No More Learning

SCENE III.

_BURR and the Parson enter, meeting in the dark_.


_Burr_. My lady Constance, are you come again? That's well; I
have waited sufficiently for you in the dark.

_Par_. Help, help, help, good Christian people! the devil, the
devil's here.

_Burr_. 'Tis I, madam; what do you mean?

_Par_. Avoid, Satan! avoid, avoid.

_Burr_. What have I here, the hairy woman?

_Enter LOVEBY, and CONSTANCE with the light_.

Ha! yonder's my lady Constance! who have I got? a stone priest, by
this good light. How's this, Loveby too!

_Lov_. Burr a-beating my reverend clergy? What makes you here at
this unseasonable hour? I'll know your business. [_Draws_.

_Burr_. Will you, sir? [_They fight_.

_Const. Set. Par_. Help, murder, murder!

_Enter, at one door, TRICE drunk, with the Watch; BIBBER and FRANCES
following; at the other, NONSUCH and Servants, and FAILER_.

_Non_. Murder, murder! beat down their weapons. Will you
murder Sir Timorous, Mr Loveby? --[_They disarm both_. ] Sir
Timorous? --ha, Burr! Thieves, thieves! --sit down, good Mr Justice, and
take their examinations. Now I shall know how my money went.

_Trice_. They shall have justice, I warrant them. [_Goes to
sit, and misses the chair_.

_Bib_. The justice is almost dead drunk, my lord.

_Fran_. But an't please your worship, my lord, this is not the
worst sight that we have seen here to-night in your worship's house;
we met three or four hugeous ugly devils, with eyes like saucers, that
threw down my husband, that threw down me, that made my heart so panck
ever since, as they say! --

_Non_. The devil again in my house?

_Lov_. Nay, here he was, that's certain; he brought me hither, I
know not how myself, and married me; Mr Setstone there can justify it:
But the best is, I have a charm about me, that will lay him yet ere
midnight.

_Fail_. And I vow to gad, my lord, I know as little how I came
hither as any man.

_Burr_. Nor I.

_Trice_. Nor I.

_Lot_. No, I dare swear do'st thou not, Mr Justice.

_Trice_. But I wonder how the devil durst come into our ward,
when he knows I have been at the duties of--my family--this evening.

_Enter one of the Watch, with_ TIMOROUS _and_ ISABELLA.

_Watch_. An please your worship, I met this couple in the street
late, and so, seeing them to be a man and woman, I brought them along
with me, upon suspicion of felony together.

_Fran_. This is the proud minx, that sought shelter in my house
this afternoon, Mr Justice.

_Fail_. Sir Timorous and Madam Isabella! I vow to gad, we are
undone, Burr. --

_Isa_. Do not you know me, Mr Justice?

_Lov_. Justice is blind, he knows nobody.

_Isa_. My name is Isabella.

_Fran_. No, thy name is Jezebella; I warrant you, there's none
but rogues and papists would be abroad at this time of night.

_Bib_. Hold, Frances. --

_Trice_. She's drunk, I warrant her, as any beast. I wonder,
woman, you do not consider what a crying sin drunkenness is: Whom do
you learn it from in our parish? I am sure you never see me worse.

_Isa_. Burr and Failer, acknowledge yourselves a couple of
recreant knights: Sir Timorous is mine: I have won him in fair field
from you.

_Const_. Give you joy, cousin, give you joy!

_Lov_. Married!

_Isa_. And in Diana's grove, boy.

_Lov_. Why, 'tis fine, by Heaven; 'tis wondrous fine; as the poet
goes on sweetly.

_Tim_. I am sure they had gagged me, and bound me, and stripped
me almost stark naked, and locked me up as fast as a butterfly, 'till
she came and made me a man again; and therefore I have reason to love
her the longest day I have to live.

_Isa_. Ay, and the longest night too, or you are to blame. And
you have one argument I love you, if the proverb be true, for I took
you almost in your bare shirt.

_Burr_. So much for us, Failer!

_Const_. Well, my lord, it had as good out at first as at last:
I must beg your lordship's blessing for this gentleman and myself.
[_Both kneel_.

