EPILOGUE.

Wild.And for these gentlemen, whene'er they try,May they all speed as soon, and well as I.

[Exeunt.

My part being small, I have had time to-day,To mark your various censures of our play.First, looking for a judgment or a wit,Like Jews, I saw them scattered through the pit;And where a knot of smilers lent an earTo one that talked, I knew the foe was there.The club of jests went round; he, who had none,Borrowed o'the next, and told it for his own.Among the rest, they kept a fearful stir,In whispering that he stole the Astrologer;And said, betwixt a French and English plot,He eased his half-tired muse, on pace and trot.Up starts a Monsieur, new come o'er, and warmIn the French stoop, and the pull-back o'the arm;Morbleu, dit il, and cocks, I am a rogue,But he has quite spoiled the feignedAstrologue.'Pox, says another, here's so great a stirWith a son of a whore farce that's regular,A rule, where nothing must decorum shock!Damme, 'tis as dull, as dining by the clock.An evening! Why the devil should we be vext,Whether he gets the wench this night or next?When I heard this, I to the poet went,}Told him the house was full of discontent,}And asked him what excuse he could invent.}He neither swore or stormed, as poets do,But, most unlike an author, vowed 'twas true;Yet said, he used the French like enemies,And did not steal their plots, but made them prize.But should he all the pains and charges countOf taking them, the bill so high would mount,That, like prize-goods, which through the office come,He could have had them much more cheap at home.He still must write; and, banquier-like, each dayAccept new bills, and he must break, or pay.When through his hands such sums must yearly run,You cannot think the stock is all his own.His haste his other errors might excuse,But there's no mercy for a guilty muse;For, like a mistress, she must stand or fall,And please you to a height, or not at all.

OR, THE

The "Royal Martyr" is one of Dryden's most characteristic productions. The character of Maximin, in particular, is drawn on his boldest plan, and only equalled by that of Almanzor, in the "Conquest of Granada." Indeed, although, in action, the latter exhibits a larger proportion of that extravagant achievement peculiar to the heroic drama, it may be questioned, whether the language of Maximin does not abound more with the flights of fancy, which hover betwixt the confines of the grand and the bombast, and which our author himself has aptly termed the Dalilahs of the theatre. Certainly, in some of those rants which occasionally burst from the emperor, our poet appears shorn of his locks; as for example,

Look to it, Gods; for you the aggressors are:Keep you your rain and sunshine in your skies,And I'll keep back my flame and sacrifice;Your trade of heaven will soon be at a stand,And all your goods lie dead upon your hand.

Indeed, Dryden himself acknowledged, in the Dedication to the "Spanish Friar," that some verses of Maximin and Almanzor cry vengeance upon him for their extravagance, and heartily wishes them in the same fire with Statius and Chapman. But he pleads in apology, that he knew they were bad enough to please, even when he wrote them, although he is now resolved no longer to seek credit from the approbation of fools. Johnson has doubted, with apparent reason, whether this confession be sufficiently ample; and whether the poet did not really give his love to those enticing seducers of his imagination, although he contemned them in his more sober judgment. In the Prologue, he has boldly stated and justified his determination to rush forwards, and hazard the disgrace of a fall, rather than the loss of the race. Certainly a genius, which dared so greatly as that of Dryden, cannot always be expected to check its flight upon the verge of propriety; and we are often hurried along with it into the extravagant and bombast, when we can seldom discover the error till a second reading of the passage. Take, for example, the often quoted account of the death of Charinus;

With a fierce haste he led our troops the way;While fiery showers of sulphur on him rained;Nor left he, till the battlements he gained:There with a forest of their darts he strove,And stood, like Capaneus defying Jove.With his broad sword the boldest beating down,While fate grew pale, lest he should win the town,And turned the iron leaves of its dark book,To make new dooms, or mend what it mistook:Till sought by many deaths, he sunk, though late,And by his fall asserted doubtful fate.

