The Works of Aphra Behn, Vol. II by Aphra Behn

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_Amin_. For ever so I'd be content to dwell,
I wou'd put off all frightful Marks of War,
And wou'd appear as soft and calm to thee,
As are thy Eyes when silently they wound.
An Army I wou'd quit to lead thy Flock,
And more esteem a Chaplet wreath'd by thee,
Than the victorious Laurel.
--But come, Love makes us idle.

_Druid_. My Prayers ever go along with you,
And your fair Bride, _Urania_.--I cou'd wish
My Youth and Vigour were as heretofore,
When only Courts and Camps cou'd make me happy;
And then I wou'd not bid farewel so soon
To so much Virtue as I've found in you.

_Amin_. I humbly thank you, Father, for a Goodness
That shames my poor Returns.
Come, pretty _Lyces_, and thou, honest _Damon_,
With all the rest of our kind Train;
Let's hasten to the Camp, during this Truce,
Your little rustick Sports will find a welcome.

_Ura_. There are no Women in the Camp, my Lord.

_Amin_. No matter, thou canst not hate a Soldier,
Since I am one; and you must be obedient,
And learn to bear my Bow and Arrows now,
It is the Duty of a _Scythian's_ Wife.

_Ura_. She that can claim _Amintas_ by such Ties,
May find a Safety wheresoe'er she flies.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE III. _A Prison_.

_Enter_ Orsames _joyful, and_ Geron.

_Ors_. Am I indeed a King?
And is there such a thing as fair _Olympia_?
Hadst thou not been the first had told me this,
By Heaven, thou'dst dy'd for thus concealing it;
Not all the Obligations of my Youth
Should have preserv'd thee.

_Ger_. Till now I wanted Opportunity;
For had you known your Quality before,
You wou'd have grown impatient of the Crown,
And by that Haste have overthrown your Interest.

_Ors_. And canst thou now provide against my Ignorance?

_Ger_. Sir, we have gain'd the Army on our side.

_Ors_. What's that?

_Ger_. Those Numbers that I told you should adore you.

_Ors_. When shall I see them, _Geron_?

_Ger_. E'er long, Sir: should your Deliverance
Be wrought by any other Means than theirs,
It were to snatch a Glory from their Hands,
Which they design their only Recompence.

_Ors_. Oh, how I am transported with the Joy!
But, _Geron_, art thou sure we do not dream?

_Ger_. Then Life it self's a Dream--
Hark, I hear a noise--
[_Noise_.

_Within_] Kill the Dog--down with him!

_Ors_. Oh, how I'm ravisht with this unknown Noise!

_Within_.] Break down the Prison-Walls and Gates, and force your
Passage--

_Enter_ Vallentio, _followed by_ Gorel _and a Rabble of
Citizens and Officers, tearing in the Keeper all bloody_.

_Val_. No killing to day, my Fellow-Soldiers, if you can
help it; we will not stain our Triumphs in Blood--
[_They all stand and gaze_. Ors. _gazes on them_.
Ye Gods, instruct me where to bow my Knee--
But this alone must be the Deity--

[_Kneels_, Ors. _lets him kneel, and gazes on him_.

_1 Cit_. Is that the King, Neighbour, in such mean Clothes?

_Gorel_. Yes, Goodman Fool, why should the Colonel kneel else?

_2 Cit_. Oh, pray, Neighbour, let me see a little, I never saw a King in
all the days of my Life. Lord, Lord! Is that he the Colonel kneels to?

_Gorel_. What Questions this ignorant Fellow asks!

_3 Cit_. Good lack-a-day, 'tis as a Man may say--'tis just such another
Body as one of us, only he looks a little more terrably.

_Ger_. Sir, why do you let him kneel?

_Ors_. Rise, and let me look upon thee.

_Val_. Great Sir, we come to offer you a Crown,
That long has waited for this great Support;
It ought to have been presented in a more glorious order,
But Time and your Affairs permit not that.
A thousand Dangers wait upon Delay;
But though the World be yours, it is not safe
Depending on a fickle Multitude,
Whom Interest, and not Reason renders just.

_Ors_. Thou art a wondrous Man.

_1 Cit_. Good _Gorel_, stand back, and let me see a little; my Wife loves
Newalties abominationly, ami I must tell her something about the King.

_Gorel_. What a Pox have we to do with your Wife? stand back.

