I can have no rest:
What shall I do? you're lodged within my breast:
Your image never will be thence displaced;
But there it lies, stabbed, mangled, and defaced.

_Ind. _ Yet to restore the quiet of your heart,
There's one way left.

_Aur. _ Oh, name it.

_Ind. _ 'Tis to part.
Since perfect bliss with me you cannot prove,
I scorn to bless by halves the man I love.

_Aur. _ Now you distract me more: Shall then the day,
Which views my triumph, see our loves decay?
Must I new bars to my own joy create?
Refuse myself what I had forced from fate?
What though I am not loved?
Reason's nice taste does our delights destroy:
Brutes are more blessed, who grossly feed on joy.

_Ind. _ Such endless jealousies your love pursue,
I can no more be fully blessed than you.
I therefore go, to free us both from pain:
I prized your person, but your crown disdain.
Nay, even my own--
I give it you; for, since I cannot call
Your heart my subject, I'll not reign at all. [_Exit. _

_Aur. _ Go: Though thou leav'st me tortured on the rack,
'Twixt shame and pride, I cannot call thee back. --
She's guiltless, and I should submit; but oh!
When she exacts it, can I stoop so low?
Yes; for she's guiltless; but she's haughty too.
Great souls long struggle ere they own a crime:
She's gone; and leaves me no repenting time.
I'll call her now; sure, if she loves, she'll stay;
Linger at least, or not go far away.
[_Looks to the door, and returns. _
For ever lost! and I repent too late.
My foolish pride would set my whole estate,
Till, at one throw, I lost all back to fate.

_To him the Emperor, drawing in_ INDAMORA: _Attendants. _

_Emp. _ It must not be, that he, by whom we live,
Should no advantage of his gift receive.
Should he be wholly wretched? he alone,
In this blessed day, a day so much his own? [_To_ IND.
I have not quitted yet a victor's right:
I'll make you happy in your own despite.
I love you still; and, if I struggle hard
To give, it shows the worth of the reward.

_Ind. _ Suppose he has o'ercome; must I find place
Among his conquered foes, and sue for grace?
Be pardoned, and confess I loved not well?
What though none live my innocence to tell,
I know it: Truth may own a generous pride:
I clear myself, and care for none beside.

_Aur. _ Oh, Indamora, you would break my heart!
Could you resolve, on any terms, to part?
I thought your love eternal: Was it tied
So loosely, that a quarrel could divide?
I grant that my suspicions were unjust;
But would you leave me, for a small distrust?
Forgive those foolish words-- [_Kneeling to her. _
They were the froth my raging folly moved,
When it boiled up: I knew not then I loved;
Yet then loved most.

_Ind. _ [_To_ AUR. ]
You would but half be blest! [_Giving her hand, smiling. _

_Aur. _ Oh do but try
My eager love: I'll give myself the lie.
The very hope is a full happiness,
Yet scantly measures what I shall possess.
Fancy itself, even in enjoyment, is
But a dumb judge, and cannot tell its bliss.

_Emp. _ Her eyes a secret yielding do confess,
And promise to partake your happiness.
May all the joys I did myself pursue,
Be raised by her, and multiplied on you!

_A Procession of Priests, Slaves following, and, last,_ MELESINDA
_in white. _

_Ind. _ Alas! what means this pomp?

_Aur. _ 'Tis the procession of a funeral vow,
Which cruel laws to Indian wives allow,
When fatally their virtue they approve;
Cheerful in flames, and martyrs of their love.

_Ind. _ Oh, my foreboding heart! the event I fear:
And see! sad Melesinda does appear.

_Mel. _ You wrong my love; what grief do I betray?
This is the triumph of my nuptial day,
My better nuptials; which, in spite of fate,
For ever join me to my dear Morat.
Now I am pleased; my jealousies are o'er:
He's mine; and I can lose him now no more.

_Emp. _ Let no false show of fame, your reason blind.

_Ind. _ You have no right to die; he was not kind.

_Mel. _ Had he been kind, I could no love have shown:
Each vulgar virtue would as much have done.
My love was such, it needed no return;
But could, though he supplied no fuel, burn.
Rich in itself, like elemental fire,
Whose pureness does no aliment require.
In vain you would bereave me of my lord;
For I will die:--Die is too base a word,
I'll seek his breast, and, kindling by his side,
Adorned with flames, I'll mount a glorious bride. [_Exit. _

_Enter_ NOURMAHAL, _distracted, with_ ZAYDA.

_Zay. _ She's lost, she's lost! but why do I complain,
For her, who generously did life disdain!
Poisoned, she raves--
The envenomed body does the soul attack;
The envenomed soul works its own poison back.