Although this passage, upon examination, will be found to contain much tumid bombast, yet, like others in the same tone, it conveys, at first, a dark impression of grandeur and sublimity, which only vanishes on a critical examination. Such passages, pronounced with due emphasis on the stage, will always meet with popular applause. They are like the fanciful shapes into which a mist is often wreathed; it requires a near approach, and an attentive consideration, to discover their emptiness and vanity. On the other hand, we meet with many passages in Maximin, where the impression of sublimity becomes more deep, in proportion to the attention we bestow on them. Such is the speech of St Catharine to her mother:

Could we live always, life were worth our cost;But now we keep with care what must be lost.Here we stand shivering on the bank, and cry,When we should plunge into eternity.One moment ends our pain;And yet the shock of death we dare not stand,By thought scarce measured, and too swift for sand:'Tis but because the living death ne'er knew,They fear to prove it, as a thing that's new.Let me the experiment before you try,I'll show you first how easy 'tis to die.

In the same scene occurs an instance of a different kind of beauty, less commonly found in Dryden. The tender description given by Felicia of her attachment to her child, in infancy, is exquisitely beautiful.

The introduction of magic, and of the astral spirits, who have little to do with the catastrophe, was perhaps contrived for the sake of music and scenery. The supernatural has, however, been fashionable at all periods; and we learn, from a passage in the dedication to "Prince Arthur,"that the Duchess of Monmouth, whom Dryden calls his first and best patroness, was pleased with the parts of airy and earthy spirits, and with that fairy kind of writing, which depends upon the force of imagination. It is probable, therefore, that, in a play inscribed to her husband, that style of composition was judiciously intermingled, to which our poet knew the duchess was partial. There is much fine description in the first account of the wizard; but the lyrical dialogue of the spirits is rather puerile, and is ridiculed, with great severity, in the "Rehearsal."

Mr Malone has fixed the first acting of this play to the end of 1668, or beginning of 1669. It was printed in 1670, and a revised edition came forth in 1672.

TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE,

DUKE OF MONMOUTH AND BUCCLEUGH,

ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY-COUNCIL;AND KNIGHT OF THE MOST NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &c.[K]

Sir,

The favourable reception which your excellent lady afforded to one of my former plays[L], has encouraged me to double my presumption, in addressing this to your grace's patronage. So dangerous a thing it is to admit a poet into your family, that you can never afterwards be free from the chiming of ill verses, perpetually sounding in your ears, and more troublesome than theneighbourhood of steeples. I have been favourable to myself in this expression; a zealous fanatick would have gone farther, and have called me the serpent, who first presented the fruit of my poetry to the wife, and so gained the opportunity to seduce the husband. Yet, I am ready to avow a crime so advantageous to me; but the world, which will condemn my boldness, I am sure will justify and applaud my choice. All men will join with me in the adoration which I pay you; they would wish only I had brought you a more noble sacrifice. Instead of an heroick play, you might justly expect an heroick poem, filled with the past glories of your ancestors, and the future certainties of your own. Heaven has already taken care to form you for an hero. You have all the advantages of mind and body, and an illustrious birth, conspiring to render you an extraordinary person. The Achilles and the Rinaldo are present in you, even above their originals; you only want a Homer, or a Tasso, to make you equal to them. Youth, beauty, and courage (all which you possess in the height of their perfection) are the most desirable gifts of heaven: and heaven is never prodigal of such treasures, but to some uncommon purpose. So goodly a fabric was never framed by an Almighty architect for a vulgar guest. He shewed the value which he set upon your mind, when he took care to have it so nobly, and so beautifully lodged. To a graceful fashion and deportment of body, you have joined a winning conversation, and an easy greatness, derived to you from the best, and best-beloved of princes. And with a great power of obliging, the world has observed in you a desire to oblige, even beyond your power. This, and all that I can say on so excellent and large a subject, is only history, in which fiction has no part; I can employ nothing of poetryin it, any more than I do in that humble protestation which I make, to continue ever

Your Grace's most obedientAnd most devoted servant,John Dryden.

