1.

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THE THIMBLE.

AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM, IN FIVE CANTOS.

Illuſtrated with NOTES, Critical and Explanatory, By SCRIBLERUS SECUNDUS.

Virginibus pueriſque canto. HOR.

The THIRD EDITION, Corrected and Enlarged.

TO Miſs ANNA MARIA WOODFORD.

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MADAM,

AS the Subject of the following Poem naturally led me to inſcribe it to one of your Sex, I could not but hope, that the Juſtneſs of the preſent Addreſs, from one who has not the Happineſs to be perſonally known to you, would be a ſufficient Apology for the Preſumption of it. But tho' I may have the Misfortune to incur your Diſpleaſure, by offending your Humility, I ſhall, even under the Senſe of your Diſapprobation, have the Satisfaction to reflect, that I have been guilty of a very artful Piece of Impertinence; ſince, by placing your Name before my Performance, I have taken the moſt effectual Method to recommend it to the Public.

[iv] Your Example, Madam, is a Reproach to the preſent indolent Generation; your Glory is not eſtabliſhed upon the perſonal Advantages you poſſeſs in ſo eminent a Manner; which, great as they are, your good Senſe aſſures you, are, at the beſt, but the Subjects of preſent Admiration, and can never be the Baſis of a laſting Fame.

Your Handy-work, Madam, which has very juſtly a Place among the Curioſities of that famous Univerſity, of which I have the Honour and Happineſs to be an inconſiderable Member, has rendered your Name immortal; and your nice Management of the Needle, that little, but important Implement of Oeconomy, has entitled you to the Reputation of the compleateſt Houſewife in Europe; a Character, to which all Virgins and Wives ſhould aſpire.

You have taught us to acknowlege, that the moſt minute Utenſil of Art may, [v] by an ingenious Application of it, be made ſubſervient, in the higheſt Degree, to the Honour of the Artiſt: A Pin, or a Needle, in your Hands, are Inſtruments as effectual for that Purpoſe, as the Poet's Pen, or the Hero's Sword.

I am at preſent, Madam, in a very perplexed Situation of Mind; I have the Pleaſure to conſider, that I am now upon a Subject that muſt be agreeable to all my Readers, and at the ſame time have the Mortification to recollect, that 'tis diſtaſteful to yourſelf.

Though therefore all I could ſay in Commendation of your Merit, the World would think too little, yet, as what I have ſaid you will think too much, I find myſelf under a Neceſſity of deſiring your Pardon for this Liberty I have taken, and for another in the fourth Canto of this Poem, wherein I have preſumed to put a ſhort Prediction, relating [vi] to your amiable Character, into the Mouth of the Queen of Love. This I need not otherwiſe have intimated, ſince every one muſt at firſt Sight perceive, that this Prediction is properly applicable to none but yourſelf.

After what I have ſaid, Madam, may I venture to hope you have ſome Patience in Reſerve for the Poem? 'Twas deſign'd for your Amuſement, and, if that Deſign be anſwered, my Ambition is ſatisfied: And indeed, to ſay Truth, I have ſo thorough a Confidence in your good Nature, that I am perſuaded you will look with a favourable Eye upon the following Performance, though not in Juſtice, yet in Pity to,

Your unknown humble Servant, The AUTHOR.

THE PREFACE.

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I Have always conſidered a Preface as an Author's Apology for his Performance; in which he has an undoubted Liberty of ſaying as much as he pleaſes in Favour of himſelf: As I cannot therefore but be apprehenſive of the Succeſs of the following Piece, I muſt beg Leave to take this comfortable Privilege, as well as my Poetical Brethren. The principal Circumſtances I have to urge in my own Behalf, are, that this Poem is the firſt Production of a young and unexperienced Author (excepting a few trifling Pieces in the Magazines); and that I am ſo far from bidding Defiance to the Critics, that I addreſs myſelf to them in the modeſt and [viii] ſubmiſſive Terms of, By your Leave,

GENTLEMEN.

As to the Poem itſelf, I have endeavoured, in ſome particular Paſſages, to imitate the Manner of Mr. Pope's Rape of the Lock, upon a Preſumption, that ſuch Imitation would be deemed meritorious in ſo young a Writer as myſelf. I ought likewiſe to acknowlege, that I had in View the Epiſode of the Patten in Mr. Gay's Trivia. How far I have reached the Spirit required in this Kind of Poetry, muſt be left to the Reader, to whoſe Candour and Judgment I ſubmit the following Poem.

THE THIMBLE. *

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CANTO I.

WHAT Art divine the ſhining Thimble found,
To ſhield the Finger militant around,
Now firſt my Verſe reveals: Ye Virgins hear,
Attend ye Matrons, and ye Belles give Ear;
[10] For you the Infant Muſe eſſays to ſing,
For you ſhe flutters on her tender Wing;
To you the tributary Strains belong,
"Then take at once the Poet and the Song."
[11]
When Woman's chief Concerns were Love and Play,
And trifling was the Bus'neſs of the Day;
When few one Hour of precious Time could ſpare,
To mend an Apron, or to ſay a Pray'r;
Fannia, the faireſt of the female Train,
That ſhone at Court, or bleſt the rural Plain,
In the nice Toils of Induſtry was ſkill'd,
And knew with Art the Needle Spear to wield;
Whether ſhe work'd the gayly-blooming Flow'r,
Or drew in ductile Silk the verdant Bow'r;
Here glow'd the ſpangled Firmament on high,
And all the Glories of the azure Sky:
Here wide expanded blaz'd the bright Abodes,
And Jove inthron'd above his Vaſſal Gods;
[12] For Pallas' ſelf had deign'd t' aſſiſt the Fair,
And more than human Workmanſhip was there
Sometimes ſhe copied from the Earth below,
The ſpotted Lap-Dog, or the flaming Beau;
Or form'd the Bird, or ſhap'd the ſlender Tree;
A whole Creation in Epitome!
* Envy itſelf was dumb, in wonder loſt,
And Ladies ſtrove which ſhould applaud her moſt.
Each Morn ſhe work'd, but work'd with niceſt Care,
To ſave her Finger from the fatal Scar:
For yet no Armour cas'd the Fleſh around,
But Plaits of Silk, or ſev'n-fold Paper bound.
Unhappy Fannia, that was wont to wield
The pointed Spear, without the boſſy Shield!
Thrice happy Fannia, in the Gift beſtow'd,
The Thimble Shield, the Labour of a God!
But now her Charms had ſwell'd the Trump of Fame,
And ſpread to diſtant Tea-Tables her Name;
[13] Each cringing Fop around her Smiles implor'd,
Admir'd her Genius, but her Face ador'd:
Each ſigh'd, and wept, and vow'd, her Love to gain,
But each had ſigh'd, and wept, and vow'd in vain;
For Fannia triumph'd in her Beauty's Arts,
And view'd with Scorn whole Hecatombs of Hearts!
Yet moſt reſpected was a well-bred Lord,
And moſt reſpected, as he beſt ador'd:
His ſoft Addreſs the coldeſt Dame might move;
Smooth were his Words, for ev'ry Word was Love:
Loaded with Lace, and deck'd in ſilken State,
He ſtrutted, inſignificantly great!
Affected Pomp, and Equipage, and Shew,
And all the Nothings that compound a Beau;
He danc'd, and ſung, took Snuff, and crack'd a Fan,
And, at the beſt, but border'd upon Man.
Flambeaux perfum'd wide blaz'd his gay Approach,
And wanton Cupids breath'd upon his Coach.
[14] * O Vanity! thou gaudy, tinſel Queen!
In Courts, in Cities, and in Country ſeen!
Eternal Fopp'ries in thy Preſence reign,
And grinning Folly leads thy wanton Train;
Eas'd of it's Load, ev'n Dulneſs grows more light,
And Ignorance looks chearful in thy Sight;
Thou mak'ſt th' unmeaning Face with Pride to glow,
Giv'ſt Brightneſs to the Fool, and Beauty to the Beau!
Gay Cynthio daily kneel'd at Venus' Shrine,
And burnt ſweet Incenſe to the Pow'r benign:
Oft too he crav'd Apollo's rhyming Art,
For tuneful Numbers melt the hardeſt Heart;
The Godhead half-conſented to his Pray'r,
(The reſt the Winds diſperſt thro' Fields of Air)
And gave him Wit enough—to pleaſe the Fair.
And now th' enamour'd Bard, half Wit, half Fool,
Wooes in Love-Songs melodiouſly dull;
His ſweet-tun'd Strains the Fair one's Praiſe rehearſe,
And crow'd all Nature's Beauties in his Verſe:
[15] Does Fannia ſmile? the Sun breaks forth to View;
Does Fannia weep? 'tis Morning's pearly Dew:
Whene'er ſhe breathes, the fanning Zephyrs blow,
And for her Breaſt the Alps ſuſtain their Snow;
Compar'd with her's, the fineſt Tinctures fail,
The Lilly reddens, and the Roſe turns pale!
Thus his warm Suit the Beau with Art addreſt,
And proudly triumph'd to be ſlighted leaſt:
'Twas Rapture but to gain one balmy Kiſs,
And fondly flutter round the Brink of Bliſs:
Full of herſelf his Wiſhes ſhe deny'd;
A Woman's ruling Paſſion is her Pride;
Enough impartial Favours to beſtow
*On her lov'd Lap-Dog, and her fav'rite Beau!
Thus bleſs'd with ev'ry Joy this Life can boaſt,
The Ladies' Wonder, and the Coxcomb's Toaſt,
[16] What could the Fair one's Peace of Mind annoy?
What could ſuch ſolid Happineſs deſtroy?
But ah! no human Pleaſures are ſincere:
Is there an Eye that never ſhed a Tear?
Fate rules o'er all; at whoſe ſevere Decree,
O'er the rich Gown flow Deluges of Tea;
Fate hurls the Mighty down to deep Diſgrace,
And plows with laſting Scars the ſmootheſt Face;
O'er all Things mortal acts with lawleſs Will,
And Fannia was, alaſs! but mortal ſtill.
* When now the Morn had chas'd the Shades away
(O fatal Morn, and inauſpicious Day!)
Fannia aroſe, and hail'd the grateful Light,
Shock'd at the horrid Viſions of the Night;
Yet ſtill ſtrange Terrours all her Thoughts moleſt,
And Apprehenſion labour'd in her Breaſt.
Then, Betty, with dejected Look, ſhe cry'd,
(Three Times on Betty call'd, and three Times ſigh'd)
Some ſad Miſchance awaits me, e'er the Sun
Once more his Courſe from Eaſt to Weſt ſhall run;
[17] * Fantaſtic Slumbers have diſturb'd my Brain,
And rack'd my Senſes with a wakeful Pain;
And myſtic Dreams (as bearded Matrons ſhew)
Are good Prognoſtics, or the Types of Woe.
Sure at this Hour ſome baleful Planet reigns:
Didſt thou not mark, laſt Night, the Coffee Grains?
Methought the Taper's Flame was ting'd with Blue,
And Coals ſtrange-ſhapen from the Embers flew.
Late as I wander'd in a lonely Grove,
E'er yet my Thoughts began to teem with Love;
A wither'd Gypſy whiſper'd in my Ear,
"Misfortune ſhall befall thy twentieth Year;"
That fatal Period of my Life is come,
And ev'ry Hour ſwells big with Fannia's Doom.
Yet, O ye Pow'rs! preſerve me from Diſgrace,
Let me ſtill keep my Virtue,—and my Face!
O! make my Boſom proof to Love's Alarms,
Protect my Youth, and ſhelter all my Charms.
* While thus the Maid preſag'd Diſaſter nigh,
Great Jove conven'd the Senate of the Sky;
[18] And, round aſſembled the celeſtial Clan,
He ſtrok'd his Muſtachoes, and thus began.
Aethereal Pow'rs, behold! in doleful State
Our beſt-lov'd Fannia moans approaching Fate;
See how ſhe views yon glitt'ring Needle round,
Nor deems her Woe long deſtin'd in a Wound;
Shall we avert the Fair one's Doom to-Day,
Or ſhall we give the ſpleenful Fates their Way? 14
[19] Of all the Damſels on yon earthly Sphere,
Like Fannia none our Deities revere;
Daily the Maid renews her pious Toil,
And Heav'n regales with Steams of fatteſt Oil;
* While yearly as the ſolemn Rites ſucceed,
Two milk-white Kittens on our Altars bleed.
So ſpoke the Sire of Men and Gods above;
And, ſmiling, thus rejoin'd the Queen of Love.
Father, 'tis juſt, this Pity to the Fair;
A helpleſs Maid is Jove's peculiar Care;
Bright Fannia ſhines the firſt of human Race,
In winning Sweetneſs, and in Bloom of Face,
Since my fam'd Fav'rite Helen's pow'rful Charms
Rouz'd Heav'n and Earth to dreadful Deeds of Arms;
For ſuch a Maid ſhall Fate Diſtreſs ordain,
And ſpoil ſuch Features with the Rage of Pain?
[20] To whom the Goddeſs with the ſilver Bow;
Siſter, thy Arts, by endleſs Proof, we know:
By thee ſeduc'd, the faireſt Nymphs, among
My huntreſs Train, have left the Virgin Throng.
Fannia, my Vot'ry late, and chief Delight,
Whoſe Thought by Day was chaſte, and Dream by Night,
Soon, I foreſee, will fall thy Victim ſure;
I mark her Boſom heave with Sighs impure,
When Cynthio twines her Hair, or twirls her Fan;
For there's Contagion in the Touch of Man!
Let not great Jove his own Decrees abate,
But leave th' abandon'd Virgin to her Fate.
Then ſlow uproſe the God's majeſtic Queen;
Unjuſt, ſhe cry'd, Diana, is thy Spleen:
Nor, Venus, claim thy ſofter Arts Applauſe;
Let Love be ſubject to connubial Laws;
[21] So Fannia ſtill may ſhine ſupremely fair,
Belov'd of Gods, and Heav'n's peculiar Care:
And Jove, the Horrours of her preſent Fate,
May, or remove, or kindly mitigate.
Next the great Pallas, blue-ey'd Goddeſs roſe,
Not like the Pallas thund'ring midſt her Foes,
When all-beſmear'd with Duſt, and Sweat, and Gore,
She bids the furious Voice of Battle roar:
A mild and graceful Air her Looks aſſume,
As when preſiding o'er the peaceful Loom.
'Twas reaſon'd well, ſhe cry'd, and, I beſeech,
Thanks may be paid to Juno for her Speech.
Fate will have Way; and who ſhall ſtem its Tide?
Great Jove oppos'd not when his Hector dy'd!
The Wound, the beauteous Artiſt muſt endure,
Tho' cruel Fate inflicts, the Gods may cure.
Venus implor'd ſhall due Compaſſion take,
As well for Cynthio's, as for Fannia's Sake;
And Vulcan's Art a Target ſhall prepare,
Henceforth to ſhield the Finger of the Fair;
Thus ſhall the Perils of the Needle ceaſe,
* And Hymen's Bands ſhall tie the Knot of Peace.
[22] So be't, if ſo wills Jove.—The Parent God
Shook his ambroſial Locks, and gave the Nod.
Now ſip th' Immortals their celeſtial Tea,
And quaff nectareous Draughts of Ratifia!
Apollo ſung a Ballad, and the Nine,
With Tabor and with Pipe, in Concert join.
* Young Ganymede his Office dext'rous plies,
And all applaud the Footboy of the Skies.
END of the FIRST CANTO.

CANTO II.

[23]
NO ſweetly-flowing Tale I now rehearſe,
But Scratches, Wounds, and Bloodſhed, ſtain the Verſe:
Ye vet'ran Band of Milliners, give Ear,
And ev'ry Sempſtreſs drop a pitying Tear!
O! liſten to the Melancholy Lay,
While I recount the Horrours of the Day.
*O! for his Numbers, that deſcrib'd the Shield
Of great Pelides iſſuing to the Field,
Or clad in Arms terrific from afar,
Or ruſhing dreadful through the Ranks of War!
The Virgin ſat deep ſunk in penſive Thought;
Betty, my Work, ſhe cry'd; and Betty brought:
[24] Oft have my Morning Labours ſooth'd my Grief;
What Wretch e'er found in Idleneſs Relief?
How blind are Mortals in this hapleſs State;
We ruſh to Ruin, and embrace our Fate!
* Six Needles in tremendous Range appear,
Each a dire Emblem of the Warriour's Spear!
A while ſhe view'd them all with careful Eyes,
Then graſp'd a Jav'lin of enormous Size;
Next, as impatient for the Toil ſhe grew,
Her ſhining Sciſſars from the Sheath ſhe drew,
Her Grand-Dame's Gift (as antient Memoirs ſay)
A juſt Reward for many a well-work'd Day!
With active Haſte her nimble Fingers move,
Curl the gay Vine, and form the mimic Grove;
But as her Finger with reſiſtleſs Force,
Through double Plaits purſu'd its rapid Courſe,
The treach'rous Needle broke,—the headleſs Dart
Deep-gor'd her Fleſh, and pierc'd her—to the Heart.
The purple Blood diſtain'd her Arm around,
And half her Soul came ruſhing through the Wound;
Then, as her Boſom glow'd with ſudden Fire,
She ſpurn'd her Lap-Dog in her peeviſh Ire;
Acroſs the Room with furious Speed ſhe flew,
And Tables, Chairs, and Cabinets, o'erthrew;
[25] Her hideous Cries the vocal Walls reſound,
Poll chatter'd, ſcream'd the Kitten, ſhook the Ground.
So when the * Greek, that with Immortals ſtrove,
Wounded in impious Rage the Queen of Love;
To Heav'n's high Roof the Goddeſs rais'd her Cries,
And the harſh Shriek run thrilling through the Skies.
Here lay the Ruins of an ample Bowl,
The Pride and Comfort of her Grandſire's Soul;
This oft inſpir'd the loudly-ſounding Jeſt,
And crown'd with Jollity the Nuptial Feaſt;
Unhurt by Midnight Broils, uncrack'd by Age,
It fell the Wreck of Fannia's heedleſs Rage.
At length, fatigu'd with Anger, ſhe ſurvey'd
The fatal Maſſacre herſelf had made;
Then, as ſhe ſat all penſive and alone,
In ſecret Grief ſhe made her piteous Moan:
So ſhuns a wounded Bird the feather'd Race,
And mournful in ſome ſolitary Place,
To Woods and Rocks he tunes the plaintive Lay,
And Echoes waft the gentle Sounds away.
And oh! ſhe cried, Is this the dreadful Stroke,
Which Omens threaten'd, and which Viſions ſpoke?
[26] Ah! how have I incens'd the Pow'rs above,
What Crime provokes the Wrath of angry Jove?
Yearly my loaded Altars blaze in vain,
With plenteous Fat of purring Victims ſlain,
Doom'd as I am to Pangs of endleſs Pain;
Pale, meagre, ghoſtlike, how ſhall I appear,
In bright Aſſemblies of the Gay and Fair?
Old Maids will triumph with inſulting Voice,
* And o'er their flowing Cups the Belles rejoice!
A ſad Recluſe, no longer muſt I roam,
But ſpin a tedious Length of Days at Home!
Ev'n Cynthio, cruel Cynthio, ſpreads my Shame!
Adieu to Love, to Conqueſt, and to Fame!
Did I for this my blooming Beauties grace,
And heighten all the Luſtre of my Face?
For this before my Glaſs whole Hours beguile,
And heave my Breaſt, and force the killing Smile?
Or bid my Cheeks with artful Bluſhes glow?
Or teach the wanton Treſſes where to flow?
Could I not Taſks leſs dang'rous undertake?
Refine the Jelly, or compoſe the Cake?
Or mould the pliant Paſte with niceſt Art,
And with high Ramparts fortify the Tart?
[27] O blaſt that Day, ye Pow'rs, with Plagues ſevere,
When firſt my Fingers pois'd the pointed Spear;
Then may no joyful Sounds invade the Skies,
But raviſh'd Maids Complaints, and Widows Cries;
Then be untun'd the Muſic of the Spheres;
Then may no Fiddle glad the Dancers Ears;
No Ballad then be ſung with ſcreaming Note,
Nor ſoft Airs warbl'd in the Eunuch's Throat;
Then may the Sun withdraw his chearful Light,
Nor pendent Luſtres gild the Face of Night!
This ſaid, with Silk her bleeding Fleſh ſhe bound,
While ev'ry Thought hung brooding o'er the Wound;
On Poll ſhe caſt a ſad, deſponding Look,
And patted Daphne with a feeble Stroke.
But now bright Lamps began the Midnight Day,
And blazing Flambeaux drove the Stars away;
The Fair expects her Beau with anxious Fears,
When at his wonted Hour the Fop appears.
With conſcious Shame her Finger ſhe withdrew,
Nor durſt expoſe the fatal Wound to View:
Long he ſurvey'd (for Love takes all Alarms)
With deep Surprize her diſconcerted Charms;
Then, ſweet and tuneful as the dying Swan,
In ſoft, condoling Words he thus began:
What ſad Miſchance, what unfear'd Danger nigh,
Fluſhes that Cheek, and dims that ſparkling Eye?
[28] Lies ſome near Friend upon his dying Bed?
Or has the Light'ning ſtruck thy Monkey dead?
Has the fell Mercer juſt produc'd his Score,
And having truſted long, will truſt no more?
Or didſt thou mark laſt Ev'ning at the Play,
A richer Virgin, or a Nymph more gay?
Say, does my Fair for brighter Gems repine?
Each India's choiceſt Diamonds ſhall be thine:
For thee the Eaſt its Treaſures ſhall unfold,
And Earth unboſom all her Hoards of Gold:
O name thy Wants, and tell me thy Diſtreſs,
Care ſhall remove, or Pity make it leſs.
This ſaid, (and ſure his Lordſhip ſaid enough)
With Elegance he took a Pinch of Snuff.
Then ſhe: No Language can my Grief remove,
Nor all the Pow'rs of Hartſhorn, and of Jove;
Cynthio, thy Truth alone can give me Aid,
And ſkreen from ſad Reproach a wretched Maid!
If in each deep-fetch'd Sigh, each falling Tear,
Each ſolemn Vow thy Heart has been ſincere,
By Secrecy thy fair Affection prove;
For Silence is the nobleſt Mark of Love.
Ev'n Fannia ſues this Favour to obtain,
Fannia that never ſu'd to Man in vain.
She ſaid, and fix'd her Eyes upon the Ground,
And with a Bluſh diſclos'd the reeking Wound.
[29]
Shock'd at the Sight of Blood, replied the Peer,
'Tis done, and this was Cynthio's greateſt Fear;
Oft have I ſeen thy bright Embroid'ry ſhine,
Oft have I curſt the perilous Deſign:
Thou, born to flouriſh in the Pride of State,
Idly ſecure, and indolently great,
Had'ſt nought to do with dang'rous Feats of Arms;
Such Conflicts ſuit not with a Lady's Charms:
Domeſtic Toils the ſervile female grace,
Enough for thee to glory in a Face!
How raſh was ſhe, that graſp'd the Needle firſt?
Pernicious Weapon, Inſtrument accurſt!
'Twas *this, that once deſtroy'd a Britiſh Maid,
Her Needle's Point to ling'ring Death betray'd;
In thoſe ſad Vaults, where Horrour ſpreads her Wings,
Where reſt the Bones of Poets, and of Kings,
The hapleſs Fair in Marble Record ſtands,
The Victim of her own induſtrious Hands!
O call to Mind her Life, and Beauty loſt,
Dread all edg'd Tools, but dread the Needle moſt!
Why down thy Cheek deſcends the pearly Rill?
Fannia is wounded, but is Fannia ſtill:
The ſad Diſgrace with patient Heart endure,
Nor Cynthio ſhall divulge, but wait the Cure:
[30] This Night my Soul ſhall breathe a fervent Pray'r,
And deprecate the Horrours of the Scar;
Thy wounded Finger Venus ſhall reſtore,
But, vent'rous Beauty, truſt to Steel no more.
So ſpoke the Peer, to ſooth the drooping Maid,
And his vaſt Stores of Eloquence diſplay'd:
Lull'd by his melting Words her Terrours ceaſe,
And the ſoft Sounds reſtor'd her wonted Peace:
At length, the mighty Theme exhauſts his Art,
And empty'd all the Nonſenſe of his Heart.
But now the Tea remov'd, the Prattle o'er,
And all the Scandal of the Day before,
The Baron took his Leave, and left the Fair,
And his gilt Chariot rattled o'er the Square.
Fannia, at length, in Slumbers clos'd her Eyes,
And Men and Monkies in Deluſion riſe.
END of the SECOND CANTO.

CANTO III.

[31]
NOW all lay huſh'd *in ſolitary Night,
And diſtant Stars diffus'd a ſolemn Light;
The World appear'd a deſert, ſilent Scene,
And all around was dreadfully ſerene;
Now ghaſtly ſtalk'd a melancholy Train,
By Knife, by Halter, and by Poiſon ſlain;
Whoſe woful Mem'ries Grub-ſtreet Bards prolong,
In diſmal Story, or in doleful Song:
Nor School-boys Shout was heard, nor Carman's Roar,
Ev'n Winds were ſtill, and Women ſpoke no more:
The Sons of Men diſſolv'd in Slumbers lay,
And Slaves, and Kings forgot the Toils of Day.
But wakeful Cares diſturb'd the Baron's Brain,
And weary'd Nature call'd for Reſt in vain;
Anxious to eaſe the ſadly-wounded Fair,
To Venus he addreſs'd his Midnight Pray'r:
Great Paphian Queen, bright Deity of Love,
Whom all below confeſs, and all above,
[32] If e'er with Gifts thy Altars I have crown'd,
Or deck'd with flow'ry Wreaths thy Shrine around;
If I have taught my tender Soul to own
No Pow'rs but thee, and thy all-conqu'ring Son;
If by thy Aid I ken Love's ſecret Fire,
Each budding Wiſh, and ev'ry fond Deſire;
Read in the Virgin's Eyes her inward Smart,
And know each Symptom of a Loveſick Heart;
Renew thy Favours oft beſtow'd before,
And hear me now, or never hear me more.
Behold my Fannia, late a Virgin bright,
As Love can fancy, or as Verſe can write;
Now ſee her ſad, dejected, and forlorn,
That once was chearful as the riſing Morn;
With all-conſuming Grief ſhe waſtes away,
Ev'n She, the Fair, the Witty, and the Gay;
Penſive ſhe moans her wounded Finger's Smart,
And ſinks from all her Loftineſs of Heart.
O grant my Boon, and eaſe the Virgin's Pain,
Eaſe it, to bleſs Mankind, and me again;
With ſovereign Balm the ſhameful Scar remove,
And teach! O teach her to relent to Love!
So ſhall each Beau with Spleen and Envy ſee
The Miſtreſs of the World ſubdu'd by me;
The yielding Fair ſhall ev'ry Charm reſign,
And Hymen ſhall our Hearts in laſting Union join.
[33]
Thus far with wakeful Zeal the Baron ſaid,
Slumbers enſu'd, and nods the heavy Head.
Venus with Pity heard the Beau's Requeſt,
And thus the ſtripling God of Love addreſs'd:
My Son, thy Bow and keeneſt Shafts prepare;
'Tis thine to humble this imperious Fair:
Enough the Maid has ſeen with high Diſdain
The Coxcomb's Anguiſh, and the Fopling's Pain;
At length, herſelf ſhall own Love's pow'rful Sway
(For all muſt once the Laws of Love obey)
And ſlighted Beaux ſhall bleſs the Vengeance of this Day.
Cynthio the Bright that yonder ſleeping lies,
Whoſe Fires perpetual on my Altars riſe,
In vain, the Force of ev'ry pleaſing Art
Has try'd, to ſoften that obdurate Heart:
To him the Fair her Beauties ſhall reſign,
His be the glorious Prize, the Conqueſt thine.
But firſt ſome ſov'reign Med'cine muſt be found,
To eaſe the Torments of the fatal Wound;
And ſee! within this Cryſtal are contain'd
Drops, which from wholſom Herbs long ſince were drain'd;
The wholſom Herbs in Jove's fam'd *Iſland grow,
And flouriſh freſh on Ida's lofty Brow:
[34] 'Twas this my beſt-lov'd *Offspring once reſtor'd,
When all Troy trembl'd for her wounded Lord:
This healing Juice ſhall cure the Virgin's Pain,
And Fannia's Smiles ſhall chear the World again.
Hence, let us quick, my Son, to Earth repair,
This Night ſhall be fulfill'd the Baron's Pray'r.
She ſaid, and o'er her ſnowy Shoulders threw
A ſhining Mantle of an azure Hue;
Two ſilken Knots her flowing Hair divide,
And Cupid arm'd came ſmiling by her Side:
Wrap'd in a ſable Cloud they took their Way,
Like Lightning darting through the Realms of Day;
Swift as they paſt, Perfumes divine they ſhed,
And now hung hov'ring o'er the Virgin's Bed:
O'er the wide Room a Taper's ſteady Light
Caſt a pale Luſtre, and diſpell'd the Night:
The lofty Cieling, glorious to behold,
Was carv'd, and ſtudded o'er with Stars of Gold:
The ample Walls vaſt Folds of Tap'ſtry grace;
Here bright Diana ſeem'd to urge the Chace,
Panting behind her came her Virgin Train,
And the huge Boar ran foaming o'er the Plain;
Here Daphne ſought the Shelter of the Wood,
And here with eager Steps the God purſu'd:
[35] * Pleas'd Venus ſaw; at length herſelf ſurvey'd,
Fondly lamenting o'er Adonis dead;
At that ſad Scene her Tears began to flow,
And her Breaſt labour'd with the former Woe:
She turn'd aſide, new Objects to explore,
Nor durſt behold the fatal Image more.
Here a rich Structure's ſtately Bulk was ſet,
Whoſe golden Figures blaz'd on Plains of Jet;
From India's fartheſt Coaſt the Fabrick came,
A Lover's Off'ring to the haughty Dame:
Here the rich Veſt, and ſparkling Diamond lay,
All Beauty's pleaſing, terrible Array!
The ſpacious Top whole Groups of China grace,
Of Men and Beaſts, a vaſt promiſcuous Race;
Two rampant Lions at each Corner ſtood,
The dreadful Guardians of the ſacred Wood;
Sullen the brittle Savages look'd down,
And the terrific China ſeem'd to frown.
Th' Immortals next the well-wrought Bed ſurvey'd,
Where lay, diſſolv'd in Sleep, the lovely Maid;
[36] Wrapt in ſweet Dreams of Conqueſt, Love, and Play;
Pleas'd ſhe renew'd the Triumphs of the Day;
Diſdainful * ev'n in Slumbers ſhe grew vain,
And practis'd all her Conqueſts o'er again,
And thrice ſhe vanquiſh'd all her Beaux, and thrice ſhe ſlew the Slain.
Her Watch of Gold hung pendent o'er her Head,
And deck'd with glitt'ring Pomp the lofty Bed;
It ſtrikes, as ev'ry rapid Hour glides round;
It ſtrikes, Mortality is in the Sound!
Oh! did the Belles, while yet in Beauty's Prime,
Take warning from theſe Records of their Time;
Think ev'ry Year may ſteal away a Grace,
And prey unheeded on the faireſt Face;
Conſcious of fading Charms they'd lay aſide,
Each Art coquetiſh, and each Air of Pride;
Nor blaſt their Lovers Hopes by long Delay,
But yield thoſe Beauties, which muſt ſoon decay!
Venus, at length, a golden Quill eſpy'd,
That once adorn'd a gaudy Peacock's Side,
[37] (This pen'd the Fair one's Thoughts with wond'rous Art,
And told the ſoft Emotions of her Heart;
Deſcrib'd her inmoſt Soul, without Diſguiſe,
And Truths deny'd to Man's unhallow'd Eyes)
Lo! in the ſacred Drops the ſhining Plume
She dyes, and heav'nly Odours fill the Room;
With this ſhe gently bath'd the ſwelling Wound,
It heal'd, it clos'd, and all the Part was ſound.
Cupid beheld, and, Be that Glory thine,
He cry'd, but now behold a Work of mine:
Coy Maids, and haughty Belles revere me all,
Beauty muſt yield, and Woman's Pride muſt fall:
For now an inward Pang the Fair ſhall feel,
Not all the Pow'rs of Heav'n and Earth can heal.
He ſaid; he bit his Lip, and drew his Bow,
And view'd exulting the defenceleſs Foe;
Then, with malicious Zeal, he ſhot the Dart,
That fatal lodg'd deep ſunk in Fannia's Heart.
Then thrice was heard the wounded Virgin's Groan;
And thrice the Parrot ſcream'd his hideous Moan;
Thrice bark'd the Lap-Dog from his downy Bed,
And thrice the Kitten rear'd her drowſy Head!
Alas! how ſhort-liv'd is all human Pow'r!
The Pride of Years is blaſted in an Hour:
All the gay Plans of Conqueſt, all the Schemes
The Maid had form'd, are fled like Morning Dreams;
[38] The Baron ſhall poſſeſs her Beauty's Store,
And Fanny muſt inſult Mankind no more.
Then Venus thus addreſs'd the ſleeping Fair:
O Thou, thrice bleſt in Heav'n's peculiar Care,
Thou, that can'ſt all the Gifts of Nature boaſt,
Charge of Immortals, and the Mortals Toaſt;
Revere the Counſels of the Pow'rs above,
Forego thy Empire, and ſubmit to Love;
Here ceaſe the Triumphs of thy conqu'ring Charms,
Decreed by Fate to Cynthio's faithful Arms:
Nor with Reluctance yield; for thou, bright Maid,
Enough haſt rul'd, and Man enough obey'd:
Bleſs this auſpicious Night, nor henceforth fear
To lift with artful Hand the pointed Spear;
Safely the dang'rous Weapon ſhalt thou wield,
Thy Finger guarded by a ſacred Shield:
Vulcan himſelf the Target ſhall prepare,
That arms for Fight the gallant God of War:
So ſhall thy Needle ſtill extend thy Fame,
And Ages yet to come admire thy Name;
The pleaſing Tale ſhall dwell on ev'ry Tongue,
And grace the Numbers of ſome Poet's Song;
And each bright Virgin, each induſtrious Fair,
Hereafter fearleſs of the fatal Scar,
My Name ſhall high-extol with grateful Praiſe,
While purrs the Kitten, and the Lap-Dog bays;
[39] While Winds ſhall breathe, and rapid Rivers flow;
And am'rous Sonnets ſooth the Love-ſick Beau.
But let us hence, my Son, with Speed away,
E'er yet the Morning uſhers in the Day;
Next Aetna's gloomy Caverns we'll explore,
Where Vulcan's everlaſting Forges roar.
She ſaid; and ſtraight they glided on unſeen,
Swift as the filmy Miſts that ſkim the Green.

CANTO IV.

WHERE fabled Aetna's *dreadful Summits riſe,
Whoſe fiery Womb with Sulphur taints the Skies,
Deep in the Cave lies Vulcan's dark Abode,
The Dwelling of the great mechanic God:
Scarce can the diſtant Sun's enliv'ning Ray,
Pierce the thick Gloom, and ſhed a doubtful Day:
[40] In this dire Vault he toils with panting Breath,
Reddens the Bolt, and ſhapes the miſſive Death,
That from the Hand of Jove in Vengeance hurl'd,
Roars through th' Expanſe of Heav'n, and ſhakes the World;
Or brighten's round Minerva's Gorgon Shield,
That blazes to the Sun, and burns along the Field;
The huge-limb'd Cyclops wait his dread Command,
A ſervile Train, a grim gigantic Band.
His Goods about his Shop in Order lay,
Here the ſharp Bodkin, there the crafty Key;
Old ruſty Arms around the Walls appear,
The blunted Faulchion, and the pointleſs Spear;
Here hang the batter'd Shields, which Heroes wore
In Ages paſt, at Ilion's fatal Shore:
The maſſy Relicks not ten Beaux could raiſe,
The gentle Warriours of theſe latter Days.
To theſe dark Regions of eternal Night
The mighty Pow'rs of Love direct their Flight;
Ambroſial Zephyrs all around them play,
And gently fan th' unwholſome Fogs away:
Soon as they enter'd, all the ſwarthy Band
Drop their unfiniſh'd Labours from their Hand;
The heav'nly Form they view'd with wond'ring Eyes,
And, in a ſilent Grin, confeſt Surprize.
[41] At length, elate exclaims the limping God,
What drew my Fair one from her bleſt Abode?
Why haſt thou left the peaceful Realms above?
Why to theſe dreary Manſions doſt thou rove,
Where foul Contagion hovers in the Air,
And ſultry Vapours blaſt the blooming Year?
Name it, whate'er it be, O! name thy Boon,
Nor thou can'ſt aſk, nor I can grant too ſoon.
Then thus began the beauteous Queen of Love:
O! thou, that form'ſt the forked Bolts of Jove;
Whoſe Art can teach the ſtubborn Braſs to yield,
Point in the Spear, or widen in the Shield;
Thou, that didſt clad in Steel my *fav'rite Boy,
That bravely led the poor Remains of Troy;
An equal Taſk demands thy niceſt Care,
Nor arm the Hero now, but arm the Fair:
I aſk not Weapons, ſuch as wont to grace
The valiant Damſels of the Scythian Race;
A little Target ſhape with curious Care,
To ſhield the Finger in the Toils of War;
The Gift to Fannia ſhall Relief impart,
The firſt in Beauty, as the firſt in Art:
Wounded ſhe pines, nor dares again to wield
The Inſtrument of Blood without a Shield;
[42] This ſhall ſecure the Fair from future Pain,
And bleſs for ever all the female Train.
Then when ſome Nymph, howe'er that Nymph be nam'd,
For the nice Conduct of the Needle fam'd,
Like Fannia now, the Pride of Womankind,
In Perſon equal, greater far in Mind,
Admir'd by all, yet never vain of Pow'r,
In ſhining Silk, ſhall form the lively Flow'r;
Her ſolid Shield the Fair one ſhall ſurvey,
And grateful call to Mind this happy Day.
O! haſte then to the glorious Taſk. She ſaid;
* The Smith, the Huſband, and the God obey'd;
The ſavage Crew with Emulation ſtrove,
Impatient to oblige the Queen of Love:
With ſudden Rage the roaring Forges glow,
And Anvils thunder underneath the Blow;
The God quick deals his Arms, the Clangs rebound,
And the wide Vaults rebellow to the Sound;
The pliant Steel in various Forms they twine,
And elegantly ſhape the Work divine.
Then Vulcan thus: The animated Steel
The deep Impreſſion of your Tools muſt feel:
[43] Here let myſelf, and here let Venus ſtand,
The new-made Armour blazing in her Hand;
Here let the Virgin's Implements of War,
The pond'rous Sciſſars and the Needle Spear,
And all the bright Artillery appear:
Let Fame above the glorious Work reſound,
And Bands of Flow'rs adorn the Border round.
Soon at their Touch th' expreſſive Figures riſe,
And breathe and glitter to the diſtant Skies.
Behold! he cry'd, the bright Original,
This future Ages ſhall THE THIMBLE call!
Happy, thrice happy ſhe, the mortal Fair,
Whoſe Finger firſt the ſacred Shield ſhall wear.
Then, with a limping Step, and aukward Mien,
He gave the ſhining Preſent to his Queen:
Enamour'd he beheld her pleaſing Charms,
And gently claſp'd her in his ſooty Arms:
Averſe, the Goddeſs turn'd aſide her Face,
And with Reluctance met the foul Embrace.
Then, from the dreary Cave they mount to Day,
And to the Baron's Houſe direct their Way.
Loſt in a pleaſing Dream the Beau was laid,
And thus the bright celeſtial Viſion ſaid:
Cynthio awake, and ſeize thy Fannia's Charms,
Take her for ever to thy faithful Arms;
[44] Her outward cur'd, ſhe feels an inward Pain,
And Love impetuous glows in ev'ry Vein;
Give her this Target, made by Vulcan's Art,
To guard her Finger from the Needle's Dart;
Secur'd by this, undaunted ſhe may rear,
And fearleſs ſhake the long tremendous Spear:
So ſhall far diſtant Times admire her Name,
And crown her Labours with eternal Fame.
She ſaid, and left the Shield, the Gift beſtow'd,
And with her Son purſu'd the heav'nly Road.
But now the Morn ſhot forth a feeble Ray,
And ting'd the Mountains with the Bluſh of Day;
Uproſe the joyful Baron, ſtraight he ſpies
The Thimble Shield, and graſps the ſhining Prize;
The Work divine with Wonder he ſurvey'd,
And Homage due to Cytherea paid:
With Care he deck'd his Perſon out that Day,
Artfully fine, deliberately gay;
Adorn'd with Gold that ſhone with gaudy Shew,
He traverſes the Room a finiſh'd Beau!
Then eager to embrace his much-lov'd Fair,
In ſtately Pomp he mounts his gilded Car.
Soft on her downy Couch the Nymph was laid,
The Midnight Dream revolving in her Head;
Her blooming Cheeks with conſcious Bluſhes glow,
And her Heart flutter'd for her charming Beau:
[45] When lo! he comes: Love flaſhes from his Eyes,
Unuſual Raptures in her Boſom riſe!
Then to the Fair he gave the Gift beſtow'd,
The ſacred Shield, the Labour of a God:
Joyful ſhe view'd the Workmanſhip around,
Heal'd of her laſt, and ſafe from future Wound:
'Twas in that Hour the Beau his Paſſion preſt,
'Twas in that Hour the Fair his Paſſion bleſs'd:
Cynthio, ſhe cry'd, O long in Heart ador'd,
My faithful Lover, and my deſtin'd Lord,
Fannia the Pow'rs immortal ſhall repay,
With grateful Honours for this glorious Day:
* Let the glad Tidings ſpread; proclaim about,
This Afternoon, we hold a ſolemn Route:
Summon the Belles, the Damſels, and the Dames,
The Beaux and Foplings, to the nuptial Games;
In yon Buffet be plac'd before their Eyes,
Each Combat's due Reward, and glitt'ring Prize.
She ſaid, and Fame her loudeſt Trumpet blows,
And in gay Cluſters croud the Belles and Beaux.
[46] * Thus have I ſeen in Summer, to the Clang
Of beaten Pot, or ſhining Warming-Pan,
Sooth'd and delighted by the pow'rful Charm,
With chearful Hum, the Inſect Nations ſwarm.

CANTO V.

HIGH on a rich Settee, the future Bride
Sat with the curled Cynthio by her Side;
Aloft, with Luſtre grac'd, divinely bright,
The Thimble ſhines conſpicuous to the Sight:
In comely Rank was rang'd each brilliant Gueſt,
And big Ambition ſwells in ev'ry Breaſt;
The burniſh'd Kettle on a Tripod ſtands,
And the plum'd Moor expects the Fair's Commands
Here Piles of ſnow-capt Cakes are ſeen, and here
Vaſt Pyramids of well-built Toaſts appear.
The Rites of Tea begin; † and firſt, they pour
To mighty Jove, Libations on the Floor,
[47] Two Baſons of Bohea, whoſe fragrant Steam
Scents the wide Hall; and next, two Pots of Cream.
Then Belles and Beaux the rich Repaſt partake;
In Ruin ſinks the Edifice of Cake!
All, o'er their ſmoking Cups, reclining ſit,
And briſkly circles Sugar round—and Wit.
By turns they ſip their Drink, by turns they prate,
Now ſtir a Tea-Diſh, now reform the State.
So, in a low'ring Eve, the Ducks and Drakes,
On the green Pool renew their clam'rous Wakes;
Now dip their ſportive Beaks the quacking Race,
Now undiſtinguiſh'd chatt'ring fills the Place,
—At length, the Rage of Appetite allay'd,
Thus to the Route began the lovely Maid;
* O ye, whoſe Boſoms beat for Fame, draw near,
Beaux, Belles, Fops, Foplings, Chiefs and Chieflings, hear, 37
[48] Hear what the happieſt of her Sex proclaims,
And joyful celebrate the nuptial Games;
* You, firſt, whoſe Limbs excel in active Race,
Three Times round yon Canal purſue the Chace;
Who meaſures with moſt Speed the deſtin'd Spot,
Or his, or hers, ſhall be this Coffee-Pot;
A maſſy Gift, by Artiſts richly wrought,
That my great Grandſire's wide-fam'd Bounty bought;
What Time my Father's eager Hopes were ſped,
And my chaſte Mother climb'd the bridal Bed.
The ſecond Chief, in this Pedeſtrian War,
Shall bear in Triumph home yon China-Jar;
And to the Third, due Honours we decree,
This Muff of Pheaſant's Down, once worn by me.
Scarce had ſhe ſpoke, when foremoſt of the Beaux,
The gay Fribillio, ſmooth-cheeck'd Youth, aroſe,
[49] Him Cloe follow'd next, ſwift-footed Maid,
Then ſpruce Myrtillo, that implor'd the Aid
Of the Nymph-chaſing Pan; along they paſt,
And Dapperwit and Caelia come the laſt.
* Now warm with Hopes, in Order rang'd, they ſtand,
And wait, impatient of the wiſh'd Command;
Then, at the Signal of a loud-crack'd Fan,
All from their Station, in an Inſtant, ran:
The Flood-Gates thus uplifted, with full Force
Ruſh out at once the Streams impetuous in their Courſe:
Before the reſt the nimble Cloe flies,
Fribillio follows eager for the Prize;
Next the ſwift Caelia ſcuds it o'er the Green,
Myrtillo laſt, and Dapperwit were ſeen.
Now twice the Compaſs of th' allotted Ground,
The Heroes and the Heroines circled round,
When Caelia, Virgin of a ſubtle Heart,
Thus to herſelf,—"My Fate depends on Art—"
[50] So ſpoke, and preſſing by Fribillio's Side,
Headlong ſhe plung'd him in the miry Tide.
* Whelm'd and amaz'd, awhile the Hero lay,
Gaſping, and ſputt'ring, in the watry Way,
Dropping and faint, at length, he crawl'd to Shore,
And the Skies burſt with univerſal Roar.
Caelia exulting, in the ſecond Place,
Bounds o'er the Lawn, and puſhes for the Race;
Myrtillo cloſe purſu'd the panting Fair,
And to his God prefer'd the ſecret Pray'r;
"Give me at leaſt this Damſel to outſpeed,
"And a young Greyhound at thy Shrine ſhall bleed."
[51] The God propitious heard; for, ſad to tell,
Prone to the Earth the heedleſs Caelia fell.
Loud ſhout the Beaux, the frighted Virgins cry;
Myrtillo firſt, then Dapperwit goes by.
The Goal now reach'd, the Victors bear away
The well-conteſted Honours of the Day.
Now to the Hall, for ſo ordain'd the Fair,
Again the ſprightly Company repair:
When thus the Maid—Is there a Belle, whoſe Might
Dares meet a gallant Beau in ſingle Fight?
Such, ſure, there is, or Fannia's Hopes are vain,
Quick let the Warriours take the marble Plain;
And, 'till we wake the Voice of yonder Clock,
Contend at Battledoor, and Shuttlecock.
The glorious Victor in the hardy Fray,
This deep-ear'd Lap-Dog nobly ſhall repay:
Long has he friſk'd it in my Chamber tame,
Ne'er yet polluted with the Blood of Game.
The vanquiſh'd too ſhall thank our gen'rous Care,
Bleſt with this Iv'ry Caſe, and Tooth-picker.
* She ſaid; and light up-ſprang Coſmelius gay,
Trim as the painted Butterfly of May;
[52] With Head and Heart erect, he ſtalks the Floor,
And proudly brandiſhes his Battledoor.
Flyrtilla ſaw, and, "Grant me, Gods, ſhe cry'd,
To humble to the Ground this Coxcomb's Pride."
Then on the ſpacious Plain ſhe takes her Stand,
And poiſes the huge Engine in her Hand
The ſounded Battledoors for Fight prepare,
At once the Drums and Weapons of the War!
Each now the Arm with dext'rous Vigour plies,
Aloft the feather'd Cork in Eddies flies;
With quick-repeated Strokes the Drums rebound,
And the arch'd Roof returns a hollow Sound.
Now in high Curves they deal the wary Blow,
Now whirls the giddy Shuttlecock below.
Thus, o'er the verdant Surface of the Mead,
The light-wing'd Swallows try their rapid Speed,
Now ſkim the Ground, now higher Flights prepare,
And, in a thouſand Mazes, cut the Air.
Long time the Chiefs, with equal Skill, engage,
And glows the Battle with a dubious Rage;
The Gods, with Wonder, the dread Fight ſurvey'd,
And ſome the Youth inſpire, and ſome, the Maid.
* At length, nice pois'd Jove holds his golden Scales,
Down ſinks the Beau's, the Virgin's Fate prevails:
[53] For lo! unſeen, and in the Hero's Way,
The treach'rous Fragment of an Orange lay;
And, as he ſtretch'd him with exerted Might,
At one ſwift Stroke, to end the tedious Fight,
Slipt his unſtable Foot; flat on the Floor
He fell; the high Arch rings with various Roar,
* And the white Pavement floats with ſpouting Gore.
Quick to his Aid the flippant Fops repair,
Uplift his Head, and yield him purer Air;
His flutt'ring Soul with gentle Speech compoſe,
With vivifying Drops regale his Noſe,
Then pale and bloody from the Field convey'd,
And ſoftly plac'd him on the ſilken Bed.
[54] Flyrtilla, Miſtreſs of the glorious Fray,
Bears in her Arms the much-lov'd Prize away.
Then Fannia to the Throng—Once more, attend
My Voice with Heed; not here our Games ſhall end.
You, that have Strength, and active Sleight enough,
Enter the ſpacious Liſts of Blind-Man's-Buff.
Let thrice ſix Belles and Beaux, a goodly Shew,
Their ſep'rate Lots in this ſilk Bonnet throw;
And, as their ſev'ral Fortunes ſhall decide,
Of either Sex three Chiefs, in turn, ſhall hide.
The Chief that ſooneſt ſhall, with hood-wink'd Eyes,
Seize in the hot Purſuit, and name the Prize,
* Shall wear this Snuff-Box, turn'd with curious Art,
In Form reſemblant of the human Heart:
Who ſhines conſpicuous in the ſecond Place,
Joyful ſhall own this ſtudded Tweezer-Caſe:
To the third worthy in the hardy Strife,
Laſt we aſſign this ſilver-hafted Knife.
She ſpoke—the Lots are thrown—the Chances fall
To ſhort-legg'd Damon, Altamont the tall,
To dimpled Daphne, to Vaneſſa fair,
Beau Sprig, and Cloris with the golden Hair.
[55] In Row twelve Judges of the Combat ſtand,
Each with a Watch accordant in his Hand.
Damon advances firſt; his Eyes are bound;
* And, like a Top, they twirl him five Times round.
The rapid Motion turns his ringing Head;
He calls the Foe—the titt'ring Foe is fled.
Long time with hopeleſs Chace, and Labour vain,
Duck-like he waddled o'er the ſtony Plain;
At length, with Grief and Shame, conſtrain'd to yield,
To others he reſign'd the toilſome Field.
Next Altamont, Chief bony, lank, and tall,
Proceeds; like Polypheme, he ſtrides the Hall;
Wide grope his ſprawling Hands in Search of Prey;
The frighted Hoſts on Tiptoes ſlip away;
So the lean, hungry Pike, in Queſt of Food,
Darts his vaſt Length acroſs the ſilver Flood;
Ten thouſand Panicks ſeize the finny Race,
And, in thick Shoals, they ſcud from Place to Place.
But now the Chieftain graſp'd Clarinda's Waſte,
Her well-known Shriek the Captive Fair confeſt:
Clarinda, loud the Beau exulting cried;
Clarinda, loud the vocal Walls reply'd.
[56] The Judges note the Time—next Daphne came,
A Nymph alert, and ſtudious of the Game.
Now here, now there, like Quickſilver, ſhe flies
Elaſtic round, and ev'ry Corner tries.
But for hard Fate, the Nymph a Prize had gain'd,
For, in a ſudden Whirl, her Ancle ſprain'd.
And now, with watry Eyes, and limping Pace,
Daphne reluctant quits the noble Chace.
Vaneſſa next the Fate of Combat proves,
The fair Vaneſſa, Darling of the Loves;
Swift ſpeeds the Maid, ſwift ſcuttle the purſu'd,
Wheel, as ſhe wheels, and all her Arts elude;
Till hapleſs Flaſh, a Fopling of high Note,
Tripp'd at Lucinda's trailing Petticoat.
Vaneſſa caught th' Alarm; the Fop ſhe ſtrains
Hard in her Graſp; a ſolemn Silence reigns:
Beau Flaſh, I know him by his rich Perfume,
She cry'd; and Acclamations ſhake the Room.
Then gentle Sprig fair Fannia thus addreſt;
Me Love forbids with Cloris to conteſt;
So pleaſe the Miſtreſs of this glorious Day,
Let the late Victors bear their Gifts away;
For me, to ſave the Toil of farther Strife,
To Cloris I reſign the ſilver-hafted Knife.
The Fair approv'd—The Prizes, all decree
Firſt to the Beau; Vaneſſa, next to thee:
[57] And tender Cloris, pleas'd to end the Strife,
Joyful receives the ſilver-hafted Knife.
The Games now done, the Ev'ning they prolong
With Strains of Muſick, and the Voice of Song:
The ſprightly Tribes the ſumptuous Banquet ſhare,
At length, fatigu'd, to needful Reſt repair.
Alike expectant of the coming Day,
Cynthio, and Fannia all-impatient lay.
The Day appears; with mutual Joy they wed,
* And genial Hymen bleſt the nuptial Bed.
THE END.

2.

[]

HENRY AND ROSAMOND.

A TRAGEDY.

Omne animi vitium tanto conſpectius in ſe
Crimen habet, quanto major qui peccat habetur.
JUVEN.

The SECOND EDITION, CORRECTED.

TO Sir JOHN PHILIPPS, Bart.

[]
SIR,

THOUGH I am happy in your Permiſſion to ſhelter under your Name a Performance which ſtands in much Need of your Favour and Protection, eſpecially as it comes into the World with ſome Diſadvantage; yet I hope you will do me the Juſtice to believe me actuated by a nobler Principle than that of a Selfiſhneſs common to all Authors, in my Choice of a Patron upon the preſent Occaſion.

For, Sir, the following Sheets are with a particular Propriety yours, whether you are conſidered as a Perſon ſincerely attached to the Univerſity of Oxford, or affectionately intereſting yourſelf in the Welfare of Pembroke-College; to the Regard and beſt Wiſhes of which Society you have a double Claim, both as an Ornament, and a Benefactor.

The common Topics of Panegyric are obvious; and I have here a fair and agreeable Opportunity of taking Notice of thoſe many amiable Qualities, which adorn you in public and private Life, and for which you are ſo juſtly beloved and eſteemed: But my Inclination is corrected by a ſeaſonable Thought, that moſt Writers of the preſent Age [] have, in this Reſpect, a conſiderable Advantage over me, as it is much more eaſy to make a Character, than to deſcribe one.

Beſides, it would be needleſs to enter into a Detail of thoſe Praiſes, which are already in the Mouth of every Well-wiſher to his Country: And therefore I will only indulge the Impulſe of Gratitude, which points to that Part of your Character, which more immediately affects me; your Good-nature and Condeſcenſion, to which I am indebted for the Honour of your Acquaintance and Friendſhip, and for your favourable Acceptance of the following Poem.

Give me Leave to aſſure you, Sir, that I am principally anxious for the Reputation of this Tragedy, from an earneſt Deſire of tranſmitting to Poſterity a Monument of the Regard and Veneration I have for the Perſon and Character of Sir JOHN PHILIPPS. I am,

SIR,
Your much obliged, And moſt humble Servant, WILLIAM HAWKINS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

[]

THE moſt material Objection to this Tragedy, made by Mr. Garrick, was, that it is rather a Poem, than a Play.—A conſolatory Octjection at leaſt! as it is founded only in the Author's acknowleged Tranſgreſſion of the mechanical Laws of the Drama. But however reaſonable the Objection might be to the Repreſentation of this Tragedy upon the Stage, it was by no Means thought a ſufficient one to its original Publication; nor conſequently, 'tis preſumed, will be eſteemed ſuch againſt its having a Place in the preſent Collection.—Thoſe who are offended at the Liberties taken in it, may, if they pleaſe, call it an Hiſtorical Play, and then all Exceptions of this Nature vaniſh of Courſe.—After all, the Objection will perhaps have leſs Weight with the candid and judicious Reader, when he has favoured with his Peruſal the Eſſay on the Antient and Modern Drama; though he is not to look upon that Eſſay as written with a View to the Defence of this particular Play, or to conſider this Advertiſement as any Thing like a Declaration of the Author's Right of Exemption from the common Rules of the Drama, by Virtue of any ſuperiour Qualifications in Himſelf.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

[]
MEN.
  • King HENRY the Second.
  • Prince HENRY.
  • Duke of CORNWALL.
  • Earl of SALISBURY.
  • Lord CLIFFORD.
  • Earl of LEICESTER.
  • Earl of WINCHESTER.
  • Earl of SURRY.
WOMEN.
  • Queen ELINOR.
  • ROSAMOND.
  • HARRIANA.

Guards and Attendants.

SCENE in and near CANTERBURY.

HENRY AND ROSAMOND.