_Non_. Why, you are not married to him, I hope! he's married to
the devil.

_Lov_. 'Twas a white devil of your lordship's getting, then; Mr
Setstone and the reverend here can witness it.

_Set. Par_. We must speak truth, my lord.

_Non_. Would I had another child for your sake! you should ne'er
see a penny of my money.

_Lov_. Thank you, my lord; but methinks 'tis much better as it
is.

_Isa_. Come, nuncle, 'tis in vain to hold out, now 'tis past
remedy: 'Tis like the last act of a play, when people must marry; and
if fathers will not consent then, they should throw oranges at them
from the galleries. Why should you stand off, to keep us from a dance?

_Non_. But there's one thing still that troubles me; that's her
great belly, and my own too.

_Const_. Nay, for mine, my lord, 'tis vanished already; 'twas but
a trick to catch the old one.

_Lov_. But I'll do my best; she shall not be long without
another.

_Isa_. But as for your great belly, nuncle, I know no way to rid
you on't, but by taking out your guts.

_Lov_. 'Tis such a pretty smart rascal, 'tis well I am pleased
with my own choice: but I could have got such Hectors, and poets, and
gamesters, out of thee! --

_Const_. No, no; two wits could never have lived well together;
want would have so sharpened you upon one another.

_Isa_. A wit should naturally be joined to a fortune; by the same
reason your vintners feed their hungry wines.

_Const_. And if Sir Timorous and I had married, we two fortunes
must have built hospitals with our money; we could never have spent it
else.

_Lov_. Or what think you of paying courtiers' debts with it?

_Isa_. Well, to shew I am in charity with my enemies, I'll make
a motion: While we are in town, let us hire a large house, and live
together: Burr and Failer--

_Fail_. Shall be utterly discarded; I knew 'twould come to that,
I vow to gad.

_Isa_. Shall be our guests.

[_BURR and FAILER throw up their caps, and cry, Vive Madam
ISABELLA! _

_Lov_. And Bibber shall make our wedding clothes without
trusting.

_Bib_. No, henceforward I'll trust none but landed men, and such
as have houses and apple-trees in the country, now I have got a place
in the custom-house.

_Fran_. Nothing vexes me, but that this flirting gentlewoman
should go before me; but I'll to the herald's office, and see whether
the queen's majesty's dresser, should not take place of any knight's
wife in Christendom.

_Bib_. Now all will out--no more, good Frances.

_Fran_. I will speak, that I will, so I will: What! shall I be a
dresser to the queen's majesty, and nobody must know on't? I'll
send Mr Church-warden word on't; and, gentlemen, when you come to St
Bride's church (if ever you come to church, gentlemen), you shall see
me in the pew that's next the pulpit; thank Mr Loveby's worship for
it.

_Lov_. Spare your thanks, good landlady; for the truth is, they
came too late, the place is gone; and so is yours, Will; but you shall
have two hundred pounds for one, if that will satisfy you.

_Fran_. This is bitter news, as they say.

_Lov_. Cheer up thy wife, Will. Where are the fiddles? A dance
should do it.

_Bib_. I'll run and call them.

_Isa_. I have found out that, will comfort her: Henceforward I
christen her by the name of Madam Bibber.

_All_. A Madam Bibber, a Madam Bibber!

_Fran_. Why, I thank you, sweet gentlemen and ladies; this is a
cordial to my drooping spirits: I confess I was a little eclipsed; but
I'll cheer up with abundance of love, as they say. Strike up, fiddles.

_Lov_. That's a good wench.

DANCE.

_Trice_. This music and a little nod has recovered me. I'll in,
and provide for the sack posset.

_Non_. To bed, to bed; 'tis late. Son Loveby, get me a boy
to-night, and I'll settle three thousand a-year upon him the first day
he calls me grandsire.

_Lov_. I'll do my best, To make the bargain sure before I sleep.
Where love and money strike, the blow goes deep.

[_Exeunt omnes_.



EPILOGUE,

WHEN IT WAS FIRST ACTED.


