Ant. I know thy meaning. But I have lost my reason, have disgrac'd The name of soldier with inglorious ease; In the full vintage of my flowing honours Sat still, and saw it press'd by other hands. Fortune came smiling to my youth, and woo'd it. And purple greatness met my ripen'd years. When first I came to empire, I was borne On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs. The wish of nations, and the willing world, Receiv'd me as its pledge of future peace. I was so great, so happy, so belov'd, Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains, And work'd against my fortune, chid her from me, And turn'd her loose: yet still she came again. My careless days and my luxurious nights At length have wearied her, and now she's gone; Gone, gone, divorc'd for ever. Help me, soldier, To curse this madman, this industrious fool, Who labour'd to be wretched. Pr'ythee curse me. Vent. No. serve; But fortune calls upon us now to live, Ant. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius ? Vent. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscall'd philosophy. Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief. By painful journeys I led 'em patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile. "Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces, Their scarr'd cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue in 'em : They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy. Ant. Where left you them? Vent. I said in Lower Syria. Ant. Bring 'em hither; There may be life in these. Vent. They will not come. Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promis'd aids, To double my despair? They're mutinous. Vent. Most firm and loyal. Ant. Yet they will not march To succour me. Oh, trifler! Vent. They petition You would make haste to head 'em. Vent. There's but one way shut up. Vent. They would perhaps desire A better reason. Ant. I have never us'd My soldiers to demand a reason of How came I [hither! My actions. Why did they refuse to march ? Vent. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra. Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free license Vent. Behold, you pow'rs, To whom you have intrusted humankind; And all weigh'd down by one light worthless woman › I think the gods are Antonies, and give, Like prodigals, this nether world away To none but wasteful hands. Ant. You grow presumptuous. Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Ant. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence: Thy men are cowards, thou an envious traitor; The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall. Oh, that thou wert my equal; great in arms Vent. You may kill me. You have done more already-call'd me traitor. Ant. Art thou not one? But had I been Vent. For showing you yourself, Which none else durst have done. That name which I disdain to speak again, I needed not have sought your abject fortunes, Come to partake your fate, to die with you. What hinder'd me to 've led my conqu'ring eagles To fill Octavius' bands? I could have been | A traitor then, a glorious happy traitor, And not have been so call'd. Ant. Forgive me, soldier; I've been too passionate. Vent. You thought me false; Thought my old age betray'd you. Kill me, sir; Pray, kill me; yet you need not; your unkindness Has left your sword no work. Ant. I did not think so; I said it in my rage; pr'ythee forgive me. Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery Of what I would not hear? Vent. No prince but you Could merit that sincerity I us'd; Go on; for I can bear it now. Vent. No more. Ant. Thou dar'st not trust my passion; but thou may'st; Thou only lov'st, the rest have flatter'd me. word. May I believe you love me? Speak again. Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. Thy praises were unjust; but I'll deserve 'em, And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt; Lead me to victory; thou know'st the way. Vent. And will you leave this Ant. Pr'ythee, do not curse her, And I will leave her; though, heav'n knows, I love Vent. That's my royal master. And shall we fight? Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier; Thou shalt behold me once again in iron, And, at the head of our old troops, that beat Vent. Oh, now I hear my emperor ! In that word Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day, And, if I have ten years behind, take all; I'll thank you for th' exchange. Ant. Oh, Cleopatra ! Vent. Again! Ant. I've done. In that last sigh she went; Cæsur shall know what 'tis to force a lover From all he holds most dear. Vent. Methinks you breathe Another soul; your looks are more divine; Ant. Oh, thou hast fir'd me; my soul's up in arms, Vent. Ye gods, ye gods, For such another honour! Ant. Come on, my soldier; Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long [Scene between Dorax and Sebastian.] [Don Sebastian, King of Portugal, is defeated in battle, and taken prisoner by the Moors. He is saved from death by Dorax, a noble Portuguese, then a renegade in the court of the Emperor of Barbary, but formerly Don Alonzo of Alcazar. The train being dismissed, Dorax takes off his turban, and assumes his Portuguese dress and manner.] Dor. Now, do you know me? Seb. Thou shouldst be Alonze. Dor. So you should be Sebastian; But when Sebastian ceas'd to be himself, I ceased to be Alonzo. Seb. As in a dream I see thee here, and scarce believe mine eyes. Dor. Is it so strange to find me where my wrongs, And your inhuman tyranny, have sent me? Think not you dream: or, if you did, my injuries Shall call so loud, that lethargy should wake, And death should give you back to answer