[]
ACT I. SCENE I.
Enter the Earl of LEICESTER.
LEICESTER.
IF there is that ſome call Eternal Juſtice—
Let not the coward Thought perplex my Soul:
My Boſom entertains two lordly Gueſts,
Strong-plum'd Ambition, and Hell-gender'd Luſt:
The Voice of Conſcience, 'gainſt their wild Domain
Is but a Whiſper to the Whirlwind's Blaſt.
Henry Plantagenet has croſt my Hopes;
I ſtand the Outcaſt of his Peeviſhneſs,
And diſappointed Rival of his Love!
But I have deeply laid my Plan of Vengeance:
I have been long young Harry's Oracle;
His ſhallow Friends walk in my Leading-ſtrings:
If Fate give him the Crown, I'll bear the Rule,
And thro' the Gate of Pow'r ſhall find Acceſs
To Love, and Roſamond. But ſee Lord Surry.
[66] Enter Earl of Surry.
Sur.
My Lord of Leiceſter, haſt thou ſeen the Prince?
Leic.
No. What of him?
Sur.
O he is ſeeking thee:
Thou haſt faſt wedg'd thyſelf within his Heart;
He calls thee valiant, faithful, juſt, and good:
He now demeans himſelf as we could wiſh;
Talks of high Fame, and hardy Feats of Arms:
Thou haſt inſpir'd his Soul. He ſwears, the Crown,
Whoſe Glories fade on Henry's wither'd Head,
Would better flouriſh on his youthful Brow:
In troth he is a mettled Youth, my Lord,
And Nature meant him well.
Leic.
Ay, or how elſe
Could we have taught him his own Worth, or ours;
Or hope to raiſe our Honours from the Duſt?
Faint Hearts will call this Treaſon; but, my Lord,
'Tis injur'd Merit's Cauſe; and we will work
To turn the Current of our low-ebb'd Fortunes
Into a fuller Channel: But he comes,
And I have joyful Tidings for his Ear.
Enter Prince Henry, and Earl of Wincheſter.
P. Hen.
Well, our good Friend, and truſty Councellor,
What from our Uncle Scotland?
Leic.
This, my Liege:
In princely Terms he greets your Royal Highneſs,
And well approves th' Alliance you have offer'd:
But Words, ſo pleaſe your Grace, in forc'd Extent,
Are but the Texture of fine Rhetoric;
Plain Action is Sincerity's beſt Proof:
[67] He has encamp'd his Troops on Engliſh Ground,
A peerleſs Force of twenty thouſand ſtrong.
The Earl of Cheſter, with your Father's Powers,
Is in full March to meet him.
P. Hen.
Say, my Lord,
On what Pretence makes he this Armament?
For we muſt wait the Iſſue of a Battle,
Before we can avow ourſelf his Friend.
Leic.
His Claim's diſtinct from yours. He does demand
Full Reſtitution of the frontier Towns,
Your Father wreſted from him in the Wars:
And thus he ſeems no Party in our Cauſe,
While we, as Time ſhall ſerve, may back his Quarrel.
P. Hen.
Why theſe are noble Tidings, and befit
Our Royal Purpoſe. This looks well, my Lords:
I will no longer bend me to the Brow
Of this old King, my Father. Leiceſter, Surry,
Wincheſter, Friends, Companions of my Fortunes,
Give me your Hands, your Hearts, and, truſt me, Lords,
We bravely ſhall outface theſe perilous Times,
Aſſiſted by your Loves.
Sur.
My haſty Will
Is on the Wing, mocking Ability,
And Zeal outſtrips Performance.
Win.
And ſo, in Honeſty of Heart, ſays Wincheſter.
P. Hen.
Thanks to you both: But, my good Lord of Leiceſter,
Are theſe ſame Scots, our new-contracted Friends,
Such as our Honour may lean ſafe upon?
Leic.
[68]
Better ne'er mounted Glory's ſteep Aſcent.
Sir, they are bold as the firſt Sons of Nature,
Ere Pomp and Luxury debauch'd the World:
Bred in a Land of Poverty and Want,
They live by free, uncultivated Virtue:
Eaſe were unnatural to their Iron Hearts;
For Labour is the Buſineſs of their Lives:
And, when they're ſummon'd forth to ſerve their Prince,
Dreadful they march, embody'd in the Field,
As the fell Storm, or Death-diſperſing Bolt,
That ruſhes on, and levels all before it.
P. Hen.
'Tis good, and henceforth will we mould our Perſon
Into the Attitude of Majeſty.
Winch.
It fits your Highneſs well.
P. Hen.
Thou'ſt ſeen me, Leiceſter, in the Bloom of Youth,
Amidſt the Joys of a voluptuous Court,
Where Folly ſpread her ſilken Net before me:
There ſoft'ning Beauty breath'd the am'rous Sigh;
There melting Muſic tun'd her Syren Voice,
And the high-flowing Bowl foam'd with rich Wines,
Soliciting ev'n Abſtinence to taſte:
Let me not turn my gallant Thought that Way;
When Virtue's balanc'd on ſo nice a Poiſe,
One Breath of Inclination turns the Scale.
Farewel for ever Pleaſure's nerveleſs Tribe,
Welcome the manly Pomp of crimſon War,
The Heaven-ſcaling Noiſe of charging Foes,
The piercing Groans of Bravery laid in Duſt,
And all the Dangers, all the Sweets of Glory.
Leic.
[69]
Spoke like a Candidate for this World's Empire.
Old Harry's foremoſt Boaſt is only this,
That he is Father to a Prince like you.
P. Hen.
Go to; he's weak, he's weak, and peeviſh,
And yet 'tis current Converſation here,
That he hath well acquitted him in France Leiceſter,
To martial Chivalry.
Sur.
True it is, my Liege,
In open Field, he'as twice o'erthrown their Powers,
And now returns—
Leic.
—Ay, like a Fugitive,
Rather than Conqueror; the doting Hero
Comes whining like an Infant for his Toy:
O he is worſe than diſtaff'd Hercules!
Where is the Honour of your Saxon Houſe,
If Harlots make a Tool of Majeſty?
Fame ſhall record Harry ſucceeded Roſamond,
Not Harry Harry.
P. Hen.
By the immortal Name
Of my great Anceſtors it is too much—
Leic.
O give that noble Indignation Room!
Have you not Friends, and Juſtice on your Side?
Did we not all ſwear Fealty to your Highneſs,
Conven'd in full Aſſembly by your Father?
Or was it but a Shew of Majeſty,
A ſolemn Farce of State for Boys to ſhout at?
P. Hen.
Hold there—For ev'ry Word thy Love has utter'd,
Rebukes my tardy Soul—O 'tis moſt true,
As ſpiritleſs, and dull-temper'd as I ſeem,
[70] This Head has born fair England's Diadem:
You all remember 'twas at Wincheſter,
In Preſence of the States of the whole Realm,
The Royal Grant was made; when on this Brow
Reſted th' Imperial Crown, which ſhould confer
High Dignity, and Share of ſov'reign Sway:
It was the free Donation of our Father.
Leic.
Henry has ſure forgotten him of late:
For then your Royal Highneſs may remember,
He did diſcharge an Office that became him.
P. Hen.
Ay, thou doſt well remind me of it, Leiceſter;
'Twas at the ſumptuous Banquet then prepar'd,
I ſat inthron'd, the foremoſt of the Feaſt,
Lord of that glorious Day: 'Twas then my Father
Stept forth obſequious, like a Vaſſal-Prince,
Tending my Kingly Board; and ſure, he cry'd,
No Monarch e'er was ſerv'd ſo honourably.
I whiſper'd in his Ear his Grace of York,
That, born a Prince, I thought me not much honour'd
By this ſame Miniſtry of that Duke's Son.
My Father was no better.
Leic.
Nor is now,
But in our fooliſh Fears. Was that ſame Crown
You juſt now ſpoke of but a May-day Garland,
Beſtow'd as on an Idiot, in mere Paſtime?
Unnat'ral Inſult! By the Blood that's in you,
If you have Hand, or Heart, or Sword, revenge,
Revenge yourſelf, your Country, and your Friends;
Your Friends for you diſhonour'd, ſlighted, ſcorn'd;
[71] Your Country ſoften'd by effeminate Rule;
Yourſelf the ſtalking Shadow of a King.
P. Hen.
Enough, my tow'ring Fancy graſps the Skies:
Hence, give the Word to Fate; gird on my Sword:
Thou faithful Guardian of my wav'ring Youth,
I'll go where thou and Honour point the Way.
Where are theſe truſty Scots? Quick let us join them;
I will unfold my Banner to the Sun,
And pour my Vengeance on this Parent-Foe.
Leic.
Well ſaid; but I muſt cool this burning Vein,
Or this mad Youth will hurry us to Ruin.
[Aſide.
I meant not this: I pray your Grace be calm.
P. Hen.
Yes, as the Sea, that quarrels with the Wind!
Who is't can tame the hungry Panther's Rage?
Glory has ſtill an Appetite more keen:
Harry contends not for a vulgar Prize;
It is a Crown: Repeat it to the Heavens,
With the big Mouth of War: It is a Crown:
O you ſhould ruſh in Fury from my Preſence,
And boldly pluck it from the Tyrant's Brow.
Leic.
Your Highneſs knows our Hearts and Duty yours:
But Zeal thus premature were worſe than Treaſon:
Our growing Cauſe is yet too young to weather
This moſt tempeſtuous Time: If Fortune bleſs
Our good Allies with Victory, the Crown
Is yours by Cov'nant, and your Right proclaim'd
By Scotland's King: Till when lie we in ſecret,
Like the unſeen inſinuating Flame,
[72] That creeps while it deſtroys: Without this Caution,
We are not ſafe an Hour—Your Father comes,
And you're withdrawn from Court—Hah! how ſounds that?
P. Hen.
As I love Honour, I do fear him not.
Leic.
No—But the leſs Suſpicion's baleful Blaſt
Breathes on our Counſel, it takes Root the deeper.
P. Hen.
What wouldſt thou urge me to?
Leic.
Come, come, my Lord,
You muſt yourſelf to Court to meet the King;
And, when he queſtions you of your Departure,
Be you not too ſubmiſſive, nor too high:
We can find Reaſons plauſible enough
Beſides this Diſaffection—as—d'ye mark—
The Treatment of your Mother—the foul Scandal
Of a licentious Palace—and the like;
All Provocations groſs: And, Sir, of this
You ſhall be more advis'd anon.
P. Hen.
Say'ſt ſo?
I thank thy Penetration—I was hot,
But thou art wiſe and brave. Our Craft ſhall proſper;
The ſtauncheſt Hound of State, that ever trac'd
The wily Doublings of Conſpiracy,
In ſuch a Chace as this ſhall loſe his Scent,
And yelp his balk'd Sagacity in Air.
Leic.
May Fortune ſay, Amen.
P. Hen.
My Lord of Leiceſter,
We muſt diſpatch ſome freſh Inſtructions ſtrait
For Scotland's King; then for the Court away;
We will purſue this Buſineſs, come what may.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
[73]
Enter the Earl of Saliſbury and Lord Clifford.
Salſ.
Yet hold, good Clifford.
Clif.
'Tis an old Man's Weakneſs:
Was it not I that train'd him up to War,
That taught his feeble Arm to graſp the Sword,
And pointed out the Paths that lead to Glory?
Was it for this he robb'd me of my Daughter?
Salſ.
Forget it, learn to ſcorn this Royal Robber,
And be at Peace.
Clif.
It is impoſſible.
Had he reduc'd me to the Beggar's Lot,
Or ſtript me of the Honours of my Race,
I could have ſmil'd at his Ingratitude:
But to deprive me of my greateſt Hopes,
To ſteal away my choiceſt, ſweeteſt Flow'r,
To tempt young Innocence with helliſh Arts—
'Tis more than Pain—it is—what is it not?
O 'tis too much for an old Man to bear.
But canſt aſſure me he returns ſo ſoon?
Salſ.
Each Morn expects to ſee him crown'd with Laurels,
And rich with Spoils: Fortune ſtill takes his Part:
Where-e'er he marches, pale-fac'd Terrour ſtalks
With Giant Strides, and leads his Van of Battle.
Clif.
Let me do Juſtice to the Man has wrong'd me:
My Lord of Saliſbury, from his Dawn of Youth,
I've mark'd the Progreſs of an active Soul,
[74] Suited for warlike Deeds and brave Atchievements:
But then his turb'lent Paſſions work ſo ſtrong,
His Character is ever an Extreme;
A Hero, or a Dotard in Exceſs;
This Day, with a deep Senſe of Honour ſtung,
A Convert to fair Virtue; and the next,
Born by fierce Appetite, a Slave to Vice.
Salſ.
His gen'rous Temper one Day may prevail;
For Fate ſtill throws Occaſion in his Way,
To put his noble Qualities to Proof:
An unexpected Tempeſt from the North
Hangs low'ring o'er his Head; and the young Prince,
Who breathes a mighty and right Royal Spirit,
Has with ſome noble Followers left the Court.
Clif.
He is enſnar'd by guileful Leiceſter's Art:
The King, thou know'ſt, hath baniſh'd him his Preſence,
He meditates Revenge in all its Venom;
And ſince aroſe the League 'twixt him and Harry.
Salſ.
Report has ſaid this Lord, on Terms of Honour,
Woo'd your fair Daughter's Love.
Clif.
He did profeſs ſo;
But much I fear me with a vile Deſign;
For Satisfaction in which Point, this Day
I've penn'd a Note, in female Characters,
As from my Daughter, full of Brandiſhments,
And cordial Invitations from her Love:
If I ſurpriſe him at the Place aſſign'd,
I ſhall detect his Baſeneſs to his Face.
Perhaps I but tranſcribe the Sentiments
Of her abandon'd Heart—That as it may.
Salſ.
[75]
Think not too meanly of thy beauteous Daughter;
Henry, 'tis true, engroſſes all her Soul,
Yet in her lonely, ſolitary Hours,
Sad, ſhe regrets her ruin'd Innocence,
And mourns, like the firſt Fair, her fallen State.
Clif.
'Tis ſuperficial Grief: A barren Soil,
Where Reformation never can take Root:
O, that an only Child ſhould be a Curſe!
But let us hence; the Thought encroaches on me;
In Pity to myſelf I would divert it.
Couſin, this Way; I have yet more to tell you,
Of what my Soul is purpos'd tow'rd the King.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter Roſamond and Harriana.
Har.
This Coolneſs is untimely.
Roſ.
Harriana,
Th' unpleaſing Thought will ſometimes ſteal upon me:
Great as they ſeem, all theſe are dear-bought Pleaſures:
Ev'n Henry's Love has coſt me many a Pang.
Peace is the glorious Privilege of Virtue.
The harmleſs Country Maid, that lives retir'd,
Beneath the Covert of a homely Hut,
And knows no View beyond her daily Bread,
Has more Heart's Eaſe than I.
Har.
Prepoſt'rous Melancholy!
Is not the World, and its firſt Maſter, yours?
Nature, thy Handmaid, ſtill ſupplies thy Wiſhes,
[76] Laviſh of all her Stock, as who ſhould ſay,
Thou ſhalt be happy.
Roſ.
Theſe are mean Suggeſtions:
Know, I ne'er ſold my Virtue, but to Love:
The maſſy Store of the Wealth-pregnant Earth,
The Pomp, and Eye-attracting Blaze of Courts,
And all the gilded Baits of female Pride,
Were Bribes my Henry's Love diſdain'd to offer:
Such as it is, this Beauty won his Heart;
How he won mine—I know not—but he won it—
For him I threw away my Innocence,
And am the Scoff of every ſcornful Tongue:
For him I've ſtain'd the noble Name of Clifford,
And pierc'd his aged Soul who gave me Being;
For him, e'en now, my Heart with Tranſport beats;
His Preſence ever calms my troubled Breaſt,
Stills each dull Thought, and bids all Sorrow vaniſh.
Har.
Once more he comes victorious from the Field:
O meet him with thy Love's ſincereſt Welcome.
Roſ.
Yes, he returns, and Thought adieu for ever:
Hence, I defy that Tyrant of the Mind:
My Love wants not a Plea: Henry, my Lord,
Is great and gen'rous: He's the Pride of Fame,
And Fortune's Darling: Henry lulls my Soul
In ſoft unfelt Captivity.
Har.
But hark
Yon Trumpet's Voice proclaims him near at hand.
Roſ.
O ſweeteſt Muſic to the raviſh'd Ear:
Now ev'ry Thing begins to ſmile about me;
[77] Bright ſeems the Seaſon as the new-born Spring,
When ev'ry Flower put forth its freſheſt Fragrance,
And infant Nature breath'd her Sweets around.
Har.
'Tis now thou riſeſt to thy proper Self;
Thy Charms are ſummon'd all, thy Graces dawn,
And ev'ry ſparkling Beauty beams anew.
But lo, the Royal Hero—I retire.
[Exit Harriana.
Enter King Henry.
K. Hen.
Take me once more, my Love, into thy Arms;
Thus let me claſp thee to my faithful Breaſt,
Thus feed my Eyes upon thy glowing Beauties,
And pour my Soul in Tranſports out before thee.
What, what is Fame, or Victory, to this?
Adieu the Pomp and Pageantry of War,
And Love reſume the Empire of my Soul.
Roſ.
Speak not my Eyes the Language of my Heart?
Or ſhall I open my rich Hoard of Fondneſs,
With all the ſoft Impertinence of Love?
Why has my Lord ſo long been abſent from me?
Methinks I now receive thee in thy Tent,
Dreadfully graceful from the Field of Blood,
The manly Dew ſtill reeking on thy Brow.
O let me ſooth my Hero to his Reſt,
Then kindly chide his Eagerneſs of Valour,
And bid him ſheath the Sword for Love of me.
K. Hen.
To thee I am devoted from this Hour:
I'll give Mankind my looſe ſuperfluous Moments,
But Love ſhall claim my more ſubſtantial Care.
[78] No petty Monarchs ſhall divide us more:
France and her King have felt the Wrath of Harry.
I flew on Wings of Victory to War,
And like celeſtial Fire conſum'd the Foe;
Then halted in the mid Career of Glory:
Conqueſt was Waſte of Time: Quick I return'd,
And left the Buſineſs of the World unfiniſh'd.
Roſ.
Forgive me, Henry, if I ſhed a Tear;
A Tear, at once, of Pity and of Love.
Gaze not thus fondly on me whilſt I ſpeak:
It is a fatal Fondneſs, and betrays thee.
Poſſeſs'd of me, art thou not loſt to Honour?
Where is the native Greatneſs of thy Soul?
Thy gen'rous Thirſt of everlaſting Glory?
O hadſt thou never fix'd thine Eyes on me,
Fame, on her brazen Tablet, had diſplay'd
Thy Royal Name, and ſhewn it to the Stars.
But I ſhall blot thy Memory for ever.
K. Hen.
Thy kind Concern is far too nice, my Love:
O Roſamond! 'tis but the Dream of Pride:
Kings, and their Subjects, all are Nature's Children;
And ermin'd Greatneſs on the Throne muſt own it.
What is the Monarch more than other Men?
His Appetites and Paſſions are the ſame;
He hates, revenges, hopes, and fears, as they do;
Or does he love, O does he love like me;
'Tis Glory, 'tis Ambition, to purſue
The heav'nly Fair, and win her to his Wiſhes.
Is it not Pride to hang upon thy Smile?
[79] Is it not Triumph to enfold thee thus?
Art thou not All, and is not this World Nothing?
Roſ.
I could for ever liſten to thy Voice:
Whene'er thou ſpeak'ſt, Reaſon gives up the Cauſe,
And Nature whiſpers, what thou ſay'ſt is right.
K. Hen.
Be Love the Theme, and I could talk for ever.
Roſ.
Be Love the Theme, I could for ever hear thee.
K. Hen.
O come, my rural Goddeſs, to my Arms:
We'll lie upon the Flow'r-enamell'd Turf;
The Garland-Wreath ſhall be our Diadem;
The Leaf-clad Bow'r our Canopy of State;
Our Muſic the ſweet Matin of the Lark:
Then bleſs me with the Sunſhine of thy Beauty,
Till I forget my Royal Occupation,
The Taſk of Greatneſs, and the Toil of Power,
And ev'ry Senſe be full of Love and thee.
Roſ.
How does thy Language charm my liſt'ning Ears?
Yet muſt I dread this Indolence of Thought,
The Scotchmen, and their King, are up in Arms;
And, if Report ſay true, th' Invaſion boaſts
The Count'nance of your Son.
K. Hen.
Fear not, my Love:
My better Genius ſhall protect me ſtill.
Lend me thy Lip—Danger ſeems nothing now.
O lead me to ſome peaceful, cloſe Retreat,
Where all is calm, and gentle as thy Breaſt,
Let hoſtile War advance, and Faction rage,
I will not deign to give Mankind a Look,
But ſafely reſt within thy faithful Arms.
[80] So, when the Pilgrim views the Storm ariſe,
To the kind Shelter of ſome Grot he flies,
And in that ſweet Receſs ſecurely lies.
Fearleſs he hears the dreadful Tempeſts roar,
And the mad Oceans burſt upon the Shore;
The Heaven's in vain their flaming Terrours ſpread,
And Thunders roll unheeded o'er his Head.
[Ex.
ACT II. SCENE I.
Enter King Henry, Duke of Cornwall, and Attendants.
King Henry.
COMES on our Brother Scotland?
Corn.
Yes, my Liege;
He means to give my Lord of Cheſter Battle.
K. Hen.
Be't ſo: Our Arms ſhall tame his Inſolence
Where is our Son? His uncurb'd Spirit of late
Gives Cauſe of ſome Suſpicion: Yet we hope,
In humble wiſe, he will confeſs the Fault
Of his abrupt Departure. His new Friends
(No Friends to me; tho' Foes, I fear them not)
He muſt abandon; and, mean time, we truſt,
A Look of our Diſpleaſure ſhall controul
His heedleſs Folly, and enforce his Duty.
Corn.
My Liege, the Queen.
K. Hen.
I would have ſhunn'd her; for ſhe awes my Soul:
I know her ſtill a tender faithful Wife,
[81] Wrong'd as ſhe is: 'Tis my eternal Guilt,
That love I cannot, where I muſt eſteem.
She comes—Why ſtarts my Breaſt?—I muſt aſſume
The cruel Port of Shame-proof Villainy.
Enter Queen.
Excuſe my Freedom, Madam, if I aſk,
What Buſineſs has the Queen of England here?
Queen.
I come by Virtue of a better Title:
Was Elinor no more than Queen of England,
She had not thus diſturb'd you with her Preſence.
Am I nought elſe, my Lord?
K. Hen.
Ay, thou'rt my Wife;
A Name that ſounds offenſive in my Ear.
Queen.
Why didſt thou teach me 'twas a pleaſing Name,
Importing Peace, and Harmony, and Joy?
You lov'd me, when you made me what I am;
And yet you lov'd me but to make me wretched.
K. Hen.
Love you have learnt, and ſo all Women can.
Didſt thou e'er learn Obedience to a Huſband?
Queen.
Can Malice ſay I ever fail'd in that?
K. Hen.
I pr'ythee then be dutiful, and leave me.
Queen.
This Treatment is unkind. Is that the Voice,
That oft hath chid me for a Moment's Abſence?
Does it diſpleaſe thee to behold me thus?
Blame not the Weakneſs which yourſelf have caus'd:
'Tis Grief's allow'd Prerogative to mourn;
For ſure it is no Crime to be diſtreſs'd.
K. Hen.
Away! Thy Woman's Tears are loſt on me.
Why doſt thou plead againſt Neceſſity?
[82] It was in Spite of me, I lov'd thee once;
And 'twas in Spite of me, that I forſook thee:
The Tie of Marriage is but perſonal;
For Love alone's the Cement of the Heart.
Yet grant that Contract good, my Falſhood voids it.
I am no Huſband: Why art thou a Wife?
The Bond is cancell'd. Be free as I am;
And take thy Heart from this ungrateful Object.
Queen.
Can the ſwift Current to its Spring recede?
Or elemental Fire to Earth deſcend?
Then only my fixt Thought can turn from thee.
My Love, tho'ill repaid, ſhall ſhine a Pattern
Of Faith unmov'd, without Reproach, for ever:
Henry, tho' cruel, yet is Henry ſtill.
What was it, but my Love, that ſent me hither?
I thought I durſt not come—but ſtill I came,
Unwelcom'd, ſlighted Stranger, as I am.
K. Hen.
I ſee thy Virtue, and reſpect it, Elinor:
But what is Virtue in the Eye of Love?
Fate wrongly join'd us, and miſmatch'd our Hearts.
Thou art fram'd tender, innocent, and good,
For private Comfort, and domeſtic Joy:
My reſtleſs Spirit ranges uncontroul'd,
As Fancy ſways, or lawleſs Paſſions guide.
Queen.
And yet thou canſt be true, tho' not to me:
That reſtleſs Spirit Roſamond can rule,
The Miſtreſs of my Property, thy Heart.
Throw that deteſted Wanton from thy Breaſt:
The Pride of Woman's Nature ſues for this.
[83] O do not wrong me in the Face of Day,
And I will bear thy Hate with Chearfulneſs.
K. Hen.
Thou rail'ſt by Licence of an injur'd Wife;
Elſe, let me me tell thee, Elinor, 'twere Treaſon,
What thou haſt juſt now ſaid.
Queen.
I aſk your Pardon:
I had forgot how dearly Henry loves her;
And 'tis my Duty to promote his Joy:
Nor juſtly can I hate ev'n her, my Rival;
Woman is frail, and Henry more than Man:
Be happy then, bleſt Pair, while I'm undone:
A jealous Wife no more ſhall ſpoil your Loves:
I will not taint your Peace with one Upbraiding,
But lay me down without a Groan, and die.
K. Hen.
This Tenderneſs reproaches me yet more
Than all the juſt Invectives thou couldſt offer.
O live to ſcorn the Man has wrong'd thee thus.
Provoke I not thy utmoſt Enmity?
Qu.
Thou canſt provoke my Sorrows, not my Hate.
K. Hen.
Have I not giv'n thee Cauſe? Be but my Foe,
I ſhall enjoy the Sharpneſs of thy Malice;
But Goodneſs undeſerv'd, unaſk'd, torments me.
Love, Honour, Pity, tear my lab'ring Soul.
[Aſide.
Queen.
Life had been happy with thee—But 'tis paſt;
And I ſubmit—Live, and be happy thou.
K. Hen.
By Heav'n, this moves my Stubborneſs of Temper;
And Roſamond and Elinor, diſtract me.
Muſt I then ruin one, whom Laws divine,
And my free Choice decreed mine own for ever,
[84] And cooly mark her cloſe her Eyes in Death?
Or can I leave the gentle Roſamond,
That tender Prime of Youth, that Spring of Beauty,
Firſt won by Promiſe of eternal Love?
Painful Extreme of Madneſs, either Way!
For either Way I'm doom'd to be a Villain.
Queen.
Seek not Excuſes for thy broken Vows:
I freely give thoſe ſacred Pledges back;
Nor ſhall I e'er aſcribe the Pangs I ſuffer,
To Henry's Crime, but Heav'n's afflicting Hand.
I know thee great and noble ſtill by Nature.
Thou wilt hereafter reverence my Name,
And praiſe the Woman, whom thou could'ſt not love.
K. Hen.
O Heart, Heart, Heart, why art thou not my own?
Hadſt thou attack'd me like a Fiend from Hell,
Arm'd with keen Malice, and ſevereſt Wrath,
I had not ſhun'd the Conflict: But as now
Thou ſhineſt Angel-like, and all-forgiving,
Thou doſt perforce convict my guilty Soul,
And ſink my Thoughts in black Deſpair for ever.
O Elinor, my Queen!—But ſoft, ſome News.
Enter Guard.
Guard.
My Liege, the young Prince Henry waits without,
And aſks Admiſſion to your Majeſty.
K. Hen.
He comes in proper Time: Let him advance.
Enter Prince Henry.
Well, thou young Man!—With what a lordly Look
Thou mak'ſt Approach—Doſt thou not know me, Harry?
P. Hen.
[85]
Yes, Sir, you are my Father, and my King;
Names ſacred both: But ſtill more ſacred thoſe
Of Faith, and Honour; theſe are what enroll
The Monarch's Name in Glory's noble Liſt,
And ſtamp ſubſtantial Royalty upon him.
Th' imperial Robe, the bright-deck'd Diadem,
The lifted Brow, the world-commanding Nod,
Ay, and the loud-tongu'd Voice of Acclamation,
That bears up frail Mortality to Heav'n;
Theſe all are Majeſty's Appendages;
The Dreſs, but not the Subſtance; that diſgrace
The Undeſerver, and but lift him high
To a Pre-eminence of ſplendid Shame.
K. Hen.
What! art thou come to preach to us, thou Boy?
Are theſe th' obſequious Terms of filial Duty?
But mark, I henceforth warn thee to Obedience;
And therefore ſatisfy our Royal Pleaſure
Why thou didſt leave the Court?
P. Hen.
That's a plain Queſtion,
My Mother could have anſwer'd.
K. Hen.
Hah, our Queen!
Thou ſeem'ſt ſurpris'd. Is that a Face of Guilt?
Speak, ſpeak; for my ſhock'd Soul has form'd a Thought
Too black for Utt'rance.
Queen.
By my Hopes of Heav'n,
I only know that I am innocent.
P. Hen.
I know no more than that, and that's enough.
[86] Shall I beſeech awhile your Royal Ear
To give me patient Audience?
K. Hen.
Well, I'll hear thee.
P. Hen.
Did Henry leave the Court? Not ſo, my Liege;
For Henry left a Brothel, not a Court:
Looſe Riot and Intemperance dwelt there,
Soft-ſeated Indolence, and female Foppery,
And pamper'd Jollity, with full-blown Cheeks,
Keeping high Feſtival, and Jubilee.
Was it for me to truſt my Spring of Youth,
That takes Impreſſion like the yielding Wax,
With ſuch licentious Characters as theſe?
Was it for me to ſink in Luxury,
To ſee a dimpled Harlot's wanton Reign,
While, baniſh'd from your Houſe, your Board, your Bed,
The beſt of Women languiſh'd Time away,
At once a Widow, and at once a Wife?
I ſaw her Griefs, I heard her juſt Complaints,
I left, by her Advice, th' unhallow'd Roof,
Leſt I ſhould ſeem to abet the Injury,
And triumph o'er the Woes of her that bore me.
K. Hen.
Woman has not her Match on this Side Hell:
Fool! to believe a ſcorn'd, abandon'd Wife,
Leſs ſubtle, or malicious, than the Devil:
Is this the praying, dying Elinor!
Curſe on thy fawning, Honey-ſteep'd Deceit!
What! doſt Thou practiſe with my ſecret Foes
In dev'liſh League? Doſt Thou foment Rebellion?
Say, Woman, doſt thou? Hah!
Queen.
[87]
What ſhall I ſay?
Wilt thou, thou raſh, hard-hearted Youth, undo me?
Revoke the impious Slander of thy Tongue,
And ſave thy Mother's Name from foul Diſhonour.
K. Hen.
It is too late—I ſee confed'rate Miſchief;
This ſtripling Traytor has betray'd thy Counſel:
Thee I had long ſince hated, now deſpiſe.
For you, our ſometime Son—but I diſdain thee—
High Majeſty is fenc'd with Adamant,
Proof againſt Treaſon's Force—her fierceſt Darts
Recoil and mock the feeble Strength that threw them.
—The Storm but breathes againſt the deep-bas'd Tow'r,
And vainly beats the Surge the ſolid Shore.
Queen.
Will it avail me to appeal to Heav'n?
O may its choiceſt Stores of Wrath conſume me,
If e'er in Word, or Thought, I urg'd this Variance!
He has abus'd thee with a well-feign'd Tale,
Screening ſome dreadful Purpoſe.
K. Hen.
Peace, I ſay.
You've fool'd me once, and would you make me mad?
Hah! who ſhall tame me then?
Queen.
O my Son,
The Pain thou gav'ſt me once, was Eaſe to this:
Why was thy Birth-day hail'd with general Joy?
Why did I bleſs the Sun that ſaw thee firſt?
Why did I fondly rear thy feeble Age?
Is thy Heart Flint? O yet unweave thy Craft,
Ere the ſad Scheme be ratify'd above,
And Fate has ſign'd the Warrant.
P. Hen.
[88]
Let not theſe Fear-indited Words deceive
The King, while, on my Knee, I call to witneſs
The guardian Pow'rs that ſhield the Lives of Princes,
That not in pers'nal Pique, or private Grudge,
Or Peeviſhneſs of Appetite reſtrain'd,
Or the wild Policy of high Ambition,
I ſought this Breach; but in an honeſt View
Of Duty to a Mother's juſt Requeſt,
And Hope to reconcile you to her Love.
K. Hen.
Thou ly'ſt as well as ſhe—You both meant more.
P. Hen.
Abuſe fair-ſpoken Honour, and e'en Love
Becomes a Malecontent.
K. Hen.
Damn'd Hypocrites!
Ye Home-bred Plagues, ye vile inteſtine Miſchiefs!
O had Rebellion bellow'd in the Field,
And boldly challeng'd forth the Lord's Anointed,
I could have calmly met its hotteſt Battle:
But to reflect on unſuſpected Treaſon,
Moſt unſuſpected, as unnatural,
Spreading its Poiſon ev'n within my Walls,
Inſulting in the ſacred Name of Juſtice,
Or ſtabbing with the ſmiling Look of Love;
This grinds my Thought—Now let Confuſion reign,
All Order and Relation be diſſolv'd:
And thou, O Nature, turn aſide thy Face,
Crimſon'd with Bluſhes—All my firm Reſolves
Are brittle now, and Patience turns a Fury.
Who's there? Our Loving Wife, and Loyal Son!
Queen.
[89]
Thy loving Wife, but moſt diſloyal Son
To me, and thee: Let me appeal, my Lord,
To the fair Judgment of your former Love.
Did I not ever make your Will my Law?
Was I deceitful, treach'rous, artful, then?
'Tis true, my Wrongs are great; but ſure no Wrongs
Can alter Nature, or invert the Mind:
My Wrongs call for Revenge; but ſure a Queen
Could well revenge a nobler Way than this.
O take my All, my Liberty, my Life;
But leave me, leave me, my good Name untainted.
K. Hen.
Woman, no more. Have I not heard thy Son?
Queen.
He is no Son of mine.
P. Hen.
What! would the Queen
So poorly yield her well-conteſted Right?
I know thy Cauſe, and know my Duty better.
Queen.
Take heed, ere yet an injur'd Mother's Curſe
Fix on thy Bloom of Youth.
P. Hen.
Her Grief diſtracts her.
Yet let me quit my Honour to the King:
Wherein is my Complaint unwarrantable?
Is it Rebellion, Sir, to ſue for Juſtice,
Which the poor Country Peaſant, if he loſe
His Scrap of precious Property, demands?
Is this deny'd your Son? Be the King ſure
I know my Right, and, knowing, dare maintain it.
K. Hen.
Thou haſt no Right to move, to ſpeak, to breathe,
But with our Royal Pleaſure: Ceaſe, thou Fool,
[90] To parly with our high Authority:
Thy trait'rous Friends have poiſon'd thy young Ear:
Harry, I know them well: But mark, I charge thee,
Forſake for ever all that Vermin Tribe;
Or know their rotten Counſels will undo thee.
P. Hen.
Forſake my Friends? Hear me, all-conſcious Heav'n,
While I renounce the baſe unmanly Thought:
Forbid it, Juſtice! and forbid it, Honour!
Not one of them but lives in my beſt Love,
Dear as the vital Stream, that warms my Heart:
Great are their Virtues, and their Perſons ſacred:
Let the whole World be told, my Life protects them:
And here I ſwear, not all the Pow'rs combin'd,
Of Earth or Hell, ſhall drive me from this Purpoſe.
K. Hen.
Hah! Didſt thou ever ſee thy King in Wrath?
If my large Weight of Vengeance fall upon thee,
'Twill cruſh thee, like an Inſect, into Duſt.
What! am I brav'd by thee? Shall Henry walk
Within the narrow Sphere of thy Preſcription?
Shall He, whoſe ſtretch of ample Sway enfolds
The Nations round, be tutor'd by a Boy?
Be wiſe in Time, and know, young Counſellor,
Our Wiſdom pities thy raw Youth; but learn
More low Demeanour, or thou'lt fire my Blood,
And damn thyſelf for ever.
P. Hen.
Words are Wind;
Still noiſy, but not hurtful: 'Tis that Blood,
That Blood of thine, that ſparkles in my Veins,
[91] Forbids Capitulation: Could I brook
Terms of high Challenge, I were not your Offspring.
Shall I be frighted, when an old Man ſtorms?
Or fear a peeviſh Father in my Foe?
Let Majeſty ſhine forth in all its Pow'r,
I dare, unmov'd, behold its fierceſt Blaze;
And like an Eagle face this burning Sun.
So take thy unregarded Threatnings back.
K. Hen.
Still ſo untam'd, young Man!—What Hoa! our Guard.
[Enter Guard.
P. Hen.
Stand off, ye Miniſters of Tyranny.
Who dares with impious Hand to touch our Perſon,
I ſpurn to Hell's black Centre.—Ye vile Slaves,
Be motionleſs at our ſupreme Command:
See ye not ſacred Majeſty about us?
Sir, we well know our ſov'reign Dignity,
When thus infring'd—The Crown, your Grant beſtow'd,
With our beſt Force we will till Death defend.
K. Hen.
It is enough—Hence from our Sight for ever.
P. Hen.
A laſt Farewel to Duty! You're obey'd.
And know, if ever more I greet your Ear,
'Twill be with Thunder, and the Voice of War.
[Exit. Prince.
K. Hen.
Impetuous in his Folly, let him go.
This Notice has diminiſh'd Majeſty.
See you this Night arreſt the Earl of Leiceſter:
[To the Guard.
I know him well the Pillar of the Faction.
Our Queen ſtill here!—in Tears!—She's innocent—
[92] Ay, and the Devil's not black—Away, falſe Woman
Follow, for Shame, this Hero of thy own,
Or curſe thy diſappointed Fraud at Home:
O you have vext my Heart—But Roſamond
With Love ſhall heal it—To her Arms I fly—
What! do I gall thee with that envy'd Name?
Thank Heaven, my utmoſt Hate is Juſtice now:
So, Elinor, farewel; rave, and deſpair,
Then die, and be thy Name forgot for ever.
[Exeunt King, &c.
Manet Queen.
Queen.
And ſhall I then expoſtulate with Heav'n?
Impious, and vain! No rather let me die,
Periſh for him, for whom alone I liv'd;
And, ſelf-acquitted, leave the World in Peace.
The watchful Eye of Providence, that ſees
Thro' Night's moſt ſable Shade, and well diſcerns
Each dark Intrigue, each Crevice of the Heart,
Shall one Day vindicate my Innocence,
And crown my injur'd Love with Praiſe immortal.
Then, when I'm laid in Duſt, my cruel Lord
O'er my cold Grave ſhall ſhed a pitying Tear,
And own I well deſerv'd a happier Fate.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Enter King Henry and Roſamond.
Roſ.
And will you go?
K. Hen.
But for this Night, my Fair.
Roſ.
This Night: How many Hours are in this Night?
[93] How many Minutes in each tedious Hour?
Methinks I dare not truſt thee from my Arms.
K. Hen.
Thou know'ſt, my Love, the ſolemn Vow I made;
I muſt do Penance at the ſacred Shrine
Of Becket, ere I cloſe mine Eyes in Sleep.
The Holy Father of the Church injoin'd it.
If I refuſe, I draw upon mine Head
Curſes, Anathemas, and Execrations,
And all th' Artillery of angry Prieſthood.
This once perform'd, I am thy own for ever.
Roſ.
O let my Lord excuſe my ſelfiſh Fears:
For what is Henry's Safety but my own?
K. Hen.
Why, we ſhall live to triumph over both,
This Trait'reſs Queen, and fierce hot-headed Son.
But I forget them, while I view thy Beauty;
Sole Comfort adequate to kingly Care:
The ſoothing Freſhneſs of the vernal Breeze,
The lulling Notes of dying Harmony,
The rapt'rous Calm of good Mens golden Dreams,
Bring not ſuch balmy Quiet to the Soul,
As thy Senſe-ſtealing Softneſs.
Roſ.
Can my Love
Stray but a Moment, ev'n in Thought, from thee,
Joy of my Life, and Sov'reign of my Wiſhes?
Such Sighs as theſe within your Boſom heav'd,
Such lively Fondneſs ſparkled in your Eyes,
Such tuneful Accents trembled on your Tongue,
When firſt tranſported at my Feet you ſigh'd,
My Royal Captive, and there ſwore you lov'd.
K. Hen.
[94]
Thy Charms had caught me but ſom [...] Days before.
Let me look back on that delightful Hour;
'Twas in an Ev'ning of the blooming May;
The Nymphs and Swains, in rural Garb attir'd,
To the Pipe's woodland Strain, upon the Lawn,
In mirthful Freedom, join'd the ſprightly Dance;
You ſhone ſuperiour 'midſt the Virgin Throng,
Faireſt among the Fair: Auſpicious Fortune
Had led my Steps that Way: I came, I ſaw,
And, ſeeing, lov'd.
Roſ.
Love, like a watchful Spy, ſurpris'd my Heart,
Well-fitted to receive the ſoft Impreſſion:
Thy graceful Preſence drew my wond'ring Eyes:
I ſigh'd, but knew not 'twas a Sigh of Love;
I wept, but knew not that I wept for thee;
Till Nature by Degrees inform'd my Heart,
And ſomething told me I was made for you.
K. Hen.
For me, for me alone; thoſe heav'nly Charms
Had been diſhonour'd by inferiour Love:
Nature deſign'd thee for the nobleſt Conqueſt,
And, giving thee ſuch Excellence of Beauty,
Wiſely contriv'd a Bleſſing for a Monarch.
Roſ.
And, of all Monarchs, only for my Henry,
Who ſhines diſtinguiſh'd 'midſt a Tribe of Kings,
As they among the vulgar Herd.
K. Hen.
Enough:
Be it my Glory to deſerve thy Sweetneſs.
Roſ.
Be it my Glory to repay thy Truth.
K. Hen.
[95]
How ſtrong the Tie which Love himſelf has made!
One dear Embrace, and for this Night adieu!
Roſ.
I grudge ev'n Saints a Moment of thy Time:
How ſhall I ſigh, and languiſh, in thy Abſence?
How ſhall I ſpring to hail thy ſafe Return,
With a fond Heart full fraught with Love and Joy?
So the poor Bird ſits penſive in her Neſt,
While tender Fears diſturb her anxious Breaſt:
At length ſhe kens her Mate with piercing Eye,
On rapid Pinions ſkim along the Sky:
With welcome Notes ſhe chears the vocal Grove,
And fondly chirps, and bills, with moſt officious Love.
[Exeunt.
ACT III. SCENE I.
Enter Lord Clifford in Diſguiſe.
CLIFFORD.
HENRY muſt paſs this Way for Becket's Tomb:
While thus attir'd, like a poor begging Friar,
I ſhall eſcape his Knowlege: I muſt win
His Ears to my Diſcourſe; while I relate
The piteous Story of my Sufferings,
And circumſtantially deſcribe my Woes,
In Terms ſo clear, that the Similitude,
[96] Himſelf portraiting ſtrongly to himſelf,
Shall ſtrike upon his Soul. With a dim Eye
Perſonal Guilt is view'd; an Atom Spot
Sharp-ſighted Cenſure ſees in other Men:
What tho' our barren Conf'rence have no Iſſue?
At leaſt I ſhall unload my burthen'd Heart,
And probe his wounded Conſcience to the Quick.
But hold—He comes.
Enter King Henry.
K. Hen.
'Tis much—What! to ſubmit
To painful Chaſtiſement, and on the Flint
Wear out the ſlow-pac'd Night!—Be we content;
'Tis to appeaſe our holy Mother Church—
I like this Cloiſter's awful Solitude:
It ſeems the Dwelling-place of Meditation.
Hah! who comes tow'rds us with ſo ſad an Aſpect?
Sure he's the youngeſt Son of Miſery.
Lo here a Beggar, and a King! Wide Contraſt!
Yet paſs one Moment, all Diſtinctions vaniſh,
And Majeſty incorporates with Duſt;
Let Pride go weep: It may amuſe my Thought,
To hide the King, and commune with this Fellow.
What hoa, Friend; who are you?
Cliff.
Why, who art thou,
That doſt not know Lorenzo, the poor Friar?
K. Hen.
I'm come to pay Devotion to Saint Thomas,
And am a Stranger here.
Clif.
I crave your Pardon.
Thou ſeem'ſt of noble Blood.
K. Hen.
[97]
Well haſt thou ſaid;
For ſuch I am.
Cliff.
Then, Sir, you know King Henry.
K. Hen.
Exceeding well. I oft attend his Court.
But why's thy Tongue familiar with that Name?
Clif.
Becauſe I take a Pride to let thee know,
That, wretched as I am, this Arm has ſerv'd him.
K. Hen.
If well, I truſt, that Service was repaid.
Clif.
As Avarice could wiſh: Ev'n to this Day
He is the Idol of my Memory;
I ſerv'd him in his early Prime of Glory.
His Soldiers lov'd him all; for all believ'd him
The beſt of Kings, his Country's Friend and Father.
O, he was noble, gen'rous, brave, and juſt;
Pow'rful, but to protect, and not oppreſs;
Fear'd and renown'd abroad, and lov'd at home.
K. Hen.
Praiſe undeſerv'd is Satire's bitt'reſt Gall.
[Aſide.
In Faith thou haſt deſcrib'd his Highneſs well:
Methinks there is right Honeſty about thee:
Thy talk exceeds the Promiſe of that Habit.
Clif.
Sir, I was once no Stranger to good Fortune.—
But wherefore do I hold this Talk? Farewel.
K. Hen.
Yet ſtay; for thou haſt mov'd my Soul to learn
The Story of thy Life—Whence, and what art thou?
Why is thy Look thus ſad and diſcontented?
Does not Religion's Garb ſit eaſy on thee?
Say, wherefore didſt thou leave the Royal Camp,
[98] To live immur'd within theſe holy Walls;
Yet now, unmindful of thy Dedication,
Doſt nauſeate the Cup of Poverty
Thyſelf haſt ſworn to drink?
Clif.
Thou doſt not know
What 'tis to be diſtreſs'd—I could diſplay
A Scene ſo mournful to thy ſtartled Ear,
Thy Wonder ſhould be ſwallow'd up in Pity.
Canſt thou lend Patience to an old Man's Prattle?
K. Hen.
I will.
Clif.
Know then the holy Brotherhood
Combat with more in this religious Warfare,
Than Down-repoſing Luxury e'er dreamt of.
We're Men, but yet no Members of Mankind:
This rev'rend Manſion is to us, our World;
Yon melancholy Cells thou ſeeſt, our Home;
There ev'ry Night, in penſive Meditation,
We watch the Lamp's dull Gleam; and when we ſleep,
'Tis but what Nature ſteals from rigid Duty,
Till the ſhrill Cock, the Uſher of the Morn,
Awakes us to the Diſcipline of Day.
Our homely Meals are low, and regular;
And while we ſtay the Rage of Appetite,
We ſtarve the dainty Palate: To be brief,
Wealth, Buſineſs, Pleaſure, Honour we renounce,
And all of us are Wretches by Engagement:
'Tis thus we ſtruggle with Mortality,
Rather than live. What think you of our State?
K. Hen.
'Tis all that Man can do tow'rds earning Heav'n;
[99] It is Extremity of Wretchedneſs.
But yet—
Clif.
Ha, ha, ha.
K. Hen.
What can provoke thy Mirth?
Clif.
Your Ignorance;
For in this Light thou ſeeſt me to Advantage:
All this is Happineſs, to what I ſuffer:
Was this the mighty Sum of all my Sorrow,
Theſe Eyes ſhould ſtart in Tranſport from their Orbs,
And my old Heart-ſtrings crack with riſing Joy.
K. Hen.
Thy Fortune has been mercileſs indeed,
If this ſad Place be Sorrow's Sanctuary.
Clif.
What's this, Sir, to the Poignancy of Woe,
To inward Grief, to vital Agony,
And the keen Pang that gnaws upon the Heart?
Poor tho' he is, the Man whoſe Mind's at Eaſe,
Beneath the Straw-built Roof enjoys his Sleep;
At pinching Hunger's Importunity,
Epicure-like, devours his ſavoury Fragment;
And, joyous, as the brain-ſick Reveller,
Quaffs down the unadulterated Stream.
But O! how bitter is the ſcanty Morſel,
That, feeding Life, but nouriſhes Deſpair!
K. Hen.
How loudly does the Voice of Grief demand
The ſocial Tear! O what is mortal Man,
That may be brought thus low? 'Twill glad my Soul
To make this Fellow happy.
[Aſide.
Clif.
Stranger, I thank thy Tears; they ſhew thee noble:
[100] Pity flows always from the manly Heart.
Have you a Daughter, Sir?
K. Hen.
Say, why that Queſtion?
Clif.
O, I had one; ſo fair, ſo innocent!—
Excuſe my Tears.
K. Hen.
Thou ſeem'ſt to ſpeak of her
In pleaſing Terms—So fair, ſo innocent!
Clif.
O ſhe was once the Treaſure of my Soul;
Bright as the Morning's freſh-expanded Beam;
And ſpotleſs as the white-rob'd Angels are:
When-e'er I taught her Honour's ſacred Law,
Her ſtill Attention, and obſequious Look,
Seem'd the Certificates of inborn Virtue:
Sometimes I've trac'd her Mother in her Face,
Pleas'd to recall the Spring-tide of my Days,
And travel o'er Youth's chearful Road again.
For her I left the Buſineſs of the Field,
Well-pleas'd I toil'd a rural Life away,
And, joyful, ſaw my golden Harveſts riſe:
But Plenty, Peace, and Comfort, are no more;
Her coward Virtue ſtoop'd to brutal Love.
I could not bear the Shame: I left my Houſe;
The Fugitive of Choice, and not of Fortune:
Sick of this worthleſs World, at length I ſought
This Cloiſter of religious Poverty;
And here I mean to lay down Life, and Sorrow.
K. Hen.
Thy Loftineſs of Soul amazes me.
Who was the Villain that abus'd thy Daughter?
Perdition on his Head!
Clif.
[101]
That cuts me deep:
My moſt invet'rate Foe had ſpar'd my Fame;
But him that ruin'd it, I call'd my Friend:
He was the Man I honour'd from my Soul:
I thought him honeſt, gentle, juſt, and true;
But found him cruel, wicked, falſe, and baſe.
K. Hen.
What means my Heart? Thou hadſt a Daughter, Clifford.
[Aſide.
Clif.
My hoſpitable Doors had juſt receiv'd him,
A welcome Gueſt, a ſmiling Murderer;
While Confidence in his ſuperiour Worth
Made the curſt Work of my Undoing eaſy.
K. Hen.
The Dagger's Point, the Scorpion's deadly bite,
Wound not like theſe Soul-penetrating Words:
I'm like this very Villain.
[Aſide.
Clif.
You're diſturb'd, Sir.
K. Hen.
No, not at all. Proceed you in your Tale.
Clif.
To this Ingratitude he added more:
I had been Guardian to his tender Youth;
And (for I found a warlike Spirit in him)
Train'd him to hard Fatigues, and manly Toil;
We ſerv'd together in the Wars abroad,
And I was ſtill his Pattern in the Battle:
Fame has ſince then ſpoke loudly in his Praiſe:
But, be he e'er ſo great, I made him ſo.
K. Hen.
I ſtand condemn'd—it is—it cannot be—
Sure he's a Meſſenger from angry Heav'n,
Sent to arraign my Soul.
[Aſide.
Clif.
You are not well, Sir;
K. Hen.
[102]
A ſudden Qualm has ſeiz'd me: But 'twill off;
'Tis a familiar Malady—Accept
Theſe Alms—I muſt be gone—Again To-morrow—
Clif.
But one Word more; ſomething remains untold,
He further ow'd a nearer Obligation
To my Heart's Love: For once in Heat of Fight,
When he had broke his Sword, the deſp'rate Foe,
With his broad Falchion, aiming at his Head,
Had levell'd him to Earth; when I ruſh'd in,
And diſappointed Fate: This wounded Breaſt,
Bears yet the honeſt Record of that Service:
Pleaſe you, look here.
K. Hen.
Give me more Air. Away!
[Exit.
Clif.
He has it deep: I mark'd his ſtartled Conſcience;
I drove the keen reproach into his Heart:
He ſhook like a raw Novice in his Guilt.
May Heav'n indent th' Impreſſion on his Soul!—
This is a buſy Ev'ning; at this Hour,
And near this Place, my Letter did appoint
The Earl of Leiceſter to an Interview.
I am no more a Beggar in Diſguiſe,
But here an open, and avenging Foe.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Enter Queen, and Duke of Cornwall.
Queen.
Thou haſt well flatter'd my deſponding Soul,
That had forgot to hope: O Pain of Doubt,
Next to Deſpair!
Corn.
[103]
Let not the Queen diſtruſt
Theſe Means of good Succeſs: I've wiſh'd long ſince,
T' aſſiſt thy Exigence, and, but juſt now,
Conſulted ſev'rally the Royal Guard,
That keep the Watch To-night at her Apartment:
I've won them to your Int'reſt, on Condition,
No Wrong be offer'd to the Fair-one's Perſon.
At Midnight's ſilent Hour, nought will obſtruct
The fatal Viſitation.
Queen.
My good Lord,
I thank thy Friendſhip; by my Hopes of Peace,
The Perſon of my Rival ſhall be ſacred:
'Twill pain me to diſſemble Cruelty;
For I have all the Softneſs of my Sex,
But no Reſentment, jealous Rage, and Malice,
That wont t' inflame the Breaſt of injur'd Woman.
Corn.
Hard by yon Hill, where now the Lamp of Day
Sea-ward deſcends, there ſtands a fam'd old Convent.
Ne'er had Religion a more awful Houſe.
A Stream ſlow-gliding winds about its Borders,
Upon whoſe Banks ſtand a long Range of Oaks,
That caſt a wide Solemnity of Shade:
O'er the high Walls the creeping Ivy climbs,
And in its high-arch'd Vaults no Sounds are heard
But whiſtling Winds, and deep-ton'd Falls of Water?
Remorſe, and Horror, dwell for ever there;
It is the Seat of Penitence and Sorrow.
Thither be Roſamond this Night convey'd;
And, for the reſt, truſt Heav'n.
Queen.
[104]
This may ſecure
My wretched Rival; but the King, my Lord!
How ſhall I face his Anger? For I know—
Alas! I do not know how much he loves her.
Corn.
Believe me, ev'ry Circumſtance ſhall end
In ample Illuſtration of thy Virtue.
My Lord of Cheſter has o'erthrown the Scots,
So ſhall you ſoon ſtand clear of all Suſpicion
Of aiding jointly with your Son the War,
And ſlander'd Innocence again ſhall triumph.
Queen.
Good Omens dwell upon thy pleaſing Words,
But let us hence; I muſt prepare my Heart
For this Night's Enterprize.
SCENE III.
Enter Lord Leiceſter with a Letter.
Leic.
Fortune, thou doſt exceed thy Vot'ry's Hope;
Fate does my Work herſelf, and ſpares my Pains:
How had my Brain been toiling for this Hour?
She wills me meet her here—the gentle Dame—
Harry, this once I give thee leave to reſt;
Night's Mantle, dy'd in blackeſt Erebus,
Shroud thy unconſcious Thought—Pauſe, this bleſt Hour
The nobler Movements of my buſy Soul,
And let me ſtoop to Beauty's pleaſing Lure:
Thus the bold Bird of Prey, the princely Vulture,
Forgets a while his bloody Occupation,
To hold an am'rous Parley with his Mate.
Comes ſhe? or—Hah!—by Hell 'tis Clifford's Self.
Unlucky Stars! But, Stateſman, to thy Work.
[105] Enter Lord Clifford.
Clif.
Good Even to my Lord. You ſeem'd in Thought.
Leic.
In Faith, my good Lord Clifford, ſo I was.
I have ſome certain Smatch of Poeſy,
And, walking forth to taſte the Ev'ning's Freſhneſs,
My Wit 'gan to be ſomewhat humourſome:
I fear your Lordſhip has quite marr'd my Sonnet.
Clif.
What, does the Paper you juſt folded up
Contain the Subſtance?
Leic.
A ſhort Sketch, my Lord,
My Muſe in Miniature; a very Trifle.
Clif.
Say, Leiceſter, is't a Time to trifle now?
Peace to thy Heart, I think the Seaſon's ſickly.
Leic.
Why, ſo do I; and, truſt me, noble Clifford,
'Tis but to cheat away my Melancholy,
I ſometimes condeſcend to be a Fool.
Clif.
O I could be a Fool, a very Wretch,
Could rank me with the common ſavage Crew,
Turn Hireling, drudging Slave, and carry Burdens,
If I could purchaſe, with this Sum of Care
My wonted Peace of Mind. Sure I'm ſo wretched,
Fate fix'd me for its Maſterpiece of Malice.
Leic.
Great are thy Wrongs indeed: Yet we all ſuffer;
'Tis epidemical, this State Diſorder.
And who can cure the Fever, but ourſelves?
We'll be our own Phyſicians, my good Lord,
And let out this hot Blood.
Clif.
I'm not ſo deſp'rate in my Purpoſes:
Headſtrong Impatience ſwells beyond its Charter,
[106] And I muſt tell thee, I've that Senſe of Honour,
That I could bear a Thouſand groſs Affronts,
That ſtink ev'n to the Sun, before the Guile
Of artful Villainy, that lurks unſeen,
And ruins while it ſmiles.
Leic.
Ev'n ſo, good Clifford:
Sure a clandeſtine Traitor is the vileſt:
The Devil's moſt odious Quality is Cunning:
Let us not think your Lordſhip has ſuch Foes:
Mean time make uſe of me, and my Soul's Friendſhip.
Clif.
Hah, Leiceſter, doſt thou know what Friendſhip is?
'Tis not the fawning Cringe, the ſtudy'd Smile,
The oil-ſmooth Speech, big Word, or ſolemn Vow;
It is a ſacred Ray of heav'nly Love:
Like that, rejoicing in the Good of others,
It ſcorns the narrow Bounds of Selfiſhneſs,
And knows no Bliſs ſincere, but ſocial Joy:
Simple and plain, it ſhines in naked Truth,
And opens all the Sluices of the Heart.
Leic.
What means all this?
Clif.
I know no double Meaning.
Leic.
I thought I had been known, and try'd enough,
Not to be troubled with a pedant Lecture:
Let me, my Lord, tell you another Truth;
Diſtruſt is Friendſhip's Canker.
Clif.
Then, I fear me,
Our Friendſhip waxes tow'rd a Diſſolution:
Becauſe ſometimes Diſtruſt is kin to Prudence.
Leic.
[107]
That, as your Lordſhip thinks. For my own Part,
I know the Man will thank me for my Service;
And ſo Good-night.
Clif.
Nay, hold; you go not yet:
For I have that to ſay will make your Heart ſick,
Before we part.
Leic.
What doſt thou mean, old Man,
Thee, and thy vile Suggeſtion I defy.
Clif.
Then I demand, in Honour's ſacred Name,
As Thou would'ſt here make good thy Honeſty,
That thou unfold the Purport of that Paper,
The Sonnet that thou talk'dſt of.
Leic.
Is my Quality
Sunk on a ſudden to ſo low an Ebb,
That I muſt anſwer every Fool's Demand,
Which he may make, becauſe his Humour's teſty?
Clif.
Then my Demand is fruitleſs, is it not?
Leic.
Ay, and injurious too: Thy Age protects thee:
Elſe on this Side I wear an Advocate,
This faithful Sword, to guard its Maſter's Honour,
And vindicate his Name from foul-mouth'd Slander.
Clif.
Come, thy Hypocriſy's a thread-bare Cloak:
You've worn it long, my Lord; and now 'tis ſeen through.
If thy Complexion were as black as Hell,
I'd conjure up a Bluſh into thy Cheeks.
Know then I ſent that Scroll.
Leic.
Know then, I care not.
Clif.
[108]
O thou vile Spoiler!
Wherein, or when had I offended thee,
That thou couldſt calmly mean me ſo much Wrong?
Loſt as ſhe is to Henry's damn'd Inchantments,
My Daughter's not a gen'ral Proſtitute;
Or, ſay ſhe was the Play-thing of Mankind,
My Friend would ſpurn at her, but pity me.
Leic.
Thee, Dotard, and whatever elſe preſumes
To thwart my Will, I ſcorn alike; 'tis true
You have this once o'er-reach'd me: I confeſs
Love and fair Roſamond had fir'd my Hopes:
But for thy Tongue—rail on—it hurts not me—
What doſt thou here? Doſt thou diſſemble too?
By my balk'd Joys, thou'rt Partner in the Trade;
Thou ſhareſt in the Spoil, and ſtandeſt here,
The Pander of thy Daughter's fulſome Luſt.
Clif.
Hold—Let me wait—for Heav'n itſelf perhaps
Will take my Part, and blaſt thee on the Spot;
Or does it leave me to revenge myſelf?
This truſty Sword, that never yet unmaſk'd,
But in the Field of Honour, ſhall for once
Be ſtain'd in ſingle Fight with Traitor's Blood.
Leic.
Fortune, and Roſamond, but ſmile this Hour,
And this ſhall be the Birth-day of my Bliſs.
I draw the Sword of keeneſt Hate: Come on.
[Fight. Clifford falls.
Clif.
Leiceſter, the Glory and the Guilt is thine,
That haſt oppos'd thy Wrath to rev'rend Age:
But Life was burdenſome—and, for this once,
[109] Ev'n Thou art kind—I pity, and forgive thee.
O Heav'n!—Hah! who are theſe?
Enter Officer and Guards.
Offi.
My Lord of Leiceſter,
I arreſt thee here, in the King's Name, for Treaſon
In holding Correſpondence with the Scots.
Secure him, Guard—What's here?—Lord Clifford fall'n!
O curſed Deed!—How fares it with your Lordſhip?
Clif.
Well art thou come to catch my parting Breath;
(For I perceive Compaſſion in thy Look).
Bear my laſt Words to gentle Saliſbury:
He ſhall report them, where the Sound ſhall ſtartle,
And, like the Voice of Heav'n, command Attention.
Henry was once old Clifford's Royal Friend,
And Roſamond was Clifford's only Daughter—
But Roſamond and Henry more than kill'd me;
For, O! this mortal Wound is Titillation
To Honour's painful Stab—Yet witneſs Friend,
That in this cool, this reconciling Hour,
I ſteep all Paſſion in Forgetfulneſs—
Warn them ſome Angel; ere Heav'n's Wrath be ripe,
To ſeparate their fatal Loves for ever,
That we may meet in Harmony above,
Where Folly, Grief, and Pain, ſhall be no more—Dies.
So prays, as for his Soul, the dying Clifford.
Offi.
Heav'n hear thy pious Wiſh, thou good old Man!
—For you, my Lord, but for this laſt black Deed,
[110] That makes ev'n Pity callous, I could grieve,
To bid you be prepar'd to die To-morrow.
Leic.
It had been Cowardice to ruſh on Death,
When Fate had other Miſchiefs in Reſerve;
Elſe my own Hands had freed me from the World,
And Henry's idle Spleen: But let him know
I dare defy the utmoſt of his Power:
Come Death, come Hell, I will be Leiceſter ſtill.
Offi.
Far other Words in this Diſtreſs would better
Leic.
Away! I was not born to know Diſtreſs;
My Soul, high-tow'ring on her full-fledg'd Wing,
And independent on Contingency,
Hears Fortune's air-ſpent Arrows hiſs beneath her:
Defeated, I ſtill boaſt in my vaſt Purpoſe;
I play'd a dang'rous, but a noble Game:
'Twas Fortitude to venture Life for Glory;
And, next to that, 'tis Fortitude to die.—
I have but one Requeſt to make—your Leave
To ſee the Prince.
Offi.
I have no Orders to refuſe you that.
Leic.
Yet for one Moment my tough Heart muſt bend,
And Nature ſhock'd confeſs a tranſient Pang:
The Dream of Bliſs now ſwims before my Eyes.
Fortune had plac'd my Happineſs in View;
And, when I ruſh'd to graſp the ſolid Joy,
She marr'd my Hopes, and daſh'd them to the Ground.
The Merchant thus the wiſh'd-for Haven ſees,
And chears his Soul with Hopes of future Eaſe:
[111] But, unforeſeen, the threat'ning Tempeſts riſe,
And Clouds black-lowring gather in the Skies;
Winds roar, Seas ſwell, his ſhatter'd Bark is toſt,
And, in a ſudden Wreck, his Maſs of Wealth is loſt.
[Exeunt.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
Enter Queen, Duke of Cornwall, and Guard.
CORNWALL.
THIS is the Way, that leads to her Apartment:
Fortune now bids thee triumph o'er thy Rival.
Queen.
Alas! I know not how t' inſult Misfortune;
Yet muſt I act a haughty Rival's Part,
Affect the high Diſdain of Majeſty,
The Rage of Jealouſy, and Storm of Vengeance,
Ill-ſuited to my Tenderneſs of Nature:
But ſoft Compaſſion, dreſs'd in Terms of Hate,
Will make more worth the Gift of forfeit Life,
And juſtify my Name to future Times.
Corn.
Theſe ſhall be near to wait th' expected Call.
[Exeunt.
Roſamond ſola.
Roſ.
How dreadful 'tis to commune with one's ſelf!
It is Society that makes Sin pleaſing:
Lead-pinion'd Slumber weighs upon the Senſe;
But wakeful Conſcience knows no Hour of Reſt,
[112] And the clos'd Eye-lid cannot ſhut out Care.
Why tarries Harriana? But ſhe comes.
Hah! I'm betray'd!—The jealous angry Queen,
And with her a grim Crew of Murderers.
Earth, open wide thy Boſom to receive me!
Night ſhield me with impenetrable Darkneſs.
Enter Queen.
Qu.
Stand you without, and wait our Word of Fate
Where is this impious and deluded Woman?
Prepare, prepare, to meet my big Reſentment,
And ſatisfy the Vengeance of my Soul.
Roſ.
Thus ſelf-condemn'd, how ſhall I plead for Pardon?
Or ſtand before offended Majeſty?
Yet Heav'n accepts, in Part of due Atonement,
Confeſſion of the Crime: Here on my Knees—
Queen.
Call'ſt thou it Merit, to confeſs a Crime,
Thou dar'ſt no more deny, than vindicate?
Strive not in vain to deprecate my Wrath:
Think on the Anguiſh of an injur'd Wife;
Think on the Torture of a ſlighted Lover;
Think on the Hatred of a pow'rful Rival;
Think on all theſe; and think on Death.
Roſ.
O rather,
Think on the Horrour of a Wretch, that ſtands
Upon the Brink of Death, but dares not die.
My Soul is ſtartled at the dreadful View,
And ev'ry Weakneſs takes the ſad Alarm.
Queen.
Art thou afraid to die? I'd have thee ſo:
'Tis Joy to antedate thy Miſery:
[113] To ſuff'ring Virtue Death's a Remedy;
To Guilt, like thine, alone, a Puniſhment.
Roſ.
Great Queen, relent, and ſpare my Bloom of Youth.
Compaſſion on Diſtreſs is ever noble;
But, undeſerv'd, 'tis godlike: O, remember,
Mercy's the ſweeteſt Attribute of Heav'n;
'Twill ſooth thee in thy laſt ſad Hour to think,
Thou didſt not plunge me into endleſs Ruin:
And when thou mounteſt to thy native Sky,
Admiring Angels ſhall come crouding round thee,
And own that thou, of all the Race of Men,
Haſt copy'd beſt thy bright Original.
Queen.
And doſt thou think to whine me from my Purpoſe?
Can a Sigh cool the Sun's meridian Blaze?
Or a Tear quench the Rage of ſpreading Flames?
Then may this Shew of artifical Grief,
Of forc'd Remorſe, appeaſe my angry Soul.
Roſ.
'Tis not in Art to mimic Grief like mine:
Let me conjure thee, as thou art a Woman,
By all the nat'ral Softneſs of our Sex,
Not in wild Haſte to dye thy Hands in Blood.
Much have I ſinn'd—but O that Sin was Love,
The yielding Weakneſs of a tender Maid—
Ah! what could Reaſon urge againſt the Force
Of Paſſion kindling in a female Breaſt?
Queen.
If female Paſſions ſway with lordly Rule,
Revenge may glow with Fires as hot as Love.
Shall I forgive thee, and deſtroy myſelf?
What, let thee live to triumph o'er my Folly,
[114] Again to riot in my Henry's Arms,
And in each Fit of wanton Dalliance,
To liſp, and prattle o'er, the diſmal Tale;
Then kiſs, and make him ſwear, 'Tis pitiful?
By Heav'n, it makes Imagination mad.
Roſ.
Witneſs the Pow'r ſupreme, that ſees my Shame,
I here renounce for ever Henry's Love;
Tho' Life itſelf would thus be dearly bought:
But I've a fearful Reck'ning yet to make,
Much from my Soul is due to injur'd Heav'n:
Will theſe few Pangs diſcharge the Debt, or will
A Moment's Sorrow pay for Years of Guilt?
Queen.
That as Heav'n pleaſes; but my Anger's urgent,
And now demands an inſtant Sacrifice.
Roſ.
Let me but live: Is that ſo great a Boon?
I'll wander in the World a Vagabond,
Turn'd looſe from Human-kind, forlorn, and wild;
Each ſcornful Tongue, that hail'd my happier Days,
Shall mock my abject Fall: I'll owe my Life
To common Charity; from Door to Door
I'll beg Subſiſtence, and be proud to feaſt
Upon the Refuſe of gorg'd Appetite.
And when the Wrath of Heav'n is ſatisfy'd,
And the full Term of all my Woes expires,
On the cold Flint I'll ſtretch my weary'd Limbs,
And bleſs thy Name, and die.
Queen.
Shame of thy Sex,
Whom can thy Bleſſings help, or Curſes hurt?
Why do I trifle thus? It is reſolv'd:
Inexorable Juſtice claims her Right.
Roſ.
[115]
'Tis Cruelty, not Juſtice, thirſts for Blood.
Queen.
Be't which it will, it muſt be ſatisfy'd.
Roſ.
What canſt thou gain by killing me?
Queen.
Revenge.
Roſ.
Will England's Queen avow ſo poor a Motive?
Queen.
Will England's Queen conform her great Deſigns
To vulgar Rules of Action? Thou ſhalt die.
Roſ.
Then 'tis in vain to ſtruggle with my Fortune:
Yes, I will die, and glory in my Paſſion:
Shall Henry's Miſtreſs fear a Rival's Rage?
His Love ſhall chear me in my dying Moments;
It ſhall deceive thy Cruelty, to mark
With how ſerene a Brow I meet my Fate;
And thou ſhalt envy Nature's parting Pang.
Queen.
So bold? But we ſhall try this boaſted Courage.
Roſ.
Then be my Blood on thy devoted Head!
My Lord, my Henry, ſhall revenge my Death:
And when the World ſhall hear our fatal Story,
Thy ſavage Rage, and unrelenting Hate,
Shall brand thy Name with Infamy for ever:
My hapleſs Lot ſhall find a gentler Treatment,
And After-times, indulgent to the Weakneſs,
That preſent Cenſure magnifies with Malice,
Shall rank me high among heroic Lovers,
That liv'd Love's Votaries, and dy'd its Martyrs.
Queen.
In that poor Comfort go, and loſe thy Life.
Advance, ye Inſtruments of my juſt Vengeance,
And do the Work of Fate: Bear her to Death.
[116] Enter Guard.
Roſ.
What do I ſee? It melts my fixt Reſolves:
Courage, and Innocence, would ſhake at this:
What then muſt Guilt, and feeble Woman, feel?
And muſt I fall by Ruffians brutal Hands?
O, yet forgive my Raſhneſs; ſpare my Life;
Spare me at leaſt the Horrour of this Sight;
Diſcharge theſe ghaſtly, and grim-featur'd Wretches,
And take my Life with thy own Royal Hand.
Queen.
It is beneath me: Hence! Away with her.
Roſ.
Pauſe yet one laſt ſad Moment, and I go:
Since Death is ſure, let me not die like one
That has no Foreſight of a long Hereafter:
Tongue cannot tell the Anguiſh I now feel;
O may it purchaſe my eternal Peace!
Thee, mighty Queen, I above Meaſure wrong'd:
Yet this is ſurely Puniſhment enough;
If 'tis too much, Heav'n pardon the Exceſs,
And not impute Severity of Juſtice:
Be thou yet happy in thy Henry's Love,
And, with my Life, let ev'ry Diſcord ceaſe:
Yet let him wet my Tomb with one ſad Tear,
And pity her his fatal Love has ruin'd:
Then may he quite forget our guilty Joys,
And bleſs the Nations with his Royal Virtues!
Life, Love, and Henry, all Adieu, for ever.
[Exit Roſamond guarded.
Queen.
The painful Taſk is done; and grievous 'twas,
To trace the ſtrong Emotions of her Soul;
[117] This Suff'ring is enough for all her Crimes.
But, lo! the ſilver Gleam of Morning breaks.
O thou ſupreme, all-wiſe, o'er-ruling Pow'r,
That ſeeſt the mighty Wrongs of Elinor,
Bleſs, if it ſeemeth good, this honeſt Art,
And touch with deep Remorſe my Henry's Heart:
But if 'tis fix'd, by thy unalter'd Will,
That I ſhould ſtill be ſcorn'd, be wretched ſtill;
If 'tis recorded in the Book of Fate,
That I was born to love, and He to hate;
The next ſad Boon my weary'd Soul ſhall crave,
Is Reſt eternal, and a peaceful Grave.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
Enter Prince Henry, Earls of Surry and Wincheſter.
P. Hen.
It cannot be: The Army all diſpers'd!
And the Scotch King himſelf ta'en Priſoner!
This ſtrikes our blaſted Purpoſe to the Root:
Yet do we hold ourſelf as full of Spirit,
And royal Quality, as when we thought
To ſeat us in our Father's tott'ring Throne:
But halt we here, and ceaſe the noble Chace;
Let Glory hide awhile his radiant Head,
Till, burſting like the Sun from Ocean's Lap,
Once more he pours the Beams of Day around.
Say, where's the Right-hand of our Enterprize,
The truſty Leiceſter?
Sur.
May it pleaſe your Grace,
[118] By your Command, I went laſt Night t' appriſe
His Lordſhip of our ſudden Overthrow:
But he was then gone forth, 'twas ſaid, in private.
P. Hen.
Shield him, ye Stars! my ever-faithful Friend,
That nurs'd my Youth, e'en like a tender Plant,
One Day to flouriſh in fair England's Garden.
Winch.
Look, where he comes; and, lo! a ſullen Guard
Of Officers of State attend upon him;
Death ſits in Pomp upon each Countenance.
Enter Leiceſter guarded.
P. Hen.
Whence is it, Leiceſter, that I ſee thee thus?
I've known the Time when I had flown to meet thee,
Swift as the fabled Mercury: Methought
I could have graſp'd thee to my Heart for ever,
And youthful Love's Embrace was cold to mine:
But now forbidding Horrours dwell around thee;
And this firſt Time I wiſh thee from my Sight,
Far as quick Magic, or the Stretch of Thought,
Could waft thee hence: Alas! what mean theſe Bonds?
Leic.
I am thy Father's Pris'ner; by what Chance,
It matters not: And 'tis with Joy I tell it,
I ſhall not be ſo long; for I'm to die.
This World has trifled with my Expectations,
And I ſhall leave it with Indifference,
Like a diſguſted Friend.
P. Hen.
Didſt thou ſay, die?
Where is the Pow'r on Earth ſhall take thee from me
Againſt my Will? By Heav'n, my Heat of Soul
[119] Tranſports me to the thund'ring Field of Battle:
Have I no Friends? Methinks ten thouſand Swords
With ſympathetic Rage ſhould leave their Scabbards,
And, forcing Conqueſt from the Hand of Fortune,
Reſcue thy Life, and my inſulted Honour.
Leic.
Why doſt thou ſpend thy frantic Breath in vain?
Thus ruin'd as I am, I pity thee.
P. Hen.
How ſteady is thy Heart! Bleſt Lot of Virtue!
O hadſt thou clos'd thine Eyes in Honour's Bed,
The glorious Fate had claim'd my Gratulation:
But ſhall my Friend be led to formal Death,
To ſhameful, publick Execution,
And make a Spectacle for vile Plebeians?
Can I endure all this?—Can I prevent it?
The mournful Image ſinks me into Childhood,
And from my Eyes the Stream of Sorrow flows.
Leic.
Weep not; for Tears are Woman's Ceremony.
My Life has been a Hurricane throughout,
And I will raiſe a Storm at my Departure;
As the fell Lightning ſtrikes while it does vaniſh.
P. Hen.
Thy Talk is wild: Is't poſſible to ſave thee?
I will unhinge the vaſt Machinery
Of Sov'reign Greatneſs, that my Soul had fram'd,
And be that dull, unthinking Thing I was,
Ere yet, inſpir'd by thy awak'ning Breath,
The Flame of Glory play'd about my Heart;
For thee I will renounce this Bauble Crown,
Throw myſelf proſtrate at my Father's Feet,
And there ſolicit for thy valu'd Life.
Leic.
[120]
Think not of me; ſolicit for thyſelf:
Aſk Pardon for the Follies of thy Youth,
And promiſe better Carriage for the future:
A little Whining will ſet Matters right,
The old Man kindly takes you by the Hand,
Bids you ſit ſtill, and all ſhall be forgotten.
P. Hen.
Still, Leiceſter, doſt thou thwart my good Intent,
As if to be oblig'd were worſe than Death?
Leic.
Then hear me, hear me, and be loſt for ever:
Thou poor miſguided Tool, thou Pygmy Monarch,
Thou Froth-made Creature of a Courtier's Guile,
Think not I ever bore Reſpect to thee,
Further than Shew would anſwer my Deſign.
Thou, and thy fancy'd Title, were the Engines
Of my Ambition, and high-creſted Hopes:
Had Fate done Juſtice to my noble Daring,
I'd rioted at Will in lawleſs Pow'r,
And ever-blooming Love—O Roſamond!
My Thought ſtill hangs on thee—But all is paſt,
And the whole World is now not worth my Notice.
P. Hen.
Tell me, good Surry, does not this Man rave?
Or am I here, or who, or what are you?
O, 'tis too much, too much!
Sur.
Accurſed Villain!
You're much diſturb'd, my Lord: You graſp my Hand,
As you'd diſſolve it, and Convulſions rend
Your ſtruggling Heart, like the laſt Gaſps of Nature.
Leic.
Why, ſurely, 'twill be glorious Fun'ral Pomp,
When Princes are the Mourners.
P. Hen.
[121]
It ſhall be ſo—Where is this Son of Darkneſs?
I will defile my Sword with his Heart's Blood,
And drive his Soul back to the Devil his Maſter.
Leic.
Ay, kill me, do; and I ſhall die in Triumph.
P. Hen.
Hold! Shall I ſave him from the Hand of Juſtice,
And honour his foul Treaſon?—Drag him hence;
Be ſure you grind his Carcaſe into Duſt;
Then ſend each Particle to hotteſt Hell,
To ſuffer ſep'rate Pain—
Leic.
I leave my Imprecations to you all;
I have diſturb'd Mankind, and die content.
[Exit guarded.
P. Hen.
If there's a Torment yet unfelt below,
Thou wilt diſturb the Damn'd—For me what's left
But air-encount'ring Wrath, and ſad Deſpair,
And ſelf-reproaching Shame?—Are you my Friends?
Give me Credentials of your Honeſty;
Smile, cringe, and hug, and ſwear, and then deceive me.
Sur.
Could I unfold the Bottom of my Heart,
Your Grace would ſee it all your own.
P. Hen.
Impoſſible!
I tell thee, Surry, there's no Faith in Nature:
I'd ride a Bulruſh in a ſtormy Sea,
Ere I would truſt a Friend: Ingratitude!
Thou damning Sin of Devils, and of Men!
Our Patriarch-Father, happy in himſelf,
Enjoy'd his ſolitary Paradiſe:
But his firſt Boſom-friend, his Wife, betray'd him.
Winch.
[122]
My Soul abhors the Falſhood of that Traitor:
For me—
P. Hen.
Heav'n only knows how much I lov'd him:
He lay within my Boſom's cloſeſt Fold,
And ſaw the Springs that mov'd my Soul to Action:
Had one poor Morſel been my Life's Subſiſtence,
And Leiceſter's craving Appetite unſated,
He ſhould have ſhar'd his Moiety, exact
Ev'n to an Atom's Weight. Ye heav'nly Pow'rs!
Is this the Man that hath abus'd me thus?
The brute Beaſt ſoftens to good Offices:
The churliſh Cur friſks at his Maſter's Feet:
Nay, the great Lion fondles with his Keeper,
And bloody Tygers lick the Hand that feeds them:
Man only of all Creatures is ungrateful.
Heav'n too but waſtes its Bounty on the Wretch:
Why ſheds yon golden Orb his daily Light?
Mark! his meridian Brightneſs glares unheeded
By thankleſs Mortals, like a common Meteor.
Winch.
Forget what's paſt—Awake your wonted Spirit—
P. Hen.
Never, my Lord.—But Yeſterday, methought,
Like a full Tide, I ſpread myſelf abroad,
While Plenty ſmil'd along my fruitful Shores:
But now Heav'n's ſcorching Wrath has choak'd my Springs,
My ſinking Stream forſakes its thirſty Banks,
And all my Urns are dry—O! I'm undone.
Winch.
[123]
Kind Heav'n ſend Peace to your diſorder'd Soul!
P. Hen.
Why doſt thou talk of Peace? Orig'nal Chaos
Was more at Peace than I: If thou would'ſt pleaſe me,
Drive me into ſome vaſt Extremity,
Some Precedent of Horrour yet unheard of.
Would I could conjure up a helliſh Spirit,
Should rend aſunder this Sea-mantled Iſle!
Sure I am fit for nought but ſome damn'd Deed,
To chronicle my Name a Plague for ever.
Sur.
Come, come, my Lord! Youth is a ſportive Tale,
That Men peruſe, and are not critical.
The King will yet forgive, on Terms of Honour,
The Raſhneſs of us all.
P. Hen.
Curſe his Forgiveneſs!
Was I acquitted to ten thouſand Worlds,
O! I ſhould damn myſelf: Has Henry been
The choſen Inſtrument of Knavery,
Still pliant to a Villain's forming Hand?
Impartial Fame, that regiſters all Deeds,
Will write this firſt Page of my Hiſtory,
In Terms moſt vile, and inſignificant:
Had I the nervous Arm of Hercules,
The ample Sway of Philip's conqu'ring Son,
Proud Caeſar's Fortune, or great Arthur's Soul,
Harry, and Fool, would ſtill be join'd together.
O Shame eternal, inſupportable!
Sur.
To err is to be mortal: Where is he,
That falls not in the ſlipp'ry Path of Life?
[124] But future Conduct cancels Failings paſt:
All may be yet retriev'd; the cloud-wrapt Morn
Is oft the Prologue to a glorious Day.
P. Hen.
Think'ſt thou I bear an ordinary Mind!
Who ſets out wrong, ought to forego his Journey:
Hence I'll divorce me from the faithleſs World,
Step from the Prince, and ſtudy to forget
My Royal Sphere, 'till I am reconcil'd
To low Obſcurity, and abject Life,
And ev'ry Thought be level with my Fate.
Sur.
Theſe deep Refinements ſeem akin to Madneſs.
[Aſide.
Your Highneſs ſpeaks the Language of Deſpair.
P. Hen.
I ſpeak but what I feel: Methinks, 'tis done:
By Heav'n, I would not ſtoop to take a Crown;
The Head that wears that ſhining Burden akes for't
Who rules too, rules o'er Men; and I'd not hold
All Earth upon Security precarious,
As is the Weather-changing Faith of Men:
I hold no farther Correſpondence with them.
Let the vile Miſcreants prey on one another;
While I, on Fortune's miſchievous Caprice,
Will diet my Reflection, and refine
To pure Conception my World-weaned Soul.
How happy is the Sage, in his Retreat,
That human Footſteps never yet profan'd!
No jarring Paſſions vex his gentle Breaſt;
Peace crowns his Days, his Nights unbroken Reſt;
[125] Slave to no Int'reſt, aiming at no End,
He neither fears a Foe, nor wants a Friend;
Careleſs, what Nations riſe, what Empires fall,
He hears not wild Ambition's noiſy Call:
Wiſe to ſhun Pleaſure, Fortune to defy;
He only ſeems to live, that he may die.
[Exeunt.
ACT V. SCENE I.
Roſamond aſleep. Enter the Earl of Saliſbury.
SALISBURY.
SEE where ſhe lies aſleep; poor fallen Cherub!
The maiden Freſhneſs of th' ungather'd Roſe
But imitates that Sweetneſs: Fair to look on,
Why art thou all Deformity within?
Oh! how unhappy is the Fate of Beauty?
It tempts the Ruffian Hand of Violence,
And, like the Diamond, ſparkling in the Mine,
With its own Luſtre lights the greedy Spoiler.
O Roſamond! had but indulgent Heav'n
Blaſted the early Spring of thy Perfections,
'Tis like thy Life had been as innocent,
As that ſame guiltleſs Slumber—But ſhe wakes.
I'll ſtand awhile apart.
Roſ.
Have Mercy on me!—
My Fears confound me—This ſad Dwelling ſeems
[126] The Anti-chamber to eternal Darkneſs:
They left me here to dreadful Meditation,
And weary'd Nature ſince has ſunk in Sleep.
Am I to live? Why then that Ceremony,
That diſmal Pomp of Death? Or do they mock me,
Staying the Execution of my Fate,
To fright my Apprehenſion?—Hah! Who's there?
It is my Father's Friend, the good Lord Saliſbury.
Salſ.
O Roſamond! I come—But I muſt weep firſt—
Roſ.
Weep Blood, my Heart, for ev'ry Tear he ſheds:
Doſt thou behold me with a tender Eye,
Thou that doſt Honour to the Houſe of Clifford,
While I, vile Wretch! was born but to diſgrace it?
Salſ.
Believe me, Fair-one, theſe ſame falling Tears
Adorn thee more than Beauty's brighteſt Bloom.
'Twas That betray'd thee to eternal Shame,
And dy'd thy Soul in complicated Guilt;
But Tears ſhall waſh the ſcarlet Stains away.
Roſ.
Thy charitable Care, and mild Addreſs,
Beſpeak my warmeſt Thanks—Say, my good Lord,
Where is my injur'd Father? May I hope
(For once I knew him of a gentle Nature)
He can have Pity on an only Child,
Wretched, and ſad, as Sin and Shame can make her?
For oh!—Deſpair will ſink me, if I die
Beneath the Terrours of his righteous Curſe.
Salſ.
Alas! my Friend thy Father is no more;
But Yeſterday he dy'd by Leiceſter's Hand.
In his laſt Moments he remembred Thee,
[127] (Think it an Earneſt of forgiving Heav'n):
He own'd his Daughter in that fatal Criſis,
And bleſs'd thee with the Fervency of Pray'r.
Roſ.
This was my Deed: I kill'd this beſt of Fathers;
I drove his hoary Age to Deſperation,
And made his Being painful—So is mine—
For I am now a Burden to myſelf—
Yet he forgave me—Ponder that, my Soul;
'Tis growing Matter for eternal Thought—
My Lord, thou know'ſt my Doom. Am I to die?
Salſ.
You muſt prepare to live: Laſt Night the Queen,
But hypocritical in Cruelty,
Beneath the Maſk of Vengeance meant thee Mercy:
That dreadful Guard, that bore thee from the Palace,
As to thy Fate, when they convey'd thee hither,
Fulfill'd their whole Commiſſion: in this Convent
Thou muſt commence the Votary of Heav'n,
And bid Adieu to all the World for ever.
Roſ.
Confeſs, my Heart, the Hand of Providence,
Plain, tho' unſeen, in all its Acts of Mercy:
Here let me firſt, in pious Gratitude,
Implore a Bleſſing on her Royal Head,
Who, tho' my Rival, was not leſs my Friend:
May Peace, and Joy, and Love, crown all her Hours!
And, when her Length of Life is fully ſpun,
Let not Death ſeem a King of Terrours to her;
But, like a ſmiling Angel, ſent to guide
Her fleeting Soul to Realms of endleſs Bliſs!
Salſ.
[128]
Thy grateful Pray'r is juſt: And now, O think,
Think what a Leſſon thou muſt teach thyſelf:
Canſt thou forget the Luxury of Courts,
The ſoft'ning Joys of Vanity and Eaſe,
And Pleaſure's ſweet Inchantment of the Mind?
Say, canſt thou quench the Fire of youthful Love,
And blot the Name of Henry from thy Heart?
Canſt thou devote thyſelf to pious Deeds,
To rigid, painful Holineſs of Life;
To Meditation at the Midnight Hour;
To conſtant Watchings, and long Abſtinence?
This is the Phyſick of a ſickly Soul,
The Diſcipline that Penitence muſt take.
Roſ.
O Terms of Life ſevere, yet merciful!
Wilt thou, thou good old Man, ſolicit for me?
Thy pious Interceſſion well ſhall ſpeed
My tardy Vows, and bear them up to Heav'n.
Hence I give up the World without a Sigh;
The World! What's that? I give up Henry too:
The Bubble breaks, the painted Scene is clos'd:
And now the calm, and ſadly-pleaſing View
Of peaceful Innocence, and purer Joys,
And Virtue, blaſted like a beaten Flow'r,
Shocks my Remembrance, and upbraids my Soul.
Salſ.
Senſe of paſt Vice is future Virtue's Baſis,
And Self-conviction at the Bar of Conſcience
More awes the waken'd Mind, than the Tribunal
Of ſolemn Juſtice, and the Pomp of Law:
Methinks, I hear the Hoſt celeſtial ſhout,
[129] And praiſe the noble Purpoſe thou haſt made.
Heav'n is not deaf to Sorrow's piercing Voice:
Relenting it beholds the wounded Breaſt,
And kindly ſheds the healing Balm of Mercy.
Roſ.
Thy Words diſtil the honey'd Sweet of Peace:
A Beam of Comfort chears my ſinking Soul,
And brighter Proſpects open to my View:
Folly has ſully'd my Renown of Youth,
But ſtrict Severity of Thought and Action
Shall change the black Complexion of my Guilt
To Snow-white Purity. Ages to come
Shall hear my Tale with Pity, not Reproach;
And thoſe who curſe the ſhameful Name of Miſtreſs,
Shall bleſs the Convert, and admire the Saint.
Salſ.
If the bleſt Lot of righteous Men above
Admits of Augmentation, it will glad
Thy Father's Spirit, to perceive this Change,
And give a better Reliſh to his Heav'n.
Roſ.
From my Example let the Fair be warn'd,
To ſhun the pleaſing Snares of lawleſs Love,
As they would fly the Serpent's bitter Tooth:
Its ſweeteſt Pleaſures leave a Sting behind:
To virtuous Minds Religion's Path is ſmooth;
But ſhe that falls like me, like me muſt tread
The thorny Road of ſad Remorſe and Sorrow.
Hail, gloomy Manſions! hail! Here will I dwell,
In lonely Cloiſters, and a dreary Cell,
A ſad Recluſe, I'll waſte my Youth away,
Steal from Mankind, and ſhun the Face of Day.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
[130]
Enter King Henry, and Attendants.
K. Hen.
At length the holy Taſk is full perform'd,
And my freed Soul is clear of Becket's Murder.
Now we may view our Royal State at Home:
Our Brother Scotland is our Priſoner:
If we think good, we ſeize upon his Crown;
Or bid him reign the Monarch of our Nod.
Let him attend the Sentence of our Will.
For our proud Son; we truſt this late Defeat,
And Leiceſter's Death, ſhall humble his high Spirit;
Of him we ſhall think further at our Leiſure:
For now more tender Thoughts poſſeſs my Soul;
To Love's ſoft Influence all its Motions yield,
And ev'ry Paſſion owns its ſov'reign Maſter.
Queen of my Heart, my Roſamond, I come.
Enter the Duke of Cornwall.
Hah! Cornwall, why that Terror in thy Look?
Corn.
Pardon, my Liege, the Meſſenger of Fate,
That brings afflicting Tidings to your Ear:
But what is done, 'twere Folly to diſguiſe.
Then, to be brief: Laſt Night the jealous Queen
K. Hen.
Hold, on thy Life! Thou doſt affright Conception:
I could with Patience hear the Knell of Death,
But not thy horrid Tale: Yet let me know it—
Proceed, and tell me nought but Truth, thou Wretch!
But dare not tell me, Roſamond is dead.
Corn.
See where ſhe comes herſelf. I ſtand diſcharg'd
Of my ungrateful Office.
[131] Enter Queen.
K. Hen.
Can it be?
With how compos'd a Brow ſhe hides her Guilt!
Dove-like Appearance, with a Serpent's Heart!
May I not hope a Woman will ſpeak Truth
To do a Miſchief? Therefore tell me, Elinor,
Without the forc'd Evaſion of a Lye.
Where is my Love, my Life, my Roſamond?
Queen.
Would all King Henry's Foes were ſafe as ſhe,
Poor Wretch! ſhe's faſt aſleep.
K. Hen.
What! doſt thou mock me?
Doſt thou with Triumph own thy Cruelty?
My vaſt Revenge ſhall tear thee—Soft, my Soul—
This Rage becomes me not—Fly hence, thou Tygreſs,
Leſt I forget, in Wrath, myſelf, and thee,
And ſtain my Hands ignobly with thy Blood.
Queen.
Thy Menaces, great Monarch, fright me not.
What I have done, was but the Deed of Juſtice.
Didſt thou believe me then ſo tame of Soul,
That I could bear my Injuries for ever?
Yet, Henry, in my utmoſt Pride of Heart,
Let me confeſs my tender Love for thee:
Caſt out that hated Wanton from thy Thoughts,
And I can yet forgive thee all my Wrongs.
K. Hen.
'Tis well! Thank Heav'n, in full Contempt I hear thee.
But, O, Philoſophy's no Cure for Love;
This only Way Fate could unman my Soul:
O Roſamond, for ever, ever loſt!
[132] My Love was ſweeter than the op'ning Flow'r,
That trembles with the Morning ſilver's Dew:
Fair, as the Down of Swans, or Mountain's Snow;
Then ſhe was faithful as the Turtle's Mate,
And harmleſs as the Smile of Infancy.
Why was I born a Ruler of the World,
Firſt Potentate on Earth, and Lord of Nations;
Yet could not keep one Jewel worth them all?
O Roſamond, for ever, ever loſt!
Queen.
Triumphant, happy Rival, ev'n in Death!
Does then a Harlot's Fate deſerve thoſe Tears?
Had the cold Tomb receiv'd me to my Reſt,
No Sigh had heav'd that unrelenting Breaſt;
Thou wouldſt have bleſs'd the lucky Deſtiny,
That took away the nauſeous Inconvenience.
K. Hen.
Time was I did revere thy boaſted Virtue.
Now thou haſt done a Deed that ſtartles Nature.
And wouldſt thou ſtill profeſs thy Love for me?
Can Hell produce Hypocriſy like thine?
Would ſhe, that loves me, ſtab me to the Heart?
Couldſt thou have form'd one tender gen'rous Thought,
Thou hadſt in Pity ſpar'd my Soul's firſt Darling;
Thy Mercy had well prov'd thy Love unfeign'd,
And won my Praiſe, and Fame's fair Palm for ever.
But now, away!—Thou doſt delight in Blood.
Qu.
Could I have hop'd, my Lord, by gentle Means—
K. Hen.
Silence, falſe Woman! Thou didſt know full well,
The Temper of my Soul, by Nature, noble;
[133] And now, ev'n now, I mean to prove it ſo:
'Twas thine to gratify a mean Revenge,
Thy King, and Huſband, ſcorns to ſtoop ſo low:
Go hence, and let thy Puniſhment be Life.
What have I done? Alas! my Roſamond,
Didſt thou not call upon thy Henry's Name?
Didſt thou not wiſh me to avenge thy Death?
Oh, no; thy tender Nature did forgive
The Stroke of Cruelty, and dy'd in Smiles.
Queen.
I can no more.
Joy to thy Heart! thy Roſamond yet lives.
K. Hen.
Hah! did I hear? Was it an Angel's Voice?
Speak it, O ſpeak again, ye Heav'ns, in Thunder!
Queen.
I told my Lord, that Roſamond yet lives.
K. Hen.
Where is ſhe? Let me fly into her Arms,
That I may tell my Heart's full Tranſport there:
Loſt Crowns recover'd, ſprightly Health reſtor'd
To Nature ſunk, were Bleſſings poor to this:
Who ſav'd her precious Life? He's my beſt Friend,
And let him take a Kingdom for his Service.
Queen.
That Friend was I.
K. Hen.
What can thy Malice mean?
Fortune acts underhand, and fools my Soul:
Whom ſhall I hear, or what ſhall I believe?
Can none reſolve my Doubts? My Lord of Cornwall,
As thou know'ſt ought has chanc'd, I charge thee ſpeak.
Corn.
My Liege, the Queen has utter'd but the Truth.
K. Hen.
O ye immortal Pow'rs! how can this be?
Queen.
[134]
That I've this Day abus'd your Royal Ear,
Thus humbly on my Knee I aſk Forgiveneſs:
'Tis the firſt Time I ever yet deceiv'd you.
Let Actions ſpeak for me; hear, and believe
How I have lov'd thee, how I love thee ſtill!
Fortune, laſt Night, gave me ſure means of Vengeance,
But, great as thine, my Soul diſdain'd them all.
She lives, my Rival lives, tho' not for thee;
Happy, tho' thou ſhalt charm her Eyes no more;
A Convent's ſacred Walls ſecure the Fair,
Where Heav'n (I truſt) ſhall with free Grace accept
The pious Tribute of her future Duty.
K. Hen.
If this be true—and ſure I feel it is,
I muſt not, dare not, think how I have wrong'd thee;
Earth does not bear ſo black a Wretch as me.
What haſt thou done? Thou haſt been wond'rous good;
Yet cruel to Exceſs—See her no more?
Shine then no longer, Sun—What! not to part?
Not one kind Word, one Kiſs, one laſt Embrace!
O mournful, ſad, eternal Baniſhment!
Baniſh'd? From whence? From a wild World of Folly,
To Virtue's calm Abode; baniſh'd to Heav'n.
And am I griev'd at this, becauſe I lov'd her?
O ſudden, painful Teſt of Senſe and Honour!
Strong is the Voice of Reaſon, and of Virtue;
But Love pleads too, and Nature will be heard.
Queen.
I did not this with any mean Deſign:
Virtue ſeeks no Advantage from her Deeds:
Therefore I ſay not this deſerves your Kindneſs:
[135] The cool Reſpect of Gratitude I ſcorn;
My Love for thee was ever from the Heart,
And equal Love alone can make me happy:
Elſe, tho' undone, I have diſcharg'd my Duty.
K. Hen.
I pr'ythee, pr'ythee, leave me, Elinor
Yet ſtay—By Heav'ns, again ſhe holds me faſt,
The lovely Image clings about my Soul!
Hence, dear Illuſion, pleaſing Phantom, vaniſh!—
'Tis done—Methinks, yon golden Cloud deſcends;
And, lo! a heav'nly Form, that calls my Love:
And now they glide acroſs th' ethereal Plain:
Am I then left behind? For what, juſt Heav'n?
Do I not know for what?
'Tis mad to pauſe, and madder to reſolve:
O that for one kind Minute Thought could ſtagnate?
Queen.
Aſſiſt his ſtruggling Soul, all-gracious Heav'n!
Corn.
So pleaſe your Majeſty, the Prince approaches.
Enter Prince Henry, Wincheſter, and Surry.
K. Hen.
A Stranger come to Court—Well, my young Hero,
What, are your conqu'ring Forces up in Arms?
Or doſt thou kindly offer Terms of Peace?
P. Hen.
Oh, Sir, 'tis paſt—Here, at your Royal Feet,
Behold this Rebel Son, a Penitent.
My haughty Soul, that erſt climb'd Heaven high,
Is but a Reptile now—Ambition ſhrinks,
Ev'n like an empty Vapour vaniſhing,
Whoſe Place is ſeen no more—I only aſk
Pardon, and Peace, for me, and theſe my Friends.
Queen.
[136]
Unhop'd for Change!—O let the King grant both
Thou art my Son again.
K. Hen.
What may this mean?
Harry, I lov'd thee once.
P. Hen.
And if you lov'd,
May I preſume to hope you will forgive too?
Sir, I once flouriſh'd in your Royal Smile:
Early my Soul began to pant for Glory:
But as the Seeds of Honour grew within me,
An artful Villain tamper'd with the Soil,
And ſpoil'd a goodly Crop—The reſt you know—
Fortune, unequal to my daring Cauſe,
Has open'd ſince my Eyes: I wak'd indeed;
But only wak'd to ſee my Shame and Sorrow.
K. Hen.
Can I have Faith in this? Thou haſt deceiv'd me.
P. Hen.
'Twas in the fatal Day of youthful Folly
But now the Purpoſe of Deceit is over;
For I am going hence, to that high Court,
Where Cunning cannot ſcreen, or Darkneſs hide.
Queen.
Alas! my Fears! What didſt thou ſay, my Son?
P. Hen.
Let me not waſte my moſt important Moments.
I have this Morning drank a deadly Draught.
I feel all-conqu'ring Death advancing on me;
He lays cloſe Siege: My ſinking Spirits fail;
My Nerves are ſlacken'd all; my Blood runs cold,
And Nature's Out-works yield; tho' ſtill my Heart,
Like a ſtrong Citadel, reſiſts the Storm.
Queen.
[137]
Is there no Help? O fatal, woful Deed!
P. Hen.
Why weeps my gentle Mother? What I did,
Was in the Frenzy of extreme Deſpair;
And Madneſs, if my Hopes have not been flatter'd,
Bars not the Gate of everlaſting Mercy.
Reaſon has ſince reſum'd her proper Seat,
And all is calm within—Yet would I take
A Father's Bleſſing with me to the Grave.
K. Hen.
May Heav'n forgive thy hapleſs Youth, as I do!
P. Hen.
Then welcome Death!—And, if in this laſt Hour,
I have found Grace, O let me recommend
The Queen, my much-wrong'd Mother, to your Love:
She never bore a Thought againſt your Highneſs.
Behold! ſhe faints—Support her, righteous Pow'rs!
For ſhe deſerves your Care—Now, Farewel both—
Let not the buſy World be prattling of me—
But write upon my Stone—"Here lies a Prince,
"That, once miſled, could not ſuſtain the Shame."—
'Tis dark—O Mercy!—
[Dies.
K. Hen.
Honour, more than Grief,
Is due to Death like this, which has abſolv'd,
By ending mortal Frailty: Mourns the Queen
So bitterly for him, whoſe haſty Spirit
Aſpers'd her ſpotleſs Name?
Queen.
That Name's now clear;
And he that did aſperſe it, was my Son.
He was my Son indeed—O there's the Sting!
[138] And is it thus that we are reconcil'd?
Is Death alone the Peace-maker between us?
Why then I'll follow thee—Farewel, my Lord;
For, now, this Life has no Temptation left;
Yet, ev'n in Death, my Faith ſhall be approv'd,
And my laſt Breath ſhall be a Pray'r for thee.
It was the Study of my Life to pleaſe thee:
That fail'd, and I have now no farther Care.
That I ne'er meant thee Evil, ev'n in Thought,
By Proof too fatal Providence has ſhewn:
And to die juſtify'd is ſtill my Glory.
K. Hen.
O, hold, talk not of Death; for I, alone,
Am fit for Ruin—O, my Elinor,
I tremble at the Thought of what I am!
Canſt thou forgive me from thy very Heart?
Queen.
Can Henry, from his Heart, deſire Forgiveneſs?
K. Hen.
I can, I muſt, I do. The Conflict's over:
I am thy wond'rous Virtue's Proſelyte.
Receive me in thy Arms, thou Excellence,
Thou Glory of thy Sex—Here will I hide
My guilty Head, till thy kind Smile ſhall raiſe me;
For Shame, and Joy, and Love, ſo work within me,
That I can only ſpeak them thus and thus—
Queen.
O let my Language too, my Lord, be this.
K. Hen.
Bear hence the Body; for it pains our Sight.
[Exeunt ſome with the Body.
Curs'd that I was to wrong ſuch Innocence!
'Twill be my Shame for ever—
Queen.
[139]
It is paſt:
A Moment's Love has made Amends for all;
And I forget, that ever you was falſe.
K. Hen.
When I prove ſo again—'Tis Sin to think on't.
From this auſpicious Day my Soul ſhall labour
To heal thy Sorrows, to redeem loſt Time,
And pay thee all my vaſt Arrears of Love.
Queen.
Thanks to all-bounteous Heav'n!
K. Hen.
And thy own Virtue!
Enter Saliſbury.
Welcome, Lord Saliſbury! Where's the good old
It is beneath a King to do Injuſtice;
[Clifford?
But it is more beneath him to defend it.
Will he forgive my Baſeneſs? For, methinks,
All is not right, till he is reconcil'd.
Sal.
That's ſpoke indeed like great Plantagenet:
I read Content in ev'ry chearful Face,
And I am griev'd to ſpoil the gen'ral Joy:
My Liege, poor Clifford lies a breathleſs Coarſe,
By Leiceſter ſlain—But, dying, he forgave you—
It ever was his Wiſh to ſee this Day.
K. Hen.
By holy Friendſhip thou haſt touch'd my Soul.
It was but Yeſterday I ſaw him well:
His keen Device did gall me to the Heart.
Clifford, accept theſe Tears; for Tears are all
The Monarch, or the Friend, can give thee now.
We will do Honour to his Memory,
And ſhow'r our Royal Bounty on his Houſe:
[140] O Sal'ſbury, let me take thee to my Heart,
Dear as thy Kinſman was.
Sal.
I thank your Highneſs.
K. Hen.
From this Day's Fortune, let crown'd Heads be wiſe:
Kings are not privileg'd to do a Wrong.
The Laws divine bear univerſal Sway;
Princes are Men, and Men muſt all obey.
Virtue's the Gem, that decks the Royal State;
And only, to be Good, is to be Great.
[Exeunt omnes
THE END.

3.

[]

THE SIEGE OF ALEPPO.

A TRAGEDY.

ADVERTISEMENT.

[]

THE Reader will probably expect ſome Account of a Play which makes it's firſt Appearance in the World in this Manner.—He is to know then, that The Siege of ALEPPO having been refuſed by the Managers of both Theatres, to one of which, viz. Mr. Garrick, it was ſtrongly recommended by Lady Caroline Burdet (who is thereby intitled to my preſent grateful Acknowlegements), would not have been offered to the Publick, had it not been honoured with the Approbation of ſeveral Perſons of the firſt Note in the Republick of polite Literature, whom I am not at Liberty to mention.—I am obliged to declare this, in order to do common Juſtice to myſelf, and to obviate the Prejudices which might be conceived againſt a Performance that has not had the Credit and Advantage of a Theatrical Repreſentation.—But the Play muſt now ſpeak for itſelf; of which I ſhall ſay no more than juſt to premiſe, that the Fable, and whole Conſtruction of it, excepting the Reality of the Siege, is purely fictitious: That the Incidents were deſigned to be natural, tho' unexpected, not ariſing from common-place Exigencies, or forced Expedients, (which is too frequently the Caſe) but from the predominant Principles of the Characters themſelves: And that for this Purpoſe I have endeavoured to give a new, and ſomething of an original Caſt to the principal Characters, particularly to thoſe of Theodore, Sophronius, and Ormelia.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

[]
MEN.
  • MANUEL, Governour of Aleppo.
  • THEODORE, a Chriſtian Chief.
  • OTHMAN, General of the Saracens.
  • SOPHRONIUS, Son to Manuel.
  • LEON, Friend to Sophronius.
  • ROMANUS, Lieutenant to Theodore.
  • IZRAIL, an Officer.
  • MERVAN, Secretary to the Governour.
WOMEN.
  • ORMELIA, Daughter to Theodore.
  • EUSEBIA, Daughter to Manuel.

Officers, Soldiers, Attendants, &c.

SCENE ALEPPO.

THE SIEGE OF ALEPPO.