_Nour. _ I burn, I more than burn; I am all fire.
See how my mouth and nostrils flame expire!
I'll not come near myself--
Now I'm a burning lake, it rolls and flows;
I'll rush, and pour it all upon my foes.
Pull, pull that reverend piece of timber near:
Throw't on--'tis dry--'twill burn--
Ha, ha! how my old husband crackles there!
Keep him down, keep him down; turn him about:
I know him,--he'll but whiz, and strait go out.
Fan me, you winds: What, not one breath of air?
I'll burn them all, and yet have flames to spare.
Quench me: Pour on whole rivers. 'Tis in vain:
Morat stands there to drive them back again:
With those huge billows in his hands, he blows
New fire into my head: My brain-pan glows.
See! see! there's Aureng-Zebe too takes his part;
But he blows all his fire into my heart[4].

_Aur. _ Alas, what fury's this?

_Nour. _ That's he, that's he!
[_Staring upon him, and catching at him. _
I know the dear man's voice:
And this my rival, this the cursed she.
They kiss; into each other's arms they run:
Close, close, close! must I see, and must have none?
Thou art not hers: Give me that eager kiss.
Ungrateful! have I lost Morat for this?
Will you? --before my face? --poor helpless I
See all, and have my hell before I die! [_Sinks down. _

_Emp. _ With thy last breath thou hast thy crimes confest:
Farewell; and take, what thou ne'er gav'st me, rest.
But you, my son, receive it better here:
[_Giving him_ INDAMORA'S _hand. _
The just rewards of love and honour wear.
Receive the mistress, you so long have served;
Receive the crown, your loyalty preserved.
Take you the reins, while I from cares remove,
And sleep within the chariot which I drove. [_Exeunt. _


Footnotes:
1. --_Magne regnator deum,
Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?
Ecquando sæva fulmen emittes manu,
Si nunc serenum est?
--Me velox cremet,
Transactus ignis. Sum nocens, merui mori,
Placui novercæ. _--Hippolitus apud Senecam.

See Langbaine, on this play.

2. In Dryden's time it was believed, that some Indian tribes devoured
the bodies of their parents; affirming, they could shew no greater
mark of respect, than to incorporate their remains with their own
substance.

3. Langbaine traces this speech also to Seneca's Hippolitus.

_--Thesei vultus amo;
Illos priores quos tulit quondam puer,
Cum prima puras barba signaret genas. _

4. I wish the duty of an editor had permitted me to omit this
extravagant and ludicrous rhapsody.




EPILOGUE


A pretty task! and so I told the fool,
Who needs would undertake to please by rule:
He thought, that if his characters were good,
The scenes entire, and freed from noise and blood;
The action great, yet circumscribed by time,
The words not forced, but sliding into rhyme,
The passions raised, and calm by just degrees,
As tides are swelled, and then retire to seas;
He thought, in hitting these, his business done,
Though he, perhaps, has failed in every one:
But, after all, a poet must confess,
His art's like physic, but a happy guess.
Your pleasure on your fancy must depend:
The lady's pleased, just as she likes her friend.
No song! no dance! no show! he fears you'll say:
You love all naked beauties, but a play.
He much mistakes your methods to delight;
And, like the French, abhors our target-fight:
But those damned dogs can ne'er be in the right.
True English hate your Monsieur's paltry arts,
For you are all silk-weavers in your hearts[1].
Bold Britons, at a brave Bear-Garden fray,
Are roused: And, clattering sticks, cry,--Play, play, play! [2]
Meantime, your filthy foreigner will stare,
And mutters to himself,--_Ha! gens barbare! _
And, gad, 'tis well he mutters; well for him;
Our butchers else would tear him limb from limb.
'Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be
Infected with this French civility:
But this, in after ages will be done:
Our poet writes an hundred years too soon.
This age comes on too slow, or he too fast:
And early springs are subject to a blast!
Who would excel, when few can make a test
Betwixt indifferent writing and the best?
For favours, cheap and common, who would strive,
Which, like abandoned prostitutes, you give?
Yet, scattered here and there, I some behold,
Who can discern the tinsel from the gold:
To these he writes; and, if by them allowed,
'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd.
For he more fears, like a presuming man,
Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can.


Footnotes:
1. Enemies, namely, like the English silk-weavers to the manufactures
of France.

2. Alluding to the prize-fighting with broad-swords at the
Bear-Garden: an amusement sufficiently degrading, yet more manly,
and less brutal than that of boxing, as now practised. We have
found, in the lowest deep, a lower still.


* * * * *


ALL FOR LOVE;

OR,

THE WORLD WELL LOST.


A

TRAGEDY.




ALL FOR LOVE.


The prologue to the preceding play has already acquainted us, that
Dryden's taste for Rhyming, or Heroic Plays, was then upon the wane;
and, accordingly "Aureng-Zebe" was the last tragedy which he formed
upon that once admired model. "Henceforth a series of new times
began," for, when given up by the only writer, whose command of
flowing and powerful numbers had rendered it impressive, that
department of the drama was soon abandoned by the inferior class of
play-writers, to whom it presented multiplied difficulties, without a
single advantage. The new taste, which our author had now decidedly
adopted, was founded upon the stile of Shakespeare, of whose works he
appears always to have been a persevering student, and, at length, an
ardent admirer. Accordingly, he informs us, in the introduction, that
this play is professedly written in imitation of "the divine
Shakespeare. " As if to bring this more immediately under the eye of
the reader, he has chosen a subject upon which his immortal original
had already laboured; and, perhaps, the most proper introduction to
"All for Love" may be a parallel betwixt it and Shakespeare's "Antony
and Cleopatra. "

The first point of comparison is the general conduct, or plot, of the
tragedy. And here Dryden, having, to use his own language, undertaken
to shoot in the bow of Ulysses, imitates the wily Antinous in using
art to eke out his strength, and suppling the weapon before he
attempted to bend it.

