The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 07Dryden, John
General
The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 07
Dryden, John
English literature
Of the diction, Dr Johnson has said, with meagre commendation, that it
has "some sentiments which leave a strong impression," and "others of
excellence, universally acknowledged." This, even when the admiration
of the scene betwixt Dorax and Sebastian has been sanctioned by that
great critic, seems scanty applause for the _chef d'oeuvre_ of
Dryden's dramatic works. The reader will be disposed to look for more
unqualified praise, when such a poet was induced, by every pressing
consideration, to combine, in one effort, the powers of his mighty
genius, and the fruits of his long theatrical experience: Accordingly,
Shakespeare laid aside, it will be perhaps difficult to point out a
play containing more animatory incident, impassioned language, and
beautiful description, than "Don Sebastian." Of the former, the scene
betwixt Dorax and the king, had it been the only one ever Dryden
wrote, would have been sufficient to insure his immortality. There is
not,--no, perhaps, not even in Shakespeare,--an instance where the
chord, which the poet designed should vibrate, is more happily struck;
strains there are of a higher mood, but not more correctly true; in
evidence of which, we have known those, whom distresses of a gentler
nature were unable to move, feel their stubborn feelings roused and
melted by the injured pride and deep repentance of Dorax. The burst of
anguish with which he answers the stern taunt of Sebastian, is one of
those rare, but natural instances, in which high-toned passion assumes
a figurative language, because all that is familiar seems inadequate
to express its feelings:
_Dor._ Thou hast dared
To tell me, what I durst not tell myself:
I durst not think that I was spurned, and live;
And live to hear it boasted to my face.
All my long avarice of honour lost,
Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age!
Has honour's fountain then sucked back the stream?
He has; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass,
And gather pebbles from the naked ford.
Give me my love, my honour; give them back--
Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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