[]
ACT I. SCENE I.
SCENE a Piazza. After ſeveral Shouts of To Arms, To Arms, &c. Enter SOPHRONIUS and LEON meeting.
LEON.
SOPHRONIUS welcome! are our Meſſengers return'd from yonder Camp?
Soph.
Ev'n now, my Friend.
Leon.
I aſk not the Succeſs.
Soph.
Thoſe Shouts may tell you:
Our Overtures of Peace were all receiv'd
With Scorn, and Pride peculiar to theſe Spoilers;
They know no Stile but that of Conquerours,
And in the Fullneſs of their Hearts declare,
The Faithful never take, but give Conditions.
Leon.
Perhaps not yet—I pr'ythee, good Sophronius,
What Terms do theſe victorious Vagrants offer?
Soph.
[146]
Firſt, they invite us to embrace their Faith,
And draw our Swords beneath the Prophets Banner,
No more their Foes, but Brethren of the War.
If wedded to our Errours, we reject
This friendly Propoſition, (ſuch they call it)
The next Alternative is briefly this,
That we confeſs the Proweſs of their Arms,
By paying yearly Tribute to the Caliph.
Leon.
And it was this provok'd that glorious Uproar?
Soph.
The univerſal Voice is now for War:
Soon as th' impatient Rabble caught the News,
A Thouſand Hearts were kindled in an Inſtant,
And in the Wildneſs of new Zeal, to Arms,
To Arms they cry'd, with ſuch a clam'rous Shout
As tore th' Expanſe of Heav'n, and ſure muſt ſtrike
Ev'n yon Barbarian Troops with ſudden dread,
Though long inur'd to Terrours.
Leon.
Thou haſt warm'd me.
Theſe martial Tranſports promiſe well, Sophronius;
Perhaps the wrath divine that long has ſcourg'd
Our Follies, Vices, and corrupted Faith,
With iron Rod of War, at length relents,
Nor farther will permit this vile Impoſture
To make its Way with Death, and Deſolation;
And like a Deluge whelm the Eaſtern World.
Soph.
Alas, my Friend, we ſeem unfit for Mercy:
The ſeeds of Jealouſy are ſown among us,
And ſhould they ſpread, and ripen to a Crop,
[147] Yon greedy Muſſulmen will reap the Harveſt—
Our Paſſions, Leon, fight for Mahomet
Union alone can ſave a ſinking Land,
And Concord is the ſtrongeſt Nerve of War.
Leon.
Some diſtant Hints of this have reach'd mine Ear;
'Tis ſaid, the baleful Breath of Whiſperers
Has undermin'd the Worth of Theodore,
And ſhook his Credit with your Father Manuel:
Are theſe Suggeſtions true?
Soph.
Too true—My Father,
Whoſe Piety, and ev'n paternal Care,
Still anxious for the Welfare of his People,
Raiſes him high in all Affections,
Has yet the Leav'n of Old-Age within him:
(With Rev'rence let me ſpeak in his Diſpraiſe)
Leon, that Sigh declares too well thou ſeeſt
His eager Warmth, his Frowardneſs of Temper
Impatient of Controul, and fixt as Death
In all Reſolves—to this, Credulity
Too oft unlocks his Ear, and gives Acceſs
To a well-garniſh'd Tale.
Leon.
Proceed.
Soph.
Thou know'ſt,
Some Moons have ſhed their Beams ſince Theodore
Lodg'd in our Town his hardy Band of Syrians,
A voluntary Aid:—The Saracens
Were then upon their March; and Manuel gave
The Honours of our chief Command to him.
Train'd from his active Youth a Son of War,
[148] He is no nice Obſerver of the Forms,
The ceremonious Def'rence, and the Duties
Preeminence expects from all beneath her.
The deſp'rate Fight that Yeſterday he puſh'd,
Unauthoris'd by Manuel, ſome dark Foe
Has ſwell'd into a dang'rous Crime of State.
Leon.
It looks not well—the gallant Theodore,
No Doubt, has noble Worth—ſure, that Preſumption
Was but th' Effect of Valour's Confidence—
Yet, I have lately noted, our Aleppians
Like not the headſtrong Fierceneſs of his Nature,
That wants more Tincture of Humanity:
Neceſſity, they ſay, unſheath'd the Sword,
But hot-brain'd Theodore enjoys their Dangers,
And revels ſavage in a Field of Blood.
Soph.
True—but a Breach might be pernicious now:—
And yet Sophronius has another Fear—
Leon, how frail at beſt is mortal Man,
This Compound of Divinity and Paſſion?
For oh! believe me, midſt this gen'ral Horrour,
While War with hideous Strides ſtalks round our Walls,
Legions of Evils gathering in his Train,
My Weakneſs robs my Country of my Thoughts,
And half my Breaſt admits a private Care.
Leon.
Alas! I know that Care—You woo Ormelia,
The Daughter of the valiant Theodore
His other Joy, and what he loves next War.
Soph.
Ay, Friend, for ſhould this Cloud of Diſcontent
[149] Once gather to a Storm, will it not blaſt
Our growing Spring of Love? Love did I ſay?
'Tis true my ſecret Suit ſeem'd not ungrateful;
But know that glorious Maid adores her Father;
Nor marvel, ſhe's the Daughter of his Soul;
His Spirit, Fierceneſs, and his Pride of Virtue,
All glow within her Breaſt, refin'd and caſt
Into a ſofter Mould—Hence ſpring my Fears.
Leon.
There is Reſemblance in our Lots, Sophronius;
Thou know'ſt thy gentle Siſter, fair Euſebia,
Smiles on my honeſt Paſſion—Yet thy Father
Vows he will never ſanctify her Choice—
'Tis true, my ruin'd Fortunes—
Soph.
Pr'ythee Peace;
Thy Birth is noble, and thy Virtue godlike;
Theſe give thee ample Title to Euſebia:
O could I call thee Brother—ſoothing Wiſh—
And yet thou'rt more already—Thou'rt my Friend.
[Embrace.
Wait we the Will ſupreme!—but ſee—my Siſter.
Enter Euſebia.
Euſ.
Brother, the Chiefs are ſummon'd all to Council.
I heard Enquiry made for you, and Leon.
Soph.
I ſhall attend them—Leon, you will follow.
[Exit Sophronius.
Leon.
Let me firſt pay more pleaſing Duty here.
Why ſighs my Fair? Our Hearts are ſure our own:
Thoſe Manuel cannot part—Oh! why that Tear?
I know it falls for Leon—cruel Fortune!
[150] Why was I born to ſpoil Euſebia's Peace?
Euſ.
I fear we have indulg'd our Loves too far—
As Children venture in a Calm to Sea,
Regardleſs of the Cloud ſlow-ſweeping croſs
The Vault of Heav'n, and big with future Ruin.
Leon.
Yet let us not deſpair—Heav'n oft afflicts
For Trial, not Deſtruction—Time may come,
When my Heart's Truth, my Service in the War,
And all the virtuous Labours of a Life
Devoted to my Country, and to thee,
Will melt thy Father's Soul; then ſhall he bleſs
My Toils, and overpay me with thy Beauties.
Euſ.
Could he but view thee with Euſebia's Eyes—
Yet ſomething whiſpers me, we'ave done amiſs;
Why was our Love firſt made a Myſtery?
Why cover'd from the Day, and from my Father?
Who gave me right to fix my Heart on thee?
'Twas Folly, if not worſe—and Manuel's Anger
Perhaps is providential—for till now
His Fondneſs ſtill prevented my Deſires.
Leon.
That Fondneſs was but Humour—while he pleas'd
Thy tender Age, he but indulg'd himſelf;
Thou never hadſt a Boon to aſk till now—
Euſ.
Hah! Leon, have a Care; I love thy Virtue;—
That rais'd, and that muſt juſtify my Paſſion;
Urge not a Thought to ſhake my filial Duty—
I always held the Name of Father ſacred.
Leon.
This Rigour, which I know not how to blame,
[151] May cruſh the Hope that yet ſupports my Being:
I tremble while I ſpeak—perhaps, thy Father
Means to compel thy Virgin Heart—if ſo—
Where will thy Duty be, or where thy Love?
Euſ.
Thoſe Fears are vain—I cannot love another;
Virtue itſelf forbids it, and my Heart
Flutters, and tells me 'tis impoſſible.
My Vows are thine, (oh! ſpare a Maiden's Bluſhes)
My ev'ry Joy, my ev'ry Care is thine—
Leon.
O! how ſhall I requite this wond'rous Goodneſs?
Euſ.
Once more I will eſſay my Father's Temper—
If he relents—'tis all the Happineſs
I wiſh on Earth—if not—ſupport me Heav'n.
Leon.
He muſt, he muſt—or Pity's fled from Man:
Who could behold unmov'd ſuch weeping Beauty?
Thou fairer than the Morning's cloudleſs Dawn,
Thou ſweeter than the vernal Bloom that decks—
Euſ.
Away—I am a Woman, and a Chriſtian;
Ceaſe then theſe Strains of ordinary Lovers,
That wound our Reaſon, while they ſooth our Pride.
Nor ſuits thy Fondneſs with theſe Times of Danger;
Courtſhip and Dalliance are mere Treaſon now;
Thy Country calls thee—
Leon.
I obey the Call.
Yet Beauty is the juſt Reward of Valour.
Euſ.
But ſhould not be its Hindrance—
Leon.
Matchleſs Wiſdom!
[152] There is no longer Merit in thoſe Eyes!
But ſoft, who comes this Way? Let me conduct thee.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter Romanus.
Rom.
If I ſee right, Aleppo thou art mine—
If mine, I yield thee to the Saracens
While Modes of fooliſh Faith divide the World,
And ſwarms of hungry Bigots cling to each,
I turn Opinion to Convenience—
For this I've ſometime ſworn to Mahomet;
And his Religion pays its Vot'ries well.
Mervan I've laden full with pois'nous Matter,
Which, when infus'd into old Manuel's Ear,
Will ſwell his peeviſh Humour, till it burſt
Its Venom on the fiery Theodore;
My Friend, my Patron, and—my deſtin'd Tool
Rage, Taunts, Reproaches, Diſcord, Broils enſue;
And Ruin ſure is made of ſuch Materials
Off then Dependance!—Thou art burthenſome;
A Soul like mine diſdains to live on Alms.
'Tis well—And ſhall I pine with fond Deſire?
I love Ormelia ſtill—as Nature prompts—
Sophronius loves her too;—ſhe ſlights my Vows
For the pert Liſpings of that down-cheek'd Boy;
Should this—but hold—the Secretary's here.
[153] Enter Mervan.
Mer.
What deep in Thought, Lieutenant? clear thy Brow;
Perhaps the wiſh'd-for Hour of Vengeance comes,
To clip the tow'ring Wing of Theodore.
Rom.
Give me thy Hand, my Mervan, my beſt Friend,
My Soul's true Counterpart—I knew the Bus'neſs
Would thrive beneath thy Wiſdom—Pr'ythee tell me,
How did the ſhallow Manuel take thy Tale?
Mer.
You'd laugh to ſee the old Man chafe, Romanus;
Sound but the Name of Theodore, he frets
Like a gall'd Jade; he blames his ſightleſs Folly,
That ne'er diſcern'd how much th' officious Zeal
Of Yeſterday, which coſt us ſo much Blood,
Is puft with Pride, and ſcorns to own a Maſter.
Rom.
Well ſaid—My Soul foreſees much good from this.
Mer.
Soon as I found that Prejudice take Root,
I ſcatter'd Hints, as was agreed between us,
That Theodore in Letters to our Emp'rour,
Had oft complain'd of Manuel's Government,
And thrown much Blame upon his wayward Age.
Rom.
I hope you touch'd that Point but tenderly;
It ſurely was a Taſk for all thy Skill.
Mer.
Do I not practiſe Cunning under thee?
I ſpoke it not, my Friend, as fit Foundation
To raiſe a certain Proof upon, but what
Prudent Suſpicion gueſs'd; and therefore wiſh'd him
Henceforth in Judgment to compare this Notice
With Theodore's Demeanour.
Rom.
[154]
Thanks, good Mervan:
Why what a ready Inſtrument is Manuel
For Knavery to work withal?
Merv.
Why Knavery?
We mean no Ill to him, or to our Country—
But, Sir, my Wrongs cry loudly for Revenge—
I've been abus'd by Theodore—Becauſe
I deal not in his boiſt'rous Trade of War,
He deems me but a Beaſt that will be tame,
And patient of his Burthen—Curſes on him—
Sure I can feel a Smart as well as he,
And Vengeance has more Shapes than one, Romanus.
Rom.
Which he ſhall prove: Shortly I hope to ſee
This fierce, this bluſt'ring, this all-conqu'ring Hero,
That has refus'd us both his bauble Daughter,
With vile Contempt, with Inſolence refus'd her,
Hurl'd from his airy Pinacle of Pride,
Turn'd from his Poſt, diſgrac'd, mark'd for a Traitor,
And hooted, like a Nuſance, through Aleppo.
Mer.
Let me but ſee that Day, my Soul's at Eaſe.
Rom.
So is not mine—Thou know'ſt not Half my Purpoſe,
[Aſide.
Then when the pinching Shame ſhall gripe him cloſe,
And more than Madneſs feſters at his Heart,
If thou ſhould'ſt humbly aſk him for his Daughter,
Let him contract his angry Brow, and tell thee,
He ſcorns Alliance with a paltry Scribe.
Mer.
It was his very Anſwer to my Suit.
Rom.
I found a like Repulſe—at leaſt 'tis fit
[155] You think ſo
[Aſide]
—Yet, believe me, my Reſentments
Burn not ſo ſtrongly for myſelf, as thee:
Mine is a common Deſtiny—It ſeems,
We petty Men of War are Slaves by Office.
Mer.
But not by Nature.
Rom.
Thou art right, my Mervan;
And therefore to our Work. Is it not better,
Thus wiſely to employ our active Pow'rs,
And ſet the ſecret Springs of Miſchief going,
Than to bedew our Beards with childiſh Tears,
And whimper in a Corner for a Toy?
Mer.
Romanus, I muſt ever thank thy Goodneſs,
That ſaw me drooping with unmanly Sorrow,
Taught me Revenge, and wean'd me from my Follies.
Rom.
Thy Firmneſs charms me—Pr'ythee, honeſt
When does the Council ſit?
[Mervan,
Mer.
I gueſs 'ere now.
Rom.
Then let us hence—this Morning may afford
Some kind Event, to bleſs our utmoſt Wiſhes.
[Ex.
SCENE III.
The back Scene opens and diſcovers the Council ſitting. Manuel, Theodore, Sophronius, Izrail, Leon, and other Officers in Council.
Man.
Indeed, the Progreſs of their Arms is wond'rous;
How has their hungry War devour'd our Land,
[156] And, like the dreadful Rage of Peſtilence,
Left a ſad Track of Ruin in its Courſe?
Whole Provinces are bent beneath the Yoke,
And Syria's better Half is Ababeker's.
Soph.
Yet may we hope, my Chiefs, to ſave the other;
Our Men are high in Blood, and hot for Action;
Thanks to the Foe for this: Nay all Aleppo
Breathes one heroic Ardour; bending Age
Girds on his palſied Side the weighty Sword,
Brides chace their youthful Huſbands from their Arms,
And Mothers trim their darling Sons to Battle.
O! for a Tempeſt's Blaſt to drive this Flame,
Till it conſume yon Vermin Tribes, like Stubble!
The.
Well haſt thou ſpoke, Sophronius: Wherefore then
Sit we thus idle and inactive here,
While Boys and Women chide our tardy Councils?
Who dreams again of Peace, I hold him Coward:
We'll plead once more our Cauſe in yonder Field,
And wear our Reaſons on our Weapon's Points.
Up then, and let us iſſue to the Plain.
Man.
Why all this Blaze of Words? Are we not met
To lay the Plan of War, and well conſult
How we may beſt annoy the haughty Foe?
Mean while I hold it meet to tell thee, Theodore,
It ill becomes the Man, that Yeſterday
Laviſh'd away ſo many Chriſtian Lives
In his o'er-fev'riſh Zeal, to dictate now
To Men of cooler Heads, and ſounder Judgments.
The.
[157]
Hah! what did Manuel ſay?—By all—
Iz.
Nay hold;
For this may go too far.
Man.
Izrail, take Heed;
His Spleen may choke him elſe.
The.
Now in the Name
Of Honour, and of Arms, what means this Treatment?
Am I reproach'd becauſe I would have led
Thy daſtard Troops the neareſt Way to Fame,
And taught them how to ſnatch a noble Conqueſt?
Glory's the Soldier's Miſtreſs; to be woo'd,
Where Death has planted all his Terrours round her,
Or never to be won—Had thy Aleppians
Kept firm their Ranks, yon Camp had ſmoak'd to Heav'n—
But, Sir, they poorly ſhrunk before the Foe,
And let in Numbers like a Flood upon them—
I hate theſe puny, half-bred Sons of Mars,
That cooly ſtalk to fight on even Terms,
But bid them grapple with unequal Fortune,
They ſtand aloof, and ſnarl like Curs at Diſtance.
Man.
Mervan, thy Fears were juſt—I'll try him further.
[Aſide.
Say'ſt thou, our Troops gave Way? I will preſume
To think, they might diſlike ſo blind a Leader:
So, Sir, retrench the Licenſe of thy Tongue;
Succeſs had never juſtify'd an Action
That wanted the due Sanction of our Will.
Soph.
In what, my Leon, will this Diſcord end?
[Aſide to Leon.
The.
[158]
And have I liv'd to this? To bandy Words,
To fight a bloodleſs Quarrel?—Patience, Heav'n!
Thy Will! Had I a Thought to waſte on thee,
While I was buſied on a bold Deſign,
Big as my Soul could graſp?—Was that a Time,
For Forms preciſe, or Speech quaint-worded thus,
Moſt worthy Sir, with your good Worſhip's Leave,
I'll cut yon Villain's Throat? A Soldier's Valour
O'erleaps the narrow Bounds of courtly Rules,
Fit for your ſupple, ceremonious Slave,
That dares not look aſkant but by Commiſſion.
Man.
I'll not endure this Language—From this Day,
I warn thee, know me for Commander here.
Iz.
Yet be advis'd, good Theodore.
The.
Stand off—
Shall I be leſſon'd by a Dotard thus,
Pride-bloated with the Pageantry of Pow'r?
Be thou Commander here, but not of me;
I have no Maſter but the good Heracleus.
Is not my Service free? What brought me hither?
Not thy Command, but glorious Thirſt of Honour,
And Zeal high-beating in my Country's Cauſe.
I came thy Friend, not Vaſſal; and as ſuch
Was firſt receiv'd by this ungrateful City:
Haſt thou forgot, old Manuel, with what Shouts
Of gen'ral Joy, what thund'ring Peals of Tranſport,
Thy vile Aleppians welcom'd my Arrival,
And hail'd me like the Genius of the Land?
Man.
No more—I hold not Conf'rence with a Traitor—
[159] Know henceforth I renounce thy vaunted Friendſhip,
And from this Moment ceaſes thy Command.
We want no Stranger, Sir, to fight our Battles:
My Son, the Charge of our Aleppian Troops
We do commit to thee; for thou haſt won
The Soldiers Heart: They'll follow thee to conqueſt,
And full Succeſs ſhall prove my Choice was juſt.
Soph.
Worſe than my Fears
[Aſide].
O! would my honour'd Father
Weigh but th' Importance of this Mighty Truſt
With my green Years, and yet untaught—
Man.
Away;
Am I not Ruler here, at leaſt of thee?
Let not Sophronius croſs his Father's Purpoſe.
The.
'Tis wond'rous well—O ye immortal Spirits
Of my brave Anceſtors, whoſe laurell'd Deeds
Have ſwell'd the golden Trumpet of loud Fame,
And rank'd you with the Caeſars of the World,
Was it for this I taught my Soul to pant
For high Renown, and burn with all your Fires,
To be ſupplanted by a ſilken Stripling,
A Boy, that trembles if his Finger bleeds?
O! Blot accurſt upon the Name of Soldier.
Soph.
Sir, I well know your Merit, and admire it;
I own thee firſt in Arms, and ſhall be proud
To emulate thy Valour in the Fight.
Yet let not warlike Theodore eſteem
My Virtue of ſo ſmall, ſo mean a Size,
But I ſhall nobly labour to maintain
[160] The Character I ſought not for, and ſweat,
Boy as I am, to reap my Share of Glory.
Man.
Spoke like the Son I love.
The.
It is enough:
Joy to the Gen'ral; to Aleppo Joy:
The giddy Crew will well approve this Change:
Perhaps the Saracens may thank you too:
That as it may; I leave you to your Fortune;
To-morrow's early Dawn ſhall light me home:
And mark me, Manuel, by my Wrongs, I ſwear,
Should this proud City (which methinks I ſee
Ready to take her fatal Turn of Ruin)
Hereafter court my Aid with Tears of Blood,
I'd give her up to her deſerv'd Deſtruction.
And know, the Word of Theodore is Fate.
[Exit Theodore.
Man.
In what a Heat departs this noiſy Chief?
I hope none preſent diſapprove my Deed.
Iz.
You could no leſs—His Pride demanded it.
Man.
Think we no more of him—Haſte thee, Sophronius,
To the glad Troops; prepare them for Engagement;
For thou ſhalt ſally forth before yon Sun
Has dipp'd his Beams in Ocean—rouſe their Souls
To Chriſtian Fortitude; remember them,
Life, Liberty, Religion, call to Arms.
Thou Pow'r ſupreme, (if yet we may preſume
Thy righteous Vengeance has not fix'd our Doom)
[161] Relenting, O! behold this wretched Land,
And guide our Battle with thy mighty Hand;
Thy injur'd Truth to Infidels make known,
And vindicate a Cauſe ſo much thy own.
[Exeunt.
ACT II. SCENE I.
A Gallery in Theodore's Houſe. Enter Romanus.
ROMANUS.
AT length the Toils are ſet—and Theodore,
If I can catch ſo huge a Beaſt as thee,
It will be Sport indeed—ſee where he comes,
And in the ſullen Mood I wiſh'd to fix him—
Enter Theodore.
The.
Who's there, Romanus?
Rom.
Ay, Lord General.
The.
I pr'ythee do not mock me.
Rom.
By my Soul,
You yet are ſo to me.
The.
Then thou art honeſt;
Moſt Friends, like Inſects, live but in the Sun,
And now thou ſeeſt the Winter of my Glory.
Rom.
Come, Sir, can Fools, or Knaves diſhonour Virtue?
Her native Splendour knows not Diminution,
Nor Titles are Additions to her Fame.
So take your Grievance as a Soldier ſhould do;
[162] Work up a noble Tumult in your Breaſt,
And meditate the Fullneſs of Revenge.
O! had you ſeen a Sight that croſt my Eyes—
The.
What haſt thou ſeen?—methinks I burn to hear thee.
Rom.
You, Sir, yourſelf, my Godlike Theodore,
In villainous Effigies hoiſted up
On a high Pole, and born along the Streets
By the licentious Rabble; one attir'd
In antick Garb, the lewdeſt of the Tribe,
With ſolemn Pace headed this Pageantry;
And ever and anon the ſaucy Crew,
With Bonnets off in mock Obeiſance, cried,
All Hail, Lord Gen'ral, Hail, great Theodore!
While the wiſe Citizens, ſtill fond of Change,
Bleſt the Conceit, and grinn'd their Approbation.—
I met the vile Proceſſion, and although
Prudence had lock'd the Organ of my Speech,
Sure they muſt ſee a Lion in my Eyes.
The.
Ungrateful, ſenſeleſs, and inhuman Villains!
What! have I fac'd the Rage of Seaſons round,
The Dogſtar's Beam, and Winter's frozen Shafts;
Renounc'd the ſoft Delights of balmy Peace,
And daſh'd the honey'd Cup of Pleaſure from me;
Have I made Things moſt terrible to Senſe,
Sweet to my Soul, as Sleep to weary Labour;
To be repaid at length with publick Scorn,
To be the Sport of Garbage?—Curſed Day!
Thy Tale has call'd my Spirits up in Arms,
And all within me pants for vaſt Revenge.
Rom.
[163]
Why that was bravely ſaid.
The.
Yet my Romanus,
What need I thus indulge ſuperfluous Rage?
Sure I may ſafely leave my Cauſe to Heav'n—
The Saracen will ſoon avenge my Quarrel,
And this fam'd City, laid in burning Ruin,
Or bow'd to Slav'ry, eaſe my tortur'd Soul.—
Inform yon Army by a Syrian Trumpet,
That Theodore draws off his Pow'r in Peace,
Nor longer will obſtruct their rapid War.
To-morrow march we homewards.
Rom.
How my Lord?
What! quit the Theatre of this great World,
And leave a Part unfiniſh'd? there remain,
Or I miſtake, more Scenes to buſtle in:
And therefore my plain Honeſty of Love,
Would turn this idle Current of your Thoughts.
The.
What wouldſt ſuggeſt?
Rom.
Why, ay, it muſt be thus—
[Half aſide.
And ſo I ſee my Patron full reveng'd,
And lifted to a higher Sphere of Glory.
The.
Revenge, and Glory—Muſick to my Ears!
What wouldſt thou ſay? ſomething is lab'ring in thee,
And I well know thy Pregnancy of Brain.
Rom.
But then the Means—Nay, theſe Neceſſity
Will warrant ev'n to Caſuiſtry—my Lord—
The.
My Lord! What is't thou mutter'ſt to thyſelf,
That ſtartles Expectation?—If thou lov'ſt me,
Give me thy Soul at large.
Rom.
[164]
I will; attend.
When lately Captive in yon hoſtile Camp
One Ev'ning I ſtood muſing by myſelf,
Othman, the Leader of the Caliph's Armies,
Accoſted me with many gentle Terms,
And proffer'd me his Friendſhip—it amaz'd me.
The.
As well it might—
Rom.
At length, my Lord, he ſtrove
With all the well-turn'd Rhet'rick he could urge,
To win me to the Law of Mahomet;
But when he found my Faith was Mountain ſtrong,
He next attack'd me in my Honeſty;
"If by your Means, he cry'd, we could ſurprize
"This ſtubborn City in the Dead of Night,
"Old Manuel ſhall reſign the Chair of State,
"And the whole Government devolve on you."
And ſo I truſt my Politicks it ſhall.
[Aſide.
Why what a Bribe was that?
The.
Which you abhorr'd!
Rom.
Moſt ſurely; for in me a Deed like this
Were Fraud, and Treaſon;—if atchiev'd by you,
It would be glorious Juſtice.
The.
Do I hear thee?
Is this the Vengeance Theodore ſhould take?
Is this the Glory thou wouldſt blot my Fame with?
Perdition on thee for ſo foul a Thought.
Rom.
Nay but 'tis ſtrange—how this your Paſſion ſhakes you!
You ſtartle at the Outſide of a Bus'neſs,
[165] Which I confeſs not ſpecious, nor diſcern
The honeſt Drift of this.
The.
Honeſt! thou ly'ſt—
It ſavours all of Infamy, and Horrour—
Rom.
Sir, you miſtake me much—You well may put
My Meaning into utmoſt Execution,
And yet hold Mahomet in ſtern Defiance.
The.
As how? Impoſſible! ſtill more myſterious.
Rom.
Say, Sir, I ſee you govern in Aleppo
Upon the Terms propos'd; firſt, there ends Manuel:
Next, theſe bold Slaves are humbled to your Mercy;
And at fit Time, my Lord, you ſhall throw off
The Yoke of Vaſſallage, once more aſſert
The proſtrate Chriſtian Cauſe, and purge your Country
By your Herculean Sword, of a curs'd Foe
That long has torn her Vitals.
The.
Hah! why this
Hath Aſpect plauſible, and aſks a Thought.
Rom.
And thus the Empire ſhall be one Day freed,
And only Mahomet, and Manuel cheated.
Does not Fame hang to this?
The.
No, I've reſolv'd;
I never travell'd the By-paths of Glory;
What! turn Diſſembler, practiſe in the Dark?
It is beneath me; I ne'er did a Deed
But Daylight was the Voucher; Friend, or Foe,
Let the great Soul of Theodore be open.
Rom.
I've done—I own with me 'tis Daintineſs
To weigh my Deeds by Scruples, when the End
[166] Is noble, and well pays me—this ſame Trouble
Your Goodneſs will excuſe—I meant it well—
The.
Ay, and I thank thy Love.
Rom.
As 'tis, methinks,
'Twere better ev'n be reconcil'd to Manuel.
The.
Never, oh! never. I would riſque my Fame
Sooner on thy Device.
Rom.
Nay, my good Lord,
There is yet one Way, only one Way left
To ſet theſe Matters right.
The.
Name it, quick name it.
Rom.
Alliances, ſome ſay, beſt heal Diviſions—
The gay Sophronius, our Aleppian Gen'ral,
Looks with a Lover's Eye on fair Ormelia
The.
Pr'ythee no more—unite Antipathies!
Periſh my Name before I ſee it link'd
To Manuel's Houſe—Where is this Daughter mine?
If ſhe can lend an Ear—
Rom.
My gracious Lord,
Your Daughter comes this Way—He's moveable—
Romanus, thou ſhalt bend him to thy Purpoſe—
Thou haſt more Wiles to try—
[Aſide.
Enter Ormelia.
Orm.
Alas! my Father,
You ſeem diſturb'd; may I not aſk the Cauſe?
The.
Manuel, Sophronius, and it may be, Thou.
Orm.
Hah! how have they, or how have I diſpleas'd thee?
Tell me, I pray, Romanus, what has hap'd?
[167] For there's a Fierceneſs on my Father's Brow,
My Eyes would not encounter.
Rom.
Briefly, Madam,
Old Manuel, in his Peeviſhneſs of Rage,
Has juſt diſmiſt your Father from his Poſt,
And now Sophronius heads th' Aleppian Troops,
That are this Inſtant marſhall'd for the Battle.
Orm.
Is't ſo? Yield then fond Love, my Virgin Heart,
And nobler Paſſions warm me; from this Hour,
Sophronius be an Alien to my Soul.
Sir, that I liſten'd to his ſoft Addreſs,
(For ſweetly ſure he breath'd his am'rous Tale)
Thus on my Knee let me beſpeak Forgiveneſs;
And be great Theodore aſſur'd of this,
His Daughter knows to ſcorn th' aſpiring Youth,
That dares uſurp her injur'd Father's Honour.
Rom.
So, there's a dang'rous Rival well diſlodg'd;
Sophronius gone may make good Room for me.
[Aſide.
The.
Why that's my Child—I did thee Wrong to doubt thee—
Thou haſt been ever jealous of my Glory,
And with the Softneſs of thy Sex haſt blended
The moſt exalted Sentiments, well worthy
The gallant Line of Heroes thy Forefathers.
Orm.
I would not ſhame my Race—you taught me better—
The.
Heav'n had ſome Pity left, and gave me thee,
In Recompence for thy dear Mother's Loſs,
[168] (Two Stars are not more like than ſhe and thou)
And the vaſt Weight of my ſtill growing Care.
—I will retire awhile—O my Ormelia,
I have a thouſand Thoughts to combat with,
And each by Turns directs my wav'ring Purpoſe.
Exit. Theodore.
Rom.
Now to my Lover's Cue.
[Aſide]
Illuſtrious Maid,
How would thoſe ſhining Beauties bleſs the Man,
Thrice happy Man, that could deſerve thy Love?
Orm.
If thou would'ſt merit my Eſteem, Romanus,
Talk not of Love to me—I have renounc'd
Thy Sex—It ſhall not henceforth be in Man
To coſt my Heart a Sigh.
Rom.
Say not ſo, Lady:
O wherefore muſt a faithful Lover ſuffer,
For the raſh Crime of one preſumptuous Wretch?
I know the Man (could you but ſee his Pangs)
That takes his Being from Ormelia's Eyes;
That loves her with ſo bright, ſo pure a Flame,
It is almoſt the Fervour of Devotion.
Ah why ſhould ſuch a Man deſpair for ever?
Orm.
Thou would'ſt deſcribe thyſelf—muſt I again
Warn thee deſiſt from thy ungrateful Suit,
And peſter me no more with nauſeous Love?
Rom.
Deſiſt! Impoſſible—Thy Charms forbid it—
Thou haſt a nat'ral Right to be admir'd,
And our Heart's Homage is Ormelia's Due.
Firm Perſeverance is the Life of Virtue,
[169] The Mark of Bravery, the Stamp of Heroes;
It bears us through the rougheſt Storms of Fortune,
And is the Gale that wafts us up to Heav'n.
Is it a Crime then only when we love?
Orm.
If not a Crime, at leaſt it is a Folly—
Think not, fond Youth, to ſnare my eaſy Heart
With the romantic Topicks of ſtale Courtſhip,
Such as you practiſe to yourſelves at home.
—Your Doctrine is—All Women may be won;
She that once lov'd ſtill hugs the fond Idea,
And, tender Maid, ſighs for a ſecond Wooer.
Haſt thou then harbour'd ſuch coarſe Thoughts of me?
Away, and learn to know Ormelia better.
Rom.
In truth, I own I had.
[Aſide]
You wrong me, Madam:
If Paſſion moſt refin'd, if—
Orm.
Ceaſe, be ſilent,
Or Theodore ſhall know thy Inſolence.
Rom.
Alas! I own the Weakneſs of my Claim
In the World's gen'ral Verdict—I was born
Your Father's Creature—Yet I ſtand indebted
Leſs to his Bounty, than his bright Example—
He taught my youthful Breaſt to beat for Glory,
And ſtor'd it well with Virtues all his own—
—Here reſt my Hopes—with theſe I woo Ormelia
Nor need I prove the Greatneſs of my Soul,
When I aſpire to thee—O would my Fair
Look gently on my Pain, her Father's Will
Would ſoon—
Orm.
No more; thou haſt abus'd his Friendſhip;
Retire, or be aſſur'd this Rudeneſs, Sir—
Rom.
[170]
Muſt then my virtuous Love—
Orm.
Away; be gone.—
Rom.
Farewel, too cruel Maid—Inſolent Devil;
But I may lower this high Strain of yours.
[Aſide, and Exit.
Orm.
This Fool could not have urg'd in a worſe Time
His moſt vexatious Suit—forget Sophronius!
Have I not ſet my Heart a painful Taſk?
Ay; but remember who thou art, Ormelia,
And ſhame thy feeble Sex—Yet, ſay he loves me,
As (if the Eye be Window to the Soul)
I've ſeen he does moſt deeply, may he not
Forego this fatal Honour?—there's my Refuge;
'Tis not too late—he's here—aſſiſt me Heav'n
This dreadful Hour—his Conduct muſt reſolve me—
I will not ſeem acquainted with the Change.
Enter Sophronius.
Welcome Sophronius; did you meet your Rival?
E'en now the bold Romanus parted hence.
Soph.
That he admires where I do, can I blame him?
Sure, all that know thy Beauties are my Rivals:
But, till I ſee the Man that loves Ormelia,
With Paſſion more unfeign'd, more true than mine,
Why ſhould I doubt my Right to her Regard?—
I fear ſhe knows not what has chanc'd to-day:
Perplexing Thought!
[Aſide.
Orm.
Well, I will own, Sophronius,
As far as Woman's Modeſty will warrant,
[171] Thy Truth has won an Int'reſt in my Heart:
And I can look with cool Indifference
On all Mankind but thee.
Soph.
Heart-burſting Rapture!
It is too great for Words—thus let me thank thee—
[Embraces her.
And now I can reveal with leſs Regret,
Th' unpleaſing News thou yet art Stranger to.
Orm.
What News, what means Sophronius?
Soph.
O my Life,
But that I find me rooted in thy Breaſt,
This Morning ſaw a ſudden Turn of Things,
That might have marr'd my riſing Hopes for ever—
Orm.
I underſtand you not.
Soph.
Yet witneſs Heav'n,
How much it griev'd me to behold—
Orm.
Hah! what!
O ſpeak, and eaſe my frighted Apprehenſion!
Soph.
Know then, there is a Breach between our Fathers:
It matters not to tell th' unhappy Ground
Of this Contention; but th' Effect was this,
That Theodore commands no longer here.
Orm.
Then, Sir, the Life of Battle is expiring.
'Tis well thou'rt not to anſwer for the Follies
Of thy old doting Sire—Yet let me ſpare him—
And rather, tell me what great Son of Fame,
What Thunderbolt of War was nam'd to head
The Troops, my Father is not fit to lead?
Soph.
There lies the Circumſtance that gives me Pain—
For that unwelcome Honour fell to me.
Orm.
[172]
To thee?—'tis well—I joy at leaſt in that—
Soph.
Doſt thou?—thou Excellence! truſt me, my Love,
I never wiſh'd to bear this Load of Glory.
Orm.
I do believe thee—therefore my Sophronius
Will eagerly reſign a painful Poſt,
Ill-ſuited to his unexperienc'd Youth.
Soph.
Confuſion! what did my Ormelia ſay?
Orm.
What Reaſon, Juſtice, Duty, Nature prompts;
Hence to old Manuel—fly—ſtrive to prevent
The Ruin will enſue—urge him reſtore
My Father to his Honours—bid him do it,
In Pity to Himſelf, his Friends, his Country—
Soph.
I might as well preach Silence to the Winds—
Orm.
Why then, at leaſt do thou renounce this Charge,
And let ſome mean, ungen'rous, upſtart Wretch
Swell in the Plumage of this ill-got Glory.
Soph.
Impoſſible, romantic!
Orm.
How Sophronius?
Soph.
Thou can'ſt not ſay thou lov'ſt me, and aſk this—
Orm.
Thou can'ſt not ſay thou lov'ſt me, and refuſe it—
Soph.
Refuſe! Is there a Boon I muſt refuſe thee
This only one there is—O my Ormelia,
Abate me this, and thy Commands are Favours,
Thy Bidding ſacred, and thy dear Requeſts
My Motives to all Action—O remember,
The nice Demands, the Tenderneſs of Honour—
[173] It was my Duty to decline this Station;
Once mine, it is my Duty to maintain it.
I cannot quit my Charge—Honour forbids;
'Tis the firſt Dictate of my Soul—'tis what,
Thank Heav'n, I feel, I love e'en more than thee.
Orm.
My Lord, I needed not thy great Example;
Know too I hold the Honour of my Houſe
Dearer than thee, and all thy Race. Vain Youth,
I ſee thy Pride; ſee, and deſpiſe it too—
My Heart miſtook thee—I revoke my Love—
Go, trifle with ſome eaſy, ſilly Maid;
Some tender-hearted Nymph, ſome dove-like Dame;
Make her the Fondling of thy leiſure Hours;
But know, Ormelia, ſpite of all thy Sex,
Will love, or hate, as Reaſon ſhall direct.
Soph.
Thy Cenſure's too ſevere; it may be Pride,
But 'tis an honeſt Pride that moves me now—
I would be true to Honour, and to thee.
Orm.
No more;—thou doſt partake of Manuel's Guilt;
And him, and thee I deem my Father's Foe.
Soph.
I am thy Father's Succeſſour, not Foe:
Say, Theodore, or Manuel be to blame,
Sophronius ſtill is innocent, and pleads
Th' untainted Merit of ſincereſt Love.
Orm.
Love! doſt thou talk of Love? Hence to thy Charge—
Hark, how yon Trumpet calls you to the Field;
[Trumpet ſounds.
What! are the Soldiers waiting for their Gen'ral,
[174] And ſhall a peeviſh Girl detain him here?
Leader, farewel; mount the ſteep Cliff of Glory;
Reach with an Eagle's Wing her topmoſt Height;
There, while thou baſkeſt in thy Eminence,
Remember this my ſole, my laſt Command,
And never, never ſee Ormelia more.
[Exit Ormelia.
Soph.
She's gone, and with her all a Lover's Hopes-
My conſcious Heart foreboded this Event;
I had been happy in a meaner Paſſion,
But doting upon Excellence am loſt.
How nicely virtuous is her high Reſentment?
Our Souls are ſure akin—Strange Blow of Fortune!
That ſtrong Similitude of Sentiment
Muſt ſeperate the Hearts it ſhould unite!
But ſee my Leon here:
Enter Leon.
Alas! my Friend—
Leon.
Spare the ſad Tale—I ſaw the fierce Ormelia;
She glided by me like a fiery Meteor.
Soph.
Her Temper, as her Beauty, ſure is matchleſs.
Leon.
Come, think no more of her—the Soldiers wait us—
They breathe the Spirit of a brave Revenge,
That will repair the Loſs of Yeſterday:
Awake thy better Faculties, my Friend;
For nothing now is wanting but Sophronius.
Soph.
Thou doſt adviſe me well—come on my Leon
I'll ſtrive to ſhake this Softneſs from my Breaſt—
[175] The Din of Arms ſhall drown the Voice of Love.
Hark, I am call'd again;
[Trumpet ſounds]
the glorious Summons
Rouſes my Soul, and fires it on to Battle.
Thus the bold, gen'rous Steed, that long in vain
Has woo'd ſome haughty Female of the Plain;
If chance he hears the Trumpet's princely Sound,
Inſpir'd with nobler Ardour ſpurns the Ground;
He ſnuffs the duſty Tumult from afar,
Collects his mighty Rage, and ruſhes to the War.
[Exeunt.
ACT III. SCENE I.
SCENE the Piazza. Enter Manuel and Mervan.
MANUEL.
IT is my Heart's firſt Wiſh; for if my Son
Return victorious home, beſide the Glory
That will accrue to him, and our whole Cauſe,
'Twill reſcue my late Deed from the Reproach
Of haſty Rage, and Frowardneſs of Will,
And place it to the fair Account of Wiſdom!
Mer.
How can we doubt Succeſs, my Lord?
You mark'd
With what high Joy the Troops went forth to Battle,
As if their fav'rite Leader had inſpir'd them:
[176] And ſure no Hero ever better grac'd
The noble Front of War, than brave Sophronius;
I ſaw him mounted on his ſnow-white Steed,
That mov'd with Pride beneath the Weight he bore;
His Eye beam'd martial Fire; and while the Voice
Of Thouſands heap'd their Bleſſings on his Head,
A crimſon Bluſh (the Badge of modeſt Merit)
Ting'd o'er his youthful Cheek, as I have ſeen
A ſetting Sun bepaint the weſtern Sky.
Man.
May he exceed our moſt exalted Hopes,
And ſilence the proud Spleen of Theodore,
That has miſconſtru'd to the Emperour
The Scope of all our Councils.
Mer.
O 'twas baſe.
But hark! a Shout, my Lord;—a Shout of Gladneſs!
[Shout within.
There's Triumph in that Sound—and ſee, here's one
Whoſe Looks proclaim the happy News he brings.
Enter an Officer.
Offi.
Peace to Aleppo; and to Manuel Joy,
Great as his Soul e'er felt—My Lord, your Son
Returns triumphant home; he haſtens hither
Quick as the thronging Love of Multitudes
Will give him Leave, and beſt himſelf ſhall tell
The Manner, and the Progreſs of the Fight.
Man.
What! have we conquer'd? Am I juſtified?
Thanks to kind Heav'n; methinks I ſee this Day
Sacred to future Time; Poſterity
Will cite the glorious Actions of my Boy,
[177] And Chiefs, that well have fought their Country's Cauſe,
Hereafter ſhall be liken'd to Sophronius.
Enter Euſebia attended by Ladies.
Joy to Euſebia, and her gentle Train;
My Child, thy Brother has full well perform'd
A Son's and Soldier's Part—Prepare freſh Wreaths,
Ye Virgins of Aleppo, for your Champion,
And with immortal Verdure deck his Brow.
Euſ.
My Lord, I heard the Peoples Shouts, and came
With eager Steps to hail my Brother's Glory—
But hark! himſelf and Friends are now approaching.
[Trumpet, &c. ſound.
Enter Sophronius, Leon, Izrail, and other Officers.
Man.
Welcome my Son, my Captain, my Deliv'rer,
Mine and my People's Boaſt: How fares my Boy,
[Meets Sophronius, and embraces him.
And theſe thy Friends, and mine?—I pr'ythee tell me,
Tell me thyſelf, Sophronius, for I long
To hear the manly Story of the Battle.
Soph.
Sir, to do Juſtice to Aleppian Valour,
And to brave Leon's Worth this glorious Day,
Were Argument for Rhet'ric's ſilver Tongue;
Yet briefly as I can, I will eſſay it.
Soon as we left our Walls, we found the Foe,
In the mid Plain, rank'd in full Pomp of Fight;
Sometime we fought beneath a Cope of Arrows,
That ſhadow'd either Hoſt—but when we met
In horrible Conjunction, then commenc'd
The Terrours of the Field; then grim-fac'd War
[178] Began his dreadful Game of purple Slaughter,
And, like a wounded Lion, rous'd his Rage
To Deeds of Deſperation—Two long Hours,
With Reſolution marvellous, as though
The Lordſhip of the World had been at Stake,
The Flame of Battle glow'd; while Victory
Stood like a Miſtreſs doubtful where to fix,
When two warm Rivals court her gracious Smile.
Man.
There was a Miſtreſs worth contending for.
Soph.
At length I chanc'd to croſs the Line of Battle
Where furious Derar fought—a Name renown'd
In yonder Camp—And, as I meant to greet him
With the full Vigour of a Soldier's Arm,
My heedleſs Step betray'd me, and I fell;
Ruin hung o'er me—when my Friend, my Leon,
Flew like a winged Angel to my Aid,
And on his Spear caught the fierce Derar's Sword.
Man.
It was a noble Deed—and what Reward
He can with Juſtice aſk he ſhall command.
Mean while purſue thy Tale.
Soph.
The Saracen
Retir'd; but e'er he could regain his Tribe,
A Party of Aleppian Horſe inclos'd him,
And, in mad Rage, impatient of Reſtraint,
Quench'd his high Valour in a glorious Death.
Then firſt the foremoſt Ranks gave Way, and ſoon,
As Fear is moſt infectious, total Rout
Encumber'd all their Bands—The Word was, Havock,
And thirſty Vengeance caught it—e'er they reach'd
The Camp, the Field was loaded with the Slain.
Man.
[179]
O well-fought Day—win ſuch another Conqueſt,
And theſe Barbarians ſhall remove their War.
Euſ.
Though thou waſt ever dear to me, Sophronius,
Truſt me, I love thee now from nobler Motives;
Thy Siſter joys the more in thy Deliv'rance,
Becauſe her Country's Safety leans on thine.
Soph.
The beſt of us are Inſtruments, Euſebia,
Mov'd by unſeen Direction to fulfil
The Purpoſes of Heav'n—there yield thy Praiſe—
My honour'd Father, ſay this Day's Succeſs
Shall ſink the Rate of Theodore's high Worth
In his own Eſtimation—I could wiſh
To ſee him Manuel's Friend.
Man.
O he'll not ſtoop
To due Subjection; yet in Proof, my Son,
That I but hold his Inſolence my Foe,
Let his proud Soul deſcend to ſuch Submiſſion,
As Honour, not the Pride of State demands,
My Hand and Heart again are open to him.
Mer.
So, we may fall in our own Snare, Romanus.
[Aſide.
Soph.
Sir, it was greatly ſaid: Early To-morrow
He ſhall be told the Tenor of this Grace;
Let him divide the Poſt of Honour with me,
My future Equal, but my Chief no more;
For could we ſee that Violence of Spirit
Temper'd by Councils leſs impetuous, Envy
[180] Might witneſs to the World, the beſt of Cauſes
Needs not a better Leader.
Man.
Be it ſo;
Yet haſt thou prov'd this happy Day, Sophronius,
That we can fight, and conquer too without him.
But Son, thy brave Fatigues demand Refreſhment:
You and your Friends retire—I'll follow you.
[Exeunt Sophronius, Leon, Izrail, &c. Manent Manuel, Euſebia, and her Attendants.
Come near, Euſebia—I obſerv'd but now
Thine Eye took ſudden Fire at Sight of Leon,
And conſcious Bluſhes kindled on thy Cheek:
Haſt thou not ſmother'd yet thy fooliſh Flame?
Did I not bid thee ſhut him from thy Heart?
Euſ.
Speak not thus harſhly to me, leſt I ſtand
A ſad Exception to the gen'ral Joy:
Woman at beſt is weak—but when ſhe loves—
Sir, you have ſeen how poorly I diſguis'd
My artleſs Paſſion, and O look with Pity
Upon my Nature's Fault, nor think it mine.
Man.
So apt, young Miſtreſs? You have learnt, it ſeems,
The common Plea, the Subterfuge of Folly:
But I well know a Father's Duty, Girl,
Nor will indulge my Child to certain Ruin.
Euſ.
My Lord, I live a Debtor to your Care—
Yet now muſt humbly think no Danger nigh,
But in the Fancy of my Father's Fear.
Man.
The fond Preſumption of a doating Maid!
This needy Wooer has beguil'd thy Heart,
[181] And holds thee in the Bands of ſilken Slav'ry,
Enamour'd not of thee, but of thy Wealth.
Fie on't, it hurts my Thought.
Euſ.
Your Pardon, Sir—
But oh! I cannot judge thus hardly of him.
Can there be Falſhood in thoſe Heart-fetch'd Sighs,
Thoſe tender Pangs, and that Exceſs of Paſſion,
Which I, and all the Hoſt of Heav'n have ſeen?
O then Sincerity has loſt her Proofs,
And Love the Vouchers of his Purity.
Beſides his virtuous Life—
Man.
I'll hear no more—
Theſe Striplings cringe, and whine, and ſigh by Rule,
And Woman flatter'd knows not Art from Virtue.
Why do I loiter here? Euſebia, yet
Thou art my Daughter—let not thy Perverſeneſs
Soil all the Bleſſings of this glorious Day—
Euſ.
Thus weeping, trembling, riveted to Earth,
O let me aſk my ever-honour'd Father
When he was diſobey'd?
Man.
When did I aſk
To be obey'd till now? What! thou wouldſt plead
The ſlender Service of thy former Years,
Which Ignorance and Youth, not Duty paid.
Doſt thou call this Obedience to a Father?
Away, and mark me, I deſire Compliance
In Inſtances of greater Weight, or none.
Euſ.
This Reſolution may undo me, Sir,
But ſhall not ſhake my Duty—I ſubmit—
[182] And yet I could have hop'd the hapleſs Youth
That ſav'd your Son, and ſav'd us all in him,
At length might boaſt Pretenſion to your Favour.
Man.
How! wilt thou teach me to reward my Soldiers?
But I perceive thy Stubbornneſs of Folly:
Thy blind Affection cleaves to Leon ſtill:
And therefore hear a Father's fixt Reſolve;
Give me a Proof before To-morrow's Noon,
Leon no more is Maſter of thy Heart,
Or quit my Roof, repair thee to a Convent,
And dedicate thy remnant Days to Heav'n.
So ſhall it ſooth my Soul, when I reflect
Thou art not mine, to know, thou art not his.
Farewel, and think on this.
[Exit Manuel.
Euſ.
Tell me, my Virgins,
In all the Volumes of recorded Love,
Have you e'er read a Deſtiny like mine?
What's to be done?—Can I conceal my Paſſion?
Ah! 'twill betray itſelf a thouſand Ways.
But to renounce my Heart's beſt Joy for ever—
My Soul recoils with Horrour at the Thought—
Support me, Friends, and with your kindeſt Counſels,
Oh! ſave a wretched Maid from double Ruin.
[Ex.
SCENE II.
Enter Romanus.
Rom.
Euſebia, and in Tears! What may this mean?
It matters not—they drop Delight to me,
[183] As Tokens of more Woe—Let Miſchief flouriſh—
I was to meet dull Mervan here—I want
To fool him further to my Bent—till when
My Purpoſe halts, and thou art ſafe, Aleppo
Enter Mervan.
But lo! he comes—Welcome, my worthy Friend;
I need thy Counſel much this fatal Hour;
My Soul is full—But why that downcaſt Look?
Things wear a better Face ſince laſt we parted.
Mer.
They ne'er look'd worſe, Romanus.
Rom.
How! my Mervan,
Haſt thou not ſeen the Man thou hateſt moſt
Thrown from his Orb like Lucifer?—'Tis Joy,
Worth the young Bridegroom's Tranſport, thus to ſtand
Safe on the Shore, and view this Wreck of Greatneſs.
Mer.
Who falls may riſe—The Sun that's now deſcended,
To-morrow will reſume his fiery Function.
Rom.
Why this School Simile?—What mean thy Fears?
Mer.
I fear not Shadows—Terms of Amity
Will be propos'd to Theodore.
Rom.
Say'ſt ſo?
Now Heav'n or Hell forbid.
Mer.
Nay hear my Tale.
Sophronius, ſtill ſelf-diffident, although
His Worth mounts daily in the Scale of Glory,
With Modeſty I ne'er might blame before,
Propos'd this fatal Ev'ning to his Father,
[184] To ſhare the chief Command with Theodore,
Provided ſmall Acknowledgment were paid,
As is moſt due, to Manuel's injur'd Honour.
I am content, cries our old Governour,
And ſtrait commiſſions him to make the Treaty.
Early To-morrow Morn they will confer;
If ſo, truſt me, I doubt our Counſel leaks.
For while thou weaveſt thy Deſign, Romanus,
Fine as the Spider's Web, there's but a Breath
'Twixt that and Diſſolution.
Rom.
My good Mervan,
This muſt not be—I have a Story too
Will ſhake thy honeſt Heart—Hah! Theodore
Directs his Steps this Way—I muſt diſſemble;
But you, my Friend, inſult his fallen Pride—
'Tis a Debt due to Spleen—You ſhall hear more
Anon—My Fortune may aſſiſt me now.
[Aſide.
Enter Theodore.
The.
Romanus, I was ſeeking thee—What means
Thy loit'ring here?
Rom.
We have a trifling Bus'neſs
That had been ſoon adjuſted—but I'm ready
To hear my Lord's Commands.
Mer.
Indeed, and ſhould;
The General cannot wait his Soldier's Leiſure.
Rom.
For Shame' ſake, Peace.
The.
What does the Abject prate?
Reptile, my Soul ne'er look'd ſo low as thee.
Mer.
[185]
Better you had—'tis ſaid your airy Gazers
Stand on a tott'ring Baſe—a Fall may hurt—
The.
What does my Virtue come within the Taunt
Of muſty common-place Morality,
Cull'd from an old Wife's Ev'ning Dialogue?
Peace, good Philoſophy, I wage not War
With Saws, and Ends of Reas'ning—pr'ythee Peace—
Mer.
I have not learnt what Deference is due
To a diſbanded Soldier.
The.
Hah! thou Slave,
There's that perhaps may teach thee better Manners.
[Strikes him.
Mer.
Seize me eternal Pungency of Pain,
But I will be reveng'd, thou brutal Smiter.
Rom.
Well ſtruck—and well reſented—for my Purpoſe.
[Aſide.
Nay but be pacified—
[To Mervan.
The.
How the Cur foams?
Revenge! Why that's the Virtue of great Souls
That ſtruggle with the Pangs of injur'd Honour—
It is a tender Plant, that flouriſhes
But in a warm well-cultivated Soil,
Not ſeen to thrive in cold and barren Ground.
Doſt thou, thou Lump of earthly Element,
With no more Fire in thy dull Blood than ſerves
Mere Motion, and not Heat—doſt thou preſume
To vent Impatience in exalted Terms,
Out of your Sphere of Mutt'ring? Thou revenge!
Go, Fool, to Bed—Romanus, I would ſee thee
Within an Hour—till then farewel.
[Exit Theodore.
Rom.
[186]
O Mervan,
My ever honour'd, and much injur'd Friend,
But that the Matter aſks maturer Thought,
My Poniard ſhould have reach'd the Villain's Heart.
Mer.
Confuſion, and Deſpair!
Rom.
Nay, no Deſpair;
For that defeats your Wiſdom's Reſolution:
We'll have Revenge—the Public ſhall have Juſtice—
The Public, Friend,—thou know'ſt not yet how much
Aleppo's Cauſe, and thine are interwoven—
Mer.
What would Romanus ſay?
Rom.
That which might chill
The Heart of Stoutneſs—oh! ſuppoſe this Night,
It could be ſaid, Aleppo is no more!
Mer.
Thou haſt a horrid Look—I pray explain it—
Rom.
Obſerve me then with Heed.
Mer.
Religiouſly.
Rom.
Soon as hot Theodore had left the Council,
I hied me to his Houſe; and as I knew him
Apt of Conception deſp'rate, tried to ſound
The Fathom of his Thought—I found him, Mervan,
Churning the Froth of Fury—I ſuggeſted
(Putting the Semblance of fair Friendſhip on)
Topicks of Vengeance to him, nor in vain;
He was ſoon tractable to Works of Darkneſs—
I urg'd him to betray this hated City,
And ſhew'd apparent Means of Execution—
He preſt me to his Boſom, hug'd my Zeal,
And ſwore it was Revenge full adequate
[187] To his vile Wrongs—I will to Night, he cried,
Hear more of this—You heard him chide my Stay—
Mer.
I did—the Villain—Heav'n! was this the Man
Whom good Sophronius would reſtore to Honour?
How has thy honeſt Fraud detected him?
But I will hence, and ſtartle Manuel's Ear
With this Report—It muſt be done to Night—
Rom.
Hold—ponder well the Iſſue with the Deed—
You would charge Theodore with Treaſon?
Mer.
Ay—
Rom.
And I am ready to ſupport the Charge,
But ſay, with what? what Colour? what Pretence?
My Word will weigh no more than Theodore's,
And haply leſs when he diſowns the Crime
With Proteſtations back'd by horrid Oath.
My ſingle Voice is Slander, and not Proof—
Mer.
Nay, ſpur thy Wit—Aleppo muſt be ſav'd,
And I muſt have Revenge.
Rom.
Why, let me ſee—
It is the ſureſt Way—ſuppoſe this Night
My Dagger drinks his Blood—the Dead, thou know'ſt,
Are no Gainſayers.
Mer.
Right—proceed—I hear thee
With moſt charm'd Organs—
Rom.
To the Governour
The Raſhneſs of the Blow ſhall be excus'd
By ſome well-fram'd, and joint Apology.
The Prejudice of Manuel, and the Place
[188] You hold in his Opinion ſets all right,
And everlaſting Peace ſucceeds—
Mer.
Well ſaid, my Oracle!
Rom.
Yet ſtill one Doubt, good Mervan,
Draws back my Reſolution.
Mer.
Speak it, Friend.
Rom.
What if the Villain's Groans, or Marks of Blood
Betray me to his Houſhold? They may wait not
Calmly to weigh the Motives to this Deed,
But wreak a ſudden Vengeance on my Life—
Now could I ſhew by ſome plain, pregnant Token,
That I therein proceeded by Commiſſion—
Mer.
Hah! To effect that Point is mine, Romanus,
Behold Lord Manuel's Signet.
[Shewing it.
Rom.
Give me that
And I've a Paſſport ſure.
Mer.
Take it, 'tis thine—
[Gives it him.
And now purſue thy Purpoſe—let me hear
Before To-morrow's Sun, Aleppo's Foe
And Mervan's Bane is levell'd with the Duſt.
Rom.
You ſhall—good Night.
Mer.
Farewel—
[Exit Mervan.
Rom.
Hah! Hah! The Fool—
How ductile to my Will?—this magick Ring
Will conjure up a Storm to ruin all—
It gains me Credit with my Brain-ſick Patron,
And blinded Wrath ſhall take its furious Courſe
By my Direction—this dread Night, Sophronius,
[189] I rob thee of thy Glory; and, proud Nymph,—
Will ſeize ſharp Vengeance for thy late Diſdain.
The Saracen right well my Aid implor'd,
For Policy wins more than Othman's Sword—
So when old Greece had ſeen her Thouſands ſlain,
And bravely wag'd a ten Year's War in vain,
She laſt by wily Stratagem prevail'd,
And Sinon conquer'd where Achilles fail'd.
[Exit.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
SCENE The Gallery.
Enter THEODORE.
MY Wiſhes lean to fell Revenge; but oh!
I know not what of Nicety forbids it—
Some Way my ſwelling Choler muſt have Vent;
Who ever dam'd the Ocean's Surge, or ſtopt
The thought-quick Fury of the fiery Bolt?
That Man preach Peace to me—Romanus comes—
He loves me well, and may deviſe new Means—
Enter Romanus.
How now Lieutenant—why thus loſt in Thought—
Rom.
My Lord, your Pardon—'tis a private Grief
That weighs upon my Heart—
The.
Thy Griefs, Romanus,
I will make mine.
Rom.
[190]
I owe your Goodneſs much,
But would not now increaſe the Debt—one Day
You ſhall hear all—how wears the Time, my Lord!
Am I within the Limit of your Order?
The.
Preciſely—O Romanus ſince thou firſt
This fatal Day didſt wake my ſleeping Vengeance,
Rage, like a Canker, has been gnawing here.
Rom.
That's right—I truſt I have thee on the Hook—
[Aſide.
In Truth my Thought has been to Day employ'd
On that ſame Matter too—I much admire
Your mighty Soul, and own Revenge is Baſeneſs,
Unleſs he marches hand in hand with Honour.
The.
Away; is there no Vengeance left, Romanus?
Are there no Means but thoſe I dare not uſe?
Why didſt thou rouſe me but to mock my Soul?
'Tis as you'd force the Lion from his Prey,
When Famine gripes his Entrails—O Revenge!
Rom.
Nay but, great Sir, with noble Minds Contempt
Is full Revenge—I am your Proſelyte—
But you, I ſee, like a right ſkilful Diſputant,
Can take the Argument by either End.
The.
No, I not waver in my Sentiment;
But, when once croſt by Appetite, O ſhew me
The cold, phlegmatic Moraliſt, that turns not
A Rebel to his Tenets.
Rom.
Fie, Lord Theodore;
I thought you maſter of a better Spirit;
Theſe angry Tranſports are old Manuel's Triumphs.
The.
[191]
I am hem'd in with Plagues.
Rom.
Thoſe Plagues are over,
And Wrath has had his Vent—
The.
Ay, but my Soul
Retains Impreſſion ſtill.
Rom.
I fear my Lord,
Some added Fuel fires your Breaſt anew—
The.
Why no, I think not, no.
Rom.
Ah! Sir, I ſee
Your tender Part—the Battle won this Day
By Chance, and Derar's Death—does not that gall you?
The.
By Heav'n, theſe vile Aleppian's fought to Day
In very Spleen to me—A Group of Curſes
Light on their ſqueamiſh Bravery.
Rom.
Amen!
Yet I'd not grudge the Keeneſt of my Foes
Imperfect, caſual Victory like this.
How vain Dependance on the Swords of Wretches,
That leave the Banner of great-hearted Mars,
To trip with feather-footed Mercury?
Let us away—a Soldier cannot breathe
In Air like this.
The.
Mirror of Honeſty!
O thou beſt Guide of my diſtracted Soul—
Yes—we will go, Romanus—I ſubmit
To what muſt be—
Rom.
Why that was well reſolv'd:
And ſince I ſee your Paſſion wiſely quell'd,
I ſafely may unfold a Tale, that elſe
[192] Should have lain hid in Night's moſt ſable Cloud.
Know then, the Matter, you obſerv'd but now,
To rivet down my Strength of Meditation,
Related moſt to thee.
The.
To me! how now?
Rom.
You will be calm—
The.
As Patience.
Rom.
Hear me then:
My Lord, a Plot is laid againſt your Life.
The.
Againſt my Life?—as how?—by whom, my Friend?
Rom.
By whom? good Heav'n! I thought you knew your Bane
By natural Antipathy—who is't
Has done you wrong? who is't that diſmantled
My Patron of his Honours? who diſgrac'd
The Prince of Chivalry? O! who but Manuel?
The Devil's not more a Foe to human Race
Than he to Theodore.
The.
Hah! let me hear thee—
The Night is ſtill—The Winds are huſh'd in Silence,
And yon fair Planet, riſing with her Train,
Shall witneſs all the Horrours of thy Story.
Rom.
The Governour, my Lord, with vileſt Arts,
Has long laid Siege to my Affections—
To Day ſome fav'ring Angel mov'd my Thought
To try his Depth of Malice—I aſſum'd
Sudden Diſguſt to thee; and in that Conf'rence
With hollow Mervan, which your Preſence broke,
[193] Swore myſelf henceforth to his Maſter's Service.
The Fool, in whoſe vile Boſom, you well know,
Manuel locks up his Secrets, nails his Faith
On my diſſembled Zeal—You mark me, Sir,—
The.
Ay, ay, proceed.
Rom.
And you did promiſe me
You would be calm—
The.
I did—Confuſion!—well—
Go on—I'm cool.
Rom.
Admitted to old Manuel,
I wound me ſoon into his Confidence—
My Lord, he bears a moſt invet'rate Hate
To your high Virtue, which he terms your Pride—
Nay more, ſome Wretch has taught him to ſuſpect,
That in your Letters you have oft foul-ſtain'd
His Rule of Government to good Heraclius.
The.
Letters! what Letters? By my Hopes of Vengeance,
But that I ſcorn to condeſcend ſo low
As to refute the Calumny; this Night
I'd hurl the Raſcal Falſhood in his Teeth.
Rom.
I held it meet to cheriſh this his Spleen,
So feign'd me privy to your Correſpondence,
Nay more, I cited too the black Contents
In venom'd Terms, and loud affirm'd them yours—
Next I enlarg'd upon my proper Wrongs,
And vow'd this Night, his full Conſent my Warrant,
At once to free us both, and the whole World,
Of ſuch a Villain—Manuel, well-convinc'd
Without more Proof, or better Cauſe than this,
[194] Applauded the fell Purpoſe—ay, and quicken'd
My Appetite for Vengeance by ſtrong Promiſe
To lift my Fortunes to a ſplendid Greatneſs.
I'm ſworn this Night to ſtab you in your Sleep—
The.
Then I am loos'd at once from ev'ry Tie—
What! Murder me? O! for a Sacrifice
Worthy my boiling Rage—when I am angry,
Methinks Mankind ſhould ſuffer—good Romanus,
Let Othman know the City's his to Night;
The Terms the ſame as—
Rom.
How your Wrath tranſports you?
Thank Heav'n, I'm honeſt—for your open Heart
Is moſt acceſſible to Villainy—
Perhaps I did but mean to try your Temper—
The.
Now by the Tempeſt rolling in my Boſom,
I'll not be trifled with—Give me to know
The Truth this Inſtant—ſee thou lay'ſt it plain
To my Mind's Eye, and viſible as Proofs
From Demonſtration, or aſſure thee Villain,
Miſchiefs await thee—ſpeak—
Rom.
O do not ſtorm:
Speak—I have Nought to ſpeak—indeed 'twas all
A well invented Lie, a cut-throat Tale.
The.
Villain, thou lieſt—I ſee thy Heart's Confuſion—
[Seizing him.
Say all thou know'ſt, or by—
Rom.
I've ſaid too much—
Yet now, in Juſtice to myſelf muſt on—
Periſh the World e'er I deceive my Friend—
[195] See the Credentials of the curſed Truſt;
What was to be my Sanction for the Deed;
Is this Lord Manuel's Signet?
[Shewing the Signet.
The.
'Tis the ſame,
And darts Conviction on my Senſe, as groſs
As the Broad-Seal of Hell—then Blood for Blood—
Romanus, ſee our truſty Syrians arm'd
By Midnight's ſilent Hour.
Rom.
Are you reſolv'd?
The.
As the Decrees of Heav'n.
Rom.
Why then no more—
My private Sentiment ſhall yield to yours—
I will not dare to doubt your Vengeance juſt:
I ſav'd your Life to prove my honeſt Love,
And will confirm it more by full Attachment
Ev'n to your wildeſt Counſels—There's my Hand
In earneſt of my Heart—
The.
As ſuch I take it—
Honeſt Romanus, how ſhall I requite
The Saver of my Life?
Rom.
Sir, I will own
I had a Proſpect of Reward.
The.
Command it.
Rom.
O! I have ſigh'd the painful Breath of Bondage
With the calm Patience of afflicted Saints,
Whole Years for fair Ormelia's Love.
The.
She's thine—
Not my Lieutenant, but my Son—ſhe's thine.
Rom.
Behold her here.
[196] Enter Ormelia.
The.
Ormelia, oh! my Child,
Tell me what Bleſſings wouldſt thou wiſh the Man,
That has preſerv'd thy Father from Deſtruction?
Orm.
O I would wiſh him all that Heav'n e'er crown'd
The Piety of his beſt Vot'ries with;
All that his Heart could aſk; all Comforts here,
And Certainty of golden Bliſs hereafter.
The.
Then hear me and obey—there's my Deliv'rer—
This fatal Night by Manuel's curſt Deſign
Romanus ſtands engag'd to ſhed my Blood;
See here the Token of that helliſh Truſt—
[Shewing the Signet.
His feign'd diſlike of me explor'd this Treach'ry:
Ay, and his Faith of Friendſhip has been brib'd
With offers worth Ambition—aſk no more—
But bleſs his gen'rous Goodneſs with thy Love,
And make me happy in a Son like him.
Orm.
Forgive me, Theodore, if for a while
Diſtracted by Variety of Paſſion,
I know not what to anſwer—
The.
We allow
The Niceneſs of reluctant Modeſty
To maiden Innocence—mean time, Romanus,
Fix we our Thought on this Night's bloody Bus'neſs,—
I pray adviſe me in it—
Rom.
Sir, to you,
And yours, I owe more Service than the beſt
Of my poor Zeal can pay—for this ſame Bus'neſs,
[197] Reſolv'd, 'tis done—Your Houſe ſtands on the Walls,
From whence a Soldier may deſcend unſeen,
And bear the welcome News to yonder Camp;
Let them approach the Town with ſilent March;
Juſt as the Bell beats one, our Syrian Troop
Shall take Poſſeſſion of the Armory;
Then ſlay the Centinels, ſeize all the Gates,
And let the Torrent of Confed'rates in,
Eager, and ruſhing on to gen'ral Ruin.
The.
Be't ſo—Aleppo's doom'd—Juſtice has lent
Her Sword to black Revenge—Romanus, ſend me
The Captains of our Troop to take their Orders—
For this one Night, O Mahomet, I'm thine.
[Ex. The.
Rom.
At that Command, I have been wont to fly,
As ſwift as Fancy's Wing—yet now would ſtay,
To catch the Glances of Ormelia's Eyes,
And hear her Sentence on my faithful Paſſion,
Tho' the World's Doom depended on this Hour.
Orm.
That Sentence, Sir, is paſt—You heard my Father—
I cannot, muſt not, would not diſobey him;
Nay and could wiſh I had a Heart to give
To Worth like thine, for I confeſs, Romanus
Your Merit far ſuperiour to your Claim.
Rom.
Grant it but equal—can my lovely Fair
Withold a Heart ſhe owns herſelf my Due,
And without which I ſcorn to take her Hand?
No, I renounce the Right thy Father gave me;
I did my Duty—but would have my Bleſſing
Ormelia's Gift, not his—
Orm.
[198]
Thou gen'rous Man!
I thought there was no Paſſage to my Heart,
But ſure the grateful Sentiment that warms
My Soul, if 'tis not Love, is ſomething greater.
Rom.
Cheriſh that Sentiment my Guardian Pow'rs!
And kindle it to Rapture ſuch as mine.
Orm.
Yet ſay, is this a Time for Love, Romanus?
How ſacred ev'ry Moment is to Vengeance?
The Deed and Guilt are Manuel's—young Sophronius
Nay do not ſtart—he is no more your Rival—
And yet I would not know him for a Villain:
Was he conſenting to this cruel Purpoſe?
Rom.
Madam, 'twere baſe, or to diſparage Virtue
With ſcanty Praiſe, or wrap it up in Silence.
Sophronius is right noble—but this Ev'ning,
Though Conqueſt ſat upon his ſhining Plume,
And he ſtood loaded with a People's Praiſe;
He own'd the Proweſs of your Father's Valour;
He will'd old Manuel offer Terms of Peace,
Which Theodore might well embrace with Honour—
Ev'n Manuel's ſelf diſſembled Approbation,
And veil'd the Malice lurking at his Heart.
Orm.
O wond'rous Proof of thy unequall'd Goodneſs?
Sophronius only is outdone by thee—
The Man thou praiſeſt is the Man I lov'd;
E'en now (with Bluſhes I diſcloſe my Weakneſs)
My Heart almoſt revolts from Thee and Virtue—
But thy Perfections awe the Thought to Shame—
[199] Gratitude, Honour, Duty make me thine,
And Inclination ought.
Rom.
I know it will—
Such Excellence can never do amiſs—
If fondeſt Care, if Induſtry of Love,
Can—
Orm.
Hold—'tis needleſs this—my future Faith
I pledge to thee for ever.
Rom.
Bleſſings on thee!
Oh! let me graſp this Criſis of my Fate,
Now all my better Stars propitious beam,
And farther humbly hope—
Orm.
What wouldſt thou aſk?—
Rom.
You would be mine this happy Night.
Orm.
To Night!
Have you forgot?
Rom.
Nay! by yon Heav'n, my Wiſh
Is pure as is the ſtainleſs Thought of Childhood.
Ne'er ſhould my Soul relax to ſoft Deſires,
Till Scenes more calm, and peaceful Sunſhines bleſs us;
But kindly place it in my Pow'r hereafter
To ſay, this glorious, this diſtinguiſh'd Night,
I ſaw my Bliſs complete, my Lord aveng'd,
Aleppo puniſh'd, and thyſelf my Bride.
Orm.
Sir, I am yours in Honour of Engagement.
Rom.
Engagement!—'tis too faint, too cold a Word,
And damps the riſing Ardour of my Soul—
Give my high Hopes the Title of thy Huſband,
And I ſhall ruſh like Lightning on the Foe;
[200] Or if ſome unforeſeen, ſome dreadful Chance,
Should whelm me in the Tumult of the Fight,
At leaſt I ſhall indulge a virtuous Pride,
And ſmile in Death to call Ormelia mine.
Orm.
Nay this is Humour moſt extravagant.
Rom.
'Tis noble Eagerneſs of great Ambition,
But oh! 'tis vain—I ſee thro' the Diſguiſe
Of this Reluctance, and perceive thy Heart
Unwilling to oblige a Wretch like me;—
And can ſhe love who ſcruples to oblige?
Impoſſible!—Die ev'ry flatt'ring Hope!
Welcome the Anguiſh of a fruitleſs Paſſion,
It is Ormelia's Doom, and I muſt bear it.
[Weeps
Orm.
Weep not, Romanus; for thy Tears reproach me;
They call me ſtubborn, cruel, and ungrateful;
If I muſt—
Rom.
No—by yon bright Orb, you ſhall not
I'd not be happy upon ſelfiſh Terms,
Or purchaſe endleſs Peace with thy Diſquiet:
Haſte to thy Love—be bleſt in thy Sophronius
While I in Sorrow languiſh Life away,
And fall the willing Victim of thy Beauty.
Orm.
Forbid it, all ye Pow'rs that guard the Juſt!
Thy Virtues baniſh ev'ry female Form,
And I this Moment yield my vanquiſh'd Hand.
Rom.
Thus let me thank thee for this dear Compliance;
[Kiſſing her Hand
Angels, proclaim my Ecſtacy of Bliſs,
And tune your Harps to ſweet Ormelia's Praiſe.
[201] I fly, my Love, to ſeek a holy Prieſt
Whoſe ready Miniſtry may crown my Tranſports.
Soon let me find you in your own Apartment;
Till when—one balmy Kiſs—Heav'n guard thy Goodneſs—
So—now I have my Fortune in my Hand.
[Aſide and exit.
Orm.
Well—'tis obey'd, this Dictate of my Honour,
And ſure, I've nobly ſacrific'd to Virtue!
Farewel, Sophronius—'twas a tender Sigh
Which wafted that Farewel—but 'tis the laſt—
Hah! he is here!—Good Heav'n, of all the World
The Man I would not ſee—
Enter Sophronius.
Sir, you are bold;
I thought I had forbidden you my Preſence.
Soph.
Though baniſh'd from thy Sight, my conſtant Thought
Has ne'er ſtray'd from thee—and I come once more
To know my utmoſt Fortune: The ſad Exile
Reviſits thus with Doubts and pleaſing Dread
His native Land, not dearer to his Soul,
Than late to me was my Ormelia, when
She welcom'd me with hoſpitable Love,
And made her Heart my Home—once, no ſtrange Gueſt,
May I not hope again, on noble Terms,
To gain Admittance—
Orm.
'Tis too late to talk
Of Terms, and Hope is mere Preſumption now—
Soph.
[202]
Forbid it, Love—Lord Theodore, To-morrow,
If I miſtake not, is my Father's Friend.
Orm.
Impoſſible!
Soph.
Let but Ormelia hear me.
I bring him eaſy Terms of Reconcilement.
Orm.
I have heard all.
Soph.
Is then thy Father's Spirit
Still ſo untractable, he will admit
Friendly Propoſals upon no Conditions?
Orm.
You muſt not hope to ſee him Manuel's Friend—
Soph.
At leaſt that's not my Crime—ſure we may love—
And wait for happier Days—If thou know'ſt all,
Sophronius ſtands acquitted in thy Sight.
Orm.
I am no Judge in ſuch a Cauſe as this,
And muſt not hear you plead—
Soph.
Is't poſſible?
Still cold to all I ſay—Is this the Maid,
That oft has ſat attentive to my Vows,
While the gay Hours were all beſpoke by Love,
And Moments were not waſted, but enjoy'd?
And when I pour'd my am'rous Rapture forth,
Would ſhe not ſometimes aid me with her Sighs,
Or bleſs the tender Story with a Tear?
But now ſhe looks relentleſs on my Sorrows—
Nor feels one friendly Pain of Pity for me!
Orm.
Alas! I dare not liſten to this Talk.
Soph.
Yet e'er I part for ever from thy Beauties,
Let me be told my Crime—Art thou unjuſt,
[203] As well as moſt unkind? If thou art falſe,
Ev'n for thy Sake, I'll not ſuppoſe hereafter
A Woman can be true—I'll think thee ſtill
The brighteſt of thy Sex—Perhaps, Romanus
Am I ſupplanted by my Rival's Love?
His Merit muſt be rais'd by Miracle—
Yet grant him all Perfection, if I know
My Heart, he cannot, cannot love like me.
Orm.
Oh!
[Fainting; he catches her.
Soph.
Heav'n! ſhe faints—What would my wayward Fortune?
Awake, my Life, my Love—See, ſhe revives,
Her Beauties burſt like Sun-Beams from a Cloud.
Orm.
Why haſt thou call'd me back to Miſery?
My Soul was never Womaniſh till now—
Who can reſiſt ſuch Tenderneſs as thine?
Though Heav'n and Earth conſpire againſt our Loves,
I feel my Heart will ſtill acknowlege thee—
Yet we muſt part—I never can be yours.
Soph.
What means my Life? Repriev'd and doom'd at once!
Part! Who ſhall part us if thy Will conſents?
Though Theodore or Manuel ſhould oppoſe,
Our Union, the beſt Pledge of Reconcilement,
It were enough that 'tis approv'd by Heav'n.
Orm.
No, my Sophronius, Heav'n decrees againſt it—
The Voice of Conſcience, Reaſon, Juſtice, Duty,
Loud thunders in my Ear, It muſt not be.
To-morrow will explain the Miſtery
[204] I cannot now reveal—Farewel for ever—
Poor hapleſs Youth! I ſee thy ſtruggling Breaſt,
And mine too labours with an equal Pang—
Soph.
Yet ſtay! For ever, didſt thou ſay, Ormelia?
Ah! whither ſhall I turn?—Are all Things ſacred
Arm'd againſt Truth and Innocence? Ye Pow'rs,
What ſtrange Event will this To-morrow bring?
Ev'n now thoſe Eyes are bent with Fondneſs on me—
Thy Heart is panting with the Sighs of Love,
And ev'ry ſoft Emotion pleads my Cauſe—
Can I deſpair with Joys like theſe in View,
And be diſtreſt with Happineſs before me?
Orm.
Adieu! Sophronius—I muſt hear no more—
Upbraid me not with Falſhood or Unkindneſs—
But when the dreadful Truth ſhall glare upon thee,
Lay thy Reproaches where thou ſeeſt them due.
The Bleſſings of eternal Peace be with thee,
And Honour crown thy Days—O when hereafter
You chance to call this Night to your Remembrance,
(As ſure you will have Cauſe) ſpeak of Ormelia
In gentle Terms, (ſo ſhall I ſpeak of thee)
And own my Mem'ry worth a tender Thought.
Once more adieu! Sophronius.
[Exit.
Soph.
[After a Pauſe.]
Think not, Man,
To trace the ſecret Maze of Providence,
Or aſcertain the Fortune of an Hour.
My Leon here—
[Enter Leon]
Thou Partner of my [Sorrow,
Why haſt thou left the Palace?
Leon.
My Sophronius,
[205] I come for thee: For oh! without thy Preſence—
Now my Euſebia has forſook the World,
Baniſh'd by fatal Love of wretched Leon,
Though Mirth and Triumph raiſe their jocund Voice,
And the Roof echoes to the Sounds of Joy,
To me thy Father's Houſe is deſolate.
Soph.
I will return with thee; and as we go,
Thou ſhalt be told my moſt uncommon Lot—
O could my Soul anticipate To-morrow—
But wear we calm Content upon our Brows,
And join the general Feſtivity—
In Love though both have been unhappy, Leon,
We have a Refuge in our Friendſhip ſtill—
Love is at beſt, my Friend, a virtuous Weakneſs;
The Appetite of Nature, not its Glory;
And ev'n the pureſt is alloy'd with Folly.
Friendſhip is wholly rational; the Ardour
Of gen'rous Minds, the Rapture of the Soul,
Preſervative of Love, and its Survivor.
Leon.
Excellent Youth, my Sorrow's Remedy,
Methinks I catch the glorious Theme from thee.
Dear are the ſacred Characters in Life
Of Father, Brother, Siſter, Huſband, Wife;
But the prime Gift that bounteous Heav'n can ſend,
Is the ſure Bleſſing of a faithful Friend.
[Exeunt.
ACT V. SCENE I.
[206]
SCENE a magnificent Apartment in the Governour's Palace. Manuel, Sophronius, Izrail, Leon, and others ſitting at a Table, with Wine, &c.
MANUEL.
ONCE more Proſperity to our Aleppo,
And Thanks to my Sophronius
[Drinks.]
Izrail, ſay
Where points the Hour of Night?
Iz.
In Truth, my Lord,
I doubt we borrow of the Morning now.
Man.
Here then break up our Feaſt—Shew we our Joy,
Like Chriſtian Soldiers, and not Revellers;
A Health to all our Friends, and then good Night.
Iz.
Health and ſweet Slumbers to the Governour.
[Drinks.
A great Cry within.
Help, fly, O Mercy, Quarter, ſpare us, Mercy!
Soph.
What means that dreadful Cry? I fear ſome Treach'ry.
Enter an Officer haſtily.
Offi.
O we are loſt, betray'd, undone; the Saracens
Are in the Streets, and furious Theodore
[207] Is at their Head, dealing Deſtruction round—
The Centinels are ſlain, the Armory
Is ſeiz'd by the vile Syrians—Hark, I hear
The Thunder of the Tempeſt drive this Way.
[The Cry is heard again as nearer.
Soph.
This was thy fatal Myſtery, Ormelia.
[Aſide.
Enter another Officer.
Offi.
Fly, my Lord, fly—the Palace Gates are forc'd—
Othman and Theodore come ſtorming on—
I ſaw him drive his Sword in Mervan's Breaſt—
Hah! they are here—
Man.
I'll not ſurvive this Hour—
Come let us fall like Men—
Enter Theodore, Othman, and others, with Swords drawn—They fight—Theodore wounds Manuel; Leon interpoſes;—then Sophronius ſpeaks.
Soph.
Hold, Friends; 'tis Madneſs—
Ye Saracens forbear—the City's yours—
[They give up their Swords.
We fight not againſt Providence—but, Othman,
O let not looſe the horrid Rage of War
Upon the Citizens; ſpare their Diſtreſs,
And ſave thy own Renown.
The.
Hah! who art thou
That would'ſt command here ſtill?
Oth.
Nay, Theodore,
But hear a noble Foe.—We have already
Mark'd well our Way with Blood—Go, Omar, bid
[208] The Hand of Slaughter and of Pillage ceaſe
Upon Submiſſion—
[Exit an Officer]
Chriſtians, you may note,
How Heav'n confirms the Cauſe of Mahomet,
And owns us as He did his once-lov'd People,
When Canaan's warlike Nations ſunk before them.
See then, and be converted—or hereafter
Pay annual Tribute to my Lord the Caliph
I leave you to reſolve your ſpeedy Choice,
And for the reſt, Romanus will inform you.
[Exit Othman.
Soph.
We have not much to learn. Alaſs! my Father,
You bleed—Help here, my Friends—
[They place him in a Chair.
Man.
No Help—I've ſeen
Aleppo loſt, and would not be immortal:
Why ſhould an old Man live? You whoſe Veins bound
With youthful Blood, live to revenge your Country:
I would eſcape from Life, and that black Traitor—
The.
Wouldſt thou upbraid me, Villain, with a Deed
That thy own Baſeneſs caus'd?
Man.
Pr'ythee away,
And let me die in Peace.
The.
Die, and thy Malice
Sink thee to laſting Pain—Where's my Romanus?
[Exit Theodore.
Man.
Come near me, Friends; I have few Words to ſpeak;
Sophronius, thou art Heir to all my Fortunes;
[209] But 'tis my Pride to leave thee rich in Virtue—
See thou protect my Friends—would I could ſay
My other Children—I have wrong'd thee, Leon
Thy honeſt Zeal did interpoſe to ſave me,
Ev'n when I had no Daughter to reward thee—
Canſt thou forgive my Frowardneſs?
Leon.
I do—
Oh! if—Hah! who comes here? Ye Pow'rs above!
It is Euſebia's Self—
Enter Euſebia attended: She runs to her Father and kneels: Both ſilent ſome Time.
Man.
My Child—
Euſ.
My Father—
Your Pardon and your Bleſſing e're you die—
Man.
Thou haſt a Right to both—alas! my Daughter,
I thought thee ſhut within the Convent's Walls.
Euſ.
O! Sir, forgive a Fraud which Love inſpir'd:
Beneath the Shelter of a friendly Roof
Till now I have conceal'd me, fondly hoping
That ſuch ſuppos'd Retirement from the World,
While it might teſtify my Leon's Truth,
Would melt at length a Father's Heart to Pity.
Man.
It has, it has—and this unhop'd Return
Darts Gleams of Comfort on my parting Hour—
Take my beſt Bleſſing to thee—take thy Leon
Thy dying Father's moſt acknowleg'd Friend—
Sophronius, ſee thy Brother and thy Siſter—
Soph.
Both Sharers of my Heart, and my Inheritance.
Man.
[210]
Enough—The Shades of Night hang o'er my Brow.
Bury my Frailties with me; O, my Friends,
Yet while you may, defend our holy Faith;
There is much Chriſtian Ground unconquer'd ſtill—
Yield not a Jot to Mahomet—remember,
'Tis glorious to aſſert the Cauſe of Truth
In unbelieving Times—Farewel, my Friends,
Farewel, my Children; and oh!—
[Dies.
Soph.
Worthy Departure of a Patriot Soul:
Siſter, the tender Tribute of thine Eye
Is juſtly paid—for us, my Brother Leon,
(How ſweetens that ſoft Name the Cup of Sorrow?)
Our Rev'rence for dead Manuel's Memory
Prove we another Way; by Deeds, not Tears—
Remove the Body—See it laid, Euſebia,
In decent State, not Pageantry of Pomp—
So ſhone my Father's Virtues—
Izrail, ſtay;
[Ex. with the Body, Euſ. Leon, &c.
Some unknown Motive may have urg'd this Treaſon—
I would learn all—See! Theodore returns—
Enter Theodore.
Sir, I well know thy Name renown'd in Arms—
But do not number this among your Triumphs—
The.
It is not Triumph, Boy! 'tis Something more;
'Tis Something that methinks I would not change
For the wide Fame of Caeſar—It is Juſtice!
The Satisfaction of a great Revenge!
The Tranſport of a mighty Soul, inflam'd
By baſeſt Wrongs, and pleas'd with public Ruin!
Soph.
[211]
I thought a Soldier never would have talk'd thus;
A Chriſtian ought not.
The.
Tell not not me of Rules;—
Souls of aethereal Temper are not held
In vulgar Circumſcription; they ſtart wide
From Duty's Path by innate, fiery Impulſe,
Which gracious Heav'n ſigns Diſpenſation to—
Yet think not I have done this Deed To-night,
Provok'd by mere Reſentment of Ambition,
Though my great Heart but ill digeſts Diſhonour:
There is a Cauſe behind thou know'ſt not of,
A Cauſe might force the ſaint-like Eye of Meekneſs
To ſparkle with the angry Dragon's Beam.
Soph.
What may this mean? Do we not all well know
The Weight, and utmoſt Reach of thy Complaints?
The.
No, Stripling, no—Hark you—I'll tell you News—
Your Father Manuel was a bloody Villain—
Soph.
Thou lieſt—I am unarm'd—or by my Hopes—
The.
He meant this Night to murder me in Bed.
Soph.
It is impoſſible!—I had his Order
This Day to bring you Terms of Reconcilement—
The.
Curſe the Hypocriſy—Here comes the Man,
My Friend, my Son, that was to do the Deed—
Enter Romanus dreſt as a Bridegroom.
Come to my Arms—
[embracing Romanus.]
Is that a Murd'rers Face?
Fool! to ſuſpect Romanus for a Villain—
Soph.
[212]
How's this? Your Friend, and Son! If this could be—
And yet it could not be—
The.
See, and be dumb:
See an authentic Proof of barb'rous Truſt—
[Shewing the Signet.
If this be Manuel's Signet, ſo—if not,
Let the Arch-Devil come from Hell, and own it.
Soph.
Amazement! Izrail, know'ſt thou aught of this?
Iz.
No, as my Soul ſhall proſper—
Rom.
Come, my Lords,
I'll end this Strife at once—
The.
Do, good Romanus.
Rom.
Firſt, as the Prologue to my Tale, know all—
I own the ſacred Law of Mahomet.
The.
Hah! Slave, what haſt thou ſaid? revoke thy Words—
Rom.
Nay but revoke thy Words, proud Theodore;
I was your Slave, the Spaniel of your Humour;
But my great Soul, ſuperiour to its Bondage,
At length, has ſhook the vile Dependance off,
And now I'm Lord of thee, and of Aleppo.
The.
Damnation! thou art mad.
Rom.
Or you ſhall be—
You will not hear me then?
The.
Ay, I will hear thee—
I'll know this Fate, though ev'ry Word thou utter'ſt
Bites like the Viper's Fang.
Rom.
[213]
Attend, and tremble.
What Time I was a Pris'ner in yon Camp,
I left your barren, Chriſtian Law, to thrive
In the rich Harveſt of a growing Faith—
And made the League with Othman, which this Night
Has ſeen fulfill'd—I ſaw thy fiery Nature
Had ſhap'd thee a fit Tool for my Deſign—
The ſlighted Mervan, whom my frequent Vows
Of equal Hate to thee had made my own,
By my Direction poiſon'd Manuel's Ear
With groundleſs, brain-forg'd Tales, that wak'd his Spleen,
And blew the fatal Flame of Strife between you.
The.
Oh!
Rom.
This Attempt, failing of wiſh'd Succeſs,
I practis'd yet again on hollow Mervan,
Who, fool'd by me, believ'd your deſp'rate Rage
Meant to betray Aleppo to the Foe;
But as I had not ſeeming Proof enough
To bring a public Charge of ſuch vile Treaſon,
I undertook this Night to ſpill your Blood—
Lord Manuel's Signet (for I feign'd the Deed
Ev'n in the Act lay level to Diſcov'ry)
Was in ſuch Caſe to ſcreen the Blow from Queſtion—
So, Sirs, you have a Key to all my Counſel—
Why raves my noble Lord?—I ſav'd your Life—
The.
Monſter, thou lieſt—thou well didſt know my Life
Was wrapt up in my Fame—That thou haſt ſtab'd;
[214] And Murder, when compar'd with Guilt like thine,
Smiles like a ſoft-ey'd Cherub—Oh! Sophronius!
[Leans upon Sophronius,
Rom.
You paid my Service with your haughty Daughter;
Who, well aſſur'd of my tranſcendent Merit,
Gave me her Hand this Night—that once obtain'd—
Sighs and Entreaties, raptur'd Vows and Oaths,
And the fond Pleadings of a Huſband's Right,
Have gain'd me ſince the ſweet Revenge I wiſh'd for—
Now tir'd of Love, and all its vain Delights,
Gladly I quit the galling Nooſe of Wedlock—
Thou, or Sophronius take her—
Soph.
Matchleſs Villain!
The.
Hah! 'twas well thought.
[Aſide.]
Romanus, the Account
'Twixt me and thee is yet unſettled—thus
[Pulls a Dagger from his Breaſt, and ſtabs Rom.
With willing Hand I pay thee all thy Due.
Rom.
Death, Hell, and black Perdition! I am ſlain.
[Dies.
The.
Fiends ſeize thy Soul—Come give me Joy, Sophronius;
For I have done one righteous Act To-day—
I thought to ſtain this Blade with Manuel's Blood—
Now let his Spirit ſmile upon the Stroke—
Heav'n marks it in the Record of my Works:—
But ſee where Murder, Treaſon, Sacrilege,
[215] Are wrote in Leaves of adamant againſt it—
You ſtand amaz'd—but wherefore?—Is a Villain
A Sight ſo rare?—O from this Day, the wicked,
The Outcaſts of fair Grace ſhall bleſs themſelves,
And quote my Deed with the pert Pride of Cenſure.
If there be Eaſe in Madneſs—
Soph.
Come, reflect—
The.
Reflect! on what? eternal Loſs of Honour?
The flaming Mouth of Hell that yawns before me,
Yields me a brighter Proſpect—All my Thought
Is ſteady, fixt, immoveable Deſpair.
Who never hopes can never be deceiv'd—
But Bus'neſs muſt be done—Your Pardon, Sirs—
This is no Place for Traitors—give me Room there.
[Exit Theodore.
Soph.
What ſtrong Commotion ſhakes him?
Woful Day!
Alas! how brittle is the ſtableſt Structure
That human Policy, or Proweſs raiſes!
One Villain's Breath diſſolves it—Hah! Ormelia
She bends this Way—Izrail, I pray retire—
[Exit Izrail.
Fortune diverſifies the Scene of Horrour.
Enter Ormelia: Seeing the Body of Romanus ſhe ſtarts.
Orm.
Angels defend me with your golden Wings
From this heart-ſtriking Sight!—My Lord! My Huſband!
Will not the lov'd Ormelia's Voice awake thee?—
[216] Nay then thy gallant Soul has burſt her Clay,
And I am left to endleſs Deſolation
A wretched, widow'd Bride—What barb'rous Hand
Could thus—but I may ſpare my Tongue the Queſtion.
Soph.
Unhappy Fair! thou ſeeſt I have no Weapon;
My Hand, my very Soul is now diſarm'd—
Didſt thou know all—
Orm.
Know what? Equivocator!
Thou Thorn, for ever rankling in my Peace!
Thou hadſt a Weapon when thou didſt the Deed;
And let me tell you, Sir, it was a Feat
Worthy Aleppo's Gen'ral.
Soph.
O Ormelia,
My Heart weeps for thee—Soon, believe me, ſoon
Theſe high-ton'd Strains ſhall ſink to Notes of Woe,
Or float upon the wildeſt Sounds of Rage.
Orm.
Behold a Cauſe for endleſs Rage, thou baſe one—
Didſt thou not mark the Pang that wrung my Soul,
When I left thee for him, only for him
That now lies blood-ſteep'd there?—Thou knew'ſt me his
By ev'ry ſacred Tie—yet him thy Hand
Has poorly ſlain—not ſo he treated thee—
The partial Tongue of moſt enamour'd Fondneſs,
Could ſcarce have dreſt its choſen Idol up
In Terms of fairer Hue, than thoſe To-night
He deck'd your Name withal—
Soph.
[217]
I ſlew him not—
Or if I had—alas! thou injur'd Maid—
Orm.
Diſſembler, ceaſe—I know your ſpecious Plea
Of Love for your dear City juſtly loſt;
With this you mean to gloſs a horrid Act,
Which gratified the Rancour of thy Soul,
And proves thee true-born Son of murd'rous Manuel.
Soph.
O vain Reproach! Know, Madam, I would boaſt
The Virtues, not the Greatneſs of my Race,
And wiſh to prove myſelf the Son of Manuel,
To make his Loſs more light.
Orm.
What! is he fall'n?
Thanks to the righteous Vengeance that deſtroy'd him.
Soph.
It was thy Father's Vengeance—but if righteous,
All moral Difference of Good and Ill
Is the Delirium of a ſickly Dream—
Oh! you're undone—How wilt thou ſtart to find
Romanus fell by Theodore's own Hand,
The Friend avow'd of Mahomet, the Foe
Of Theodore, of Manuel, thee, and all!
Canſt thou not read my Heart?—Doſt thou not ſee
Softeſt Compaſſion melt upon my Brow,
And Agony diſtend my tott'ring Frame?
Oh! poor Ormelia!
Orm.
Madneſs and Illuſion!
[218] Muſt I not truſt my Senſe? Hah! who art thou,
Enter an Officer haſtily.
That with ſuch ghaſtly Aſpect wouldſt deliver
Some dreadful Tale?
Offi.
It moſt concerns you, Lady—
As I paſt by yon Chamber, I deſcry'd
Lord Theodore in moſt diſtemper'd Motion;
He travers'd wildly o'er the Room, like one
Whoſe fav'rite Scheme Somewhat unlook'd for marrs;
Now ſudden he ſtopt ſhort, and, ſitting down,
Faſt rivetted his Eye unto the Floor;
Then ſtarted up, and ſmote upon his Boſom;
Then ſpread his Arms to Heav'n, and with his Foot
Stampt hard, as tho' he meant to ſhake the Roof;
At length, with a deep Groan, that would have melted
The Soul of Cruelty to baby Mildneſs,
Haſty he drew a Dagger from his Boſom,
And plung'd it in his Side.
Orm.
Death and Deſtruction!—
Offi.
Amaz'd I call'd for Help, and forc'd the Door—
The Servants rais'd him up; they bring him hither—
For here he learnt you was—Lo! where they come.
[Theodore brought in in a Chair, with Officers, Servants, &c.
Orm.
Ye Moraliſts! O teach me Patience now!
The.
Ormelia!—art thou here? Draw near, my Child;—
[219] Thy Tenderneſs ſhall chear my lateſt Moments,
And light me through the darkſome Gate of Death.
Orm.
Help; bind his Wounds—
The.
Hold off: Did Manuel die
Becauſe he'd not ſurvive his Country's Ruin,
And ſhould the Villain live that has betray'd her?
Live, like a wounded Beaſt, to drag about
A wretched Being with a broken Heart?
What! live to be a Mark of public Scoff
For Holiday Mechanics?—Welcome, Death!
Thou art at leaſt a Change of Miſery,
And I would fly to other Ills for Shelter.
Orm.
What does my trembling Heart forebode?—Sophronius
Has told me—
The.
Nought but Truth.
Orm.
There lies my Huſband—
The.
Slain by this Hand, a Villain and Impoſtor.
The blackeſt Guile that Treachery e're wore
Were ſnow-white Innocence and Truth to his:
Soon thou'lt know all—We've been abus'd, my Daughter.
Orm.
Abus'd—how my Brain turns—Who has abus'd us?
Not he—why, he was Honeſty—I knew him.
The.
Strengthen her tender Frame, all gracious Heav'n!
And for the Woes thy Juſtice heaps on me,
O doubly, doubly bleſs my deareſt Child.
Orm.
[220]
How heartily he prays—Come let's pray all—
O hear me, hear me—do not die, my Father!
[Kneels down by her Father.
The.
Unhappy Girl!—I did not know till now
The Bitterneſs of Death—I muſt leave thee—
Ev'n when thou want'ſt a Friend, and Father moſt.
Behold the Woman you once lov'd, Sophronius;
O had—it cuts me there—wilt thou forgive me,
And ſhield my Name from popular Reproach?
Thine Eye ſheds friendly Grief—I thank thy Goodneſs—
Now it grows dark—pray for my flitting Soul—
Take my laſt Look, Ormelia—Bleſs her, oh!
[Dies.
Orm.
Let him alone—he will be up To-morrow—
And drive the Saracens like Chaff before him—
Soft, place him eaſy—his Brain ach'd laſt Night—
I'll make a Pillow of the Peach's Down
To reſt his Cheek upon—We'll deck him fine—
Come, ſtick his Couch with ſhining Pearls, freſh cull'd
From the gay Morning's Dew—So—that's well done—
Now lay him, like a mighty Emperour,
Beneath the painted Rainbow's ſumptuous Arch—
He ſleeps moſt ſoundly—well—good Night, my Jewel.—
And now I'll to my Love—Hah! hah!
Soph.
Ye Pow'rs,
Heal her diſorder'd Mind!
Orm.
[221]
Hah! who goes there?
Fellow, ſtand off—It is my Love—I know him;
If I can catch him, I ſhall cleave for ever;
[She lays hold on Sophronius.
Hot Pincers ſhall not part us—Heav'n and Earth!
My Huſband's come—off, vile Adulterer!
[Puſhing Sophronius from her.
Oh! he has two red Firebrands in his Eyes,
And a long Whip of Scorpions in his Hand.
Forgive me, nay I did but ſnatch one Kiſs—
I'll wear my Knees out on the rugged Flint—
Soph.
Moſt pitiable Sight.
Orm.
Oh! he is gone—
Why Weeps my Love?—Hah! there he is again;
Give me my Wings—O hide me, hide me from him.
[Exit raving.
Soph.
Attend her, Sirs, and bear her gently home—
[Exeunt ſome, manet the reſt.
Alas! my Preſence would inflame her more—
To what am I reſerv'd? All-righteous Heav'n,
Support me in theſe Trials of my Virtue,
Check the rebellious Sallies of Impatience,
And give me Courage to ſubmit to thee.
Enter Leon, Euſebia, and Izrail.
Leon, what Havock have we ſeen To-day?
Leon.
But look we forward now, Sophronius; Othman
Has ſent by me to know our laſt Reſolves.
Soph.
For me—I will repair to good Heraclius
Haſt thou forgot what pious Manuel ſaid?
[220] [...][221] [...]
[222] Who knows but we may yet avenge our Cauſe,
And one Day call Aleppo ours again?
The glorious Hope amuſes my Heart's Sorrow,
And War ſhall be my Recreation now—
Euſ.
We'll follow thee.
Leon.
And I.
Iz.
And I.
Offi.
And all.
I truſt, my Lord, no Soldier ſtays behind.
Soph.
Then be it ſo—my Friends, 'tis ſtill our Glory
We were ſurpriz'd, not conquer'd. This Day's Woe
Yields us a Moral—Not to looſe the Rein
To the fierce Impulſe of impetuous Anger.
[Pointing to Theodore.]
The Man, whoſe Boſom headſtrong Paſſion ſway'd,
And the blind Zeal of eager Rage betray'd,
Though brave by Nature, and in Action great,
Work'd his own Ruin, and Aleppo's Fate.
[Ex. om.
THE END.