Shakespeare, with the license peculiar to his age and character, had
diffused the action of his play over Italy, Greece, and Egypt; but
Dryden, who was well aware of the advantage to be derived from a
simplicity and concentration of plot, has laid every scene in the city
of Alexandria. By this he guarded the audience from that vague and
puzzling distraction which must necessarily attend a violent change of
place. It is a mistake to suppose, that the argument in favour of the
unities depends upon preserving the deception of the scene; they are
necessarily connected with the intelligibility of the piece. It may be
true, that no spectator supposes that the stage before him is actually
the court of Alexandria; yet, when he has once made up his mind to let
it pass as such during the representation, it is a cruel tax, not
merely on his imagination, but on his powers of comprehension, if the
scene be suddenly transferred to a distant country. Time is lost
before he can form new associations, and reconcile their bearings with
those originally presented to him, and if he be a person of slow
comprehension, or happens to lose any part of the dialogue, announcing
the changes, the whole becomes unintelligible confusion. In this
respect, and in discarding a number of uninteresting characters, the
plan of Dryden's play must be unequivocally preferred to that of
Shakespeare in point of coherence, unity, and simplicity. It is a
natural consequence of this more artful arrangement of the story, that
Dryden contents himself with the concluding scene of Antony's history
instead of introducing the incidents of the war with Cneius Pompey,
the negociation with Lepidus, death of his first wife, and other
circumstances, which, in Shakespeare, only tend to distract our
attention from the main interest of the drama. The union of time, as
necessary as that of place to the intelligibility of the drama, has,
in like manner, been happily attained; and an interesting event is
placed before the audience with no other change of place, and no
greater lapse of time, than can be readily adapted to an ordinary
imagination.

But, having given Dryden the praise of superior address in managing
the story, I fear he must be pronounced in most other respects
inferior to his grand prototype. Antony, the principal character in
both plays, is incomparably grander in that of Shakespeare. The
majesty and generosity of the military hero is happily expressed by
both poets; but the awful ruin of grandeur, undermined by passion, and
tottering to its fall, is far more striking in the Antony of
Shakespeare. Love, it is true, is the predominant; but it is not the
sole ingredient in his character. It has usurped possession of his
mind, but is assailed by his original passions, ambition of power, and
thirst for military fame. He is, therefore, often, and it should seem
naturally represented, as feeling for the downfall of his glory and
power, even so intensely as to withdraw his thoughts from Cleopatra,
unless considered as the cause of his ruin. Thus, in the scene in
which he compares himself to "black Vesper's pageants," he runs on in
a train of fantastic and melancholy similes, having relation only to
his fallen state, till the mention of Egypt suddenly recalls the idea
of Cleopatra. But Dryden has taken a different view of Antony's
character, and more closely approaching to his title of "All for
Love. "--"He seems not now that awful Antony. " His whole thoughts and
being are dedicated to his fatal passion; and though a spark of
resentment is occasionally struck out by the reproaches of Ventidius,
he instantly relapses into love-sick melancholy. The following
beautiful speech exhibits the romance of despairing love, without the
deep and mingled passion of a dishonoured soldier, and dethroned
emperor:

_Ant. _ [_Throwing himself down. _]
Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor;
The place, thou pressest on thy mother earth,
Is all thy empire now: Now, it contains thee;
Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,
When thou'rt contracted in the narrow urn,
Shrunk to a few cold ashes; then, Octavia,
For Cleopatra will not live to see it,
Octavia then will have thee all her own,
And bear thee in her widowed hand to Cæsar;
Cæsar will weep, the crocodile will weep,
To see his rival of the universe
Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't.
Give me some music; look that it be sad:
I'll sooth my melancholy, 'till I swell,
And burst myself with sighing-- [_Soft music. _
'Tis somewhat to my humour: Stay, I fancy
I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;
Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;
Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene,
Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak,
I lean my head upon the mossy bark,
And look just of a piece, as I grew from it:
My uncombed locks, matted like misletoe,
Hang o'er my hoary face; a murmuring brook
Runs at my foot.

_Ven. _ Methinks I fancy
Myself there too.

_Ant. _ The herd come jumping by me,
And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on,
And take me for their fellow-citizen.