I was moved to write this play by many reasons: Amongst others, the commands of some persons of honour, for whom I have a most particular respect, were daily sounding in my ears, that it would be of good example to undertake a poem of this nature. Neither were my own inclinations wanting to second their desires. I considered that pleasure was not the only end of poesy; and that even the instructions of morality were not so wholly the business of a poet, as that the precepts and examples of piety were to be omitted. For, to leave that employment altogether to the clergy, were to forget that religion was first taught in verse, which the laziness, or dulness, of succeeding priesthood, turned afterwards into prose; and it were also to grant (which I never shall) that representations of this kind may not as well be conducing to holiness, as to good manners. Yet far be it from me to compare the use of dramatick poesy with that of divinity: I only maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, and equally removed from the extremes of superstition and profaneness, may be of excellent use to second the precepts of our religion. By the harmony of words we elevate the mind to a sense of devotion, as oursolemn musick, which is inarticulate poesy, does in churches; and by the lively images of piety, adorned by action, through the senses allure the soul; which while it is charmed in a silent joy of what it sees and hears, is struck, at the same time, with a secret veneration of things celestial: and is wound up insensibly into the practice of that which it admires. Now if, instead of this, we sometimes see on our theatres the examples of vice rewarded, or, at least, unpunished; yet it ought not to be an argument against the art, any more than the extravagances and impieties of the pulpit, in the late times of rebellion, can be against the office and dignity of the clergy.

But many times it happens, that poets are wrongfully accused; as it is my own case in this very play; where I am charged by some ignorant or malicious persons, with no less crimes than profaneness and irreligion.

The part ofMaximin, against which these holy critics so much declaim, was designed by me to set off the character ofSt Catharine. And those, who have read the Roman history, may easily remember, that Maximin was not only a bloody tyrant,vastus corpore, animo ferus, as Herodian describes him; but also a persecutor of the church, against which he raised the Sixth Persecution. So that whatsoever he speaks or acts in this tragedy, is no more than a record of his life and manners; a picture, as near as I could take it, from the original. If, with much pains, and some success, I have drawn a deformed piece, there is as much of art, and as near an imitation of nature, in a lazar, as in a Venus. Maximin was an heathen, and what he speaks against religion, is in contempt of that which he professed. He defies the gods of Rome, which is no more than St Catharine might with decency have done. If it beurged, that a person of such principles, who scoffs at any religion, ought not to be presented on the stage; why then are the lives and sayings of so many wicked and profane persons, recorded in the Holy Scriptures? I know it will be answered, That a due use may be made of them; that they are remembered with a brand of infamy fixed upon them; and set as sea-marks for those who behold them to avoid. And what other use have I made of Maximin? have I proposed him as a pattern to be imitated, whom, even for his impiety to his false gods, I have so severely punished? Nay, as if I had foreseen this objection, I purposely removed the scene of the play, which ought to have been at Alexandria in Egypt, where St Catharine suffered, and laid it under the walls of Aquileia in Italy, where Maximin was slain; that the punishment of his crime might immediately succeed its execution.

This, reader, is what I owed to my just defence, and the due reverence of that religion which I profess, to which all men, who desire to be esteemed good, or honest, are obliged. I have neither leisure nor occasion to write more largely on this subject, because I am already justified by the sentence of the best and most discerning prince in the world, by the suffrage of all unbiassed judges, and, above all, by the witness of my own conscience, which abhors the thought of such a crime; to which I ask leave to add my outward conversation, which shall never be justly taxed with the note of atheism or profaneness.

In what else concerns the play, I shall be brief: For the faults of the writing and contrivance, I leave them to the mercy of the reader. For I am as little apt to defend my own errors, as to find those of other poets. Only, I observe, that the great censors of wit and poetry, either produce nothing of their own, or what is more ridiculous than any thing they reprehend. Much of ill nature, and a very littlejudgment, go far in finding the mistakes of writers.

I pretend not that any thing of mine can be correct: This poem, especially, which was contrived, and written in seven weeks, though afterwards hindered by many accidents from a speedy representation, which would have been its just excuse.

Yet the scenes are every where unbroken, and the unities of place and time more exactly kept, than perhaps is requisite in a tragedy; or, at least, than I have since preserved them in the "Conquest of Granada."

I have not everywhere observed the equality of numbers, in my verse; partly by reason of my haste; but more especially, because I would not have my sense a slave to syllables.

