The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 08Dryden, John
General
The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 08
Dryden, John
English drama -- 17th century
_Cas._ [_Rises._] Accursed be thou, grass-eating foddered god!
Accursed thy temple! more accursed thy priests!
The gods are theirs, not ours; and when we pray
For happy omens, we their price must pay.
In vain at shrines the ungiving suppliant stands;
This 'tis to make a vow with empty hands:
Fat offerings are the priesthood's only care;
They take the money, and heaven hears the prayer.
Without a bribe their oracles are mute;
And their instructed gods refuse the suit.
[_Exit_ CASSANDRA _in a fury, King and Attendants
follow. Scene closes._
SCENE III.--_The Port of Alexandria._
_Enter_ CLEOMENES, _and_ CLEANTHES.
_Cleom._ The propositions are unjust and hard;
And if I swallow them, 'tis as we take
The wrath of heaven.
We must have patience, for they will be gods,
And give us no account of what we suffer.
_Clean._ My father much abhors this middle way,
Betwixt a gift and sale of courtesy.
But 'tis the mistress; she that seemed so kind,
'Tis she, that bears so hard a hand upon you;
She that would half oblige, and half affront.
_Cleom._ Let her be what she is: that's curse enough.
But such a wife, a mother, and a son!
Oh sure, ye gods! when ye made this vile Egypt,
Ye little thought, they should be mortgaged here!
My only comfort
Is, that I trust these precious pawns with thee;
For thou art so religiously a friend,
That I would sooner leave them in thy hands,
Than if I had security from heaven,
And all the gods to answer for their safety.
_Clean._ Yes, yes; they shall be safe;
And thou shall have a pledge,
As strong as friendship can make over to thee.
Deny me not, for I must go with thee,
And share what fate allots for thee in Greece.
[CLEOMENES _looks discontentedly_.
Nay, cast not on me that forbidding frown;
But let me be their pawn, as they are thine:
So I shall have thee wholly to myself,
And be thy wife, thy mother, and thy son,
As thou art all to me.
_Cleom._ Oh friend! [_Sighs, and wipes his eyes._
_Clean._ What wouldst thou say, my better part?
_Cleom._ No more, but this, that thou art too unkind,
When even in kindness thou wouldst overcome.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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