Even when Antony is finally ruined, the power of jealousy is called
upon to complete his despair, and he is less sensible to the idea of
Cæsar's successful arms, than to the risque of Dolabella's rivalling
him in the affections of Cleopatra. It is true, the Antony of
Shakespeare also starts into fury, upon Cleopatra permitting Thyreus
to kiss her hand; but this is not jealousy; it is pride offended, that
she, for whom he had sacrificed his glory and empire, should already
begin to court the favour of the conqueror, and vouchsafe her hand to
be saluted by a "jack of Cæsars. " Hence Enobarbus, the witness of the
scene, alludes immediately to the fury of mortified ambition and
falling power:

'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp,
Than with an old one dying--

Having, however, adopted an idea of Antony's character, rather
suitable to romance than to nature, or history, we must not deny
Dryden the praise of having exquisitely brought out the picture he
intended to draw. He has informed us, that this was the only play
written to please himself; and he has certainly exerted in it the full
force of his incomparable genius. Antony is throughout the piece what
the author meant him to be; a victim to the omnipotence of love, or
rather to the infatuation of one engrossing passion[1].

In the Cleopatra of Dryden, there is greatly less spirit and
originality than in Shakespeare's. The preparation of the latter for
death has a grandeur which puts to shame the same scene in Dryden, and
serves to support the interest during the whole fifth act, although
Antony has died in the conclusion of the fourth. No circumstance can
more highly evince the power of Shakespeare's genius, in spite of his
irregularities; since the conclusion in Dryden, where both lovers die
in the same scene, and after a reconciliation, is infinitely more
artful and better adapted to theatrical effect.

In the character of Ventidius, Dryden has filled up, with ability, the
rude sketches, which Shakespeare has thrown off in those of Scæva and
Eros. The rough old Roman soldier is painted with great truth; and the
quarrel betwixt him and Antony, in the first act, is equal to any
single scene that our author ever wrote, excepting, perhaps, that
betwixt Sebastian and Dorax; an opinion in which the judgment of the
critic coincides with that of the poet. It is a pity, as has often
been remarked, that this dialogue occurs so early in the play, since
what follows is necessarily inferior in force. Dryden, while writing
this scene, had unquestionably in his recollection the quarrel betwixt
Brutus and Cassius, which was justly so great a favourite in his time,
and to which he had referred as inimitable in his prologue to
"Aureng-Zebe. [2]"

The inferior characters are better supported in Dryden than in
Shakespeare. We have no low buffoonery in the former, such as
disgraces Enobarbus, and is hardly redeemed by his affecting
catastrophe. Even the Egyptian Alexas acquires some respectability,
from his patriotic attachment to the interests of his country, and
from his skill as a wily courtier. He expresses, by a beautiful image,
the effeminate attachment to life, appropriated to his character and
country:

O, that I less could fear to lose this being,
Which, like a snow-ball in my coward hand,
The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away.

The Octavia of Dryden is a much more important personage than in the
"Antony and Cleopatra" of Shakespeare. She is, however, more cold and
unamiable; for, in the very short scenes in which the Octavia of
Shakespeare appears, she is placed in rather an interesting point of
view. But Dryden has himself informed us, that he was apprehensive the
justice of a wife's claim upon her husband would draw the audience to
her side, and lessen their interest in the lover and the mistress. He
seems accordingly to have studiedly lowered the character of the
injured Octavia, who, in her conduct towards her husband, shews much
duty and little love; and plainly intimates, that her rectitude of
conduct flows from a due regard to her own reputation, rather than
from attachment to Antony's person, or sympathy with him in his
misfortunes. It happens, therefore, with Octavia, as with all other
very good selfish kind of people; we think it unnecessary to feel any
thing for her, as she is obviously capable of taking very good care of
herself. I must not omit, that her scolding scene with Cleopatra,
although anxiously justified by the author in the preface, seems too
coarse to be in character, and is a glaring exception to the general
good taste evinced throughout the rest of the piece.

It would be too long a task to contrast the beauties of these two
great poets in point of diction and style. But the reader will
doubtless be pleased to compare the noted descriptions of the voyage
of Cleopatra down the Cydnus. It is thus given in Shakespeare:

The barge she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: The poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed, that
The winds were love-sick with them: The oars were silver;
Which, to the tune of flutes, kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat, to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggared all description: she did lie
In her pavilion (cloth of gold, of tissue),
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see,
The fancy outwork nature; on each side her,
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With diverse coloured fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid, did.
Her gentlewomen, like the Nereids,
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes,
And made their bends adornings: At the helm
A seeming mermaid steers: The silken tackle
Swells with the touches of those flower-soft hands
That yarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast
Her people out upon her; and Antony,
Enthroned in the market-place, did sit alone,
Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,
And made a gap in nature.
_Antony and Cleopatra_, Act i. Scene 2.

The parallel passage in Dryden runs thus:

The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold,
The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails:
Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed;
Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay,

_Dola. _ No more: I would not hear it,

_Ant. _ O, you must!
She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand,
And cast a look so languishingly sweet,
As if secure of all beholders hearts,
Neglecting she could take them: Boys, like Cupids,
Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds
That played about her face! But if she smiled,
A darting glory secured to blaze abroad:
That men's desiring eyes were never wearied,
But hung upon the object: To soft flutes
The silver oars kept time; and while they played,
The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight;
And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more;
For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds
Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath
To give their welcome voice.
Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul?
Was not thy fury quite disarmed with murder?
Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes,
And whisper in my ear, Oh, tell her not
That I accused her of my brother's death?

