No More Learning

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. I have
therefore steered the middle course; and have drawn the character of
Antony as favourably as Plutarch, Appian, and Dion Cassius would give
me leave; the like I have observed in Cleopatra. That which is wanting
to work up the pity to a greater heighth, was not afforded me by the
story; for the crimes of love, which they both committed, were not
occasioned by any necessity, or fatal ignorance, but were wholly
voluntary; since our passions are, or ought to be, within our power.
The fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the inferior parts of
it; and the unities of time, place, and action, more exactly observed,
than perhaps the English theatre requires. Particularly, the action is
so much one, that it is the only of the kind without episode, or
underplot; every scene in the tragedy conducing to the main design,
and every act concluding with a turn of it. The greatest error in the
contrivance seems to be in the person of Octavia; for, though I might
use the privilege of a poet, to introduce her into Alexandria, yet I
had not enough considered, that the compassion she moved to herself
and children, was destructive to that which I reserved for Antony and
Cleopatra; whose mutual love being founded upon vice, must lessen the
favour of the audience to them, when virtue and innocence were
oppressed by it. And, though I justified Antony in some measure, by
making Octavia's departure to proceed wholly from herself; yet the
force of the first machine still remained; and the dividing of pity,
like the cutting of a river into many channels, abated the strength of
the natural stream. But this is an objection which none of my critics
have urged against me; and therefore I might have let it pass, if I
could have resolved to have been partial to myself. The faults my
enemies have found, are rather cavils concerning little and not
essential decencies; which a master of the ceremonies may decide
betwixt us. The French poets, I confess, are strict observers of these
punctilios: They would not, for example, have suffered Cleopatra and
Octavia to have met; or, if they had met, there must have only passed
betwixt them some cold civilities, but no eagerness of repartee, for
fear of offending against the greatness of their characters, and the
modesty of their sex. This objection I foresaw, and at the same time
contemned; for I judged it both natural and probable, that Octavia,
proud of her new-gained conquest, would search out Cleopatra to
triumph over her; and that Cleopatra thus attacked, was not of a
spirit to shun the encounter: And it is not unlikely, that two
exasperated rivals should use such satire as I have put into their
mouths; for, after all, though the one were a Roman, and the other a
queen, they were both women. It is true, some actions, though natural,
are not fit to be represented; and broad obscenities in words, ought
in good manners to be avoided: expressions therefore are a modest
clothing of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are of our
bodies. If I have kept myself within the bounds of modesty, all beyond
it is but nicety and affectation; which is no more but modesty
depraved into a vice. They betray themselves, who are too quick of
apprehension in such cases, and leave all reasonable men to imagine
worse of them, than of the poet.

Honest Montaigne goes yet farther: _Nous ne sommes que ceremonie; la
ceremonie nous emporte, et laissons la substance des choses: Nous nous
tenons aux branches, et abandonnons le tronc et le corps. Nous avons
appris aux dames de rougir, oyans seulement nommer ce qu'elles ne
craignent aucunement à faire; Nous n'esons appeller à droict nos
membres, et ne craignons pas de les employer à toute sorte de
debauche. La ceremonie nous defend d'exprimer par paroles les choses
licites et naturelles, et nous l'en croyons; la raison nous defend de
n'en faire point d'illicites et mauvaises, et personne ne l'en croit. _
My comfort is, that by this opinion my enemies are but sucking
critics, who would fain be nibbling ere their teeth are come.

