Complete Works of Edward Young, page 65
THE STATEMAN’S CREED.
TO MR. ADDISON, ON THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.
TO THE KING, 1728.
TWO EPISTLES TO MR. POPE CONCERNING THE AUTHORS OF THE AGE. 1730.
VERSES SENT BY LORD MELCOMBE TO DR. YOUNG, NOT LONG BEFORE HIS LORDSHIP’S DEATH.68
The Plays
Young matriculated at New College, Oxford, in 1702.
Busiris, King of Egypt (1719)
CONTENTS
BUSIRIS, KING OF EGYPT.
DEDICATION.
PROLOGUE.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
EPILOGUE, BY A FRIEND.
BUSIRIS, KING OF EGYPT.
A TRAGEDY:
ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE, 1719.
O triste plané acerbumque funus! O morte iped mortis tempus indignius!
Jam destinata erat egregio juveni, jam electus nuptiarum dies; quod
gaudium quo moerore mutatum est! — PLINII Epist.
DEDICATION.
TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF NEWCASTLE, LORD CHAMBERLAIN OF HIS MAJESTY’S HOUSEHOLD, &C.
MY LORD,
IF a dedication carries in its nature a mark of our acknowledgment and esteem, and is there most due where we are most obliged; the late instance I received of your
Grace’s undeserved and uncommon favour in an affair of some consequence (foreign to the theatre) has taken from me the privilege of choosing a patron: especially for a performance which not only by its kind falls immediately under your Grace’s authority, but which likewise by its good fortune, in a season of some danger to it, received from your Grace’s free indulgence its life and success on the stage. Thus my ambition concurs with my duty; and it is my happiness not to be able to gratify the impulse of the one, without obeying at the same time the dictates of the other.
Addresses of this nature, through a gross abuse of praise, have justly fallen under ridicule. How pleasant is it, to hear one of yesterday complimented on his illustrious ancestors! a sordid person, on his magnificence! an illiterate pretender, on his skill in arts and sciences! or a wretch contracted with self-love, on his diffusive benevolence to mankind! Yet from the frequency of such a shameful prostitution of the pen as this, one advantage results: it gives the grace of novelty and peculiarity to a dedication that shall reclaim panegyric from its guilt, and rescue the late-mentioned sublime distinctions of character from absurdity and injustice, by applying them to a Duke of Newcastle. It is a kind of compliment paid to panegyric itself, to use it on so just an occasion.
It is letters, my Lord, which distinguish one age from another; each period of time shines, or is cast in shades, as they flourish or decline: and who knows not that the fate of letters is determined by the kind or cold aspect of the great! How happy, then, is the present time! How fair an assurance has it of being exempted from the death of common ages! when we see the politer arts triumphing in the care and encouragement of one who has made an early and regular acquaintance with them at their own home, joining to the amplest fortune the qualifications requisite (had it been wanting) to acquire and deserve it; one who, in the flower of youth, when the imagination is warmest, and fit for such a province, presides over the labours of genius and fine taste, and has it in his power to rival those he is pleased to patronize; one, in a word, who, covetous of learning, reaches beyond his own nation for new supplies of it; who, zealous for merit, pays honours to its very ashes; and whose being an excellent master in polite letters himself, is one of the smallest proofs he has given of his ardent love towards them.
But I cannot turn my thought that way, without being put in mind of the imperfection of the following scenes. I own they have many faults, — as many as I can allow, without reflecting on the town for the countenance they have received: but I hope they have merit enough to entitle them to some share of your Grace’s approbation, as well as errors enough to make them stand in need of all your protection; the continuance of which is humbly hoped by,
My Lord,
Your Grace’s much obliged, most obedient,
and most humble servant,
EDWARD YOUNG.
PROLOGUE.
BY A FRIEND.
SPOKEN BY MR. BOOTH.
LONG have you seen the Greek and Roman name,
Assisted by the Muse, renew their fame;
While yet unsung those heroes sleep, from whom
Greece form’d her Platos, and her Caesars Rome.
Such, Egypt, were thy sons! divinely great
In arts, in arms, in wisdom, and in state.
Her early monarchs gave such glories birth.
Their ruins are the wonders of the earth.
Structures so vast, by those great kings design’d,
Are but faint sketches of their boundless mind:
Yet ne’er has Albion’s scene, though long renown’d,
With the stern tyrants of the Nile been crown’d.
The tragic Muse in grandeur should excel;
Her figure blazes, and her numbers swell.
The proudest monarch of the proudest age
From Egypt comes to tread the British stage:
Old Homer’s heroes modems are to those
Whom this night’s venerable scenes disclose.
Here pomp and splendour serve but to prepare
To touch the soul is our peculiar care;
By just distress soft pity to impart,
And mend your nature, while we move your heart
Nor would these scenes in empty words abound,
Or overlay the sentiment with sound.