In judging betwixt these celebrated passages, we feel almost afraid to
avow a preference of Dryden, founded partly upon the easy flow of the
verse, which seems to soften with the subject, but chiefly upon the
beauty of the language and imagery, which is flowery without
diffusiveness, and rapturous without hyperbole. I fear Shakespeare
cannot be exculpated from the latter fault; yet I am sensible, it is
by sifting his beauties from his conceits that his imitator has been
enabled to excel him.

It is impossible to bestow too much praise on the beautiful passages
which occur so frequently in "All for Love. " Having already given
several examples of happy expression of melancholy and tender
feelings, I content myself with extracting the sublime and terrific
description of an omen presaging the downfall of Egypt.

_Serap. _ Last night, between the hours of twelve and one,
In a lone isle of the temple while I walked,
A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast,
Shook all the dome: The doors around me clapt;
The iron wicket, that defends the vault,
Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid,
Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead.
From out each monument, in order placed,
An armed ghost starts up: The boy-king last
Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans
Then followed, and a lamentable voice
Cried,--"Egypt is no more! " My blood ran back,
My shaking knees against each other knocked;
On the cold pavement down I fell entranced,
And so, unfinished, left the horrid scene.

Having quoted so many passages of exquisite poetry, and having set
this play in no unequal opposition to that of Shakespeare, it is,
perhaps, unnecessary to mention by what other poets the same subject
has been treated. Daniel, Mary countess of Pembroke, May, and Sir
Charles Sedley, each produced a play on the fortunes of Anthony. Of
these pieces I have never read the three former, and will assuredly
never read the last a second time[3].

"All for Love," as the most laboured performance of our author,
received the full tribute of applause and popularity which had often
graced his less perfect and more hurried performances. Davies gives us
the following account of its first representation.

"In Dryden's "All for Love," Booth's dignified action and forcible
elocution, in the part of Antony, attracted the public to that heavy,
though, in many parts, well written play, six night's successively,
without the assistance of pantomime, or farce, which, at that time,
was esteemed something extraordinary. --But, indeed, he was well
supported by an Oldfield, in his Cleopatra, who, to a most harmonious
and powerful voice, and fine person, added grace and elegance of
gesture. When Booth and Oldfield met in the second act, their dignity
of deportment commanded the applause and approbation of the most
judicious critics. When Antony said to Cleopatra,

You promised me your silence, and you break it
Ere I have scarce begun,--

this check was so well understood by Oldfield, and answered with such
propriety of behaviour, that, in Shakespeare's phrase; her "bendings
were adornings. "

"The elder Mills acted Ventidius with the true spirit of a rough and
generous old soldier. To render the play as acceptable to the public
as possible, Wilkes took the trifling part of Dolabella, nor did
Colley Cibber disdain to appear in Alexas. These parts would scarcely
be accepted now by third-rate actors. Still to add more weight to the
performance, Octavia was a short character of a scene or two, in which
Mrs Porter drew not only respect, but the more affecting approbation
of tears from the audience. Since that time, "All for Love" has
gradually sunk into forgetfulness. "

If this last observation be true, it is, under Mr Davies' favour, a
striking illustration of the caprice of the public taste. The play of
"All for Love" was first acted and printed in 1678.


Footnotes:
1. Dryden has himself, in the prologue, alluded to this predominance
of sentiment in his hero's character.

His hero, whom you wits his bully call,
Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all;
He's somewhat lewd; but a well meaning mind,
Weeps much, fights little, but is wondrous kind.

2. But, spite of all his pride, a secret shame
Invades his breast at Shakespeare's sacred name:
Awed, when he hears his god-like 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.

3. Lest any reader should have anticipated better things of "Sedley's
noble muse," the Lisideius of our author's dialogue on dramatic
poetry, I subjoin a specimen, taken at hazard:

Gape, hell, and to thy dismal bottom take
The lost Antonius; this was our last stake:
Warned by my ruin, let no Roman more,
Set foot on the inhospitable shore.
Cowards and traitors filled this impious land,
Faithless and fearful, without heart or hand,
Some ran to Cæsar, like a headlong tide,
The rest their fear made useless on our side.

"This passion, with the death of a dear friend, would go nigh to
make one sad;" yet some of the authors of the day held a very
different doctrine. Shadwell, in his dedication to "A true Widow,"
tells Sedley, "You have in that Mulberry Garden shewn the true wit,
humour, and satire of a comedy; and, in Antony and Cleopatra, the
true spirit of a tragedy; the only one, except two of Jonson's and
one of Shakespeare's, wherein Romans are made to speak and do like
Romans. There are to be found the true characters of Antony and
Cleopatra, as they were; whereas a French author would have made
the Egyptian and Roman both become French under his pen. And even
our English authors are too much given to make history (in these
plays) romantic and impossible; but, in this play, the Romans are
true Romans, and their style is such; and I dare affirm, that there
is not in any play of this age so much of the spirit of the classic
authors, as in your Antony and Cleopatra. " I cannot help suspecting
that much of this hyperbolical praise of Sedley was obliquely
designed to mortify Dryden.