_Val_. Now deign, great Sir, to arm your Hand with this--
[_Gtves_ Ors. _a Sword, he gazes on it_.
Nay, view it well, for though it be but homely,
It carries that about it can make the Wearer proud;
--An Edge--pray feel it, Sir,--'t has dealt
Many a mortal Wound--
See how it dares the Sun for Brightness, Sir!
Or if there be a Stain, it is an Ornament,
Dy'd in the Blood of those that were your Enemies:
It never made a Blow or Thrust in vain.
--How do you like it, Sir?

_Ors_. So well, I know not whether this or thee
Be most agreeable to me;
You need not teach me how I am to use it,
That I will leave for those that dare offend me.
Look, _Geron_, is it not a glorious Object?
There's nothing but my bright _Olympia's_ Eyes
That can out-glitter this.

_1 Cit_. Hah, _Simon_, did he not talk bravely?

_Val_. Come, Sir, 'tis time you left this Dungeon for a Throne;
For now's the time to make the World your own.
All shouting--Vive le Roy, Vive le Roy.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE IV. _A Tent_.

_Enter_ Cleomena _and_ Semiris, _drest as Women again_.

_Sem_. Dear Madam, I cou'd wish you'd sleep awhile.

_Cleo_. That Peace I have not been acquainted with
Since my _Clemanthis'_ Death;
Yet now methinks my Heart's more calm and still,
And I perhaps may thus expire in silence--
Prithee, _Semiris_, take thy Lute and sing to't,
Whilst I will try to sleep.
[_Lies down on a Couch, Sem. plays and sings_.

SONG, made by _J. Wright_ Esq:

_Fair Nymph, remember all your Scorn
Will be by Time repaid;
Those Glories which that Face adorn,
And flourish as the rising Morn,
Must one day set and fade.
Then all your cold Disdain for me
Will but increase Deformity,
When still the kind will lovely be.
Compassion is of lasting Praise;
For that's the Beauty ne'er decays.

Fair Nymph, avoid those Storms of Fate
Are to the Cruel due;
The Powers above, though ne'er so late.
Can be, when they revenge your Hate,
As pitiless as you.
Know, charming Maid, the Powers divine
Did never such soft Eyes design
To wound a Heart so true as mine:
That God who my dear Flame infus'd,
Will never see it thus abus'd_.

Return, my dear _Clemanthis_, oh, return,
[Cleo. _rises as in a Dream_.
And see 'tis not into thy lovely Bosom
That I have sent my Vengeance.

_Sem_. What mean you, Madam?

_Cleo_. But thou, poor Ghost--
Instead of hasting me to my Revenge,
Endeavour'st to touch me with Compassion.

_Sem_. Madam, who is't you follow thus and speak to?

_Cleo. Thersander_, why do'st rob me of that Face?
Is't to disarm me of my Indignation?

_Sem_. Oh, Madam, what do you do?

_Cleo_. Ha! dost thou see nothing?

_Sem_. Not any thing.

_Cleo_. Yonder's the _Scythian_ with _Clemanthis'_ Face,
Or else _Clemanthis_ with _Thersander's_ Wound.

_Sem_. Compose your Thoughts, dear Madam, 'twas a Dream,
An idle Dream, born from a troubled Fancy.
--How was it, Madam?

_Cleo_. Methought I saw _Clemanthis_,
As when he was most charming to my Soul,
But pale and languishing, having a Wound
Like that I gave his Murderer
To which with one of's Hands he seem'd to point;
The other stretching out with passionate Actions,
And gazing on me,--thus methought he spoke:
--See how you recompense my faithful Sufferings,
--See the performance of your Promises;
Look on this Wound which you have given my Heart,
That Heart that still ador'd you:
And yet you're not content with all these Cruelties,
Though even in your Anger and my Death,
I still continue faithful and submissive.
--Thus spoke the lovely Phantom.

_Enter_ Pimante.

_Pim_. Madam, there waits without a Servant to the Prince.

_Cleo_. He may come in.

_Enter_ Lysander.

_Lys_. Madam, my dying Prince begs you may know
How willingly he does obey your Will,
And dying still implores you wou'd believe
He's guilty of no fault but having lov'd you,
For which presumption he deserves to die;
--But 'tis not by your Dagger, but your Eyes:
That was too weak to exercise your Will,
Your Cruelty had power alone to kill;
And now from you one visit he implores,
And after that he'll trouble you no more. [_Weeps_.

_Cleo_. That I will grant to satisfy the King.

_Lys_. When he is dead--
He'll send the Spirit of _Clemanthis_ to you,
Who shall upbraid you with your Cruelty,
And let you see, in wounding of _Thersander_,
You've found the readiest way to kill _Clemanthis_.