Yet, in this nicety of manners does the excellency of French poetry
consist. Their heroes are the most civil people breathing; but their
good breeding seldom extends to a word of sense; all their wit is in
their ceremony; they want the genius which animates our stage; and
therefore it is but necessary, when they cannot please, that they
should take care not to offend. But as the civillest man in the
company is commonly the dullest, so these authors, while they are
afraid to make you laugh or cry, out of pure good manners, make you
sleep. They are so careful not to exasperate a critic, that they never
leave him any work; so busy with the broom, and make so clean a
riddance, that there is little left either for censure or for praise:
For no part of a poem is worth our discommending, where the whole is
insipid; as when we have once tasted of palled wine, we stay not to
examine it glass by glass. But while they affect to shine in trifles,
they are often careless in essentials. Thus, their Hippolitus is so
scrupulous in point of decency, that he will rather expose himself to
death, than accuse his step-mother to his father; and my critics I am
sure will commend him for it: But we of grosser apprehensions are apt
to think, that this excess of generosity is not practicable, but with
fools and madmen. This was good manners with a vengeance; and the
audience is like to be much concerned at the misfortunes of this
admirable hero. But take Hippolitus out of his poetic fit, and I
suppose he would think it a wiser part, to set the saddle on the right
horse, and chuse rather to live with the reputation of a plain-spoken
honest man, than to die with the infamy of an incestuous villain. [1]
In the mean time we may take notice, that where the poet ought to have
preserved the character as it was delivered to us by antiquity, when
he should have given us the picture of a rough young man, of the
Amazonian strain, a jolly huntsman, and both by his profession and his
early rising a mortal enemy to love, he has chosen to give him the
turn of gallantry sent him to travel from Athens to Paris, taught him
to make love, and transformed the Hippolitus of Euripides into
Monsieur Hippolite. I should not have troubled myself thus far with
French poets, but that I find our _Chedreux_[2] critics wholly form
their judgments by them. But for my part, I desire to be tried by the
laws of my own country; for it seems unjust to me, that the French
should prescribe here, till they have conquered. Our little
sonetteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of poetry.
Poets themselves are the most proper, though I conclude not the only
critics. But till some genius, as universal as Aristotle, shall arise,
one who can penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice
of them, I shall think it reasonable that the judgment of an artificer
in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at
least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. And
this, I suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: For, first, the
crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct, of what
pleases or displeases them: Every man will grant me this; but then, by
a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and
will be distinguished from the multitude, of which other men may think
him one. But, if I come closer to those who are allowed for witty men,
either by the advantage of their quality, or by common fame, and
affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly
concerning poetry, I shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for
most of them severally will exclude the rest, either from the number
of witty men, or at least of able judges. But here again they are all
indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit,
that is, every man, will pretend at the same time to a right judgeing.
But to press it yet farther, there are many witty men, but few poets;
neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. And this is the rock on
which they are daily splitting. Poetry, which is a picture of nature,
must generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts
of it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by
a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. Nor is every man
who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must understand the
excellencies of it too, or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a
critic. From hence it comes that so many satires on poets, and
censures of their writings, fly abroad. Men of pleasant conversation,
(at least esteemed so) and endued with a trifling kind of fancy,
perhaps helped out with some smattering of Latin, are ambitious to
distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry;

_Rarus enim fermè; sensus communis in illâ
Fortunâ. _

And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what
fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates,
but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose their
nakedness to public view? Not considering that they are not to expect
the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their
flatterers after the third bottle. If a little glittering in discourse
has passed them on us for witty men, where was the necessity of
undeceiving the world? Would a man who has an ill title to an estate,
but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord,
to be tried at Westminster? We who write, if we want the talent, yet
have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence; but what can be
urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of poverty to
scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves
ridiculous? Horace was certainly in the right, where he said, "That no
man is satisfied with his own condition. " A poet is not pleased,
because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented, because the
poets will not admit them of their number. Thus the case is hard with
writers: If they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some
malicious satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please
without their leave. But while they are so eager to destroy the fame
of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem
of their own is to lie produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat
with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the
greater majesty[3].