It is easy to discover, that I have been very bold in my alteration of the story, which of itself was too barren for a play; and that I have taken from the church two martyrs, in the persons of Porphyrius, and the empress, who suffered for the Christian faith, under the tyranny of Maximin.

I have seen a French play, called the "Martyrdom of St Catharine:" But those, who have read it, will soon clear me from stealing out of so dull an author. I have only borrowed a mistake from him, of one Maximin for another; for finding him in the French poet, called the son of a Thracian herdsman, and an Alane woman, I too easily believed him to have been the same Maximin mentioned in Herodian. Till afterwards, consulting Eusebius and Metaphrastes, I found the Frenchman had betrayed me into an error, when it was too late to alter it, by mistaking that first Maximin for a second, the contemporary of Constantine the Great, and one ofthe usurpers of the eastern empire.

But neither was the other name of my play more fortunate; for, as some, who had heard of a tragedy of St Catharine, imagined I had taken my plot from thence; so others, who had heard of another play, called "L'Amour Tyrannique," with the same ignorance, accused me to have borrowed my design from it, because I have accidentally given my play the same title; not having to this day seen it, and knowing only by report that such a comedy is extant in French, under the name of "Monsieur Scudery."

As for what I have said of astral or aërial spirits, it is no invention of mine, but taken from those who have written on that subject. Whether there are such beings or not, it concerns not me; it is sufficient for my purpose, that many have believed the affirmative; and that these heroic representations, which are of the same nature with the epic, are not limited, but with the extremest bounds of what is credible.

For the little critics, who pleased themselves with thinking they have found a flaw in that line of the prologue,

And he, who servilely creeps after sense,Is safe, &c.[M],

as if I patronized my own nonsense, I may reasonably suppose they have never read Horace.Serpit humi tutus, &c. are his words: He, who creeps after plain, dull, common sense, is safe from committing absurdities; but can never reach any height, or excellence of wit; and sure I could not mean, that any excellence were to be found innonsense. With the same ignorance, or malice, they would accuse me for using—empty arms, when I write of a ghost, or shadow; which has only the appearance of a body or limbs, and is empty, or void, of flesh and blood; andvacuis amplectitur ulnis, was an expression of Ovid's on the same subject. Some fool before them had charged me in "The Indian Emperor" with nonsense in these words,

And follow fate, which does too fast pursue;

Which was borrowed from Virgil, in the eleventh of his Æneids,

Eludit gyro interior, sequiturque sequentem[N].

I quote not these to prove, that I never writ nonsense; but only to shew, that they are so unfortunate as not to have found it.

VALE.

Self-love, which, never rightly understood,Makes poets still conclude their plays are good,And malice, in all critics, reigns so high,That for small errors, they whole plays decry;So that to see this fondness, and that spite,You'd think that none but madmen judge or write.Therefore our poet, as he thinks not fitT' impose upon you what he writes for wit;So hopes, that, leaving you your censures free,}You equal judges of the whole will be:}They judge but half, who only faults will see.}Poets, like lovers, should be bold and dare,They spoil their business with an over-care;And he, who servilely creeps after sense,Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence.Hence 'tis, our poet, in his conjuring,Allowed his fancy the full scope and swing.But when a tyrant for his theme he had,He loosed the reins, and bid his muse run mad:And though he stumbles in a full career,Yet rashness is a better fault than fear.He saw his way; but in so swift a pace,To chuse the ground might be to lose the race.They then, who of each trip the advantage take,Find but those faults, which they want wit to make.

Maximin,Tyrant of Rome.

Porphyrius,Captain of the Prætorian Bands.

Charinus,the Emperor's son.

Placidius,a great officer.

Valerius, }}Tribunes of the army.Albinus, }

Nigrinus,a Tribune and conjurer.

Amariel,guardian-angel to StCatharine.

Apollonius,a Heathen philosopher.

Berenice,wife toMaximin.

Valeria,daughter toMaximin.

StCatherine,Princess of Alexandria.

Felicia,her mother.

