Jaf. Can there in woman be such glorious faith? Sure, all ill stories of thy sex are false ! Oh, woman! lovely woman! Nature made thee To temper man: we had been brutes without you! Bel. If love be treasure, we'll be wondrous rich; Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty? In some far climate, where our names are strangers, And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads; Bel. Oh! I will love, even in madness love thee! Though my distracted senses should forsake me, I'd find some intervals when my poor heart Should 'suage itself, and be let loose to thine. Though the bare earth be all our resting place, Its roots our food, some cliff our habitation, I'll make this arm a pillow for thine head; And, as thou sighing liest, and swell'd with sorrow, Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest; Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning. Jaf. Hear this, you Heav'ns, and wonder how you made her! Reign, reign, ye monarchs, that divide the world; Like gaudy ships, the obsequious billows fall, [Jaffier joins with Pierre and others in a conspiracy against the senate. He communicates the secret to Belvidera, and she, anxious to save her father's life, prevails on Jaffier to disclose the whole to the senators. The betrayed conspirators are condemned to death.] Scene A Street. Enter JAFFIER. Jaf. Final destruction seize on all the world! Bend down, ye heav'ns, and, shutting round the earth, Crush the vile globe into its own confusion! Jaf. 'Twas a rash oath. Bel. Then why am I not curs'd too. Jaf. No, Belvidera; by th' eternal truth, I dote with too much fondness. Bel. Still so kind? Still, then, do you love me? Jaf. Man ne'er was bless'd, Since the first pair first met, as I have been. I came on purpose, Belvidera, to bless thee. Bel. You did. Jaf. Then hear me, bounteous Heaven, Pour down your blessings on this beauteous head, Where everlasting sweets are always springing, With a continual giving hand: let peace, Honour, and safety, always hover round her: Feed her with plenty; let her eyes ne'er see A sight of sorrow, nor her heart know mourning; Crown all her days with joy, her nights with rest, Harmless as her own thoughts; and prop her virtue, To bear the loss of one that too much lov'd; And comfort her with patience in our parting. Bel. How? parting, parting? Jaf. Yes, for ever parting! I have sworn, Belvidera, by yon Heav'n, Bel. Oh! call back Your cruel blessing; stay with me, and curse me. Bel. By all the tender days we've liv'd together, Or by th' immortal destiny that doom'd me [Draws his dagger. Resolve to let me go, or see me fallTo this curs'd minute, I'll not live one longer: Hark-the dismal bell [Passing bell tolls. Tolls out for death! I must attend its call too; Bel. Leave thy dagger with me: Bequeath me something. Not one kiss at parting? Oh, my poor heart, when wilt thou break! Jaf. Yet stay: We have a child, as yet a tender infant: Be a kind mother to him when I am gone: Bel. All ill ones, sure, had charge of me this moment. Oh, give me daggers, fire or water: How I could bleed, how burn, how drown, the waves [Exit. Jaf. Dead! [Stabs him. [Stabs himself. Pier. Now thou hast indeed been faithful! This was nobly done!-We have deceived the senate. Jaf. Bravely. Pier. Ha, ha, ha-oh! oh! [Falls down on the scaffold, and dies. Jaf. Now, ye curs'd rulers, Thus of the blood ye've shed, I make libation, Pier. Yes, dead, Jaffier; they've all died like men I'm sick-I'm quiet. too, Worthy their character. Jaf. And what must I do? Pier. Oh, Jaffier! Jaf. Speak aloud thy burden'd soul, And tell thy troubles to thy tortur'd friend. Pier. Friend! Couldst thou yet be a friend, a generous friend, I might hope comfort from thy noble sorrows. Jaf. And I a kind one, That would not thus scorn my repenting virtue, Or think, when he's to die, my thoughts are idle. Pier. No! live, I charge thee, Jaffier. Jaf. Yes, I will live : But it shall be to see thy fall reveng'd, At such a rate, as Venice long shall groan for. Jaf. I will, by Heaven! Pier. Then still thou'rt noble, And I forgive thee. Oh!