When passion rages, eloquence is mean;
Gestures and looks best speak the moving scene.
Ye shining fair! when tender woes invite
To pleasing anguish and severe delight,
By your affliction you compute your gain,
And rise in pleasure as you rise in pain.
If, then, just objects of concern are shown,
And your hearts heave with sorrows not your own,
Let not the generous impulse be withstood;
Strive not with Nature; blush not to be good.
Sighs only from a nobler temper rise,
And’t is your virtue swells into your eyes.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
MEN.
BUSIRIS, king of Egypt, Mr. Elrington.
MYRON, the prince, Mr. Booth.
NICANOR, father of Mandane, Mr. Mills.
CONSPIRATORS
MEMNON, Mr. Wilks.
RAMESES, Mr. Walker.
SYPHOCES, Thurmond.
PHERON, Mr. Williams.
AULETES, a courtier, Mr. W. Mills.
WOMEN.
MYRIS, queen of Egypt, Mrs. Thurmond,
MANDANE, Mrs. Oldfield.
Scene, a temple at Memphis, in Old Egypt.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Enter PHERON and SYPHOCES.
Syph. IF glorious structures and immortal deeds
Enlarge the thought, and set our souls on fire,
My tongue has been too cold in Egypt’s praise,
The queen of nations, and the boast of times,
Mother of science, and the house of gods!
Scarce can I open wide my labouring mind
To comprehend the vast idea, big
With arts and arms, so boundless in their fame.
Pher. Thrice happy land! did not her dreadful king,
Far-famed Busiris, whom the world reveres,
Lay all his shining wonders in disgrace
By cruelty and pride.
Syph. By pride indeed.
He calls himself “the Proud,” and glories in it,
Nor would exchange for Jupiter’s “Almighty.”
Have we not seen him shake his silver reins
O’er harness’d monarchs to his chariot yoked?
In sullen majesty they stalk along,
With eyes of indignation and despair;
While he aloft displays his impious state,
With half their rifled kingdoms o’er his brow,
Blazing to heaven in diamonds and gold.
Pher. Nor less the tyrant’s cruelty than pride:
His horrid altars stream with human blood, —
And piety is murder in his hands. (A great shout.)
Syph. There rose the voice of twice two hundred thousand,
And broke the clouds, and clear’d the face of day.
The king, who, from his temple’s airy height,
With heart dilated, that great work surveys,
Which shall proclaim what can be done by man,
Has struck his purple streamer, and descends.
Pher. Twice ten long years have seen that haughty pile,
Which nations with united toil advance,
Gain on the skies, and labour up to heaven.
Syph. The king! — Or prostrate fall, or disappear.
(Exeunt.)
Enter BUSIRIS, attended.
Bus. This ancient city, Memphis the renown’d,
Almost coæval with the Sun himself,
And boasting strength scarce sooner to decay, —
How wanton sits she amid Nature’s smiles;
Nor from her highest turret has to view
But golden landscapes and luxuriant scenes;
A waste of wealth, the storehouse of the world!
Here fruitful vales, far-stretching, fly the sight;
There sails unnumber’d whiten all the stream;
While from the banks full twenty thousand cities
Survey their pride, and see their gilded towers
Float on the waves, and break against the shore.
To crown the whole, this rising pyramid (Shows the plan.)
Lengthens in air, and ends among the stars;
While every other object shrinks beneath
Its mighty shade, and lessens to the view,
As kings compared with me.
Enter AULETES. He falls prostrate.
Aul. O live for ever,
Busiris, first of men!
Bus. Auletes, rise.
Aul. Ambassadors from various climes arrive,
To view your wonders, and to greet your fame;
Each loaden with the gifts his country yields,
Of which the meanest rise to gold and pearl.
The rich Arabian fills his ample vase
With sacred incense: Ethiopia sends
A thousand coursers fleeter than the wind;
And their black riders darken all the plain.
Camels and elephants from other realms,
Bending beneath a weight of luxury,
Bring the best seasons of their various years,
And leave their monarchs poor.
Bus. What from the Persian?
Aul. He bends before your throne, and for outweighs
The rest in tribute, and outshines in state.
Bus. Away! he sees me not: I know his purpose;
A spy upon my greatness, and no friend.
Take his ambassador, and show him Egypt;
In Memphis show him various nations met,
As in a sea, yet not confined in space,
But streaming freely through the spacious streets,
Which send forth millions at each brasen gate,
Whene’er the trumpet calls: high over head
On the broad walls the chariots bound along,
And leave in air a thunder of my own.
Jove, too, has pour’d the Nile into my hand,
The prince of rivers, Ocean’s eldest son:
Rich of myself, I make the fruitful year,
Nor ask precarious plenty from the sky. —
Throw all my glories open to his view;
Then tell him, in return for trifles offer’d,
I give him this: and when a Persian arm
(Gives him a how.)