The _Wild Gallant_ has quite played out his game;
He's married now, and that will make him tame;
Or if you think marriage will not reclaim him,
The critics swear they'll damn him, but they'll tame him.
Yet, though our poet's threatened most by these,
They are the only people he can please:
For he, to humour them, has shown to-day,
That which they only like, a wretched play:
But though his play be ill, here have been shown
The greatest wits, and beauties of the town;
And his occasion having brought you here,
You are too grateful to become severe.
There is not any person here so mean,
But he may freely judge each act and scene:
But if you bid him chuse his judges, then,
He boldly names true English gentlemen:
For he ne'er thought a handsome garb or dress
So great a crime, to make their judgment less:
And with these gallants he these ladies joins,
To judge that language, their converse refines.
But if their censures should condemn his play,
Far from disputing, he does only pray
He may Leander's destiny obtain:
Now spare him, drown him when he comes again.



EPILOGUE,

WHEN REVIVED.


Of all dramatic writing, comic wit,
As 'tis the best, so 'tis most, hard to hit.
For it lies all in level to the eye,
Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
Humour is that, which every day we meet,
And therefore known as every public street;
In which, if e'er the poet go astray,
You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.
But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,
Is more than any wit can always do.
For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;
To make regalios out of common meat.
But, in your diet, you grow savages:
Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;
And, as their feasts with slaughtered slaves began,
So you, at each new play, must have a man.
Hither you come, as to see prizes fought;
If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is naught.
But fools grow wary now; and, when they see
A poet eyeing round the company,
Straight each-man for himself begins to doubt;
They shrink like seamen when a press comes out.
Few of them will be found for public use,
Except you charge an oaf upon each house,
Like the train bands, and every man engage
For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage.
And when, with much ado, you get him there,
Where he in all his glory should appear,
Your poets make him such rare things to say,
That he's more wit than any man i' th' play:
But of so ill a mingle with the rest,
As when a parrot's taught to break a jest.
Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show,
As tawdry squires in country churches do.
Things well considered, 'tis so hard to make
A comedy, which should the knowing take,
That our dull poet, in despair to please,
Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease.
'Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay;
You therefore must some other impost lay.
Would you but change, for serious plot and verse,
This motely garniture of fool and farce,
Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home,
Which does, like vests, our gravity become,
Our poet yields you should this play refuse:
As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose,
With some content, their fripperies of France,
In hope it may their staple trade advance.




THE RIVAL LADIES,

A TRAGI-COMEDY



THE RIVAL LADIES.


This play, like that which preceded it, is a drama of intrigue,
borrowed from the Spanish, and claiming merit only in proportion to
the diversity and ingenuity of the incidents represented. On this
point every reader can decide for himself; and it would be an invidious
task to point out blemishes, where, to own the truth, there are but
few beauties. The ease with which the affections of almost every
female in the drama are engrossed by Gonsalvo, and afterwards
transferred to the lovers, upon whom the winding up of the plot made
it necessary to devolve them, will, it is probable, strike every
reader as unnatural. In truth, when the depraved appetite of the
public requires to be gratified by trick and bustle, instead of nature
and sentiment, authors must sacrifice the probable, as well as the
simple, process of events.

The author seems principally to have valued himself on this piece,
because it contains some scenes executed in rhyme, in what was then
called the heroic manner. Upon this opinion, which Dryden lived to
retract, I have ventured to offer my sentiments in the Life of the
Author. In other respects, though not slow in perceiving and avouching
his own merit, our author seems to consider the "Rival Ladies" as no
very successful dramatic effort.

The "Rival Ladies" is supposed to have been first acted in 1663, and
was certainly published in the year following. Of its success we know
nothing particular. It is probable, the flowing verse, into which some
part of the dialogue is thrown, with the strong point and antithesis,
which distinguishes Dryden's works, and particularly his argumentative
poetry, tended to redeem the credit of the author of the "Wild
Gallant. "



THE RIGHT HONOURABLE ROGER, EARL OF ORRERY[1].