-yet-shall I trust thee! Jaf. No; I've been false already. Pier. Dost thou love me? Jaf. Rip up my heart, and satisfy thy doubtings. Pier. Curse on this weakness! Jaf. Tears? Amazement! Tears? I never saw thee melted thus before; And know there's something labouring in thy bosom, That must have vent; though I'm a villain, tell me. Pier. Seest thou that engine? [Pointing to the wheel. Jaf. Why? [Dies. [The scene closes upon them. Scene-Apartment in PRIULI'S House. Enter PRIULI, BELVIDERA distracted, and two of her women. Pri. Strengthen her heart with patience, pitying Heaven. Bel. Come, come, come, come, come; nay, come to bed, Pr'ythee, my love. The winds! hark how they whistle! Stand off, I say! What! gone? Remember, tyrant, Enter CAPTAIN, and whispers PRIULI. Pri. News-what news? Capt. Most sad, sir; Jaffier, upon the scaffold, to prevent A shameful death, stabb'd Pierre, and next himself; Both fell together. Bel. Ha! look there! My husband bloody, and his friend too! Murder! Who has done this? Speak to me, thou sad vision On these poor trembling knees I beg it. Vanish'd! Pri. Oh! lead me into some place that's fit for Where the free air, light, and the cheerful sun, As long as I've to live; and there all leave me: [Parting.] With all his dreadful bristles raised on high; NATHANIEL LEE. Another tragic poet of this period was NATHANIEL LEE, who possessed no small portion of the fire of genius, though unfortunately 'near allied' to madness. Lee was the son of a Hertfordshire clergyman, and [Exeunt Omnes. received a classical education, first at Westminster school, and afterwards at Trinity college, Cambridge. He tried the stage both as an actor and author, was four years in bedlam from wild insanity; but recovering his reason, resumed his labours as a dramatist, and though subject to fits of partial derangement, continued to write till the end of his life. He was the author of eleven tragedies, besides assisting Dryden in the composition of two pieces, Edipus and the Duke of Guise. The unfortunate poet was in his latter days supported by charity: he died in London, and was buried in St Clement's church, April 6, 1692. The best of Lee's tragedies are the Rival Queens, or Alexander the Great, Mithridates, Theodosius, and Lucius Junius Brutus. In praising Alexander, Dryden alludes to the power of his friend in moving the passions, and counsels him to despise those critics who condemn Where am I? Sure I wander 'midst enchantment, [Picture of a Witch.] Through a close lane as I pursued my journey, Wish'd Morning 's come; and now upon the plains, [Killing a Boar.] Forth from the thicket rush'd another boar, The too much vigour of his youthful muse. We have here indicated the source both of Lee's strength and of his weakness. In tenderness and genuine passion, he excels Dryden; but his style often degenerates into bombast and extravagant frenzya defect which was heightened in his late productions by his mental malady. The author was aware of his weakness. It has often been observed against me,' he says in his dedication of Theodosius, 'that I abound in ungoverned fancy; but I hope the world will pardon the sallies of youth: age, despondency, and dulness, come too fast of themselves. I discommend no man for keeping the beaten road; but I am sure the noble hunters that follow the game must leap hedges and ditches sometimes, and run at all, or never come into the fall of a quarry.' He wanted discretion to temper his tropical genius, and reduce his poetical conceptions to consistency and order; yet among his wild ardour and martial enthusiasm are very soft and graceful lines. Dryden himself has no finer image than the following: Speech is morning to the mind; It spreads the beauteous images abroad, Or this declaration of love: I disdain All pomp when thou art by: far be the noise guise of idiocy after the rape of Lucrece by Tar- The violated genius of thy country As from night's womb the glorious day breaks forth, So, from the blackness of young Tarquin's crime [Scene between Brutus and Titus, his son.] [Titus having joined the Tarquin conspiracy, is condemned by his own father to suffer the death of a traitor. Brutus takes a last farewell of him.] Rears his sad head, and passes sentence on thee: Shall never see thee more. Tit. Alas! my lord, Why art thou moved thus? why am I worthy of thy sorrow? Why should the godlike Brutus shake to doom me? Bru. They will, my Titus; Nor Heaven, nor earth, can have it otherwise; Brutus. Well, Titus, speak ; how is it with thee now? 