me. A thousand nights have brush'd their balmy wings Over these eyes; but ever when they clos'd, Your tyrant image forc'd them ope again, And dried the dews they brought. The long-expected hour is come at length, By manly vengeance to redeem my fame: And that once clear'd, eternal sleep is welcome. Seb. I have not yet forgot I am a king, Whose royal office is redress of wrongs: If I have wrong'd thee, charge me face to face; I have not yet forgot I am a soldier. Dor. "Tis the first justice thou hast ever done me; Seb. Honour befriend us both. I warn thee thus, because I know thy temper Dor. And well I might, when you forgot reward, Seb. How, tyrant? Dor. Tyrant! Seb. Traitor! that name thou canst not echo back. That robe of infamy, that circumcision, Ill hid beneath that robe, proclaim thee traitor; More foul than traitor be, 'tis renegade. Dor. If I'm a traitor, think, and blush, thou tyrant, Whose injuries betray'd me into treason, Effac'd my loyalty, unhing'd my faith, And hurried me from hopes of heav'n to hell; All these, and all my yet unfinish'd crimes, When I shall rise to plead before the saints, I charge on thee, to make thy damning sure. Seb. Thy old presumptuous arrogance again, That bred my first dislike, and then my loathing; Once more be warn'd, and know me for thy king. Dor. Too well I know thee, but for king no more: This is not Lisbon, nor the circle this, Where, like a statue, thou hast stood besieg'd And the gross flattery of a gaping crowd, To save his king's, the boon was begg'd before. Thou mov'st me more by barely naming him, Dor. And therefore 'twas to gall thee that I nam'd him; That thing, that nothing, but a cringe and smile; Dor. Yes; full as false As that I serv'd thee fifteen hard campaigns, Seb. I see to what thou tend'st; but tell me first, With palm and olive, victory and peace, Seb. I meant thee a reward of greater worth. To strike the man I lov'd! Dor. Ev'n in the face of heav'n, a place more sacred, Would I have struck the man who, prompt by power, Would seize my right, and rob me of my love: But, for a blow provoked by thy injustice, The hasty product of a just despair, When he refus'd to meet me in the field, That thou shouldst make a coward's cause thy own! Seb. He durst: nay, more, desir'd and begg'd with tears, To meet thy challenge fairly: 'twas thy fault To interpose, on pain of my displeasure, Dor. On pain of infamy He should have disobey'd. Seb. Th' indignity thou didst was meant to me: To tell me what I durst not tell myself: I durst not think that I was spurn'd, and livo: Has Honour's fountain then suck'd back the stream? Seb. Now, by this honour'd order which I wear, Dor. Thou know'st I have: If thou disown'st that imputation, draw, Seb. No; to disprove that lie, I must not draw: Dor. I'll cut that isthmus : Thou know'st I meant not to preserve thy life, I sav'd thee out of honourable malice: Now draw; I should be loath to think thou dar'st not: Beware of such another vile excuse. Seb. Oh, patience, heav'n! Dor. Beware of patience too; That's a suspicious word: it had been proper, I have thy oath for my security: The only boon I begg'd was this fair combat: Fight, or be perjur'd now; that's all thy choice. Seb. Now can I thank thee as thou wouldst be thank'd: [Drawing. Never was vow of honour better paid, If my true sword but hold, than this shall be. Dor. A minute is not much in either's life, Seb. He's dead: make haste, and thou may'st yet o'ertake him. Dor. When I was hasty, thou delay'dst me longer. I pr'ythee, let me hedge one moment more Into thy promise: for thy life preserved, Be kind; and tell me how that rival died, Whose death, next thine, I wish'd. Seb. If it would please thee, thou shouldst never But thou, like jealousy, inquir'st a truth, [know. Which found, will torture thee: he died in fight: Fought next my person; as in concert fought: Kept pace for pace, and blow for every blow; Save when he heav'd his shield in my defence, And on his naked side received my wound: Then, when he could no more, he fell at once, But roll'd his falling body cross their way, And made a bulwark of it for his prince. Dor. I never can forgive him such a death! Seb. I prophesied thy proud soul could not bear it. Now, judge thyself, who best deserv'd my love. I knew you both; and, durst I say, as heav'n Foreknew among the shining angel host Who should stand firm, who fall. Dor. Had he been tempted so, so had he fall'n; And so had I been favour'd, had I stood. Seb. What had been, is unknown; what is, appears ; Confess he justly was preferr'd to thee. Dor. Had I been born with his indulgent stars, Seb. The more effeminate and soft his life, Dor. Oh, whither would you drive me! I must grant Yes, I must grant, but with a swelling soul, Henriquez had your love with more desert: For you he fought and died; I fought against you; Not of my soul; my soul's a regicide. Seb. Thou mightst have given it a more gentle name; Thou meant'st to kill a tyrant, not a king. Speak; didst thou not, Alonzo? Dor. Can I speak! Alas! I cannot answer to Alonzo: No, Dorax cannot answer to Alonzo: Alonzo was too kind a name for me. Then, when I fought and conquer'd with your arms, Seb. Yet twice this day I ow'd my life to Dorax. Dor. I sav'd you but to kill you: there's my grief. Seb. Nay, if thou canst be griev'd, thou canst repent; Thou couldst not be a villain, though thou wouldst : Thou own'st too much, in owning thou hast err'd; And I too little, who provok'd thy crime. Dor. Oh, stop this headlong torrent of your goodness; it comes too fast upon a feeble soul Half drown'd in tears before; spare my confusion: For yet I have not