Dionysius and Nero had the same longing, but with all their power they
could never bring their business well about. 'Tis true, they
proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets they were,
upon pain of death to any man who durst call them otherwise. The
audience had a fine time on't, you may imagine; they sat in a bodily
fear, and looked as demurely as they could: for it was a hanging
matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were suspicious, as they
had reason, that their subjects had them in the wind; so, every man,
in his own defence, set as good a face upon the business as he could.
It was known before-hand that the monarchs were to be crowned
laureats; but when the show was over, and an honest man was suffered
to depart quietly, he took out his laughter which he had stifled; with
a firm resolution never more to see an emperor's play, though he had
been ten years a making it. In the mean time the true poets were they
who made the best markets, for they had wit enough to yield the prize
with a good grace, and not contend with him who had thirty legions[4].
They were sure to be rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad
writers, and that was somewhat better than to be martyrs for their
reputation. Lucan's example was enough to teach them manners; and
after he was put to death, for overcoming Nero, the emperor carried it
without dispute for the best poet in his dominions. No man was
ambitious of that grinning honour; for if he heard the malicious
trumpeter proclaiming his name before his betters, he knew there was
but one way with him. Mecænas took another course, and we know he was
more than a great man, for he was witty too: But finding himself far
gone in poetry, which Seneca assures us was not his talent, he thought
it his best way to be well with Virgil and with Horace; that at least
he might be a poet at the second hand; and we see how happily it has
succeeded with him; for his own bad poetry is forgotten, and their
panegyricks of him still remain. But they who should be our patrons,
are for no such expensive ways to fame; they have much of the poetry
of Mecænas, but little of his liberality. They are for persecuting
Horace and Virgil, in the persons of their successors; for such is
every man, who has any part of their soul and fire, though in a less
degree. Some of their little zanies yet go farther; for they are
persecutors even of Horace himself; as far as they are able, by their
ignorant and vile imitations of him; by making an unjust use of his
authority and turning his artillery against his friends. But how would
he disdain to be copied by such hands! I dare answer for him, he would
be more uneasy in their company, than he was with Crispinus, their
forefather, in the Holy Way; and would no more have allowed them a
place amongst the critics, than he would Demetrius the mimic, and
Tigellius the buffoon;

--_Demetri, teque, Tigelli,
Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras. _

With what scorn would he look down on such miserable translators, who
make doggrel of his Latin, mistake his meaning, mis-apply his
censures, and often contradict their own? He is fixed as a landmark to
set out the bounds of poetry:

--_Saxum antiquum, ingens,--
Limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis. _

But other arms than theirs, and other sinews are required, to raise
the weight of such an author; and when they would toss him against
their enemies,

_Genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis.
Tum lapis ipse, viri vacuum per inane volutus,
Nec spatium evasit totum, nec pertulit ictum_[5].

For my part, I would wish no other revenge, either for myself, or the
rest of the poets, from this rhyming judge of the twelve-penny
gallery, this legitimate son of Sternhold, than that he would
subscribe his name to his censure, or (not to tax him beyond his
learning) set his mark: For, should he own himself publicly, and come
from behind the lion's skin, they, whom he condemns, would be thankful
to him, they, whom he praises, would chuse to be condemned; and the
magistrates, whom he has elected, would modestly withdraw from their
employment, to avoid the scandal of his nomination[6]. The sharpness
of his satire, next to himself, falls most heavily on his friends, and
they ought never to forgive him for commending them perpetually the
wrong way, and sometimes by contraries. If he have a friend, whose
hastiness in writing is his greatest fault, Horace would have taught
him to have minced the matter, and to have called it readiness of
thought, and a flowing fancy; for friendship will allow a man to
christen an imperfection by the name of some neighbour virtue;

_Vellem in amicitiâ sic erraremus; et isti
Errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum. _

But he would never have allowed him to have called a slow man hasty,
or a hasty writer a slow drudge[7], as Juvenal explains it:

--_Canibus pigris, scabieque vetustâ
Lævibus, et siccæ lambentibus ora lucernæ,
Nomen erit, Pardus, Tygris, Leo; si quid adhuc est
Quod fremit in terris violentius_[8].

Yet Lucretius laughs at a foolish lover, even for excusing the
imperfections of his mistress:

_Nigra [Greek: melichroos] est, immunda et foetida [Greek: akosmos].
Balba loqui non quit, [Greek: traulizei]; muta pudens est, &c. _

But to drive it _ad Æthiopem cygnum_ is not to be endured. I leave him
to interpret this by the benefit of his French version on the other
side, and without farther considering him, than I have the rest of my
illiterate censors, whom I have disdained to answer, because they are
not qualified for judges. It remains that I acquaint the reader, that
I have endeavoured in this play to follow the practice of the
ancients, who, as Mr Rymer has judiciously observed, are and ought to
be our masters[9]. Horace likewise gives it for a rule in his art of
poetry.