4.

[]

CYMBELINE.

A TRAGEDY, ALTERED FROM SHAKESPEARE.

As it is perform'd at the THEATRE-ROYAL in Covent-Garden.

By WILLIAM HAWKINS, M. A. Late Fellow of Pembroke College, and Profeſſor of Poetry in the Univerſity of Oxford.

LONDON: Printed for JAMES RIVINGTON and JAMES FLETCHER, at the Oxford Theatre, in Pater-noſter-row. MDCCLIX.

[Price One Shilling and Six-pence.]

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE Counteſs of Litchfield.

[]
MADAM,

I Have the honour of your LADYSHIP'S permiſſion to preſent to you a Tragedy, which, though it met with numerous and unprecedented difficulties and diſcouragements in the theatre, will, I hope, be thought not altogether unworthy your protection in the world.—Indeed, if the unpopularity of its late ſituation could in the leaſt affect that degree of merit, which your LADYSHIP'S candor, or the indulgence of the town, may allow it to have, it would ill become me to recommend [iv] it to my readers, under the ſanction of ſo polite and illuſtrious a name.—But your LADYSHIP has too much good ſenſe, as well as generoſity, to judge of this performance by mere appearances, and accidental or unlucky circumſtances; and therefore, tho' it will ſtand as a kind of memorial of the bad fortune, and worſe treatment of its author; it may at the ſame time be a proper teſtimony of the high reſpect with which I am,

Madam,
Your Ladyſhip's moſt obliged and moſt obedient Servant, WILLIAM HAWKINS.

PREFACE.

[]

THE Tragedy of Cymbeline is, in the whole oeconomy of it, one of the moſt irregular productions of Shakeſpeare. Its defects however, or rather its ſuperfluities, are more than equalled by beauties, and excellencies of various kinds. There is at the ſame time ſomething ſo pleaſingly romantic, and likewiſe truly Britiſh in the ſubject of it, that, I flatter myſelf, an attempt to reduce it, as near as poſſible, to the regular ſtandard of the drama, will be favourably received by all, who are admirers of novelty, when propriety is its foundation. I have accordingly endeavoured to new-conſtruct this Tragedy, almoſt upon the plan of Ariſtotle himſelf, in reſpect of the unity of Time; with ſo thorough a veneration however for the great Father of the Engliſh ſtage, that, even while I have preſumed to regulate and modernize his deſign, I have thought it an honour to tread in his ſteps, and to imitate his Stile, with the humility and reverence of a Son. With this view, I have retained in many places the very language of the original author, and in [vi] all others endeavoured to ſupply it with a diction ſimilar thereunto; ſo that, as an unknown friend of mine has obſerved, the preſent attempt is intirely new, whether it be conſidered as an alteration from, or an imitation of Shakeſpeare.

—The difficulty of ſuch an attempt, as rational as it may be, has a kind of claim, I preſume, to the indulgence of the public; eſpecially as it has been attended likewiſe with diſadvantages.—For I found myſelf neceſſitated by my plan to drop ſome characters, to contract others, and to omit ſome ſcenes and incidents of an intereſting nature;—or rather to bring the ſubſtance and purport of them within the compaſs of a few ſhort narrations.—A loſs irreparable this, but that conveniencies are likewiſe to be thrown into the oppoſite ſcale; for as, I hope, I have not injured any characters by contracting them, but have left them to all intents, and in point of importance the ſame; ſo I have had an opportunity of enlarging and improving ſome of the original parts, (thoſe particularly of Palador, and Philario, the Piſanio of Shakeſpeare) and, by varying certain incidents and circumſtances, of giving a new caſt to the whole drama.—After all, I am very far from meaning to detract from the merit of Shakeſpeare; or from inſinuating that the plays of ſo exalted a genius require ſuch [vii] new-modelling as the preſent, in order to the rendering them uſeful or entertaining.—I have ventured publicly to defend this great dramatic Poet in the liberties he has taken; but ſtill Shakeſpeare himſelf needs not be aſhamed to wear a modern dreſs, provided it can be made tolerably to fit him.

The only queſtion then will be, whether the preſent alteration be a judicious one?—And this with all due deference is left to the candour and juſtice of the public.

It will be proper to acquaint the reader, that, this play, was recommended ſome time ſince by a perſon of the firſt diſtinction, to the manager of the other theatre; who declared, that he had the very ſame altered play in his poſſeſſion, and that it was deſigned for repreſentation on his ſtage. Our Cymbeline therefore was obliged to take up his head quarters at Covent-Garden; where he has contended not only with the uſual difficulties, but alſo with others of an extraordinary nature—Mrs. Bellamy's declining the part of Imogen has done the play incredible prejudice; and convinces me of the vanity of ſtriving againſt the ſtream of popularity in general, or the weight of particular diſadvantages.—However, I am under obligations to many [viii] of the performers, for their beſt endeavours to do juſtice to my piece, and for their zeal for its ſucceſs. To ſome I am indebted for real ſervice, whoſe names, as compariſons are invidious, I leave it to the judgment of the reader to ſupply.

Upon the whole, I am at a loſs to ballance the account between myſelf and my fortune, in this whimſical ſituation. The kind aſſiſtance, and, I hope, not extremely partial approbation of ſome, adds as much to my credit and ſatisfaction, as the delicacy, or ill-nature, &c. of others, has deducted from my advantages.—To my friends, I return my ſincere acknowledgments, and beſt wiſhes; to my enemies, I ſhall ſay nothing, 'till they are candid, and ſagacious enough to ſpeak more plainly than they have hitherto done,—and more to the purpoſe.

PROLOGUE.

[]

Spoken by Mr. ROSS.

BRITONS, the daring Author of to-night,
Attempts in Shakeſpear's manly ſtile to write;
He ſtrives to copy from that mighty mind
The glowing vein—the ſpirit unconfin'd—
The figur'd diction that diſdain'd controul—
And the full vigour of the poet's ſoul!
—Happy the varied phraſe, if none ſhall call,
This imitation, that original.—
For other points, our new advent'rer tries
The bard's luxuriant plan to modernize;
And, by the rules of antient art, refine
The ſame eventful, pleaſing, bold deſign.
Our ſcenes awake not now the am'rous flame,
Nor teach ſoft ſwains to woo the tender dame;
Content, for bright example's ſake, to ſhew
A wife diſtreſs'd, and innocence in woe.—
For what remains, the poet bids you ſee,
From an old tale, what Britons ought to be;
And in theſe reſtleſs days of war's alarms,
Not melts the ſoul to love, but fires the blood to arms.
[x]
Your great forefathers ſcorn'd the foreign chain,
Rome might invade, and Caeſars rage in vain—
Thoſe glorious patterns with bold hearts purſue,
To king, to country, and to honour true!—
Oh! then with candour and good will attend,
Applaud the author in the cordial friend:
Remember, when his failings moſt appear,
It ill becomes the brave to be ſevere.—
Look ages back, and think you hear to-night
An antient poet, ſtill your chief delight!
Due to a great attempt compaſſion take,
And ſpare the modern bard for Shakeſpear's ſake.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Mrs. VINCENT.

WELL, Sirs—the bus'neſs of the day is o'er,
And I'm a princeſs, and a wife no more—
This bard of our's, with Shakeſpear in his head,
May be well-taught, but ſurely is ill-bred.
Spouſe gone, coaſt clear, wife handſome, and what not,
We might have had a much genteeler plot.
What madneſs equals true poetic rage?
Fine ſtuff! a lady in a hermitage!
A pretty manſion for the blooming fair—
No tea, no ſcandal,—no intriguing there.—
[xi] —The gay beau-monde ſuch hideous ſcenes muſt damn—
What! nothing modiſh, but one cordial dram!
—Yet after all, the poet bids me ſay,
For your own credit's ſake approve the play;
You can't for ſhame condemn old Britiſh wit,
(I hope there are no Frenchmen in the pit)
Or ſlight a timely tale, that well diſcovers,
The braveſt ſoldiers are the trueſt lovers.
Such Leonatus was, in our romance,
A gallant courtier, tho' he cou'd not dance;
Say, wou'd you gain, like him, the fair one's charms,
Firſt try your might in hardy deeds of arms;
Your muffs, your coffee, and down-beds fore-go,
Follow the mighty Pruſſia thro' the ſnow;
At length bring home the honourable ſcar,
And love's ſweet balm ſhall heal the wounds of war.
For me, what various thoughts my mind perplex?
Is't better I reſume my feeble ſex,
Or wear this manly garb? it fits me well—
Gallants inſtruct me—ladies, can you tell?
The court's divided, and the gentle beaux,
Cry—no diſguiſes—give the girl her cloaths.
The ladies ſay, to-night's example teaches,
(And I will take their words without more ſpeeches)
That things go beſt when—women wear the breeches.

Dramatis Perſonae.

[]
  • CYMBELINE, Mr. RYAN.
  • CLOTEN, Mr. CLARKE.
  • LEONATUS, Mr. ROSS.
  • PALADOR, Mr. SMITH.
  • CADWAL, Mr. LOWE.
  • BELLARIUS, Mr. SPARKES.
  • PHILARIO, Mr. RIDOUT.
  • C. LUCIUS, Mr. GIBSON.
  • PISANIO, Mr. DYER.
  • TWO LORDS.
  • IMOGEN, Mrs. VINCENT.
  • OFFICERS, SOLDIERS, &C.

SCENE, partly a Royal Caſtle, and partly in and near a Foreſt in WALES.

CYMBELINE. A TRAGEDY.

[]

ACT I.

SCENE A Royal Palace.
Enter two LORDS.
1ſt LORD.
I Pray you feaſt mine ears with more of this;
For 'tis ſo long ſince firſt I turn'd my back
Upon our iſle, that I am new in Britain.
2d LORD.
I think your wiſh to breathe in foreign air,
Took you away about the very time
The royal babes were ſtolen.
1ſt LORD.
It is true, ſir—
Some twenty years ago—'twas a ſtrange theft,
[2] But the concealment ſtranger; for you tell me,
That to this hour there is no gueſs in knowlege
Which way they went.
2d LORD.
No, ſir—albeit ſearch
Was hot in the enquiry—but much time
Has worn out all that miracle—freſh matter
Supplying wonder ſince.
1ſt LORD.
Of which my ignorance
Is not yet perfect learner.
2d LORD.
Well then, heed me.
Our late good queen (you knew her, ſir) whoſe age
Was thought t'advance beyond more hope of children,
Yet brought the joyful Cymbeline a daughter,
And to his kingdoms a moſt hopeful heir,
In lieu of thoſe he loſt: for Imogen
(Such is her name) took all the graces in,
Which the beſt wiſdom of the times put to her,
As we do air, faſt as 'tis miniſter'd.
If beauty, innocence, and gentleneſs
Are woman's rareſt jewels, ſhe is rich
In moſt full meaſure of poſſeſſion.
1ſt LORD.
You ſpeak her fair.
2d LORD.
But not to flatter, ſir,
Tho' I ſhould talk the ſun down. You have heard
[3] The bright ſide of the ſtory, for the other
It has a ſable hue—I'll be brief with it—
1ſt LORD.
Do, but be plain.
2d LORD.
The queen quits mortal being;
And Cymbeline, tho' now in wane of life,
Takes to his lonely bed a ſecond dame,
A widow, bold, ambitious, cunning, cruel,
That rul'd his heart by acting what ſhe was not:
She mov'd the cred'lous king to wed his daughter
With Cloten, her own ſon, a wretch in whom
All qualities that dub a worthy man
Are low as worſt report.—The princeſs caſt
Diſdain upon his ſuit—and in mean time
My plotting ſtepdame dies.
1ſt LORD.
A lucky death!
2d LORD.
'Twas thought ſo.—But the king, in whom this weakneſs
Is his firſt point of fault, purſues the aim
Of his now dead belov'd, and wills the maid
To take the crown with this encumbrance Cloten,
Or hold her birth-right void.
1ſt LORD.
Alas! poor lady.
2d LORD.
Nay there's more woe behind.—Sweet Imogen
Had long been liſt'ning to the earneſt ſuit
Of Leonatus, a young lord o'th' court,
[4] A valiant, frank, and honeſt gentleman,
That has no vice, if poverty be none;
And to ſay all, as much unlike to Cloten
As man can be to man.—Him in pure love,
And to undo all aims, ſhe weds, and makes
The deed ſoon known her boaſt: th'enraged king
Sends Leonatus into baniſhment,
And her within the circle of this caſtle
Enforceth to abide, till ſhe conſent
To break her bond to her new-wedded lord
By ſtrong propos'd divorce.—This is the ſum
Of what you wiſh'd to hear.
1ſt LORD.
What ſay the Britons
To theſe proceedings?
2d LORD.
As their humours vary;
Some blame the king, all pity Imogen,
And much lament the loſs of Leonatus,
Now the black Romans ſwarm upon our coaſts,
And virtue's call'd to proof.
1ſt LORD.
They're landed then!
2d LORD.
Report ſays loudly ſo.—But hiſt!—the king—
We muſt forbear, we ſhall hear more of this.
Enter CYMBELINE, CLOTEN, and Lords.
CYMBELINE,
Well, ſirs, the news abroad?
1ſt LORD.
[5]
So pleaſe your majeſty,
The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coaſt, with large ſupply
Of Roman gentry, by the ſenate ſent.
CYMBELINE.
Where hold they rendezvous?
2d LORD.
My liege, at Milford.
CYMBELINE.
Now by the ſoul of great Caſſibelan,
They're fairly welcome!—Our right valiant Britons
Will greet them ſoldier-like.—Caeſar's ambition,
Which ſwell'd ſo much that it did almoſt ſtretch
The ſides o'th' globe, againſt all colour here
Did put the yoke upon's—which to ſhake off
Becomes a warlike people, ſuch as we
Will prove ourſelves to be.
CLOTEN.
My royal father,
The dreaded foe we have to cope withal
(That in his empire's paw would gripe the world)
Oft have we meaſur'd ſwords with—ere't be long
We'll make the mighty name of Cymbeline
To ſound as roughly in a Roman ear,
As did Caſſibelan's.—
3d LORD.
My gracious liege,
Old Caius Lucius, and th'Italian ſpark
Piſanio, that was tendant at his ſide
[6] In his late miſſion from the Roman camp,
Are come, with errand of eſpecial weight
Upon their brow.
CYMBELINE.
Let them approach our preſence.
Enter C. LUCIUS, PISANIO, &c.
Lucius, we love thy perſon, tho' thou com'ſt
On deputation from our angry foe.
Piſanio, welcome too. Now, ſirs, the meſſage.
LUCIUS.
Firſt for myſelf, I thank you, royal ſir,
For courteſies receiv'd—not ſince forgot—
My preſent bus'neſs is, in Caeſar's name,
(Caeſa, that hath more kings his ſervants than
Thyſelf domeſtic officers) to know
If in repentant yielding thou wilt pay
The yearly tribute of three thouſand crowns,
Granted by fam'd Caſſibelan thine uncle,
For him and his ſucceſſion, to great Julius,
(Which by thee lately is untendered left)
Now fell confuſion ſets his ſtandard up,
And fearful wars point at you?
CYMBELINE.
Noble Lucius,
Words have no terrors—there be many Caeſars
Ere ſuch another Julius—You well know,
Till the injurious Roman did extort
This tribute, we were free.—Our Britain is
A world itſelf, and we will nothing pay
[7] For wearing our own faces—Sir, our ſubjects
Will not endure this yoke—and for ourſelf,
To ſhew leſs ſov'reignty than they, muſt needs
Appear unking-like.
LUCIUS.
Sir, when late to Britain
I came in peaceful embaſſy to claim
This yet conteſted tribute, I remember
The boaſt that fill'd your mouth—you vaunted then
The nat'ral brav'ry of your iſle, which ſtands
As Neptune's park ribbed and paled in
With rocks unſcaleable, and roaring waters,
With ſands that would not bear your enemies boats,
But ſuck them up to th' topmaſt.—We have leaped
This all-forbidding fence,—and, ſir, be ſure,
Where'er the Roman banner waves in wrath,
Conqueſt limps not behind.—
[During this ſpeech, Cloten whiſpers Piſanio.]
CYMBELINE.
Had Julius found
In ev'ry land he mangled with his ſword,
No ſtabler footing than he gain'd him here,
I could have bought his empire for a tithe
Of Britain's leaneſt ſoil.—No more of this.
To-morrow we will meet you in the field,
And this fair land is yours, if you can win it;
If not, our crows ſhall fare the better for you.
[8] Caius, thou'rt welcome: give him tendance, lords,
And feaſt him as befits his quality;
The due of honour in no point omit.
Once more my hand in friendſhip; from this time
I wear it as your enemy.
LUCIUS.
Th' event
Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.
[Exeunt Lucius, Piſanio, and ſome Lords.
CYMBELINE.
Our expectation that it ſhould be thus
Hath made us forward. Cloten, our now heir,
(For the baſe Imogen our ſometime daughter
Has loſt all right in us) if ſo it hap
That I muſt leave my life in battle, thine
Is this imperial crown.—Great Jupiter
Sprinkle his bleſſings on't as thou obey'ſt
Our ſov'reign charge.—Hear us moſt heedily.
CLOTEN.
I do; and will the royal mandate keep
'Mongſt my religious bonds.
CYMBELINE.
Let not our daughter
Breathe more the chearful air of liberty;
This caſtle be her home, houſe, region, world,
Till ſhe ſhall ſue thee for the love ſhe ſcorn'd:
And Leonatus, exil'd, worthleſs beggar,
That vilely did ſeduce her young affections,
If with his foot he mark our land again,
[9] Purſue to bitt'reſt death.—So did we promiſe
Thy mother, our late queen, whoſe memory yet
Sits freſh upon my heart. Wilt thou do this?
CLOTEN.
My liege, moſt willingly.
CYMBELINE.
Then I've laid out
So much of caution well.—Lords, we muſt buſtle—
It is the common cauſe that wakes our arms—
We grapple for our own;—the puny wren
Will chafe him in his thief-aſſailed neſt:
We fight for Britain's franchiſes, the laws
Of old Mulmutius, our great anceſtor,
The firſt of Britain, which did put his brows
Within a golden crown.
CLOTEN.
Thoſe laws, great ſir,
We will not change for Caeſar's proud beheſts
That rules by bidding.
CYMBELINE.
Deal we then our ſwords
With dextrous reſolution; or hereafter
Let them hang up, like utenſils diſcharg'd,
In ruſty ſloth, and vile diſuſe for ever.
The gore-beſmeared Mars infuſe his fury
Into our ſoldiers breaſts; for our own ſelf
We go to battle with a blither heart,
Than ere did jovial bridegroom long repuls'd,
Into his miſtreſs' bed. Sound there aloft
[10] Our inſtruments of war, that Britiſh bloods
May boil to martial muſic. Forward, paſs.
[Flouriſh. Exeunt all but Cloten.]
Thanks to my mother for this joyleſs crown—
It fills not half my wiſh: while Leonatus
Reigns in the boſom of fair Imogen,
'Tis I am baniſh'd, and a ſov'reign he:
Wou'd I cou'd pluck their loves up by the roots!
And I am ſtrong in hope—if young Piſanio
(Whom I made mine by making myſelf Caeſar's
When he was laſt in Britain) hath been true
To the employ I gave him, long ere now
The jealous exile pines him in belief
His lady's truth is tainted.—Come, Piſanio—
He ſaid, he'd quit the train, and here return
T'unlade his ſecrets to me.—Oh! ſir, welcome!
Enter PISANIO.
What ſhall I aſk thee firſt?—How fares Auguſtus?
Is Leonatus mad? Thou might'ſt have told
A hiſtory ere this.
PISANIO.
I pray you patience—
Firſt, ſir, my lord commends him to your highneſs;
Next, the diſeaſed Leonatus hath
Italian fits of jealouſy too ſtrong
For hellebore to cure.
CLOTEN.
[11]
That's well—his grief
Is medicine to mine; but when, and how?
Give me particulars at large—my ear
Shall catch thy narrative as greedily,
As doth the ſick man the kind drops that fall
Upon his fever's flame.
PISANIO.
My lord, as ſoon
As I had foot in Italy, I challeng'd
Th' abuſed Leonatus with ſome friends
To the appointment of a merry meeting;
Where, as the wine danc'd brainward, I began
To praiſe the freedom of the Britiſh ladies,
Their lib'ral hearts, and am'rous 'compliſhments;
When Leonatus vow'd I did them wrong,
And was too bold in my perſuaſion.
CLOTEN.
So.
PISANIO.
I faſt held me to my ſentiment,
And, for his doubt provok'd me, ſwore myſelf
Had taſted half the court, and his own princeſs,
(Whoſe virtue he had deem'd unparagon'd)
At her own ſuit in bed.
CLOTEN.
Moſt brave, brave Roman!
PISANIO.
On this the Briton vaults me from his ſeat,
And bids my ready ſword avow th' affront
Done his pure lady's honour—I with looks
[12] Of calm aſſurance, and arms folded thus,
Wiſh'd him attend my proofs. This fair propoſal
Had ſanction from all ſides, and liquor'd noddles
Joſtled to hear my tale.
CLOTEN.
Why ſo—Proceed.
PISANIO.
Firſt, roundly I deſcrib'd her bed-chamber,
The arras, cieling, pictures; (for of theſe
I took moſt faithful inventory, when
I lay concealed there); then I produc'd
The bracelet that I raviſh'd from her arm,
As ſleep, the ape of death, lay dull upon her;
And laſt I quoted the cinque-ſpotted mole
That richly ſtains her breaſt, like crimſon drops
I'th'bottom of a cowſlip.
CLOTEN.
There was voucher
Stronger than ever law made.—Well, ſir, what
To this the Briton?
PISANIO.
He was quite beſides
The government of patience—He roll'd round
His bloodſhot eyes, ſtamp'd with his foot, and writh'd
His form into all poſtures; ſtrove to ſpeak,
And chatter'd monkey-like;—at length, his choler
Burſt into utt'rance raſh—'tis well, he cried,
The fiends of hell divide themſelves between you—
[13] And ſo without more ceremony, left
Our board, to caſt conjectures, as they might,
Whereto his fury tended.
CLOTEN.
Thanks, Piſanio;
Saw you him ſince?
PISANIO.
No; but the rumour was,
Ere I left Rome, that he had turn'd his thought
To bloody purpoſe of revenge.
CLOTEN.
'Tis good—
Piſanio, I did love this lady—lie
I ſhould not, if I ſaid I love her ſtill—
O ſhe is ſweeter than the breath of ſpring
Wooing the maiden violet—'tis paſt—
And I have loſt her.
PISANIO.
She hath wrong'd you.
CLOTEN.
True—
She hath diſdain'd me—ſpurn'd me—once ſhe vow'd,
The meaneſt garment that e'er clip'd the body
Of Leonatus, was in her reſpect
Dearer than all the hairs upon my head,
Were they all made ſuch men.—The ſouthfog rot
Him, her, and Caeſar's foes.
PISANIO.
[14]
Thou wiſheſt well.—
This Leonatus is a thorn, my lord,
That pricks your ſide of greatneſs. If he 'ſcape
The ſnare that traps him now, and haply live
To recognize his country and his queen,
Your crown will totter—for the lady keeps
High ſeat in ev'ry heart; and for her huſband,
(I ſpeak in envy this) thro' Italy
Tongues quarrel in his praiſe; the current voice is,
So fair an outward, and ſuch inward ſtuff,
Endows no man but him.
CLOTEN.
I prythee ſtop—
Was he not yok'd with Imogen, myſelf
Could make my tongue a bankrupt in his praiſe;
But being what he is, I muſt abhor him:
I have no other hate than what I bear
Him, and his fortunes; for his kinder ſtars
Have ſtill eclipſed mine: but I will ſhroud me
Beneath the Roman wing—Britain, thou haſt
Loud ſervice of my tongue; my heart is Caeſar's,
Of whom I'll hold my crown; theſe reſtif Britons
We muſt have curb upon; leſt gall'd ſubjection
Feeling the heavy laſh of government,
Fly off from his obedience.
PISANIO.
Caeſar bad me
Inſure his count'nance, and puiſſant arm,
Who will attack your right—
CLOTEN.
[15]
We're bound to him.
Sir, I will poſt me in th'approaching battle,
Where leaſt our Britiſh archers may annoy
The Roman legions.
PISANIO.
It is well—but hiſt—
Who is't comes yonder?
CLOTEN.
'Tis Philario, friend
And council-man to Leonatus; beſt
Abruptly part we here, as chance alone
Had brought us thus together.
[Exeunt ſeverally.
Enter PHILARIO.
The four-brow'd Cloten!—It is wide ſuſpicion
Thou wear'ſt cold Britiſh heart, and this rencounter
With young Piſanio colours it more ſtrong.
But I have other care.—He writes me here,
(Pulling out letters.)
In ſpleenful terms of moſt confirm'd belief,
That he hath cognizance of her incontinence;
And wills me, by the love and truth I owe him,
To murther her.—Perhaps ſome falſe Italian
Hath the infection of foul ſlander pour'd
In his too ready ear.—Perhaps ſhe's fall'n.—
She's fair,—that's much;—ſhe's young,—that's more.—I hold
The virtue of the beſt attemptable.—
I muſt proceed with wary ſteps herein.—
[16] Here's that will 'tice her from her priſon-houſe,
Or for true love, or ſeeming.—I will ſteal
This way to her apartment.
[Exit.
SCENE opens, and diſcovers Imogen in her apartment, ſitting by a table; a book on the table.
A father cruel, and a ſuitor baſe,
A baniſh'd huſband too—O that's the grief
That gives the deepeſt wound.—Then am I ſure
The ſhes of Italy will not betray
Mine int'reſt, and his honour?—Wicked fear!
Where he abides, falſhood is out of faſhion,
And truth the law to action.—Hark! the clock!
(Clock ſtrikes.)
'Tis the tenth hour of morn—the very time
I bad him think on me, and combat heav'n
With prayers, as I would do.—O bleſs him Gods,
And ſweeten all his cares with drops of comfort.
—Now to my book—Philoſophy, beſt doctor,
Thou wiſely doſt preſcribe to human woe
The lenitive of patience.—
(Reads.)
Enter PHILARIO.
There ſhe ſits—
Sweet ſtudent! with a look as chaſte as Dian's.—
If ſhe's diſloyal, falſhood never yet
Hung out ſo fair a ſign—yet ſeems, we know,
Is often read for is—I muſt diſturb her—
Imogen—lady—
IMOGEN.
[17]
Hah! what now, Philario?
PHILARIO.
Dear lady, here are letters from your lord—
IMOGEN.
From whom? from Leonatus?—Let me ſee—
Oh! learn'd indeed were that aſtronomer,
That knew the ſtars as I his characters—
He'd lay the future open—You good Gods,
Let what is here contain'd reliſh of love;
Of my lord's health; of his content; yet not
That we two are apart—of his content
In all but that—good wax, thy leave—bleſt bees
That make theſe locks of counſel—Good news, Gods.
PHILARIO.
Now let me con her viſage as ſhe reads—
IMOGEN.

(Reading) Juſtice and your father's wrath, ſhould he take me in his dominions, could not be ſo cruel to me, but you, oh! the deareſt of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am at Milford Haven; what your own love will out of this adviſe you, follow. So he wiſhes you all happineſs, that remains loyal to his vow, and yours increaſing in love, LEONATUS.

Oh! for a horſe with wings—hear'ſt thou, Philario,
He is at Milford Haven—prithee tell me
[18] How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a day, why may not I
Glide thither in an hour? Then, good Philario,
Who long'ſt like me to ſee thy friend; who long'ſt
(O let me bate) but not like me, yet long'ſt,
But in a fainter kind—Oh! not like me—
For mine's beyond, beyond—tell me how far
To this ſame bleſſed Milford; and by the way
Tell me how Wales was made ſo happy as
T'inherit ſuch a haven. But firſt of all,
How may we ſteal from hence? I prithee ſpeak
How far to Milford?
PHILARIO.
Madam, we may reach it,
With horſes ſwift and ſure of foot, before
The ſun has ended his day's journey.
IMOGEN.
Well—
But how to get from hence—
PHILARIO.
I have a thought—
Lady, a thouſand eyes keep centinel
To watch your motions here—yet haply theſe
Unqueſtion'd we may paſs—ſuppoſe you did
Aſſume another mien, and but diſguiſe
That, which t'appear itſelf muſt not now be
But by ſelf-danger—cannot you awhile
Forget to be a woman?
IMOGEN.
I'm almoſt
A man already.
PHILARIO.
[19]
Make yourſelf but like one,
And ev'ry gate ſhall kindly open to us,
Tho' Argus' ſelf were porter.
IMOGEN.
In my cloſet
I have a ſuit of boy's apparel ready,
That was my page's—under which diſguiſe,
And with what imitation I can borrow
From youth of ſuch a ſeaſon, I will quit
This caſtle's loathſome hold.
PHILARIO.
You are reſolv'd then
To tie yourſelf to Leonatus' fortune,
And leave your father and the court behind you?
IMOGEN.
No court, no father now—(for what's a father
Whoſe mind my crafty ſtepdame poiſon'd, that
Bore all down with her brain) no, nor no more
Of that harſh, ſullen, haughty, princeling Cloten,
That Cloten, whoſe love-ſuit has been to me
As fearful as a ſiege.
PHILARIO.
Hie to your chamber,
And fit you to your manhood—dull delay
Is ſin 'gainſt reſolution.
IMOGEN.
I am arm'd
Ev'n for events of peril infinite,
And woman's love is courage.
PHILARIO.
[20]
I will hence,
And able horſe and furniture prepare
For this adventure: I'll be with you, lady,
Before you're well equipp'd.
IMOGEN.
Do, good Philario:
The gracious Gods direct us!
[Exeunt ſeverally.
End of the Firſt ACT.

ACT II.

[21]
SCENE The Caſtle.
Enter CLOTEN and LORDS.
1ſt LORD.
IN truth, my lord, her throwing favours on
So low a thing as Leonatus is,
Slanders her judgment much; it doth ſubſtract
From her elſe princely qualities—
CLOTEN.
I think ſo—
2d LORD.
Is there a ſpell in Leonatus' name?
What is he in his perſon, nature, fortune,
That you are not, and more?—Say, is he young?
You reap'd your chin ſince he did—is he valiant?
By Mars, you fear him not—handſome? you read
Your faithful glaſs with more content than he—
For birth and fortune the proportion is
As top to th' bottom.
CLOTEN.
Oh! your pardon, ſir,
His lady's ſmile has tutor'd him a pride
[22] That ranks him with the higheſt—and though Rome
His body holds, he hath a heart and hope
In Britain ſtill; which nothing can cut off,
But ſomething that may give a mortal wound
Or to his life, or love.
Enter CYMBELINE, and other Lords.
1ſt LORD.
My lord, the king.
CYMBELINE.
Await you here our daughter, noble Cloten?
Will ſhe not forth?
CLOTEN.
She will vouchſafe no notice.
CYMBELINE.
The exile of her minion is too new,
She hath not yet forgot him: ſome more time
May wear the print of his remembrance out,
And then ſhe's yours.
CLOTEN.
Never, I fear, my lord.
O I have proved her heart impregnable;
I ſhould, my liege, your patience overſtretch
To tell in courſe the labours of my love;
Denials but increas'd my ſervices;
I have put by my nature, crouch'd and fawn'd;
I ſeem'd as if inſpir'd to do the duties
I tender'd to her; if ſhe had forſworn
All commerce with mankind, I'd been content;
[23] But Leonatus' ſuit had witchcraft in't,
While mine ſhe heard as does the ruthleſs rock
The drowning ſeaman's moan.
CYMBELINE.
It muſt be humour:
The ſtubborn tendency of woman's will,
Still pliant or reſiſting 'gainſt all rules
Of virtue and diſcretion—Let her ſuffer—
I have a child in thee—
CLOTEN.
A thankful one.
CYMBELINE.
Call her before us, ſirs, (exeunt Lords) for we would make
A laſt demand to her unduteous ſpirit,
Ere yet we take the field—and here we ſwear
By the great ſov'reign of th' immortal Gods,
If ſhe conſent not fully to the act,
Whereby we late have ſentenc'd her divorce
From that baſe ſlave, whoſe vileneſs muſt not ſoil
The luſtre of our crown, we reconfirm
Our royal grant to thee, adopted ſon
Of our dear love; and her blot out for ever
From all connection with our blood, and title
To this imperial diadem—How now?
Re-enter Lords.
1ſt LORD.
So pleaſe you, ſir, her chambers all are lock'd,
Nor anſwer will be given to the noiſe
Our loudeſt clamours make.
CYMBELINE.
[24]
Hah! fled! eſcap'd!
How may this be?—Cloten, the guard is yours—
Have you not ſurety of their faith?
CLOTEN.
My liege,
They are the pick'd of my affection, and
I ſtand amaz'd at this.
CYMBELINE.
Where is Philario?
2d LORD.
My liege, ſome two hours ſince, I ſaw him take
The road that windeth round the caſtle grove,
And by his ſide a comely youth that ſeem'd
A page o'th' court.
CYMBELINE.
My life it muſt be ſhe;
Wing'd with the fervor of her love ſhe's flown
To Leonatus, and Philario is
The pander of her folly. We're abus'd;
All Italy in arms would hurt us leſs
Than what aggrieves us here—Our dear ſon Cloten,
Head thou the ſearch for theſe vile runagates,
With thy beſt faculties of diligence;
Then follow to the field—We muſt be gone;
But we will carry our diſpleaſure with us,
And Rome ſhall feel we're angry.—Come away.
[Exeunt.
[25] Manet CLOTEN with ſome Lords.
To horſe, ſirs—mark me—I am dead to love,
And vengeance ſpeeds me now.
[Exit with Lords.
SCENE A Foreſt, and a Cave at a diſtance.
Enter from the Cave BELLARIUS, PALADOR, and CADWAL.
BELLARIUS.
It is a goodly ſky—Stoop, boys, this gate
Inſtructs you how t'adore the heavens, and bows you
To ev'ning's holy office. Gates of monarchs
Are arch'd ſo high that giants may juſt thro',
And keep their impious turbands on without
Obeiſance to the ſun—Hail! thou fair heav'n,
We houſe i' th' rock, yet uſe thee not ſo hardly
As prouder livers do.
PALADOR.
Hail heav'n!
CADWAL.
Hail heav'n!
BELLARIUS.
Our life, my boys, is ſuch as mortals led
Ere living was an art. The buſy knaves
That clatter in yon world, are mad to purchaſe
Honour with danger; wealth with envy; pleaſure
With manifold infirmity; while we,
Poor in poſſeſſion, in enjoyment rich,
Have no more wants than means; our av'rice is not
[26] Wider than are our ſtomachs; our ambition,
Who firſt ſhall ſcale the ſteepy mountain's cliff,
Or ſtrike the deſtin'd veniſon; this is life,
And health, the life of life.
CADWAL.
My rev'rend father,
Out of your proof you ſpeak—we, poor unfledged,
Have never wing'd from view o' th' neſt, nor know
What air's from home; haply this life is beſt,
If quiet life is beſt; ſweeter to you
That have a ſharper known.
PALADOR.
What ſhall we ſpeak of,
When we are old as you? When we ſhall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December, how
In this our pinching cave ſhall we diſcourſe
The freezing hours away? We have ſeen nothing—
We're beaſtly; ſubtle as the fox for prey;
Like valiant as the wolf for what we eat;
Our courage is to chace what flies; our cage
We make a choir as doth the priſon'd bird,
And ſing our bondage freely.
BELLARIUS.
How you ſpeak?
Did you but know the cities' uſuries,
The art o' th' court, the toil of war that goes
In queſt of honeſt fame, yet dies i'th'ſearch,
And hath as oft a ſland'rous epitaph
As record of fair act; did you know this
[27] How would you ſmile in ſolitude—Oh! boys,
The ſharded beetle is in ſafer hold
Than is the full-wing'd eagle—I was once
Firſt with the beſt of note—Cymbeline lov'd me,
And when a ſoldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off—Then was I as a tree
Whoſe boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night
A ſtorm, or robb'ry, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay my leaves,
And left me bare to weather.
PALADOR.
Uncertain favour!
BELLARIUS.
My fault was nothing, (as I oft have told you)
But that two villains, ſland'ring my fair honour,
Swore me confed'rate with the Romans: ſo
Follow'd my baniſhment; and theſe twenty years—
This rock, and theſe demeſnes have been my world;
Where I have liv'd at honeſt freedom; paid
More pious debts to heaven than in all
The fore-end of my time—but up to the woods—
This is not hunter's language—He who brings
The largeſt fardle home is lord o'th'feaſt.
CADWAL.
Come, Palador—
[Exeunt Pal. and Cad.
BELLARIUS.
I'll meet you in the valleys.
Thou divine nature, how thyſelf thou blazon'ſt
[28] In theſe two princely boys! O Cymbeline!
Thy ſons, tho' train'd thus meanly up among
Theſe deſart rocks, have lofty thoughts that hit
The roofs of palaces—'tis wonderful
That an inviſible inſtinct ſhould frame them
To royalty unlearn'd, honour untaught,
Civility not ſeen from others, valour
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop,
As if it had been ſow'd.—Well—I muſt after—
[Exit
SCENE Another part of the Foreſt.
Enter PHILARIO, and IMOGEN in boy's clothes.
IMOGEN.
Thou told'ſt me when we came from home, the place
Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd his mother ſo
To ſee him firſt, as I do now. Where are we?
Here is no path, no proof of habitation;
And, but we tread on ſolid earth, methinks
We're out o'th' bounds o'th' world—I pray, Philario,
Where doſt thou lead me? It will ſoon be night,
For ſee the lamp of Phoebus is nigh quench'd
In Thetis' watry boſom.—
PHILARIO.
Madam, here
Our journey ends.
IMOGEN.
Here! where is Leonatus?
PHILARIO.
[29]
Lady, at Rome—'twere treaſon to be here.
IMOGEN.
Alas! what means this coldneſs of reply?
Haſt thou abus'd me with a forged letter?
Where is my lord; Philario?—What's the matter?
Why offer'ſt thou that paper to me with
A look untender? how! my huſband's hand!
Quick ſlay, or cure me outright.
PHILARIO.
Pleaſe you, read,
And you ſhall find the duty I am bound to.
IMOGEN reads.

My wife, Philario, hath play'd the ſtrumpet in my bed; the teſtimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I ſpeak not out of weak ſurmiſes, but from proof, as ſtrong as my grief, and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part, thou, Philario, muſt act for me; Let thine own hand take away her life; I ſhall give thee opportunity in the road to Milford: my letter is for that purpoſe to her: ſo, if thou fear to ſtrike, and to certify it is done, thou haſt broken thy vows, and art a traitor to friendſhip.

(Imogen drops the letter, ſtands ſilent, and in the utmoſt conſternation.)

PHILARIO.
Is her amazement innocent or guilty?
Tell me ſome God,—for ſure a mortal wit
May elſe miſconſtrue ſuch perplexity.—
(Aſide.)
Madam, what cheer? are you prepar'd to die?
IMOGEN.
[30]
I falſe! I falſe to's bed? have I been chaſte
As ſnows that ſun-beam never kiſt, for this?
Gods! have I left my father's gilded roof,
The rights of birth, the largeſſes of fortune,
The pageants of pre-eminence, and all
That womanhood is ſaid to doat on, yea
And womanhood itſelf?—have I left theſe,
No jewel taken with me but my honour,
To hear I'm falſe? oh! oh!
PHILARIO.
She heeds me not.—
IMOGEN.
Falſe to his bed? what is it to be falſe?
To lie in watch there, and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if ſleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
And cry myſelf awake?—that falſe to's bed!
PHILARIO.
What ſhall I do? I muſt be home to th' point.
(Aſide.)
Lady, I ſtand not here to try your cauſe:
I am your executioner:—your judge,
My friend, to whom I've ſworn all offices,
Appoints me to this deed;—if thou art guilty,
I hold the ſword of juſtice; if guilt-free,
Thy blood muſt light on Leonatus' head—
One pray'r and I diſpatch.—
IMOGEN.
That paper, Sir,
[31] Hath done the bus'neſs: You may ſheath your ſword;—
I've heard I am a ſtrumpet, and my heart
Therein falſe ſtruck, can take no greater wound,
Nor tent to bottom that.
PHILARIO.
O yet bethink you—
With what a weight deſcends the guilty ſoul,
Sunk with a load of unrepented crimes?
For ſuch th' infernal miniſters prepare
The darkeſt cells of Erebus.
IMOGEN.
Nay, preach not,
But do thy work—and when thou ſeeſt my lord,
A little witneſs my obedience;—look—
Smiling I meet thy angry ſword—come, hit
Th' innocent manſion of my love, my heart—
Prythee, diſpatch—Is that the ſtern Philario,
That came on murder's errand?—Strike—for now
The lamb intreats the butcher.
PHILARIO.
O that look
Would out-face proof.
(Aſide.)
Hence thou vile inſtrument,
Thou ſhalt not damn my hand.—
(Throws down the ſword.)
It cannot be
But that my friend's abus'd—ſome crafty villain
That's ſing'lar in his art, hath done you both
This curſed injury.—O thou vip'rous ſlander,
[32] Thy edge is ſharper than the murd'rous ſword;
Thy tongue out-venoms all the worms of Nile;
Thy breath, that rides upon the poſting winds,
Belies all corners of the world.—I'll ſpeak
As from moſt firm conviction of her virtue,
To probe her ſtill more deeply—I have yet
More teſt to put her to.
(Aſide.)
IMOGEN.
Alas! Philario,
Some jay of Italy, with painted feathers,
Hath robb'd me of his heart; poor I am ſtale;
A caſt-off robe; a garment out of faſhion;
And, for I'm richer than to hang by th' wall,
I muſt be ript—to pieces with me—oh!
Men's vows are women's traitors.
PHILARIO.
If it be ſo,
(As I confeſs it doth provoke belief)
The face of virtue ſhall from hence be thought
The maſk of villainy; and Leonatus
Hath laid the level to all proper men;
Goodly and gallant ſhall be falſe and perjur'd,
From his great fall.
IMOGEN.
Take up thy ſword, Philario,
Behold my breaſt obedient as the ſcabbard.—
I liv'd but to one end, to do his pleaſure,
And to that end would die.—
PHILARIO.
O gracious lady,
Since I receiv'd command to do this bus'neſs,
[33] I ſcarce have ſlept one wink.
IMOGEN.
Do't, and to bed then.
PHILARIO.
I'll wake mine eye-balls blind firſt. No, thou ſweeteſt,
If he hath ſtain'd his loyalty, his mind
Is now as low to thine, as were his fortunes.—
What! ſhall his vileneſs batteries erect
To ſhake thy fort of innocence?—Live, lady,
To kill him with thine eye—he ſhall be told
That I have done his bidding, and awhile
You in ſome reſidence obſcure ſhall 'bide,
As is thy preſent habit.—Come, let's hence.
Sure this diſcourſe hath much bewilder'd me,
Or we have march'd too wide.—Fortune befriend us,
Elſe we have far to ſupper.—This way, lady.—
[Exeunt.
SCENE the Cave.
Enter BELLARIUS.
My meditation hath miſguided me,
And I have miſs'd the boys. They'll not return,
Tho' all the elements ſhould be at war,
'Till darkneſs ſends 'em home. O Cymbeline,
When thou ſhalt ſee thy royal progeny,
(As I do mean with the firſt 'vantage to
Render thee back theſe youths) thou ſhalt confeſs
[34] Thy loſs was gain, and thank calamity.
Hah! who are theſe?
Enter PHILARIO and IMOGEN.
What chance cou'd wind their ſteps
Thus far from all ſociety? 'tis ſtrange!
IMOGEN.
(ſeeing him)
O look, Philario, look—what rev'rend figure
Is this approaches? In his viſage ſits
The treaſur'd wiſdom of an hundred years—
The ſages of old time are pictur'd thus;
Accoſt him, good Philario; for his preſence
Awes my unſkilful heart.
PHILARIO.
Grave hermit, hail!
Pardon, old man, our ignorant intruſion,
Upon your venerable ſolitude.
I, and my nephew here, are bound for Milford,
And chance wide ſtraying from our way to night,
Have light upon your lonely habitation.
BELLARIUS.
Thou haſt a gracious favour—for this youngling,
The dimpled God that holds the cup to Jove
Is ſecond to him.—You are welcome, ſirs—
If you can ſhape your fancy to your needs,
The wholeſome viands of a homely board,
That bloated luxury ne'er cater'd to,
Shall be moſt freely yours. Your names, beſeech you?
PHILARIO.
[35]
Philario, ſir—this gentle youths' Fidele.—
BELLARIUS.
Why once more welcome—this low roof's your home,
While 'tis worth owning.—I've two ſons, whoſe age
Will yoke in followſhip with yours, Fidele—
Philario mates with me—tarry awhile,
And purge your lungs of the foul air o'th' city,
Or of the court, for that is ſickly too—
O! I have liv'd to make the pop'lous world
A ſtock for laughter.
IMOGEN.
Uncle, we have found
Delightful lodging, and a gracious hoſt—
This good old father's greeting ſooths my ſpirit,
Faint with this long day's march.
PHILARIO.
Look here, Fidele—
I have a cordial of eſpecial proof,
I pray thee drink it off—it is a drug
That three times hath my father's life redeem'd
From the arreſt of death. It has more virtue
Than I ſhall tell you now.
(Aſide.)
IMOGEN drinks.
Uncle, I thank you.
BELLARIUS.
Here come my boys.—Sirs, ſtand aſide awhile;
How will they take this novelty? they ne'er
Saw mortal but their mother, and myſelf.
[36] Enter PALADOR and CADWAL.
You, Cadwal, are beſt woodman, and are nam'd,
The maſter of the feaſt—hah! what are theſe?
Go not near, Cadwal—they are Gods that come
In viſitation to our hermitage—
The eldeſt is God Pan; the other ſeems
Like ſwift-leg'd Mercury, or the God of Love,
Dreſt in his mother's ſmiles.—Down, Cadwal, down
On knees of adoration, and beſeech
Propitious aſpect from their deities—
Hear us immortal pow'rs.—
(Kneels.)
BELLARIUS.
Riſe up my boys:
Theſe are but mortals like ourſelves, made up
Of the ſame ſtuff as we—when we have ſupp'd,
We will enlarge our conference.
PALADOR.
Are they men?
By the puiſſant Jove they're noble ones—
I long to commune with 'em—for that youth
My heart is high in ſudden palpitation—
Methinks I love him neither more nor leſs,
Cadwal, than I do thee.
CADWAL.
Ev'n ſo ſays Cadwal.
IMOGEN.
Uncle, I have a tender feeling too,
That yearns on theſe fair ſtrangers—I had once
Two brothers, whom the hand of early fate
[37] Snatch'd from the world—If they had liv'd, I think
They had been like this gentle pair.—Sweet youths,
May I not call you brothers?
PALADOR.
Ay, moſt freely.
And, ſir, if you are uncle to our brother,
You ſtand in kin to us—I pray, good father,
Let him be tutor to us: we would learn
The myſtery of life; the art of war;
The policy of kings; the rules of ſtates;
Will you inſtruct us? we are ign'rant yet
What drawing breath is good for.
PHILARIO.
Theſe young plants
Are of the kindeſt growth my eyes e're ſaw—
Why, who would dream this barren deſart here
A nurſery of demi-gods?
BELLARIUS.
Enough;
Vice is the child of praiſe; my boys are ſuch
As nature made them, and ſhe made 'em not
For art to marr; but let us in to ſupper—
Our appetites ſhall make what's homely, ſav'ry:
We eat for health, and riſe before the ſun,
Silvers the mountain ſhrubs.—Come, boys conduct
Your new compeer.—Philario, you are mine.—
PALADOR.
The night to th' owl, and morn to th' lark leſs welcome.
[Exeunt into the cave.
End of the Second ACT.

ACT. III.

[38]
Enter PHILARIO from the Cave.
HOW reſtleſs is this thinking! welcome day!
Now I ſhall ſift her thoroughly—for what's paſt
Little hangs on it—were ſhe true and artleſs,
Thus would ſhe'have; if falſe and artful, thus—
She ſhall be told in words as ſtrong and hateful,
As earneſtneſs can make 'em, what ſhe drank
Is deadly to all ſenſe, as for a time
It is, to full effect.—'Tis a rare drug
That locks the ſpirits up in ſhew of death,
To be more freſh reviving—Dread of death
Shall force me out the truth; fraud will be honeſt
Itſelf thus over-reach'd—but hiſt, Bellarius.
Enter BELLARIUS.
Our courtiers ſay all's ſavage but at court—
How does this hoſpitable rock, Bellarius,
Give 'em the lie?
BELLARIUS.
Our minds muſt not be meaſur'd
By this rude place we live in—You are rouz'd
Before the hunter's hour—Could you not ſleep
Upon your bed of moſs?
PHILARIO.
[39]
Ay, ſir, as ſoundly
As cradled infancy.
BELLARIUS.
Your chamber was
The beſt o'th' houſe—For us we often make
The ſtar-wrought sky our teſter—Wearineſs
Can ſnore upon the flint, when reſty ſloth
Finds the down pillow hard—what think you, ſir,
Of this our way of life?
PHILARIO.
It is unknown,
And therefore envied not—our courtly great ones
May bluſh at their high breeding; here's the place
Where virtue teaches ſchool—are your ſons up?
By Jove multipotent there's not a couple,
Whoſe praiſe fame trumpets with her loud'ſt O yes,
That can out-peer theſe twain—they ſeem as gentle
As Zephyrs blowing 'neath the hyacinth,
Not wagging his ſweet head, and yet as rough
(Their ſprightly blood by a good tale once warm'd)
As the rude wind that by the top doth take
The mountain pine, and make him ſtoop to th' vale.—
BELLARIUS.
Why, thou haſt mark'd them well—Lo! where they come,
And with 'em your Fidele.
[40] Enter PALADOR, CADWAL, and IMOGEN.
BELLARIUS.
So, my boys,
Are you devotions to the morning ſtar
With ſolemn homage paid?
PALADOR.
They are, my father.
BELLARIUS.
What ſays Fidele? Can he like a court
No bigger than this cave?
IMOGEN.
Believe me, ſir,
The partnerſhip of labour here, is richer
Than golden honours there.
CADWAL.
I've ſaid I love thee—
I cannot ſay how much, but ſure as much
As I do love my father—
BELLARIUS.
What? How? How?
PALADOR.
If it be ſin to ſay ſo, ſir, I join me
In my good brother's fault—I know not why
I love this youth, and I have heard you ſay
Love reaſons without reaſon. Fate at door,
And a demand who is't ſhall die, I'd ſay
My father, not this youth—
BELLARIUS.
'Tis wonderful:
Does inſtinct tell them I am not their father?
(Aſide.)
[41] Well—to the field—tis the fourth hour o'th' morn.
Philario, and Fidele will remain
Here in the cave—We'll come to you after hunting;
Or are you for our ſport?
IMOGEN.
I am not well—
A ſudden lazineſs creeps o'er my ſenſes,
As if fatigue acknowledg'd no repair
By this nights' ſleep—
PHILARIO.
The drug begins to work—
(Aſide.)
PALADOR.
Go you to hunting—I'll abide with him.
IMOGEN.
No—to your journal courſe—the breach of cuſtom
Is breach of all—My uncle will ſtay here—
Farewel—I wiſh you ſport—I ſhall be well
By your return—
ALL.
We'll not be long away.—
[Exeunt Bellarius, Palador, and Cadwal.
PHILARIO.
Theſe are kind creatures, lady.
IMOGEN.
On my life
I'd change my ſex to be companion with 'em,
Since my dear lord is falſe.
PHILARIO.
I would confer
Once more upon that theme.
IMOGEN.
[42]
I'm ſick already;
And would you miniſter freſh pain, Philario?
PHILARIO.
Come—I'll no more diſſemble—you are known
Falſe to your baniſh'd lord.
IMOGEN.
What hear I, Gods!
PHILARIO.
The truth, the killing truth—art not aſham'd?
—But ſhame is maſculine—Could I find out
The woman's part in me—for there's no motion
That tends to vice in man, but I affirm
It is the woman's part; be't lying, note it,
The woman's flatt'ring, yours; deceiving, yours;
Luſt and rank thoughts, yours, yours; revenges, yours;
Ambition; covetings; change of prides; diſdain;
Nice longings; ſlanders; mutability;
All faults that may be nam'd, nay, that hell knows,
Why yours in part, or all; but rather all—
For ev'n to vice
You are not conſtant, but are changing ſtill
One vice but of a minute old, for one
Not half ſo old as that.
IMOGEN.
Am I awake?
Or have you ſenſes perfect?
PHILARIO.
[43]
'Tis enough—
I have atchieved more than er'e did Julius,
And will be chronicled 'mongſt thoſe wiſe few
That have out-craftied woman.
IMOGEN.
You amaze me.
PHILARIO.
Oh! no more fooling—I have proof that tells
The time, the place, the—fie upon it, lady,
It wounds my modeſty to quote the deeds
That coſt thee not a bluſh.
IMOGEN.
Blaſphemer, hold!
Thou art in league with perjur'd Leonatus,
And doſt traduce a lady that deſpiſes
Malice and thee like.
PHILARIO.
Go [...]o—you're naught—
IMOGEN.
Villain, your proof? Why ſtand you idle thus?
If thou do'ſt ſee a ſpeck upon my honour,
Prick at it with the ſword, your juſt remorſe
E'en now let drop.
PHILARIO.
Miſtake not, lady mine,
Remorſe was counterfeit, my purpoſe real;
I found you paſt all grace, and did commence
Cunning in my revenge; your puniſhment
[44] Were nothing if not ſuch; you have your death,
Yet never felt his ſting.
IMOGEN.
What ſays Philario!
PHILARIO.
O now you tremble like a guilty ſoul
Beneath the furies laſh—now you would pour
A deluge of ſalt grief to waſh your crimes—
It is too late, thou haſt out-liv'd repentance—
That draught was tinctured with a mortal juice,
And he that drinks an acron on't, is ſerv'd,
As I would ſerve a dog.
IMOGEN.
Sir, my ſurprize
Reliſhes not of fear.—This is a cure
Which you do call a chaſtiſement—I feel
The death thou ſpeak'ſt of curdling in my veins.—
How ſweetly do they ſleep whom ſorrow wakes not!
Farewel—my innocence is ſacrifice,
Or to the blindfold rage of jealouſy,
Or to eſtranged love—O Leonatus,
The Gods have pity on thee.
PHILARIO.
Do I ſpeak?
Is this my hand? are theſe my eyes?—All this
I will to queſtion put, if thou art true—
O Imogen, but that I thought thee foul,
And thy confeſſion a ſuperfluous warrant,
I would have ta'en my ſucking infant's throat,
[45] And broach'd it with my martial ſcymeter,
E're touch'd thy precious life.
IMOGEN.
I do forgive thee—
Thy judgment (which how warp'd it matters not)
Condemn'd me to this death—Nay, weep not, ſir,
Commend me to my lord—alas! Philario,
I grieve myſelf to think how much hereafter,
When the belief, or falſe affection, which
Holds pris'ner now his mind, ſhall leave him free,
His mem'ry will be pang'd by looking back
On my hard caſe of woe—my brain is heavy—
PHILARIO.
The mighty Gods throw ſtones of ſulphur on
All jealous, head-ſick fools—He ſaw it not—
And ev'ry day's experience doth diſprove
The ſtrong'ſt report—O the accurſed fate
That damn'd me to this office—
IMOGEN.
Curb thy rage
Unprofitably loos'd—I'll in, and die—
Follow me not—my ſoul has that to do
Which is beſt done in ſecret—fare thee well—
Preſent to our good hoſt, and my ſweet brothers,
My thanks and choiceſt bleſſings.
[Exit. Imogen into the Cave.
PHILARIO.
It goes well,
Her honour I have fann'd, and found it chaffleſs—
Friend, thou art fool, or villain—If I prove
Thou would'ſt betray my love to purpoſes
[46] Of hell-black colour, tho' our friendſhip ſtood
Upon a brazen baſe, it ſhould diſſolve,
And, like the film that dews the morning flower,
Break into unſeen air. Hah Palador!—
Enter PALADOR haſtily
Lend me thy ſword, good Uncle—as I croſt
The mountain's ridge, a fellow at a diſtance
(Whoſe drapery by far out-gliſtens thine)
Bad me with accents ſtern and maſterly
Stop and attend his ſpeech—I hied me hither,
And, if he follow, will reſponſes make
By word, or blow, an he dare queſtion me—
Belike 'tis talk'd at court that ſuch as we
Cave here; haunt here; are outlaws; and in time
May make ſome ſtronger head; the which he hearing
Is ſworn with choice attendants in his train
To fetch us in—It is a criſis that
My father ſometimes drops diſcourſes of.—
PHILARIO.
Say'ſt ſo? I will go climb the rock, and ſpie
What companies are near.
[Exit. Philario.
PALADOR.
Do—for this bravo,
Let me alone with him—this inſtrument
Fits my hand well—I graſp it faſt as tho'
'Twere part of me, and grew unto my arm—
I feel I can do any thing but fear—
I will look out.—By the broad ſhield of Mars
[47] He comes unto my wiſh—up ſword, and ſleep
Till I awake thee, hap'ly ſoon—
Enter CLOTEN.
CLOTEN.
My zeal
Hath far out-gone my train—hark thee—thou fellow,
Why didſt thou fly me? didſt not hear me call?
PALADOR.
I did, and therefore came not.
CLOTEN.
Saucy hind—
Thou art ſome villain mountaineer—What art thou?
PALADOR.
A man—thou look'ſt as if thou cam'ſt from court,
And yet thou art no more.
CLOTEN.
Thou know'ſt me not—
Anſwer me, wretch, on peril of thy life—
Saw'ſt thou two trav'lers ſpeeding thro' theforeſt—
The elder ſomewhat 'bove my age, the younger
Few years below your own?
PALADOR.
Such if I ſaw,
I ſaw 'em not for thee—
CLOTEN.
Ha! doſt thou mock me?
Where are the traitors, ſlave? quick, or—
PALADOR.
[48]
A thing
More ſlaviſh did I ne'er, than anſwering
A ſlave, without a blow.
CLOTEN.
Thou art a robber;
A law-breaker; a villain; yield thee, thief—
PALADOR.
To whom? to thee? what art thou? Have not I
An arm as big as thine? a heart as big?
Thy words I grant are bigger—for I wear not
My dagger in my mouth—ſay what thou art,
Why I ſhould yield to thee?
CLOTEN.
Thou villian baſe!
Know'ſt me not by my garb?
PALADOR.
No, nor thy tailor—
Who is thy grandfather?—he made that garb,
Which, as it ſeems, makes thee—
CLOTEN.
Injurious thief!
Hear but my name, and tremble—
PALADOR.
What's thy name?
CLOTEN.
Cloten, thou villain!
PALADOR.
Cloten? then double villain be thy name;
I cannot tremble at it; were it Toad,
Adder, or Spider, it would move me ſooner—
CLOTEN.
[49]
Then to thy fear, and mere confuſion, know
I'm ſon to the late queen, and heir to th' crown.
PALADOR.
In troth I'm ſorry for't; thyſelf not ſeeming
So worthy as thy birth.—Me thou haſt wrong'd,
Tho' thou wert ſon of Juno.
CLOTEN.
Thou vile thing!
Wrong thee!—But die the death—thou wilt be honour'd
To periſh by this hand—when I have ſlain thee,
I'll on the gate of Lud's Town ſet thy head
To roaſt i'th' ſun.
(Drawing.)
PALADOR.
Are you for ſcratching? Come—
To-day I'll loſe a ſoldier's maidenhead—
Hah! are you down? I ſee a prince is made
(fight)
Of penetrable ſtuff—
(Cloten falls.)
CLOTEN.
Dog! thou haſt ſlain me.
(dies.)
PALADOR.
Ay, and the world no loſer—This is ſport
Hotter than hunting—I will kill no more
The tim'rous deer—ſuch killing's cowardice—
My reeking ſword ſweats honourably now—
Thou poor loud-boaſting fool! Hah! how I ſtalk
In triumph round thee! like the victor lion
Slow pacing 'bout the mangled tyger's corſe,
And grimly taking ſolace in his ſlaughter—
[50] Enter BELLARIUS, CADWAL, and PHILARIO.
BELLARIUS.
I heard the claſh of ſwords—O Palador!
What haſt thou done?
PALADOR.
I'm perfect what—cut thro' one Cloten's heart,
Son to the queen, after his own report—
He came in ſearch of thee and fair Fidele,
Or I did much miſconſtrue his demand—
(To Philario.
He call'd me villain, mountaneer, and ſwore
He would diſplace my head, where now it grows,
And ſet it on Lud's Town.
PHILARIO.
'Tis very Cloten,
The king's adopted ſon.
PALADOR.
Why had the king
Miſus'd bold Palador, his royalty
Had lain ſo weltring there—What company
Diſcover you abroad?
PHILARIO.
No ſingle ſoul
Can I ſet eye on—yet 'tis ſtrange his anger
Should bring him here alone.
BELLARIUS.
I'll not believe
But quick revenge purſues us!
PALADOR.
Let it come;
Let it be ſuch as poſſible ſtrength may meet,
It ſhall be welcome.
CADWAL.
[51]
That's my valiant brother—
Thou haſt ſaid well, done well; O Palador!
I love thee brotherly, but envy much
Thou'ſt rob'd me of this deed. Where's ſweet Fidele?
PHILARIO.
Aſleep within the cave.—Hear me, good ſirs—
This act, I truſt, is dangerleſs, except
We're traitors to ourſelves.—Boys, take the body,
And let it down the creek behind the rock
Into the ſea
(Exeunt Pal. and Cad. with the body.)
Bellarius, hark a word—
Thy ſons are noble ones, and pity 'tis
Their worth ſhould waſte in dull obſcurity.
To day fell war unfurls his bloody flag
Between the Roman and the Britiſh hoſt,
And confidence is goad to either ſide.
Upon the border of the foreſt here,
The Roman lies encamp'd—and two hours march
Will join our countrymen—your valiant boys
May, in ſuch fight as this is like to prove,
Begin and end a fame.
BELLARIUS.
Why now or never
'Tis fit they launch into the world, Philario,
But fitter never.
PHILARIO.
Do not ſay ſo, ſir;
Britain doth lack ſuch hearts.
BELLARIUS.
Well, you ſhall rule me—
[52] Indeed I wiſh'd for ſuch a day as this,
To make them known to Cymbeline.
(aſide.)
They're here.
Enter PALADOR and CADWAL.
PALADOR.
We've ſent him down the ſtream, and ſo to ſea,
To tell the fiſhes he's the queen's ſon Cloten.—
BELLARIUS.
My boys, your uncle here would ſteal you from me,
To your bruis'd country's wars.
PALADOR.
Oh! let us go;
For this hath been our daily fervent prayer—
Uncle, intreat again—why I can fight—
You have to-day a ſample—ſo can Cadwal—
Our oppoſition we will ſtake 'gainſt two,
The ſtouteſt of old Rome—ay, againſt odds,
If valour's ſcarce in Britain.
CADWAL.
Odds to chuſe.
BELLARIUS.
The king hath wrong'd me—he deſerveth not
Your ſervice, and my love.
PALADOR.
The king's deſervings
I weigh not now—this is a public cauſe.
I do not know my countrymen, but know
They were not born to be the ſlaves of Rome,
To wear the badge of foreign tyranny,
And crouch to aliens that dominion hold
By rape, not right—
PHILARIO.
[53]
O! ſuch a ſpirit as this
Will drive the peſtilent invaſion hence,
And poſt it ſhort-breath'd home.
PALADOR.
Why, my good uncle,
Why not purſue it at the heels, and pay
The foe in kind—Let the hot war return
Upon our enemies heads.—O! for the time,
When Britons bold ſhall throng the ſtreets of Rome,
And breathe ſtrange climes, that conqueſt makes our own.
PHILARIO.
Moſt like a Briton ſaid.—To-day ſhall put
This courage to more proof.
PALADOR.
Sir, I will fight
For liberty, and Britain, till the blood
Be drain'd thro' all my veins; and when my arm
Has loſt his office, I will to the laſt
Give token of reſiſtance.
CADWAL.
So will I;
I am aſham'd to look upon the ſun,
To have the benefit of his bleſt beams
So long a poor unknown: Sure than be ſo
Better to ceaſe to be.
BELLARIUS.
Have with you boys
No reaſon I, ſince of your lives you ſet
[54] So ſlight a valuation, ſhou'd reſerve
My crack'd one to more care.—We'll all to the army.
Philario and Fidele ſhall keep houſe,
Till our return.
PHILARIO.
Not ſo Bellarius; we
Habited like yourſelf, to 'ſcape the eye
Of knowledge, will atteſt to day the feats
Of theſe brave lads.
PALADOR.
Why, let the Gods be witneſs,
And celebrate this birth-day of our glory—
Liberty!
CADWAL.
Britain!
BOTH.
Liberty and Britain!
BELLARIUS.
Go, ſee if young Fidele be awake.
[Exeunt Palador and Cadwal.
Doth not this mettle promiſe well, Philario?
I ſcarce wou'd change a ſon with Jupiter!
The ſervice of theſe luſty boys ſhall do
The king more good, than this ſame Cloten's death
Hath done him harm
(Solemn muſic within.)
Hah! wherefore ſounds within
My moſt ingenious inſtrument? What cauſe
Should give it motion now?
[55] Enter PALADOR.
PALADOR.
The bird is dead
That we have made ſo much on. O come in
And ſee what violent hands ſtern death has laid
Upon the ſweeteſt lily of the land.—
(They go into the Cave.)
SCENE opens and diſcovers the inſide of the Cave, with Bellarius, Philario, Palador, and Cadwal, round the Body of Imogen, lying upon a Couch of Moſs.
PHILARIO.
Alas! my deareſt nephew!
PALADOR.
I had rather
Have leap'd from twenty years of age to eighty,
And turn'd my warlike ſpear into a crutch,
Than have ſeen this.
BELLARIUS.
O poor Fidele! Jove doth know what man
Thou might'ſt have made—thou died'ſt a moſt rare boy.
Tell us how found you him?
PALADOR.
Stark as you ſee;
And ſmiling thus, as if the dart of death
Had gently tickl'd ſlumber;
CADWAL.
O ſweet brother,
With female fairies will thy tomb be haunted,
And worms ſhall not come near thee.—
PALADOR.
[56]
With fair flow'rs
(While ſummer laſts, and I live here, Fidele)
I will adorn thy grave—Thou ſhalt not lack
The flow'r that's like thy face, pale primroſe; nor
The azur'd harebell like thy veins; no nor
The leaf of eglantine, which, not to ſlander't,
Out-ſweeten'd not thy breath—The ruddock would
With charitable bill bring thee all this,
Yea and furr'd moſs beſides, when flow'rs were none,
To winter-gown thy corſe.—
BELLARIUS.
Come, boys, have done,
And play no more in wench-like words with that
Which is ſo ſerious—Hence, and lay his corps
Near good Euriphile's, your worthy mother's—
PALADOR.
Be't ſo—but, Cadwal, firſt, albeit thy voice
Has now the manniſh crack, ſing o'er his body
In note and words like thoſe which thou didſt chaunt
O'er good Euriphile—e'er ſhe was lodg'd
Within her leafy grave—Come on—begin—
The DIRGE.
Set by Mr. ARNE, ſung by Mr. LOWE.
Fear no more the heat o'th' ſun,
Nor the furious winter's blaſt;
Thou thy worldly taſk haſt done,
And the dream of life is paſt.
[57] Golden lads and girls all muſt
Follow thee, and come to duſt.
Fear no more-the frown o' th' great,
Death doth mock the tyrant foe;
Happieſt is the early fate,
Miſery with time doth grow.
Monarchs, ſages, peaſants muſt
Follow thee, and come to duſt.
No exorciſer harm thee!
No ſpell of witchcraft charm thee!
Grim ghoſt unlaid forbear thee!
The fairy elves be near thee!
Quiet conſummation have,
Unremoved be thy grave.
BELLARIUS.
Theſe are our rural obſequies, Philario—
PHILARIO.
Moſt ſweet and ſolemn, ſir.
BELLARIUS.
When you've remov'd the body, back repair
Here to the cave, and fit you for the field.
—We'll ſhare our little armory among us—
And, ſons, e'er ev'ning we'll forget this grief,
And wipe our tear-ſtain'd cheeks with bloody hands.
—Come, good Philario—
[Exeunt ſeverally.
End of the Third ACT.