dar'd, through guilt and shame, Seb. Indeed thou shouldst not ask forgiveness first; Compell'd to wed, because she was my ward, Nor could my threats, or his pursuing courtship, So, still indulging tears, she pines for thee, A widow and a maid. Dor. Have I been cursing heav'n, while heaven bless'd me? I shall run mad with ecstacy of joy: Seb. Art thou so generous, too, to pity him? Dor. What! my Alonzo, said you? My Alonzo? Words were not made to vent such thoughts as mine. THOMAS OTWAY. Where Dryden failed, one of his young contemporaries succeeded. The tones of domestic tragedy and the deepest distress were sounded, with a power and intenseness of feeling never surpassed, by the unfortunate THOMAS OTWAY; a brilliant name associated with the most melancholy history. Otway was born at Trotting in Sussex, March 3, 1651, the son of a clergyman. He was educated first at Winchester school and afterwards at Oxford, but left college without aking his degree. In 1672 he made his appearance as an actor on the London stage. To this profession his talents were ill adapted, but he probably acquired a knowledge of dramatic art, which was serviceable to him when he began to write for the theatre. He produced three tragedies, Alcibiades, Don Carlos, and Titus and Berenice, which travagance, was prematurely closed in 1685. One of his biographers relates, that the immediate cause of his death was his hastily swallowing, after a long fast, a piece of bread which charity had supplied. According to another account he died of fever, occasioned by fatigue, or by drinking water when violently heated. Whatever was the immediate cause of his death, he was at the time in circumstances of great poverty. The fame of Otway now rests on his two tragedies, the 'Orphan,' and 'Venice Preserved;' but on these it rests as on the pillars of Hercules. His talents in scenes of passionate affection 'rival, at least, and sometimes excel, those of Shakspeare: more tears have been shed, probably, for the sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia than for those of Juliet and Desdemona. The plot of the 'Orphan,' from its inherent indelicacy and painful associations, has driven this play from the theatres; but 'Venice Preserved' is still one of the most popular and effective tragedies. The stern plotting character of Pierre is well contrasted with the irresolute, sensitive, and affectionate nature of Jaffier; and the harsh unnatural cruelty of Priuli serves as a dark shade, to set off the bright purity and tenderness of his daughter. The pathetic and harrowing plot is well managed, and deepens towards the close; and the genius of Otway shines in his delineation of the passions of the heart, the ardour of love, and the excess of misery and despair. The versification of these dramas is sometimes rugged and irregular, and there are occasional redundancies and inflated expressions, which a more correct taste would have expunged; yet, even in propriety of style and character, how much does this young and careless poet excel the great master Dryden! *Sir Walter Scott. [Scenes from Venice Preserved.] Scene St Mark's. Enter PRIULI and JAFFIER. Pri. No more! I'll hear no more! begone, and leave me ! Jaf. Not hear me ! by my sufferings but you shall! My lord-my lord! I'm not that abject wretch You think me. Patience! where's the distance throws Me back so far, but I may boldly speak In right, though proud oppression will not hear me? Pri. Have you not wrong'd me? Jaf. Could my nature e'er Have brook'd injustice, or the doing wrongs, Pri. Yes, wrong'd me! in the nicest point, My very self, was yours; you might have us'd me Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her: Childless had you been else, and in the grave Pri. You stole her from me; like a thief you stole her, At dead of night! that cursed hour you chose Your days and nights bitter, and grievous still: Jaf. Half of your curse you have bestow'd in vain. Pri. Rather live To bait thee for his bread, and din your ears With hungry cries; whilst his unhappy mother Sits down and weeps in bitterness of want. Jaf. You talk as if 'twould please you. Pri. "Twould, by heaven! Jaf. Would I were in my grave! Pri. And she, too, with thee; For living here, you 're but my curs'd remembrancers I once was happy! Jaf. You use me thus, because you know my soul Is fond of Belvidera. You perceive My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me. Jaf. Indeed, my lord, I dare not. My heart, that awes me, is too much my master: Three years are past since first our vows were plighted, During which time the world must bear me witness The daughter of a senator of Venice: Pri. No more. Jaf. Yes, all, and then adieu for ever. There's not a wretch that lives on common charity But's happier than me; for I have known The luscious sweets of plenty; every night Have slept with soft content about my head, And never wak'd but to a joyful morning: Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn, Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in the ripening. Pri. Home, and be humble; study to retrench; Discharge the lazy vermin in thy hall, Those pageants of thy folly: Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife To humble weeds, fit for thy little state: [Exit. Jaf. Yes, if my heart would let meThis proud, this swelling heart: home I would go, But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, Fill'd and damm'd up with gaping creditors: I've now not fifty ducats in the world, Yet still I am in love, and pleas'd with ruin. O Belvidera! Oh! she is my wifeAnd we will bear our wayward fate together, But ne'er know comfort more. |