'Tis fix'd: O, therefore, let not fancy fond thee: I would attend awhile this mighty motion, Look'd down and listen'd to what we were saying: Titus. So well, that saying how, must make it nothing; So well, that I could wish to die this moment, Tit. Most certain, sir; for in my grave I 'scape Groans, and convulsions, and discolour'd faces, Yes, sir; I call the powers of heaven to witness, Bru. O Titus, O thou absolute young man! So fix'd thy death, that 'tis not in the power Tit. The axe? O heaven! Then must I fall so basely? What! Shall I perish by the common hangman? Bru. If thou deny me this, thou giv'st me nothing. Yes, Titus, since the gods have so decreed That I must lose thee, I will take th' advantage Of thy important fate-cement Rome's flaws, And heal their wounded freedom with thy blood; I will ascend myself the sad tribunal, And sit upon my sons; on thee, my Titus: Behold thee suffer all the shame of death, The lictor's lashes bleed before the people; Then with thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee, See thy head taken by the common axe, Without a groan, without one pitying tear, If that the gods can hold me to my purpose, To make my justice quite transcend example. Tit. Scourg'd like a bondman? Ha! a beaten slave! To sit unmov'd and see me whipt to death? Bru. Think that I love thee by my present passion, JOHN CROWNE was patronised by Rochester, in opposition to Dryden, as a dramatic poet. Between 1661 and 1698, he wrote seventeen pieces, two of which, namely, the tragedy of Thyestes, and the comedy of Sir Courtly Nice, evince considerable talent. The former is, indeed, founded on a repulsive classical story. Atreus invites his banished brother, Thyestes, to the court of Argos, and there at a banquet sets before him the mangled limbs and blood of his own son, of which the father unconciously partakes. The return of Thyestes from his retirement, with the fears and misgivings which follow, are vividly described: [Extract from Thyestes.] THYESTES. PHILISTHENES. PENEUS. Had from some mountain travell'd toward this place, And now a thousand objects more ride fast Thy. But with them Atreus too How miserable a thing is a great man! [Passions.] We oft by lightning read in darkest nights; And by your passions I read all your natures, Though you at other times can keep them dark. [Love in Women.] These are great maxims, sir, it is confess'd; [Inconstancy of the Multitude.] I'll not such favour to rebellion show, [Warriors.] I hate these potent madmen, who keep all Mankind awake, while they, by their great deeds, Are drumming hard upon this hollow world, Only to make a sound to last for ages. THOMAS SHADWELL-SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE-WILLIAM WYCHERLEY-MRS APHRA BEHN. A more popular rival and enemy of Dryden was Phil. What ails my father that he stops, and shakes, THOMAS SHADWELL (1640-1692), who also wrote And now retires? Thy. Return with me, my son, And old friend Peneus, to the honest beasts, Pen. Talk you of villany, of foes, and fraud? Pen. What are these to him? Thy. Nearer than I am, for they are himself. mind. Thy. The gods for all our safety put them there. Return, return with me. seventeen plays, chiefly comedies, in which he affected to follow Ben Jonson. Shadwell, though only known now as the Mac-Flecknoe of Dryden's satire, possessed no inconsiderable comic power. His pictures of society are too coarse for quotation, but they are often true and well-drawn. When the Revolution threw Dryden and other excessive loyalists into the shade, Shadwell was promoted to the office of poetlaureate. SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE (1636-1694) gave a more sprightly air to the comic drama by his Man of Mode or Sir Fopling Flutter, a play which contains the first runnings of that vein of lively humour and witty dialogue which were afterwards displayed by Congreve and Farquhar. Sir George was a gay libertine, and whilst taking leave of a festive party |