ACT IV.

[58]
SCENE A Field of Battle.
Enter CYMBELINE, LORDS, &c.
CYMBELINE.
THINK you the Roman will not quit his ground,
And meet our battle in the open plain?
1ſt LORD.
So pleaſe your grace, it is my faith he will;
We are already beaten in conceit,
And pride does ſtill forego his 'vantages.
Beſt then halt here, my liege.
CYMBELINE.
Halt! give the word.
(Within)
Halt! halt! halt! halt!
CYMBELINE.
Our ſon not yet return'd! Oh! here comes one
That was a limb o'th'party. What now, captain?
Enter an Officer.
OFFICER.
My liege, prince Cloten far outſtripp'd his train,
And we're to ſeek the ſeeker—His ſpurr'd horſe
We found upon the verge of yonder foreſt,
But him no tidings ſpeak of.
CYMBELINE.
[59]
Take thou his charge,
And ſo beſtir thee in the field, that none
May think his valour miſſing. Well—how now?
Enter another Officer.
OFFICER.
My liege, here are without four volunteers
That ſeem to promiſe marvels, tho' their looks
And garb be ſuch as hermits wont to wear
In moſt retired ſequeſtration;
They have bewitch'd the ſoldier's hearts, and crave
Inſtant admittance to your Majeſty.
CYMBELINE.
It doth amaze us—let 'em come before us—
[Exit Lord, and returns with Bellarius, Palador, Cadwal, and Philario.
Now by the arm of Jove a comely ſight,
Thoſe ſilver locks are taxers of reſpect
Tho' kings be lookers on—All welcome, ſtrangers—
Whence and what are you?
BELLARIUS.
Mighty Cymbeline,
Hermits we are, that have a homely dwelling
Where want keeps houſe—yet are we bold to boaſt
Our hands and hearts as good as any he's,
That dares look Roman in the face.
CYMBELINE.
[60]
Thy ſpeech
Gives earneſt of much worth—Say, who are theſe
The colleagues of your enterprize?
BELLARIUS.
Dread ſir,
Theſe ſtriplings are my ſons; this worthy fellow
Is kinſman of my wife's—
PALADOR.
Firſt, let's go fight,
And then to telling tales.
CYMBELINE.
So prompt, ſo young!
Waſt thou a ſoldier born? Is warlike ſcience
By inſpiration caught, which ſtill we judg'd
By long experience learn'd?
BELLARIUS.
O royal ſir,
My boys are of a gen'rous breed—Great Gods,
When on my three-foot ſtool I ſit, and tell
The val'rous feats I've done, (for I am free
Of this ſame trade of war) how will this youth,
My firſt-born Palador, let his ſpirits fly
Out at my ſtory? "Thus mine enemy fell,
"And thus (ſay I) I ſet my foot on's neck—"
Ev'n then the blood flows in his cheeks, he ſweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himſelf in poſture
That acts my words—His younger brother Cadwal
[61] With ardour emulous, and as like a figure,
Strikes life into my ſpeech; and richly ſhews
His great conceiving.
CYMBELINE.
In a time that look'd
More perilous than this, ſuch early virtue
Would bode us iſſue fortunate to Britain—
Enter another Officer in haſte.
Soldier thy ſpeed is big with conſequence—
Proclaim it with thy tongue—
OFFICER.
To arms, my liege,
The Roman legions are come down the hill,
And their loud clarions ſound to preſent battle.
CYMBELINE.
Thanks for thy news—Return the ſlaves defiance;
(ſound within.)
Stretch your big hearts, my countrymen, and ſhout
From the ſtrong lungs of liberty, till air
Waft your inceſſant clamours to the thrones
Of the admiring Gods.
(a great ſhout.)
Remember, ſirs,
We go to fight for death, or victory.—
O let us only live on terms of conqueſt!
Who dies, at leaſt dies free-man, bleſſed dies
To live immortal in his country's ſongs—
If there's a coward here, let him poſt back
To his ſoft bed and caudle—I ſhould weep
Worſe than a love-ſick girl to find to-day
[62] Our hearts not of a piece—Come on, brave fellows,
For ſoldiers all are fellows—We'll yet live
(Unleſs my ſins abuſe my divination)
To ſee old Lud's Town bright with joyful fires,
And Britons ſtrut in triumph—Set we on—
[Exeunt.
Alarum. Enter LEONATUS in diſguiſe.
They go to battle with a jocund ſpirit—
But ah! how heavy is his heart, who bears
A boſom-war within him? O Philario,
(For I well know thy friendſhip ſuch, thou'ſt done
The letter of my will) thou ſhould'ſt have paus'd—
Anger is indiſcreet in his commands—
Too true, the noble Imogen did wrong me;
(And ſo, I doubt not, did my mother him
I call'd my father, tho' ſhe ſtill was held
The non-pareil of virtue) yet her fault,
The nat'ral failing of her ſex, not hers,
Was ill puſu'd with vengeance capital
By me—O Britain, I have kill'd my wife,
Who was thy miſtreſs—therefore thus array'd
Like a poor ſoldier, neither known, nor gueſs'd at,
Pitied or hated, to the face of peril
Myſelf I'll dedicate—Heav'n knows my life
Is ev'ry breath a death.
Alarum. Fight. Enter CYMBELINE and Romans. CYMBELINE is in danger of being ſlain, or taken. Then enter LEONATUS and reſcues him.
LEONATUS.
[63]
What have we here? The majeſty of Britain
O'erpower'd by odds—Room for an honeſt ſword
That loyalty gives edge to—how they fly
When reſolution drives 'em.—
(the Romans fly.)
CYMBELINE.
Great, tho' mean—
Noble obſcure, we thank thee—what's thy name?
LEONATUS.
I cannot ſtay to tell thee—hear'ſt thou not
How loud Mars bellows yonder?—only this—
The king has friends he knows not—fare you well,
My ſword will cool elſe.—
[Exit Leonatus.
CYMBELINE.
What blunt fellow's this?
We have no time to wonder—How now, captain?
Enter an Officer.
OFFICER.
Advance, my liege—Our battle galls 'em ſorely—
Yon ſage, and his boy-hermits fight like dragons.
The Roman eagle flaps his wing for flight,
And conqueſt ſmiles upon us.
CYMBELINE.
[64]
Follow me;
And ſtill the word be, Cymbeline, and Britain
[Exeunt.
Alarum. Fight. Enter Britons and Romans fighting. The Romans give back. Then enter, at oppoſite doors, PISANIO, and PALADOR.
PALADOR.
It is a jovial chace—fight on, young Cadwal,
Thou ſhalt go halves in glory—I could ſwear
To go to bed no more—Well met, thou Roman,
I have been killing vermin—thou doſt ſeem
Worthy my ſword—Art thou of blood and honour?
PISANIO.
Away, and ſave thy life, thou ſwagg'ring boy,
By Romulus, my vengeance would not ſtoop
(Albeit a thouſand ſouls are groaning for't)
To ſuch a lout as thee.
PALADOR.
Hah! didſt thou learn
Thy valour at a dancing ſchool?—I'll try
Your lightſomneſs of foot—Fool, I will hunt thee
E'en to thy maſter's throne.—
PISANIO.
Come on, raſh hind—
(Fight, Piſanio falls.)
Thou haſt o'erpower'd me ſtripling—the juſt Gods
[65] Unbrac'd my arm—the heavineſs of guilt
Took off my manhood—I've bely'd a lady,
The princeſs of this country; and the air on't
Revengingly enfeebled me; brave youth,
Witneſs the penance of my dying hour,
And let the noble Leonatus know
I crav'd in death his pardon—
PALADOR.
How is this?
Roman, proceed.
PISANIO.
I was confederate with
Cloten (than whom a viler wretch not lives
'Twixt sky and ground)
PALADOR.
Nay, by the Gods, he lives not;
I ſlew him but to-day, and ſure e're this
He is the food of ſharks.
PISANIO.
Thou haſt the arm
That heav'n does juſtice with—I can no more—
Take thou this note of Cloten's
(gives a note)
it doth ſpeak
In terms full relative to the device
Then hatching in his brain; and farther marks
The lowly bendings of his love to Caeſar—
This ſhall confirm thy by-and-by report
Strongly as living evidence—I've done
More good in my laſt hour, than can be pick'd
From my whole piece of life—there's hope in that,
And in that hope I die—
(dies)
PALADOR.
[66]
Nay, if thou hop'ſt,
I'll write deſpair down folly—Jupiter,
What a vile rogue was this? and yet he wore
A worthy ſeeming—I perceive my garb
Doth ſhame the guiſe o'th' world—I will ſet out
New faſhion; leſs without, and more within.
What have we here?
(Flouriſh.)
Enter LEONATUS.
LEONATUS.
Hermit, our wars are done;
The Romans turn their backs, and victory
To-day is wedded to great Cymbeline.
O that the joy of all ſhould touch not me!
I am not mortal ſure; for death I ſought,
Yet found him not where I did hear him groan,
Nor felt him where he ſtruck. This ugly monſter,
'Tis ſtrange he hides him in freſh cups, ſmooth beds,
Sweet words, and hath more miniſters than we
That draw his knives in war.
PALADOR.
Art thou a Briton,
And doſt not laugh to-day? Sad looks are treaſon,
And take the part of Rome; the man that feels
His own diſtreſs, hates more his pers'nal grief,
Than he doth love his country.
LEONATUS.
[67]
O you know not—
Hah! who lies there? Ye Gods, it is Piſanio—
The damn'd Italian fiend that ſtain'd my honour;
I would have ſav'd an hundred lives in fight
To have met his.
PALADOR.
If thou art Leonatus,
(As by thy talk thou ſhould'ſt be) I have matter
For your quick hearing.
LEONATUS.
I am Leonatus,
I would I were aught elſe!
PALADOR.
That villain there
Did much abuſe you, Sir.
LEONATUS.
He did abuſe me
Beyond the pow'r of all his worthleſs tribe
To make amends—Who robs me of my wealth,
May one day have ability, or will
To yield me, full repayment—but the villain
That doth invade a huſband's right in bed,
Is murd'rer of his peace, and makes a breach
In his life's after-quiet, that the grief
Of penitence itſelf cannot repair.
PALADOR.
Thou doſt miſtake thy woe, good Leonatus,
Which yet (if the great Gods are merciful)
I have a cure for—
LEONATUS.
How! where! which way! when!
PALADOR.
[68]
Sir, your belief in your dear lady's truth
Is falſely wounded, who, be ſure (for aught
This arch impoſtor Roman could diſprove)
Has kept her bond of chaſtity uncrack'd,
And is as cold as Dian.
LEONATUS.
Ay, and colder;
For Dian is alive—If thou not fool'ſt me,
Thou cureſt common ſickneſs with the plague,
And killeſt with relief—I could not find
The virtue of my wife untainted now,
(That once I priz'd to adoration)
For the beſt carbuncle of Phoebus' wheel,
Nay, all the worth of's car.
PALADOR.
Alas! I'm ſorry
Your much wrong'd judgment hath proceeded thus.—
For free and full confeſſion made this wretch
Of moſt refined ſtratagem to change
Your biaſs of affection: Sir, this note,
Which with his dying hand he did bequeath you,
Will more at large illuſtrate what my tongue
Faulters in utt'rance of.
(gives the note.)
LEONATUS.
Quick, let me ſee it,
Impatient miſery longs to know the worſt,
E'en when the worſt is fatal.
(reads)
The Lord Cloten to the Roman Knight Piſanio.
Cloten! the name is ominous—it bodes
More than the raven's ſullen flap that ſcents
Cadaverous infirmity.—But on—

[69] If thou lov'ſt me, let me ſee thee ere night. I have bought the fidelity of the princeſs's woman with my gold; ſhe will give thee admittance into her chamber, when nothing will be awake but anger and policy; where thou may'ſt make ſuch note as will be ſufficient to the madding of the abhorred Leonatus. Thy ſervice herein will tie me cloſer to thyſelf, and to Auguſtus thy lord. No more till thou doſt conſole with thy preſence, thine and Caeſar's in affection, CLOTEN.

PALADOR.
How fare you, ſir? Alack! his grief is dumb.
LEONATUS.
Are there no Gods? or are they Gods that ſleep,
And leave us to ourſelves?—Oh! I have done it—
I've reach'd the point of ſhame, and villainy
Is leſs than 'twas.—Twice doubly curſt be he
That firſt did graff the failings of his wife
On a fool's head's ſuſpicion.—I've deſtroy'd
The temple of fair virtue, yea herſelf—
Spit, and throw ſtones, caſt mire upon me, ſet
The dogs o'th' ſtreet to bait me; ev'ry fool
Be Leonatus call'd. O! Imogen,
My queen, my love my wife, oh! Imogen!
PALADOR.
Mark thou unhappy Briton, how my ſoul
Catches thy grief—my eyes half drown my tongue.
Wife—what is wife? what is it thou doſt feel?
The pang that gripes thee ſeems more keen than mine was,
When my good mother, and Fidele died!
[70] —Yet then I mourn'd heart-deep—O that thy woes
Had remedy within the reach of power,
I would purſue endeavours infinite
'Till raſhneſs ſhould be virtue. Pardon me
This vain, vain boaſt—Valour himſelf muſt weep
When he cannot redreſs—I'll ſit down by thee,
And mourn 'till I beguile thee of thy ſorrows—
We'll give our ſhares in this day's triumph up
To riot and hard hearted jollity.
O Imogen, where art thou?—ſoft—here comes
Philario, my good uncle.
Enter PHILARIO.
LEONATUS.
How! Philario?
O turn a thouſand Romans looſe upon me,
But ſhew me not Philario.
PHILARIO.
Palador,
Have we a madman here?
LEONATUS.
Ay, of thy making.
Thou cred'lous fool, egregious murtherer,
Thief, any thing, that's due to villains paſt,
In being, or to come.—
PHILARIO.
I know thee not.
LEONATUS.
Know'ſt thou not Leonatus?
PHILARIO.
[71]
Art thou he?
And doſt thou greet me thus?
LEONATUS.
Where is my wife?
My wife, my wife, my Imogen, thou villain!
PHILARIO.
Baſe and ungrateful! is it come to this?
Have I then offer'd up my mind's repoſe,
My better judgment, and my nature's pity,
To thy injunction? Have I ſtain'd my ſword
With blood as rich as ever yet did waſh
A Britiſh heart, to be bequeſtion'd now
With, villain, where's my wife, my Imogen?
—But that thy will was abſolute herein,
I could have wiſh'd the damned charge had aim'd
At univerſal ruin of the ſex,
And her alone left out.
LEONATUS.
I'm wild—forgive me;
I've kill'd my wife, and ſhall my friend eſcape
Th' abuſes of my fury?—Read, Philario,
Read this black ſcroll,
(gives him the letter)
read it, and after tell me,
If jealouſy be written in the liſt
Of ſins that mercy reaches.
PHILARIO.
You're undone;
And ſo am I—come not to me for comfort,
For my own pers'nal grief out-meaſures all
The patience I was born with.
LEONATUS.
[72]
Patience! who
Is patient in deſpair? Can patience wake
The ſleep of death? Can it command old time
To render back the hours he ſnatch'd away,
Or what is done, make undone? Give me cord,
Poiſon, or knife, ſome upright juſticer,
And then preſcribe me patience.
PALADOR.
O Bellarius,
Thy lectures all were true, and this world holds
Nothing but woe and villainy—where's Cadwal?
We'll homeward to the rock.—
PHILARIO.
Hold thee, young man—
The king muſt thank you for your ſervices—
Anon he will be here; and, Leonatus,
Do not, I pray, with raſhneſs over-ripe
A vi'lence on thyſelf—beſt wait we both
The royal ſentence on our lives, and die
Without more folly on our heads—to me
The op'ning leave of this.
LEONATUS.
Well, let me die—
The reſt you ſhall command—I ſee her now—
Bloody and pale ſhe looks—her ſnow-white breaſt
Whoſe fragrance ſent up incenſe to the Gods,
Is ſoil'd with clotted gore—her jetty locks,
Where Cupid and a thouſand graces play'd,
Are turn'd to fury's ſnakes—and in her eye,
At whoſe kind beams glad Hymen light his torch,
[73] Sits fiery vengeance now with direful looks
Chilling my faculties.
PHILARIO.
If thou art man,
Be like one now—die as a ſoldier ſhould do,
And do not ſtart at ſhadows—I've bethought me
How we may fit and full diſcloſure make
Of all our purpoſes to Cymbeline;
Yea, and of Cloten's too, (whereof the truth
Shall the king's heart ſore ſmite) that devil Cloten
Of whom this gallant youth has well reveng'd us.
LEONATUS.
Has he? who, what art thou, thou wond'rous man!
To whom I am indebted for the ſcourge
Of my two deadly foes.
PHILARIO.
He is a wonder
Myſelf can ſcarce explain;—But hark, the king.—
(Flouriſh.)
Let us, my wretched friend, appear a while,
What our now-habits ſpeak us.
Enter CYMBELINE, BELLARIUS, CADWAL, Lords, and Soldiers.
CYMBELINE.
Thanks to all;
Chiefly to you, whom the great Gods have made
Beſt pillars of my throne. Where are the reſt?
O here's your worthy kinſman, your brave ſon,
And the poor ſoldier that in rags did ſhame
[74] Rich coats of war, and with his naked breaſt
Stept before ſhields of proof—we owe our life
To his true valour.
BELLARIUS.
I did never ſee
Such noble fury in ſo mean a thing;
Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought
But begg'ry and bad luck.
CYMBELINE.
All bow your knees—
(Bellarius, Philario, Palador, Cadwal and Leonatus kneel.)
Ariſe, my knights o'th' battle; we create you
Companions to our perſon, and will give you
Eſtates becoming your new dignities.
PALADOR.
My Lord, the honour I have won to-day
Is ſuſtenance for me—I fought for fame,
And riches give not that—I'll carry home
The ſtrange experience of ſome ſeven hours,
And live upon't hereafter.
CADWAL.
Moſt brave brother.
CYMBELINE.
We muſt not loſe you ſo.
PHILARIO.
So pleaſe your grace,
I would intreat a word.
CYMBELINE.
Say on, and freely.
PHILARIO.
Then, in the name of all our brotherhood,
[75] I do beſeech your majeſty to bleſs
With your high preſence our poor hermitage;
Which (I am ready to make good the boaſt)
Is fit to give a mighty monarch welcome,
If cleanly wholeſomeneſs, and ſimple plenty,
Be worth your appetite; and, ſir, the more
I do ſolicit this, for that I have
Much matter for your ear, which only there
My ſpirit groans to utter.—May I hope
This invitation likes your majeſty?
CYMBELINE.
Ay, paſſing well.—My ſirs, return you with
A monarch in your train—we long to know
What 'tis you would impart—come thou brave fellow!
(To Leonatus.)
Some of you lords attend us, and the reſt
Abide here in the camp.—Is there cloſe guard
Upon the Roman priſoners?
1ſt LORD.
My gracious liege, there is.
CYMBELINE.
'Tis well—Hermit, lead on.
[Exeunt Cymbelline, Bellarius, Philario, Palador, Cadwal, Leonatus, and Lords at one door, and other Lords at another.
The End of the Fourth ACT.

ACT V.

[76]
SCENE The Foreſt and Cave.
Enter PALADOR, and CADWAL.
PALADOR.
CADWAL, once more all hail our happy home!
I've ſeen enough of this wide world to day,
To turn my back upon ſociety—
Saving the manly hardiments of war,
There's nought on earth deſirable—but come,
Do we our errand, and the cave prepare,
(For therefore were we will'd to ſpeed us firſt)
For the reception of high majeſty.—
CADWAL.
They will o'ertake us ſoon—
PALADOR.
(Looking into the cave)
Stay, come not in—
But that I know this figure, I ſhould think
It were a fairy.
CADWAL.
What's the matter, brother?
PALADOR.
By Jupiter, a ſpirit!—Gods! one ſand
Another doth not more reſemble, than
This ſorm the roſy lad who died, and was
Fidele—
CADWAL.
Ev'n the ſame dead thing alive—
PALADOR.
[77]
Peace, peace, ſee more—he eyes us not—forbear—
It is Fidele's ghoſt—
CADWAL.
Hiſt! it comes forward!
Enter IMOGEN from the cave.
PALADOR.
Cadwal, ſtand cloſe—nay ſhake not—look, it ſmiles.
What art thou, beauteous viſion, that doſt take
So ſweet a form—thou can'ſt not mean us harm.
Miſchief ne'er travell'd in a ſhape like that—
Art thou Fidele? ſpeak—why haſt thou left
Thy flow'ry grave? why doſt thou haunt our rock?
Or art ſome ſpirit in his borrow'd likeneſs,
That for thy merriment doſt wear a ſemblance,
Deluding us poor mortals?—Gentle, ſpeak.—
IMOGEN.
Give me your hands—I am your living brother,
The true Fidele—
CADWAL.
Can it be ye Gods!
This is a day of wonders—
PALADOR.
I'll no more
Witneſs the thing I ſee—art thou alive?
Dear boy, I feel thou art—
(Embracing Imogen.)
IMOGEN.
Sirs, I did take
A certain drowſy potion, that faſt ſeiz'd
The preſent pow'r of life; but in ſhort time
[78] All offices of nature did again
Reſume due functions.—Wherefore I took this,
Hereafter aſk—and let me now demand,
Where's good Bellarius? where's my uncle? why
Thoſe weapons at your ſides? for thus you ne'er
Equip'd for hunting.
PALADOR.
No, my deareſt brother,
We've been at better ſport in the fair field,
Where honour chaſes danger—what we've done
Fame ſhall ſet down in braſs, and ſhew't to Caeſar;
And then 'twill taſk arithmetic to count
All the wet cheeks in Rome.
IMOGEN.
How! have your rapiers
Been drawn in battle?
PALADOR.
To victorious purpoſe—
The king is coming hither—
IMOGEN.
Hah! the king!
What and who brings him?
PALADOR.
O your worthy uncle,
Unknown, and in diſguiſe; my father too,
And a long lordly train; ere night, the book
Of fate, wide open'd to inſpection,
Great ſecrets ſhall diſcloſe.—Here comes Philario,
The reſt are not far off.—Cadwal, we'll in—
Do you, Fidele, meet him here, and ſtrike
New matter of amazement to his heart.
[Exeunt Palador and Cadwal into the cave.
[79] Enter PHILARIO.
PHILARIO.
Faireſt, and beſt of women, pardon me
(kneeling)
The tortures I have put thy virtue to
In trial, not in malice.—O forgive me;
For till thy lips have paſs'd remiſſion on me,
Mine muſt be lock'd in ſilence.
IMOGEN.
Riſe, Philario!
Thy ſtratagem has more complexion in't
Of wiſdom, than of guilt—my honour tried,
I'm ſerv'd, and not offended—That ſame drug,
Murd'rous awhile to ſenſe, I thank'd thee for
With the firſt breath I wak'd with—hence of that
Put the remembrance by—My brothers tell me
Of ſomething ſtrange at hand.—
PHILARIO.
My gracious lady,
Since laſt we parted, the big hours have teem'd
With great, and ſad events—pardon me, Gods,
One fiction more.—
(aſide.)
IMOGEN.
Haſt thou heard aught, Philario,
Of Leonatus? What is in thy mind
That makes thee ſtare thus? Wherefore breaks that ſigh
From th' inward of thee? Speak—where is my huſband?
PHILARIO.
[80]
Say he were dead—his villainous intent
Should cure thy preſent ſorrow.
IMOGEN.
Thy ſuppoſing
Confirms his death, and my hereafter woe—
Thou tell'ſt me he was jealous, falſe, and cruel—
Grant he had faults, yet they were faults that others
Haply infus'd into his honeſt nature—
Grant he had faults, yet faults his future life
Might have amended all.—But, oh! this death
Chills mortally, and with the ſcythe of winter
Cuts down my ſpring of hope—O Leonatus!
PHILARIO.
Nay, lady, mark me—He did leave the world
Without one drop of pity for your fate.
I ſaw him down in fight, whereto his rage
Had brought him, 'midſt the hotteſt fumes of war
To make a deſp'rate end; and firſt explaining
This hermit's garb, (which I to-day put on
To cheat the wary eye of Cymbeline)
Vow'd in the doing his will my heart
Rebell'd againſt my hand. "'Tis well, he cry'd,
"I go to meet the ſtrumpet, and conſign her
"To other fires than luſt." He ſaid no more,
But to the laſt breath'd anger.
IMOGEN.
If 'tis ſo,—
Some daemon, envious of his peace and mine,
Did witch his ſober judgment; nought but magic
[81] In ſubtle potency of transformation,
Could ruin make of ſuch a noble piece
Of heav'nly workmanſhip. Gods! what is man
When error outlives honour? Yet, Philario,
I will remember the good thing he was,
Ere fury bent him wrongwards—What he did
Let inſolence, that wags his head in ſcorn
O'er virtue fall'n, proclaim—but never ſo
Shall his poor wife reproach him—O my lord,
Wiſe, valiant, gentle, conſtant, juſt, and true,
The world did tack to thy all-honour'd name;
Thou wert the mark that Jupiter did point to,
When he prais'd mortal beings.
PHILARIO.
Nobleſt princeſs,
What ſhall my wonder call thee?—thy great father
Yet knows not half thy worth—hither he's coming;
And I will put into his royal pow'r
The now-diſpoſal of our deſtinies—
Lo, he is here—Be ſilent, and attend—
Hail to king Cymbeline.—
Enter CYMBELINE, BELLARIUS, LEONATUS, and Lords.
CYMBELINE.
We thank you, hermit.—
BELLARIUS.
Good heav'ns! Fidele living!
PHILARIO.
Hiſt—a word—
(Phil. whiſpers Bell.)
CYMBELINE.
[82]
In troth, this rock hath a moſt pleaſant ſite
To tempt a king from home—O luxury,
How art thou put to ſhame, if comfort lives
Where lowlineſs inhabits—our good hoſts,
Where are the valiant boys?
PHILARIO.
Dread ſovereign,
They ſhall come forth.—Ho! Cadwal! Palador!
Enter CADWAL and PALADOR from the Cave.
And now, ſo pleaſe your highneſs, I will ope,
Before you do betake you to repaſt,
A volume of high marvels to your ear.
CYMBELINE.
Pray you begin.
PHILARIO.
Firſt know then, mighty ſir,
He, that addreſſes here your royal preſence,
No hermit is, but your true ſlave Philario.—
Nay, ſtart not, ſir, but know all criminals,
And then proceed to juſtice—here is one
(pointing to Leonatus.)
Has travell'd far to meet your fierce diſpleaſure,
Yet once deſerv'd your grace—
LEONATUS.
Ay, I am he—
No beggar, king, but yet a wretch more curſt
Than ever fortune ſpurn'd at.—Know'ſt me not?
Send for ingenious torturers; command
The art of cruelty to practiſe on me,
For I do all abhorred things amend
[83] By being worſe than they.—Know'ſt me not yet?
The villain that did ſteal thy princely daughter;
(Yet that was theft for Gods!) the damned villain
That, in a fit of jealous lunacy,
Murder'd all precious qualities that man
Loves woman for—that—
IMOGEN.
(running, and laying hold of her.)
Peace, my lord, hear, hear—
LEONATUS.
Shall's have a play of this? thou ſcornful page
Come not athwart my grief—
(ſtrikes her.)
PHILARIO.
Hold, Leonatus,
Or thou wilt murder do, who art ſo hurt
In a conceit 'tis done—Why gaze you ſo?
Didſt thou not hear her ſpeak? and know'ſt thou not
The tune of Imogen?
CYMBELINE.
The rock goes round.
PHILARIO.
Nay, wonder is the gen'ral word to all!
You that ne'er lov'd, look on that virtuous pair—
Mark! how he anchors upon Imogen!
See! how ſhe hangs on Leonatus' arm!
While both are mute in ſweet extremity
Of trueſt love, and joy!
LEONATUS
(after a pauſe.)
Joy! who names joy?—
It is a word too cold—What heav'n ſhall be
Hereafter, I feel now—Whom had I loſt,
[84] But Imogen?—Whom did I hold corrupt,
But Imogen?—Whom did I drive to death,
But Imogen?—Yet Imogen is found—
Yet Imogen is purer than the ſtar
That leads her virgin train to light the morn—
Yet Imogen ſtill lives, and lives to love me!—
—Divide all matter of diſcourſe among you—
What can I ſay or think but Imogen!
IMOGEN.
How do the gracious Gods hide kindneſs, neath
The ſable veil of ſad appearances?
O Leonatus! had we never parted,
Had I ne'er ſtood the mark of thy revenge,
Ne'er had we known what 'tis to meet again,
What 'tis to meet again in life, and love!
(Embrace.)
PALADOR.
Why ſo, farewel
The boy Fidele! I begin to fear
I ſhall hold manhood vile, for ſure the graces,
Which fair perfection is compounded of,
Are all bound up in woman! princely Imogen,
Altho' thou art the daughter of a king,
I have ambition in me, that could wiſh
To call thee ſiſter
BELLARIUS.
Wond'rous nature ſtill!
(aſide.)
PALADOR.
My ſword has from their hearts drawn the beſt blood
Of thoſe you're little bound to—and I'll wear it,
Whilſt it is mine, for your protection, lady—
PHILARIO.
[85]
I do believ't—enough—now Cymbeline
Wait we your royal ſentence—for myſelf,
That I have cover'd honeſty with guile,
In which I had in aim the gen'ral good,
I rather ſue for thanks from all than pardon—
For this my friend,
(points to Leonatus)
—dread
Sir, your cleareſt judgment
Has ſeal'd his virtue ſterling; and albeit
In jealous mood he did conceive an act
That tenderneſs calls terrible, yet think I,
His jealouſy had ground more ſeeming ſure
Than common frenzy treads on—
PALADOR.
Sir, I know it
PHILARIO.
Well, by-and-by—for this unparagon'd,
She'as cur'd me of ſome ſpleen againſt her ſex;
I've prov'd her (as anon at large you'll hear
IMOGEN.
When we ſhall make paſt terrors our diſport,)
PHILARIO.
The ſweeteſt lady, and the trueſt wife,
That ever ſwore her faith—your ſentence, ſir,
Which I foreſtal a kind one.
CYMBELINE.
Since 'tis thus
I will not counteract the mighty Gods
In what they have ordained—My children, take
Full pardon in a bleſſing—heaven's good gifts
Fall on your heads like dew!
LEONATUS.
Thus on our knees—
(Leonat. and Imogen kneel.)
[86] Take we with pious thankfulneſs the bounty.
My Imogen!—
IMOGEN.
My Leonatus!
BOTH.
Oh!—
(Embracing.)
PHILARIO.
How glutton-like thou doſt devour thy joy,
And can'ſt not ſpare one morſel to a friend!
LEONATUS.
O yes, to thee—for 'tis to thee I owe
The bliſs that I am wild with—O believe me,
Scarce went that angry mandate from my hand,
But my repentance fetch'd it back, e'en tho'
I thought my bride-bed ſtain'd with violation—
I landed 'midſt a herd of vulgar Romans,
In hope to intercept the fell revenge
That freighted thy commiſſion, or myſelf
To barter life of future wretchedneſs
For death of preſent glory—
CYMBELINE.
Well reſolv'd—
But ſtill there doth remain behind, Philario,
Long maze to be unravell'd—who are theſe?
This old man and his boys? How join'd you them?
Or knowſt thou aught of Cloten, our dear ſon?
Upon whoſe widow'd hopes we're bound in honour
To ſhed ſome comfort—him we ſhall endow with
A moiety of this fair realm—
PALADOR.
What him!
Would you make puppets princes? I'm right glad
(Your pardon king) he will not heed your offer—
CYMBELINE.
[87]
Say'ſt thou bold boy?
PALADOR.
If honeſty is boldneſs,
I am a lion—to be brief, my lord—
Wherefore that frown? I was not born to ſtand
In awe of eye-brows—Your ſon Cloten ranks
'Mongſt thoſe that were your ſubjects—
CYMBELINE.
How is this?
Stripling beware—who trifles with a king
Plays with his peril—
PALADOR.
He is dead—I ſlew him—
Upon the very ſpot thou ſtandſt, I ſlew him—
The fouleſt blood my hand has ſpilt is his—
Monarch, thou knew'ſt him not—
CYMBELINE.
Audacious boy!
Thou haſt condemn'd thyſelf—and ſpight of all
That thou haſt done to-day, doſt from my lips
Pluck a hard ſentence—thou muſt die—
PALADOR.
Hah! hah!
Die, Sir! why then let treaſon be true ſervice,
And loyalty make capital—I'm ſorry
To anger you—but the bare name of Cloten
Untunes my ſpirits; my enraged ſoul
Catches like tinder at it; it doth fret me,
And make me quarrelous and teſty as
Infirmity untended—Good Philario,
Produce thy ſcroll—
PHILARIO.
[88]
Marry, and willingly.
(Gives Cloten's letter.)
So pleaſe your grace read this. It doth contain
Matter important to the point.
(Cymbeline reads.)
Good Sirs,
Comes it within the compaſs of belief,
Such wiſdom and ſuch valour e'er could grow
Beneath ſo poor a roof?—This virtuous hermit
Is fit to train up emperors—Theſe youths—
But peace—the king
CYMBELINE.
This letter, ſir, whence came it?
PALADOR.
My lord, Piſanio, with his dying hand
Lodg'd it in mine—
CYMBELINE.
It doth appear by this
That Cloten villainous connection held
With the new-beaten Caeſar—I'm abus'd,
And fool is he that thinks the heart of man
Hangs at his tongue—loudly this caitif roar'd
For Britain, and for me; and when he breath'd
His am'rous plaints, pin'd like a nightingale.—
This miſchief-breeding ſerpent! Palador,
We thank thy valour, tho' thy tongue was rude
In roughneſs of reply.
PALADOR.
If I have valour,
It is my nature, ſir, for my harſh language
I learn'd it 'mongſt theſe rocks.
CYMBELINE.
[89]
We would know more
Of who, and what thou art—Bellarius ſpeak,
Make full diſcov'ry of yourſelves, and fortunes,
And end our preſent wonders.
BELLARIUS.
It is meet
Your will ſhould be obey'd—My ſons, I muſt
For my own part unfold much dang'rous truth,
Tho' haply well for you—
PALADOR.
Your danger's ours.
CADWAL.
And our good your's.
BELLARIUS.
Moſt mighty Cymbeline!
Thou hadſt a ſubject that was Edwin call'd.
CYMBELINE.
Edwin! ay, what of him? a baniſh'd traitor—
BELLARIUS.
Indeed, a baniſh'd man, but not a traitor;
For I am he—
CYMBELINE.
The whole world ſhall not ſave him!
Lords bear him hence—
BELLARIUS.
Nay, not ſo hot, great king—Firſt pay me for
The breeding of thy ſons—
CYMBELINE.
Breeding my ſons!
BELLARIUS.
[90]
I am too blunt, and ſaucy; here's my knee;
E'er I ariſe, I will prefer my ſons,
(kneels.)
Then ſpare not the old father. Mighty ſir,
Theſe two young gentlemen, that call me father,
Are the true iſſue of your royal loins,
And blood of your begetting.
CYMBELINE.
How! my iſſue!
BELLARIUS.
So ſure, as you your ſire's. Theſe noble princes
(For ſuch and ſo they are) theſe twenty years
Have I train'd up; ſuch arts they have as I
Could put into them—Sir, my breeding was
As your grace knows—Their nurſe Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, ſtole theſe children
Upon my baniſhment. The loſs of theſe
The more by you 'twas felt, the more it ſhap'd
Unto my end of ſtealing them; the vengeance
Of ſlander'd loyalty—but, royal ſir,
Here are your ſons again; and I muſt loſe
Two of the ſweet'ſt companions in the world—
Heaven's grace be with them both, for they are worthy
To in-lay heav'n with ſtars.
CYMBELINE.
Thou weep'ſt, and ſpeak'ſt—
I loſt my children, and if theſe be they
They are a pair of worthies.
BELLARIUS.
Sir, your patience—
[91] This gentleman whom I call Palador,
Moſt worthy prince, as your's, is true Guiderius;
This gentleman, my Cadwal, is Arviragus,
Your younger princely ſon; he, ſir, was lapt
In a moſt curious mantle, wrought by the hand
Of his queen mother, which for more probation
I can with eaſe produce.
CYMBELINE.
Guiderius had
Upon his neck a mole, a ſanguine ſtar;
It was a mark of wonder.
BELLARIUS.
This is he,
Who hath upon him ſtill that nat'ral ſtamp;
It was wiſe nature's end in the donation
To be his evidence now.
CYMBELINE.
'Tis he! 'tis he!
O ſure to-day the Gods do mean to ſtrike me
To death with mortal joy—
(Embracing Palador and Cadwal.)
My ſons! my ſons!
O Imogen! my child, thou'ſt found two brothers,
But thou haſt loſt a kingdom.
IMOGEN.
No, my lord,
I've got two worlds by this. O my dear brothers,
Do we meet thus? oh! never ſay hereafter
But I am trueſt ſpeaker.—You call'd me brother,
When I was but your ſiſter; I, you brothers,
When you were ſo indeed.
PALADOR.
[92]
Why e'en let honour
Come, as the Gods foreſay it; I'm a prince,
But ſtill the Britiſh Palador; ſweet ſiſter,
The moiety my father meant for Cloten
Is thine, and thy brave lord's, if my requeſt,
The firſt I make, be granted—thee, Bellarius,
We muſt at leiſure thank; and you, Philario,
We ſhall ſet down our friend; dear brother Cadwal,
(I can't yet call thee by that other name)
Thou ſhalt be part'ner of my royalty;
We'll turn our hermitage into a temple,
And yearly ſmoak it with our ſacrifices.
CADWAL.
Agreed! O never was a day like this!
CYMBELINE.
Laud we the Gods!—Bellarius, be our brother.
Sirs, we are much indebted to you all,
And we will ſhew it in our courteſies—
Come, let us in, and to more joyous feaſt
Than princes e'er regal'd at—In your ſtories,
Of which th' abridgement fills us with amazement,
Diſtinction ſhall be rich—to-morrow, ſirs,
We will to Lud's Town march—Caeſar ſhall pay
Large ranſom for the lives we have in hold,
And ſue to us for terms—ne'er war did ceaſe,
With fairer proſpect of a glorious peace.
[Exeunt omnes.
FINIS.

5.

[]

AN ESSAY ON GENIUS.

AN ESSAY ON GENIUS.

[]
INQUIRE, diſpute, reply, and all you can,
Say, what is Genius but the Soul of Man?
Beam of that Light which animates our Frame,
Alike in many, but in none the ſame.
'Tis with our Minds, as with our Bodies, none
In Eſſence differ, yet each knows his own.
Marks of ſpecific Character we ſee,
That ſtamp on ev'ry Mortal, THIS IS HE.
Nor varies more our preſent outward Shape,
(This Man half-Angel, and the next half-Ape)
Than do the mental Pow'rs: What Odds we find
Between a—'s, and a Newton's Mind?
Aſk you the Cauſe? Firſt take it for a Rule,
Whate'er the Man, the Soul is not a Fool.
[226] She came in due Perfection from the Skies,
And all Defect in groſſer Body lies.
Body and Soul at beſt but ill agree,
'Tis Spirit wedded to Infirmity:
A diſproportion'd Match, from whence proceeds
The Soul's Inaction thro' the Body's Needs.
This Truth once ſtated, and the Soul, 'tis plain,
Much on the filmy Texture of the Brain,
Much on Formations that eſcape our Eyes,
On nice Connections, and Coherencies,
And on corporeal Organs muſt depend,
For her own Function's Exerciſe, and End.
Hence then the Cauſe of all Defects is ſeen,
For one wrong Movement ſpoils the whole Machine.
'Tis hence the ſev'ral Paſſions take their Riſe,
The Seeds of Virtue, and the Roots of Vice;
Hence Notes peculiar or to Young, or Old,
Phlegmatic, ſanguine, amorous, or cold!
And hence from Conſtitution, ſuch or ſuch,
Wit may take Modes, and Genius op'rate much.
The youthful Bard, a ſprightly, ſanguine Swain,
Like Ovid warbles in a Loveſick ſtrain:
With weaker Paſſions, but with Senſe more ſtrong,
The melancholy Young purſues his Song.
Mixture of Humours motley Genius ſhews;
'Tis ſeen methinks in Hervey's dancing Proſe.
[227] Why wonder then to mark the Sons of Rhyme,
Gay, ſerious, turgid, eaſy, or ſublime?
The Soul and Body cloſely thus allied,
Vile is the Folly, as the Sin of Pride;
And one great Truth the firſt of Men will fit,
That Nothing more precarious is than Wit.
Behold yon Wretch, that o'er the Pariſh ſtrays,
A Baby-Man, a Driv'ler all his Days!
With Tongue out-lolling, and round-rolling Eyes
He grins againſt the Sun, and catches Flies;
But for ſome ſecret Flaws we cannot read,
That check her Motions, and her Flights impede,
His Soul perchance enrich'd with happieſt Thought,
Had ſpoke like Tully, or like Virgil wrote.
Alas! All Souls are ſubject to like Fate,
All ſympathizing with the Body's State;
Let the fierce Fever burn thro' ev'ry Vein,
And drive the madding Fury to the Brain,
Nought can the Fervour of his Frenzy cool,
But Ariſtotle's ſelf's a Pariſh Fool!
Nay in Proportion lighter Ails controul
The mental Virtue, and infect the Soul.
Eaſe is beſt Convoy in our Voyage to Truth;
What Man e're reaſon'd with a raging Tooth?
A Poet with a Genius, and without,
Are the ſame Creatures in the Pangs of Gout.
[228]
Hence then we gueſs, nor vain is the Surmiſe,
Why ſome are Fools, and none are always wiſe;
Why Genius differs in Life's ev'ry Stage,
Runs wild with Youth, and creeps with hobling Age.
The Soul uncumber'd with the mortal Clay
Knows no Increaſe of Strength, nor fears Decay.
A little Art this Secret may unfold,
That what can never die, is never old.
By preſent Pow'rs Perfection ceaſe to Scan,
For we may daily mourn the Fall of Man!
Ah! how bright Wit poſſeſt of ev'ry Gift
Dwindled to Folly, and went mad in Swift.
The mighty Marlb'rough, whoſe great Soul was prov'd
Upon the Plains of Blenheim, where unmov'd,
"Amidſt Confuſion, Horrour and Deſpair
"He view'd around the dreadful Scenes of War,
"In peaceful Thought the Field of Death ſurvey'd,
"To fainting Squadrons ſent the timely Aid,
"Inſpir'd repuls'd Battalions to engage,
"And taught the doubtful Battle where to rage;"
Ev'n He, the Springs of Nature in Decay,
And all the vital Functions worn away,
Unable now to conquer Realms, or buy,
With ideot Geſture, and unmeaning Eye,
Sits a Spectatour in the foremoſt Row,
And gapes at Heroes in a Puppet-Shew!
[229]
Eſchew Preſumption ev'ry half-learn'd Elf;
The nobleſt Writer does not know himſelf;
Turn over mighty Milton's raptur'd Page,
Obſerve his Strength, his Majeſty, his Rage;
His Numbers like th' Almighty's Thunders roll,
And ſtrike an awful Pleaſure to the Soul;
We joy in Ruin, and are almoſt pain'd
To ſee the (late loſt) Paradiſe regain'd.
This Work himſelf judg'd beſt; tell me who read,
Was not the mighty Milton blind indeed?
Genius again, by Inf'rence apt we ſee,
The ſame in Species differs in Degree;
Propenſities are ſtrong, and few Men yet
But have a Reliſh for ſome kind of Wit;
Homer is Monarch of the Epic Choir,
Yet Virgil ſnatch'd a Brand of Homer's Fire;
The daring Homer's all-impetuous Strain
Like a hot Courſer bore him o'er the Plain.
The Muſe of Virgil that affected State
Speeds not ſo ſwiftly, but ſhe keeps her Rate;
To thoſe tho' meet to yield the Glory due,
Lucan, and Statius have their Merits too.
Each Writer is diſtinguiſh'd in his Way,
Grand Sophocles, or trifling Seneca!
All to their fav'rite Art will lay Pretence,
'Tis Inclination, or 'tis Excellence;
[230] 'Midſt Clouds of Dulneſs Gleams of Wit have ſhone,
Like the faint Burſtings of an April Sun.
Grant you what's paſt, and it will leſs perplex
To aſk, why Woman is the weaker Sex?
Why the Extremes of female Wits are ſuch,
They moſtly ſay too little, or too much?
Beauty's ſoft Frame, for other Ends deſign'd,
Faints under Toil of Body, or of Mind.
Kind Heav'n that gave them Beauty, all things gave;
The ſoundeſt Scholar is a Woman's Slave.
Glibly their Tongues the pretty Liſpers move,
"And Nonſenſe will be Eloquence in Love."
Yet have we known ſuperiour Nymphs that can
Aſſert an equal Pow'r, and rival Man!
Born Nature's Wonders, in all Shapes to pleaſe,
To ſpeak with Eloquence, to write with Eaſe,
To model Laws, and rule a factious Realm:
Witneſs ELIZA at Old ENGLAND'S Helm!
Nay diff'rent Countries diff'rent Genius make;
Souls Modes peculiar to their Climate take:
Baeotia's foggy Air was mark'd of old,
Athenian Wits were bright, and Theban cold.
Juſt view near Home the Surface of the Ball;
In Holland, Genius is mechanical:
In France, the Muſes breath a livelier Strain;
They ſkip in Italy, and ſtrut in Spain!
[231] In England Oh! how manifold our Rhyme!
Where Genius is uncertain as the Clime.
We ſhew (conſult the Preſs, the Stage, the Schools)
All Sorts of Wiſe Men, and all Sorts of Fools!
We count our Numbers of illuſtrious Name,
That climb'd by diff'rent Paths the Hill of Fame.
Ye Bards of Britain that have ſhin'd in Song,
Oh, let the Muſe ſurvey your tuneful Throng.
Chaucer, who notes not with a merry Glee,
Thy Genius full of quaint Feſtivity?
Who reads muſt ſee, and ſeeing muſt admire
Bright Spencer's Fancy, and bold Milton's Fire.
Genius was ſtudied Wit in artful Ben,
But flow'd ſpontaneous, Dryden, from thy Pen:
'Twas thine in manly Richneſs to excel,
With twice thy Labour few write half ſo well.
Fletcher had copious Energy of Mind;
Cowley's was Wit let looſe, and Wycherly's confin'd.
Who but applauds ſoft Otway's melting Lay,
The negligent Simplicity of Gay,
The genuine Mirth that tickled Butler's Vein,
Waller's terſe Sonnet, and Garth's nervous Strain?
Such various Forms does Genius take to pleaſe;
In Rowe 'tis Elegance, in Prior Eaſe;
In Lee 'tis Flame, that lays half Nature waſte,
And in the Courtly Addiſon 'tis Taſte.
[232] 'Tis comic Grace in Steele, that ſhunn'd Offence;
In Pope 'tis Sweetneſs, Purity, and Senſe.
'Tis Humour in the DEAN unequall'd yet,
And Congreve, who could ſtand thy two-edg'd Wit?
To ſev'ral Bards their ſev'ral Virtues fall;
But to inimitable SHAKESPEARE, All!
SHAKESPEARE!—O Phoebus, lend thy golden Lyre,
Give me the Beams of thy coeleſtial Fire!
Avaunt ye Vulgar, Poets liſten round,
And all PARNASSUS thunder with the Sound!
While the Muſe dwells on SHAKESPEARE'S ſacred Name,
And down Time's rapid Tide bears his immortal Fame.
—The Rapture's o'er—I pant in vain to ſing,
Droops the weak Muſe, and flags her languid Wing;
She ſinks beneath the Theme, ſhe quits her Lays,
SHAKESPEARE ſhe nam'd, and Silence is her Praiſe!
Aſſert we then the Force of Genius lies
In Verſe alone? Are Poets only wiſe?
We hinted Genius is of various Kind,
And vaſt the Province of the human Mind
Who well performs his fate-allotted Part,
By Strength of Nature, or by Dint of Art,
Whate'er the Subject of his happy Skill,
The Product is the Work of Genius ſtill.
What honied Dew diſtill'd from Tully's Tongue!
What ſoft Perſuaſion on his Accents hung!
[233] So ſmoothly ſtrong the ſweet Oration flows
'Tis plain the Muſes ſometimes ſpeak in Proſe;
Bid him write Verſes; who but will agree?
Cib—r can make as good an Ode as He.
'Tis nought but Genius that in all preſides,
Commands in Battle, and in Council guides;
Sad Woes enſu'd, where Fools have Squadrons led:
For what is Caeſar's Arm, without his Head?
Nor needs the Muſe to diſtant Regions roam;
Genius appears in ev'ry Shape at home;
A glorious Liſt in Britiſh Annals ſhines
Of Stateſmen, Chiefs, Philoſophers, Divines.
Long Lucubrations o'er the midnight Oil,
Gave to the World a Newton, and a Boyle!
Each Alma Mater boaſts her fav'rite Own,
OXFORD her Bradley, CAMBRIDGE Sanderſon!
'Tis not a puny Judge can find a Flaw
In Sherlock's Goſpel, or in H—'s Law.
What plenteous Streams of eaſy Senſe we ſee
In fluent Tillotſon's Divinity?
Yet fluent Tillotſon had nought to ſay,
Had not the ſolid Barrow led the Way!
Others may fright you from the Tempter's Gin,
But South will make a Man aſham'd of Sin.
Nay ſome we know (and knowing we muſt ſmile)
Bleſt with a Talent, but without a Stile.
[234] Hammond ſtands foremoſt of this awkward Line,
A rumbling Writer, but a deep Divine!
Who ever knew ſo ſtrange a Vein as His?
Or ſo much Learning in Parentheſis?
T'would tire the Muſe, and Reader to proceed
From reas'ning Chillingworth to florid Seed;
The Works of Chriſtian Labour to explore
Of Hooker, Pearſon, Laud, and Numbers more;
That drew their manly Quills for righteous Ends,
The Church's Champions, and Religion's Friends.
I grieve to think what Souls have been deſtroy'd,
By Wit perverſe, and Genius miſemploy'd:
For nought awakes ſo ſoon the vengeful Rod,
As Wiſdom flying in the Face of God.
The Force of Reaſon is of finite Length;
This Giant that attempts beyond his Strength,
Our boaſted Light of Nature, feeble Spark,
Guides for a while, but leaves us in the Dark.
As glimm'ring Vapours with a pallid Ray
Light us to Quagmires, and to Gulphs betray.
How vain is mortal Man above his Sphere!
Poor, knowing Fool, juſt wiſe enough to err!
Go, ſpan the Globe, the World's ſtrong Bounds o'releap,
Empty the yawning Caverns of the Deep,
Count all the Fibres of that Reptile's Thigh,
Catch me the trembling Sun-beams as they fly,
[235] Then take thy Underſtanding's Cable-Line,
Examine God, and meaſure Truths divine.
Grant me, kind Heav'n, to ſee, e're I explain,
Correct the falſe Ambition of my Brain,
And on my Mind this Maxim printed be,
The Chriſtian Virtue is Humility!
Happier the ſimple Swain, the ruſtic Fool,
That never took the Poliſh of a School,
Than, ſwell'd with Pride, a Maſter of all Arts
With Shaftſbury's Cunning, and with St. John's Parts!
Much Wit obſcene has crept thro' ev'ry Age,
But Lewdneſs riots on the modern Stage.
O Shame to Arts!—Our Poets may defie
The Bards of old: with Rome and Athens vie;
May boaſt Invention, Penetration, Wit,
All Qualities for either Drama fit:
May touch the Paſſions with enchanting Art,
And take minuteſt Copies of the Heart:
Yet of paſt Times the Panegyric be,
That Pagan Wits were better Men than we.
Genius depends then on the Body's Frame—
Tell me, will Genius never be the ſame?
Or will the Diff'rence we to day eſpy,
Subſiſt in Souls to all Eternity?
Such Queſtion put, if Reaſon may be bold
In humble wiſe Conjecture to unfold,
[236] She ſeems to dictate, and ſhe fears not blame,
That Things once diff'ring, never are the ſame:
Here or hereafter, in what Light you will,
A Man, you know, is Soul and Body ſtill;
And ſtill corporeal Organs, and their Uſe
Muſt correſpondent Faculties produce:
But Body in that happier State, refin'd,
Shall leave it's old Imfirmities behind,
And every Soul be perfect in her Kind.
Conſult material Objects, and we ſee
God's Pow'r declar'd by ſweet Variety;
The diff'rent Seaſons diff'rent Beauties bring;
'Tis not one Colour paints the jolly Spring.
The Sun, gay Giant, travels in his Might;
Smiles from her Orb the placid Queen of Night.
Each Inſect that eludes the niceſt Eye,
One of the Myriads floating in the Sky,
His Maker's Praiſe proclaim as loudly can,
As Ocean's Tyrant King, the Great Leviathan!
Look thro' all Nature, the vaſt Tracts of Space,
Each Being has it's proper Pow'r and Place.
Th' Angelic Hoſts that round the Godhead wait,
And iſſue forth, the Miniſters of Fate,
Have their reſpective Provinces, and know
What Part to act above, and what below;
Meſſiah's Sword to Michael's Might is giv'n,
And Gabriel is Embaſſador of Heav'n!
[237]
Hence then from Inf'rence little forc'd, we find
That Souls will differ, and excel in Kind;
But when admitted to the Realms of Joy,
What certain Office, what preciſe Employ
Shall exerciſe the ſev'ral Pow'rs of each,
Preſent Conception not preſumes to reach.
Enough from gen'ral Principles to ſhew,
That one great Point of Bliſs will be, to know:
To touch Perfection in a fav'rite Art,
And grieve no longer but to know in Part:
To mark where Truth in her Receſſes lies,
Purſue her without Toil, and graſp her as ſhe flies!
The Sage Logician then ſhall clearly ſee,
How all Ideas differ, or agree,
And from her Coverts drive ſly Sophiſtry;
No need to ſhift, to wrangle, and confute;
For ſure the Bleſſed reaſon, not diſpute.
See! penſive Metaphyſics! Science coy!
In Contemplation only knowing Joy!
Sober Recluſe, no noiſy Stander by,
She ſits, anatomizing Entity!
Purg'd of the groſſer Particles of Clay,
And all material Obſtacles away,
In the full Vigour of eternal Youth,
Oh! How will She adore abſtracted Truth!
Phyſics ſtill fond new Secrets to deſcry,
And look thro' Nature with a piercing Eye,
[238] Hereafter latent Cauſes may explore,
When all the preſent Syſtem is no more,
And prove, when Inmate of the bleſt Abode,
The World an Atom to the Works of God!
The pale Aſtronomer that kens from far
The ſtation'd Planet, or the wand'ring Star,
When this frail Earth in Ruin ſhall be hurl'd,
May count the Lamps that light a nobler World;
And ſubtle Geometry ſhall lend her Line,
And take Dimenſions of the Plan divine.
What Sounds ſhall flow from Rhetric's ſilver Tongue!
How ſweet her Eloquence, her Voice how ſtrong!
Her wond'rous Talents graceful She diſplays,
And thunders forth the Heav'nly Monarch's Praiſe.
Hark! Hark! the raptur'd Bard has ſtruck his Lyre,
Blazes aloft the true Poetic Fire;
Ten thouſand vaſt Ideas ſwell his Mind;
Imagination ranges unconfin'd;
Now ſoftly trills, now loudly ſounds the Strain,
He ſings JEHOVAH'S all-triumphant Reign,
And Muſic fills th' unmeaſurable Plain!
He charms the winged Hoſts that hover by,
And Spirits ſhout Applauſe that rends the Sky.
Such then the future Pleaſures of the Mind,
So ſolid, manly, rational, refin'd,
Productive ever of the trueſt Joy,
And ſure to ſatisfy, but not to cloy,
[239] How vain at once appear all worldly Schemes,
The Tricks of Stateſmen, and Ambition's Dreams?
Low the Deſigns the wiſeſt Mortals lay,
And vile the brutal Pleaſures of a Day!
Awake, awake, purſue the proper Plan;
Virtue and Knowledge only make a Man!
Deſpiſe the World, a better Fortune try,
And calculate for Immortality.
Ideots by nat'ral Organs ill ſupplied,
Untutor'd Louts, whoſe parts were never tried,
Hereafter hidden Excellence may ſhew,
And rank with Souls that ſcorn'd them here below:
But for the Sot that ſees, yet ſlights his Rule,
The wilful Novice, the induſtrious Fool,
That lulls with Sloth, or ſteeps in Vice his Senſe,
The Slave of Pleaſure, or of Indolence,
How wretched is his Fate? fears he not Pain,
The gnawing Viper, and the galling Chain?
Still wretched is the Blockhead's Fate—for why?
Eternal Ignorance is Miſery.
Who goodly Talents have, ſhould Talents uſe,
But ſtill with upright, and with virtuous Views;
For Application ſometimes leſs pretence
To Merit has, than barren Indolence;
Nothing fatigues the Soul, or tires the Brain,
Like Luſt of Empire, or the Thirſt of Gain:
[240] And theſe o'er-ruling in an active Mind
Spoil Nations, and make Havock of Mankind:
Ingenious Tyrants only make us Slaves;
Were all Men Fools, ſure no Men would be Knaves.
Ambition take the Scepter, and the Robe,
Spread thy huge Greatneſs over half the Globe;
Lo, the World burſts, 'Tis Nature's dying Day,
The Sun is dark, the Planets melt away!
Now boaſt thy Genius, exerciſe thy Parts,
Recount thy Feats, and recognize thy Arts;
Alas! thou curſeſt thy too pregnant Brain,
And Knowlege is acute to quicken Pain.
The Nature, the Importance, and the End
Of Genius ſuch, be wiſe then, and attend;
How we may beſt our nat'ral Pow'rs improve,
And qualify the Soul for Bliſs above.
Genius lies hid, like Metal in the Mine,
Till ſearching Education bids it ſhine.
'Tis but a glorious Few of deathleſs Name
Have found, without a Guide, their Road to Fame;
Nor ſlight their Province, if we juſtly rate,
Who till the Mind, and Genius cultivate;
Much Penetration, and no little Toil
Muſt try the Strength, and Temper of the Soil;
Some Minds rich-natur'd, like a fruitful Field,
To little Culture ample Harveſts yield;
[241] Others aſſiduous Labour muſt ſecure;
They owe their goodly Produce to Manure:
True Judgment too ſhould mark where Talent lies;
And, ſoon as ſeen, indulge Propenſities:
For diff'rent Objects diff'rent Fancies ſtrike,
Genius, we ſaid before, is not alike.
Pope's forward Muſe procur'd him early Fame,
"He liſp'd in Numbers, for the Numbers came;"
Another's unharmonious Taſte is ſuch,
Sooner than Poetry he'd learn High Dutch!
Yet he peculiar Talents may diſplay,
And prove a very Wonder in his Way.
Why muſt all Mortals ſeek one common Praiſe?
Is there no Garland but a Wreath of Bays?
To ſteep Parnaſſus' Summit moſt ſublime,
'Tis not a ſhort-breath'd Pegaſus can climb;
Yet tho' the panting Jade would fain ſtand ſtill,
The blind Orbilius flogs him up the Hill.
Some ſeem to think that Genius may be ſold,
But Wit is not, like Honour, bought with Gold;
To foreign Regions wealthy Idiots roam,
Tho' Fools of all Men ſure ſhould ſtay at Home.
Another's Heir thro' Markham's Forms muſt paſs,
He goes a Blockhead, and returns an Aſs!
He gapes, he ſtrains, he ſweats, yet gets no higher;
For Nature put him down a Country 'Squire!
[242] Others of lively Parts, but wretched Fate,
Want Nothing but a Fortune to be great:
Sometimes among the vulgar Herd we find
Strong Marks and Features of a heav'nly Mind;
The Village Swain's a Wit, he knows not how,
And I have ſeen Philoſophy at Plough!
How are our Hopes by preſent Chances croſt?
What Oafs make P—ſ-ns, and what Wits are loſt!
When now your Genius, near to Ripeneſs grown,
Begins to glow with Raptures all it's own;
Ply it with choſen Books of various Kinds,
For Reading is the Food of hungry Minds:
Mod'rate and wholſom will ſuffice your Need;
'Tis not how much, but how, and what you read;
To riſe with Appetite is always beſt;
Gluttons devour much more than they digeſt:
'Tis vain for ever over Books to pore,
Reading does much, but Meditation more:
Mere ſlaviſh Plodding never yet prevail'd;
See yon lank Student to his Folio nail'd,
He reads at Home, Abroad, at Meals, in Bed,
And has five thouſand Volumes in his Head:
Yet little to Perfection has be brought,
For he has read ſo much he never thought.
The Youth more ſprightly, and the glowing Bard,
That had as lief go dig, as ſtudy hard,
[243] Applies by Fits, and at his Fancy's Call
Little he reads, but has that little all;
He ſees, and he enjoys his Author's Worth,
Gathers his Flow'rs, and culls his Beauties forth;
He dwells with Tranſport on a favourite Part,
And claſps each ſtriking Paſſage to his Heart!
Your Models chuſe from Authors of firſt Rate,
He cannot write, who dares not emulate;
To Father Homer's ſovereign Poetry
Rome owes her Virgil, and our Milton we:
High as the tow'ring Strains of Pindar ſoar,
Great Flaccus was, what Pindar was before.
For preſent Times to emulate is all;
'Tis not in Wit to be original!
Leave Books—and go to Company; and then
Leave Company, and go to Books again;
The ſtudious Mind 'tis uſeful to unbend
In pleaſing Converſe with a ſocial Friend:
For cordial Juices of the generous Vine
Refreſh the Weary, and the Dull refine;
O'er flowing Bowls rebounds the ſparkling Wit,
And ſure no Poet was a Milk-ſop yet.
Intemp'rate Revelling alone conſumes
The vital Pow'rs, and clouds the Brain in Fumes.
Horace, experteſt Handler of the Lyre,
In rich Falernum quaff'd poetic Fire;
[244] A jovial Bard! How pleaſant are his Strains!
How much Good-humour in his Writings reigns!
He laughs, tho' angry, and will ſtill delight;
His Verſe is Satyr, but it is not Spight.
How does his Muſe with free Politeneſs rail,
While Juvenal's is thraſhing with a Flail!
Scholars ſhould know, all Fire in Motion lies,
And whet their Parts with manly Exerciſe:
Dullneſs ſits ſlumb'ring in an Elbow chair,
But the gay Muſes love to take the Air.
The Shades of Night are fled before the Morn;
The Mountains echoe to the chearful Horn:
Men, Dogs, and Horſes, Neighings, Shouts, and Cries,
Shake, with tumultuous Jollity the Skies;
The Chace begins; they pant in every Vein,
Now climb the Hill's ſteep Brow, then ſcour along the Plain!
Such Sports as theſe enliven; they impart
Warmth to the Brain, and Gladneſs to the Heart.
But if due Aid to Genius may be lent,
Much too it ſuffers by Impediment.
Unhappy is the Bard that deals in Rhyme,
When Wit is obſolete, and Senſe a Crime.
When the weak Muſe, in a degen'rate Age,
Crawls from the Preſs, or lamely treads the Stage;
No longer dares to noble Heights advance,
But chimes in Song, or trifles in Romance.
[245] Infected by falſe Taſte great Souls we ſee,
Who, R—d—n, can Nature paint like thee?
Yet would a Genius toy as thou haſt done,
And ſpin Morality like Grandiſon?
How ſhall the genuine Bard eſcape from Fools,
That judge by narrow, or by partial Rules?
A thouſand Witlings maul his mangled Name,
And yelping Critics hunt him out of Fame.
Nay Cenſure ſo perverſly plays her Tricks,
That ſhe will Meaſure Wit by Politicks;
And ſome with hollow Heads, but Faces big,
Will almoſt ſwear APOLLO is a WHIG!
Men of true Genius, and of real Uſe,
Can Oxford, that vile Nazareth, produce?
And yet impartial Sarum did declare,
Once on a Time there was one Scholar there! *
Oxford! my Joy! my Wonder! and my Boaſt!
My conſtant Triumph, and my daily Toaſt!
O let thy Son his willing Duty pay,
And grateful pour the Tributary Lay;
Reſcue thy Fame from Slander thrown by Slaves,
And ſnatch thy Honour from the Gripe of Knaves.
—I ſpare my Pen, when nought to prove I find;
For who can ſee the Sun, when all are blind?
[246] Nor Cam repine we at thy equal Praiſe,
The learned Siſters may divide the Bays.
—But in this wooden Age, theſe daſtard Times,
O'er-run with Follies, and foul-ſtain'd with Crimes;
When Vice gigantic takes her public Stand,
And bids Corruption deluge all the Land,
Sculks now no more in Holes from Place to Place,
But ſtares aſtoniſh'd Virtue in the Face;
When Chiefs blaſpheme the God for whom they fight,
And all Religion is to be polite;
In ſuch a Day as this ſecure to ſteer,
With ſpotleſs Honour from Contagion clear,
To cheriſh ſtill the dying patriot Fire,
Unaw'd by Menace, and unbought by Hire,
To own, and to defend the Chriſtian Name,
And fix on Infidels the Mark of Shame,
Is the firſt Point of Praiſe; and let the Nine
Sound with their Harps this Praiſe, fair Oxford, thine.
'Tis not a minor Bard can hope to pleaſe,
And ſtruggle thro' Diſcouragements like theſe.
For ever ſure muſt damp poetick Rage,
Falſe Taſte, looſe Manners, and a ſlaviſh Age!
If theſe are Plagues, ſtill more remain behind,
Wits tell you Fortune frowns upon their Kind
Alas! What Sources of Obſtruction lie
In the great common Woe of Poverty!
[247] Whoſe Caſe is hardeſt, 'tis not quickly ſaid,
Or theirs that work, or theirs that write for Bread:
The ſtarveling Curate the fat Dean ſupplies,
One makes Divinity, and t'other buys.—
How ſinks the needy Wretch beneath himſelf,
That ſells his Parts to miniſterial Pelf!
Yet ſuch for State Neceſſities are fit,
For nothing helps a Villain out like Wit.
Sure of all Writers Poets ſhould not lack,
'Twill ſpoil your Pegaſus to make him hack;
The Muſe expands her Wings before you aſk;
She loves Employment, but ſhe hates a Taſk:
To Dryden the proud Manager could ſay,
On pain of Thirſt and Hunger, bring your Play;
The Play appears in Breach of ev'ry Rule,
And Want makes Dryden ſometimes half a Fool.
Such from without the Cauſes that we find
Obſtruct the Operations of the Mind;
Within too, Genius has it's Enemies;
And in ourſelves too oft our Hindrance lies:
Our Paſſions, Vices, Follies, Wit miſguide,
Intemp'rance, Anger, Haſtineſs, and Pride.
We ſaid, Debauches will Oblivion bring,
And mix dull Lethe with the Muſes' Spring.
The Mind is then moſt vig'rous when ſerene;
Crude are the half-form'd Dictates of the Spleen.
[248] What then inſpires the ſharp, ſatyric Page?
Oft, fix'd Ill-nature, ſeldom, ſudden Rage.
Some giddy Fancies ev'ry Object hit,
'Tis Folly to be prodigal of Wit!
The Verſe is ſhort-liv'd that is premature;
The Muſe tho' never ſlow, ſhould ſtill be ſure:
Theſe are thy Honours, Blackmore, this thy Gain,
That Nonſenſe came in Vollies from thy Brain!
Conceit with empty Vapours puffs the Mind,
And makes an Author to his Errors blind;
'Tis the firſt Praiſe to make, the next to mend;
Go, court the Cenſure of an able Friend:
Procure the Sanction of a learned Few:
Who knows what Mortals may your Works review?
True Modeſty for Wit may ſometimes paſs;
But every Coxcomb is, as ſuch, an Aſs:
The beſt Productions ſome Defects will ſtain,
And he affronts Mankind, who dares be vain!
—O! that my Muſe Aſſiſtance could impart,
As far as Nature may be help'd by Art;
Ingenious Art is Nature's trueſt Friend,
And what God made, 'tis only ſhe can mend.
For me, howe'er I covet laſting Fame,
And pant with Longings for a Poet's Name;
Yet let my Soul confeſs a nobler Aim!
Give me, kind Heaven, ſtill higher Point to reach,
Give me to practice, what I ſtrive to teach;
[249] My ſtanding Rules of daily Conduct be,
Faith, Honour, Juſtice, Candour, Charity;
Careleſs of falſe Reproach, or vain Applauſe,
Be Worth my Eulogy, and Truth my Cauſe;
O may I wield an independant Pen,
A Friend to Virtue, not a Tool to Men;
In Perſeverance placing all my Glory,
While Tories, Whigs, and all Men call me TORY!
Warm in my Breaſt may patriot Paſſion glow;
Righteous Reſentment of my Country's Woe:
With Voice and Heart for every may I ſtand
'Gainſt Vermin that devour my native Land:
And in one Wiſh my Wiſhes center'd be,
That I may live to hail my Country free!
Give me this Fame kind Heav'n, and tho' my Song
Ranks me the meaneſt of the raptur'd Throng,
I ſhall enjoy a ſweet Content; a Praiſe
That Shakeſpear's could not give, or Homer's Bays.

6.

[]

A PARAPHRASE ON THE TE DEUM.

AN ODE.

ADVERTISEMENT.

[]

IN the following Poetical Paraphraſe I have thought myſelf obliged to purſue the Track before me, and to deviate no farther from it, than might be clearly warranted by the Senſe and plain Import of the Original.—The greateſt Liberty I have taken is in the two laſt Stanzas, wherein I have ventured to mention ſome ſtriking Circumſtances rather from the Authority of the Holy Scriptures, than that of the Hymn itſelf; a Liberty which I hope will be indulg'd to the Solemnity of the Occaſion.

A PARAPHRASE ON THE TE DEUM.

[]
I.
GOD of the Worlds! eternally ſupreme!
Hail! thou firſt Cauſe of All!
Our daily Worſhip, and our endleſs Theme,
Hear us, we call;
We lift our raptur'd Souls in lofty Lays,
And breathe ſweet Incenſe of Religious Praiſe!
Creation bends before thy Sovereign Nod.
Where-e're the Sun his Luſtre ſheds,
And Ocean's ſpacious Boſom ſpreads,
Nations remote adore thy Name;
Thee all the Languages proclaim,
Thee, univerſal Sire! Thee everlaſting God!
[254]II.
Legions of Angels, an unnumber'd Throng,
Puiſſant Pow'rs, that tread Heav'ns Chryſtal Plain,
Immortal Seraphin begin the Song,
And full-wing'd Cherubs join the loudly-ſounding Strain.
"Thee Holy! Holy! Holy! (aye they ſing
Thee Holy! Holy! Holy! joyful ring
The Regions of unbounded Space)
"Thee God of Sabaoth we adore,
"Enjoy thy Goodneſs, dread thy Pow'r,
"And proſtrate fall before thy Face!
"O celebrate eternal Jubilee;
"The radiant Orbs that round us glow,
"The pendant Earth that whirls below,
"Thy wondrous Might declare, and ample Majeſty."
III.
Lo! where the glorious, choſen Band,
The faithful Twelve, thy Miſſionaries ſtand!
Lo! where the goodly Prophet's Race,
Inſpir'd Preſagers of thy balmy Grace!
[255] And there the noble Army that defied
The purple Tyrant's barb'rous Pride;
Bravely they took the blood-ſtain'd Field,
And Warriours without Spear or Shield,
The Champions of thy Faith in Triumph dy'd:
All, all to Thee glad Hallelujahs raiſe:
The Church below, the Church above,
Grateful chaunt their Songs of Love,
To Thee, high Argument of univerſal Praiſe.
IV.
Thee FATHER, Excellence of Majeſty,
Thee Fountain of eternal Deity,
With chearful Voice, and dulcet Sounds they ſing;
Next thy all-honour'd Son, MESSIAH great,
And next the peaceful, gracious PARACLETE,
Comfort's perpetual Source, Joy's unexhauſted Spring.
V.
Awake; awake again the vocal String,
The Great MESSIAH ſing,
Creator of the Worlds, and Glory's King;
[256] Hail! thou begotten of the Father, hail!
Eſſence that ne'er began, and ne'er ſhall fail!
Yet didſt thou leave thy bright Abode
To take a mortal Birth,
To ranſom the rebellious Sons of Earth,
A Virgin's Offspring, and a Saviour God!
See! on the Croſs in Agony of Pain
The God of Nature dies!
He dies, O Death, to cruſh thy fell Domain:
See him victorious riſe!
See Satan, captive Lion, roars in vain,
And ſullen bites his adamantine Chain.
Lift up your heads, ye Faithful, and behold
Where Heav'n unbars her Gates of everlaſting Gold.
VI.
What Floods of Glory break from yonder Throne?
While the paternal Brightneſs ſpread
Belov'd MESSIAH, round thy Head,
Crowns thy ſtupendous Toil, and Conqueſt greatly won.
Hereafter ſhall the Nations meet,
Before thy awful Judgment-Seat:
[257] Propitious lend thy kindly Aid,
Nor let thy Blood be vainly ſhed.
O may our Souls exalted be
With Hope of bleſt Eternity!
Our Names among the Saints enroll'd,
In ſacred Characters of Gold!
Hear, hear thy People, ſave thy Race,
Sons of Adoption, Heirs of Grace;
O thou! our Governour, and Guide;
Our true Ambition, humble Pride,
To thee the Tribute due we pay,
With riſing, and with ſetting Day;
And will thy filial Deity adore,
When Nature's Date is out, and Time ſhall be no more.
VII.
O thou, Diſtreſ's Anchor, Terror's Cure,
Prepare us for that all-tremendous Hour,
When thou ſhalt come in Fullneſs of thy Pow'r:
Let thy bright Beams of Mercy ſhine,
With Infl'ence on our Souls benign,
[258] And ever keep us from Pollution pure.
What Clangours cleave my ſtarted Ear?
What Noiſes rend th'affrighted Air?
What livid Meteors in the Aether play?
The World's deep-laid Foundations ſhake,
The Graves are burſt, the Dead awake:
It was the Trump of God! It is the Judgment Day!
VIII.
He comes; the Godhead comes; behold from far
He comes triumphant in his Cloud-wrapt Car:
While twice ten Thouſand Angels cope the Sky,
The Harbingers of his dread Majeſty!
The Stars are dropp'd, the Sun diſſolves away,
It is—Alas! 'tis neither Night nor Day:
The burning Baſis of MESSIAH's Throne,
Spontaneous Splendour beams, a Glory of it's own!
Look, look, the fatal Covers part,
The Book is open; melt my Heart:
Whither, ah! whither ſhall I flee
In this my Soul's Extremity?
Ah! whither but to thee?
My King, my God, my Hope, my Stay,
O ſave me this all-dreadful Day,
And let Mankind, and Angels ſee,
That bleſſed is the Man who puts his Truſt in Thee.
[]
We praiſe thee, O God: We acknowledge thee to be the Lord.
All the Earth doth worſhip thee: The Father everlaſting.
[254] To thee all Angels cry aloud: The Heavens and all the Powers therein.
To thee Cherubin, and Seraphin continually do cry,
Holy, Holy, Holy: Lord God of Sabaoth.
Heaven, and Earth are full of the Majeſty of thy Glory.
The glorious Company of the Apoſtles, praiſe thee.
The goodly Fellowſhip of the Prophets, praiſe thee.
[255] The noble Army of Martyrs, praiſe thee!
The holy Church throughout all the World, doth acknowledge thee;
The FATHER of an infinite Majeſty;
Thine honourable, true, and only Son:
Alſo the Holy Ghoſt, the Comforter.
Thou art the King of Glory, O Chriſt.
[256] Thou art the everlaſting Son of the Father.
When thou tookeſt upon thee to deliver Man; thou didſt not abhor the Virgin's Womb.
When thou hadſt overcome the Sharpneſs of Death, thou didſt open the Kingdom of Heaven to all Believers.
Thou ſitteſt at the right Hand of God; in the Glory of the Father.
We believe that thou ſhalt come to be our Judge.
[257] We therefore pray thee, help thy Servants; whom thou haſt redeemed with thy precious Blood.
Make them to be numbered with thy Saints, in Glory everlaſting.
O Lord, ſave thy People: and bleſs thine Heritage.
Govern them: and lift them up for ever.
Day by day, we magnify thee.
And we worſhip thy Name: ever World without End.
Vouchſafe, O Lord: to keep us this Day without Sin.
O Lord, have Mercy upon us: have Mercy upon us.
[258] O Lord, let thy Mercy lighten upon us: as our Truſt is in thee.
O Lord, in thee have I truſted: let me never be confounded.

7.

[]

AN ESSAY ON THE ANTIENT and MODERN DRAMA, OCCASIONED BY MR. MASON's ELFRIDA, And the LETTERS Prefixed to it.

AN ESSAY ON THE ANTIENT and MODERN DRAMA.