Erotion, }}Attendants.Cydnon, }

SCENE—The camp of Maximin, under the walls of Aquileia.

OR, THE

SCENE I.—A Camp, or Pavilion Royal.

EnterMaximin, Charinus, Placidius, Albinus, Valerius, Apollonius,and Guards.

Max.Thus far my arms have with success been crowned,And found no stop, or vanquished what they found.The German lakes my legions have o'erpast,With all the bars which art or nature cast:My foes, in watery fastnesses inclosed,I fought alone, to their whole war exposed;Did first the depth of trembling marshes sound,And fixed my eagles in unfaithful ground;By force submitted to the Roman swayFierce nations, and unknowing to obey;And now, for my reward, ungrateful Rome,For which I fought abroad, rebels at home.Alb.Yet 'tis their fear which does this war maintain;They cannot brook a martial monarch's reign:Your valour would their sloth too much accuse;And therefore, like themselves they princes chuse.Plac.Two tame gown'd princes, who at ease debate,In lazy chairs, the business of the state;Who reign but while the people they can please,And only know the little arts of peace.Char.In fields they dare not fight, where honour calls;But breathe a faint defiance from their walls.The very noise of war their souls does wound;They quake, but hearing their own trumpets sound.Val.An easy summons but for form they wait,And to your fame will open wide the gate.Plac.I wish our fame that swift success may find;But conquests, sir, are easily designed.However soft within themselves they are,To you they will be valiant by despair:For, having once been guilty, well they know,To a revengeful prince they still are so.Alb.'Tis true, that, since the senate's succours came,They grow more bold.Max.That senate's but a name:Or they are pageant princes which they make;That power they give away, they would partake.Two equal powers two different ways will draw,While each may check, and give the other law.True, they secure propriety and peace;But are not fit an empire to increase.When they should aid their prince, the slaves dispute;And fear success should make him absolute.They let foes conquer, to secure the state,And lend a sword, whose edge themselves rebate.Char.When to increase the gods you late are gone,I'll swiftly chuse to die, or reign alone:But these half kings our courage cannot fright;The thrifty state will bargain ere they fight:Give just so much for every victory,And rather lose a fight than overbuy.Max.Since all delays are dangerous in war,Your men, Albinus, for assault prepare;Crispinus and Meniphilus, I hear,Two consulars, these Aquileians cheer;By whom they may, if we protract the time,Be taught the courage to defend their crime.Plac.Put off the assault but only for this day:No loss can come by such a small delay.Char.We are not sure to-morrow will be ours:Wars have, like love, their favourable hours.Let us use all; for if we lose one day,That white one, in the crowd, may slip away.Max.Fate's dark recesses we can never find;But fortune, at some hours, to all is kind:The lucky have whole days, which still they chuse;The unlucky have but hours, and those they lose.Plac.I have consulted one, who reads heaven's doom,And sees, as present, things which are to come.'Tis that Nigrinus, made by your commandA tribune in the new Pannonian band.Him have I seen (on Ister's banks he stood,Where last we wintered), bind the headlong floodIn sudden ice; and, where most swift it flows,In crystal nets the wond'ring fishes close.Then, with a moment's thaw, the streams enlarge,And from the mesh the twinkling guests discharge.In a deep vale, or near some ruined wall,He would the ghosts of slaughtered soldiers call;Who slow to wounded bodies did repair,And, loth to enter, shivered in the air;These his dread wand did to short life compel,And forced the fates of battles to foretel.Max.'Tis wonderous strange! But, good Placidius, say,What prophecies Nigrinus of this day?Plac.In a lone tent, all hung with black, I saw,Where in a square he did a circle draw;Four angles, made by that circumference,Bore holy words inscribed, of mystic sense.When first a hollow wind began to blow,The sky grew black, and bellied down more low;Around the fields did nimble lightning play,Which offered us by fits, and snatched the day.'Midst this was heard the shrill and tender cryOf well-pleased ghosts, which in the storm did fly;Danced to and fro, and skimmed along the ground,Till to the magic circle they were bound.They coursing it, while we were fenced within,We saw this dreadful scene of fate begin.