[Footnote 1: This distinguished person was fifth son of Richard Boyle,
known by the title of the great Earl of Cork. His first title was Lord
Broghill, under which he distinguished himself in Ireland.
Cromwell, although his lordship was a noted royalist, and in actual
correspondence with the exiled monarch, had so much confidence in
his honour and talents, that he almost compelled him to act as lord
lieutenant of that kingdom, under the stipulation that he was to come
under no oaths, and only to act against the rebel Irish, then the
common enemy. He was instrumental in the restoration, and created earl
of Orrery by Charles II, in 1660, He deserved Dryden's panegyric in
every respect, except as a poet--the very character, however, in which
he is most complimented, and perhaps was best pleased to be so. He
wrote, 1st, The Art of War--2d, Parthenissa, a romance--3d, Some
Poems--4th; Eight Plays--5th, State Tracts. ]


My Lord,

This worthless present was designed you long before it was a play;
when it was only a confused mass of thoughts, tumbling over one
another in the dark; when the fancy was yet in its first work,
moving the sleeping images of things towards the light, there to be
distinguished, and then either chosen or rejected by the judgment; it
was yours, my lord, before I could call it mine. And, I confess, in
that first tumult of my thoughts, there appeared a disorderly kind of
beauty in some of them, which gave me hope, something, worthy my lord
of Orrery, might be drawn from them: But I was then in that eagerness
of imagination, which, by overpleasing fanciful men, flatters them
into the danger of writing; so that, when I had moulded it into that
shape it now bears, I looked with such disgust upon it, that the
censures of our severest critics are charitable to what I thought
(and still think) of it myself: It is so far from me to believe this
perfect, that I am apt to conclude our best plays are scarcely so; for
the stage being the representation of the world, and the actions in
it, how can it be imagined, that the picture of human life can be more
exact than life itself is? He may be allowed sometimes to err, who
undertakes to move so many characters and humours, as are requisite in
a play, in those narrow channels which are proper to each of them; to
conduct his imaginary persons through so many various intrigues and
chances, as the labouring audience shall think them lost under every
billow; and then, at length, to work them so naturally out of their
distresses, that, when the whole plot is laid open, the spectators may
rest satisfied, that every cause was powerful enough to produce the
effect it had; and that the whole chain of them was with such due
order linked together, that the first accident would naturally beget
the second, till they all rendered the conclusion necessary.

These difficulties, my lord, may reasonably excuse the errors of
my undertaking; but for this confidence of my dedication, I have an
argument, which is too advantageous for me not to publish it to the
world. It is the kindness your lordship has continually shown to all
my writings. You have been pleased, my lord, they should sometimes
cross the Irish seas, to kiss your hands; which passage (contrary
to the experience of others) I have found the least dangerous in the
world. Your favour has shone upon me at a remote distance, without the
least knowledge of my person; and (like the influence of the heavenly
bodies) you have done good, without knowing to whom you did it. It is
this virtue in your lordship, which emboldens me to this attempt; for,
did I not consider you as my patron, I have little reason to desire
you for my judge; and should appear with as much awe before you in the
reading, as I had when the full theatre sat upon the action. For, who
could so severely judge of faults as he, who has given testimony he
commits none? Your excellent poems have afforded that knowledge of it
to the world, that your enemies are ready to upbraid you with it, as
a crime for a man of business to write so well. Neither durst I have
justified your lordship in it, if examples of it had not been in the
world before you; if Xenophon had not written a romance, and a certain
Roman, called Augustus Caesar, a tragedy, and epigrams. But their
writing was the entertainment of their pleasure; yours is only a
diversion of your pain. The muses have seldom employed your thoughts,
but when some violent fit of the gout has snatched you from affairs
of state; and, like the priestess of Apollo, you never come to deliver
his oracles, but unwillingly, and in torment. So that we are obliged
to your lordship's misery for our delight: You treat us with the cruel
pleasure of a Turkish triumph, where those, who cut and wound their
bodies, sing songs of victory as they pass, and divert others with
their own sufferings. Other men endure their diseases; your lordship
only can enjoy them. Plotting and writing in this kind are certainly
more troublesome employments than many which signify more, and are of
greater moment in the world: The fancy, memory, and judgment, are then
extended (like so many limbs) upon the rack; all of them reaching
with their utmost stress at nature; a thing so almost infinite and
boundless, as can never fully be comprehended, but where the images of
all things are always present. Yet I wonder not your lordship succeeds
so well in this attempt; the knowledge of men is your daily practice
in the world; to work and bend their stubborn minds, which go not all
after the same grain, but each of them so particular a way, that
the same common humours, in several persons, must be wrought upon by
several means. Thus, my lord, your sickness is but the imitation of
your health; the poet but subordinate to the statesman in you; you
still govern men with the same address, and manage business with the
same prudence; allowing it here (as in the world) the due increase and
growth, till it comes to the just height; and then turning it when it
is fully ripe, and nature calls out, as it were, to be delivered.
With this only advantage of ease to you in your poetry, that you
have fortune here at your command; with which wisdom does often
unsuccessfully struggle in the world. Here is no chance, which you
have not foreseen; all your heroes are more than your subjects, they
are your creatures; and though they seem to move freely in all the
sallies of their passions, yet you make destinies for them, which
they cannot shun. They are moved (if I may dare to say so) like the
rational creatures of the Almighty Poet, who walk at liberty, in their
own opinion, because their fetters are invisible; when, indeed, the
prison of their will is the more sure for being large; and, instead of
an absolute power over their actions, they have only a wretched desire
of doing that, which they cannot chuse but do[1].