[]

I Have often read with much Pleaſure the ingenious Mr. Maſon's Dramatic Poem, entitled Elfrida, together with the preparatory Letters with which that Gentleman introduces it to the Public. This Piece is profeſſedly written on the Model of the antient Greek Tragedy; and though I flatter myſelf, the Objections I have to the Principles laid down in thoſe Letters are not removed by this much-labour'd Attempt, yet I will readily own the Deſign is executed with a ſkilful hand, and in ſome reſpects deſerves the Attention of the preſent Writers of the Engliſh Drama. I did not therefore undertake this Argument with any Inclination to differ from a Perſon of his known [262] Taſte, and greatly admired Abilities, but purely in Vindication of the Theory I have had the Honour to deliver in a Courſe of Lectures to the UNIVERSITY of OXFORD, in which, with a particular View to the Juſtification of Shakeſpeare, I have ventured to advance and defend a Syſtem in ſome material Points inconſiſtent with that under preſent Conſideration. Neither am I unaware of the great Diſadvantage I have to contend againſt, when I oppoſe a celebrated Writer, whoſe Sentiments are countenanc'd by the Practiſe of the antient Poets, and whoſe Pen is drawn under the Banner of Ariſtotle himſelf: A Diſadvantage, which the Uſage of later Writers, and the almoſt concurrent Voice of modern Criticiſm *perhaps will be thought little enough to counterbalance. However, as in Matters of Taſte we ought only, I apprehend, to appeal to the genuine Dictates of Good-ſenſe, Reaſon and Nature (which an implicit Veneration for any Name Antient or Modern may poſſibly prevent our regarding) ſo, if Prejudices on both Sides were removed, it would probably appear that the Victory is rather to be divided, than determined, and that without depreciating the real Merit and Excellency [263] of the antient Poets, we may yet ſafely defend the Principles on which the Moderns reject their Writings as the abſolute and everlaſting Standard of Dramatic Compoſition: I mean principally with regard to the three great Unities of Action, Time, and Place.—What I have to ſay therefore upon theſe Subjects I ſubmit without farther Apology to the Judgment of the intelligent and impartial Reader, advertiſing him only in this Place, that he is not to expect a Methodical Treatiſe of elaborate Criticiſm, but only a Train of occaſional Thoughts and Reflections, as they occur'd to me upon the Peruſal of the Poem of Elfrida, and the Letters prefix'd to it.

Had I intended, ſays Mr. Maſon in his firſt Letter, (for I chuſe to repeat his own Words to prevent Miſapprehenſion) to give an exact Copy of the antient Drama, your objections to the preſent Poem would be unanſwerable. But my deſign was much leſs confin'd. I meant only to purſue the antient Method ſo far as is probable a Greek Poet, were he alive, would now do, in order to adapt himſelf to the Genius of our Times, and the Character of our Tragedy. According to this Notion, every Thing was to be allow'd to the preſent Taſte, which Nature and Ariſtotle could poſſibly diſpenſe with; and nothing of Intrigue or refinement was to be admitted, at which antient Judgment could reaſonably [264] take Offence. Good Senſe, as well as Antiquity, preſcribed an adherence to the three great Unities; theſe therefore were ſtrictly obſerved.

'Tis evident from this Paſſage, the ingenious Author would have us conſider the Laws of Ariſtotle, and the Practice of Antiquity relating to the great Unities, as manifeſtly founded in the firſt Principles of Nature and Good Senſe; and accordingly in order to adapt himſelf to the preſent Taſte no farther than might be juſtly allowable, we find him deviating from the Rules and Practice of Antiquity but in two Inſtances; Firſt in the Choice of a Story, in which Love is the predominant Paſſion, and Secondly, in which Characters are repreſented as nearly approaching to private ones as Tragic Dignity would permit. Upon our Author's Hypotheſis indeed theſe are perhaps almoſt the only Deviations that could be allow'd him; and the Point muſt at once be given up, if the Theory be true which is here in ſo poſitive a manner advanc'd. For Satisfaction therefore in this Matter it may be uſeful in the firſt Place to obſerve, that the Action of the antient Drama, when brought to the Perfection in which Ariſtotle found it, was ſo ſtrictly One, and the Fable ſo abſolutely Simple, and almoſt totally abhorrent from Incident, at leaſt from what Mr. Maſon calls Contrivance, Refinement and Intrigue, [265] that the Conſtitution of the Drama did not ſo properly require, as ſuppoſe and imply a correſpondent Unity of Time and Place. Nay, uſually we find among the antient Greek Poets the entire Action of the Drama was brought within the Compaſs of the Repreſentation itſelf. And indeed if exact Nature and ſtrict Propriety are indiſpenſably to be the Objects of the Dramatic Poet's Attention upon all Occaſions, this muſt be allow'd to be the moſt perfect Model of Tragedy; and conſequently Ariſtotle himſelf ſeems to have indulg'd the Tragic Muſe too far, when in conformity with the ſometime Practice of the Greek Poets, He has preſcrib'd a Day as the due and regular Boundary of all Dramatic Action. For certainly a Day cannot really be compriz'd within the Space of five Hours any more than a Year, or any preciſe Duration whatſoever. The Truth is, Poetry was the Mother of Criticiſm, not Criticiſm of Poetry, and accordingly this great Philoſopher form'd his ſimple Notions and Rules upon the beſt Plan of the Drama then extant; but I cannot think it will by any Means follow that thoſe Rules are in all Points of perpetual and neceſſary Obligation: For why was it not in itſelf as agreeable to Nature and Reaſon for the Poets to admit Contrivance and Policy, Deſign and Intrigue into the Conſtitution of the Fable, as it could poſſibly be to confine themſelves to the [266] Repreſentation of the moſt ſimple and uniform Action; eſpecially as they hereby improv'd, and heighten'd that Perplexity, and Diſtreſs, which are the great Sources of Delight in Dramatic Entertainment? I ſay this Latitude of Deſign is not in itſelf unreaſonable or unnatural, becauſe 'tis not to be diſſembled that the Liberty contended for would indeed be, as it has been, in the Hands of the unſkilful and injudicious, an Inlet to Confuſion and Abſurdity. However it will not ſurely be denied that there is in Fact a very material Difference between Incidents, and the Variety of Deſigns and Contrivances that occaſion them, and mere Buſtle and Buſineſs; in his contempt of which Word Mr. Maſon ſeems willing to involve the whole Syſtem of Dramatic Intrigue. The general Theory I would therefore advance is this, (for I would not be underſtood to aſſert it admits of no Exception) that it is not barely the Privilege, but often even the Duty of the Dramatic Poet to adapt himſelf to the Viciſſitudes of Public Taſte, and to repreſent human Life, and human Actions as he finds them; and if in Purſuance of this Deſign, he may think it expedient to make Choice of a Subject of ſuch a complicated Nature as cannot with Eaſe and Conſiſtency be diſpatch'd within the ſtatutable Limits of Time, and Place, I cannot ſee why we may not indulge him with a proportionable Allowance of each, in order to [267] prevent infinitely greater Abſurdities and Inconſiſtencies than that Allowance can poſſibly produce, that is, thoſe confus'd and precipitate Action. And all this while the Extenſiveneſs of the Deſign, provided it be executed with Judgment in other Reſpects, deſerves rather to be look'd upon as an Excellence and an Improvement upon the old Model, than to be placed to the Account either of the Ignorance or the Inattention of the Writer; of which more hereafter.

There is that Sovereign Quality in Poetry (to uſe the Words of the ingenious Author of the Notes on the Epiſtle to Auguſtus) which the Poet (Horace) in the following paſſage,
Ille per extenſum funem mihi poſſe videtur
Ire Poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit,
Irritat, mulcet, falſis terroribus implet,
Ut Magnus; et modo me Thebis, modo ponit Athenis:
conſiders as a kind of magic virtue, which tranſports the Spectator into all Places, and makes him, occaſionally, aſſume all Perſons. The Reſemblance holds alſo in this, that it's effects are inſtantaneous and irreſiſtible. Rules, Art, Decorum, all fall before it. It goes directly to the Heart, and gains all purpoſes at once. Hence it is, that ſpeaking of a real Genius, poſſeſſed of this commanding Power, Horace in the Lines above quoted, Ille per extenſum, &c. pronounces him emphatically [268] The Poet; it being more eſpecially this Property, which, of itſelf, diſcovers the true Dramatiſt, and ſecures the ſucceſs of his performance, not only without the aſſiſtance of Art, but in direct Oppoſition to it's cleareſt Dictates.

This Paſſage which I have quoted verbatim (abating a few Expreſſions in it) exactly coincides with my ſentiment upon this Head; and the Application which the Author makes of it in Favour of Corneille, may, I preſume, be made with equal Propriety at leaſt in Behalf of our Shakeſpeare.—I am ſenſible all this while that this great Prince and Father of the Engliſh Stage is ſuppoſed by Mr. Maſon to have ſhewn a total Diſregard of all the Rules of the Drama, in Compliance merely with the Taſte of the Times. I muſt own, I could have been glad to have ſeen fewer Things ſuppoſed upon this Subject. I will take the Liberty likewiſe to ſuppoſe that this great Poet ſaw no legal or neceſſary Reſtraint upon the Force and Impetuoſity of his Genius with Regard to the Unities of Action, Time and Place; that he conſidered the Laws relating to them as merely local and temporary, well adapted indeed to the ſimple Genius of antient Tragedy, but in themſelves and the Reaſon of Things diſpenſable upon the Suppoſition of a Dramatic Plan of a more extenſive and complicated Nature. His Opinion might be (like the [269] current one mentioned in Mr. Maſon's ſecond Letter) that ‘the ſtrict Adherence to the Unities reſtrains the Genius of the Poet; by the Simplicity of it's Conduct diminiſhes the Pathos of the Fable; and by the Admiſſion of a continued Chorus prevents that agreeable Embarraſs, which awakens our Attention, and intereſts our Paſſions.’—However, that the Nature of Dramatic Poetry will not only admit of a more extenſive Model than the Tragedies of the Greek Poets furniſh us with, but is alſo improveable by the ſame, if it cannot be proved, may at leaſt I think be inferr'd even from the Doctrine of Ariſtotle himſelf. This great Critic, it is very well known, calls the Fable the Soul of Tragedy; with a manifeſt Eye to which Expreſſion, Mr. Dryden obſerves that Ariſtotle places the Fable firſt, ‘non quoad Dignitatem, ſed quoad Fundamentum. And indeed we need only refer the Reader to the ſimple Arguments of Aeſchylus, and even of Euripides and Sophocles for the moſt part too, to convince him that the Fable upon the antient Plan of the Drama cannot properly be ſaid to be the Soul of the Poem in any other Senſe, than as it is the Subject of it. Nay, this is in a great Meaſure the Caſe even of thoſe antient Tragedies which are of the implex Kind, and, as ſuch, eſteemed moſt excellent by our Philoſopher. One main Argument uſed by him for the Priority [270] of the Fable in the conſtituent Parts of Tragedy is taken from the Conſideration of the ſudden Revolutions and Diſcoveries, (the * [...] as he calls them) which diſtinguiſh the Tragedies we are ſpeaking of from thoſe of the ſimpleſt Kind. Theſe are the means, ſays he, by which Tragedy more particularly captivates and engages ( [...]) the Mind and Affections.

Now if this Doctrine be applied to the modern Drama, it ſeems to me not only an Apology for, but in Effect a Recommendation of the Incidents and Revolutions, which are infinitely more numerous upon the Britiſh Stage than they were upon that of Athens, and are ſo offenſive to ſqueamiſh Judgments; unleſs it can be proved that theſe under the Direction of a good Judgment do not contribute to, or rather conſtitute that Variety which Ariſtotle plainly refers to in the Paſſage quoted; or that ſuch Variety in modern Plays has not a proportionable Influence on the Paſſions, upon which, as Mr. Maſon rightly has obſerved, it is the Buſineſs of the Tragic Muſe "directly to ſtrike."—If therefore the Fable be the Soul of Tragedy, I will venture to aſſert, there is more Soul in a good modern Tragedy, than in the beſt antient one; and that Mr. Dryden might very properly, and therefore gravely call ſecret [271] Intrigues the Beauties of our modern Stage. Indeed that great Man in ſome occaſional Remarks he made on Mr. Rymer's Reflections on the Tragedies of Fletcher, &c. makes no ſcruple to give the Preference to our Engliſh Poets before the Antients under this very Article of Enquiry: ‘Next ſhew, ſays he, in what Antient Tragedy was deficient; for Example, in the Narrowneſs of it's Plots, and Fewneſs of Perſons, and try whether that be not a Fault in the Greek Poets; and whether their Excellency was ſo great, when the Variety was viſibly ſo little; or whether what they did was not very eaſy to be done.’

In Oppoſition to this the following Words of the ingenious Author of the Notes &c. already referred to, may poſſibly be urged. ‘An Unity, (ſays he, ſpeaking of the two Dramas) and even Simplicity in the Conduct of the Fable is a Perfection in each. For the Courſe of the Affections is diverted and weakened by the Intervention of what we call a double Plot; and even by a Multiplicity of ſubordinate Events, though tending to a common End; and, of Perſons, though all of them, ſome Way, concerned in promoting it. The like Conſideration ſhews the Obſervance of this Rule to be eſſential in juſt Comedy. For when the Attention is ſplit on ſo many interfering Objects, we are not at leiſure to obſerve, nor do we fully [272] enter into the Truth of Repreſentation in any of them; the Senſe of Humour, as of the Pathos, depending very much on the continued and undiverted Operation of it's Object upon us.’ But in anſwer to this, I will venture to aſſert in my Turn, that the Intervention of what we call a Double-Plot, a competent Number (not Multiplicity) of ſubordinate Events tending to a common End, and of Perſons all of them ſome way concern'd in promoting it, do not weaken, but eaſe and relieve the Courſe of the Affections; and alſo, that in Comedy, the Attention is really quicken'd even by being ſplit on ſo many interfering Objects;—that different and oppoſite Characters ſet off and illuſtrate each other;—and that we are enabled by a proper Variety of Perſonages more preciſely to obſerve and fully to enter into The Truth of Repreſentation in all of them: And conſequently that a Comedy with a Double-Plot artfully conducted, and fill'd judiciouſly, not cramm'd with Incidents and Intrigue, in which the ſeveral Perſons of the Drama have room to exerciſe, and diſplay themſelves, attains it's End, which is the Rotation of Characters, and their ſpecific Differences, (as this Author well obſerves) more effectually, than the ſimple, and contracted Comedy of the Antients; but this Matter I have handled more at large *elſewhere, and in the mean time [273] let theſe reſpective Opinions be left to the Deciſion of Fact and Experience.—To return to Mr. Maſon.

‘I ſhould be loth indeed to ſee Incidents, Buſtle, and Buſineſs ſupply the Place of Simplicity, Nature and Pathos.’ which, 'tis not to be denied, is the Caſe in ſome modern Performances. But that the former are likewiſe very conſiſtent with the latter, and that ſuch Conſiſtency and Union is one great Point of Dramatic Compoſition, as calculated for the rational Entertainment of an Audience, may be exemplified in many illuſtrious Inſtances; particularly in the Tragedies of Shakeſpear. It is true this inimitable Poet, is not ſo greatly remarkable for Depth of Plot and Intricacy of Contrivance, as for the Hiſtorical Continuation of his Deſign, (which, by the way, is indeed carried to an unreaſonable Length in ſome of his Plays) but however, as ſuch Hiſtorical Continuation neceſſarily implies a great Variety of Incidents and Revolutions, it is fairly reducible to the ſame Head of Diſquiſition. Shakeſpear indeed, for the moſt part, form'd his Dramatic Plans from Hiſtory, or Romance, and therefore has no extraordinary Claim to the Glory of Invention, either as to the Subject of his Tragedies, or the Conduct of his Plots. His Excellencies, for the moſt part, are purely Poetical. But this is far from being the Caſe of all our Dramatic Writers. The [274] Ground-work of the greateſt part of our Engliſh Tragedies is indeed Hiſtorical; but the Superſtructure is their own. The whole Buſineſs of Plot, Intrigue, and Contrivance, is generally the Work of the Poets; and a Work, when executed with Art and Judgment, that ſhews them to be ſuperiour at leaſt to their Forefathers of Greece in the ample Field of Invention (the firſt Point in Poetry): and therefore I ſhould think ſome of Mr. Maſon's Expreſſions, relating to the kind Aſſiſtance of the Violin to the Diſtreſs of the Hero or the Poet on the Britiſh Stage, may in ſome meaſure be retorted upon himſelf, and thoſe whoſe Cauſe he eſpouſes. For though an intermediate Space between the Acts may be requiſite for the Purpoſes of the Modern Drama, and even to ſave Appearances of the Probability of the Deſign, yet I can by no means admit theſe prudential Pauſes to be Proofs in themſelves of the Diſtreſs or Barrenneſs of the Writer. Methinks to the Relief of theſe, the antient Chorus ſeems more peculiarly adapted, when the Drama, by reaſon of the Scantineſs, or if you pleaſe Simplicity of it's Matter, and the Narrowneſs of it's Plots, ſtood in abſolute Need of ſuch ſeaſonable and friendly Interpoſition: But to the Chorus I am to pay my Compliments again by and by.—

It ſhould be obſerv'd here, I am ſuppoſing all this while that, notwithſtanding the Extenſiveneſs [275] of Deſign in modern Tragedies, a due, and even ſcrupulous Regard is to be had to Conſiſtency and Uniformity of Plot and Action; That there is to be but one grand central Point as it were, in which the ſeveral Underplots, Incidents, Turns, and Viciſſitudes of the Drama are finally to terminate; and that though the great Buſineſs of the Poet under this Article be to perplex and embarraſs his Audience, and to play with their Paſſions at pleaſure, yet he is to take Care that the Unravelling of the whole, and the ſeveral Parts, be eaſy and natural, and the Labyrinths of his Plots ſuch as, according to Mr. Addiſon's Expreſſion upon another Occaſion, may be juſtly deem'd a regular Confuſion. If proper Care and Caution be taken as to theſe particulars, I confeſs I am apt to look upon the Tranſgreſſion of the Letter of the old Laws of Tragedy as Offences rather againſt the Cuſtom and Uſage of Antiquity, than the Dictates of Reaſon and Nature; and, as great a Veneration as I have for the antient Poets, cannot poſſibly think I am maintaining an Argument to the prejudice of their real Merit, by endeavouring to aſſert the Liberty of modern Poets, and to reſcue the Drama from Ariſtotle's * Magna Charta of Reſtraint.

To ſpeak freely, I muſt own farther, I cannot ſubſcribe to a Theory that condemns at one Daſh [276] almoſt every Compliance with Public Taſte, and the Genius of a People, as mere Complaiſance and Servility: I believe a Greek Poet now alive would adapt himſelf to the Taſte of the Times in more Inſtances than Mr. Maſon would allow; and that theſe have been occaſionally more or leſs conſulted and indulged by all Poets in all Ages. Not that I am of Mr. Southern's Opinion (See his Preface to the Fatal Marriage) that every reaſonable Man will, and ought to govern in the Pleaſures he pays for; for in ſuch Caſe Hamlet muſt walk off the Stage to make room for Harlequin.—I would neither ſervilely indulge Public Taſte, nor yet ſelf-ſufficiently deſpiſe it.—I am willing upon this Occaſion once more to ſhelter myſelf under the Authority of Dryden.

One reaſon of that Succeſs (ſays he in the above-cited Remarks) is in my Opinion this, that Shakeſpear and Fletcher have written to the Genius of the Age and Nation in which they lived: For though Nature, as he (Mr. Rymer) objects, is the ſame in all Places, and Reaſon too the ſame; yet the Climate, the Age, the Diſpoſitions of the People to whom a Poet writes, may be ſo different, that what pleas'd the Greeks, would not ſatisfy an Engliſh Audience.

And if they proceeded upon a Foundation of truer Reaſon to pleaſe the Athenians, than [277] Shakeſpear and Fletcher to pleaſe the Engliſh, it only ſhows that the Athenians were a more judicious People: But the Poet's Buſineſs is certainly to pleaſe the Audience.

Whether our Engliſh Audience have been pleaſed hitherto with Acorns, as he calls it, or with Bread, is the next Queſtion; that is, whether the Means which Shakeſpear and Fletcher have uſed in their Plays to raiſe thoſe Paſſions before-named, be better applied to the Ends by the Greek Poets, than by them; and perhaps we ſhall not grant him this wholly. Let it be yielded, that a Writer is not to run down with the Stream, or to pleaſe the People by their own uſual Methods, but rather to [...] form form their Judgments; it ſtill remains to be proved, that our Theatre needs this total Reformation.—The Faults which he h [...]s found in their Deſigns, are rather wittily aggravated in many Places, than reaſonably urg'd; and as much may be returned on the Greeks, by one who were as witty as himelf:

Mr. Dryden is here compa [...]ng the Ancients with the Moderns, in regard to the Conduct and Command of the two great Tragical Paſſions, Pity and Terrour, and the Compariſon concludes to the Advantage of the latter.

A little farther he proceeds thus, ‘To conclude thereore: if the Plays of the Ancients are [278] more correctly plotted, ours are more beautifully written; and if we can raiſe Paſſions as high on worſe Foundations, it ſhews our Genius in Tragedy is greater, for in all other Parts of it, the Engliſh have manifeſtly excelled them.’

For the Fable itſelf, 'tis in the Engliſh more adorned with Epiſodes, and larger than in the Greek Poets, conſequently more diverting; for if the Action be but one, and that plain, without any Counterturn of Deſign or Epiſode, (i. e.) Under-plot, how can it be ſo pleaſing as that of the Engliſh, which have both Underplot, and a turn'd Deſign, which keeps the Audience in Expectation of the Cataſtrophe? w [...]ereas in the Greek Poets, we ſee through the who [...] Deſign at firſt.

I do lot uſe this as an accurate Piece of Criticiſm, nor would be underſtood to oppoſe the Authority of Mr. Dryden, to the Ipſe dixit of Ariſtotle in general, who has certainly a right to be heard firſt, in critical as well as philoſophical Matters, with a proportionable Conſideration of the Age he lived in: The only Point in Debate is, whether he can be ſuppoſed in the Nature of Things, from the clear Idea he had form'd of the Greek Drama, to be qualified to give Poetical Laws to all Poſterity.—Public Taſte, it is probable, (as Mr. Dryden intimates) [...]ries in different [279] Countries, according to the Nature of the Climate, and the Conſtitution of the People: However, there are ſome certain, fix'd, and acknowledged Principles of Good Senſe, Nature and Reaſon, that are, as Mr. Rymer obſerves, equally and univerſally, in all Ages and Nations, at leaſt all civilized ones, the ſame: I believe there has been hardly any Age ſo illiterate, whimſical, or corrupted in this Senſe, as to explode theſe ſtanding Principles; ſuch for Inſtance, among many others, are the following: That the Drama is to be the true Image and Repreſentation of Nature: That this Repreſentation can only be exhibited under an infinite Variety of Actions, Deſigns, Characters, Manners, Sentiments and Expreſſions: That with regard to all, and each of theſe, Propriety, Conſiſtency, and Probability are moſt exactly to be obſerved: That the Motives to all Actions, the Springs of all Paſſions, the Grounds of all Prejudices, the Peculiarities of all Tempers, have one common Foundation, and are productive of their correſpondent Effects, in all Times and Places.—The Knowlege of theſe Things is the Knowlege of Nature, in which the great Arcana of all Poetry, and particularly Dramatic, are repoſited. To theſe, therefore, it is the Dramatic Poets Care moſt heedfully to attend; and to theſe he may attend, in Fact, very conſiſtently, with a Diſregard of the Laws of the old Drama, [280] as might be inſtanced in many of our beſt Modern Plays, and in almoſt all of Shakeſpear's.—It is, indeed, nothing but this Attention that has ſo eminently raiſed and preſerved the Reputation of theſe latter, notwithſtanding the Poet's abſolute Neglect, or rather Defiance of the great Unities contended for as eſſential to the Drama. And 'tis as certain, that where this Attention is wanting, either through Ignorance or Careleſſneſs, the moſt regular Obſervance of theſe Unities will be found utterly inſufficient for the true Purpoſes of Stage-Poetry.

For theſe, and the like Reaſons, I think one may venture to conclude, that the Practice of the Antients is by no means a neceſſary Standard of Dramatic writing, and that the Laws relating to the ſeveral Unities of Action, Time, and Place, though they do indeed conſtitute a particular Form, or Species of the Drama, (and we will grant the moſt exact too) yet are by no means eſſential to the Nature of it. Whatever is ſo, cannot be violated or infringed without Contradiction to the common Judgment of Mankind, and diſguſting at leaſt, the more rational Part of an Audience. And accordingly every Defect in the Particulars above-mentioned, is always received with proportionable Marks of Diſapprobation. But the Caſe is quite different, in reſpect of the Liberties Shakeſpear has taken, which [281] therefore, I can never think abſurd or unnatural in themſelves. And I am the more confirmed in this Opinion, becauſe Johnſon, Fletcher, and many others, who were confeſſedly acquainted with the Genius of ancient Tragedy, and, generally ſpeaking, not only affected Art and Regularity in their Writings, but even depended principally upon theſe for the Succeſs of them, did nevertheleſs, on many Occaſions, hold themſelves free from the Obligation of the Laws at preſent in Queſtion.

But herein, our modern Refiners will ſay they judged wrong; and as to Shakeſpear, if he has eſcaped the Severity of Cenſure upon this Head, it muſt be aſcribed wholly to that Complaiſance, which every Generation has thought due to his Excellencies in the higher Beauties of Poetry.—Now this Anſwer, (and ſomething to this Effect muſt be the Anſwer) does itſelf ſuppoſe, that the moſt punctual Obſervance of the old Laws, has no Connection with the great Beauties of Poetry, but is only at beſt the mechanical Part of the Drama: However, 'tis preſum'd that the great Name of Shakeſpear, ſcorns to be protected by the Complaiſance of his Countrymen; and that the Liberties he has taken, are very far from being indefenſible.—For is it more improper and irrational, or does it require leſs Force of of Genius, and Knowlege of Nature, to trace as [282] it were a Paſſion from it's firſt Riſe, through it's Progreſs, and to it's final Iſſue, as that of Jealouſy in Othello, or of Ambition in Macbeth, than to repreſent it only at a ſtated Period, and at a particular Criſis? Or, if the Poet thinks proper to ſhift the Scene from a Palace to a Heath, or from Venice to Cyprus, is it at all more inconvenient or impoſſible for his Audience to attend him, than it was to give him the Meeting, and ſuppoſe themſelves in the Place where he laid his firſt Scene? It does not at all appear to me, that a greater Degree of implicit Faith is required in one Inſtance than in the other: For he may with equal Probability do both, UT MAGUS, as has been hinted above, and he can do neither but in Quality of the ſame. Times and Places are in a great Meaſure at the Command of a Genius; and the Argument drawn from the abſolute Unnaturalneſs of every Breach of exact and preciſe Unity with regard to them, if it proves any Thing, proves too much; it will prove the Unnaturalneſs of the whole Dramatic Apparatus; it will demonſtrate the Impoſſibility of exhibiting Woods, Fields, Caſtles, and Towns, in a ſingle Room, and the Abſurdity of giving an Ear to a Company of Fidlers, before or after the Solemnity of a Council, or the Tumult of a Battle. In ſhort, it ſeems to me a moſt ridiculous Hypercriticiſm, to object to Improprieties which are more or leſs [283] inſeparable from the Conſtitution of the Drama, and to talk of Inconſiſtencies and Impoſſibilities, where all is confeſſedly a Deluſion. If the Queſtion indeed were, whether of the two be the more artificial Model of Tragedy, that of the Ancients, or the Moderns, I would make no Scruple to give up the Argument: But a regular and exact Model is one Thing, and an excellent Play is another; it is one Thing to allow a reaſonable Latitude to a great Genius, and another to preſcribe a Plan to a common Poet.

Were the antient Greek Tragedians defective then in Point of Genius, it will be aſk'd? Very far from it.—However, I will venture to aſſert, that the Simplicity, (I had almoſt ſaid Poverty) of their Fables, is by no means their ſtriking Beauty; that theſe would have appeared to greater Advantage, had they taken greater Liberties; that neither Nature nor Reaſon reſtrained them to the preciſe Obſervation of the three Unities, and that the Cuſtom of Antiquity in this Caſe, under the Abilities of a great Maſter, would (to uſe the Words of Shakeſpear) be more frequently honoured in the Breach, than the Obſervance.

But what if, after all, ſome Precedents even from Antiquity itſelf, will in a certain Meaſure warrant the Non-obſervance of the great Rules in Diſpute? Euripides and Sophocles, who confeſſedly improved the more ſimple Plan of their Predeceſſor [284] Aeſchylus, and are ſuppoſed to have brought the Drama to it's State of Perfection, do not ſuperſtitiouſly, and without Exception, adhere to their own general Syſtem: Witneſs firſt, the Hecuba of Euripides; in which there are apparently two diſtinct, and almoſt unconnected Actions; at leaſt, out of the two great Incidents of that Tragedy, two diſtinct Actions might have been plan'd; for either the Death of Polixena, or the Deſtruction of Polymneſtor, might, and ſtrictly ſpeaking ought, to have been the ſimple Subject of that Drama. If it be ſaid that both theſe Actions (or Incidents) were no more than were ſufficient or neceſſary to exemplify the Diſtreſſes of Hecuba, and to illuſtrate the Character of that unhappy Princeſs, this is ſaying, in effect, what we have already ſaid, in Defence of the complicated Plan of modern Dramatiſts; and ſo,

Hanc veniam petimuſque damuſque viciſſim.

Again, the Ajax of Sophocles ought to have ended with it's natural Cataſtrophe, the Death of this Hero; inſtead of which another Action, properly ſpeaking, commences, ariſing from the violent Conteſt between Teucer and Agamemnon concerning the forementioned Hero's Right of Burial; a Conteſt, which, if the Poet in the preſent Caſe had ſtudied, or even regarded abſolute Simplicity and Uniformity, he ſhould have reſerved for the Groundwork of another Tragedy.—And further [285] the Trachiniae of the ſame excellent Author is manifeſtly defective in Point of Unity of Time; of which much more muſt naturally be ſuppoſed to have lapſed between the Departure of Hyllus to inquire after his Father, and his Return to Trachin than the Letter of the Dramatic Law allowed him.—Theſe Defects and Irregularities I have never ſeen taken Notice of, and much leſs objected to theſe juſtly admired Writers. And though we could bring no other Examples to the ſame Purpoſe than the above cited, or however none ſo obvious as theſe, yet 'tis apprehended a ſingle Inſtance of this Nature is of very conſiderable Weight and Conſequence in the preſent Controverſy; and will warrant us in determining that the ſtrict Laws of the Drama were not of indiſpenſable Obligation, even in the Judgment of the Antients themſelves.—Indeed if they are, the Merit of a Poet ſhould be tried chiefly at leaſt by them; and therefore when Mr. Maſon tells us that Shakeſpear ought, for his other Virtues, to be exempted from common Rules, he is unjuſtifiably candid and indulgent to him; for ſure he ought by no Means to be exempted, if ſuch Rules are founded in the indiſpenſable Laws and firſt Principles of Nature and good Senſe. If he is fundamentally and eſſentially ridiculous, a thouſand inferiour Beauties will not excuſe him. Common Rules are therefore upon certain important Conſiderations diſpenſable; and if ſo, Shakeſpear's Beauties do not ſo properly excuſe, as acquit him.

[286] If the judicious Reader will apply here, by the Way, ſome of the foregoing Remarks to the Caſe of Tragi-Comedy, he will be able perhaps to account not only for the Toleration, but alſo gracious Reception of ſo motley a Production upon the Engliſh Stage. For though Shakeſpear, with his Contemporaries and many Succeſſors, did in ſuch Pieces undeniably humour the public Taſte to their own Diſcredit, yet 'tis to be obſerved, that the grand Arcana of Nature above intimated might be ſcrupulouſly attended to even in this heterogeneous Compoſition; and accordingly when the Tragic and Comic Repreſentation was each excellent in it's Kind, it is no Wonder that the Bulk of an Audience ſhould overlook the manifeſt Impropriety of the Coalition, or that the more judicious Part ſhould forgive it for the Sake of the fundamental and eſſential Excellencies of the reſpective Actions and Repreſentations. It is plainly for this Reaſon that the beſt Tragi-Comedies of Shakeſpear and others are received with general Applauſe at this very Day; the Ground of Complaint againſt ſuch Tragic and Comic Union being really not ſo much that it offends the Judgment, as that it improperly divides the Attention. Two ſeparate Plots, and diſtinct Actions do this to a ridiculous Degree; but in one and the ſame Action abſolute Uniformity is not eſſential either to the Tragic or Comic Drama. For tho' the [287] Pathos be the Characteriſtic of Tragedy, and Humour of Comedy, as well ancient as modern, yet the former will admit of Characters of Pleaſantry under certain Regulations, and the latter is frequently known to abound with Circumſtances of very affecting, tho' domeſtic Diſtreſs; of which many Inſtances might, if need were, be on both ſides produced, in the ſeveral Dramas both of Antients and Moderns. Nor does ſuch occaſional and moderate Reciprocation confound or deſtroy the different Genius, Nature, and End, of the two Species. And it was probably owing to ſome injudicious Writer's Miſapplication of this Truth, and his drawing undue and falſe Conſequences from it, and even in his own Imagination improving it, that either the Name, or the Conſtitution of Tragi-Comedy did ever ſubſiſt. For the Reaſons why Plautus calls his Amphitrion a Tragi-Comedy, are of a Nature entirely different from this. However, the great Objection to this Form of Dramatic Compoſition is certainly, as has been ſaid, that it unſuitably divides the Attention, not that it leſſens it, or by exciting many different Paſſions in the ſame Space of Time checks the Force of any ſingle one. That the Attention in a very uniform and regular Play, may be divided without being leſſened, we have already obſerved; and indeed, if this were not the Caſe, abſolute Uniformity and Simplicity muſt be really eſſential to [288] the two Species of the Drama, and every reciprocal Participation will be proportionably, to the Degree of it, abſurd. But to aſſert this, would be talking againſt Reaſon, Experience, and the not uncommon Practice of the beſt Poets. Is any Man leſs mov'd by the Delicacy and Tenderneſs of Lord Townley, upon his Separation from his Wife, on Account of the Mirth that was before excited in him, by the ridiculous Ignorance, and Ruſticity of Sir Francis Wronghead? Do we leſs intereſt ourſelves in the Fate of the unhappy Indiana, becauſe we were diverted by the coxcombical Pertneſs of Mr. Thomas? Should we be more affected by the pathetical Complaints of Romeo, if they were not contraſted in the Buffoonery of Mercutio? Or, to refer the Reader to a Play or two written directly upon the Tragicomic Plan, does the iniquitous Drollery of the Spaniſh Friar abate our Concern for the Diſtreſſes of Torriſmond and Leonora? Or, do the comical Rhodomontades, and Humours of Falſtaff and his Aſſociates, take off our Attention from the Bravery of Prince Henry or Hotſpur, &c. &c. at the Battle of Shrewſbury.—I am very far from contending for this Mixture, not of oppoſite, but indeed contradictory Characters, in the ſame Drama, and much leſs for the Form of Tragi-Comedy itſelf: Proper and due Uniformity admits of ſufficient Variety, and though it be not eſſential to the [289] Drama, is no doubt a great Beauty in it: The moſt popular of the Plays I have mentioned, are not the better for their Medley of Characters; but all this while, let the Fault or Impropriety be placed in a fair Light, and aſcrib'd to it's true Cauſe, which is the real, though nice Connection, between the Genius of Tragedy, and that of Comedy, and the extreme Difficulty of preciſely determining how far, or in what Degrees and Proportions the one may aſſume the Qualities and Properties of the other.

But to return to my Subject:—The ſimple Conſtitution of the ancient Drama, has indeed ſome Advantages over the more complicated one of ſucceeding Ages, but ſtill ſuch as are abundantly more than ballanc'd by thoſe of the latter. The frequent ſhifting of Scenes, for Inſtance, though it does not offend the Judgment, is yet diſguſting to the Eye of the Spectator, and ſo far the Continuation of one and the ſame Scene, is a peculiar Beauty, and Propriety. But all this while, to this Beauty and local Propriety, many other more important Points of Probability are too often ſacrific'd. This is, more or leſs, I believe, the Caſe of all ſtrictly uniform Tragedies and Comedies, but evidently, at leaſt of ſome of our beſt Engliſh Comedies that have been written on the old Dramatic Plan; in which, notwithſtanding the Unity of Action, ſo much Buſineſs is [290] tranſacted, ſo much Intrigue carried on, by ſo many different Perſonages, in one ſingle Spot of Ground, as is utterly incredible; in which Caſe the Poet really offends againſt Reaſon, Nature, and good Senſe, purely to ſave the Appearance of doing ſo: Indeed if the Unities are eſſential to the Drama, the utmoſt Simplicity will of Courſe be a Perfection in it; and conſequently many of the moſt regular Compoſitions of our Comic Poets (as the Way of the World, and the Double Dealer of Congreve) will be found to be infinitely their worſt Productions: So ambitious have ſome been of improving the Model of the antient Drama, and yet ſo cautious at the ſame Time of taking ſuch Liberties as were abſolutely neceſſary for thoſe Improvements.

After all, Diſcretion is to be a general Rule even in the Uſe of Liberty. I would neither fetter the Dramatic Muſe, nor yet let her run wild; Deviations from the ſtrict Laws of Antiquity ſhould be made not affectedly and at random, but with a View to Beauties of a higher Nature; not for the Eaſe of the Poet, but to the Advantage of the Poem. I would not vindicate Shakeſpear himſelf in every Inſtance of his Tranſgreſſion. To ſum up all that need be ſaid upon this Point in a few Words; the old Laws of Ariſtotle are in my Opinion very proper Regulations and Reſtraints for an indifferent Poet, but ought not to be the Shackles of a good one.

[291] The other great Point of Difference between the antient and modern Drama, is the Diſuſe of the Chorus in the latter; which yet Mr. Maſon is "willing to think eſſential to the Tragic Drama." Now admitting the Theory of Ariſtotle and Mr. Maſon to be not only a regular, but alſo neceſſary Standard of Dramatic Writings, with Reſpect to the Unities of Action, Time and Place, the Chorus, though not eſſential to the Drama, will indeed as Mr. Maſon obſerves ‘lay a proper and neceſſary Reſtraint upon the Poet.’ But if theſe Unities themſelves are far from being eſſential to the Drama, as we have endeavoured to make it appear, the Uſe of the Chorus is ſo far at leaſt ſuperſeded.—The Chorus was indeed, as I have before obſerved, not only a conſtituent Part of, but even a Convenience to the antient Tragedy. If I might be excuſed the Indelicacy of the Expreſſion for the Significancy of the Sentiment, I would ſay, let a Tragedy of Aeſchylus be gutted of it's Chorus, and you leave it little better than a Skeleton.

To proceed; upon the ſimple Plan of Antiquity the Chorus introduced, 'tis true, an agreeable Variety into the Drama, and was no doubt both uſeful and ornamental to it, as it's peculiar Province had more immediate Reference to the great Ends of all Poetry, prodeſſe & delectare. But after all, if theſe great Ends are better, or even as well [292] anſwered without the Chorus; and if theſe Ends are not obſtructed by the Admiſſion of Deſign, Contrivance and Intrigue into the Fable, but even promoted by it under the Conduct of a maſterly Hand, in this Caſe, I ſay, it is not to be denied but the Chorus of the Antients has given Place to it's Betters.—It is true Mr. Maſon has very poſitively aſſerted (for I think he has by no Means ſufficiently proved) in Behalf of the old Chorus, that (to lay no Streſs upon ſubordinate Advantages) it augmented the Pathetic, that it afforded ‘a graceful, and natural Reſource to the Embelliſhments of pictureſque Deſcription, ſublime Allegory, and whatever elſe comes under the Denomination of pure Poetry;’ and laſtly, which is moſt material, that it was the propereſt Vehicle ‘to convey moral Reflections with Grace and Propriety.’ For theſe Reaſons, which reſpect both the Poet and the Audience, he judges the Diſuſe of the Chorus to be an irreparable Loſs to the modern Stage. Let us briefly then review what this Gentleman has ſaid upon each of theſe Articles.

Now with Regard to the firſt he offers us the Authority of a Frenchman. ‘If you aſk me (ſays he) how it augmented the Pathetic, I cannot give you a better Anſwer than the Abbè Vatry has done in his Diſſertation on the Subject publiſhed in the Memoirs de l' Acad. des Inſer. &c. It affected this (ſays he) both in it's Odes and [293] Dialogue. The wonderful Power of Muſic and the Dance is univerſally allowed. And, as theſe were always Accompaniments to the Odes, there is no Doubt but they contributed greatly to move the Paſſions. It was neceſſary that there ſhould be Odes or Interludes; but it was alſo neceſſary, that theſe Interludes ſhould not ſuffer the Minds of the Audience to cool, but, on the contrary, ſhould ſupport and fortify thoſe Paſſions, which the previous Scenes had already excited. Nothing imaginable could produce this Effect better, than the choral Songs and Dances, which filled the Mind with Ideas correſponding to the Subject, and never failed to add new Force to the Sentiments of the principal Perſonages. In the Dialogue alſo, the Chorus ſerved to move the Paſſions by ſhewing to the Spectators other Spectators ſtrongly affected by the Action. A Spectacle of ſuch a Kind as is fitted to excite in us the Paſſions of Terrour and Pity, will not of itſelf ſo ſtrongly affect us, as when we ſee others alſo affected by it. The Painters have generally underſtood this Secret, and have had Recourſe to an Expedient ſimilar to that of the Chorus of the Poets. Not content with the ſimple Repreſentation of an hiſtorical Event, they have alſo added Groupes of aſſiſtant Figures, and expreſt in their Faces the different Paſſions, they would [294] have their Picture excite. Nay they ſometimes inliſt into their Service even irrational Animals. In the Slaughter of the Innocents, LE BRUN was not ſatisfied with expreſſing all the Horrour, of which the Subject is naturally capable; he has alſo painted two Horſes with their Hair ſtanding on End, and ſtarting back, as afraid to trample upon the bleeding Infants. This is an Artifice which has often been employed, and which has always ſucceeded. A good Poet ſhould do the ſame; and Iphigenia ſhould not be ſuffered to appear on the Theatre, without being accompanied with Perſons capable of feeling her Misfortunes.’

I have tranſcribed the whole Paſſage, and can't help nothing in the firſt Place, a very extraordinary Inaccuracy in this refin'd Portion of Criticiſm. For ſure the above-mentioned Horſes, with their "Hair ſtanding on End," and "ſtarting back," &c. did greatly add to the Horrour of this famous Piece, which yet before had, it ſeems, all the Horrour expreſſed in it, of which the Subject was naturally capable; or, if they did not augment this Horrour, it will be difficult methinks to to tell what Buſineſs they had there. But to be ſerious:

The wonderful Power of Muſic is univerſally allow'd; and Muſic is by no Means excluded from the modern Stage. Nay, I venture to ſay, the [295] modern Drama has Recourſe to it more effectually, though leſs frequently, than the old Drama had; as we are more affected by it's occaſional and unexpected Graces and Aſſiſtances, than we ſhould be by it's ſtated and periodical Interpoſition.—For the Dance, I own I am at a Loſs to comprehend how it could contribute greatly to move the Paſſions; I mean the Paſſions proper for Tragedy: I do not pretend to aſcertain the Nature and Method of the antient Stage-Dancing; but ſuch has been the Power of the Dance in later Times, that the Tragic Muſe, who is a very grave Matron, has, I believe, no Reaſon to lament her dancing Days are over. Admitting therefore at preſent the Propriety and Efficacy of the Choral Songs, I cannot conceive how any Kind of Dance ‘ſhould ſupport and fortify thoſe Paſſions, which the previous Scenes had excited,’ or ‘fill the Mind with Ideas correſponding to the Subject, and never fail to add new Force to the Sentiments of the principal Perſonages.’ Nor farther can I ſee any Thing even in the Songs, or Odes, which had ſo peculiar a Tendency to produce theſe Effects, that nothing imaginable could do it as well; for tho' theſe might anſwer this Purpoſe very ſufficiently, yet if they were not neceſſary for it, they cannot be contended for as eſſential to the Drama, and muſt conſequently be conſidered only, as we have before obſerved, in the Light of [296] an ancient Conveniency.—Now I apprehend the Minds of the Audience are in no Danger of cooling under the preſent Syſtem of the Drama, and that the Muſic between the Acts may be adapted to the Purpoſes fore-named, of ſupporting and fortifying the Paſſions as much as the old Chorus could be. Without depreciating therefore the real Uſe and Deſign of the Chorus, we only ſay we can do in many Reſpects better, and even in this as well without it.

But farther it ſeems, ‘In the Dialogue alſo, the Chorus ſerved to move the Paſſions, by ſhewing to the Spectators, other Spectators ſtrongly affected by the Action.’ For, ‘a Spectacle of ſuch a Kind as is fitted to excite in us the Paſſions of Terrour, and Pity, will not of itſelf ſo ſtrongly affect us, as when we ſee others alſo affected by it.’ Admitting the Truth of which Aſſertion, I do not ſee what is to be inferr'd from it to the Advantage of the antient Chorus. For does not the modern Drama move the Paſſions (as indeed does the antient excluſive of it's Chorus) by ſhewing to the Spectators other Perſons (not mere Spectators, but Perſons more intereſted in the Action) ſtrongly affected by the Events of the Tragedy? The Intervention therefore of Spectators, as ſuch, upon the Stage is with Reſpect to this Purpoſe ſuperfluous and inſignificant, except it can be demonſtrated that [297] the Paſſions of Terrour and Pity, or any other are (if I may be allowed the Expreſſion) more powerfully excited at the ſecond Rebound.—Let common Experience at once illuſtrate and determine this Matter.—Suppoſing half a dozen indifferent Perſons admitted to a Spectacle of Terrour or Diſtreſs in real Life, for Inſtance that of a dying Man taking Leave of his Wife, his Miſtreſs, or his Friend; would not ſuch a Spectacle immediately raiſe ſuitable Emotions in all of them, or would each firſt conſult the Paſſions of his next Neighbour in order to learn what Effect this Spectacle ought to have upon himſelf? Theſe Queſtions require no Anſwer; and therefore as the Drama is ſo lively a Repreſentation of real Life, they may plainly be applied to any Caſe of Miſery or Horrour exhibited upon the Stage.—For this Reaſon alſo it is, that the Illuſtration of the Matter before us by the Expedients of the Painters is, I apprehend, (with Deference to the ingenious Abbè as Mr. Maſon calls him) entirely foreign to the preſent Purpoſe. The Painters have very wiſely had Recourſe to ſuch Expedients as are mentioned in the above-quoted Criticiſm, becauſe, after all, their Art is but Painting ſtill, and properly ſpeaking deſcribes the Paſſions, more than it excites them; but the Drama, or rather the Actor in the Drama, realizes what he repreſents. He muſt be a very inſenſible Spectator, who thinks at [298] all of the Poet or the Player, when Mr. Garrick is perſonating a Richard, a Macbeth, or a Lear. The Poet in ſhort has not the ſame Occaſion for ſuch Artifices and Expedients as the Painter has. Let Iphigenia appear on the Theatre, and behave as ſhe ought to do, and I will be anſwerable for it, the Audience will be Perſons capable of feeling her Misfortunes.

But again, by rejecting the Chorus Mr. Maſon tells us the true Poet has loſt a ‘graceful and natural Reſource to the Embelliſhments of Pictureſque Deſcription, ſublime Allegory, and whatever elſe comes under the Denomination of pure Poetry. To which I take Leave to reply, That what the Poet has loſt hereby, Tragedy has gained; for if Mr. Maſon's own Theory be juſt, the Tragic Muſe (as we have before obſerved from him) ſtrikes directly upon the Paſſions of the Audience; which I ſhould be glad to know how Pictureſque Deſcription (I mean ſuch as this Gentleman has favoured us with) ſublime Allegory, and Poetry in the Abſtract, or, if you pleaſe, pure Poetry can do. Mr. Maſon ſays, the Lyric Muſe addreſſes herſelf to the Imagination of a Reader or Hearer; and accordingly ‘few Men have a Strength of Imagination capable of purſuing the Flights of Pindar; and ſtill fewer, I will venture to add, thoſe of Mr. Maſon in this Dramatic Poem. I am very far from meaning to [299] decry this ingenious Author's peculiar Talent in loco; but I fear in the preſent Caſe, while he affects to defend the Cauſe of the old Chorus, his real Deſign was to introduce a new one. For, the Name excepted, I can diſcern little or nothing in the Odes of Mr. Maſon ſimilar to thoſe of the antient Chorus; that ‘poetical Flow of tender Commiſeration, of religious Supplication, or of virtuous Triumph,’ of which it principally conſiſted, had none of the long-ſpun Allegory, and aerial Imagery with which theſe Dramatic Sonnets of Mr. Maſon abound. In Truth it is to be wiſh'd that this profeſt Admirer, and Imitator of genuine Nature, and antient Simplicity in the Structure of his Fable, had paid a little more Regard to them in his Diction throughout this whole Poem, and particularly in the Stile of the Choral Compoſitions under preſent Conſideration. 'Tis Pity indeed an Author ſo ſober and chaſte in his whole Oeconomy, ſhould be ſo remarkably extravagant and looſe in his Language.

In the Hymn to the Morning a great deal ſeems to be unfolded, but little diſcovered.

Away, ye Elves, away:
Shrink at ambroſial Morning's living Ray;
That living Ray, whoſe Pow'r benign
Unfolds the Scene of Glory to our Eye,
Where, thron'd in artleſs Majeſty,
The Cherub Beauty ſits on Nature's ruſtic Shrine.
p. 4.

[300] Now I apprehend it would poſe the moſt able Linguiſt to tranſlate theſe Lines, or the moſt dextrous Painter to give us a Portrait of this angelical Perſonage.

Charity has ever been rank'd with the firſt of moral Virtues; but Mr. Maſon not only perſonifies and deifies it, but likewiſe makes it a Geometrician, and a Muſician into the Bargain.

Ah! follow ſtill the ſoft-ey'd Deity;
For know, each Path ſhe draws,
Along the Plain of Life,
Meets at the central Dome of ſocial Joy.

Again,

Humanity! thy awful Strain
Shall ever meet our Ear
Sonorous, ſweet, and clear.
And as amid the ſprightly-ſwelling Train
Of dulcet Notes, that breath
From Flute or Lyre,
The deep Baſe rolls it's manly Melody,
Guiding the tuneful Choir;
So thou, Humanity, ſhalt lead along
Th' accordant Paſſions in their moral Song,
And give our mental Concert trueſt Harmony.
Page 12.

—This Paſſage is I confeſs very melodious in Point of Numbers; it is indeed like Muſic itſelf; for methinks it ſounds well, and ſays nothing.

[301] In another Ode we have ſeveral pictureſque Images of the Goddeſs CONTENT, preſented to us; now ſhe ſits upon a Bank, and liſtens to a Linnet.

Sweet Bird! like thine our Lay ſhall flow,
Nor gayly loud, nor ſadly ſlow;
For to thy Note ſedate, and clear,
CONTENT ſtill lends a liſt'ning Ear,

—Then ſhe is gone to ſup with a Hermit, and is amazingly calm and compos'd, tho' ſhe ſeems every Minute in danger of being drown'd, or knock'd on the Head.

Perhaps to ſome lone Cave the Rover flies,
Where lull'd in pious Peace the Hermit lies.
For, ſcorning oft the gorgeous Hall,
Where Banners wave with blazon'd Gold,
There will the meek-ey'd Nymph delight to call,
And with the ſolemn Seer high converſe hold.
There, Goddeſs, on the ſhaggy Mound,
Where tumbling Torrents roar around,
Where pendent Mountains o'er your Head
Stretch their formidable Shade,
You liſten; while the holy Seer
Slowly chaunts his Veſpers clear:
Or of his ſparing Meſs partake,
The ſav'ry Pulſe, the wheaten Cake,
The Bev'rage cool of limpid Rill. p. 18. 19.

—In my humble Opinion theſe, and the two following Odes to Conſtancy and Truth are much [302] more calculated to exerciſe a Metaphyſical Head, than make any Impreſſions upon a ſenſible Heart: And after all, the Beauties of ſuch Ideal Poetry as this, tho' they may amuſe in the Cloſet, muſt ſurely be loſt upon the Stage. To paſs by the Ode to CONSTANCY, let us take a ſhort View of TRUTH in all her Glory.

—"No Son of Light
Darts ſwiftly from his heav'nly Height,
No Train of radiant Saints deſcend.
Mortals, in vain ye hope to find,
If Guilt, if Fraud has ſtain'd your Mind,
Or Saint to hear, or Angel to defend.
So Truth proclaims. I hear the ſacred Sound
Burſt from the Centre of her burning Throne;
Where aye ſhe ſits with ſtar-wreath'd Luſtre crown'd,
A bright Sun claſps her adamantine Zone." p. 51.

—It is wonderful to obſerve how far a true Poetic Fancy lifts a Genius above all Proſaic Conception. Moſt of us profeſs ourſelves Admirers of the Naked Truth; but Mr. Maſon has cloth'd her more ſplendidly than ever Solomon was; tho' I think he has given her rather too fine a Buckle for ſo clumſy a Girdle.

It is indeed well obſerv'd by Mr. Pope, that He who would take Boldneſs from Poetry, muſt leave Dulneſs in the room of it; and I am very ſenſible that no Species of Poetry is allow'd greater Liberties than the Ode;

[303] SED NON UT PLACIDIS COEUNT IMMITIA, &C. Boldneſs is the Medium between Dulneſs and Temerity; the Muſe has no more Buſineſs above the Clouds, than ſhe has under the Ground; and Mr. Maſon, tho' he never creeps, is certainly a High-Flyer. The extravagant Thoughts, the far-fetch'd Alluſions, and the unconnected Ideas in moſt of theſe Odes are a Proof of it.—In truth the Heat of Imagination is apt to tranſport an Author into falſe Concluſions, and make him believe He writes Poetry, becauſe He does not write Proſe.

But farther, I can by no Means agree with Mr. Maſon that ‘if we had a Tragedy of Shakeſpear's form'd on the Greek Model, we ſhould find in it more frequent, if not nobler Inſtances of the high Poetical Capacity, than in any ſingle Compoſition he has left us.’ This Author thinks, ‘we have a Proof of this in thoſe parts of his Hiſtorical Plays, which are call'd Chorus's, and written in the common Dialogue Metre.’ Our ‘Imagination (continues he) will eaſily conceive, how fine an Ode the Deſcription of the Night, preceding the Battle of Agincourt, would have made in his Hands; and what additional Grace it would receive from that Form of Compoſition.’ Let us turn to the Deſcription as it now ſtands in Shakeſpear.

[304]
From Camp to Camp, through the foul Womb of Night,
The Hum of either Army ſtilly ſounds;
That the fixt Centinels almoſt receive
The ſecret Whiſpers of each others Watch.
Fire anſwers Fire; and through their paly Flames
Each Battle ſees the other's umber'd Face.
Steed threatens Steed in high and boaſtful Neighs,
Piercing the Night's dull Ear; and from the Tents,
The Armourers accompliſhing the Knights,
With buſy Hammers cloſing Rivets up,
Give dreadful Note of Preparation.
The Country Cocks do crow, the Clocks do toll.

—This noble Deſcription is full of Imagery drawn from ſenſible Objects, as indeed are moſt of thoſe we meet with in this incomparable Author; (witneſs for Inſtance the Deſcription of Dover Cliff, of Hamlet's Madneſs, of Brutus's Diſorder, &c. &c.) It is conſequently of the moſt affecting Nature, and in a manner poſſeſſes the Hearer or the Reader with the ſame kind of Terrour which the Braveſt probably feel upon the Criſis of a deciſive Battle. And, by the by, of the ſame paſſionate and affecting (i. e. Dramatic Nature) are the Poetical Parts of our beſt Tragedies in general. Now I cannot conceive that the ſeveral Circumſtances of this Deſcription could receive additional Force from the Form of an Ode, notwithſtanding the acknowledg'd Power of Muſic; and much leſs that ſuch a Deſcription would appear [305] to advantage in an Ode of Mr. Maſon's. Inſtead of what we ſee, hear and feel in the ſtriking Particulars of the before-mention'd Deſcription, Mr. Maſon would entertain and amaze us with an allegorical Machine of

Horror riding on the Brow of Night,

or,

From her black Pinions ſhedding deadly Dews.

—It is certain whatever might be the Myſtic Beauties of ſuch an Ode as this, it would at beſt be a diſpaſſionate One, and ſo far infinitely leſs Theatrical, than the foregoing Deſcription of Shakeſpear. In truth the pure Poetry which Mr. Maſon tells us that great Poet had the Power of introducing naturally, and what is moſt ſtrange, of joining with pure Paſſion, has an Air utterly different from, or rather contrary to the Flights of Mr. Maſon throughout this Performance. Shakeſpear indeed very rarely gets out of the Reach of our Apprehenſions, even when his Subject leads him directly into the Province of Imagination.—I refer the Reader to his Midſummer Night's Dream, his Macbeth, and his Tempeſt. Upon the whole of this Article, it may I think, be ſafely affirm'd that the modern Drama is by no means deſtitute of Opportunities of having recourſe to Poetical Embelliſhments and Pictureſque Deſcriptions of all Kinds; and it has recourſe to them, if not ſo frequently and obviouſly [306] as the antient Drama by means of the Chorus had, at leaſt more conſiſtently with the Eſſential Character of Tragedy, whoſe direct Buſineſs it is to excite the Paſſions, even according to Ariſtotle's own Definition of it. For whether Images, Deſcriptions, &c. occaſionally and naturally interſpers'd with the Matter of the Dialogue itſelf be not more compatible with that Character, than ſeparate and detach'd Peices of Poetry, is a Queſtion that needs not, I conceive, be diſcuſs'd.—Now if theſe Conſiderations will lead us to Concluſions in favour of the Poetical Parts of modern Tragedy againſt thoſe of the old Chorus, they will, I am ſure, do this a fortiori againſt the pure Poetry of Mr. Maſon.

I cannot help obſerving in this Place, that our Author's Affectation of a Poetical Diction, which contributes ſo much to the rendering the Odes of his Chorus undramatical, diſcovers itſelf likewiſe in many Parts of the Dialogue itſelf; and often to ſuch a Degree, that Pomp, Figure, and Allegory ‘ſupply the Place of Simplicity, Nature, and Pathos. How allegorically does Athelwold expreſs the Paſſion of Joy, mixt with an Apprehenſion of imminent Danger?

—Heav'ns! It cannot laſt,
The giddy height of Joy, to which I'm lifted,
Is as a hanging Rock, at whoſe low foot
The black and beating Surge of Infamy
Rolls ready to receive, and ſink my Soul. p. 21.

[307] —As this Danger approaches ſtill nearer, the Leader of the Chorus tells the unhappy Pair (Athelwold and Elfrida) that

Safety now ſits wav'ring on their Love,
Like the light down upon the Thiſtles beard
Which every Breeze may part. p. 30.

Upon the Earl's declaring his Reſolution to murder himſelf, he is caution'd againſt ſuch a deſperate Proceeding, by very important (but I think ſcarce intelligible) Conſiderations.—

Forbear, forbear;
Think what a ſea of deep Perdition whelms
The wretch's trembling Soul, who launches forth
Unlicens'd to Eternity. Think, think,
And let the Thought reſtrain thy impious Hand.
The Race of Man is one vaſt, marſhall'd Army,
Whoſe num'rous Squadrons fill the Plains of Time,
Their Leader the Almighty. High in Air
The chos'n Archangel rides, whoſe right Hand wields
The imperial Standard of his Providence,
Which dreadly ſweeping thro' the vaulted Sky,
O'erſhadows all Creation.
p. 54.

—With what Delicacy, and Pathetic Force is the Remorſe of this Hero expreſs'd in the following Paſſage?

I do deſerve to breathe,
Deſerve to bear this load of Life about me
For many Years; to lengthen out my Age.
[308] Liſt'ning the hourly Knell of curſt Remembrance,
Whoſe leaden Stroke ſhall tell to my ſad Soul
That I was faithful once.—

We may obſerve farther that the ſame Enthuſiaſtic kind of Spirit betrays our Author in many other Places of this Work (where the Thought is extremely beautiful) into a Stiffneſs and Formality of Language.—We will give the Reader a few Inſtances of this.—

The Eye that will not weep another's Sorrow,
Should boaſt no gentler brightneſs than the glare,
That reddens in the eye-ball of the Wolf.
p. 6.
—Tenderneſs and Pity
Have made his breaſt their Home. He is a Man
More apt thro' inborn gentleneſs to err,
In giving mercy's Tide too free a Courſe,
Than with a thriſty and illiberal Hand
To circumſcribe it's Channel.
p. 8.
—Let no unhallow'd Tongue
Dare to profane her Virtue by it's Praiſe;
'Tis a bright Prodigy, which Admiration
Muſt ſtand in ſilent Gaze at, and behold
Full-plum'd Perfection take it's Eagle Flight
Above Ambition, Sovereignty, and Pride.
p. 35.
Horror! Horror!
The Pen of Fate dipt in it's deepeſt Gall,
Perhaps on that ill-omen'd Wall,
Now writes th' Event of this tremendous Day.
[309]
O! that our weaker Sight
Could read the myſtic Characters, and ſpy
What to the unpurg'd, mortal Eye,
Is hid in endleſs Night.—
p. 42.
—See, ye Virgins,
See how Deſpair beneath his gaſtly Brow
Stretches her blackeſt Cloud, thro' whoſe thick Night
His Eyes faſt rooted in their angry Rings
Dart a dire Glear.—
p. 56.
—For Solitude,
Which ſooths the trnnquil Mind, has dread Effects
On wrathful Breaſts. The ſame ſequeſter'd Pine,
Which veils the gurgling Ring-dove with it's Boughs,
Whets with his knotty Trunk the Boar's vext Tooth,
And points each Fang with Death.

In ſhort, to this Spirit we may perhaps aſcribe the Impropriety and Unſeaſonableneſs of ſome of Mr. Maſon's moſt elegant and affecting Images and Deſcriptions.—But I forbear to multiply Quotations.—Enough, I preſume, has been ſaid to ſhew that Mr. Maſon throughout this whole Work diſcovers much more of the Poet, than the Tragedian: He diſcovers ſo much indeed of the former, that abating theſe, and a few other Blemiſhes and Defects, which I thought it but Juſtice to my Subject to endeavour to ſet in a true Light, Elfrida, as a Dramatic Poem, has many exquiſite Beauties; which however (as they muſt be obvious to judicious [310] Eyes) I forbear not for Want of Inclination but of Time to recite. Indeed as this Performance is entitled a Dramatic Poem, and not a Tragedy, by the Author himſelf, I ſhould have made no Exceptions to it, if the Stile of the Letters prefixed to the Drama had been as modeſt as the Title Page.—But to return once more to the Chorus. Mr. Maſon ‘laments that with the Means of introducing Poetry naturally, is loſt alſo the Opportunity of conveying moral Reflections with Grace and Propriety.’—He tells us afterwards, ‘that in thoſe Parts of the Drama where the Judgment of a mixt Audience is moſt liable to be miſled by what paſſes before it's View, the chief Actors are generally too much agitated by the furious Paſſions, or too much attached by the tender ones, to think cooly, and impreſs on the Spectators a moral Sentiment properly.’—This is indeed aſſerting roundly, but however, I apprehend, without ſufficient Foundation in Reaſon, or Experience.—I will make bold to aſſert too, that it is the Buſineſs of the Dramatic Poet (and indeed of every other) in a moral View to ſteal imperceptibly into the Heart of his Audience, or Reader; that Sentiments occaſionally and naturally ſuggeſted by the Circumſtances of the Parties perſonally concerned, will have a more forcible Effect than a thouſand ſet Leſſons of Muſic and Morality from the Mouth of a third Perſon; and that the chief Actors are [311] not generally "too much agitated by the furious Paſſions, or attached by the tender ones, to think cooly (enough for the Purpoſe) and impreſs on the Spectators a moral Sentiment properly."

In the next Sentence we are told that ‘A Confidant or Servant has ſeldom Senſe enough to do it, never Dignity enough to be regarded.’—Now, by the way, a Servant or a Confidant may always (if the Poet pleaſe) be as ſenſible a Perſon as any in the Drama; and ſure the Dignity of either, at leaſt of the latter is equal to that of the Perſonages of the antient Chorus, which for the moſt Part conſiſted of a Company of Virgins, the Attendants and Countrywomen of the Hero of the Poem.—Mr. Maſon's own Chorus, with all it's Pomp and Solemnity, is compoſed of Lord Athelwold's Maids.—But after all, do the modern Tragedians uſually convey moral Sentiments thro' the Mouths of Servants and Confidants, as theſe Expreſſions would lead us to imagine; or granting they do, and err in ſo doing, is the particular Error of a few to be objected to the general Syſtem? Inſtead therefore of theſe (and of the Chorus too) the Moderns are ‘ſufficiently provided with Perſons not merely capable of ſeeing and hearing, but of arguing, adviſing, and reflecting; from whom a moral Sentiment never comes unnaturally, but ſuitably and gracefully.’ For ſuch are (or may be) all the Perſons in the Drama. "The Character of Pierre in Venice Preſerv'd [312] (Mr. Maſon juſtly obſerves in another Place) ‘when left entirely to the Judgment of the Audience, is perhaps one of the moſt improper for public View, that ever was produced on any Stage. It is almoſt impoſſible, but ſome Part of the Spectators ſhould go from the Repreſentation with very falſe and immoral Impreſſions. But had that Tragedy been written on the antient Plan; had Pierre's Character been drawn juſt as it is, and ſome few Alterations made in Jaffeir's, I know no two Characters more capable of doing Service in a moral View, when juſtly animadverted upon by the Chorus. For bad Characters become on this Plan as harmleſs in the Hands of the Poet, as the Hiſtorian.’ This would indeed be, as I have elſewhere obſerved, very juſt Reaſoning againſt any Man that ſhould undertake to vindicate Mr. Otway's Conduct in the Tragedy referred to; and to oppoſe the ſame to the antient Plan; but as this never was, or will be done by any Man in his Senſes, it is ſurely inconcluſive to argue againſt the Inconveniencies of the whole modern Dramatic Syſtem from the particular Error of a particular Poet.—The Truth is, perhaps this Gentleman has conceived ſtrong Prepoſſeſſions in Favour of that Species of Poetry, which his Talent evidently leads him to; for if he had not himſelf a particular Taſte for an Ode, 'tis likely he would ſcarce contend for it as abſolutely eſſential [313] to the Drama.—But whatever may have been his real Sentiments upon the Occaſion, I hope, I have given ſufficient Reaſons for differing from him.

Before I conclue I can't help taking Notice, that Mr. Maſon has drawn Mr. Dryden himſelf into his Intereſts in a very extraordinary Manner; and this I do the rather, as I have more than once referred to that excellent Perſon's Authority. Mr. Maſon, among the inſuperable Difficulties in the Way to the deſired Reformation of the Engliſh Stage, intimates the preſent improper Form of the Theatres; and the additional Expence requiſite for the Purpoſes of the antient Syſtem renders the Matter, he thinks, impracticable. ‘This, he ſays, Mr. Dryden foreſaw long ago;’ and then quotes the following curious Paſſage from him. ‘A new Theatre, much more ample and much deeper, muſt be made for that Purpoſe; beſides the Coſt of ſometimes forty or fifty Habits: which is an Expence too large to be ſupplied by a Company of Actors. 'Tis true I ſhould not be ſorry to ſee a Chorus on a Theatre, more than as large and as deep again as our's, built and adorned at a King's Charges; and on that Condition, and another, which is, that my Hands were not bound behind me, as now they are, I ſhould not deſpair of making ſuch a Tragedy, as might be both inſtructive and delightful, according to the Manner of the Grecians.

[314] Now does any common Reader apprehend from this Paſſage, that becauſe Mr. Dryden tells us, he ſhould not be ſorry to ſee a Chorus on a commodious Theatre, &c. therefore he ardently wiſh'd to ſee one, and judg'd it abſolutely eſſential to the Drama; or becauſe he declares that in ſuch Caſe he ſhould not deſpair of making ſuch a Tragedy as might be inſtructive and delightful according to the Manner of the Grecians, therefore he long'd to try his Strength in this Field, and acknowledged the grand Secret prodeſſe & delectare was the Characteriſtic of the Greek Drama only? And yet ſuch methinks is Mr. Maſon's Conſtruction of this Paſſage."—‘This Suffrage of Mr. Dryden, ſays he, is, however, very appoſite to to the preſent Point. But it ſerves alſo to vindicate my Deſign of imitating the Greek Drama. For if he, who was ſo prejudiced to the modern Stage, as to think Intrigue a capital Beauty in it; if he, I ſay, owns that the grand Secret prodeſſe & delectare was the Characteriſtic of the Greek Drama only, nothing I think can better juſtify my preſent Attempt than the Approbation he gives to it in this Paſſage.’—That is (to reduce this Suffrage to a ſmaller Compaſs) Mr. Dryden informs us, that if Things were properly circumſtanced he would at all Events have attempted a Tragedy upon the Greek Model, and with ſome Hopes of Succeſs; [315] therefore he plainly preferred the antient to the modern Syſtem.—Let the Merits of the Cauſe be tried by the Evidence of Mr. Dryden, and

Fabio vel Judice vincam.

I have nothing farther to add than that, if the Reader ſhould chance to wonder at the Freedom I have ſometimes taken with this truly ingenious Writer, I deſire it may be imputed to my natural Reſentment of that Air of Sufficiency and Superiority with which he introduces, I do not ſay his Performance, but his Syſtem.—‘Good Senſe (i. e. common Senſe) as well as Antiquity required an Adherence to the Unities.’ This peremptory Declaration involves in a very ſcurvy Term almoſt every Dramatic Writer but our Author, and a Frenchman or two, ſince the Days of Ariſtotle. But delicate Judgment it ſeems and a true Taſte for genuine Nature and antient Simplicity are the Allotments, and Privileges only of a happy Few.—In what Contempt does this Gentleman hold the univerſal Practice of the modern Stage, when he acquaints us, "he believes he could quickly make the whole tolerably fit for an Engliſh Audience by putting the Dialogue of the Chorus into the Mouth of an Emma or Matilda, who with ſome little Shew of ſiſterly Concernment, might be eaſily made to claim Kindred with Earl Athelwold; and by the Addition of an [316] unneceſſary Incident or two, which would coſt him no more than they are worth in contriving, and an unmeaning Perſonage or two, who would be as little Expence in creating." I confeſs I ſee no Sort of Foundation for this Inſult and Superiority in the Arguments, or rather Aſſertions of Mr. Maſon, for which Reaſon I have written my Thoughts upon this Occaſion; otherwiſe I have no more Pretenſion to write againſt him as an Adverſary, than Deſire to enter the Liſts with him as a Poet.

8.

[]

LETTERS, &c.

LETTERS, &c.

[119]
SIR,

I Sit down, in compliance with your Requeſt, to give you my Sentiments upon the Subject ſtarted at our laſt Interview.—In conſequence of my Reſearches upon this Occaſion I have been almoſt led into a very whimſical Concluſion,—that the greateſt Genius is the Author a Man happens to have in his Hand. It ſeems but reaſonable to pin our Opinion of an Author upon that of his Editor, or Tranſlator; and yet we may do this, till we are in a manner at a loſs for a Criterion to judge good Writing by. Genius aſſumes as many Shapes as ever Proteus did; and all literary Merit conſiſts principally in Invention, in Judgment, in Fire, in Propriety, in Simplicity, in Elegance, in Accuracy, in Eaſe, in Wit, in Humour, in Fullneſs, in Brevity, &c. &c. according to the Spirit, and Complexion of the Writer before me. Mr. Pope declares, Homer was the greateſt Epic Poet in the World, and I [320] am quite of his Mind, till I take up Mr. Meyrick's Tryphiodorus.—When I look into my Statius, I begin to think Virgil was a very cold, and inſipid Writer; and Virgil's Acquaintance aſſure me that Statius was little better than a Madman.—In ſhort by Virtue of the Preface, prefix'd to him, Sophocles or Ovid, Terence or Martial, Milton or Butler, &c. &c. is the beſt Poet; Herodotus or Eutropius, Livy or Salluſt, Rapin or Clarendon is the beſt Hiſtorian; Ariſtotle or Newton, Deſcartes or Burnet, &c. &c. is the beſt Philoſopher; and Hammond or Hobbes, South, or Toland, Sherlock or Middleton is the beſt Divine.—

But to be ſerious.—You will wonder perhaps to be told, that what gave Riſe to theſe ludicrous Remarks of mine was nothing leſs than Mr. Pope's Commentary upon his univerſally, and juſtly admir'd Original, Homer; an Author, whom you will ſcarce think capable of being complimented, or aggrandiz'd to an undue, and extravagant Degree, eſpecially by ſo judicious an Editor.—Indeed theſe great Names are ſo truly venerable, that I muſt obviate the Alarm you may take, by aſſuring you that what I am going to ſay neither can, nor means to detract from the infinite Merit of the Grecian, or the Britiſh Homer; for the former, * ‘I believe upon the [321] whole that ſcarce any Mortal ever came near him for Wiſdom, Learning, and all good Qualities,’ for the latter, He has certainly done more Juſtice to his Author as an Expoſitor only, than all the Commentators, antient and modern, put together. After this Declaration you will give me leave to tell you, that Mr. Pope himſelf appears to me, notwithſtanding his very great Abilities, to have ſometimes miſapprehended the real Deſign of his Original, to have not unfrequently (to uſe his own Words again) ‘attributed to him what does not belong to him,’ and now and then to have imagin'd Proprieties, or cover'd Defects with a ſeeming View rather to the Honour of his Author at all Events, than to the preciſe Aſcertainment of Truth. All this, indeed, might be owing not to a blind Admiration, or to a Want of Diſcernment, but to a Degree of laudable Partiality, or a too implicit Adherence to the Notions, and Interpretations of the Commentators his Predeceſſors.

But whatever may be allow'd to an Editor, or Tranſlator, a Stander-by will be more impartial, and is, as ſuch, more likely to think juſtly of an Author. You who turn to your Homer merely with an Intent to be delighted with him, and conſider Mr. Pope as a Perſon very able and willing to illuſtrate his great Beauties, and Excellencies, will be apt to ſce no [322] Grounds for the above Allegations, but in an Affectation of Singularity, or in Caprice; eſpecially as Mr. Pope makes no Scruple occaſionally to point out the Blemiſhes of his Author, and ſeems by many Remarks to ſhew himſelf thoroughly diveſted of all unreaſonable Prepoſſeſſions. * It is cuſtomary (ſays he) with thoſe who tranſlate or comment on an Author, to uſe him as they do their Miſtreſs; they can ſee no Faults, or convert his very Faults into Beauties; but I cannot be ſo partial to Homer, &c. &c.’ In another Place after having enumerated what ſeem'd to him to be ‘Faults of any conſideration,’ he tells us, ‘he hopes after ſo free a Confeſſion no reaſonable Modern will think him touch'd with the [...] of Madam Dacier and others. I am ſenſible, continues he, of the Extremes which Mankind run into, in extolling and depreciating Authors: We are not more violent and unreaſonable in attacking thoſe who are not yet eſtabliſh'd into Fame, than in defending thoſe who are, even in every minute Trifle.’—There is as much Modeſty as there is Truth in this ingenuous Declaration; and there is great Reaſon to ſuppoſe Mr. Pope in general never ſpeaks of Homer in higher Terms than he really believ'd he deſerves. [323] However, whether I have been actuated by a Spirit of Vanity, or of Humour, rather than juſt Criticiſm, you will be able to judge when you have read the following Sheets, in which I propoſe to try Homer by himſelf, (as every Writer ſhould by his own Key) and by the Suffrages and Evidence of his own Advocates, and Witneſſes. For which Purpoſe, and for ſomething of Method's ſake, the firſt Subject of our Inquiry ſhall be the Machinery of the Iliad, and the next, the general Oeconomy of this great Poet, and his particular Conduct in Reſpect of Characters, Incidents, and other Circumſtances. And, I perſuade myſelf, the Reſult of this Inquiry will be your agreeing with me that Homer, with the moſt fruitful Invention, extenſive Knowledge, and no ſmall Judgment, has really much leſs Art, and Deſign in this Work, than he is ſuppoſed to have had; at leaſt for what appears to the contrary from the Obſervations of his Commentators.

LETTER II.

THE Machinery, you know, is that Part which the Gods bear in an Epic Poem. That of Homer is conducted with extraordinary Circumſtances of Solemnity, and Magnificence. But the great Queſtion is, whether we are in general to take the Simple and literal Senſe of [324] the Author with regard to the Appearance, and Actions of theſe ſuperiour Beings; or whether we are to ſuppoſe a ſecret, and allegorical Meaning to be veil'd under all this Apparatus; or, in other Words, whether we can with any Degree of Certainty extract a Syſtem of Morality, or Theology from it. This has been attempted to be done by Mr. Pope, and all others who have undertaken to explain, illuſtrate, or defend the Writings of this inimitable Poet; and it muſt be own'd too that this has been done in many Places in a very plauſible Manner. However I muſt be of Opinion, upon reviewing the Iliad, and comparing it with itſelf, that theſe Gentlemen have puſh'd this Matter too far, and by ſtrain'd Explications, and Refinements, found out Myſteries which were never intended; that, generally ſpeaking, we ſhall do more Juſtice, and even Honour to Homer by ſuppoſing * ‘he follow'd Fame, and common Opinion in his Account of the Gods, though no way agreeable to Truth.’ Upon this Suppoſition at leaſt, He will, I think appear much more uniform, and reconcileable with himſelf. I do not deny indeed that the Iliad abounds with noble, and rational Sentiments, and ſuch as are conformable to true Theology; particularly that the Neceſſity of Divine Aſſiſtance [325] and Interpoſition for all Human Succeſſes is a Moral ſtrongly inculcated throughout the Poem. But whatever Homer's religious Notions, as a Man, might be, or, as Mr. Pope expreſſes it, ‘whatever he might think of his Gods, he took them as he found them; he brought them into Action according to the Notions which were then entertain'd, and in ſome Stories as they were then believ'd.’ If you conſider his Jupiter as a Fabulous or Poetical Character, there is leſs in it to ſhock you; but if you believe, He meant to exhibit to his Reader under this Character, "the One, ſupreme, omnipotent God" You muſt ſoon have a very mean Opinion not only of his Philoſophy, but even of his Senſe. 'Tis true, ‘He ſometimes introduces Jupiter with a Majeſty, and Superiority worthy the great Ruler of the Univerſe,’ particularly in the Beginning of the 8th Book; but he is in general repreſented as much ſubject to Weakneſs, Infirmity, and Paſſion as the inferiour Deities. Indeed, if any Divine Attribute be plainly, and conſiſtently applied to Jupiter, it is Power; yet even this ſeems to be applied rather from the Authority of Fabulous Tradition, than by the religious Theory of the Poet himſelf. For the Story of the Rebellion of the Gods, and their Defeat by Jupiter, which Homer refers to, cannot be underſtood to be his own Invention. Mr. Pope acknowleges [326] the "* Notions and Deſcriptions of his Author" in Reſpect of the Deity, ‘to be in many Paſſages unworthy of the Divinity:’ ‘He is not even exempted from our common Appetites, and Frailties; He is made to eat, drink, and ſleep.’ It is pleaſant enough to obſerve how careful the Commentators have been, notwithſtanding ſuch Acknowledgements, to maintain the ſuppos'd Superiority of Jupiter, and what ſhifts they have recourſe to to ſave his Honour upon all Occaſions. Euſtathius (Mr. Pope tell sus) makes a diſtinction between [...] and [...], the Words which are us'd at the End of the firſt Book, and the Beginning of the ſecond with regard to Jupiter's ſleeping. He ſays [...] only means lying down in a Diſpoſition to ſleep.’ Now granting this Interpretation ‘to ſalve the Contradiction that elſe would follow in the next Book, where it is ſaid Jupiter did not ſleep, and to prove by-the-by that Homer himſelf did not nod in this Paſſage; yet ſurely it will afford but a ſlender Argument for the extraordinary Vigilancy of Jupiter in general beyond that of the other Gods; eſpecially as Homer acquaints us in the preceding Lines, that he went to the Bed where [327] he had us'd to take his Repoſe. *It is worth obſerving to you that ſome Criticks in Ariſtotle's Time objected to the Paſſage in the ſecond Book, and pretended it was ridiculous to deſcribe all the Gods ſleeping beſides Jupiter: To which, it ſeems, Ariſtotle anſwers, ‘that nothing is more uſual or allowable than that Figure which puts all for the greater part.’ A plain Proof, that neither Ariſtotle, nor the abovemention'd Critics of thoſe Times, ſuppos'd any extraordinary Degree of Vigilancy could have been with any Propriety aſcrib'd by the Poet to Jupiter.—Perhaps you will be of Opinion too, that there is a little too much Refinement in another Place in the fifth Book, where Mr. Pope ſays, ‘we may obſerve the Decorum and Decency his Author conſtantly preſerves’ in making Jupiter only Smile upon certain Occaſions, while the other Gods laugh out.

I leave it to you to judge what Sort of a Salvo this muſt be, allowing any Foundation for the Diſtinction itſelf; as indeed I do not recollect there is. There ſeems at leaſt to be univerſal Jollity in Heaven in one very remarkable Paſſage, without any reſerve for the Gravity of this Deity; I mean in the firſt Book, where Vulcan deſigns [328] to move laughter by taking upon him the Office of Hebe and Ganymede, with his aukward limping Carriage.’

Vulcan with aukward grace his Office plies,
And unextinguiſh'd Laughter ſhakes the Skies.

Thus you ſee the Jupiter of Homer, with all his Pomp and Preeminence, is hardly above a Level with the ſubordinate Deities in point of corporal Weakneſs and Infirmity; nor will you find him to rank much higher if you take a View of his Conduct, and Actions in general throughout the Poem. You will obſerve him upon numberleſs Occaſions under the Influence of Paſſions utterly unſuitable to the Purity, as well as Dignity of the Supreme Being. The Fiction of his ‘being deceiv'd and laid aſleep,’ and of his amorous correſpondence with Juno, has, as Mr. Pope confeſſes, as great ‘an Air of Impiety, and Abſurdity’ as any Fable in all Antiquity. ‘I *muſt needs, upon the whole, (ſays that ingenious Remarker) as far as I can judge, give up the Morality of this Fable; but what Colour of Excuſe for it Homer might have from antient Tradition, or what myſtical, or allegorical Senſe might atone for the appearing Impiety, is hard to be aſcertain'd at this diſtant Period of Time.’ Here is a Condemnation, and a [329] Palliation of a Fault in one Breath. Indeed Mr. Pope, thro' his unabated Zeal for the Honour of his Original, is *willing afterwards to ſuppoſe the "preſent Paſſage to be grounded on Religion," and to be nothing more than the ‘Repreſentation of a religious Solemnity; or elſe to be purely allegorical, and as ſuch implying only’ the Congreſs of Jupiter, and Juno, the Mingling of the Aether and the Air (which are generally ſaid to be ſignified by theſe two Deities.) But I believe, if you conſult the Place, you will think the firſt Expedient a forc'd one, and the ſecond (allowing the Phyſical Signification of theſe two Deities) inſufficient for the intended Vindication. For what Connection is there in the Mingling of the Aether and the Air with the Matter in Hand? or how does it in the leaſt effect the Circumſtances of the Battle between the Greeks and the Trojans. To ſay nothing of Venus, who certainly is no Phyſical Deity, and yet bears a part in this Tranſaction.—The literal, and obvious Senſe of Homer with all its Groſſneſs ſeems to be the only conſiſtent one which this Paſſage can fairly be made to carry.