Can thus with vigour its reluctance bend,
And to the nerve its stubborn force subdue,
Then let his master think of arms, — but bring
More men than yet e’er pour’d into the field;
Meantime, thank Heaven, our tide of conquest drives
A different way, and leaves him still a king.
This to the Persian. — I receive the rest,
And give the world an answer.
(Exit Busiris.)
Mandane, attended by priests and her virgins, is seen sacrificing at a distance. An hymn to Isis is sung. The priests go out.
MANDANE, attended by her maids, advances.
Man. My morning duty to the gods is over;
Yet still this terror hangs upon my soul,
And saddens every thought — I still behold
The dreadful image; still the threatening sword
Points at my breast, and glitters in mine eye. —
But’t was a dream; no more. My virgins, leave me:
And thou, great Ruler of the world, be present!
O kindly shine on this important hour!
This hour determines all my future life,
And gives it up to misery or joy. (She advances.)
These lonely walks, this deep and solemn gloom.
Where noon-day suns but glimmer to the view,
This house of tears, and mansion of the dead,
For ever hides him from the hated light,
And gives him leave to groan.
(Back-scene draws, and shows Memnon leaning on his father’s tomb.)
Was ever scene so mournful? If, my lord, the dead alone
Are all your care, life is no more a blessing.
How could you shun me for this dismal shade,
And seek from love a refuge in despair?
Mem. Why hast thou brought those eyes to this sad place,
Where darkness dwells, and grief would sigh secure
In welcome horrors and beloved night?
Thy beauties drive thy friendly shades before them,
And light up day e’en here. Retire, my love:
Each joyful moment I would share with thee,
My virtuous maid; but I would mourn alone.
Man. What have you found in me so mean, to hope
That while you sigh, my heart can be at peace?
Your sorrows flow from your Mandane’s eyes.
Mem. O my Mandane!
Man. Wherefore turn you from me?
Have I offended, or are you unkind? —
Ah me! a sight as strange as pitiful!
From this big heart, o’ercharged with generous sorrow,
See the tide working upward to his eye,
And stealing from him in large silent drops,
Without his leave! Can those tears flow in vain?
Mem. Why will you double my distress, and make
My grief my crime, by discomposing you? —
And yet I can’t forbear! Alas, my father!
That name excuses all: what is not due
To that great name, which life or death can pay?
Man. Speak on, and ease your labouring breast: it swells
And sinks again; and then it swells so high,
It looks as it would break. I know’t is big
With something you would utter. Oft in vain
I have presumed to ask your mournful story,
But ever have been answer’d with a frown.
Mem. O my Mandane! did my tale concern
Myself alone, it would not be conceal’d;
But’t is wrapt up in guilt, in royal guilt,
And therefore’t is unsafe to touch upon it.
To tell my tale, is to blow off the ashes
From sleeping embers, which will rise in flames
At the least breath, and spread destruction round.
But thou art faithful, and my other self;
And, O! my heart this moment is so full,
It bursts with its complaints, and I must speak.
Myris, the present queen, was only sister
Of great Artaxes, our late royal lord:
Busiris, who now reigns, was first of males
In lineal blood, to which this crown descends.
Not with long circumstance to load my story,
Ambitious Myris fired his daring soul,
And turn’d his sword against her brother’s life;
Then, mounting to the tyrant’s bed and throne,
Enjoy’d her shame, and triumph’d in her guilt.
Man. So black a story well might shun the day.
Mem. Artaxes’ friends (a virtuous multitude)
Were swept away by banishment or death
In throngs, and sated the devouring grave.
My father! — Think, Mandane, on your own,
And pardon me! —— (Weeps.)
The tyrant took me, then of tender years,
And rear’d me with his son, — a son since dead.
He vainly hoped, by shows of guilty kindness,
To wear away the blackness of his crime,
And reconcile me to my father’s fete.
Hence have I long been forced to stay my vengeance.
To smooth my brow with smiles, and curb my tongue,
While the big woe lies throbbing at my heart.
Enter PHERON at a distance.
Pher. (A side.) So close! so loving! — Here I stand unseen,
And watch my rival’s fate.
Mem. But thou, my fair;
Thou art my peace in tumult, life in death;
Thou yet canst make me bless’d.
Man. As how, my lord?
Mem. Ah! why wilt thou insult me?
Man. Memnon —
Mem. Speak!
Man. Nature forbids; and when I would begin,
She stifles all my spirits, and I faint:
My heart is breaking, but I cannot speak.
O let me fly! —
Mem. You pierce me to the soul. (Holding her.)
Man. O! spare me for a moment, till my heart
Regains its wonted force, and I will speak. —
Pheron, you know, is daily urgent with me,
Breaks through restraints, and will not be refused.
(Pheron shows a great concern.)
Yet more: the prince, the young impetuous prince,
Before his father sent him forth to war,