[Footnote 1: The earl of Orrery was author of several plays. If the
reader is not disposed to admit, that his habit of composing them,
when tormented by the gout, enhanced their value, it may be allowed to
apologise for their faults. ]

I have dwelt, my lord, thus long upon your writing, not because you
deserve not greater and more noble commendations, but because I am not
equally able to express them in other subjects. Like an ill swimmer,
I have willingly staid long in my own depth; and though I am eager of
performing more, yet am loth to venture out beyond my knowledge: for
beyond your poetry, my lord, all is ocean to me. To speak of you as a
soldier, or a statesman, were only to betray my own ignorance; and I
could hope no better success from it, than that miserable rhetorician
had, who solemnly declaimed before Hannibal, of the conduct of armies,
and the art of war. I can only say, in general, that the souls of
other men shine out at little crannies; they understand some one
thing, perhaps, to admiration, while they are darkened on all the
other parts; but your lordship's soul is an entire globe of light,
breaking out on every side; and, if I have only discovered one beam
of it, it is not that the light falls unequally, but because the body,
which receives it, is of unequal parts.

The acknowledgment of which is a fair occasion offered me, to retire
from the consideration of your lordship to that of myself. I here
present you, my lord, with that in print, which you had the goodness
not to dislike upon the stage; and account it happy to have met you
here in England; it being, at best, like small wines, to be drunk out
upon the place, and has not body enough to endure the sea.

I know not whether I have been so careful of the plot and language as
I ought; but, for the latter, I have endeavoured to write English, as
near as I could distinguish it from the tongue of pedants, and that
of affected travellers. Only I am sorry, that (speaking so noble a
language as we do) we have not a more certain measure of it, as they
have in France, where they have an academy erected for that purpose,
and endowed with large privileges by the present king. I wish we might
at length leave to borrow words from other nations, which is now a
wantonness in us, not a necessity; but so long as some affect to speak
them, there will not want others, who will have the boldness to write
them.