TO

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THOMAS, EARL OF DANBY,

VISCOUNT LATIMER, AND BARON OSBORNE OF
KIVETON IN YORKSHIRE;

LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND,
ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY
COUNCIL, AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE
ORDER OF THE GARTER[1].


MY LORD,

The gratitude of poets is so troublesome a virtue to great men, that
you are often in danger of your own benefits: For you are threatened
with some epistle, and not suffered to do good in quiet, or to
compound for their silence whom you have obliged. Yet, I confess, I
neither am or ought to be surprised at this indulgence; for your
lordship has the same right to favour poetry, which the great and
noble have ever had:

_Carmen amat, quisquis carmine digna gerit. _

There is somewhat of a tie in nature betwixt those who are born for
worthy actions, and those who can transmit them to posterity; and
though ours be much the inferior part, it comes at least within the
verge of alliance; nor are we unprofitable members of the
commonwealth, when we animate others to those virtues, which we copy
and describe from you.

It is indeed their interest, who endeavour the subversion of
governments, to discourage poets and historians; for the best which
can happen to them, is, to be forgotten: But such who, under kings,
are the fathers of their country, and by a just and prudent ordering
of affairs preserve it, have the same reason to cherish the
chroniclers of their actions, as they have to lay up in safety the
deeds and evidences of their estates; for such records are their
undoubted titles to the love and reverence of after-ages. Your
lordship's administration has already taken up a considerable part of
the English annals; and many of its most happy years are owing to it.
His majesty, the most knowing judge of men, and the best master, has
acknowledged the ease and benefit he receives in the incomes of his
treasury, which you found not only disordered, but exhausted. All
things were in the confusion of a chaos, without form or method if not
reduced beyond it, even to annihilation; so that you had not only to
separate the jarring elements, but (if that boldness of expression
might be allowed me) to create them. Your enemies had so embroiled the
management of your office, that they looked on your advancement as the
instrument of your ruin. And as if the clogging of the revenue, and
the confusion of accounts, which you found in your entrance, were not
sufficient, they added their own weight of malice to the public
calamity, by forestalling the credit which should cure it. Your
friends on the other side were only capable of pitying, but not of
aiding you; no farther help or counsel was remaining to you, but what
was founded on yourself; and that indeed was your security; for your
diligence, your constancy, and your prudence, wrought more surely
within, when they were not disturbed by any outward motion. The
highest virtue is best to be trusted with itself; for assistance only
can be given by a genius superior to that which it assists; and it is
the noblest kind of debt, when we are only obliged to God and nature.
This then, my lord, is your just commendation, that you have wrought
out yourself a way to glory, by those very means that were designed
for your destruction: You have not only restored, but advanced the
revenues of your master, without grievance to the subject; and, as if
that were little yet, the debts of the exchequer, which lay heaviest
both on the crown, and on private persons, have by your conduct been
established in a certainty of satisfaction. [2] An action so much the
more great and honourable, because the case was without the ordinary
relief of laws; above the hopes of the afflicted, and beyond the
narrowness of the treasury to redress, had it been managed by a less
able hand. It is certainly the happiest, and most unenvied part of all
your fortune, to do good to many, while you do injury to none; to
receive at once the prayers of the subject, and the praises of the
prince; and, by the care of your conduct, to give him means of
exerting the chiefest (if any be the chiefest) of his royal virtues,
his distributive justice to the deserving, and his bounty and
compassion to the wanting. The disposition of princes towards their
people cannot be better discovered than in the choice of their
ministers; who, like the animal spirits betwixt the soul and body,
participate somewhat of both natures, and make the communication which
is betwixt them. A king, who is just and moderate in his nature, who
rules according to the laws, whom God has made happy by forming the
temper of his soul to the constitution of his government, and who
makes us happy, by assuming over us no other sovereignty than that
wherein our welfare and liberty consists; a prince, I say, of so
excellent a character, and so suitable to the wishes of all good men,
could not better have conveyed himself into his people's
apprehensions, than in your lordship's person; who so lively express
the same virtues, that you seem not so much a copy, as an emanation of
him. Moderation is doubtless an establishment of greatness; but there
is a steadiness of temper which is likewise requisite in a minister of
state; so equal a mixture of both virtues, that he may stand like an
isthmus betwixt the two encroaching seas of arbitrary power, and
lawless anarchy. The undertaking would be difficult to any but an
extraordinary genius, to stand at the line, and to divide the limits;
to pay what is due to the great representative of the nation, and
neither to enhance, nor to yield up, the undoubted prerogatives of the
crown. These, my lord, are the proper virtues of a noble Englishman,
as indeed they are properly English virtues; no people in the world