--_Vos exemplaria Græca
Nocturnâ versate manu, versate diurnâ. _

Yet, though their models are regular, they are too little for English
tragedy; which requires to be built in a larger compass. I could give
an instance in the "Oedipus Tyrannus," which was the master piece of
Sophocles; but I reserve it for a more fit occasion, which I hope to
have hereafter. In my style, I have professed to imitate the divine
Shakespeare; which that I might perform more freely, I have
disincumbered myself from rhyme. Not that I condemn my former way, but
that this is more proper to my present purpose. I hope I need not to
explain myself, that I have not copied my author servilely: Words and
phrases must of necessity receive a change in succeeding ages; but it
is almost a miracle that much of his language remains so pure; and
that he who began dramatic poetry amongst us, untaught by any, and, as
Ben Jonson tells us, without learning, should by the force of his own
genius perform so much, that in a manner he has left no praise for any
who come after him. The occasion is fair, and the subject would be
pleasant to handle the difference of styles betwixt him and Fletcher,
and wherein, and how far they are both to be imitated. But since I
must not be over-confident of my own performance after him, it will be
prudence in me to be silent. Yet, I hope, I may affirm, and without
vanity, that, by imitating him, I have excelled myself throughout the
play; and particularly, that I prefer the scene betwixt Antony and
Ventidius in the first act, to any thing which I have written in this
kind.


Footnotes:
1. That the reader may himself judge of the justice of Dryden's
censure, I subjoin the argument on this knotty point, as it is
stated by Hippolytus and his mistress in the 5th act of the
"Phedre" of Racine.

Aricie.

_Quoi vous pouvés vous taire en ce peril extreme?
Vous laissés dans l'erreur un pere qui vous uime?
Cruel, si de mes pleurs meprisant le pouvoir,
Vous consentéz sans peine a ne me plus revoir,
Partes, separés vous de la triste Aricie,
Mais du moins en partaut assurés votre vie.
Defendés votre honneur d' un reproche honteux,
Et forcés votre pere a revoquer ses væux;
Il en est tems encore. Pourguoi, par quel caprice,
Laissés vous le champ libre a votre accusatrice?
Ecclaircissés Thesée. _

Hippolyte.

_Hé que nai-je point dit?
Ai-je du mettre au jour l'opprobre de son lit?
Devois-je en lui faisant un recit trop sincere,
D'un indigne rougeur couvrir le front d'un pere?
Vous seul avés percé ce mystere odieux,
Mon coeur pour s'epancher, n'a que vous et les dieux:
Je n'ai pu vous cacher, jugés si je vous aime,
Tout ce que je voulois me cacher a moi-meme.
Mais songés sous quel sceau je vous l'ai révélé;
Oubliés, si se peut, que je vous ai parlé,
Madame; et que jamais une bouche si pure
Ne s'ouvre pour conter cette horrible avanture.
Sur l'equité des dieux osons nous confier,
Ils ont trop d'interet a me justifier,
Et Phédre tot ou tard de son crime punie,
N'en saúroit eviter la juste ignominié. _

2. _Chedreux_ was the name of the fashionable periwigs of the day, and
appears to have been derived from their maker. A French
_peruqirier_, in one of Shadwell's comedies, says, "You talke of de
Chedreux; he is no bodie to me. Dere is no man can travaille vis
mee. Monsieur Wildish has got my peruke on his head. Let me see,
here is de haire, de curie, de brucle, ver good, ver good. If dat
foole Chedreux make de peruke like me, I vil be hanga. " Bury Fair,
Act I. Scene II. It appears from the letter of the literary veteran
in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1745, that our author, as he
advanced in reputation, assumed the fashionable _Chedreux_ periwig.

3. This passage though, doubtless applicable to many of the men of
rank at the court of Charles II. , was particularly levelled at Lord
Rochester with whom our author was now on bad terms. It is hardly
fair to enquire how far this description of the discourse and
talents of a person of wit and honour agrees with that given in the
dedication to Marriage a-la-Mode, when, in compliment to the same
nobleman, we are told, that, "Wit seems to have lodged itself more
nobly in this age, than in any of the former; and that his lordship
had but another step to make, from the patron of wit, to become its
tyrant. " This last observation seems to have been made in the
spirit of prophecy.