It is worth while to take Notice of the Shifts the Commentators have recourſe to, when they are preſt with Difficulties of this Nature. Agreeably to the Circumſtances of the Extremity, the [330] Allegories of Homer are Moral, and Phyſical; ‘His *Heaven is no more than an ideal World of abſtracted Beings, and ſo every Motion which riſes in the Mind of Man is attributed to the Quality to which it belongs, with the Name of the Deity who is ſuppoſed to preſide over that Quality ſuperadded to it;’ ‘the Deities ſometimes mean no more than Beings that preſided over the Paſſions and Faculties of the Mind, and in conſequence of all this Jupiter is either the Aether, or the Father of Gods and Men, Juno is the Goddeſs of Honour or the Air, and Minerva the Goddeſs not only of Wiſdom, but of Craft; that is, both of true and falſe Wiſdom,’ &c. &c. as Occaſions and Exigencies require.—Now 'tis certain by theſe Means any Difficulty may be ſolved, and any Paſſage in this Author pretty eaſily cleared; but all this while the Queſtion is, whether any Syſtem can be aſcertained. Nay in Places where the Meaning of the Author is irreconcileable with allegorical Conſtruction, it is ſuppoſed to be "darkened by the Remoteneſs of our Time." A hidden and myſterious Senſe there plainly is, or certainly muſt be; and we muſt at all Events, and tho' apparent Abſurdities will be ſaved by it, reject a literal Interpertation of Homer where [331] the Gods are concerned. Mr. Pope himſelf owns that ſometimes Homer's *Machine's play a little too Groſſly, and that the Fable violently oppreſſes the Moral, which it may be loſt Labour to ſearch for in every minute Circumſtance, if indeed it was intended to be there.’ In Truth, I am apt to think we ſhould read this Poet with more Pleaſure, and equal Profit, if we perplexed ourſelves leſs to find out Myſteries in him; and by the way, it is ſcarce worth our Pains to inveſtigate hidden Meanings, when the plain and literal Moral of the Poem is as obvious upon a thouſand Occaſions as it is admirable and excellent. If you conſider the Machinery of Homer in a Poetical, rather than a Theological, or Philoſophical Light, and ſuppoſe his Gods to be real Characters acting under the Influence of Human Paſſions, as antient Fables repreſented them, and taking their Meaſures from Motives of perſonal Affection, Reſentment, &c. &c. I believe you will have a ſurer Inlet into the Meaning of this famous Author, and be able to examine him by Rules not liable to Difficulties, which are only to be removed by forced, and unnatural Solutions.—But as there is a Novelty in this Opinion, You will expect I ſhould ſtrengthen and confirm it by more Reaſons, and Obſervations.

LETTER III.

[332]

‘THE *famous Cenſure of Tully, and Longinus (mentioned by Mr. Pope) that Homer makes God's of his Heroes, and Mortals of his Gods, will appear to be groundleſs, if you regulate your Ideas of this Author by the Notions I have conceived of him. For pure Poetical Fictions, whether invented or adopted by Homer, come not properly under the Cogniſance of a Philoſophical Inquiry. Accordingly we ſhall not only have a ready Excuſe for this great Poet when he introduces his Deities ‘feaſting, fighting, wounded by Men, and ſhedding a Sort of Blood;’ but alſo when they are repreſented as committing Actions unworthy of themſelves, and of the reſpective Characters they are ſuppoſed by the common Opinion of Commentators to ſuſtain. Mr. Pope allows that ‘if the Trojans had no Right to break the Treaty,’ made between them and the Grecians upon the Duel of Paris and Menelaus, ‘the Machine where Juno is made to propoſe Perjury, Jupiter to allow it, and Minerva to be commiſſioned to haſten the Execution of it, would be one of the hardeſt to be reconciled to Reaſon in the whole Poem.’ Whether therefore the Trojans had a Right to [333] break the Treaty is a Queſtion, it will be very Material, and, I think, eaſy to determine. Now that "the *Conditions of the Treaty were valid" notwithſtanding the ſnatching away of Paris by Venus in a Cloud, "that is to ſay, that" the Controverſy was to be decided (either) by the Victory, or by the Death of one of the Combatants, is, I apprehend, apparent from many Conſiderations. It is certain, ‘in the firſt propoſal of the Challenge Paris mentions only the Victory, And who his Rival ſhall in Arms Subdue; nor does Hector, who carries it, ſay any more.

However (continues the Note) Menelaus underſtands it of the Death by what he replies:

Fall he that muſt beneath his Rivals Arms,
And live the reſt—

And in the ſolemn Oath too Agamemnon ſpecifies the latter, "If by Paris ſlain"—and If by my Brother's Arms the TROJAN bleed. Priam alſo underſtands it of both, ſaying, at his leaving the Field,

Whoſe Arms ſhall conquer, and whoſe Prince ſhall fall,
Heav'n only knows—

Paris himſelf confeſſes he has loſt the Victory in his Speech to Helen, which he would hardly have done had the whole depended upon that alone; and laſtly Menelaus (after the Conqueſt is clearly [334] his by the Flight of Paris) is ſtill ſearching round the Field to kill him, as if all were of no Effect without the Death of his Adverſary.—It appears from hence (ſays Mr. Pope) ‘that the Trojans had no ill pretence to break the Treaty, ſo that Homer ought not to have been directly accuſed of making Jupiter the Author of Perjury in what follows, which is one of the chief of Plato's Objections againſt him.’

But was it not extremely natural for Menelaus, Agamemnon, and Priam to mention the Death of one of the Combatants as the Deciſion of the Controverſy, tho' the Terms at the Challenge ſpecified Victory only, in as much as the Death of one ſeem'd to be the unavoidable Conſequence of the Duel, and the Deliverance of Paris by Venus was a Circumſtance that could not poſſibly be foreſeen? For Paris, he could not be ſo abſurd as to deny the Loſs of the Victory, whatever Shifts he might be drove to evade the Articles of the Combat—indeed he ſeems to hint at the Expedient of a ſecond Engagement.—

This Day the Foe prevail'd by Pallas' pow'r;
We yet may vanquiſh in a happier Hour.—

And laſtly, for Menelaus, he might very naturally "ſearch round the Field to kill his Adverſary" not for the effectual Determination of the Controverſy, but for the Gratification of his perſonal Reſentment.

[335] Be this as it will; whatever private Perſons might think of this Affair, it is plain the Greeks looked upon the War as ended by this great Event, and accordingly Agamemnon calls upon the Trojans to fulfill the Conditions of the Treaty.

Ye Trojans, Dardans, all our gen'rous Foes!
Hear and atteſt! from Heav'n with Conqueſt crown'd,
Our Brother's Arms the juſt Succeſs have found:
Be therefore now the Spartan Wealth reſtor'd,
Let Argive Helen own her lawful Lord—&c. &c.

But, in a Word, to put the Matter out of all Doubt, the very Terms at the Commiſſion given to Minerva, ſuppoſe the Conditions of the Treaty to be binding upon the Trojans.

The Sire of Men, and Monarch of the Sky,
Th' Advice approv'd, and bade Minerva fly,
Diſſolve the League, and all her Arts employ
To make the Breach the faithleſs Act of Troy.

Theſe two laſt Circumſtances Mr. Pope, for Reaſons obvious enough, takes not the leaſt Notice of: Indeed he found himſelf ſo preſt by the Difficulties with which this whole Tranſaction is ſurrounded, that he is forced to have Recourſe to one of the Expedients above-mentioned, viz. that of ſuppoſing, Homer's Heaven to be ſometimes no more than an ideal World of abſtracted Beings, &c. &c. agreeably to this Notion he reſolves the Buſineſs into this eaſy Allegory, as [336] he is pleaſed to call it.’ * Pandarus (who broke the Truce by ſhooting an Arrow at Menelaus) thinks it Prudence to gain Honour and Wealth at the Hands of the Trojans by deſtroying Menelaus. This Sentiment is alſo incited by a Notion of Glory, of which Juno is repreſented as Goddeſs. Jupiter, who is ſuppoſed to know the Thoughts of Men, permits the Action which he is not Author of, &c. &c."

But how is all this to be reconciled with the general Rules of Interpretation, or with what Mr. Pope tells us in the very next Note, ‘The Goddeſs went not to the Trojans, becauſe they hated Paris, and would rather have given him up, than have done an ill Action for him: She therefore looks among the Allies, and finds Pandarus, who was of a Nation noted for Perfidiouſneſs, and had a Soul avaricious enough to be capable of engaging in this Treachery for the Hopes of a Reward from Paris. From what Principles of Prudence then or of Honour did Pandarus act? or, laſtly, how can Jupiter be ſaid barely to permit, what he expreſſly commands? It is out of the Power of Allegory and Refinement to ſalve the Characters of theſe Deities upon the preſent Occaſion.—But according to the Notion I have formed of Homer's [337] Deities, there will be nothing puzzling in all this Affair.—I can ſuppoſe Juno and Minerva to be actuated by a Deſire of perſonal Vengeance on the quondam Judgment of Paris; and indeed I am warranted in this Suppoſition almoſt by the preſent Behaviour of theſe Goddeſſes, but clearly I preſume, by a Paſſage in the 24th Book of the Iliad, where the Poet informs us that theſe very Deities (with Neptune) oppoſed the Propoſal of all the reſt, to diſpatch Mercury to ſteal away the Body of Hector, purely from the implacable Hatred they bore to Troy ever ſince that fatal Determination.

Pallas this denies,
And th' unrelenting Empreſs of the Skies;
E'er ſince that Day implacable to Troy,
What Time young Paris, ſimple Shepherd Boy,
Won by deſtructive Luſt, (Reward obſcene)
Their Charms rejected for the Cyprian Queen.

Mr. Pope maintains the Authenticity of this Paſſage, which it ſeems ſome of the *Antients had diſputed, who ‘judged it as an Indecency that the Goddeſs of Wiſdom and Achilles ſhould be equally inexorable.’ They thought farther that, ‘had Homer been acquainted with the Judgment of Paris, he would undoubtedly have mentioned it before this time in his Poem, &c." It may be anſwered, (replies Mr. Pope) that the [338] Silence of Homer in the foregoing Part of the Poem, as to the Judgment of Paris, is no Argument that he was ignorant of that Story: Perhaps he might think it moſt proper to unfold the Cauſe of the Deſtruction of Troy in the Concluſion of the Ilias; that the Reader ſeeing the Wrong done, and the Puniſhment of that Wrong immediately following, might acknowledge the Juſtice of it.’ According to this Obſervation, which confirms what I have been ſaying, we muſt look beyond the Rape of Helen, for the original Cauſe of the Deſtruction of Troy, and for the Wrong done which ſo much exaſperated theſe Goddeſſes. ‘The ſame Reaſon (proceeds the Note) will be an Anſwer to the Objection relating to the Anger of Pallas: Wiſdom cannot be ſatisfied without Juſtice, and conſequently Pallas, ought not to ceaſe from Reſentment, till Troy, has ſuffered the Deſerts of her Crimes.’—Now whether that Crime of Paris could fairly be conſidered as the Crime of Troy, and whether therefore Wiſdom could with Juſtice purſue it to the Deſtruction of a whole People, a Novice in Caſuiſtry may determine.—If we ſuppoſe, by the by, that the Juno of Virgil was copied from this Original, as there is, I think, no Doubt but ſhe was, we find that Poet in plain Terms aſcribing the Illwill of this Goddeſs towards the Trojans to be the Affront put upon her by Paris.

[339]
—Manet altâ mente repôſtum
Judicium Paridis, ſpretaeque injura formae.
Aen. L 1.

—You will begin probably to think, the Commentators have affected too much to diſcover Poetical Secrets in an Author whoſe Deſign I take to have been much more ſimple than it is generally imagined to be.—For your farther Satisfaction, you ſhall hear from me again upon this Subject.

LETTER IV.

THE Commentators tell us it is with great Art and Judgment that Homer has engaged his ſeveral Deities either on the Side of Greece, or on that of Troy. I cannot give you a beter Account of their Sentiments upon this Head, than what you have in Mr. Pope's Note, tranſcribed from Euſtathius, * This Diviſion of the Gods, is not made at Random, but founded on very ſolid Reaſons, drawn from the Nature of theſe two Nations. He places on the Side of the Greeks all the Gods who preſide over Arts, and Sciences, to ſignify how much in that reſpect the Greeks excelled all other Nations. Juno, Pallas, Neptune, Mercury, and Vulcan are for the Greeks; Juno, not only as the Goddeſs who preſides over Marriage, and [340] who is concerned to revenge an Jnjury done to the Nuptial Bed, but likewiſe as the Goddeſs who repreſents Monarchical Government, which was better eſtabliſhed in Greece than any where elſe; Pallas, becauſe being the Goddeſs of War and Wiſdom, ſhe ought to aſſiſt thoſe who are wronged; beſides the Greeks underſtood the Art of War better than the Barbarians; Neptune, becauſe he was an Enemy to the Trojans upon Account of Laomedon's perfidiouſneſs, and becauſe moſt of the Greeks being come from Iſlands, or Peninſulas, they were in ſome Sort his Subjects; Mercury, becauſe he is a God who preſides over Stratagems of War, and becauſe Troy was taken by that of the Wooden Horſe; and laſtly, Vulcan, as the declared Enemy of Mars and of all Adulterers, and as the Father of Arts.—The Reaſons why Mars, and Venus engage for the Trojans are very obvious; the Point in Hand was to favour Raviſhers, and Debauchees. But the ſame Reaſon, you will ſay, does not ſerve for Apollo, Diana, and Latona. It is urg'd that Apollo is for the Trojans, becauſe of the Darts, and Arrows which were the principal Strength of the Barbarians; and Diana becauſe ſhe preſided over Dancing, and thoſe Barbarians were great Dancers; and Latona, as influenc'd by her Children. Xanthus being a Trojan River is intereſted for his Country.’

[341] Now whether theſe are not rather ingenious than ſolid Reaſons is, in my Mind, ſcarce a Queſtion.—For all that is here aſſerted is far from being true. All the Gods who preſide over Arts and Sciences are not on the Side of the Greeks: Apollo, who is ſurely one of the moſt conſiderable of them being the perpetual Patron of Troy; ſo that Homer never meant by this Adjuſtment to ‘ſignify how much in this reſpect the Greeks excelled all other Nations. Juno, and Pallas, as plauſible as the Reaſons here alledged for their ſiding with the Grecians may ſeem to be, act in this Affair, by their own *Confeſſions, as we have ſeen, from very different Motives; nor will it follow, by the Way, that becauſe the latter of theſe Goddeſſes aſſiſted the Greeks, therefore Homer would intimate that the Greeks underſtood the Art of War better than the Barbarians: for as Mr. Pope obſerves upon Homer's introducing Apollo on the Side of the Trojans in the fourth Book, Mars (the Friend of Troy) which ſignifies Courage without Conduct, proving too weak to reſiſt Minerva, or Courage with Conduct, the Poet brings in Wiſdom to aſſiſt Mars, under the appearance of Apollo: and conſequently as much may be inferred to the Advantage of the Trojans from the conſtant Interpoſition [342] of this God in their Behalf, as is in the Paſſage before us to that of the Greeks, from the Conſideration of the Aid of Minerva.—But farther, Neptune it ſeems, is for the Greeks, ‘becauſe he was an Enemy to the Trojans, upon Account of Laomedon's Perfidiouſneſs, and becauſe moſt of the Greeks being come from Iſlands or Peninſulas, they were in ſome Sort his Subjects.’ Now Laomedons's *Perfidiouſneſs conſiſted in the Refuſal of the Wages due to this God on Account of the Building of the Walls of Troy, and in other ill-uſage, and ſo we are to look upon Neptune's eſpouſing the Grecian Cauſe, as the Effect of his Reſentment of thoſe perſonal Indignities; and in this Light he is only acting in conformity to the Idea I have framed of Homer's Gods in general: But why the Greeks can with more Propriety be called Neptune's Subjects becauſe they came from Iſlands or Peninſulas, than the Trojans themſelves, who inhabited a Sea-port Town, (for which very reaſon Mr. Pope conjectures, Homer aſcribes the Building of the Wall to Neptune only) I confeſs I am at a loſs to diſcover.—Again, Mercury, we are informed is a Partiſan of the Grecians ‘becauſe he is a God who preſides over Stratagems of War, and becauſe Troy was taken by that of the Wooden Horſe;’[343] Now the ingenuity of the Stratagem of the wooden Horſe, if we believe Virgil, we muſt aſcribe not to Mercury, but to Pallas.

Inſtar Montis equum divinâ Palladis arte Aedificant:

However, to let this Deity have the Credit of it; I would only aſk whether, ſuppoſing he had been introduced by Homer on the Part of Troy, the Sagacity of Euſtathius would not have aſſigned as ſpecious a Reaſon for it as the preſent. I can conceive it to be this. Mercury is for the Trojans becauſe he preſides over Thieves and Robbers, and is the Favourer of all clandeſtine Enterprizes, ſuch as was the Rape of Helen by Paris.—But laſtly, Vulcan aſſiſts the Greeks ‘as the declared Enemy of Mars and of all Adulterers, and as the Father of Arts.’ True—his perſonal Enmity to Mars, and conſequentially to all Adulterers, it is granted naturally engaged him on the Grecian Side;—but as the Father of the Mechanical Arts methinks, he ſhould have fought under Apollo the Father of the liberal ones.

On the other Hand, ‘the Reaſons, ſays Euſtathius, why Mars and Venus engage for the Trojans are very obvious; the Point in Hand was to favour Raviſhers and Debauchees, rather a Raviſher, &c.’ If all the above-aſſigned Reaſons had been as obvious as theſe, it had indeed [344] been ſcarce worth while to have entered into a Diſcuſſion of this Matter; but it would be extraordinary if there were no Circumſtances to colour the Hypotheſis of the Commentators.—Opinions, all this while, are not to be grounded on a few Circumſtances that are contraſted by many others.—The Reaſons given for the Aſſiſtance of the other Deities to Troy, which indeed are delivered with an Air of Diffidence, are moſt of them far-fetched. ‘It is urged that Apollo is for the Trojans, becauſe of the Darts and Arrows which were the principal Strength of the Barbarians; ſuppoſing, but by the way not admitting, the Truth of which Aſſertion itſelf, might not Apollo, who is Deſtiny according to the common Notion, have been repreſented with much more Significancy as oppoſing Troy, whoſe Deſtruction was determined by Fate? One Reaſon *given by Dacier in the next Book, why Apollo declines fighting with Neptune is, becauſe Apollo ‘being the ſame with Deſtiny, and the Ruin of the Trojans being concluded upon and decided, that God can no longer defer it.’ According to this, Apollo by taking the Part of Troy ſeems to have been Fighting againſt himſelf.—But Diana attach'd herſelf to the Trojan Intereſts, we are let to know, ‘becauſe ſhe preſided over [345] Dancing, and thoſe Barbarians were great Dancers; it may be ſo; and yet I am apt to think the Goddeſs of Chaſtity acts a little out of Character here, and by aiding and abetting theſe Dancers, Raviſhers, and Debauchees, is in danger to be taken tripping.

As for Latona, if ſhe was ‘influenced by her Children ſhe was a very Dutiful Mother; and Xanthus being a Trojan River" is very Naturally, and without any Deſign or Artifice of the Poet, "intereſted for his Country."

Do you not begin to believe upon this Review of the Matter, which I hope you will think a fair and impartial one, that ‘this Diviſion of the Gods in Homer, was made much more at random than Euſtathius would have perſuaded you it was; and that the Gods upon Jupiter's Permiſſion to them to aſſiſt either Party in the Beginning of this Book, gratified their perſonal Inclinations, and Affections;—Nay Jupiter himſelf ſuppoſes they had done, and would do this.

Celeſtial Pow'rs deſcend
And as your Minds direct, your Succour lend
To either Hoſt. L. 35. &c. B. xx.

And farther the Speeches which the Poet puts in the Mouths of his Gods when they come to engage, are full of perſonal Invectives, and Reproaches, and contain little or nothing that countenances [346] an Allegorical Conſtruction. Mars puts Minerva in Mind of the Wound Diomed had given him thro' her Inſtigation.

—In thy frantick Mood
Thou drov'ſt a Mortal to inſult a God;
Thy impious Hand Tydides' Jav'lin bore,
And madly bath'd it in celeſtial Gore.
L. 460. &c. B. xxi.

Minerva, whom we may obſerve, Homer repreſents in this Engagement as ſuperiour to Mars in point of bodily Strength, not by Virtue of any Art or Stratagem, inſults her vanquiſhed Antagoniſt in the Language of a Conquerour, inſtead of reproving his Raſhneſs in a Style that would have better become the Goddeſs of Wiſdom:

Haſt thou not yet, inſatiate Fury! known
How far Minerva's Force tranſcends thy own?
L. 478.

The ſame Goddeſs next attacks Venus, and eaſily overcomes her, which Circumſtance may, I apprehend, be beſt literally underſtood; for in an Allegorical Senſe, Venus might have been at leaſt a Match for Minerva, as Love often takes Poſſeſſion of the braveſt Heart, and is irreſiſtible by the wiſeſt Counſels.—And if Venus had been victorious here, I make no Doubt but that Senſe would have been put upon this Paſſage.

[347] Neptune addreſſes himſelf to Apollo in a long Speech, in which he recapitulates the injurious Treatment they had both met with from Laomedon, and wonders at that God's Forgetfulneſs, and Forgiveneſs of the ſame: But he drops not a ſingle Syllable that intimates himſelf to be the Repreſentative of Humidity, or Apollo of Dryneſs upon this Occaſion.

Juno gives Diana moſt abuſive Language, and "Boxes her ſoundly" into the Bargain, as Mr. Pope expreſſes it;—but I ſee no Clue to a Myſtery in all this Buſineſs, nor any Thing ſuitable to the Emblematical Characters of either Goddeſs.

Laſtly, upon Mercury's declining to fight with Latona, Mr. Pope borrows this Remark from Euſtathius; that, * It is impoſſible that Mercury ſhould encounter Latona; ſuch a Fiction would be unnatural, he being a Planet and ſhe repreſenting the Night; for the Planets owe all their Luſtre to the Shades of the Night, and then only become viſible to the World.’—This Commentator in another Place exclaims with Admiration; ‘With what Art does the Poet engage the Gods in this Conflict!’ But ſure if there be Truth in the laſt cited Obſervation, there was little Art in making Latona, and Mercury take different Sides.—In ſhort as exactly [348] * as ſome Circumſtances may tally in the the Diſpoſition of this Engagement, I am apt to think, upon the whole, it is rather to be attributed to Chance, than Deſign, and that the Expoſitors in general, either thro' Zeal for the Honour of Homer, or in Oſtentation of their own Sagacity, have gone greater Lengths in their Allegorical Hypotheſis, than they could juſtify from the plain Scheme of their Author. But I will take Occaſion once more to reſume this Argument.

LETTER V.

IT bears hard, I preſume, upon the Notion of an allegorical Meaning's being couched under the Appearances and Actions of Homer's Deities, that we are ſo often at a Loſs for any Reaſon to be alledg'd for them, or cannot give one with Conſiſtency, and Propriety. If this did not abundantly appear to be the Caſe from what has been laid before you, we might proceed to aſk, how it comes to paſs that the Interpoſition of Juno in the 16th Book prevents Jupiter's ſeeming Deſign to ſave Sarpedon? Why does ſhe interpoſe at all, or why is this the Effect of it? How comes this Goddeſs to interfere in the preſent Paſſage, and Minerva in the 22d Book, when Jupiter diſcovers the ſame Inclination to deliver Hector?[349] If Euſtathius rightly obſerves that ‘the Conduct of Homer is remarkably juſt and rational,’ in the fifth Book of the Iliad, where he tells us Diomed notwithſtanding his intrepid Character retired from Apollo, becauſe ‘it was impoſſible for him to vanquiſh Apollo, in whatſoever Capacity he is conſidered, either as the Sun, or as Deſtiny; how is it that the ſame Commentator commends in another Place a Conduct, which is the very Reverſe of this? How *obſervable, ſays he, or rather Mr. Pope in his Name, is Homer's Art of illuſtrating the Valour, and Glory of his Heroes? Menelaus, who ſees Hector and all the Trojans ruſhing upon him, would not retire if Apollo did not ſupport them; and though Apollo does ſupport them, he would oppoſe even Apollo, were Ajax but near him.’ According to this Remark (if it is reconcileable with the former) Menelaus behaves with more Intrepidity or rather Raſhneſs than Diomed himſelf; and yet neither are the Characteriſtics of that Hero, of whom we ſhall have ſomething more to ſay by and by. In the ſeventh Book, Apollo, we are informed, comes very opportunely to ſave his favourite Hector who is overpowered by Ajax. Euſtathius ſays, that Apollo is the very ſame with Deſtiny; ſo that when Homer ſays [350] Apollo ſaved him, he means no more than that it was not his Fate yet to die.’ Now methinks, if this Obſervation is juſtly made, this Deity ſhould appear to the Relief of every Hero in the like Extremity: And yet it is Venus who ſaves Paris in the third Book, and Aeneas in the fifth; as Neptune does the latter this ſame good Office in the twentieth.

It belongs to the Advocates of the common Notion to ſolve all theſe Difficulties, and many more that might be added to them.—In the mean Time I would have you turn your Eyes to a Paſſage or two, where the Allegory is ſuppoſed to be ſelf-evident, and tell me whether the Matter be ſo undeniably clear as the Illuſtrations of the Commentators pretend to make it. The Deſcent of Minerva in the firſt Book to prevent Achilles' attempting the Life of Agamemnon is deſcanted upon at large as a Paſſage of this Nature. ‘The * Allegory here (ſays Mr. Pope) may be allowed by every Reader to be unforced: The Prudence of Achilles checks him in the raſheſt Moment of his Anger, it works upon him unſeen to others, but does not entirely prevail upon him to deſiſt till he remembers his own Importance, and depends upon it, that there will be a Neceſſity of their courting him at any Expence into their Alliance again. Having [351] perſuaded himſelf by ſuch Reflections, he forbears to attack his General, but thinking that he ſacrifices enough to Prudence by this Forbearance, lets the Thought of it vaniſh from him; and no ſooner is Wiſdom gone, but he falls into more violent Reproaches for the Gratification of his Paſſion. All this is a moſt beautiful Paſſage, whoſe Moral is evident, and generally agreed on by the Commentators.’

Now had Minerva only been the Actreſs in this Affair, all this had been a very natural Explication; but Homer gives us to underſtand that Minerva was *diſpatched by Juno (the Goddeſs of Honour) on this Errand. If therefore Juno be not an utterly inſignificant Perſonage in this Tranſaction, the Honour as well as the Prudence of Achilles muſt be ſuppoſed to ſuggeſt his preſent Conduct to him. But as a Soldier, and a paſſionate one too, no doubt he muſt think himſelf obliged in Point of Honour to take immediate Satisfaction for the Affront which had been put upon him; and ſo his Honour ſuggeſts, what his Prudence forbids. As allegorical Perſons therefore I can't think but Juno and Minerva appear together with ſome Force in this Machine. Nor, by the way, does it ſeem agreeable to the Character of the Goddeſs of Wiſdom to ſuffer Achilles to break out into ſuch ſcurrilous and virulent Expreſſions [352] as he makes Uſe of in his next Speech to Agamemnon; he does this when Wiſdom is gone, Mr. Pope ſays, but ſtill it was by her Permiſſion, one might ſay Direction indeed.

The Force of keen Reproaches let him feel. l. 279.

The Original is ſtronger, and contains a more unlimited Commiſſion; and in conſequence of it Achilles rates his General with a Vengeance;

O Monſter! mix'd of Inſolence, and Fear;
Thou Dog in Forehead, but in Heart a Deer!
l. 297, &c.

Even this Paſſage then you ſee is not clear of Difficulties, and as much as may be ſaid in Defence of the allegorical Interpretation, the literal Senſe is at leaſt eaſy, and liable to no Exception.

I will only deſire you to turn once more to the fifth Book, of which Mr. Pope obſerves, * ‘the Allegory lies ſo open, is carried on with ſuch Cloſeneſs, and wound up with ſo much Fullneſs and Strength, that it is a Wonder how it could enter into the Imagination of any Critic, that theſe Actions of Diomed were only a daring and extravagant Fiction in Homer, as if he affected the marvellous at any Rate. The great Moral of it is, that a brave Man ſhould not contend againſt Heaven, but reſiſt only Venus and Mars, Incontinence and ungoverned Fury.’ [353]‘Nothing is more obſervable than the particular Care Homer has taken to ſhew he deſigned this Moral.’Minerva, at the Beginning of the Battle, is made to give this Precept to Diomed: Fight not againſt the Gods, but give Way to them, and reſiſt only VENUS. The Hero himſelf, as ſoon as he has performed her Dictates in driving away Venus, cries out not as to the Goddeſs, but as to the Paſſion, Thou haſt no Buſineſs with Warriors, is it not enough that thou deceiveſt weak Women? Even the Mother of Venus, while ſhe comforts her Daughter, bears Teſtimony to the Moral: That Man (ſays ſhe) is not long liv'd who contends with the Gods. And when Diomed, tranſported by his Nature, proceeds but a Step too far, Apollo diſcovers himſelf in the moſt ſolemn Manner, and declares this Truth in his own Voice, as it were by direct Revelation: Mortal, forbear, conſider and know the vaſt Difference there is between the Gods and thee, &c.’

Now in the firſt Place I am afraid Homer will not appear to have been ſo particularly careful to ſhew he deſigned this Moral, as Mr. Pope would make us believe. For though Diomed was commanded ‘in the Beginning of the Battle to give Way to the Gods, and reſiſt only Venus, he is afterwards empowered to attack Mars, and any Deity that ſhould come in his Way;’ [354] Not Mars himſelf, nor Ought immortal fear. l. 1020. Accordingly he is directed in the Original to fall upon Mars * firſt; and therefore though he actually attacks no other God, he ſeems to have been ſufficiently authoriſed to do it, which is a Circumſtance that claſhes with the Allegory.—But what bears ſtill harder upon it in my Opinion is this, that though the Poet ſpeaks in high Terms of the Bravery and Intrepidity of this Hero, and of the Honour he had to be under the immediate Protection of Minerva, yet he repreſents his wounding of Venus, and contending with the heavenly Powers, as Acts of the higheſt Raſhneſs and Impiety. Obſerve Dione's Words to her Daughter, which Mr. Pope refers to as a Proof of Homer's Intention to inculcate his Moral, &c.

Raſh, impious Man! to ſtain the bleſt Abodes,
And drench his Arrows in the Blood of Gods!
But thou (tho' Pallas urg'd thy frantic Deed)
Whoſe Spear ill-fated makes a Goddeſs bleed,
Know thou, whoe'er with heav'nly pow'r contends,
Short is his Date, and ſoon his Glory ends. &c. &c.
l. 491, &c.

And if you will regulate your Opinion by Virgil's Judgment of this Matter, you will find Diomed [355] according to that Author, as Mr. Pope remarks, ‘in his Anſwer to the Embaſſador of King Latinus, enumerating his Misfortunes, and imputing the Cauſe of them to this impious Attempt upon Venus.

Haec adeò ex illo mihi jam ſperanda fuerunt
Tempore, cum ferro coeleſtia corpora demens
Appetii, & Veneris violavi vulnere dextram.
Aeneid. l. 11.

Nay Diomed condemns himſelf for this very Action in his Speech to Glaucus in the next Book, and intimates the great Danger he had expoſed himſelf to by it.

But if from Heav'n, celeſtial thou deſcend;
Know, with Immortals we no more contend.
Not long Lycurgus view'd the golden Light,
That daring Man who mix'd with Gods in Fight, &c.
B. 6. l. 160. &c.

I can't help tranſcribing to you Mr. Pope's Note upon this Place, who begins now to be of the ſame Sentiment. ‘A quick Change of Mind from the greateſt Impiety to as great Superſtition is frequently obſervable in Men, who having been guilty of the greateſt Crimes without any Remorſe, on the ſudden are filled with Doubts and Scruples about the moſt lawful or indifferent Actions. This ſeems the preſent Caſe of [356] Diomed, who having knowingly wounded and inſulted the Deities, is now afraid to engage the firſt Man he meets, leſt perhaps a God might be concealed in that Shape.’ I confeſs this Fear of Diomed, which violently ſhakes the Allegory in Queſtion, appears to me inconſiſtent likewiſe with the Tenor of this Hero's Character; nor can I think Mr. Pope brings him off when he acquaints us in the following Note, that ‘what Diomed here ſays is the Effect of Remorſe, as if he had exceeded the Commiſſion of Pallas in encountring with the Gods, and dreaded the Conſequences of proceeding too far. At leaſt he had no ſuch Commiſſion now, and beſides, was no longer capable of diſtinguiſhing them from Men (a Faculty ſhe had given him in the foregoing Book). He there mentions this Story of Lycurgus as an Example that ſufficed to terrify him from ſo raſh an Undertaking.’

Now in the firſt Place it by no Means appears that this Commiſſion was expired, or that Faculty ceas'd; at leaſt the contrary may be inferred from Mr. Pope's Tranſlation of this Speech. Diomed ſays but two Lines above

Unhappy they, and born of luckleſs Sires,
Who tempt our Fury when Minerva fires! l. 157.

After all, why ſhould he torment himſelf with Reflections on what he had done only by Virtue of that Commiſſion before, which he was far from [357] exceeding except in his Attempt upon Apollo, from whom however upon the firſt Reproof he retired? Or, why ſhould the Example of Lycurgus, who acted not by divine Impulſe, terrify one who confeſſedly did? In this Light what will become of the allegorical Characters of Minerva, Mars, and Venus; or how comes a Hero to be troubled in Conſcience becauſe he had been reſiſting Incontinence, and ungoverned Fury? Thus you find this Allegory, which we were told lies ſo open, is clogged likewiſe with its Difficulties; from which indeed neither is the literal Conſtruction of the Paſſage clear; for it ſeems unreaſonable that a Man ſhould ſuffer from the Reſentment of one God for what he committed by the Direction, and Command of another; though this is no unuſual Thing in Pagan Story.

Upon the whole, to have done with the Machinery of this great Poet, I leave it to you to judge, whether there is not abundant Ground to conclude, that the Interpreters have frequently taken Pains to aſcertain a Meaning in him which never came into his Head; that if he had a latent and ſymbolical Meaning, at leaſt they have not hit upon it, and that there is more Ingenuity than Solidity, as we have hinted, in many of their Interpretations. In a Word, I cannot ſee how any thing like a regular and conſiſtent Syſtem either of Theology, or of Morality, can be extracted [358] from Homer's Machinery—if he drops a Sentiment or an Expreſſion occaſionally, as he often does, with a View one would think to convince his Reader of the Rectitude of his private Notions with Regard to the Deity, his Jupiter appears to have been a fabulous and traditional Character, and is drawn with Imperfections, and Infirmities incompatible with the natural Ideas of a ſupreme Being. As to the inferior Deities it ſeems impoſſible to form a preciſe Idea of their hidden Significancy, or allegorical Importance, from the Actions which we have ſeen aſcribed to them: So that Homer had really much leſs Deſign in the Plan of his Poem than is ſuppoſed (on which Suppoſition he may however be plainly made more uniform, and of a Piece) or he had much more than has ever yet been, or we may ſuppoſe now ever will be, comprehended. In my next I will conſider in another Point of View the noble Production of this excellent Poet.

LETTER VI.

IT may be proper to remind you in this Place that I neither have ſaid, nor ſhall ſay any thing of Homer with an Intent to leſſen your Opinion of him, but to ſet it right; for it is one Thing to undervalue a Poet, and another to undeceive the Reader. If Homer be juſtly eſteemed one of the greateſt Geniuſes the World has produced, [359] (perhaps the greateſt) it is to be remembered that he is one of the firſt too; and it is abſurd to look for that Perfection in the Original, which we have a Right to expect in the Copy. It is the Characteriſtic of Invention to be great, of Imitation, to be exact; and if Virgil could not have improved the Model of the Epopee left him by Homer, he ſhould not have taken a Pen in his Hand. The Intervention of Homer with all his Defects will always be the Object of our Admiration; the Judgment of Virgil with all his Proprieties will only deſerve our Praiſe.—I own it has often amazed me to find the Commentators ſo confident to deny, or ſolicitous to extenuate Homer's Defects, which really do no Diſcredit to him, and which ought to be imputed to that Simplicity with which every original Production of the human Mind is naturally imagined. It is, I apprehend, for want of conſidering this great Author in this Light, that the Expoſitors often run into the oppoſite Extreme, and are induſtrious to diſcover Beauties and Excellencies which were merely accidental, and ought rather to be put to the Account of the Editor's Affection or Sagacity, than to that of the Art, or Deſign of the Author.—Under this Notion I have already ſubmitted to your Conſideration my Sentiments on Homer's Machines; and agreeably to my Propoſal I ſhall next give you my Thoughts upon the Plan or Oeconomy of [360] the Iliad in general, and then proceed to a Review of the Poet's Conduct in ſome particular Inſtances. Now, I think, it may be noted as a Defect in the general Oeconomy of the Iliad, which is to be aſcribed to the Cauſe juſt mentioned, that the Poet has not taken ſufficient Care to intereſt his Readers on the Side of his Countrymen, notwithſtanding the apparent Juſtice of their Cauſe. This is clear to me from ſeveral Conſiderations, as firſt from the Countenance and Protection given to the Trojans in general by Jupiter, in Preference to the Greeks.—I am very ſenſible the Commentators repreſent this Protection as the Conſequence only of that God's Promiſe to Thetis, to humble the Grecians, and do Honour to Achilles.—But is it not as plain too, that Jupiter throughout the Poem is perſonally wellaffected to Troy in general, and that for very good Reaſons? It appears from Jupiter's Anſwer to Thetis, that he had declared himſelf in the Intereſt of the Trojans long before ſhe made this Application to him,

What haſt thou aſk'd? Ah! why ſhould Jove engage
In foreign Conteſts, and domeſtic Rage,
The Gods Complaints, and Juno's fierce Alarms,
While I, too partial, aid the Trojan Arms?
B. 1. l. 672.

And he afterwards, in the Council wherein he intimates himſelf diſpoſed to end the War, with the [361] Approbation of the other Deities, by ſuffering the Treaty made upon the Duel of Menelaus, and Paris to take Effect, expreſſes a more than ordinary Concern for Troy, as a Place that deſerved well at his Hands.

For know of all the num'rous Towns that riſe
Beneath the rolling Sun, and ſtarry Skies,
Which Gods have rais'd, or earth-born Men enjoy,
None ſtands ſo dear to Jove, as ſacred Troy.
No Mortals merit more diſtinguiſh'd Grace,
Than God-like Priam, or than Priam's Race.
Still to our Name their Hecatomb's expire,
And Altars blaze with unextinguiſh'd Fire.
B. 4. L. 65. &c.

Mr. Pope has a Note from Dacier, which corroborates what I have remarked upon this Head. * Jupiter's Reproaching theſe two Goddeſſes (Juno and Pallas) with neglecting to aſſiſt Menelaus (in the Duel) proceeds from the Affection he bore to Troy; ſince if Menelaus had gained by their Help a complete Victory, (which it has been obſerved, was a ſufficient one) the Siege had been raiſed, and the City delivered. On the contrary, Juno and Minerva might ſuffer Paris to eſcape, as the Method to continue the War, to the total Deſtruction of Troy; and accordingly a few Lines after we find them [362] complotting together, and contriving a new Scene of Miſeries to the Trojans. The latter Part of this Note confirms what has been before obſerved, that theſe Goddeſſes ſeem to have been actuated by a Spirit of the moſt inveterate Malice, and Animoſity againſt a whole Race Unius obnoxam. The Reſtitution of Helen, &c. was not the grand Object of their Counſels.

Indeed, if you take them in the Groſs, I believe you will find the Deities on the Side of Troy (tho' Mars is in the Number) to be more gentle, and mercifully inclined, than thoſe that are the Aſſiſtants of the Greeks.

Again, I can't help being of Opinion that upon the whole, the Poet gives us a much more favourable Idea of the Trojans, than he does of the Greeks, if we regard the Manners, and Characters of the Heroes concerned on both Sides. Let us take a ſhort Vew of the principal Perſonages that fight in the Cauſe of Troy. Hector, as Mr. Pope ſays, * if he is not the chief Hero in the Iliad, is at leaſt the moſt amiable, and is for ſeveral Reaſons a favourite Character with every Reader.’‘He ſtands in contraſt to Achilles, an accompliſhed Character of Valour, unruffled by Rage, and Anger, and uniting his People by his Prudence, and Example.’ ‘It is the [363] Love of his Country, which appears his principal Paſſion, and the Motive of all his Actions. He has no other Blemiſh than that he fights in an unjuſt Cauſe, which Homer has yet been careful to tell us he would not do, if his Opinion were followed.’ ‘We may add, that Homer, having ſo many Greeks to celebrate, makes them ſhine it their Turns, &c. whereas Hector appears in every Battle the Life and Soul of his Party, and the conſtant Bulwark againſt every Enemy; he ſtands againſt Agamemnon's Magnanimity, Diomed's Bravery, Ajax's Strength, and Achilles's Fury.’

* The Piety, and Valour of Aeneas, tho' not drawn at ſo full a Length, are marked no leſs in (Homer) the Original, than in (Virgil) the Copy. It is the Manner of Homer to expreſs very ſtrongly the Character of each of his Perſons in the firſt Speech he is made to utter in the Poem. In this of Aeneas there is a great Air of Piety in thoſe Strokes, Is he ſome God who puniſhes TROY for having neglected his Sacrifices? and then in that Sentence, the Anger of Heaven is Terrible.

In a Word, as Mr. Pope tells us in another Place. Tho' Aeneas is repreſented a Man of great Courage, yet his Piety is his moſt ſhining [364] Character: This is the Reaſon why he is always the Care of the Gods, &c.’

The Character of Sarpedon, ſays the ſame Commentator, is the * moſt faultleſs, and amiable in the whole Iliad. This Hero is by Birth ſuperiour to all the Chiefs of either Side, being the only Son of Jupiter engaged in this War. His Qualities are no way unworthy his Deſcent, ſince he every where appears equal in Valour, Prudence, and Eloquence to the moſt admired Heroes: Nor are theſe Excellencies blemiſhed with any of thoſe Defects with which the moſt diſtinguiſhed Characters of the Poem are ſtained; ſo that the niceſt Criticks cannot find any Thing to offend their Delicacy, but muſt be obliged to own the Manners of this Hero perfect. His Valour is neither raſh, nor boiſterous, his Prudence neither timorous, nor tricking; and his Eloquence, neither talkative, nor boaſting. He never reproaches the Living, nor inſults the Dead; but appears uniform thro' his Conduct in the War, acting with the ſame generous Sentiments that engaged him in it; having no intereſt in the Quarrel, but to ſuccour his Allies in diſtreſs. This noble Life is ended with a Death as glorious; for in his laſt Moments he has no other Concern, but for the Honour of his [365] Friends, and the Event of the Day.’‘His is the only Death in the Iliad attended with Prodigies; even his Funeral is performed by divine Aſſiſtance, he being the only Hero whoſe Body is carried back to be interred in his native Country, &c.’‘Theſe peculiar and diſtinguiſhing Honours ſeem appropriated by our Author to him alone, as the Reward of a Merit ſuperiour to all his other leſs perfect Heroes.’ Theſe are the moſt illuſtrious Characters on the Side of Troy; tho' the inferiour ones, if not ſo ſtriking, are at leaſt generally amiable and inoffenſive; as thoſe of Deiphobus, Helenus, Polydamas, and Glaucus. Even that of Paris is upon the whole far from being odious, or diſguſting. I believe, among other Things the Value every Reader has for theſe Characters, particularly his Love and Eſteem of Hector, inclines his Wiſhes to the Side of Troy. Indeed Mr. Pope has (perhaps undeſignedly) given us in the above Accounts of Sarpedon, a kind of Contraſt to the Manners, and Characters of many of the Leaders in the Grecian Army. For the Valour of Achilles, and of Diomed is undoubtedly raſh, and boiſterous; the Prudence of Ulyſſes is ſometimes * timorous; and the Eloquence of Idomeneus, and Nector is talkative and boaſting. But what Prejudices [366] us more than any Thing elſe againſt the Greeks, is that Cruelty, and Inhumanity which is ſo remarkable in their Chiefs of the firſt Note, and Figure. Granting Achilles in all he does to act in Character, and ſuitably to his ‘ferocious and vindictive Spirit’ the very Nature of the Character itſelf is offenſive, and the Propriety and Coherence with which it is preſerved, diſtaſteful. ‘His Inhumanity in dragging the dead Body of Hector has been ſeverely (and I think indeed not without ſome Juſtice, ſays Mr. Pope) cenſured by ſeveral, both Antients, and Moderns.’ Indeed the Queſtion is whether the whole Picture of Achilles as drawn by Homer, has not ſtronger, and more violent Features in it than Neceſſity required? The Subject of the Poem is the Anger of this Hero, and the ill Conſequences of it to the Greeks; but this brutal Treatment of the Body of a generous Enemy, is neither the natural Effect of that Anger, nor a Soldier-like Revenge for the Death of his Friend Patroclus.—'Tis true, the Commentators have obſerved that, * Homer takes Care before Hand, to leſſen in his Reader's Mind the Horrour he may conceive from the Cruelty which Achilles will exerciſe upon the Body of Hector, by ſhewing this Cruelty as the Puniſhment only of that which Hector [367] exerciſes upon the Body of Patroclus; he drags him; he deſigns to cut off his Head, and to leave his Body upon the Ramparts, expoſed to Dogs, and Birds of Prey.’ The Obſervation is founded on Fact; but however as this Piece of intended Cruelty is inconſiſtent with Hector's general Character, he ſhould not have been repreſented as capable of it, and as it was only intended, it makes not ſo horrible an Impreſſion upon us as the actual Inhumanity of the Poet's favourrite Hero. I have often thought by the way, that the Barbarity of Achilles towards the Remains of the unfortunate, and univerſally beloved Hector, occaſioned the Miſrepreſentation of the very Fact of his Death by the well-known Story, (which Shakeſpeare adheres to in his Troilus and Creſſida) of Achilles's ungenerouſly attacking him unarmed, and cutting him to Pieces.—So deſirous was the exaſperated Author to depreciate the Character of this Hero, and exalt that of his Adverſary. But to return; be the Character of Achilles as "poetically perfect" as poſſible, and the Morality to be drawn from it as obvious as you pleaſe, he ſeems to have the leaſt Merit of any of the principal Perſonages in the Poem, and we can ſcarce help being ſorry to ſee ſo many deteſtable Qualities on the right Side of the Queſtion: In a Word "the Virtues of Humanity" which he *diſcovers in the 24th Book, when [368] he reſtores the Body of Hector to Priam, and "the amiable Qualities" which Mr. Pope tells us ‘ſoften the terrible Ideas we have conceived of him’ are exerciſed too late to wipe off the Stain of his paſt unheroical, and unmanly Behaviour; eſpecially when we conſider that this Act of Humanity was the Effect of Jupiter's expreſs Command, delivered by his Mother Thetis.

In ſhort, though we cannot but take Notice of a great deal of Inſolence and Cruelty on both Sides, and are ſhocked, as Mr. Pope confeſſes he is, at the many Inſtances of Inhumanity that occur throughout the Poem, ‘which however are not to be *imputed to the Poet, who followed Nature as it was in his Days, but to be aſcribed to the uncivilized Manners of thoſe Times, when Mankind was not united by the Bonds of a rational Society,’ yet I believe we ſhall find much more Blame due to the Greeks, than to the Trojans upon this Score. Not to inſiſt upon thoſe other glaring Proofs of a bloody, and unmerciful Diſpoſition, which Achilles gives in the killing Lycaon , taking twelve Captives whom he ſacrifices afterwards to the Manes of Patroclus, we ſee Agamemnon too upon certain Occaſions betraying a fierce, and cruel Temper; as particularly when he prevails upon his Brother to take away a Trojan's Life which he was inclined in Compaſſion [369] to *ſpare. I do not know where you will meet with more ſavage Sentiments than thoſe of this General in the following Speech to Menelaus.

—Oh impotent of Mind!
Shall theſe, ſhall theſe Atrides' Mercy find?
Well haſt thou known proud Troy's perfidious Land,
And well her Natives merit at thy Hand!
Not one of all the Race, nor Sex, nor Age,
Shall ſave a Trojan from our boundleſs Rage:
Ilion ſhall periſh whole, and bury all;
Her Babes, her Infants at the Breaſt ſhall fall.
L. 67. &c. B. vi.

And if you will turn to the Original you will perhaps think it much ſoftened in this Tranſlation; notwithſtanding Mr. Pope's Obſervation from Madam Dacier. It ſhould be remembered too, that the venerable Neſtor himſelf is a Spectator and Applauder of this Act of Cruelty.

But there is one Conſideration behind that intereſts the Reader in the Behalf of Troy, much more than all the reſt; I mean that of the private Characters of Priam and his Royal Family. Mr. Pope is of Opinion that ‘the Poet's chief Intention in making Hector retire from the Battle to carry a Meſſage to Troy &c. was to introduce the fine Epiſode of his parting with Andromache [370] in which the amiable Picture of conjugal Love Homer has drawn gives us Cauſe to think his Genius was no leſs capable of touching the Heart with Tenderneſs, than of firing it with Glory.’ ‘This Epiſode, (ſays that excellent Perſon,) tends very much to raiſe the Character of Hector, and endear him to every Reader,’ and indeed we cannot admire this Hero more in the Field, than we love him at Home. His Conduct, his Courage, and his Valour are common to him with many others, but his affectionate Tenderneſs to his Parents, his Wife, his Child, and his Friends is characteriſtical, and peculiar to himſelf.

In a Word, you cannot, I believe, but be a Well-wiſher to the Houſe of Priam, when you conſider the general Character of this good old Man himſelf, whoſe only Fault was his Indulgence to his Children, and eſpecially his Piety which "renders him a Favourite of Jupiter," and procures him the Reſtitution of his Son's Body; or when you look into the Manners of his whole Family, not even Helen excepted, but as ſhe is the Miſtreſs of Paris, or Paris himſelf, but as he is the Admirer of that fatal Beauty. Upon the whole, I leave you to judge whether the Grecians do not deſerve the Appellation of barbarous, according to the worſt Acceptation of the Term, much more than the People, or the Allies of Troy.

[371] I cannot think then with Mr. Pope that Homer *always appears very zealous for the Honour of Greece, or even that he ſeems to be ſo in the Inſtance produced to ſupport the Aſſertion; I mean, that of the Trojans in the Beginning of the third Book ruſhing on to the Battle in a barbarous and confuſed Manner with loud Shouts and Cries, while the Greeks advance in the moſt profound Silence and exact Order.’ This Circumſtance, it ſeems, is a Proof of the Poet's ‘Endeavour every where to repreſent the Greeks as ſuperiour to the Trojans in Valour, and the Art of War,’ to which if you add the Circumſtance of ‘the Grecians being animated by Pallas and the Trojans inſtigated by Mars i. e. the former, "by a well-conducted Valour," and the latter by "raſh Strength and brutal Force," the Matter will bear no Diſpute. What Weight there is in this latter Circumſtance you will eaſily ſee upon recollecting what has been already remarked upon the Machines of Homer, and for the former, I think you will agree with me, that little is to be fairly inferred from it to the Advantage of the Greeks. The Trojan ‘Manner of encountering with Shouts and Outcries’ is no Argument againſt their military Diſcipline, or Proof that they were not drawn up in as "exact Order" as the [372] Grecians themſelves. * Perhaps theſe Clamours were only to encourage their Men, inſtead of martial Inſtruments,’ as Mr. Pope has not ſcrupled to intimate; at leaſt it is a Peculiarity (as what Nation is without one?) that does no Diſcredit to their Diſcipline, or Skill in the "Art of War." Indeed the ſuppoſed conſtant Superiority of the Grecians &c. is by no means ſo apparent to me as it has been to the Commentators in general; and probably you may be of the ſame Mind if you will refer to Book iv. L. 508, &c. to Book viii. L. 73, &c. to Book xi. L. 93, &c. to Book vii. L. 11, &c. 23, &c. &c. and to other Places, wherein there ſeems to be no Sort of Inferiority on the Part of Troy in reſpect of Conduct, Bravery, or Reſolution. More might be ſaid upon this Article, but I have exceeded the ordinary Bounds of my Letters, and indeed ſhould not have ſaid ſo much, but that I thought it neceſſary to enter into ſuch Particularities as theſe in order to give you the clearer Idea of an Author whoſe Work, I preſume, you will think it a rational Amuſement thoroughly to examine and diſcuſs.

LETTER VII.

I Have two more Objections to the general Oeconomy of the Iliad which I am apt to believe, a little Attention will convince you are reaſonable [373] ones; the firſt is, that Achilles, the Hero of the Poem, is not the firſt Perſonage in it in Point of Dignity. Hector is his Superiour in every amiable Quality, and Agamemnon no leſs ſo in Power, and Command: And as the former Conſideration prepoſſeſſes the Reader in Favour of the Trojan General, ſo the latter has at leaſt a Tendency to intereſt us on the Side of Authority in the Quarrel at the Beginning of the Poem: And the more ſo, as Homer, if he was not a Friend to abſolute Monarchy, does yet ſpeak in very high Terms of the ſacred Rights, and inviolable Supremacy of Kings:

There want not Chiefs in ſuch a Cauſe to fight,
ſays Agamemnon himſelf,
And Jove himſelf ſhall guard a Monarch's Right.
B. 1. l. 227, &c.

and afterwards,

Hence ſhalt thou prove my Might, and curſe the Hour,
Thou ſtood'ſt a Rival of imperial Pow'r;
And hence to all our Hoſt it ſhall be known,
That Kings are ſubject to the Gods alone. l. 250, &c.

Old Neſtor talks in the ſame Strain when he attempts to pacify theſe Chiefs; (ſee Line 367, &c.) as does Ulyſſes in the next Book. (ſee L. 243, &c.

But beſides the viſible Propriety there had been in making Achilles Commander in Chief, with which Appointment the great Deſign of the Poem, [374] and the due Execution of it were without Doubt conſiſtent, it is plain that for Want of it you will meet with much Incongruity, not to ſay Abſurdity, in many Places. One obvious Example ſhall ſuffice to maintain the Allegation; which is that of Achilles's convening the Council in the firſt Book; an Act of Royalty that became him no more than it would Diomed, Ulyſſes, or any ſecondary Commander in the Army. Indeed this very Circumſtance you find mentioned by Mr. Pope in his Note from Plutarch and Euſtathius, as doing great Honour to the Judgment of Homer; for which Reaſon it will be proper to tranſcribe it.—Plutarch obſerves, how juſtly Homer applies the Characters of his Perſons to the Incidents; not making Agamemnon, but Achilles call this Council, who of all the Kings was moſt capable of making Obſervations upon the Plague, and of foreſeeing its Duration, as having been bred by Chiron to the Study of Phyſick. One may mention alſo a Remark of Euſtathius in Purſuance to this, that Juno's adviſing him in this Caſe might allude to his Knowledge of an evil Temperament in the Air, of which ſhe was Goddeſs.’ Now admitting the ſuppos'd Skill of this Hero, &c. to have been a good Reaſon for his private Advice in regard to the Convention of this Council, and for his delivering his Opinion in it with more than ordinary Freedom and Confidence, [375] yet how it could give him a Right to call it, or to open it in Conſequence of ſo doing with a formal Speech, I confeſs, I can't at all comprehend.—You will give me Leave juſt to illuſtrate what I have been obſerving upon this Head, by directing you to a Paſſage in the 24th Book, in which Achilles at the Height of his Glory, and Popularity among the Greeks, and at the very Inſtant that ‘he promiſes * Priam a Ceſſation of Arms purely by his own Authority’ does nevertheleſs in Effect acknowledge his Subordination to the Imperial Character, and by his Apprehenſions of the Conſequences of the preſent Proceeding: as if the Poet, even while he is aggrandizing his Hero, was conſcious of aſcribing an Importance to him unſuitable to the Inferiority of his Station.

Then he: Now, Father, ſleep, but ſleep not here,
Conſult thy Safety, and forgive my Fear,
Leſt any Argive (at this Hour awake,
To aſk our Counſel, or our Orders take)
Approaching ſudden to our open'd Tent,
Perchance behold thee, and our Grace prevent.
Should ſuch Report thy honour'd Perſon hear,
The King of Men the Ranſom might defer.
But ſay with Speed, if ought of thy Deſire
Remains unaſk'd; what Time the Rites require
[376] T' interr thy Hector? For ſo long we ſtay
Our ſlaught'ring Arm, and bid the Hoſts obey.
L. 816, &c.

You obſerve there is an Inconſiſtency here which would have been ſaved had Achilles been the principal Perſon in reſpect of Precedence, as well as Valour, &c. &c.

But it is Time to come to the other Objection, which, as I am not ſingular in it, I will give you in the Words of Mr. Pope's Note prefixed to the 23d Book of the Iliad, and endeavour to confirm it by a Remark or two upon what that Expoſitor has offered by way of Vindication of his Author. ‘This, and the following Book, which contain the Deſcription of the Funeral of Patroclus, and other Matters relating to Hector, are undoubtedly ſuper-added to the grand Cataſtrophe of the Poem; for the Story is compleatly finiſhed with the Death of that Hero in the 22d Book. Many judicious Criticks have been of Opinion, that Homer is blameable for protracting it. Virgil cloſes the whole Scene of Action with the Death of Turnus, and leaves the reſt to be imagined by the Mind of the Reader: He does not draw the Picture at full Length, but delineates it ſo far, that we cannot fail of imagining the whole Draught. There is however one Thing to be ſaid in Favour of Homer, which may perhaps juſtify him in his Method that what he [377] undertook to paint was the Anger of Achilles; and as that Anger does not die with Hector, but perſecutes his very Remains, ſo the Poet ſtill keeps up to his Subject; nay, it ſeems to require that he ſhould carry down the Relation of that Reſentment, which is the Foundation of his Poem, till it is fully ſatisfied: And as this ſurvives Hector, and gives the Poet an Opportunity of ſtill ſhewing many ſad Effects of Achilles's Anger, the two following Books may be thought not to be Excreſcencies, but eſſential to the Poem.’

Virgil had been inexcuſable had he trod in Homer's Footſteps; for it is evident that the Fall of Turnus, by giving Aeneas a full Power over Italy, anſwers the whole Deſign and Intention of the Poem; had he gone farther he had overſhot his Mark; and though Homer proceeds after Hector's Death, yet the Subject is ſtill the Anger of Achilles. Now, I apprehend, the Anger of Achilles, which is the ‘Foundation of the Poem,’ is entirely diſtinct from that Anger, or rather Revenge with which he ‘perſecutes the very Remains of Hector, and that the whole declared "Deſign and Intention" of the Poet was "to paint the Anger of Achilles" as the Source of all the Misfortunes the Grecians underwent; which were ended by the Reconciliation of that Chief and Agamemnon. We then ſee as plainly the [378] good Effects of Union to the Greeks, as we did the fatal Conſequences of Diſcord through the moſt conſiderable Part of the Poem; and therefore the Death of Hector, and the Triumph of the Grecians thereupon was the proper, and natural Cataſtrophe of the Iliad. The Anger of Achilles, conſidered as the Paſſion he was addicted to, might have been protracted through many Books more.—In ſhort, the Super-addition of theſe Books, eſpecially the latter, inſtead of being juſtifiable by the Reaſons above alledged, does even come within the Reach of a former Objection: For the Care taken of Hector's Body by two *Deities, the Debate in Heaven concerning the Redemption of the ſame by Priam, the Interpoſition of Jupiter in Behalf of his deceaſed Votary, Mercury's conducting Priam to the Tent of Achilles, the Interview of the two Monarchs, and laſtly, the ſeveral pathetic Lamentations made over the Corps of the unfortunate Hero by his Friends, and Relations at Troy, with which the Poem concludes; I ſay, theſe Incidents confirm our former Prepoſſeſſions in Favour of Hector, leave the moſt tender Impreſſions on our Minds, and at the ſame Time inſpire us with freſh Indignation at the Inſolence, and Barbarity of his implacable Enemy.—Such are the Defects, as I conceive, in the general Oeconomy [379] of the Ilias.—In my next I will communicate to you ſome Obſervations I have made upon the particular Conduct of the great Author in Relation to Characters, Incidents, and other Circumſtances, &c. &c.

LETTER VIII.

HOMER is with much Juſtice to be admired in the main for the agreeable Variety of his Characters, and for the remarkable Spirit, and Uniformity with which each of them is ſuſtained. If he is ſometimes faulty upon this Article it is to be aſcribed to mere human Infirmity perhaps, or in ſome Caſes to that Simplicity which, as has been ſaid, diſtinguiſhes the Inventors of Arts and Sciences from the Improvers of them. To one of theſe it is probably owing that we ſee ſuch a ſcandalous Character as that of Therſites in the Iliad, or ſo contemptible a one as that of Nireus: The latter, the moſt beautiful, the former, the moſt deformed Perſon of the Poem. 'Tis obſervable, Mr. Pope informs us, ‘that * Therſites is never heard of after his firſt Appearance: Such a ſcandalous Character is to be taken no more Notice of, than juſt to ſhew that 'tis deſpiſed.’ But whether ludicrous or ſcandalous Characters ‘ought to have Place in the Epic Poem may be juſtly [380] queſtioned,’ or whether it be a Beauty or Propriety to introduce a Perſon but once, who ſeems to be utterly unworthy to appear at all. As for * Nireus, the Inſignificancy of his Character, ſhould, I think, have excluded him from the Iliad, who likewiſe makes his Appearance once too often. The Truth is, neither of theſe Perſonages are of any Service towards the Illuſtration of a principal Character. The Caution with which the Courage of Ulyſſes is tempered, ſets off the Intrepidity of Diomed, and the Activity of Hector is finely oppoſed to the Immobility of Ajax; but the above-mentioned Gentlemen are at beſt unneceſſary Contraſts to each other, and Foils to every Body elſe.—But that you may not imagine, I am induſtriouſly looking after Objections, and picking out Characters for the ſake of finding Fault, (an Office I abhor) I muſt deſire you to look a little farther into a Character or two of much higher Rank, which you will, I believe, find to be liable to the Objection of not being preſerved with that Nicety of Conſiſtence, and Uniformity, which is in general ſo Obſervable in this noble Writer. If you will judge of the Character of Menelaus, by the Idea which Mr. Pope juſtly gives us of him, who has taken ſome Pains to place it in a true Point of View, you will be, [381] I make no doubt, of Opinion, that ‘upon the whole, his Character is by no Means contemptible, tho' not of the moſt ſhining Nature: He is called indeed in the 17th Iliad. [...], a ſoft Warriour, or one whoſe Strength is of the ſecond Rate; and ſo his Brother thought him when he preferred Nine before him to Fight with Hector, in the 7th Book.’ Thus far you may ſafely Subſcribe to Mr. Pope's Notion of this Commander; but I am afraid what follows for the Diſplay of the bright Side of this Character, will claſh rather too much with theſe Conceſſions made to his Diſadvantage. For how comes this ſoft Warriour (whom, you know, I have mentioned before in another Light,) to diſcover a ‘Spirit of Revenge which diſtinguiſhes him from all the other Greeks in the ſecond Book,’ ‘No *Leader in all the Liſt is repreſented ſo eager and paſſionate; he is louder than them all in his Exhortations; more active in running among the Troops, &c. &c.’

If Homer meant to ſhew us hereby that his Concern in the War was perſonal, while the others acted only for Intereſt or Glory in general,’ it is odd ſure that he does not maintain this Priority of Zeal and Ardour, as a conſequence [382] of that Concern throughout the Poem. Again is it not hard to Account for his * Forwardneſs, to accept Hector's Challenge, who immediately afterwards was not thought worthy even to take his Chance of fighting with him? It may be ſaid, that Agamemnon diſſuades his brother from the Combat, from a Principle of Brotherly Love, not from any Diſtruſt of his Courage, of which he appears to have ſo extraordinary an Opinion in the 4th Book, when Menelaus is wounded by Pandarus, that he expreſſes his Apprehenſions, ‘that the Death of that Hero, will force the Greeks to return with ſhame to their Country.’

Depriv'd of thee, the heartleſs Greeks no more
Shall dream of Conqueſts on the hoſtile Shore, &c.
B 4. L. 208. &c.

But if his Life was of ſuch Conſequence to Greece, he ſhould never have been ſtiled a ſoft Warriour, or a Chief of the ſecond Rate.

I will only point out to what I think rather an Overſight than not in Homer, with regard to another Character, and then quit the preſent Article of Inquiry; I mean the Character of Ajax, whom, not abſolutely, but comparatively ſpeaking, I can't look upon as a proper Perſon to be diſpatched upon the Embaſſy to Achilles in the 9th Book. Mr. Pope however informs us ‘that the Choice of [383] three Perſons (Phoenix, Ajax, and Ulyſſes) is made with a great deal of Judgment. Achilles could not but reverence the venerable Phoenix, &c. Ajax, and Ulyſſes, had been diſgraced in the firſt Book (L. 187) as well as he, and were therefore proper Perſons to perſuade him to forgive, as they had forgiven; beſides it was the greateſt Honour that could be done to Achilles, to ſend the moſt worthy Perſonages in the Army to him. Ulyſſes was inferiour to none in Eloquence, but to Neſtor. Ajax was ſecond to none in Valour but to Achilles. Ajax might have an influence over him as a Relation, &c.’

Yet as ingenious as all this may be, 'tis certain, that of all the Heroes, Ajax was the worſt Orator, and ſo far at leaſt he was was unqualified for the Charge in Queſtion.—He is by no means a favourite Character with the Poet himſelf; if he had he would have ‘given him a Prize probably in ſome of the Games in the 23d Book;’ one Reaſon why he did not, Mr. Pope ſuppoſes might be, becauſe he had a Mind to ſhew that ‘Strength without Conduct, is uſually unſucceſsful,’ which gives us no favourable Idea of this Hero, and much leſs authorizes us to pronounce him one of the ‘moſt worthy Perſonages in the Army;’ that he was ſecond to none [384] in Strength but to Achilles, may be granted; but in Valour he has no doubt many Competitors.—In Truth I can't help looking upon this as a random Delegation, notwithſtanding a few plauſible Circumſtances, which ſurely never entered the Author's Head, viz. the Diſgrace of Ajax and Ulyſſes in the firſt Book, &c. (a Diſgrace which, by the way, they neither of them reſent, or allude to, in their Speeches to Achilles) or the Relationſhip of Ajax to that Hero, which he takes not the leaſt Advantage of in his Addreſs to him.—Mr. Pope in the Note laſt quoted, appears therefore rather to have acted the Part of a ready Friend, than an impartial Commentator.—I will only ſuppoſe, and have done, that Diomed had been employed in this Deputation inſtead of Ajax;—in that Caſe can't you conceive Mr. Pope would have expreſſed himſelf to the following Purpoſe? ‘It is with wonderful Art and Propriety, that Homer appoints Diomed one of the Embaſſadors upon this Occaſion. It did Honour to Achilles to ſend upon this Buſineſs the moſt valiant, with the wiſeſt of all the Grecian Commanders. Beſides, Diomed *has more of the Character of Achilles himſelf, than any beſides. He has naturally an Exceſs of Boldneſs, and too much Fury in his Temper, forward [385] and intrepid like the other, and running after Gods or Men promiſcuouſly as they offer themſelves. Add to this, that as he is forward to act in the Field, ſo is he ready to ſpeak in the Council; where his Advice always inclines to War; and is byaſſed rather on the Side of Bravery, than Caution. A Man of this Diſpoſition was moſt likely to influence the Congenial Spirit of Achilles.—An Ingenious Commentator may take a thouſand Occaſions of making the moſt of his Author, and convert Improprieties themſelves into Beauties; of which I believe I ſhall be able to give you a few more Proofs in my remaining Criticiſms upon the Iliad of Homer.

LETTER IX.

THE moſt material Remarks I have farther to make upon the particular Conduct of Homer, &c. I ſhall communicate to you in Order, as the Paſſages which ſeem exceptionable will occur in the Courſe of the Poem. The firſt that offers itſelf is the Interpoſition of Neſtor in the firſt Book in the Speech wherein he endeavours to make up the Breach between the contending Princes, Achilles and Agamemnon; which, as the Deſign of the Iliad required it ſhould be ineffectual, I could wiſh he had ſpared. Mr. Pope obſerves, * that the Character of Authority [386] and Wiſdom in Neſtor, is every where admirably uſed by Homer, and made to exert itſelf through all the great Emergencies of the Poem. As he quiets the Princes here (which how he does we ſhall ſee preſently) he propoſes that Expedient which reduces the Army into order, after the Sedition in the ſecond Book. When the Greeks are in the utmoſt Diſtreſſes, 'tis he who adviſes the Building the Fortification before the Fleet, &c. And 'tis by his Perſuaſion that Patroclus puts on the Armour of Achilles, which occaſions the return of that Hero, &c. &c.’ In theſe laſt mentioned Emergencies, indeed the Authority of this venerable Hero has all the Weight you can deſire; but ſure in the preſent Inſtance, in which if it had prevailed, all future Emergencies had been precluded, it was exerted to no, or at beſt, very little Purpoſe. The old Man is repreſented as Maſter of the Art of Perſuaſion, and riſes to ſpeak with all the Advantages of the ſweeteſt Eloquence, and the Experience of two Generations; and he ſeems accordingly to promiſe himſelf Succeſs in the Propoſal of an Accommodation.

—Young as you are, this youthful Heat reſtrain
Nor think your Neſtor's Years and Wiſdom vain—
—Do you, young Warriours, hear my Age adviſe;
Atrides, ſeize not on the beauteous Slave,
That prize the Greeks by common Suffrage gave:
[387] Nor thou, Achilles, treat our Prince with Pride,
Let Kings be juſt, and ſov'reign Pow'r preſide.
—Let both unite with well-conſenting Mind,
So ſhall Authority with Strength be join'd.
Leave me, O King! to calm Achilles' Rage,
Rule thou thyſelf, as more advanc'd in Age:
Forbid it Gods! Achilles ſhould be loſt,
The Pride of Greece, and Bulwark of our Hoſt.
B. i. L. 343. &c. 360. &c. 369. &c.

But what Effect, after all, has this Oratory? Agamemnon confeſſes that all he ſpoke was right,’ but he will not relinquiſh his Pretenſions to Briſeïs. Achilles promiſes not to fight for Briſeïs, but neither will he for his Country; opprobious Language is given on both Sides; ‘the Council diſſolves’ and the Calamities of Greece enſue. For which Reaſons I think ‘the Eloquence of Homer's Neſtor is thrown out of Character by its proving unavailable’ for the great End he deſigned it.—If he had not ſpoken at all, or upon offering to do it, had been interrupted, and prevented by the Fury of Achilles, who ſeems to have leſs Veneration for him, than Agamemnon, that Hero had acted in Character, and the Eloquence of the reverened Orator had never been exerciſed in vain.

The next Objection I have to make, is againſt the imprudent, and unneceſſary Meaſure taken by Agamemnon, to ſound the Diſpoſition of the Grecians [388] in the ſecond Book, by propoſing the Return of the Forces to Greece; a Propoſal which had taken Effect, but for the Management of Ulyſſes, and Neſtor. It is likely indeed, (to give you the Words of Dionyſius of Halicarnaſſus, *who, in Mr. Pope's Opinion, has given us an admirable Explication of this whole Conduct) Agamemnon (after his Quarrel with Achilles) had nothing ſo much at Heart as to draw the Greeks to a Battle, yet knew not how to proceed without Achilles, who had juſt retired from the Army: He was apprehenſive that the Greeks who were diſpleaſed at the Departure of Achilles, might refuſe Obedience to his Orders, ſhould he abſolutely command it. In this Circumſtance he propoſes an Expedient to the Princes in Council, which was that he ſhould ſound the Diſpoſitions of the People, by exhorting them to ſet ſail for Greece, but, that then, the other Princes ſhould be ready to diſſuade, and detain them.—He had ſome Cauſe to fear the Greeks had a Pique againſt him, which they had concealed, and whatever it was, he judged it abſolutely neceſſary to know it, before he proceeded to a Battle. He therefore furniſhes them with an Occaſion to manifeſt it, and at the ſame Time provides againſt any ill Effects it [389] might have by his ſecret Orders to the Princes. It ſucceeds accordingly, and when the Troops are running to embark, they are ſtopped by Ulyſſes and Neſtor.—Now not to inſiſt upon an inaccuracy in this Note; i. e. that Agamemnon ‘judged it Neceſſary to know what the Pique the Grecians had againſt him was,’ which if they had any, could be no other than what aroſe from "their Diſpleaſure at the departure of Achilles," as is expreſſed in the former Part of the Note; I ſay, not to dwell upon this, the Queſtion is, whether this Stratagem was not abſolutely ſuperſeded by the Viſion ſent by Jupiter to Agamemnon? The Deſign of this Viſion was to deceive him into the Hope, or rather Aſſurance of taking Troy without the Aſſiſtance of Achilles. And it had its Effect. The General, perſuaded, as it were by immediate Revelation, of Jupiter's Favour towards him, and Concern for his Glory, and exalted with the Thought of the promiſed Succeſs to his Arms, communicates his Dream to the Princes in Council, who appear to a Man to be ſatisfied of the Reality of it, and of the Good-will of Jupiter to the Grecian Cauſe. Old Neſtor gives his Advice in conſequence of this Conviction.

Princes of Greece, your faithful Ears incline
Nor doubt the Viſion of the Pow'rs divine,
[390] Sent by great Jove, to him who rules the Hoſt;
Forbid it Heav'n! this Warning ſhould be loſt!
Then let us haſte, obey the God's Alarms,
And join to rouze the Sons of Greece to Arms.
B. ii. L. 101. &c.

Let me aſk you now, whether, if this Dream had been communicated to the Troops, as well as the Council, they would not as readily have given Credit to it, and have been impatient to follow to battle a Leader who was the declared Favourite of Heaven? Would not the Belief of taking Troy in the next Attack, under his Command, have entirely removed the Pique they had conceived againſt him on Account of the Departure of Achilles? if ſo, as ingenious as the Stratagem in Queſtion may be in itſelf, and as artful as the Speech of Agamemnon is, which he makes in purſuance of it, it ſeems to be an Expedient, to which, as Things were then circumſtanced, he was not under the leaſt Neceſſity, nor in Prudence concerned, to have Recourſe.

If you will next turn to the 6th Book, I preſume you will find an Inconſiſtency between Hector's very particular Prophecy of the Deſtruction of Troy, and his Prayer for his Son immediately after; as alſo, the "ſtrong Hopes *and firm Aſſurance" [391] he often entertains ‘of raiſing the Siege by the Flight or Deſtruction of the Greeks.

Yet come it will, the Day decreed by Fates,
The Day when thou, imperial Troy, muſt bend,
And ſee thy Warriours fall, thy Glories end.
And yet no dire Preſage ſo wounds my Mind,
My Mother's Death, the Ruin of my Kind,
Not Priam's hoary Hairs defil'd with Gore,
Not all my Brother's gaſping on the Shore;
As thine, Andromache, thy Griefs I dread;
I ſee thee trembling, weeping, captive led! &c.
B. vi. L. 570. &c.
O thou! whoſe Glory fills the Aetherial Throne.
And all ye deathleſs Pow'rs, protect my Son!
Grant him, like me, to purchaſe juſt Renown,
To guard the Trojans, to defend the Crown,
Againſt his Country's Foes the War to wage,
And riſe the Hector of the future Age!
L. 604. &c.
Heard ye the Voice of Jove? Succeſs and Fame
Await on Troy, on Greece, eternal Shame.
In vain they ſkulk behind their boaſted Wall,
Weak Bulwarks! deſtin'd by this Arm to fall.
—Soon as before yon hollow Ships we ſtand,
Fight each with Flames, and toſs the blazing Brand;
Till their proud Navy wrapt in Smoke and Fires,
All Greece, encompaſs'd, in one Blaze expires.
B. viii. L. 214. &c. L. 621. &c.

[392] I don't apprehend that what Mr. Pope has urged from Dacier, or advanced himſelf, in order to ſalve this Inconſiſtency, will afford us ſufficient Satisfaction. ‘We ought to reflect, ſays he, that this is only a Prayer: Hector in the Exceſs of a tender Emotion for his Son, intreats the Gods to preſerve Troy, and permit Aſtyanax to rule there. It is at all Times allowable to beſeech Heaven to appeaſe its Anger, and change its Decrees; and we are taught that Prayers can alter Deſtiny.’—We are taught, I conceive the very Reverſe of this by the general Tenour of the Poem: This Aſſertion however, ſuppoſes Hector to have foreſeen the Deſtruction of Troy, and the Ruin of his Family; and yet we are told in the next Sentence, ‘that it cannot be inferred from hence, that Hector had any divine Foreknowledge of his Fate, &c. ſince in many following Paſſages we find him poſſeſſed with ſtrong Hopes, &c. to raiſe the Siege, &c.’ Is not this a ſort of Confuſion of Apologies, and a Defence of one Inconſiſtency by another? In ſhort, the direct, and expreſs Prophecy above quoted, cannot without much Force, be reſolved into the mere ‘Apprehenſions and Miſgivings of a Soul dejected with Sorrow, &c. by conſidering the great Dangers to which he ſaw all that was dear to him expoſed.’

[393] But to proceed—The Circumſtance of Jupiter's weighing in his Scales the Fates of Greece and Troy in the 8th Book, and thoſe of Hector and Achilles in the 22d, has ſomething very ſtriking, and poetical in it, but at the ſame Time, is itſelf liable to the Objection made by Macrobius to Virgil's Imitation of it. Macrobius, ſays *Mr. Pope, obſerves with ſome Colour, that the Application of this Circumſtance is not ſo juſt in Virgil, as in our Author; for Virgil had made Juno ſay before, that Turnus would certainly periſh.’

Nunc juvenem imparibus video concurrere fatis,
Parcarumque dies & vis inimica propinquat.

So that there was leſs Reaſon for weighing his
Fate with that of Aeneas, after that Declaration.

But is it not as clear that the Fates of Greece and Troy, and of Hector and Achilles in Homer, were reſpectively, to all Intents and Purpoſes, declared before this Suſpenſion of the Scales?—Jupiter, in the Beginning of the 8th Book ‘threatens the Deities with the Pains of Tartarus, if they aſſiſt either Side,’ he had in the End of the the preceeding Book given Tokens of his Wrath againſt the Grecians; and if we could doubt whether the Threatning juſt mentioned; was denounced in favour of the Trojans, Minerva's Requeſt [394] "that ſhe may direct the Greeks by her Counſels" muſt abundantly convince us that it was.

From Fields forbidden we ſubmiſs refrain,
With Arms unaiding mourn our Argives ſlain;
Yet grant my Counſels ſtill their Breaſts may move,
Or all muſt periſh in the Wrath of Jove.
B. viii. L. 43. &c.

In the Caſe of Hector, Jupiter is undeniably explicit; he declares the Fate of that Hero approaching, tho' he is inclined, with the Conſent of the inferiour Deities, to reſcue him from it.

Conſult, ye Pow'rs! ('tis worthy your Debate)
Whether to ſnatch him from impending Fate,
Or let him bear, by ſtern Pelides ſlain,
(Good as he is) the Lot impos'd on Man?

So that Virgil appears at leaſt not only to have copied this Circumſtance from Homer, but to have applied it with more Juſtice; for what Juno ſaid previouſly to the Suſpenſion of the Scales, is not at leaſt ſo glaring an Impropriety as what Jupiter ſays here himſelf. The beſt excuſe perhaps for both theſe great Poets, we may borrow from a Note of Mr. Pope's, in the 20th Book, * that it was not eaſy in the Pagan Religion, to form the juſteſt Ideas upon a Doctrine (viz. that of Deſtiny, the Divine Power, &c.) ſo difficult to [395] be cleared; and upon which it is no great Wonder if a Poet ſhould not always be perfectly conſiſtent with himſelf, when it has puzzled ſuch a Number of Divines, and Philoſophers.’

Before I quit this Remark, I muſt juſt take Notice of an Overſight in Mr. Pope, who tells us in his Note *upon the Circumſtance of Jupiter's weighing the Fates, &c. that ‘This Figure repreſenting God as weighing the deſtinies of Men in his Balances, was firſt made uſe of in Holy Writ.’ Are theſe only figurative Scales in Homer then? Sure Aeſchylus did not look upon them to be ſuch, when (as Mr. Pope informs us from Plutarch) ‘he wrote a whole Tragedy upon this Foundation, which he called Pſychoſtatia, or the weighing of Souls. In this he introduced Thetis and Aurora ſtanding on either Side of Jupiter's Scales, and praying each for her Son, while the Heroes fought.’ I don't ſee therefore how any Parallel can reaſonably be drawn between this Paſſage, which muſt be literally underſtood in Homer, and thoſe figurative Expreſſions in Scripture, ‘of being weighed in the Balance, and found light, &c. by which the Impartiality of divine Juſtice is ſignificantly illuſtrated to the human Underſtanding. How [396] far Milton may be warranted in borrowing’ this fine Fiction from Homer, which it is acknowledged "he has admirably improved" or in repreſenting the Deity with a Pair of golden Compaſſes in his Hand upon another Occaſion, it is not my preſent Buſineſs to inquire.—Thus much at leaſt may be ſaid in his Behalf, that Boldneſſes give no Offence when there is no Allay of Impiety in them. Theſe Remarks ſhall be continued in my next.

EETTER X.

IN the *12th Book of the Iliad we have an Account of a ſignal Prodigy which much awakens the Reader's Attention, but I think never ſatisfies it. I mean that of the Eagle with the Serpent in his Talons, &c. which appears over the Trojan Army. Polydamas , upon duly conſidering it, pronounces it to be a Warning to them from Jupiter not to attempt the Grecian Entrenchments that Day, but to retreat, &c. ‘He tells Hector too that what he delivers is not Conjecture, but Science, and appeals for the Truth of it to the Augurs of the Army.’ But notwithſtanding all this, Hector holds the Interpretation of the Omen in the utmoſt Contempt, and inſinuates that ‘the Advice proceeded not from the Skill, but Cowardice’ [397] of the Interpreter. He appears indeed to have been in the right not only from the Succeſs of the Trojan Arms at the End of the Book, when Sarpedon ‘makes the firſt Breach in the Grecian Wall’ and himſelf forces open one of the "Gates," but even from the Countenance, and Aſſiſtance of Jupiter to the Trojans immediately after the Prodigy itſelf. For the Poet tells us at the Concluſion of Hector's Speech to Polydamas, and upon his "ruſhing to the Wall" (L. 295) that

Jove breathes a Whirlwind from the Hills of Ide,
And Drifts of Duſt the clouded Navy hide:
He fills the Greeks with Terror and Diſmay,
And gives great Hector the predeſtin'd Day.
L. 299, &c.

