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Almanz. Thus, when I have no living force to dread, Fate finds me enemies amongst the dead. I'm now to conquer ghosts, and to destroy The strong impressions of a bridal joy. Almah. You've yet a greater foe than these can be,— Virtue opposes you, and modesty.
Almanz. From a false fear that modesty does grow, And thinks true love, because 'tis fierce, its foe.
I'll pull up all the sluices of the flood,
[Gives him Almahide's hand.
Almah. Madam, I never can dispute your power, Or as a parent, or a conqueror; But, when my year of widowhood expires, Shall yield to your command, and his desires. Almanz. Move swiftly, sun, and fly a lover's pace;Leave weeks and months behind thee in thy race!
K. Ferd. Mean time, you shall my victories pursue, The Moors in woods and mountains to subdue. Almanz. The toils of war shall help to wear each day, And dreams of love shall drive my nights away.— Our banners to the Alhambra's turrets bear; Then, wave our conquering crosses in the air, And cry, with shouts of triumph,—Live and reign, Great Ferdinand and Isabel of Spain! [Exeunt.
They, who have best succeeded on the stage,
* The characters alluded to are Cobb, the water bearer, in " Every Man in his Humour;" and Captain Otter, in "Epicaene, or the Silent-Woman," whose humour it was to christen his drinking cups by the names of Horse, Bull, and Bear.
AX ESSAY ON THE DRAMATIC POETRY
J. He promises of authors, that they will write again, are, in effect, a threatening of their readers with some new impertinence; and they, who perform not what they promise, will have their pardon on easy terms. It is from this consideration, that I could be glad to spare you the trouble, which I am now giving you, of a postscript, if I were not obliged, by many reasons, to write somewhat concerning our present plays, and those of our predecessors on the English stage. The truth is, I have so far engaged myself in a bold epilogue to this play, wherein I have somewhat taxed the former writing, that it was necessary for me either not to print it, or to show that I could defend it. Yet I would so maintain my opinion of the present age, as not to be wanting in my veneration for the past:
I would ascribe to dead authors their just praises in those things wherein they have excelled us; and in those wherein we contend with them for the preeminence, I would acknowledge our advantages to the age, and claim no victory from our wit. This being what I have proposed to myself, I hope I shall not be thought arrogant when I enquire into their errors: For we live in an age so sceptical, that as it determines little, so it takes nothing from antiquity on trust; and I profess to have no other ambition in this essay, than that poetry may not go backward, when all other arts and sciences are advancing. Whoever censures me for this inquiry, let him hear his character from Horace:
Ingeniis non illefavet, plauditque sepultis,
He favours not dead wits, but hates the living.
It was upbraided to that excellent poet, that he was an enemy to the writings of his predecessor Lucilius, because he had said, Lutilium lutulentum fluere, that he ran muddy; and that he ought to have retrenched from his satires many unnecessary verses. But Horace makes Lucilius himself to justify him from the imputation of envy, by telling you that he would have done the same, had he lived in an age which was more refined:
Siforet hoc nostrum fato delapsus in avum,
And, both in the whole course of that satire, and in his most admirable Epistle to Augustus, he makes it his business to prove, that antiquity alone is no plea for the excellency of a poem; but that, one age learning from another, the last (if we can suppose an equality of wit in the writers,) has the ad