4. Such is said to have been the answer of a philosopher to a friend,
who upbraided him with giving up a dispute to the Emperor Adrian.

5. This passage alludes to an imitation of Horace, quaintly entitled
an "Allusion to the Tenth Satire of his First Book" which was the
production of Rochester.
As however it appeared without a name, it
may have been for a time imputed to some of the inferior wits, whom
his Lordship patronized. It contains a warm attack on Dryden, part
of which has been already quoted. Dryden probably knew the real
author of this satire, although he chose to impute it to one of the
"Zanies" of the great. At least it seems unlikely that he should
take Crown for the author, as has been supposed by Mr Malone; for
in the imitation we have these lines:

For by that rule I might as well admit
Crown's heavy scenes for poetry and wit.

Crown could hardly be charged as author of a poem, in which this
sarcasm occurred.

6. Alluding probably to the concluding lines of the Satire.

I loath the rabble; 'tis enough for me
If Sedley, Shadwell, Shepherd, Wycherley,
Godolphin, Butler, Buckhurst, Buckingham,
And some few more whom I omit to name,
Approve my sense; I count their censure fame.

7. Dryden alludes to the censure past on himself, where it is said,

Five hundred verses in a morning writ.
Prove him no more a poet than a wit.

8. This refers to the characters of Shadwell and Wycherley, which
according to Dryden, the satirist seems to have misunderstood.

Of all our modern wits, none seems to me
Once to have touched upon true comedy,
But hasty Shadwell and slow Wycherley;
Shadwell's unfinished works do yet impart
Great proofs of force of nature, none of art.
With just bold strokes he dashes here and there,
Shewing great mastery with little care;
But Wycherley earns hard whate'er he gains,
He wants no judgment, and he spares no pains;
He frequently excels, and, at the least,
Makes fewer faults than any of the rest.

9. "I have chiefly considered the fable, or plot, which all conclude
to be the soul of a tragedy, which, with the ancients, is all ways
to be found a reasonable soul, but with us, for the most part, a
brutish, and often worse than brutish.

"And certainly there is not required much learning, or that a man
must be some Aristotle and doctor of subtilties, to form a right
judgement in this particular; common sense suffices; and rarely
have I known women-judges mistaken in these points, where they have
patience to think; and left to their own heads, they decide with
their own sense. But if people are prepossessed, if they will judge
of Rollo by Othello, and one crooked line by another, we can never
have a certainty. "

The tragedies of the last age considered, in a letter to Fleetwood
Shepherd, by Thomas Rymer, Edit. 1678, p. 4.




PROLOGUE.


What flocks of critics hover here to-day,
As vultures wait on armies for their prey,
All gaping for the carcase of a play!
With croaking notes they bode some dire event,
And follow dying poets by the scent.
Ours gives himself for gone; you've watched your time:
He fights this day unarmed,--without his rhyme;--
And brings a tale which often has been told;
As sad as Dido's; and almost as old.
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 wond'rous kind.
In short, a pattern, and companion fit,
For all the keeping tonies of the pit.
I could name more: a wife, and mistress too;
Both (to be plain) too good for most of you:
The wife well-natured, and the mistress true.
Now, poets, if your fame has been his care,
Allow him all the candour you can spare.
A brave man scorns to quarrel once a-day;
Like Hectors, in at every petty fray.
Let those find fault whose wit's so very small,
They've need to show that they can think at all;
Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow;
He who would search for pearls, must dive below.
Fops may have leave to level all they can;
As pigmies would be glad to lop a man.
Half-wits are fleas; so little and so light,
We scarce could know they live, but that they bite.
But, as the rich, when tired with daily feasts,
For change, become their next poor tenant's guests;
Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls,
And snatch the homely rasher from the coals:
So you, retiring from much better cheer,
For once, may venture to do penance here.
And since that plenteous autumn now is past,
Whose grapes and peaches have indulged your taste,
Take in good part, from our poor poet's board,
Such rivelled fruits as winter can afford.




DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.


MARK ANTONY.
VENTIDIUS, _His General. _
DOLABELLA, _his Friend. _
ALEXAS, _the Queen's Eunuch. _
SERAPION, _Priest of Isis. _
MYRIS, _another Priest. _
_Servants to_ ANTONY.

CLEOPATRA, _Queen of Ægypt. _
OCTAVIA, ANTONY'S _Wife. _
CHARMION, } CLEOPATRA'S _Maids. _
IRAS, }
ANTONY'S _two little Daughters. _

SCENE. --_Alexandria. _




ALL FOR LOVE;

OR, THE

WORLD WELL LOST.


ACT I.

SCENE I. --_The Temple of_ ISIS.

_Enter_ SERAPION, MYRIS, _Priests of_ ISIS.

_Ser. _ Portents and prodigies have grown so frequent,
That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile
Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent
So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce,
That the wild deluge overtook the haste
Even of the hinds that watched it: Men and beasts
Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew
On the utmost margin of the water-mark.
Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward,
It slipt from underneath the scaly herd:
Here monstrous phocæ; panted on the shore;
Forsaken dolphins there, with their broad tails
Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them,
Sea-horses floundring in the slimy mud,
Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them.

_Enter_ ALEXAS _behind them. _

_Myr. _ Avert these omens, Heaven!

_Ser. _ Last night, between the hours of twelve and one,
In a lone aisle 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.

_Alex. _ And dreamed you this? or did invent the story,
[_Shewing himself. _
To frighten our Egyptian boys withal,
And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood?

_Serap. _ My lord, I saw you not,
Nor meant my words should reach your ears; but what
I uttered was most true.

_Alex. _ A foolish dream,
Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts,
And holy luxury.

_Serap. _ I know my duty:
This goes no farther.

_Alex. _ 'Tis not fit it should;
Nor would the times now bear it, were it true.
All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp
Hangs o'er us black and threatning, like a storm
Just breaking on our heads.

_Serap. _ Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony;
But in their servile hearts they own Octavius.

_Myr. _ Why then does Antony dream out his hours,
And tempts not fortune for a noble day,
Which might redeem what Actium lost?

_Alex. _ He thinks 'tis past recovery.

_Serap. _ Yet the foe
Seems not to press the siege.

_Alex. _ O, there's the wonder.
Mecænas and Agrippa, who can most
With Cæsar, are his foes. His wife Octavia,
Driven from his house, solicits her revenge;
And Dolabella, who was once his friend,
Upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin:
Yet still war seems on either side to sleep.

_Serap. _ 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past,
Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra;
But here, in Isis temple, lives retired,
And makes his heart a prey to black despair.

_Alex. _ 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence
To cure his mind of love.

_Serap. _ If he be vanquished,
Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be
A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests
Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil.
While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria
Rivalled proud Rome, (dominion's other seat)
And Fortune striding, like a vast Colossus,
Could fix an equal foot of empire here.

_Alex. _ Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature,
Who lord it o'er mankind, should perish,--perish,
Each by the other's sword; but, since our will
Is lamely followed by our power, we must
Depend on one; with him to rise or fall.

_Serap. _ How stands the queen affected?

_Alex. _ O she dotes,
She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquished man,
And winds herself about his mighty ruins;
Whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up,
This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands,
She might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain--
This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels,
And makes me use all means to keep him here,
Whom I could wish divided from her arms,
Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know
The state of things; no more of your ill omens
And black prognostics; labour to confirm
The people's hearts.

_Enter_ VENTIDIUS, _talking aside with a Gentleman of_ ANTONY'S.

_Serap. _ These Romans will o'erhear us.
But, who's that stranger? By his warlike port,
His fierce demeanour, and erected look,
He's of no vulgar note.

_Alex. _ O 'tis Ventidius,
Our emperor's great lieutenant in the East,
Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered.
When Antony returned from Syria last,
He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers.

_Serap. _ You seem to know him well.