Alb.Yet 'tis their fear which does this war maintain;They cannot brook a martial monarch's reign:Your valour would their sloth too much accuse;And therefore, like themselves they princes chuse.

Plac.Two tame gown'd princes, who at ease debate,In lazy chairs, the business of the state;Who reign but while the people they can please,And only know the little arts of peace.

Char.In fields they dare not fight, where honour calls;But breathe a faint defiance from their walls.The very noise of war their souls does wound;They quake, but hearing their own trumpets sound.

Val.An easy summons but for form they wait,And to your fame will open wide the gate.

Plac.I wish our fame that swift success may find;But conquests, sir, are easily designed.However soft within themselves they are,To you they will be valiant by despair:For, having once been guilty, well they know,To a revengeful prince they still are so.

Alb.'Tis true, that, since the senate's succours came,They grow more bold.

Max.That senate's but a name:Or they are pageant princes which they make;That power they give away, they would partake.Two equal powers two different ways will draw,While each may check, and give the other law.True, they secure propriety and peace;But are not fit an empire to increase.When they should aid their prince, the slaves dispute;And fear success should make him absolute.They let foes conquer, to secure the state,And lend a sword, whose edge themselves rebate.

Char.When to increase the gods you late are gone,I'll swiftly chuse to die, or reign alone:But these half kings our courage cannot fright;The thrifty state will bargain ere they fight:Give just so much for every victory,And rather lose a fight than overbuy.

Max.Since all delays are dangerous in war,Your men, Albinus, for assault prepare;Crispinus and Meniphilus, I hear,Two consulars, these Aquileians cheer;By whom they may, if we protract the time,Be taught the courage to defend their crime.

Plac.Put off the assault but only for this day:No loss can come by such a small delay.

Char.We are not sure to-morrow will be ours:Wars have, like love, their favourable hours.Let us use all; for if we lose one day,That white one, in the crowd, may slip away.

Max.Fate's dark recesses we can never find;But fortune, at some hours, to all is kind:The lucky have whole days, which still they chuse;The unlucky have but hours, and those they lose.

Plac.I have consulted one, who reads heaven's doom,And sees, as present, things which are to come.'Tis that Nigrinus, made by your commandA tribune in the new Pannonian band.Him have I seen (on Ister's banks he stood,Where last we wintered), bind the headlong floodIn sudden ice; and, where most swift it flows,In crystal nets the wond'ring fishes close.Then, with a moment's thaw, the streams enlarge,And from the mesh the twinkling guests discharge.In a deep vale, or near some ruined wall,He would the ghosts of slaughtered soldiers call;Who slow to wounded bodies did repair,And, loth to enter, shivered in the air;These his dread wand did to short life compel,And forced the fates of battles to foretel.

Max.'Tis wonderous strange! But, good Placidius, say,What prophecies Nigrinus of this day?

Plac.In a lone tent, all hung with black, I saw,Where in a square he did a circle draw;Four angles, made by that circumference,Bore holy words inscribed, of mystic sense.When first a hollow wind began to blow,The sky grew black, and bellied down more low;Around the fields did nimble lightning play,Which offered us by fits, and snatched the day.'Midst this was heard the shrill and tender cryOf well-pleased ghosts, which in the storm did fly;Danced to and fro, and skimmed along the ground,Till to the magic circle they were bound.They coursing it, while we were fenced within,We saw this dreadful scene of fate begin.

Char.Speak without fear; what did the vision shew?

Plac.A curtain, drawn, presented to our viewA town besieged; and on the neighbouring plainLay heaps of visionary soldiers slain.A rising mist obscured the gloomy headOf one, who, in imperial robes, lay dead.Near this, in fetters, stood a virgin crowned,Whom many Cupids strove in vain to wound:A voice,—To-morrow, stillTo-morrowrung;Another,—lo, lo Pæansung.Char.Visions and oracles still doubtful are,And ne'er expounded till the event of war.The gods' foreknowledge on our swords will wait:If we fight well, they must foreshow good fate.

Char.Visions and oracles still doubtful are,And ne'er expounded till the event of war.The gods' foreknowledge on our swords will wait:If we fight well, they must foreshow good fate.