Either therefore this Appearance had no Significancy in it, and then it will be difficult to account for the Solemnity with which Homer introduces it, or for his introducing it at all, or elſe it boded Misfortune to the Grecians; in which Caſe Polydamas, who is every where ſhewn in a favourable Light enough, makes if not a cowardly yet an ignorant Application of it.

Macrobius it ſeems *compares Virgil's Imitation of this Paſſage in the 11th Aeneid, V. 751, &c. with the Original, and ‘gives the Preference to [398] the latter on Account of Virgil's having neglected to ſpecify the Omen. Mr. Pope takes Notice in another Place of this Author's Partiality to Homer; and his Obſervation on this Circumſtance is a ſtrong Inſtance of it. ‘He ſhould have conſidered (as Mr. Pope remarks) that Virgil had no Deſign, or Occaſion to make an Omen of it; but took it only as a natural Image, to paint the Poſture of two Warriours ſtruggling with each other.’ What Deſign or Occaſion Homer himſelf had for an Omen in this Place, you ſee 'tis not ſo eaſy to ſay; you have however a Proof of the Latin Poet's Judgment, and may obſerve that a needleſs, or unintelligible Prodigy in Homer will make an excellent Simile in Virgil.

The Receſs *of the Gods in the 20th Book is an Incident, which Mr. Pope ‘wonders all the Commentators ſhould be ſilent upon; it ſeems ſtrange at the firſt View, ſays he, that ſo many Deities, after having entered the Scene of Action, ſhould perform ſo ſhort a Part and immediately become themſelves Spectators.’ I muſt indeed look upon this as an Objection to the Conduct of the Poet. Let us hear however what Mr. Pope has urged in his Vindication. He ‘conceives then the Reaſon of this Conduct in the Poet to be, that Achilles has been inactive during the greateſt Part of the Poem; and as he [399] is the Hero of it, ought to be the chief Character in it: The Poet therefore withdraws the Gods from the Field, that Achilles may have the whole Honour of the Day, and not act in Subordination to the Deities; beſides the Poem now draws to a Concluſion, and it is neceſſary for Homer to enlarge upon the Exploits of Achilles, that he may leave a noble Idea of his Valour upon the Mind of the Reader.’

Now I would take the Liberty to aſk, whether it be derogatory to the important Character of Achilles to act in Subordination to the Deities? Whether their Superintendency and Aſſiſtance has not been an Honour to every Hero in the Courſe of the Iliad, particularly to Diomed in the fifth Book? Whether Achilles himſelf makes ſo great a Figure in this Book as he does in the next when Scamander attacks him with all his Waves; when Neptune and Pallas *appear to aſſiſt him: Simois joins Scamander, and at length Vulcan, by the Inſtigation of Juno, almoſt dries up the River.’ Does the Interpoſition of theſe Deities do a Diſcredit to the Valour of Achilles, or ‘leave a leſs noble Idea of it upon the Mind of the Reader’ than he would have had without it?—I dare ſay you will agree with me that what Mr. Pope obſerves in the next Note is a kind of Anſwer to what he has advanced in this, and be [400] convinced that the ‘magnificent Introduction of Achilles into the Field in the Beginning of this Book, when the Gods deſcend to Battle, and all Nature is in an Uproar, is not anſwered by any ſuitable Exploits of that Hero, or by any Atchievement worthy ſo pompous, and terrible an Apparatus! After the Gods are withdrawn, Achilles and Aeneas meet; but in the very Moment, you expect to ſee a bloody Combat, you are entertained with a tedious Converſation.’ Take Mr. Pope's own Words.—* ‘Our Expectation is raiſed to ſee Gods and Heroes engaged, when ſuddenly it all ſinks into ſuch a Combat in which neither Party receives a Wound; and (what is more extraordinary) the Gods are made the Spectators of ſo ſmall an Action. What Occaſion was there for Thunder, Earthquakes, and deſcending Deities to introduce a Matter of ſo little Importance. Neither is it any Excuſe to ſay the Poet has given us a Piece of ancient Hiſtory, we expected to read a Poet not an Hiſtorian. In ſhort after the greateſt Preparation for Action imaginable, he ſuſpends the whole Narration, and from the Heat of a Poet, cools at once into the Simplicity of an Hiſtorian.’

I can't help aſking here, whether this be the firſt Time Homer is faulty in this Reſpect? To acquieſce in Mr. Pope's ingenious Juſtification of the [401] Interview between Glaucus and Diomed *in the 6th Book, which has occaſioned ſo much Cenſure, I fear the Speech of Neſtor to Patroclus in the 11th Book is equally blameable with the Converſation in Queſtion. Machaon is wounded: Achilles (who overlooked the Action from his Ship) ſends Patroclus to inquire whether it was he, &c. That Hero has no ſooner entered Neſtor's Tent, but he ſees Machaon bleeding, and is impatient to return to his Friend with the News; upon this Neſtor ‘detains him in his Tent ſtanding with a Speech greatly blameable for being too long: he crouds Incident upon Incident, and when he ſpeaks of himſelf he expatiates upon his own great Actions, very naturally indeed to old Age, but unſeaſonably in the preſent Juncture, &c. &c. &c. The Circumſtances he mentions as they have no viſible Alluſion to the Deſign of the Speech, ſeem to be unfortunately introduced. In ſhort, I think they are not ſo valuable upon any other Account, as becauſe they preſerve a Piece of ancient Hiſtory, &c.’ Perhaps the Piece of ancient Hiſtory preſerv'd here is no more valuable than that which Aeneas leaves us in the above Converſation:—but be that as it will, it is methinks ſurprizing to find Mr. Pope, after having ſo impartially given up the Paſſage, looking after Excuſes and Pretences to palliate this Conduct [402] of his Author. I will only mention one on which moſt Streſs ſeems to be laid. ‘It may not be from the Purpoſe to obſerve (ſays our Engliſh Homer) that Neſtor might deſignedly protract the Speech that Partoclus might himſelf behold the Diſtreſs of the Army, &c. whether this was the Intention or not, it muſt be allowed that the Stay of Patroclus was very happy for the Greeks; for by this Means he met Eurypylus wounded, who confirmed him into a Certainty, that their Affairs were deſperate without Achilles's Aid.’ Did Patroclus want to be told this then after the Embaſſy to Achilles in the 9th Book? or, after Achilles had told him, (what he could not indeed be ignorant of) when he diſpatched him upon this very Meſſage, that

The Time is come, when yon' deſpairing Hoſt
Shall learn the Value of the Man they loſt;
Now at my Knees the Greeks ſhall pour their Moan,
And proud Atrides tremble on his Throne.
B. xi. L. 745. &c.

In ſhort, any Abſurdity may be refined away, if the preſent can, and if it may be made to appear that the Length of Neſtor's Speech, the Interview of Patroclus and Eurypylus, and the farther Delay occaſioned by the former's Stay, to cure the Wounds of the latter, which might have been effected by another Hand, were proper, and well timed in this Place.

[403]
Tis now no Seaſon for theſe kind Delays,
The great Achilles with Impatience ſtays.—
—Thou know'ſt the fiery Temper of my Friend.
L. 793. &c.

But to return to the Deities. The magnificent Introduction of the Gods above referred to, ſo much extolled by Longinus, *ſeems to be the utmoſt Effort of Homer's prodigious Genius; and after all, perhaps we muſt aſcribe their Receſs ſo ſoon to the Poet's conſciouſneſs of the Inequality of human Nature, to ſo exalted a Subject. 'Tis certain the Sublimity of the Paſſage before us conſiſts not ſo much in the Horrours of an actual Combat, as in the dreadful Pomp of Preparation. But you will deſire to know what became of this ſuppoſed Conſciouſneſs in the next Book, when the Deities are really deſcribed ‘engaging each other.’ To which I can only ſay, that, whatever induced Homer to attempt here, what he ſeems to have declined before; I am apt to think the Battle of the Gods the worſt, upon the whole, that occurs in the Poem. Mr. Pope himſelf is much of the ſame Opinion, you will naturally imagine, in the following Remark upon it. I muſt confeſs I am at a loſs how to juſtify Homer in every point of theſe Combats with the [404] Gods: When Diana and Juno are to fight, Juno calls her an impudent Bitch, [...]; when they fight, ſhe boxes her ſoundly, and ſends her crying and trembling to Heav'n: As ſoon as ſhe comes thither, Jupiter falls a laughing at her: Indeed the reſt of the Deities ſeem to be in a merry Vein during all the Action; (tho' Mr. Pope ſhould have excepted Neptune, and Apollo, from the firſt of which Gods we have another Piece of antient Hiſtory;) Pallas beats Mars, and laughs at him; Jupiter ſees them in the ſame merry Mood; Juno when ſhe had cuffed Diana, is not more ſerious: In ſhort unleſs there be Depths that I am not able to Fathom, Homer never better deſerved, than in this Place, the Cenſure paſt upon him by the Antients, that as he raiſed the Characters of his Men up to Gods, ſo he ſunk thoſe of Gods down to Men,’ or even below them.

Mr. Pope is willing to believe, however, that an Allegory may be couched under all this, and I wiſh any Body could diſcover it: In the mean Time I can't but obſerve, that 'tis great Pity the Gods and Goddeſſes that often appear ſo nobly in ſeparate Machines throughout the Iliad, ſhould make ſo mean a Figure in the preſent Battle.

I muſt requeſt your Attention to one Incident more, which Mr. Pope would fain reconcile us to, viz. the Flight of Hector in the 22d Book. I apprehend [405] that what that Commentator alledges from the *Conduct of Virgil, ‘who transferred this Paſſage to the Death of Turnus, and likewiſe from the Doctrine of Ariſtotle, is extremely inſufficient for his Purpoſe. Turnus is a Character much inferiour to Aeneas, and therefore we are little ſhocked at his running away from him. But this is confeſſedly not the Caſe, the Point of mere Strength excepted, with Hector when compared to Achilles. It was, you'll ſay, that very Strength which he feared—was it not, that very Strength too, which he had frequently encountered? And if it was not neceſſary he ſhould fly; I will venture to ſay it is a Circumſtance infinitely diſagreeable to the Reader, that he does.

Nor farther is "the Suffrage of Ariſtotle" himſelf, if I underſtand it at all, ſatisfactory upon this Point. ‘The wonderful, ſays he, ought to have Place in Tragedy, but ſtill more in Epic Poetry, which proceeds in this Point even to the unreaſonable: For as in Epic Poems one ſees not the Perſons acting, ſo whatever paſſes the Bounds of Reaſon, is proper to Produce the admirable and the marvellous. For Example, what Homer ſays of Hector purſued by Achilles, would appear ridiculous on the Stage; for the Spectators could not forbear laughing to ſee on [406] one Side the Greeks ſtanding without any Motion, and on the other, Achilles purſuing Hector &c. &c. But all this does not appear when we read the Poem; for what is wonderful, is always agreeable, and as a Proof of it, we find that they who relate any Thing, uſually add ſomething to the Truth, that it may the better pleaſe thoſe who hear it.’

What can we infer from all this, but that the Flight of Hector round the Walls of Troy, is an Action, which, as ſuch, will much better bear being told, than repreſented? No doubt of it—but is an Action, all this while, which is unreaſonable in itſelf, therefore agreeable, becauſe it may be told with Propriety? Do we never wonder without admiring, or marvel with Diſguſt, as well as Delight? I will grant this Incident renders this Part of the Poem more aſtoniſhing, as Ariſtotle ſays in a ſubſequent Paragraph of Mr. Pope's Note; but why it is more admirable, I am quite at a loſs to conceive.

What Mr. Pope urges himſelf in Vindication of this Circumſtance, has much more Weight in it; as ‘that Hector never thought himſelf a Match for Achilles; that this Incident is prepared by Degrees, as Dacier has obſerved too; that, the mere Sight and Voice of Achilles unarmed, has terrified and put the whole Trojan Army into Diſorder: That Hector ſtays, not that [407] he Hopes to overcome Achilles, but becauſe, Shame, &c. forbid him to re-enter the City; that he ſtayed by the immediate Will of Heaven, irreſiſtibly bound down by Fate: That he had been reflecting on the Injuſtice of the War he maintained; that his Spirits are depreſſed by Heaven: That he flies not from Achilles as a mortal Hero, but from one whom he ſees clad in impenetrable Armour, ſeconded by Minerva, &c. &c.’ which Conſiderations do indeed amount to a Proof of the Probability of Hector's Flight, but, I think, are no Argument for the Neceſſity of it. In ſhort, as Mr. Pope himſelf ſays, ‘he don't abſolutely pretend to juſtify this Paſſage in every Point,’ I preſume I may venture to ſay, if Hector had ſtood his Ground, we ſhould have liked the Poem better for it.

I can't think, by the way, that it is ‘a high Exaltation of Achilles, that ſo brave a Man as Hector durſt not ſtand him. It would methinks have redounded more to Achilles's Glory, had Hector been repreſented as a Match for him. Indeed ‘this great Event, wherein the whole Fate of Greece and Troy was decided by the Sword of Achilles, and Hector, does leſs Honour to that Hero than any one Action he had been engaged in, for the laſt of the above Reaſons alledged for Hector's Flight, and beſauſe ‘he knew that Hector was to fall by his Hand.’ He was aſſured of this by Neptune, and Pallas in the 21ſt. Book.

[408]
Hector alone ſhall ſtand his fatal Chance,
And Hector's Blood ſhall ſmoke upon thy Lance,
Thine is the Glory doom'd.—L. 342. &c.

And again by Minerva, juſt before his Engagement with Hector. *Nay he tells Hector himſelf,

'Tis Pallas, Pallas gives thee to my Lance.
L. 346.

And yet Mr. Pope inſerts an Obſervation in † the 24th. Book, which he informs us ought to have been made before; which is, ‘that Achilles did not know that Hector was to fall by his Hand; if he had known it, where would have been the mighty Courage, in engaging him in a ſingle Combat, in which he was ſure to conquer? The contrary of this is evident (continues he) from the Words of Achilles to Hector juſt before the Combat.’I will make no Compacts with thee, but one of us ſhall fall.—But ſure this Declaration is very conſiſtent with the Knowledge of his future Succeſs, even tho' it had been leſs clearly aſcertained to him.

I hope theſe Remarks are ſufficient to ſupport my former Aſſertions in regard to Homer: I ſhall juſt mention a few Particulars more in my next, in order to make my Criticiſm as complete as I can, under the preſent Form, and to corroborate what has been repeatedly advanced, and then take my leave, for a Time, of this noble Author.

LETTER XI.

[409]

IF you conſider the Iliad of Homer with any thing of exactneſs of Attention, you will perceive numberleſs Marks of a Genius, thoughtleſs of, or, it may be, ſuperiour to the Niceties, and Proprieties in which the Excellencies of ſecond-rate Authors wholly conſiſt. To what has been offered already for the Illuſtration of this Truth you may add, if you pleaſe, the Repetitions with which Homer ſo much abounds. I am far from aſſerting that theſe are never proper, tho' they are often, as Mr. Pope confeſſes, *viſibly abſurd. I will only point out one Place, where it is owing to a Repetition, that the very Deſign of the Author cannot eaſily be underſtood: I mean the Speech of Agamemnon in the 9th Book, wherein he propoſes to the Generals to quit the Siege, &c. ‘The Criticks are divided in their Opinion, Mr. Pope acquaints us, whether this Speech, which is Word for Word the ſame with that Agamemnon makes in the 2d Book, be only a Feint to try the Army, as it is there, or the real Sentiments of the General.’ Mr. Pope ſays, ‘He does not pretend to decide upon this Point’ nor is it indeed of any great Conſequence, any farther than as it makes good what has been remarked; however that Agamemnon upon this Occaſion ſpoke his real Sentiments is, I think moſt probable, becauſe upon a Parallel one in the 14th Book, he propoſes the very [410] ſame Thing to the Grecian Princes, tho' in different Words.

Again, it is in my Opinion more reaſonable to put the frequent Incongruities we meet with in Homer to the Account of Inadvertency, &c. than to reconcile them by forced and unnatural Conſtructions. Thus Minerva, who is always repreſented as prudently ſuppreſſing her Anger upon Jupiter's declaring himſelf for Troy, does yet in one Place *break out into as much Virulency of Language as Juno herſelf.—Thus Neptune in the ſame Book, when Juno ſollicits him to aſſiſt the Greeks, rejects ſo deſperate a Propoſal with Indignation;

What Rage, what Madneſs, furious Queen is thine?
I war not with the Higheſt. All above
Submit and tremble at the Hand of Jove.
B. viii. L. 255, &c.

But in the 15th Book he talks in a quite different Strain, and ſeems determined to diſpute the Superiority with Jupiter himſelf.

What means the haughty Sov'reign of the Skies?
Rule as he will his portion'd Realms on high,
No Vaſſal God, nor of his Train am I.—
Olympus, and this Earth, in common lie;
What Claim has here the Tyrant of the Sky? &c.
B. xv. L. 206. &c.

—Thus Diomed, to give you one Inſtance more, ‘is ſeized with Fear at the very Sight of Hector [411] in the 11th Book for which Mr. Pope gives us no other Reaſon than that’ Diomed had juſt told ‘us, that Jupiter fought againſt the Grecians, and yet in the 8th Book, when that Deity perſonally interpoſes, and throws a burning Thunderbolt at the Feet of this Hero's Horſes,’ he can ſcarce prevail with himſelf to retreat.

Thrice turn'd the Chief, and thrice imperial Jove
On Ida's Summits thunder'd from above.
B. viii. L. 206.

It ſhould be remembered too, that at the very Time when Diomed is ſtruck with this Panick the Poet tells us (notwithſtanding the Favour of Jupiter to Troy) the Battle was doubtful.

—And level hangs the doubtful Scale of Fight.
L. 437.

Nay at that Inſtant the Greeks were Victors. Ulyſſes kills Hypirochus and Hippodamus: Diomed ſlays Agaſtrophus, and even gives Hector a Blow that ſtuns him, and inſults him afterwards, &c. (ſee from Line 416 to 474.) It is needleſs to multiply ſuch Examples.

I ſhould laſtly be inclined to aſcribe to the ſame Cauſe the frequent Unſuitableneſs of Homer's Epithets, &c. which as they are ſometimes diſtinctive and ſpecific, if I may ſo ſay, ſo are they often general and applied at random. Priam (as Mr. Pope [412] himſelf has *obſerv'd) is ſtiled [...] when ‘he rejects the wholſome Advice of Antenor, and complies with his Son.’—It is the [...] the godlike Polydore, whom Achilles kills in the 20th Book; and yet this Hero is only the youngeſt Son of Priam, was forbidden to fight, and famous only for the Swiftneſs of his Speed, &c.

To the forbidden Field he takes his Flight,
In the firſt Folly of a youthful Knight. L. 475.

The Mention of theſe glaring Improprieties, is abundantly ſufficient for the Purpoſe; elſe you might be directed to many more of the like Sort in almoſt any Book of the Poem: Though they may not be improper in an equal Degree.

I have now finiſhed my Remarks upon the Iliad of Homer with as much Accuracy, I hope, as was requiſite; and muſt leave it to your Conſideration, whether the common Opinion in reſpect of this Poet, founded on the Interpretations, and the Prejudices, &c. of the Commentators, be not on many Accounts an erroneous one. If you will ſuppoſe this Author to have been not only the moſt ſublime, but the moſt ſimple too of all Writers, you will, I believe, have a much more natural and ready Excuſe for many of his Blemiſhes than the Shifts and Gloſſes of Interpreters [413] can ſupply you with. Indeed theſe Defects in an original Author, who was inſpired with the Spirit of Poetry even to a Degree of Enthuſiaſm (to which Inadvertency and Extravagance are eſſential) will in a great Meaſure carry their Apology with them.—I have given you my Sentiments impartially, and ſhould take a much greater Pleaſure in reviewing the Beauties of this admirable Poet than I have done in arraigning his Faults; but Mr. Pope, to whom I refer you, has illuſtrated theſe to more Advantage than I could.—The Practice of ſucceeding Writers of many Denominations is a Demonſtration that we may find a great deal more in Homer to imitate than to avoid. To convince you of my high Eſteem of him, and that I mean to part in Friendſhip with him, I will finiſh with Part of that Tranſlation from Longinus, varying only, and abating an Expreſſion or two, which concludes Mr. Pope's Notes on the ſixth Book. ‘In our Deciſions on the Characters of great Men, &c. we muſt impartially confeſs, that, with all their Errors, they have more Perfections than the Nature of Man can almoſt be conceived capable of attaining.—He who commits no Faults is barely read without Cenſure; but a Genius truly great excites Admiration. In ſhort the Magnificence of a ſingle Period in one of theſe admirable Authors is, almoſt, ſufficient to atone for all their Defects: Nay farther, if any [414] one ſhould collect from Homer all the Errors that have eſcaped him, they would bear but little Proportion to the many Beauties to be met with in, almoſt, every Page of his Writings. 'Tis on this Account that Envy, through ſo many Ages hath never been able to wreſt from him the Prize of Eloquence, &c. &c. which his Merits have ſo juſtly acquired: An Acquiſition which he ſtill is, and will in all Probability continue poſſeſſed of,’

As long as Streams in ſilver Mazes rove,
Or Spring with annual Green renews the Grove.
Mr. Fenton.

LETTER XII.

IN my former Letters I endeavoured to entertain you with ſome free, but, I hope, juſt Remarks upon Mr. Pope's Commentaries upon Homer. If you pleaſe we will now take a ſhort Review of that excellent Perſon's Tranſlation of the ſame incomparable Author. I muſt once more prevent your Surprize, and perhaps your Indignation, by declaring that I agree with all the World in allowing this to be, in the main, the beſt Tranſlation, that our, or it may be, any Language has produced. If I think we might have had a better Tranſlation in ſome few Reſpects, I only mean that we might have had it from Mr. Pope [415] himſelf. Nay, I will go a Step further, and grant you with much Satisfaction that this celebrated Tranſlator always errs on the right Side, and even when he does not do his Reader Juſtice, never fails to do Honour to his Original: I ſhould rather ſay, to himſelf; for if Boldneſs of Figure, Force of Expreſſion, Smoothneſs and Eaſe of Numbers, and the Correſpondence of Sound with Senſe, be the great Beauties of poetical Diction, I ſhould make no Scruple, upon the whole, to prefer the Engliſh Iliad, to the Greek. But theſe very Excellencies are in ſome Sort his Errors, and what I admire in this Poem, I can't help often conſidering as blameable in the Tranſlation. In ſhort, it is the Over-poeticalneſs of this Tranſlation, if I may ſo call it, which I take to be exceptionable in many Place. And yet, as there was no Danger of ſo naturally a warm Tranſlator's ſinking into Flatneſs, and Inſipidity, ſo one would have thought he had laid himſelf under Reſtraints ſufficient to have prevented his ever ſoaring into the other Extreme of Rapture, and Extravagance.—There is not more Fire in any one Part of the Tranſlation, than there is good Senſe and cool Reaſoning in the following Extract from the Preface. ‘It ſhould be conſidered what Methods may afford ſome Equivalent in our Language for the Graces of theſe (viz. the Diction and Verſification) in the Greek. It is certain [416] no literal Tranſlation can be juſt to an excellent Original in a ſuperior Language; but it is a great Miſtake to imagine that a raſh Paraphraſe can make Amends for this general Defect; which is no leſs in Danger to loſe the Spirit of an Ancient, by deviating into the modern Manners of Expreſſion. If there be ſometimes a Darkneſs, there is often a Light in Antiquity, which nothing better preſerves than a Verſion almoſt literal. I know no Liberties one ought to take, but thoſe which are neceſſary for tranſlating the Spirit of the Original, and ſupporting the poetical Style of the Tranſlation: And I will venture to ſay, there have not been more Men miſled in former Times by a ſervile dull Adherence to the Letter, than have been deluded in ours, by a chimerical inſolent Hope of raiſing and improving their Author. It is not to be doubted that the Fire of the Poem is what a Tranſlator ſhould principally regard, as it is moſt likely to expire in his managing: However it is his ſafeſt Way to be content with preſerving this to his utmoſt in the whole, without endeavouring to be more than he finds his Author is, in any particular Place. 'Tis a great Secret in writing to know when to be plain, and when poetical and figurative; and it is what Homer will teach us, if we will but follow modeſtly in his Footſteps. [417] Where his Diction is bold and lofty, let us raiſe ours as high as we can; but where his is plain and humble, we ought not to be deterred from imitating him by the fear of incurring the Cenſure of a mere Engliſh Critick. Nothing that belongs to Homer ſeems to have been more commonly miſtaken than the juſt Pitch of his Style; ſome of his Tranſlators having ſwelled into Fuſtian in a proud Confidence of the Sublime: Others ſunk into Flatneſs in a cold and timorous Notion of Simplicity.—There is a graceful, and dignified Simplicity, as well as a bald and ſordid one, &c.—'Tis one Thing to be nicked up, and another not to be dreſſed at all. Simplicity is the mien between Oſtentation and Ruſticity.’

If Mr. Pope had always conducted his Tranſlation conformably to theſe juſt Sentiments, it would have been the moſt exact, as it is now the moſt Spirited one extant: But, I believe, you will by and by be convinced that he has often modernized his Original too much, and ſacrificed the true Simplicity of the Antients in general, and the particular Air, and Caſt of his Author, either to an Exceſs of Affection for him, and Deſire to ſet his Work in the moſt advantageous Light to the Engliſh Reader, or to an undue Fear of leſſening and injuring him thro' the Inferiority of our Language to the Grecian in many Reſpects. To one or [418] both of thoſe we are indebted, I preſume, for many bold Strokes of Poetry, and fine Pieces of Painting, and Imagery, which are not ſo much Copies of, as Refinements on, the Original.

And, by the Way, it may be remarked that Mr. Pope ſhould have been more than ordinarily cautious upon this Article, as he was under an abſolute Neceſſity of ſinking ſome Peculiarities in Homer's Diction, which would not bear Tranſplanting into our Tongue. Such are his compound Epithets, and Repetitions. How our Tranſlator has acquitted himſelf with regard to theſe, you will be beſt informed by conſulting himſelf. *

It is however to be obſerved in general, that every Thing characteriſtical in an Author, is, as far as may be, to be moſt religiouſly retained; and that, notwithſtanding the allowed occaſional Uſe of the Periphraſis, or Circumlocution, the Tranſpoſition of Words, and the Subſtitution of one Expreſſion in the Room of another, &c. &c. by Means of which the Spirit of an Original is preſerved without Prejudice to the literal Senſe, all imaginable Care is to be taken that theſe Liberties under the Pretence of maintaining and ſupporting this Spirit, do not really over-power, and extinguiſh it. Redundancies are as unoriginal as Inſipidities, and the Spirit of an Author may be [419] as much overwhelmed in Exuberance on the one Hand, as it evaporates in Frigidity on the other.—Fire and Water are ſcarce more oppoſite than Mr. Pope's Tranſlation of the Iliad, and that of the Aeneid by Dr. Trapp; I am apt to think we ſhall often form very wrong Ideas of theſe Poems if we regulate them by theſe reſpective Tranſlations; for Mr. Pope ſeems to have exalted the true Simplicity of Homer, as "graceful and dignified" as it is, in the ſame Degree that the Doctor has debaſed the Majeſty of Virgil.

You will begin to think it high Time I ſhould make good this Charge, which I ſhall accordingly endeavour to do by pointing to a few ſelect Paſſages out of Numbers that might be produced, in which you will plainly diſcover certain Boldneſſes, and Prettyneſſes, (for you muſt gratify me in the Uſe of that Term for them) and very frequently a Mixture of both, that were taken from the Store-houſe of Mr. Pope's own Imagination, and are utterly foreign to, and deſtructive of, the plain Scope, and unaffected Spirit of his Author.

There is not perhaps in all the Iliad a more pompous Deſcription than that of Achilles arming himſelf in the 19th Book. The Compariſons, and Images, (as Mr. Pope well obſerves) ‘riſe in a noble Scale one above another; the Hero is ſet in a ſtill ſtronger Point of Light than before, till he is at laſt in a Manner covered over with [420] Glories; he is at firſt likened to the Moonlight, then to the Flames of a Beacon, then to a Comet, and laſtly to the Sun itſelf.’ But with all this Sublimity, and almoſt Enthuſiaſm, there is a Simplicity which is, I conceive, loſt in that Exaggeration of Imagery with which the Tranſlator has embeliſhed the Paſſage. The whole Deſcription, which is too long to be tranſcribed, is rather looſely paraphraſed perhaps than otherwiſe, but the Parts I have marked are ſo many beautiful Excreſcencies, which have no Sort of Warrant from the Letter, or moſt of them even from the Import of the Text.

—His Limbs in Arms divine Achilles dreſt—
He grinds his Teeth, and furious with Delay,
O'erlooks th' embattled Hoſt, and hopes the bloody Day.
—Next, his high Head the Helmet grac'd; behind
The ſweepy Creſt hung floating in the Wind;
Like the red Star, that from his flaming Hair
Shakes down Diſeaſes, Peſtilence, and War;
So ſtream'd the Golden Honours from his Head,
Trembled the ſparkling Plumes, and the looſe Glories ſhed.
—All bright in Heav'nly Arms, above his Squire,
Achilles mounts, and ſets the Field on Fire;
Not brighter, Phoebus in th' Aethereal Way,
Flames from his Chariot, and reſtores the Day.

[421] The following Paſſages ſeem liable to the ſame Objections with the preceding.

—Hoſt againſt Hoſt with ſhadowy Squadrons drew,
The ſounding Darts in iron Tempeſts flew—
With ſtreaming Blood the ſlipp'ry Fields are dy'd,
And ſlaughter'd Heroes ſwell the dreadful Tide.
B. xix. Ver. 391, &c. &c.
—he turns their Steps from Flight,
And wakes anew the dying Flames of Fight.
B. v. Ver. 608.
—When Juno's Self, and Pallas ſhall appear
All dreadful in the crimſon Walks of War—
B. viii. Ver. 460.
Diſcord with Joy the Scene of Death deſcries,
And drinks large Slaughter at her ſanguine Eyes.
Diſcord alone, of all th' immortal Train,
Swells the red Horrours of this direful Plain.
B. xi. Ver. 99, &c.
He, like a Whirlwind, toſs'd the ſcatt'ring Throng,
Mingled the Troops, and drove the Field along.
B. xii. Ver. 45.
Their Force embody'd, in a Tide they pour,
Till riſing Combat ſounds along the Shore,
As warring Winds in Sirius' ſultry Reign,
From diff'rent Quarters ſweep the ſandy Plain,
On ev'ry Side the duſty Whirlwinds riſe,
And the dry Fields are lifted to the Skies:
[422] Thus by Deſpair, Hope, Rage, together driv'n
Met the black Hoſts, and meeting darken'd Heav'n
All dreadful glar'd the iron Face of War,
Briſtled with upright Spears, that flaſh'd afar,
Dire was the Gleam of Breaſtplates, Helms, and Shields,
And poliſh'd Arms emblaz'd the flaming Fields.—
B. xiii. Ver. 422.
Full in the blazing Van great Hector ſhin'd,
Like Mars, commiſſion'd to confound Mankind;
Before him flaming, his enormous Shield,
Like the broad Sun, illumin'd all the Field:
His nodding Helm emits a ſtreamy Ray,
His piercing Eyes thro' all the Battle ſtray;
And while beneath his Targe he flaſh'd along,
Shot Terrours round, that wither'd ev'n the ſtrong.
B. xiii. Ver. 1010. &c.
—the pamper'd Steed, with Reins unbound,
Breaks from his Stall, and pours along the Ground
B. xv. Ver. 298.
Adorn'd in all his terrible Array,
He flaſh'd around intolerable Day.
B. xvi. Ver. 170. &c.
—Jove's own Glories blaze around his Head.
B. xvii. Ver. 637.
—fierce Atrides flew,
And ſent his Soul with ev'ry Lance he threw.
B. xvii. Ver. 647.
Mean-while the ruſhing Armies hide the Ground;
The trampled Center yields a hollow Sound.
[423] Steeds cas'd in Mail, and Chiefs in Armour bright,
The gleamy Champain glows with brazen Light
B. xx. Ver. 187.
Earth is delug'd with the ſanguine Show'rs.
B. xx. Ver. 576.
—The fierce Courſers, as the Chariot rolls,
Tread down whole Ranks, and cruſh out Heroes Souls. B. xx. Ver. 582.
Conqueſt blazes with full Beams on Greece.
B. xxii. Ver. 280.

Mr. Pope tells us, Homer has * Figures of that Boldneſs which it is impoſſible to preſerve in another Language.’ It may be ſometimes very true; but if you will be at the Pains of comparing theſe Tranſcripts with the Original, I believe you will think that the very Figure in the Greek which occaſioned that Obſervation ( [...], my Spear is Mad) hardly ranks higher than the Major Part of thoſe which I have quoted.—I will conclude this Letter with repeating one general Remark, that Mr. Pope, by improving, and embelliſhing a ſimple Hint in his Author, and raiſing pompous Superſtructures upon plain Foundations, and by too frequently giving a looſe to his own Fancy, has in many Places rather poetically paraphraſed Homer, than tranſlated him.

LETTER XIII.

[424]

AS there are certain heterogeneous, and unhomerical Boldneſſes in Mr. Pope's Tranſlation, if you will permit me to call them ſo, ſo there are ſeveral Prettyneſſes, as has been hinted, which, I preſume, will fall under the ſame Denominations. The following are a few of the moſt remarkable.

—O'er the Vale deſcends the living Cloud.
B. ii. Ver. 116.
—Fainter Murmurs dy'd upon the ear.—
B. ii. Ver. 126.
—Groves of Lances glitter in the Air.
B. ii. Ver. 991.
—All the War deſcends upon the Wing.
B. iii. Ver. 10.
As when the Moon, refulgent Lamp of Night!
O'er Heavn's clear Azure ſpreads her ſacred Light,
When not a Breath diſturbs the deep Serene,
And not a Cloud o'ercaſts the ſolemn Scene,
Around her Throne the vivid Planets roll,
And Stars unnumber'd gild the glowing Pole,
O'er the dark Trees a yellower Verdure ſhed,
And tip with Silver ev'ry Mountain's Head;
Then ſhine the Vales, the Rocks in Proſpect riſe,
A Flood of Glory burſts from all the Skies, &c.
B. viii. Ver. 687.
Not thoſe fair Steeds ſo radiant, and ſo gay,
That draw the burning Chariot of the Day.
B. x. Ver. 644.
[425]
The deaf Echo rattles round the Field.
B. xii. Ver. 182.
—Silence that ſpoke, and Eloquence of Eyes.
B. xiv. Ver. 252.
Diſcourſe, the Med'cine of the Mind.
B. xv. Ver. 455.
Thick undiſtinguiſh'd Plumes, together join'd,
Float in one Sea, and wave before the Wind.
B. xvi. Ver. 263.
—the whirling Car
Smoaks thro' the Ranks, o'ertakes the flying War—
B. xvi. Ver. 460.
As the young Olive, in ſome ſylvan Scene
Crown'd by freſh Fountains with eternal Green
Lifts the gay Head, in ſnowy Flow'rets fair,
And plays and dances to the gentle Air, &c. &c.
B. xvii. Ver. 57.
And ſhot the ſhining Miſchief to the Heart.
B. xix. Ver. 62.
Now Twilight veil'd the glaring Fall of Day,
And clad the duſky Fields in ſober Gray.
B. xxiv. Ver. 427.

Theſe laſt cited Verſes put me in Mind of Mr. Pope's Deſcriptions of the Morning throughout this Tranſlation, which (one only excepted, ſee Ver. 131. B. 23.) are much more elegant and pictureſque than their Counterparts in the Original.

—Now from forth the Chambers of the Main.
To ſhed his ſacred Light on Earth again,
[426] Aroſe the golden Chariot of the Day,
And tipt the Mountains with a purple Ray.
B. vii. Ver. 501.
Aurora now, fair Daughter of the Dawn,
Sprinkled with roſie Light the dewy Lawn.
B. viii. Ver. 1.
Soon as Morning paints the Fields of Air.
B. viii. Ver. 658.
The ſaffron Morn, with early Bluſhes ſpread,
Now roſe refulgent from Tithonus' Bed,
With new-born Day to gladden mortal Sight,
And gild the Courts of Heav'n with ſacred Light.
B. xi. Ver. 1. &c.
Soon as Aurora heav'd her orient Head
Above the Waves that bluſh'd with early Red,
With new-born Day to gladden &c.

The Affectation of Poetry in all theſe Places has diffuſed an Air over Mr. Pope's Tranſlation quite different from the neat, but generally unornamented Style of his Author, to which the inexpreſſible ſimplex munditiis of Horace may pertinently enough be applied. It is owing to this that we meet with ſuch figurative Expreſſions as theſe,

Around his Head an iron Tempeſt rain'd,
A Wood of Spears his ample Shield ſuſtain'd.
B. v. Ver. 766.

To which we may ſubjoin a Multitude of others ſimilar to them throughout the Engliſh Iliad[427] as—briſtling Lances—the ſteely Circle—dark Show'rs of Jav'lins—the Tide of Combat—the Stream of Fight—the Tide of War—the wooden Tempeſt—the rocky Show'r—the living Flame, or Fire—the Tide of Trojans—Life's purple Tide—&c. &c. &c. in the free, and unlimited Uſe of which the Tranſlation is, I apprehend, little juſtified by the Original.

I have often thought it was with the ſame View to Ornament, &c. &c. that Mr. Pope wrote his Tranſlation in Rhime. However what Advantages were hereby gained we ſhall ſee preſently; but it is certain in the mean time that by the Uſe of it, the Tranſlation becomes abſolutely modern, and in its very Form unlike the Original. Mr. Dryden ſays in his Dedication prefixed to his Tranſlation of the Aeneid, ‘that he who can write well in Rhime, may write better in blank Verſe;’ and that ‘Rhime is a Conſtraint even to the beſt Poets, and thoſe who make it with moſt Eaſe; that what it adds to Sweetneſs, it takes away from Senſe; and that it often makes us ſwerve from an Author's Meaning.’—I wiſh, by the by, Mr. Dryden had not aſſerted one Way and tranſlated another.—It is plain the Superfluities complained of in Mr. Pope are in a great Meaſure to be imputed to this Method of Tranſlation.

I believe you have had ſome Inſtances of this already, but the following are notorious ones.

[428]
He ceas'd; his Army's loud Applauſes riſe,
And the long Shout runs echoing thro' the Skies.
B. iii. Ver. 576.
Fierce Diſcord ſtorms, Apollo loud exclaims,
Fame calls, Mars thunders, and the Field's in Flames.
B. v. Ver. 633.
Great Agamemnon bids the Greeks forbear;
They breathe, and huſh the Tumult of the War.
B. vii. Ver. 64.
And in his Hands two ſteely Jav'lins wields
That blaze to Heav'n, and lighten all the Fields.
B. xi. Ver. 56.
In vain he calls; the Din of Helms and Shields
Rings to the Skies, and echoes thro' the Fields.
The brazen Hinges fly, the Walls roſound,
Heav'n trembles, roar the Mountains, thunders all the Ground. B. xii. Ver. 407.

I have purpoſely ſelected theſe Verſes becauſe, excepting the mark'd Redundancies which the Rhime required, they are as cloſe a Tranſlation, as any in the whole Performance. Mr. Pope no doubt was ſenſible of this Inconvenience naturally inſeparable from Rhime; but he ſuppoſed probably, the Advantage gained thereby in point of Smoothneſs, and Harmony would make ſufficient Amends for it. Of all Things he would not have his Author thought unpoetical, though there are certainly many Paſſages in him, which, as Mr. Pope himſelf occaſionally acknowledges, are ‘not made to [429] ſhine in Poetry.’ It would be tedious to pick out all theſe, and therefore I will only, for Illuſtration's Sake, tranſcribe a very remarkable one, in which a moſt ſimple, unadorned Narration of Homer conſiſting of a Liſt of proper Names, and thoſe even without Epithets for the far greater Part, is, by Virtue of Mr. Pope's Adjuncts, Circumlocutions, and Rhimes, transformed into as poetical and entertaining a Deſcription as moſt in the Iliad.

The circling Nereids with their Miſtreſs weep,
And all the Sea-green Siſters of the Deep.
Thalia, Glauce, (ev'ry watry Name)
Neſaea mild, and Silver Spio came:
Cymothöe and Cymodoce were nigh,
And the blue Languiſh of ſoft Alia's Eye.
Their Locks Actaea, and Limnora rear,
Then Proto, Doris, Panope appear,
Thoa, Theruſa, Doto, Melita;
Agave gentle, and Ampithoë gay:
Next Callianira, Callianaſſa ſhew
Their Siſter looks: Dexamene the ſlow
And ſwift Dynamene, now cut the Tides;
Icera now the verdant Wave divides:
Nemertes with Apſeudes lifts the Head,
Bright Galatea quits her pearly Bed;
Theſe Orythia, Clymene attend,
Moera, Amphirome, the Train extend,
And black Junira, and Junaſſa fair,
And Amatheia with her amber Hair.
B. xviii. Ver. 45, &c.

[430] This whole Paſſage, which makes ſo pretty a Figure in Mr. Pope's Hands, if literally (I mean fairly) tranſlated, and that too in blank Verſe, would undoubtedly be very flat and ſpiritleſs.

Then Proto, Doris, Panope appear,
Thoa, Pheruſa, Doro, Melita;—

are more juſt Tranſlations than any two Lines of the whole Number though they have neither Fire, nor Fancy in them. In ſuch Places as theſe Rhime may among other Expedients help to ſave the poetical Character of an Author by giving a ſeeming Equivalent for Spirit in Sound.—But why muſt a Tranſlation be beautiful and poetical when the Original is not ſo?—It is the Buſineſs of a Tranſlator to give us the whole of an Author, not at all Events to make the beſt of him.—I will venture to ſay that had Mr. Pope obliged the World with a blank Verſe Tranſlation of Homer, at the ſame Time that he would have more effectually preſerved the Air, he would have deviated leſs from the Senſe of his Author; and that his Verſion upon the whole would have been as poetical, as animated, and even as harmonious as the preſent. Dr. Trapp obſerves, I think, very juſtly in his Preface to the Aeneid, that ‘blank Verſe is not only more majeſtic &c. but more muſical and harmonious than Rhime: It has, ſays he, more Rhime in it according to the ancient and true Senſe of the Word, than [431] Rhime itſelf as it is now uſed. For, in its original Signification, it conſiſts not in the tinkling of Vowels and Conſonants, but in the metrical Diſpoſition of Words and Syllables, and the proper Cadence of Numbers; which is more agreeable to the Ear, without the jingling of like Endings than with it.’—After all, the Meaſure in blank Verſe does really and ſpecifically diſtinguiſh it from mere Proſe; and if ſo, Rhime is not wanted for this Purpoſe. Nor can it be pretended that the ſtrong Colours of Poetry, the Beauties of Deſcription, Figures, Images, &c. &c. are capable of being diſplayed to more Advantage in Rhime, than in blank Verſe.—Indeed theſe are not peculiar even to Poetry; they are independent on Metre, and derive not Energy or Strength, but Gracefulneſs only and Dignity from Numbers.—They are fitter for Verſe than Proſe, but not more eſſential to it.—Thus the bold Figures, Similies, and Thoughts, &c. of Homer would be of the ſame intrinſic Value out of Meaſure, as in it;—as the Holy Scriptures, by the way, though literally tranſlated in plain Proſe, are in numberleſs Inſtances poetical, though they are by no means a Poem.—It is not for the ſake of Luſtre, but Order, that Diamonds and Pearls are ranged upon a String.—But to return to Mr. Pope.—Whatever Credit his Tranſlation may have done the Original by heightening [432] and improving it in ſome Reſpects, by Means of Rhime (and thereby ſkreening ſometimes a Simplicity or perhaps a Flatneſs, and Frigidity of Diction which Homer only was anſwerable for) 'tis as true too that it ſometimes by Reaſon only of the Rhime falls ſhort of it, and is leſs beautiful and ſignificant in itſelf. Mr. Pope is very happy in his Imitations of thoſe Paſſages where Homer "applies the Sound to the Senſe" (ſee particularly B. i. Ver. 451. &c. B. x. Ver. 444. &c. B. xiii. Ver. 191. &c. B. xiii. Ver. 1005.) but he would have ſucceeded ſtill more in theſe Places, I preſume, had he been uncumbered with the Shackles of Rhime. How much better and ſtronger would the following Lines have appeared without Rhimes than with them.

Firſt march the heavy Mules, ſecurely ſlow,
O'r Hills, o'er Dales, o'er Crags, o'er Rocks they go;
Jumping high o'er the Shrubs of the rough Ground,
Rattle the clatt'ring Cars, and the ſhockt Axles bound.
Loud ſounds the Axe, redoubling Strokes on Strokes;
On all Sides round the Foreſt hurls her Oaks
Headlong. Deep-echoing groan the Thickets brown;
Then ruſling, crackling, craſhing thunder down.
B. xxiii. Ver. 140.

In ſpite of the Roughneſs and Unmuſicalneſs of this excellent Deſcription there is to me a certain Evenneſs, and an Harmony in the Tone of the [433] Rhimes which alone renders it inferior to the Original itſelf.—To conclude, I will upon the Strength of theſe Obſervations put two Queſtions to you, which you may determine at your Leiſure; whether a blank Verſe Tranſlation is not like to be more faithful to its Original, than one in Rhime? and whether Mr. Pope would not have been a better Tranſlator, if he had not been ſo good a Poet?

LETTER XIV.

AFTER reading my laſt, you will not wonder to hear me wiſhing Rhimes were utterly baniſhed from Great Poetry; by which the Critics underſtand the Epopee, and the Drama. How far they may be requiſite, or even beautiful in Lyric, Elegiac, Paſtoral, &c. or eſpecially Didactic Poetry I ſhall not enquire; but 'tis certain they are in general rather Obſtructions than Helps towards the great Purpoſes of firing the Heart, and moving the Paſſions.—You need only read over your Milton, and the beſt Tragedies of Shakeſpeare to be convinced of this.—And if I would have ev'ry Firſt-Rate, Original Poem written in blank Verſe for the Sake of the Ear, as well as the Heart, I muſt ſtill more ſtrongly recommend the Uſe of the ſame to Tranſlations.—Rhime is ſo abhorrent from the Air and Genius of the antient Poetry, that nothing but the abſolute Neceſſity of [434] it can, I think, render it diſpenſable in an Engliſh Verſion.—Now convenient it may ſometimes be, but it is never neceſſary—Whatever are the Imperfections, and Defects of our Language, they are, it is my Opinion, ſuch, as Rhime, tho' it may diſguiſe, can never ſupply. But I would exclude Hypocriſy from Poetry, as well as Religion, and confeſs for my own Part, that I had much rather ſee a Tranſlation in ſome Places inferior to its Original, than unlike it in all. If upon the whole not only the very Caſt, but the Senſe and Spirit of an Author may be better preſerved in blank Verſe than Rhime, every reaſonable Critic will make Allowances for the Poverty, and natural Inferiority of our Mother Tongue. Mr. Pitt's Tranſlation of the Aeneid is a very noble one; tho' I cannot conceive what induced him to give it us in Rhime, unleſs it was the Apprehenſion of the Inequality of our Language to the Diction of his Author where it is moſt plain, and unpoetical. Indeed Purity, and Manlineſs are the chief Characteriſtics of Virgil, as Fire, and Vivacity are thoſe of Homer; for which Reaſon I ſhould imagine the latter a more attemptable Author, than the former, if Mr. Pope had not precluded every Undertaking of this Nature, even tho' he wrote in Rhime. For bold Figures, ſtrong Paintings, and beautiful Colourings may be ransfuſed from one Language [435] to another: but Purity, Simplicity, and Elegance, tho' they are the ſame things in all Tongues, are not equally ſtriking in them all.—However, no Tranſlation can go farther than the Genius of our Language will admit; and even with regard to Virgil, it will go, I am inclined to believe, far enough to convey a ſtrong Idea of this noble Original in all its Parts. It will go farther at leaſt without Rhime, than with it. Dr. Trapp indeed, than whom no Body better underſtood his Author, by too ſuperſtitious an Adherence to the Letter, and particularly a fruitleſs and perpetual Endeavour to retain the Brevity of Virgil, is cold and languid upon numberleſs Occaſions; and has thereby perhaps contributed more to the Diſreputation of blank Verſe, than any other Writer. He was offended, and not without Reaſon, with the Licentiouſneſs of Mr. Dryden's Tranſlation; but his ſqueamiſhneſs has carried him into the other Extreme; for if Mr. Dryden runs away from Virgil, the Doctor is tied to him.—There is, by the by, this obſervable Difference, between Mr. Dryden's Deviations from Virgil, and Mr. Pope's from Homer, that thoſe of the latter are always uniform, graceful, and beautiful, and if they are not Homer's Thoughts are at leaſt worthy of him; whereas Mr. Dryden is apt to dwindle into a kind of Puerility, which was but too natural to him, that is altogether unſuitable to the [136] Gravity and Dignity of Virgil.—Between this Tranſlator then and Dr. Trapp, there lay a middle Way, which Mr. Pitt has judiciouſly taken, and religiouſly purſued, to the immortal Glory of Virgil, to his own infinite Honour, and the Credit of our Language. Notwithſtanding all this, I think, he has left Room for a Tranſlation of another Kind (as Dr. Trapp ſays of his, when compared with Mr. Dryden's) by writing in Rhime.—I attempted ſome time ago, for my own Amuſement, to tranſlate ſome of the Speeches in the firſt Book of the Aeneid into blank Verſe, from a Notion that Virgil ‘if he had been born in England, and in this preſent Age’ (as Mr. Dryden expreſſes himſelf) would have ſpoken ſomething like ſuch Engliſh as I flattered myſelf I could ſpeak for him.—I have ventured to ſend you a few Specimens, which for your Satisfaction I could wiſh you diligently, and impartially to compare with the ſeveral Tranſlaions, and with the Original itſelf.

* Mene incepto deſiſtere victam? &c.—
And am I then ſubdued! muſt I deſiſt
From my avow'd Deſign, and fails my Pow'r
To drive from Latium's Coaſts the Prince of Troy?
The Fates, it ſeems, forbid me!—what! could Pallas
In Conflagration ruinous deſtroy
[437] The Fleets of Greece, and mid the yawning Deep
Plunge their aſtoniſh'd Hoſts, in Vengeance due
To One Man's Crime, the frantic Love of Ajax?
Furious ſhe hurl'd the rapid Bolts of Jove,
That wide-diſperſt their Ships, and with fell Tempeſt
Tore up the Boſom of th' affrighted Main!
The Wretch, with Thunder blaſted, belching Flames,
She ſeiz'd, She bore upon a Whirlwind's Wing,
And daſh'd him quiv'ring on the pointed Rock.
While I that tread in State the Courts of Heav'n,
Queen of the Gods, Siſter, and Wife of Jove,
Wage Wars unceaſing with one hated Race:
Who then will ſacred Rites of Worſhip pay
To Juno's unpuiſſant Deity,
Or load with Honours her neglected Shrine?
* Aeole, namque tibi Divûm Pater, &c.
O Aeolus, to whom Heav'n's awful Sire
O'er the unruly Winds conſign'd the Sway;
Tis thine to ſmooth the Deep with gentle Gales,
Or toſs the Billows boiſt'rous in rough Storm—
A Nation I abhor, a Race of Foes,
With flying Streamers plow the Tuſcan Waves,
Importing Ilium into Italy,
With all their vanquiſh'd Gods; rouſe thou thy Winds,
And in the Gulfs of Ocean whelm their Fleets;
Or drive them ſcatter'd o'er the boundleſs Waſte,
[438] And ſtrew with Trojan Carcaſes the Main.
Twice ſev'n bright Virgin Nymphs adorn my Side,
The faireſt of the Choir, young Diope,
I give to thy Embrace, and yield her Charms
To bleſs thy nuptial Bed with laſting Joys:
Her Sweetneſs richly ſhall thy Service pay,
And from your Loves a beauteous Line ſhall ſpring.
* Tuus, O Regina, quod optas, &c.
'Tis thine, O Queen, to name thy high Beheſts,
My Duty to obey—to thee I owe
The whole of this my Realm, and regal Crown;
To thee the Favour of great Jove; to thee
My Portion at the Banquets of the Gods;
And o'er the Winds, and Storms my ſtrong Domain.
O terque quaterque beati, &c.
—And, Oh! thrice happy they (exclaims the Chief)
That died beneath the Bulwarks of old Troy,
Before their Fathers Eyes—Oh! that my Fate
Had ſtretch'd me lifeleſs on my native Plain!
Tydides, braveſt of the Sons of Greece,
Could I not greatly fall in Rage of Battle,
And pour my Soul out to thy ſlaught'ring Hand?
Where fell fierce Hector by Pelides' Sword;
Where great Sarpedon's manly Bulk extends;
Where Simois rolls his turbid Waves, full charg'd
With Helms, and Shields, and Bodies of the ſlain.
[439]
* O qui res hominumque Deûmque, &c.
O Thou eternal King of Gods, and Men,
Whoſe bolted Thunders ſhake the trembling World;
Say, what Offence of my unhappy Son,
Or what new Crime of Troy provokes thy Wrath;
That thus thro' endleſs Ruin, in vain ſearch
Of Latium's wiſh'd for Coaſts, diſtreſt we roam,
The Outcaſts ſtill of each forbidden Shore?
Thy Promiſe bade us hope, an After-Age
Should reinſtate in Italy the Race
Of antient Teucer, and the Romans bear
Dominion o'er the habitable Globe.
What has my Father's gracious Purpoſe chang'd?
With this amuſing Hope I ſooth'd my Woes,
And 'gainſt the wretched Fall of ruin'd Troy
Ballanc'd the Glories of a happier Fate.
But the ſame adverſe Fortune ſtill purſues
Our harraſs'd Tribes—when will our Toils have End?
Antenor ſcap'd thro' all the Hoſts of Greece,
Safely he paſt th' Illyrian Bay, and pierc'd
Liburnia's inmoſt Regions, to the Source
Of rich Timavus; from whoſe plenteous Spring
Nine Torrents, ruſhing like the Ocean's Tide,
Rebellow thro' the Mountain's hollow Womb,
And pour the roaring Deluge o'er the Plain.
Yet here he rais'd aſpiring Padua's Walls,
[440] New-nam'd the Nation, fix'd the Arms of Troy,
And now enjoys the placid Sweets of Peace.
While We, deſcended from thy mighty Loins,
And fated to the Manſions of the Skies,
Our Ships far-ſcatter'd o'er the Main, ourſelves
Deliver'd up to Juno's cruel Rage,
Long ſeek in vain Heſperia's fruitful Shores.
Is Piety rewarded, honour'd thus?
Is this the Kingdom for my Son reſerv'd?
* Parce metu Cytherea, &c.
Daughter diſmiſs thy Fears—fix'd are the Fates
Of thy beloved Race; thou ſhalt behold
The fair Lavinium's promis'd Turrets riſe,
Another Troy!—ſublime thou ſhalt exalt
Thy gallant-hearted Son above the Stars.—
So ſtedfaſt is the Will of Sov'reign Jove!
But ſince this anxious Care ſtill pangs thy Breaſt,
Liſt, while the ſecret Volume of dark Fate
I open to thy View.—Thy great Aeneas
Thro' Italy ſhall bear the mighty War,
And bruiſe the ſavage Nations;—his high Pow'r
Shall found new Cities, and preſcribe new Laws;
For three auſpicious Years the rolling Suns
Shall hail him Monarch of the vanquiſh'd Tribes:
The Boy Aſcanius, now Julus call'd,
(Ilus his Name while flouriſh'd Ilium's ſtate)
[441] Shall meaſure round thrice ten revolving Years
In his imperial Sway; then from Lavinium
The Seat of growing Empire ſhall transfer,
And with long Ramparts fence proud Alba's Tow'rs.
Here till three glorious Centuries expire,
Great Hector's Race ſhall full Dominion hold:
When Ilia, Prieſteſs Queen, two Sons ſhall bear,
Illuſtrious Progeny, the Seed of Mars;
Then Romulus, the firſt of mortal Names,
The royal Suckling of a tawny Wolf,
Shall rear his ſcepter'd Hand; high ſhall he raiſe
His City ſacred to the God of War,
And from his mighty Self ſhall be deriv'd
The Names auguſt of Romans, and of Rome.
To theſe my fav'rite People I appoint
Nor Bound of Glory, nor Extent of Sway—
E'en ſhe, the vengeful Juno, that fatigues
Earth, Sea, and Heav'n itſelf with horrid Broils,
At length ſhall feel her ſtubborn Heart relent
To milder Counſels; and with me protect
The Sons of Rome, the Nation of the Gown,
The future Maſters of the ſubject World.
So will the Fates.—I ſee the diſtant Age,
When the brave Race of old Aſſaracus
Shall bend the fam'd Mycene to the Yoke,
To vanquiſh'd Argos give the ſov'reign Law,
And ſtretch their Conqueſts o'er the Realms of Greece.
From this fair Line ſhall Trojan Caeſar ſpring,
Whoſe Rule the Seas, whoſe Fame the Stars ſhall bound,
[442] The Lord of all the Nations; Julius call'd
From great Julus his high Anceſtor;
Him, fraught with Spoils, the Conq'ror of the Eaſt,
Thou ſhalt advance among his Kindred Gods,
And Mortals ſhall invoke his Pow'r divine.
Then golden Days of Peace ſhall bleſs the Land,
Quirinus, Remus, Veſta ſhall return,
Old Faith ſhall flouriſh, and the World be rul'd
By righteous Laws; vaſt adamantine Bolts
Shall cloſe the Gates of War; within dire Fury
Shall ſit on heaps of Arms diſtilling Blood,
Bound with an hundred Links of knotted Braſs,
And bellowing grind his Jaws beſmear'd with Gore.

You have in theſe few Paſſages in the Original, a Sample ſufficient to regulate your Idea of Virgil's Style in general by; which, as Mr. Dryden juſtly remarks, is eminent for its ‘Clearneſs, it Purity, its Eaſineſs, and its Magnificence; to which we muſt add no doubt, that which can rarely be transferred with any tolerable Grace into our Language, viz. its Brevity.’—How far theſe Tranſlations do juſtice to the Original, as far as may be, in regard to all theſe Particulars, or whether equal Juſtice can poſſibly be done to it by Rhime from the very Nature of it, I now leave it with you to judge, and am,

Yours, &c. &c.
FINIS.
Notes
*
THE THIMBLE, &c.] The Author, by this ſimple Title of his Poem, has very judiciouſly eſcaped the Cenſure, which moſt modern Poets have incured, by their Affectation of Antiquity in their Title-Pages. This excellent Poem might, with as much Propriety, have been called The Thimblead, or The Thimbleiad, as Mr. Pope's was intituled The Dunciad But ſuch Imitation appeared trifling and obvious to our Author, and, at beſt, had been mal-apropos, and nothing to the Point—of a Needle.—I wiſh, however, I could as well account for his calling it an Heroi-comical Poem, rather than an Heroic one; which I take it indiſputably to be. It has its Action, its Fable, its Manners, its Sentiment, and its Diction, which are the conſtituent Parts of the Epic Poem. And though, in reſpect of all theſe, it may, in ſome Inſtances, differ from the Plan of the Antients, and the Doctrine of Ariſtotle, I cannot think it thereby degraded into a different and lower Species of Poetry. Mr. Addiſon himſelf allows, Ariſtotle's Rules for Epic Poetry (which he has drawn from his Reflections upon Homer) cannot be ſuppoſed to quadrate exactly with the Heroic Poems, which have been, or may be, made ſince his Time. (See Spec. No. 273.) For this Reaſon, it would be ridiculous to object to the Action of this Poem, its Deficiency in Point of Greatneſs or Importance—a ſuppoſed neceſſary Qualification in the Action of the Epopee; and indeed, admitting it ſo to be, the Objection is founded in falſe and improper Ideas of Greatneſs and Importance; and in the wrong Impreſſions made upon Minds of a romantic Turn by the Exploits of antient Heroes, and the Manners and Cuſtoms of barbarous and uncivilized Nations. Becauſe what was a proper Subject for Epic Poetry, in the Days of Homer or Virgil, would be ſhocking and abſurd in ſo refined and delicate an Age as this. The Action of this Poem is abundantly important for theſe Times of genteel Indolence, and ſuperb Tranquility; and the Author, all the while, inſtead of dropping his Acquaintance with the Antients, artfully makes uſe of it upon many Occaſions, without a Poſſibility of giving Offence to any fine Lady or Gentleman, by ſuch robuſt and indelicate Imagery, as that with which the old Epic abounds.—We ſhall occaſionally ſhew, in the Courſe of our Criticiſms, that he rarely in any reſpect deviates from the antient Plan without improving it.—What has been already advanced will juſtify likewiſe his making a Lady the principal perſonage in the Poem.—If female Characters are reſpectable, even in the Writings of Homer and Virgil, Decency, ſure, Propriety, and Complaiſance, required they ſhould have the firſt Place in the Poem before us.—Thus much we thought neceſſary to premiſe in general; we ſhall proceed to farther Remarks, as they are ſuggeſted by the Poem itſelf.
What Art divine, &c.] The Moral of an Epic Poem may be either poſitively laid down, or virtually couched, in what the Critics call the Exordium. That of the Iliad of Homer is clearly expreſſed in the Propoſition of the Action of the Poem; thoſe of the Odyſſey and of the Aeneid are implicitly contained in their reſpective Exordiums. The Plan of the Thimble, which, in its Moral, is inferiour to neither of them, is formed upon Induſtry, and its Rewards; as is ſufficiently intimated in theſe firſt Lines of the Poem.
Pope's New Dunciad, Line 8.
And Jove inthron'd, &c.] As this is the firſt Place, where the Name of a ſuperiour Being occurs in this Work, it may be proper to obviate the Exceptions, or rather, the Cavils, which a few ſuperſtitious or ill-natured Judges may be apt to make to the Machinery of the Poem, which conſiſts of the Gods and Goddeſſes of the old Pagan Theology. It might be ſufficient to ſtop the Mouths of ſuch, to obſerve, that Poets are of no Religion, and that, by Virtue of the Prerogative Poetical, (the Poetica Licentia) an Author may adopt what Syſtem he pleaſes. 'Tis true, Mr. Addiſon baniſhes the Heathen Deities from all modern Poetry, except the Mock-Heroic: (Spec. No. 523) But then he paſſed this Sentence, at a Time when Chriſtianity was generally, we may preſume, practiſed, as well as formally eſtabliſhed, among us; a Sentence therefore that by no Means affects our Author, as Things are now happily circumſtanced. Our Bard will certainly paſs for a good Proteſtant with the Beau-Monde, and need not fear offending the Religion of his Country, as that great Critic expreſſes it; (Spec. No. 267) and indeed, I cannot ſee why his Pagan Syſtem ſhould not be univerſally received, as it not only ſtands clear of all Popiſh Errors, but likewiſe has, in ſome reſpects, reformed the old Theology of Homer himſelf; which we ſhall have an Opportunity to ſhew.
*
IMITATIONS.
Envy itſelf was dumb, &c.
Envy itſelf is dumb, in Wonder loſt,
And Factions ſtrive which ſhall applaud 'em moſt.
Mr. Addiſon's Campaign.
Yet moſt reſpected, &c.] The Character of Fannia, the Heroine of the Poem, having been before ſufficiently diſplayed to the Reader, in the Picture of an induſtrious Coquet, the Author next proceeds, in a moſt lively Manner, to particularize that of her favourite Cynthio, the ſecond Perſon in the Thimble.—Both theſe Characters are truly Epic; "In the laying down which, the Poet (as Mr. Pope well obſerves of Homer) rather ſtudied Nature than Perfection." (See the Note at V. 155 of Pope's Iliad, B. i.) The Characters of a fine Gentleman and Lady, though they be not morally beautiful (as the ſame excellent Writer obſerves in regard to the Character of Homer's Hero) are ſtill poetically perfect.
*
IMITATIONS.
O Liberty, thou Goddeſs heav'nly bright,
Profuſe of Bliſs, and pregnant with Delight!
Eternal Pleaſures in thy Preſence reign,
And ſmiling Plenty leads thy wanton Train;
Eas'd of her Load, Subjection grows more light,
And Poverty looks chearful in thy Sight;
Thou mak'ſt the gloomy Face of Nature gay,
Giv'ſt Beauty to the Sun, and Pleaſure to the Day.
*
On her lov'd Lap-Dog, &c.] The third (earthly) Perſonage mentioned in the Poem, is a Lap-Dog, in reſpect of which Creature, and the Parrot, &c. &c. it will be doing Juſtice to our Author to remark, once for all, that, as the Subject of his Poem would not, on account chiefly of the Shortneſs of the Action, admit of a conſiderable Variety of human Characters, he was under a Neceſſity of introducing ſome Perſons not ſtrictly Epic a. Milton laboured under a like Difficulty, and found Means to extricate himſelf, by bringing into his Poem Actors of a Nature purely fictitious and allegorical; and ſurely, if Sin and Death have been by the Critics eſteemed proper Perſonages in that Poem, Dogs and Kittens (which are real, though ſubordinate Perſonages) may be allowed a Place in the Company of Gentlemen and Ladies, with a Proviſo, that they do not interrupt Converſation—After all, the Apology may be needleſs; for the preſent State of the Epopee, agreeably to the above Repreſentation of it, requires the Aſſiſtance of theſe Animals, as much as the antient did that of Horſes, &c. &c.
a
Mr. Addiſon has obſerved, that none of the Critics, either antient or modern, have laid down Rules to circumſcribe the Action of an Epic Poem, with any determined Number of Years, Days, or Hours. (Spec. No. 267.)
*
When now the Morn, &c.] Here the Action of the Poem properly commences, which takes up but two entire Days; in which Space of Time, however, are comprized a Number of ſtriking and intereſting Incidents.
*
Fantaſtic Slumbers, &c.—
Didſt thou not mark, &c.] The Religious of all Ages have laid a great Streſs on Omens, and Preſignifications of future Events by Dreams, Flights of Birds, &c. in Compliance with which antient and rational Notion, our Author repreſents his Heroine alarmed and terrified by very affecting and infallible, though modern, Appearances.
*
Fantaſtic Slumbers, &c.—
14
While thus the Maid, &c.—Great Jove conven'd, &c.] Though a ſuperficial Reader might infer from a preceding Paſſage in this Canto, relating to Fate, that all Events are predetermined by Neceſſity, it is plain, from Jupiter's Deſign in convening this Council, in which he appears willing to interpoſe his ſuperiour Power in Favour of Fannia, that Fate itſelf is, by our Author, ſuppoſed to be ſubject to his Controul and Superintendency. Jupiter, in Homer, acts the ſame Part in the Caſes of Sarpedon and Hector. This Deity, we may here obſerve, appears in the Greek Poet, and his Latin Imitator to great Diſadvantage, if compared with the Figure he makes in this incomparable Poem.—In the firſt Place, Jupiter himſelf betrays great Weakneſs and Infirmity (See B. xxii. of the Iliad) by his almoſt unmanly, but ſurely ungodly, Lamentation over the Fate of Hector.—In the next Place, the Eyebrows, and the Hair mentioned by Homer upon another Occaſion, but omitted by Virgil, thoſe chief Pieces of Imagery, from whence, Mr. Pope tells us, Phidi [...]s took the Idea of a Countenance, proper for the King of Gods and Men, are evidently inferiour, in Point of Majeſty and Reſpectableneſs, to the Muſtachoes of our Author.—Again, the Juno of Homer, the Goddeſs of Marriage, is an eternal Billingſgate, and has entail'd, from that blind Poet's Days, Contempt and Reproach upon the State of Wedlock, which our Author, in the enſuing Allegory (of which more by-and-by) laudably attempts to remove.
*

While yearly as the ſolemn, &c.—Two milk-white Kittens, &c.] A much genteeler Sacrifice, and conſequently, more grateful to the Deities, than thoſe of Oxen, &c. offered by the aukward and naſty Heroes of Homer and Virgil.—For Proof of this, we might tranſcribe the Account of the Sacrifice in the firſt Book of the Iliad, but forbear to do it, in pure Tenderneſs to polite Ears.—We will venture, however, to ſubjoin Mr. Pope's Tranſlation, who was a very clean Writer, and upon this, as well as many other Occaſions, has greatly ſoftened the Indelicacy of the Original.

The Limbs they ſever from th' incloſing Hide,
The Thighs, ſelected to the Gods, divide:
On theſe, in double Cawls involv'd with Art,
The choiceſt Morſels lay from ev'ry Part. B. i. L. 602.
The Thighs thus ſacrific'd, and Entrails dreſt,
Th' Aſſiſtants part, transfix, and roaſt the reſt.

What groſs Ideas does this Deſcription convey? Our Author wiſely thought it ſufficient to inform us, that his Heroine yearly offered a Kitten to the Gods, without officiouſly entering into the Particulars of the Diſſection, or of the throwing the Fat in the Fire, &c.—Such is his Regard to Decency.

*
And Hymen's Bands, &c.] It has been obſerved of the Allegories of Homer, that many of them are forced, and ſcarce reconcileable to Truth and Morality.—In this Reſpect, the Author of The Thimble has much the Advantage of his Predeceſſor.—In the Allegory before us, we have a tacit, but lively Reproof of unlawful Love, a Diſplay of the Benefits and Advantages of Matrimony, and a Declaration of the Wiſdom of its Inſtitution.
*
Young Ganimede, &c.] The Concluſion of this Canto is a happy Imitation, and Improvement of that of the Firſt Book of the Iliad:—Whether the ſpruce young Ganymede is not a much more proper Waiter for the female Deities, than an old limping Blackſmith, let the Ladies, the beſt Judges in this Caſe, determine.
*

O! for his Numbers, &c.] Both Homer and Virgil (as our Author here, in Conformity to their Practice) renew their Invocation of the Muſe, at particular Periods, and proper Intervals of their Poems.

Tu Vatem, tu Diva mone:—AENEID. Lib. vii. L. 41.
—Major Rerum mihi naſcitur Ordo,
Majus Opus moveo.
*
Six Needles, &c.] There is a beautiful Caſt of Antiquity in this Paſſage; which we only hint to the judicious Reader, deſiring him to take this Hint along with him throughout the Poem.
IMITATIONS.
Air blacken'd, roar'd the Thunder, groan'd the Ground.
Dryden's Fables.
*
Diomed. See the Fifth Book of the Iliad, Line 335. &c.
*
And o'er their flowing Cups, &c.] Juſtice to the fair Sex requires us to ſuppoſe, the Author by Cups here means Tea-Cups.
*
Alluding to the Monument in Weſtminſter Abbey, of a Lady, whoſe Death is ſaid to have been occaſioned by the Prick of a Needle.
*
Now all lay huſh'd, &c.] The Poets are fond of giving us Deſcriptions of the Morning or the Night—This excellent Night-Piece of our Author, we think equal to any Thing of its Kind, in antient or modern Poetry.
*
Crete.
*
Aeneas. See the Twelfth Book of the Aeneid, V. 420, &c.
*

Pleas'd Venus ſaw, &c.] The Author, in this Paſſage, had his Eye upon Virgil. See Aeneid, B. i. L. 492, &c.

Se quoque principibus permixtum agnovit Achivis, &c.
IMITATIONS.
—Hic illius Arma,
Hic currus fuit. Aeneid, B. i. L. 20.
*
IMITATIONS.
Sooth'd with the Sound, the King grew vain,
Fought all his Battles o'er again,
And thrice he routed all his Foes, and thrice he ſlew the Slain.
Dryden's Ode for St. Cecilia's Day.
*
Where fabled Aetna's, &c.] The ſubterraneous Apartment, aſſigned here by the Poet to Vulcan, is, we think, more ſuitable to his Trade, than his heavenly Manſion, in the latter Part of the eighteenth Book of the Iliad, with which the Reader will do well to compare this Canto.—The Shield of Fannia could not poſſibly admit of ſo copious or ſo pompous a Deſcription, as that which Homer gives of the Shield of Achilles.—In all other Reſpects, the Engliſh happily rivals the Grecian Poet.
*
Aeneas. See the Eighth Book of the Aeneid, Line 62.
The Amazons.
*
IMITATIONS.
The Chief, the Father, and the Captive wept.
Mr. Addiſon's Campaign.
*
Let the glad Tidings, &c.] The Games of our Author (which conſtitute a very entertaining, if not neceſſary Part of the Epic Poem) ſeem to be introduced much more judiciouſly, than thoſe of Homer or Virgil; for, notwithſtanding the Cuſtoms of Antiquity, which may be thought to warrant thoſe Authors, Sports ſurely of all Kinds, more properly and naturally precede a Wedding, than they ſucceed a Funeral. Of the Games themſelves, more in their Place.
*
Thus have I ſeen, &c.] Although the Poet has been hitherto ſparing of his Similies (the great Figures, as Mr. Pope calls them) we ſhall find him, for the future, diſplaying his Genius in a Variety of beautiful and apt Compariſons.—In theſe he ſeems to be excelled by none, not even Homer himſelf; at leaſt, our Author's are all original, and not tranſlated, like Virgil's, from his Greek Predeceſſor.
*
O ye, whoſe Boſoms, &c.] The following Particulars, relating to the enſuing Games of our Author, are obſervable—Firſt, That they are exhibited by the Heroine of the Poem, as thoſe of Homer and Virgil are by their reſpective Heroes—Secondly, That they are of ſo inoffenſive, though intereſting, a Nature, that Ladies and Gentlemen equally appear as Competitors for the ſeveral Prizes; a Circumſtance which renders them perfectly agreeable to the preſent Syſtem of the Epopee, and gives them a manifeſt Advantage, in Point of Variety and Novelty, over the Sports of the antient Poets.—Thirdly, That, notwithſtanding this Deviation from Antiquity, the Author has taken Care to infuſe the Spirit of Homer and Virgil, even into theſe genteel or gentle Exerciſes, as will appear from many Paſſages; the moſt remarkable of which, we will occaſionally take Notice of.
37

And firſt they pour—To mighty Jove, &c.] This is a polite Improvement of the following Libation in Virgil.

Hic duo rite Mero libans Carcheſia Baccho
Fundīt humi, duo Lacte novo—
*
You firſt, whoſe Limbs, &c.] The firſt Game, the Foot-Race, is the only one the Author has taken from Homer and Virgil; which yet is a Proof how willing he was to borrow from thoſe great Poets, as far as was conſiſtent with his own more comprehenſive Plan.
*

Now warm with Hopes, &c.] With this the Reader is deſired to compare the following Account of Virgil.

Intenti expectant Signum: Exultantia que haurit
Corda Pavor pulſans, Laudumque arrecta Cupido.
Inde ubi clara dedit Sonitum Tuba; Finibus omnes,
Hand mora, proſiluere ſuis. Aeneid, B. v. L. 137.
Non tam praecipites bijugo certamine Campum
Corripuere, ruuntque effuſi carcere Currus.
Nec ſic immiſſis Aurigae undantia Lora
Concuſſere Jugis, pronique in Verbera pendent. L. 144.
*

Whelm'd and amaz'd, &c.] Thus Virgil deſcribes the unfortunate Situation of Menaetes.

At gravis ut fundo vix tandem redditus imo eſt
Jam Senior, madidaque fluens in Veſte Maenetes;
Summa petit Scopuli, ſiccaque in Rupe reſedit.
Illum et labentem Teucri et riſere natantem:
Et ſalſos rident revomentem Pectore Fluctus. Aeneid, B. v. L. 178.

"Give me at leaſt, &c.] Thus Mneſtheus in Virgil.

Non jam prima peto Mneſtheus, neque vincere certo.
Quanquam O! ſed ſuperent, quibus hoc, Neptune, dediſti.
Extremos pudeat rediiſſe: hoc vincite, Cives,
Et prohibete Nefas. L. 194, &c.

So likewiſe Ulyſſes in Homer ſucceeds upon his Application to Pallas.

Aſſiſt, O Goddeſs (thus in Thought he pray'd)
And preſent at his Thought deſcends the Maid.
See Pope's Homer, B. xxiii. L. 899, &c.
*

She ſaid; and light up-ſprang, &c.] This Gentleman makes as brave a Figure here as Epeus in Homer, or Dares in Virgil.

Talis prima Dares Caput altum in Praelia tollit,
Oſtenditque Humeros latos, alternaque jactat
Brachia protendens, et verberat Ictibus Auras.
See Aeneid, B. v. L. 375.
*
At length, nice pois'd, &c.] This Circumſtance is happily borrowed from the Greek and the Latin Poet. See Pope's Homer, B. xxii. L. 271. See Virgil's Aeneid, B. xii. L. 725.
*
And the white Pavement, &c.] As this is the only indelicate or ſhocking Image in the whole Poem, it may be expected ſome Apology ſhould be offer'd for it: It will be ſufficient to obſerve, that, as Accidents of this Nature are really inſeperable from ſuch Exerciſes, ſo there was a Neceſſity of painting this in the ſtriking Colours of Poetry. It had convey'd the very ſame Idea, but yet would have been below the Dignity of the Epic Stile, had the Poet told us—The Hero's Noſe bled.

Quick to his Aid, &c.] We have here a more lively Picture of this unfortunate Combatant, than the original one of Dares or of Euryalus.

Aſt illum fidi aequales, genua aegra trahentem,
Jactantemque utroque Caput, craſſumque Cruorem
Ore rejectantem, mixtoſque in ſanguine Dentes,
Ducunt ad Naves. See Aeneid, B. v.
*
Shall wear this Snuff-Box, &c.] A happy Expreſſion; for though the Snuff-Box be not an eſſential Part of Dreſs, it is, with the Beau-monde, a proper Adjunct to it.
*
And, like a Top, &c.] This Simile of the Top is introduced more ſucceſsfully, we preſume, than that in Virgil animadverted upon by Mr. Addiſon.
*
And genial Hymen, &c.] At length, the Action of this Poem is brought to a happy Cataſtrophe; and, upon the whole, we muſt do the Author the Juſtice to acknowlege, that he has produced, what we have long been encouraged to expect from another Quarter, viz. A Modern Epic Poem, written upon the Model of the Antients.
*
Remark ſomewhere made by the late Biſhop B—r—t.
*
By modern Criticiſm I mean that Plan upon which the Engliſh Drama had been form'd for a Courſe of many Generations, and which Mr. Maſon, and other Critics and Poets have in our Days attempted, both by Precept and Example, to ſuperſede and explode in favour of the Antient Syſtem.
*
See Ariſt. Poet. Chap. 6.
*
See Lectures.
*
See Mr. Maſon's Third Letter.
*
See the Note at v. 955 of the 16th B. of the Iliad.
*
See the Note at V. 801. B. xi.
See the Note at V. 955. B. xvi.
*
See the Note at L. 422. B. V.
*
See Note at L. 35. of the 8th B.
See Eſſay on Homer, p. 56.
See Note at L. 780. of the 1ſt B.
*
See L. 609 and 610 of the Iliad.
See Note at L. 1. of the 2d B.
See Note of L. 517. of the 5th B.
See at L. 771. of the 1ſt B.
*
See Note at L. 179. of the 14th B.
*
See the Note laſt referred to.
*
See Note at L. 96. of the 4th B.
See Note at L. 439. of the 8th B.
See Note at 566. B. xxi.
*
See Eſſay on Homer, P. 56, 57.
*
See Note at L. 422. B. v.
See Note at L. 96. B. iv.
*
See Note at L. 18. B. iv.
*
See Note at L. 96. B. iv.
See Note at L. 120.
See L. 565. at the laſt B.
*
See Note at L. 36. B. xxiv.
*
See Note at L. 44. B. xx.
*
See L. 30. &c. B. iv.
See Note at L. 585. B. iv.
*
See L. 525. B. xxi.
*
See Note at L. 544. B. xxi.
*
See Note at L. 580.
See Note at L. 91. B. xx.
*
See Note at L. 91. B. xx.
See B. xvi. L. 540, &c.
See B. xxii. L. 233.
See L. 540. B. v.
*
See Note at L. 110. B. xvii.
See Note at L. 328. B. vii.
*
See Note at L. 261. B. i.
*
See L. 262.
*
See Note at the End of B. v.
*
See L. 829 of the 5th Book of the Iliad.
See Note at L. 500.
*
See Note at L. 9. B. iv.
*
See Note at L. 53. B. iii.
*
See Note at L. 212. B. v.
See Note at L. 345. B. xx.
*
See Note at L. 512. B. xvi.
*
See Note at L. 121. B. viii.
*
See Note at L. 137. B. xvii.
*
See Note at L. 798. B. xxiv.
*
See Note at L. 57. B. vi.
See B. xxi. L. 35. &c.
*
See B. vi. L. 55. &c.
See Note at L. 74. B. vi.
See Note at L. 107. B. vi.
See Note at L. 462.
*
See Note at L. 49. B. v.
*
See Note at L. 3. B. iii.
See Note at L. 49. B. iii.
*
See Note at L. 819.
*
See B. xxiii. L. 226, &c.
See B. 24. L. 44. &c.
See L. 416. B. xxiv.
*
See Note at L. 255. B. ii.
*
See Note at L. 815. B. ii.
See Note at L. 278. B. iii.
*
See Note at L. 711. B. ii.
See Note at L. 711. B. ii.
*
See Note at L. 109. B. vii. and at L. 131.
See Note at L. 222. B. ix.
*
See Note at L. 1. B. v.
*
See Note at L. 339. B. i.
*
See Note at L. 93. B. ii.
*
See Note at L. 604. B. vi.
*
See Note at L. 88. B. viii.
See L. 575. B. vii.
*
See Note at L. 41. B. xx.
*
See Note at L. 88. B. viii.
*
Note at L. 233. B. xii.
See Note at L. 245.
*
See Note at L. [...]33.
*
See Note at L. 180. B. xx.
*
See L. 330. B. xxi.
*
See Note at L. 214. B. 20.
*
See Note at L. 147. B. vi.
See Note at L. 801. B. xi.
*
See Note at L. 75. B. xx.
See Note at L. 566. B. xxi.
*
See Note at L. 180. B. xxii.
*
See L. 279. &c. B. xxii.
*
See Note at L. 570. B. viii.
See Note at L. 23. B. ix.
*
See L. 435, &c. B. viii.
See Note at L. 448. B. xi.
See Note at L. 164. B. viii.
*
See Note at L. 442. B. vii.
See L. 471. B. xx.
*
See Preface to Mr. Pope's Homer.
*
See Note at L. 142. B. viii.
*
L. 41.
*
L. 69.
*
L. 80.
L. 98.
*
L. 233.
*
L. 261.
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Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5118 Tracts in divinity By W Hawkins pt 2. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5B50-4