being capable of using them, but we who have the happiness to be born
under so equal, and so well poised a government;--a government which
has all the advantages of liberty beyond a commonwealth, and all the
marks of kingly sovereignty, without the danger of a tyranny. Both my
nature, as I am an Englishman, and my reason, as I am a man, have bred
in me a loathing to that specious name of a republic; that mock
appearance of a liberty, where all who have not part in the
government, are slaves; and slaves they are of a viler note, than such
as are subjects to an absolute dominion. For no Christian monarchy is
so absolute, but it is circumscribed with laws; but when the executive
power is in the law-makers, there is no farther check upon them; and
the people must suffer without a remedy, because they are oppressed by
their representatives. If I must serve, the number of my masters, who
were born my equals, would but add to the ignominy of my bondage. The
nature of our government, above all others, is exactly suited both to
the situation of our country, and the temper of the natives; an island
being more proper for commerce and for defence, than for extending its
dominions on the Continent; for what the valour of its inhabitants
might gain, by reason of its remoteness, and the casualties of the
seas, it could not so easily preserve: And, therefore, neither the
arbitrary power of One, in a monarchy, nor of Many, in a commonwealth,
could make us greater than we are. It is true, that vaster and more
frequent taxes might be gathered, when the consent of the people was
not asked or needed; but this were only by conquering abroad, to be
poor at home; and the examples of our neighbours teach us, that they
are not always the happiest subjects, whose kings extend their
dominions farthest. Since therefore we cannot win by an offensive war,
at least a land war, the model of our government seems naturally
contrived for the defensive part; and the consent of a people is
easily obtained to contribute to that power which must protect it.
_Felices nimium, bona si sua nórint, Angligenæ! _ And yet there are not
wanting malecontents amongst us, who, surfeiting themselves on too
much happiness, would persuade the people that they might be happier
by a change. It was indeed the policy of their old forefather, when
himself was fallen from the station of glory, to seduce mankind into
the same rebellion with him, by telling him he might yet be freer than
he was; that is, more free than his nature would allow, or, if I may
so say, than God could make him. We have already all the liberty which
free-born subjects can enjoy, and all beyond it is but licence. But if
it be liberty of conscience which they pretend, the moderation of our
church is such, that its practice extends not to the severity of
persecution; and its discipline is withal so easy, that it allows more
freedom to dissenters than any of the sects would allow to it. In the
mean time, what right can be pretended by these men to attempt
innovation in church or state? Who made them the trustees, or, to
speak a little nearer their own language, the keepers of the liberty
of England? If their call be extraordinary, let them convince us by
working miracles; for ordinary vocation they can have none, to disturb
the government under which they were born, and which protects them. He
who has often changed his party, and always has made his interest the
rule of it, gives little evidence of his sincerity for the public
good; it is manifest he changes but for himself, and takes the people
for tools to work his fortune. Yet the experience of all ages might
let him know, that they, who trouble the waters first, have seldom the
benefit of fishing; as they who began the late rebellion, enjoyed not
the fruit of their undertaking, but were crushed themselves by the
usurpation of their own instrument. Neither is it enough for them to
answer, that they only intend a reformation of the government, but not
the subversion of it: on such pretence all insurrections have been
founded; it is striking at the root of power, which is obedience.
Every remonstrance of private men has the seed of treason in it; and
discourses, which are couched in ambiguous terms, are therefore the
more dangerous, because they do all the mischief of open sedition, yet
are safe from the punishment of the laws. These, my lord, are
considerations, which I should not pass so lightly over, had I room to
manage them as they deserve; for no man can be so inconsiderable in a
nation, as not to have a share in the welfare of it; and if he be a
true Englishman, he must at the same time be fired with indignation,
and revenge himself as he can on the disturbers of his country. And to
whom could I more fitly apply myself than to your lordship, who have
not only an inborn, but an hereditary loyalty? The memorable constancy
and sufferings of your father, almost to the ruin of his estate, for
the royal cause, were an earnest of that, which such a parent and such
an institution would produce in the person of a son. But so unhappy an
occasion of manifesting your own zeal, in suffering for his present
majesty, the providence of God, and the prudence of your
administration, will, I hope, prevent; that, as your father's fortune
waited on the unhappiness of his sovereign, so your own may
participate of the better fate which attends his son. The relation,
which you have by alliance to the noble family of your lady, serves to
confirm to you both this happy augury. For what can deserve a greater
place in the English chronicle, than the loyalty and courage, the
actions and death, of the general of an army, fighting for his prince
and country? The honour and gallantry of the earl of Lindsey is so
illustrious a subject, that it is fit to adorn an heroic poem; for he
was the proto-martyr of the cause, and the type of his unfortunate
royal master[3].

