where Alcander wraps himself all round in the argument of necessity. "Methinks we stand on ruins; nature shakes About us; and the universal frame So loose, that it but wants another push To leap from off its hinges. Dioc. No sun to cheer us; but a bloody globe His face o'er grown with scurf: The sun's sick too: Pyr. Therefore the seasons Lie all confus'd; and, by the heav'ns neglected, Has driv'n him headlong back; and the new damps Scattering their pestilential colds and rheumes Alc. Hence murrains follow'd On bleating flocks, and on the lowing herds; Grew more domestic, and the faithful dog Dy'd at his master's feet. Dioc. And next, his master; For all those plagues which earth and air had brooded, And last they seiz'd on man. Pyr. And then a thousand deaths at once advanc'd, And every dart took place; all was so sudden, That scarce a first man fell; one but began 1 [Groan within. Dioc. A troop of ghosts took flight together there; And that, next minute, Our bodies cast into some common pit, Shall not be built upon, and overlaid By half a people? Alc. There's a chain of causes Link'd to effects; invincible necessity, That whate'er is, could not but so have been ; That's my security. To them, enter Creon. Cre. So had it need, when all our streets lie cover'd With dead and dying men ; And earth exposes bodies on the pavement More than she hides in graves! Betwixt the bride and bridegroom have I seen The nuptial torch do common offices Of marriage and of death." In drawing the character of Creon, Dryden doubtless had Shakespear's crook-backed Richard in his eye. 66 Why love renounc'd thee ere thou saw'st the light; Nature herself start back when thou wert born; And cry'd, the work's not mine The midwife stood aghast; and when she saw Thy face itself, Half-minted with the royal stamp of man, And half o'ercome with beast, stood doubting long, Whose right in thee were more; And knew not, if to burn thee in the flames, Cre. Am I to blame, if nature threw my body On heaps in their dark lodging, to revenge Her bungled work she stamp'd my mind more fair; The God strook fire, and lighted up the lamps This ill-shap'd body with a daring soul; And making less than man, he made me more," Act I. Sc. III. There is, in the first act, a truly dramatic effect, produced by this little dialogue between Tiresias and his daughter, who is leading the blind old man. "Now stay: Methinks I draw more open, vital air. Where are we? Man. Under covert of a wall; Of Thebes, now midnight silence reigns ev'n here; Tir. If there be nigh this place a sunny bank, That nods, and scarce holds up his drowsy head Creon thus soliloquizes on death. "Cre. The thought of death to one near death is dreadful? O'tis a fearful thing to be no more. Or if to be, to wander after death! To walk as spirits do, in brakes all day? And when the darkness comes, to glide in paths That lead to graves; and in the silent vault Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it, And often, often, vainly breathe your ghost Into your lifeless lips; Then, like a lone benighted traveller Shut out from lodging, shall your groans be answer'd By whistling winds, whose every blast will shake Your tender form to atoms." We afterwards find him railing against fools.-He is the most spirited person of the drama. "Cre. Every where. Fine empty things, like him, The court swarms with them. Fine fighting things; in camps they are so common, A glut of 'em in Thebes. And fortune still takes care they should be seen; She places 'em aloft, o' th' topmost spoke Of all her wheel; fools are the daily work Of nature; her vocation; if she form A man, she loses by't, 'tis too expensive; "Twou'd make ten fools! A man's a prodigy." Act III. There is something peculiarly solemn in the mysterious chaunt, in which the soothsayers celebrate their superstitious rites. "Tir. Chuse the darkest part o' th' grove; Such as ghosts at noon-day love. Dig a trench, and dig it nigh Tir. Is the sacrifice made fit, Tir. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine, To mother earth and Proserpine; Mingle milk into the stream; Feast the ghosts that love the steam; Snatch a brand from funeral pile; Toss it in to make 'em boil; And turn your faces from the sun; All Pr. All is done. The Rival Ladies is a tragi-comedy of a very confused and intricate nature, but is adorned with gems of poetry, which are scattered as thick through this as the generality of his plays. Angelina, in the disguise of male attire, asks herself, "Where had I courage for this bold disguise, Which more my nature than my sex belies? Alas! I am betray'd to darkness here; Darkness which virtue hates, and maids most fear: Dogs cease to bark; the waves more faintly roar, And roll themselves asleep upon the shore: No noise but what my foot-steps make, and they They double too, and every step I take Sounds thick methinks, and more than one could make. I wish'd for company, and now I fear. Who are you, gentle people, that go there?" Act 1. The answer of Amideo to Hippolito and Gonsalvo, who is also disguised in male attire, and taken for a boy, is a beautiful specimen of simple eloquence. "Hip. Poor child, who would'st be wise above thy years, Why dost thou talk, like a philosopher, Of conquering love, who art not yet grown up The sweetness of thy mother's milk is yet Gons. Thou hast not field enough in thy young breast, To entertain such storms to struggle in. Amid. Young as 1 am, I know the pow'r of love; Its less disquiets, and its greater cares, And all that's in it, but the happiness. Trust a boy's word, Sir, if you please, and take To all the sex; bestow it on some other; You'll find many as fair, though none so cruel. The further selections which we intend making from this, we will string together-as pearls on a necklace: "Perfection is discovered in a moment; He that ne'er saw the sun before, yet knows him. To a lady fearing rudeness: "Your very fears and griefs create an awe, "Is this an hour for valiant men' to fight? "What right have parents over children, more Than birds have o'er their young? yet they impose No rich-plum'd mistress on their feather'd sons; Act I. Ibid. |