But I fear, lest, defending the received words, I shall be accused for
following the new way, I mean, of writing scenes in verse. Though, to
speak properly, it is not so much a new way amongst us, as an old
way new revived; for, many years before Shakspeare's plays, was the
tragedy of Queen Gorboduc, in English verse, written by that famous
Lord Buckhurst, afterwards earl of Dorset, and progenitor to that
excellent person, who (as he inherits his soul and title) I wish may
inherit his good fortune[1]. But, supposing our countrymen had not
received this writing till of late; shall we oppose ourselves to the
most polished and civilised nations of Europe? Shall we, with the same
singularity, oppose the world in this, as most of us do in pronouncing
Latin? Or do we desire that the brand, which Barclay has (I hope
unjustly) laid upon the English, should still continue? _Angli suos
ac sua omnia impense mirantur; caeteras nationes despectui habent_.
All the Spanish and Italian tragedies, I have yet seen, are writ in
rhyme. For the French, I do not name them, because it is the fate of
our countrymen to admit little of theirs among us, but the basest of
their men, the extravagancies of their fashions, and the frippery of
their merchandise. Shakspeare (who, with some errors not to be avoided
in that age, had undoubtedly a larger soul of poesy than ever any of
our nation) was the first who, to shun the pains of continual rhyming,
invented[A] that kind of writing which we call blank verse, but the
French, more properly, _prose mesuré_; into which the English
tongue so naturally slides, that, in writing prose, it is hardly to be
avoided. And therefore, I admire some men should perpetually stumble
in a way so easy, and, inverting the order of their words, constantly
close their lines with verbs, which, though commended sometimes in
writing Latin, yet we were whipt at Westminster if we used it twice
together. I knew some, who, if they were to write in blank verse,
_Sir, I ask your pardon_, would think it sounded more heroically
to write, _Sir, I your pardon ask_. I should judge him to have
little command of English, whom the necessity of a rhyme should force
often upon this rock; though sometimes it cannot easily be avoided;
and indeed this is the only inconvenience with which rhyme can be
charged. This is that which makes them say, rhyme is not natural; it
being only so, when the poet either makes a vicious choice of words,
or places them, for rhyme sake, so unnaturally as no man would in
ordinary speaking; but when it is so judiciously ordered, that the
first word in the verse seems to beget the second, and that the next,
till that becomes the last word in the line, which, in the negligence
of prose, would be so; it must then be granted, rhyme has all the
advantages of prose, besides its own. But the excellence and dignity
of it were never fully known till Mr Waller taught it; he first made
writing easily an art; first shewed us to conclude the sense, most
commonly in distichs, which, in the verse of those before him, runs
on for so many lines together, that the reader is out of breath to
overtake it. This sweetness of Mr Waller's lyric poesy was afterwards
followed in the epic by Sir John Denham, in his Cooper's-Hill, a poem
which, your Lordship knows, for the majesty of the style, is, and
ever will be, the exact standard of good writing. But if we owe the
invention of it to Mr Waller, we are acknowledging for the noblest use
of it to Sir William D'Avenant, who at once brought it upon the stage,
and made it perfect, in the Siege of Rhodes.

[Footnote 1: The tragedy of Ferrex and Perrex (which is the proper
title) was written by Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, afterwards
earl of Dorset, and Thomas Norton, a barrister at law. In Sackville's
part of the play, which comprehends the two last acts, there is some
poetry worthy of the author of the sublime Introduction to the Mirror
of Magistrates. While both the authors were out of England, one
William Griffiths published a spurious copy, under the title of
Gorboduc, the name of one of the principal personages, who is not,
however, _queen_, but _king_, of England, But, what was a
wider mistake, considering Dryden's purpose of mentioning the work, it
is not written in rhyme, but in blank verse, excepting the choruses,
which are in stanzas of six lines. The name of the queen is Videna.
Sir Philip Sydney says, "Gorboduc is full of stately speeches and well
sounding phrases, climbing up to the height of Seneca his style, and
as full of notable morality, which it doth most delightfully teach,
and thereby obtain the very end of poetry. "]

[Footnote A: This is a mistake. Marlow, and several other dramatic
authors, used blank verse before the days of Shakspeare. ]