To them a Centurion.

Cent.A rising dust, which troubles all the air,And this way travels, shews some army near.

Char.I hear the sound of trumpets from afar.[ExitAlbinus.

Max.It seems the voice of triumph, not of war.

To themAlbinusagain.

Alb.Health and success our emperor attends;The forces, marching on the plain, are friends.Porphyrius, whom you Egypt's prætor made,Is come from Alexandria to your aid.Max.It well becomes the conduct and the careOf one so famed and fortunate in war.You must resign, Placidius, your command;To him I promised the prætorian band.Your duty in your swift compliance show;I will provide some other charge for you.Plac.May Cæsar's pleasure ever be obeyed,With that submission, which by me is paid.Now all the curses envy ever knew,Or could invent, Porphyrius pursue![Aside.

Alb.Health and success our emperor attends;The forces, marching on the plain, are friends.Porphyrius, whom you Egypt's prætor made,Is come from Alexandria to your aid.

Max.It well becomes the conduct and the careOf one so famed and fortunate in war.You must resign, Placidius, your command;To him I promised the prætorian band.Your duty in your swift compliance show;I will provide some other charge for you.

Plac.May Cæsar's pleasure ever be obeyed,With that submission, which by me is paid.Now all the curses envy ever knew,Or could invent, Porphyrius pursue![Aside.

Alb.Placidius does too tamely bear his loss;[ToCharinus.This new pretender will all power engross:All things must now by his direction move,And you, sir, must resign your father's love.Char.Yes; every name to his repute must bow;There grow no bays for any other brow.He blasts my early honour in the bud,Like some tall tree, the monster of the wood;O'ershading all which under him would grow,He sheds his venom on the plants below.Alb.You must some noble action undertake,Equal with his your own renown to make.Char.I am not for a slothful envy born;I'll do't this day, in the dire vision's scorn.He comes: We two like the twin stars appear;Never to shine together in one sphere.[ExeuntChar.andAlbinus.

Alb.Placidius does too tamely bear his loss;[ToCharinus.

This new pretender will all power engross:All things must now by his direction move,And you, sir, must resign your father's love.

Char.Yes; every name to his repute must bow;There grow no bays for any other brow.He blasts my early honour in the bud,Like some tall tree, the monster of the wood;O'ershading all which under him would grow,He sheds his venom on the plants below.

Alb.You must some noble action undertake,Equal with his your own renown to make.

Char.I am not for a slothful envy born;I'll do't this day, in the dire vision's scorn.He comes: We two like the twin stars appear;Never to shine together in one sphere.[ExeuntChar.andAlbinus.

EnterPorphyriusattended.

Max.Porphyrius, welcome; welcome as the lightTo cheerful birds, or as to lovers night;Welcome as what thou bring'st me, victory.Por.That waits, sir, on your arms, and not on me.You left a conquest more than half achieved,And for whose easiness I almost grieved.Yours only the Egyptian laurels are;I bring you but the reliques of your war.The Christian princess, to receive your doom,Is from her conquered Alexandria come;Her mother, in another vessel sent,A storm surprised, nor know I the event:Both from your bounty must receive their state,Or must on your triumphant chariot wait.Max.From me they can expect no grace, whose mindsAn execrable superstition blinds.Apol.The gods, who raised you to the world's command,Require these victims from your grateful hand.Por.To minds resolved, the threats of death are vain;They run to fires, and there enjoy their pain;Not Mucius made more haste his hand to exposeTo greedy flames, than their whole bodies those.Max.How to their own destruction they are blind!Zeal is the pious madness of the mind.Por.They all our famed philosophers defy,And would our faith by force of reason try.Apol.I beg it, sir, by all the powers divine.That in their right this combat may be mine.Max.It shall; and fifty doctors of our lawsBe added to you, to maintain the cause.

Max.Porphyrius, welcome; welcome as the lightTo cheerful birds, or as to lovers night;Welcome as what thou bring'st me, victory.