Yet after all, my lord, if I may speak my thoughts, you are happy
rather to us than to yourself; for the multiplicity, the cares, and
the vexations of your employment, have betrayed you from yourself, and
given you up into the possession of the public. You are robbed of your
privacy and friends, and scarce any hour of your life you can call
your own. Those, who envy your fortune, if they wanted not
good-nature, might more justly pity it; and when they see you watched
by a crowd of suitors, whose importunity it is impossible to avoid,
would conclude, with reason, that you have lost much more in true
content, than you have gained by dignity; and that a private gentleman
is better attended by a single servant, than your lordship with so
clamorous a train. Pardon me, my lord, if I speak like a philosopher
on this subject; the fortune, which makes a man uneasy, cannot make
him happy; and a wise man must think himself uneasy, when few of his
actions are in his choice.

This last consideration has brought me to another, and a very
seasonable one for your relief; which is, that while I pity your want
of leisure, I have impertinently detained you so long a time. I have
put off my own business, which was my dedication, till it is so late,
that I am now ashamed to begin it; and therefore I will say nothing of
the poem, which I present to you, because I know not if you are like
to have an hour, which, with a good conscience, you may throw away in
perusing it; and for the author, I have only to beg the continuance of
your protection to him, who is,

My Lord,

Your Lordship's most obliged,
Most humble, and
Most obedient, servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.


Footnotes:
1. The person, to whom these high titles now belonged, was Sir Thomas
Osburne, a Baronet of good family, and decayed estate; part of
which had been lost in the royal cause. He was of a bold undaunted
character, and stood high for the prerogative. Hence he was thought
worthy of being sworn into the Privy Council during the
administration of the famous CABAL; and when that was dissolved by
the secession of Shaftesbury and the resignation of Clifford, he
was judged a proper person to succeed the latter as Lord High
Treasurer. He was created Earl of Danby, and was supposed to be
deeply engaged in the attempt to new-model our Constitution on a
more arbitrary plan; having been even heard to say, when sitting in
judgment, that a new proclamation from the Crown was superior to an
old act of Parliament. Nevertheless, he was persecuted as well by
the faction of the Duke of York, to whom he was odious for having
officiously introduced the famous Popish plot to the consideration
of parliament, as by the popular party, who hated him as a
favourite minister. Accordingly, in 1678, he was impeached by a
vote of the House of Commons, and in consequence, notwithstanding
the countenance of the King, was deprived of all his offices, and
finally committed to the tower, where he remained for four years.
Sir John Reresby has these reflections on Lord Danby's greatness
and sudden fall: "It was but a few months before, that few things
were transacted at court, but with the privity or consent of this
great man; the King's brother, and favourite mistress, were glad to
be fair with him, and the general address of all men of business
was to him, who was not only treasurer, but prime minister also,
who not only kept the purse, but was the first, and greatest
confident in all affairs of state. But now he is neglected of
all, forced to hide his head as a criminal, and in danger of losing
all he has got, and his life therewith: His family, raised from
privacy to the degree of Marquis, (a patent was then actually
passing to invest him with that dignity) is now on the brink of
falling below the humble stand of a yeoman; nor would almost the
meanest subject change conditions with him now, whom so very lately
the greatest beheld with envy. " _Memoirs_, p. 85.

As he was obnoxious to all parties, Lord Danby would probably have
been made a sacrifice, had not the disturbances, which arose from
the various plots of the time, turned the attention of his enemies
to other subjects. He was liberated in 1683-4, survived the
Revolution, was created Duke of Leeds, and died in 1712. His
character was of the most decided kind; he was fertile in
expedients and had always something new to substitute for those
which failed; a faculty highly acceptable to Charles, who loved to
be relieved even were it but in idea, from the labour of business,
and the pressure of difficulty. In other points, he was probably
not very scrupulous, since even Dryden found cause to say at
length, that

Danby's matchless impudence
Helped to support the knave.

2. This alludes to the stop of payments in exchequer, in 1671-2; a
desperate measure recommended by Clifford, to secure money for the
war against Holland.

3. The Earl of Lindsey was general in chief for King Charles I. at the
breaking out of the civil war. As an evil omen of the royal cause,
he was mortally wounded and made prisoner at the battle of
Edgehill, the very first which was fought betwixt the king and
parliament. Clarendon says, "He had very many friends, and very few
enemies, and died generally lamented. " His son Montague Bertie,
Earl of Lindsey, was a sufferer in the same cause. Lord Danby was
married to the Lady Bridget, the second daughter of that nobleman.




PREFACE.


The death of Antony and Cleopatra is a subject which has been treated
by the greatest wits of our nation, after Shakespeare; and by all so
variously, that their example has given me the confidence to try
myself in this bow of Ulysses amongst the crowd of shooters; and,
withal, to take my own measures, in aiming at the mark. I doubt not
but the same motive has prevailed with all of us in this attempt; I
mean the excellency of the moral: For the chief persons represented,
were famous patterns of unlawful love; and their end accordingly was
unfortunate. All reasonable men have long since concluded, that the
hero of the poem ought not to be a character of perfect virtue, for
then he could not, without injustice, be made unhappy; nor yet
altogether wicked, because he could not then be pitied.