The advantages which rhyme has over blank verse are so many, that
it were lost time to name them. Sir Philip Sidney, in his Defence
of Poesy, gives us one, which, in my opinion, is not the least
considerable; I mean the help it brings to memory, which rhyme so
knits up, by the affinity of sounds, that, by remembering the last
word in one line, we often call to mind both the verses. Then, in the
quickness of repartees (which in discoursive scenes fall very often),
it has so particular a grace, and is so aptly suited to them, that the
sudden smartness of the answer, and the sweetness of the rhyme, set
off the beauty of each other. But that benefit which I consider most
in it, because I have not seldom found it, is, that it bounds and
circumscribes the fancy. For imagination in a poet is a faculty so
wild and lawless, that, like an high-ranging spaniel, it must have
clogs tied to it, lest it out-run the judgment. The great easiness of
blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant; he is tempted to say many
things, which might better be omitted, or at least shut up in fewer
words; but when the difficulty of artful rhyming is interposed, where
the poet commonly confines his sense to his couplet, and must contrive
that sense into such words, that the rhyme shall naturally follow
them, not they the rhyme; the fancy then gives leisure to the judgment
to come in, which, seeing so heavy a tax imposed, is ready to cut off
all unnecessary expences. This last consideration has already answered
an objection which some have made, that rhyme is only an embroidery of
sense, to make that, which is ordinary in itself, pass for excellent
with less examination. But certainly, that, which most regulates the
fancy, and gives the judgment its busiest employment, is like to bring
forth the richest and clearest thoughts. The poet examines that most,
which he produceth with the greatest leisure, and which, he knows,
must pass the severest test of the audience, because they are aptest
to have it ever in their memory; as the stomach makes the best
concoction, when it strictly embraces the nourishment, and takes
account of every little particle as it passes through. But, as the
best medicines may lose their virtue, by being ill applied, so is it
with verse, if a fit subject be not chosen for it. Neither must the
argument alone, but the characters and persons, be great and
noble; otherwise, (as Scaliger says of Claudian) the poet will
be _ignobitiore materiâ depressus_. The scenes, which, in my
opinion, most commend it, are those of argumentation and discourse, on
the result of which the doing or not doing some considerable action
should depend.

But, my lord, though I have more to say upon this subject, yet I must
remember, it is your lordship to whom I speak; who have much better
commended this way by your writing in it, than I can do by writing for
it. Where my reasons cannot prevail, I am sure your lordship's example
must. Your rhetoric has gained my cause; at least the greatest part of
my design has already succeeded to my wish, which was to interest so
noble a person in the quarrel, and withal to testify to the world how
happy I esteem myself in the honour of being,

MY LORD,

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



PROLOGUE

'Tis much desired, you judges of the town
Would pass a vote to put all prologues down;
For who can show me, since they first were writ,
They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit?
Yet the world's mended well; in former days
Good prologues were as scarce as now good plays.
For the reforming poets of our age,
In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:
Expect no more when once the prologue's done;
The wit is ended ere the play's begun.
You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes;
High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.
As for a clear contrivance, doubt it not;
They blow out candles to give light to th' plot.
And for surprise, two bloody-minded men
Fight till they die, then rise and dance again.
Such deep intrigues you're welcome to this day:
But blame yourselves, not him who writ the play;
Though his plot's dull, as can be well desired,
Wit stiff as any you have e'er admired:
He's bound to please, not to write well; and knows,
There is a mode in plays as well as clothes;
Therefore, kind judges--


_Second Prologue enters_.

2. --Hold; would you admit
For judges all you see within the pit?

1. Whom would he then except, or on what score?

2. All, who (like him) have writ ill plays before;
For they, like thieves condemned, are hangmen made,
To execute the members of their trade.
All that are writing now he would disown,
But then he must except--even all the town;
All cholerick, losing gamesters, who, in spite,
Will damn to day, because they lost last night;
All servants, whom their mistress' scorn upbraids;
All maudlin lovers, and all slighted maids;
All, who are out of humour, or severe;
All, that want wit, or hope to find it here.



DRAMATIS PERSONAE


DON GONSALVO DE PERALTA, _a young gentleman newly arrived from the
Indies, in love with_ JULIA.
DON RODORIGO DE SYLVA, _in love with the same lady_.
DON MANUEL DE TORRES, _brother to_ JULIA.

JULIA, _elder sister to_ DON MANUEL, _promised to_ RODORIGO.
HONORIA, _younger sister to_ DON MANUEL, _disguised in the
habit of a man, and going by the name of_ HIPPOLITO, _in love
with_ GONSALVO.
ANGELINA, _sister to_ DON RODORIGO, _in man's habit, likewise
in love with_ GONSALVO, _and going by the name of_ AMIDEO.

_Servants, Robbers, Seamen, and Masquers_.


SCENE--_Alicant_.



THE RIVAL LADIES.

ACT I.

SCENE I--_A Wood_.

_Enter_ GONSALVO _and a Servant_.