Por.That waits, sir, on your arms, and not on me.You left a conquest more than half achieved,And for whose easiness I almost grieved.Yours only the Egyptian laurels are;I bring you but the reliques of your war.The Christian princess, to receive your doom,Is from her conquered Alexandria come;Her mother, in another vessel sent,A storm surprised, nor know I the event:Both from your bounty must receive their state,Or must on your triumphant chariot wait.

Max.From me they can expect no grace, whose mindsAn execrable superstition blinds.

Apol.The gods, who raised you to the world's command,Require these victims from your grateful hand.

Por.To minds resolved, the threats of death are vain;They run to fires, and there enjoy their pain;Not Mucius made more haste his hand to exposeTo greedy flames, than their whole bodies those.

Max.How to their own destruction they are blind!Zeal is the pious madness of the mind.

Por.They all our famed philosophers defy,And would our faith by force of reason try.

Apol.I beg it, sir, by all the powers divine.That in their right this combat may be mine.

Max.It shall; and fifty doctors of our lawsBe added to you, to maintain the cause.

EnterBerenice,the Empress;Valeria,daughter to the Emperor, andErotion.

Plac.The empress and your daughter, sir, are here.

Por.What dangers in those charming eyes appear![Looking on the Empress.How my old wounds are opened at this view,And in my murderer's presence bleed anew!Max.I did expect your coming, to partake[To the Ladies.The general gladness which my triumphs make.You did Porphyrius as a courtier know;But as a conqueror behold him now.Ber.You know (I read it in your blushing face),[ToPor.To merit, better than receive a grace:And I know better silently to own,Than with vain words to pay your service done.Por.Princes, like gods, reward ere we deserve;[Kneeling to kiss her hand.And pay us, in permitting us to serve.O might I still grow here, and never move![Lower.Ber.How dangerous are these ecstacies of love!He shews his passion to a thousand eyes;He cannot stir, nor can I bid him rise.That word my heart refuses to my tongue![Aside.

Por.What dangers in those charming eyes appear![Looking on the Empress.

How my old wounds are opened at this view,And in my murderer's presence bleed anew!

Max.I did expect your coming, to partake[To the Ladies.

The general gladness which my triumphs make.You did Porphyrius as a courtier know;But as a conqueror behold him now.

Ber.You know (I read it in your blushing face),[ToPor.

To merit, better than receive a grace:And I know better silently to own,Than with vain words to pay your service done.

Por.Princes, like gods, reward ere we deserve;[Kneeling to kiss her hand.

And pay us, in permitting us to serve.O might I still grow here, and never move![Lower.

Ber.How dangerous are these ecstacies of love!He shews his passion to a thousand eyes;He cannot stir, nor can I bid him rise.That word my heart refuses to my tongue![Aside.

Max.Madam, you let the general kneel too long.

Por.Too long! as if eternity were so.[Aside.

Ber.Rise, good Porphyrius—since it must be so.[Aside.

Por.Like hermits from a vision I retire,[Rising.With eyes too weak to see what I admire.[Aside.

Por.Like hermits from a vision I retire,[Rising.

With eyes too weak to see what I admire.[Aside.

Val.The empress knows your worth; but, sir, there be[ToPorphyrius,who kisses her hand.Those who can value it as high as she.And 'tis but just (since in my father's causeYou fought) your valour should have my applause.Plac.O jealousy, how art thou eagle-eyed!She loves; and would her love in praises hide:How am I bound this rival to pursue,Who ravishes my love and fortune too![Aside.

Val.The empress knows your worth; but, sir, there be[ToPorphyrius,who kisses her hand.

Those who can value it as high as she.And 'tis but just (since in my father's causeYou fought) your valour should have my applause.

Plac.O jealousy, how art thou eagle-eyed!She loves; and would her love in praises hide:How am I bound this rival to pursue,Who ravishes my love and fortune too![Aside.

[A dead march within, and trumpets.

Max.Somewhat of mournful, sure, my ears does wound;Like the hoarse murmurs of a trumpet's sound,And drums unbraced, with soldiers' broken cries.

EnterAlbinus.

Albinus, whence proceeds this dismal noise?

Alb.Too soon you'll know what I want words to tell.

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