_Alex. _ Too well. I saw him in Cilicia first,
When Cleopatra there met Antony:
A mortal foe he was to us, and Egypt.
But,--let me witness to the worth I hate,--
A braver Roman never drew a sword;
Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave.
He ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides
O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels:
In short, the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue,
Of an old true-stampt Roman lives in him.
His coming bodes I know not what of ill
To our affairs. Withdraw, to mark him better;
And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here,
And what's our present work.
[_They withdraw to a corner of the stage; and_
VENTIDIUS, _with the other, comes forward to
the front. _

_Vent. _ Not see him, say you?
I say, I must, and will.

_Gent. _ He has commanded,
On pain of death, none should approach his presence.

_Vent. _ I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits,
Give him new life.

_Gent. _ He sees not Cleopatra.

_Vent. _ Would he had never seen her!

_Gent. _ He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use
Of any thing, but thought; or, if he talks,
'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving:
Then he defies the world, and bids it pass;
Sometimes he gnaws his lip, and curses loud
The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth
Into a scornful smile, and cries,--"Take all,
The world's not worth my care. "

_Vent. _ Just, just his nature.
Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow
For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide,
And bounds into a vice, that bears him far
From his first course, and plunges him in ills:
But, when his danger makes him find his fault,
Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse,
He censures eagerly his own misdeeds,
Judging himself with malice to himself,
And not forgiving what as man he did,
Because his other parts are more than man. --
He must not thus be lost. [ALEXAS _and the Priests come forward. _

_Alex. _ You have your full instructions, now advance;
Proclaim your orders loudly.

_Serap. _ Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command.
Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease;
To pomp and triumphs give this happy day,
That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony's.
Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live!
Be this the general voice sent up to heaven,
And every public place repeat this echo.

_Vent. _ Fine pageantry! [_Aside. _

_Serap. _ Set before your doors
The images of all your sleeping fathers,
With laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts,
And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests
Do present sacrifice; pour out the wine,
And call the gods to join with you in gladness.

_Vent. _ Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy!
Can they be friends of Antony, who revel
When Antony's in danger? Hide, for shame,
You Romans, your great grandsires' images,
For fear their souls should animate their marbles,
To blush at their degenerate progeny.

_Alex. _ A love, which knows no bounds to Antony,
Would mark the day with honours, when all heaven
Laboured for him, when each propitious star
Stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour,
And shed his better influence. Her own birth-day
Our queen neglected, like a vulgar fate,
That passed obscurely by.

_Vent. _ Would it had slept,
Divided far from his; till some remote
And future age had called it out, to ruin
Some other prince, not him!

_Alex. _ Your emperor,
Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than
To upbraid my queen for loving him too well.

_Vent. _ Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest?
He knows him not his executioner.
O, she has decked his ruin with her love,
Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter,
And made perdition pleasing: She has left him
The blank of what he was;
I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him:
Can any Roman see, and know him now,
Thus altered from the lord of half mankind,
Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy,
Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours,
And crampt within a corner of the world?
O, Antony!
Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends!
Bounteous as nature; next to nature's God!
Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them,
As bounty were thy being: rough in battle,
As the first Romans, when they went to war;
Yet, after victory, more pitiful
Than all their praying virgins left at home!

_Alex. _ Would you could add, to those more shining virtues,
His truth to her who loves him.

_Vent. _ Would I could not!
But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee?
Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine,
Antony's other fate. Go, tell thy queen,
Ventidius is arrived, to end her charms.
Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone,
Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets.
You dare not fight for Antony; go pray,
And keep your coward's holiday in temples. [_Exeunt_ ALEX. SERAP.

_Re-enter the Gentleman of_ M. ANTONY.

_2 Gent. _ The emperor approaches, and commands,
On pain of death, that none presume to stay.

_1 Gent. _ I dare not disobey him. [_Going out with the other. _

_Vent. _ Well, I dare.
But I'll observe him first unseen, and find
Which way his humour drives: the rest I'll venture. [_Withdraws. _

_Enter_ ANTONY, _walking with a disturbed motion before he speaks. _

_Ant. _ They tell me, 'tis my birth-day, and I'll keep it
With double pomp of sadness.
'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath.
Why was I raised the meteor of the world,
Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled,
Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward,
To be trod out by Cæsar?

_Vent.