_Gon_. Nay, 'twas a strange as well as cruel storm,
To take us almost in the port of Sevile,
And drive us up as far as Barcelona;
The whole plate fleet was scattered, some part wrecked;
There one might see the sailors diligent
To cast o'erboard the merchant's envied wealth,
While he, all pale and dying, stood in doubt,
Whether to ease the burden of the ship,
By drowning of his ingots, or himself.

_Serv_. Fortune, sir, is a woman everywhere,
But most upon the sea.

_Gons_. Had that been all,
I should not have complained; but, ere we could
Repair our ship, to drive us back again,
Was such a cruelty--

_Serv_. Yet that short time you staid at Barcelona
You husbanded so well, I think you left
A mistress there.

_Gons_. I made some small essays
Of love; what might have been I cannot tell:
But, to leave that, upon what part of Spain
Are we now cast?

_Serv_. Sir, I take that city to be Alicant.

_Gons_. Some days must of necessity be spent
In looking to our ship; then back again
For Sevile.

_Serv_. There you're sure you shall be welcome.

_Gons_. Aye, if my brother Rodoric be returned
From Flanders; but 'tis now three years since I
Have heard from him, and, since I saw him, twelve.

_Serv_. Your growth, and your long absence in the Indies,
Have altered you so much, he'll scarcely know you.

_Gons_. I'm sure I should not him, and less my sister;
Who, when I with my uncle went this voyage,
Was then one of those little prating girls,
Of whom fond parents tell such tedious stories:
Well, go you back.

_Serv_. I go, sir.

_Gons_. And take care
None of the seamen slip ashore.

_Serv_. I shall, sir. [_Exit Servant_.

_Gons_. I'll walk a little while among these trees,
Now the fresh evening air blows from the hills,
And breathes the sweetness of the orange flowers
Upon me, from the gardens hear the city.

_Robbers within_.

_1 Rob_. I say, make sure, and kill him.

_Hip_. For heaven's dear sake have pity on my youth.

[_Within_.

_Gons_. Some violence is offered in the wood
By robbers to a traveller: Whoe'er
Thou art, humanity obliges me
To give thee succour.

_Hip_. Help! ah cruel men! [_Within_.

_Gons_. This way, I think, the voice came; 'tis not far. [_Exit_.

_The_ SCENE _draws, and discovers_ HIPPOLITO _bound to a
tree, and two Robbers by him with drawn swords_.

_2 Rob_. Strip him, and let him go.

_1 Rob_. Dispatch him quite; off with his doublet quickly.

_Hip_. Ah me, unfortunate!

_Enter_ GONSALVO, _seizes the sword of one of them, and runs
him through; then, after a little resistance, disarms the other_.

_2 Rob_. If you have mercy in you, spare my life;
I never was consenting to a deed
So black as murder, though my fellow urged me:
I only meant to rob, and I am punished
Enough, in missing of my wicked aim.

_Gons_. Do they rob angels here? This sweet youth has
A face so like one, which I lately saw,
It makes your crime of kin to sacrilege:
But live; and henceforth
Take nobler courses to maintain your life:
Here's something that will rescue you from want,
'Till you can find employment.
[_Gives him gold, and unbinds_ HIPPOLITO.

_Hip_. What strange adventure's this! How little hoped I,
When thus disguised I stole from Barcelona,
To be relieved by brave Gonsalvo here? [_Aside_.

_2 Rob_. That life, you have preserved, shall still be yours;
And that you may perceive, how much my nature
Is wrought upon by this your generous act,
That goodness, you have shown to me, I'll use
To others for your sake, if you dare trust me
A moment from your sight.

_Gons_. Nay, take your sword;
I will not so much crush a budding virtue,
As to suspect. [_Gives him his sword. Exit Robber_.
--Sweet youth, you shall not leave me,
Till I have seen you safe.

_Hip_. You need not doubt it:
Alas! I find I cannot, if I would:
I am but freed to be a greater slave: [_Aside_.
How much am I obliged, sir, to your valour!

_Gons_. Rather to your own sweetness, pretty youth;
You must have been some way preserved, though I
Had not been near; my aid did but prevent
Some miracle more slowly setting out
To save such excellence.

_Hip_. How much more gladly could I hear those words,
If he, that spoke them, knew he spoke to me! [_Aside_.