_Cleo_. What means he by these Words?

_Lys_. He humbly begs you'll pardon the rough treatment
You've had among the _Scythians_,
Whose Crown, he says, _Clemanthis_ promis'd you,
And he intreats you would accept it from him.

_Cleo_. To send the Spirit of _Clemanthis_ to me--
How this agrees with my sad Dream!
How did thy Master know--
_Clemanthis_ promis'd me the Crown of _Scythia_?--
[_Advances towards_ Lys. _and she starts_.
--Sure I have seen that Face before--
Art not _Lysander_, Page to _Clemanthis_?

_Lys_. Madam, I am, and ever serv'd that Master.

_Cleo_. How couldst thou then come near his Enemy?

_Lys_. Madam, it was by his Command I came.

_Cleo_. How could _Clemanthis_ love his Murderer?
It is no wonder then that generous Spirit
Came while I slept, and pleaded for the Prince.

_Lys_. What means the Princess?

_Enter_ Pimante.

_Pim_. Oh, Madam, I have news to tell you that will
Make you forswear ever fighting again.

_Cleo_. What mean you?

_Pim_. As I was passing through a Street of Tents,
I saw a wounded Man stretcht on the ground;
And going, as others did, to learn his Fate,
I heard him say to those that strove to help him,
Alas, my Friends, your Succours are in vain;
For now I see the Gods will be reveng'd
For brave _Clemanthis'_ Murder.
How! cry'd I out, are you then one of those
_Thersander_ sent to kill that Cavalier?
_Thersander_, cry'd he, had no hand in it;
But _Artabazes_ set us on to kill him.
Here he began to faulter in his Speech;
And sure he spoke the truth, for 'twas his last.

_Cleo_. This looks like Truth. _Thersander's_ every Action
Declar'd too much of Virtue and of Honour,
To be the Author of so black a Deed.
--Tell him, I'll visit him, and beg his pardon.
[_To_ Lys. _who bows and goes out_.
--Generous _Thersander_, if this News be true,
My Eyes shall spare some drops for injuring you.

[_Excunt_.

SCENE V. _Changes to_ Thersander's _Tent_.

_He in a Night-gown sitting on a Couch; by him the_ King,
_Officers, Attendants to them. Enter_ Cleomena, Semiris,
Pimante; Lysander; _the_ King _rises to meet_ Cleo. _and
seats her in a Chair by him_.

_Cleo. Thersander_, I am come to beg thy pardon,
If thou art innocent, as I must believe thee,
And here before the King to make confession
Of what I did refuse the Queen my Mother.
--Know then, I lov'd, and with a perfect Passion,
The most unfortunate of Men, _Clemanthis_.
His Birth I never knew, but do believe
It was illustrious, as were all his Actions;
But I have lost him by a fatal accident,
That very day he should have fought with you.
[_Weeps_.

_Ther_. Gods! where will this end? [_Aside_.

_Cleo_. But e'er the fatal moment of his Death,
_Ismenes_ beg'd to know who did the Murder:
But he could answer nothing but _Thersander_,
And we believ'd it you.
Then Love and my Revenge made me a Soldier;
--You know the rest--
And doubtless you've accus'd me with Ingratitude.

_Ther_. No, I shall ne'er complain of _Cleomena_,
[_He kneels before her_.
If she still love _Clemanthis_.

_Cleo_. There needs no more to make me know that Voice.
Oh stay, this Joy too suddenly surprizes--
[_Ready to swound_.
--Gently distil the Bliss into my Soul,
Lest this Excess have the effects of Grief:
--Oh, my _Clemanthis_! do I hold thee fast?
And do I find thee in the Prince of _Scythia_?

_King_. I lose my Reason by this strange encounter!

_Ther_. Was't then a secret to my _Cleomena_,
That her _Clemanthis_ was the Prince of _Scythia_?
I still believ'd that was his only Crime.

_Cleo_. By all my Joys I knew it not--but sure
This is Enchantment; for it is as certain
These Eyes beheld thee dead.

_Pim_. Ay, and so did I, I'll be sworn.

_Ther_. That must be poor _Amintas_ in my Dress,
Whose Story, when you know, you will bemoan.

_Cleo_. But oh my Life! the cruel Wound I gave thee,
Let me be well assur'd it is not mortal,
Or I am lost again.

_King_. The Surgeon gives me hopes, and 'twere convenient
You should forbid him not to speak too much--

_Enter a Soldier_.

_Sold_. Arm, arm, great Sir, I think the Enemy
Is rallying afresh, for the Plain is cover'd
With numerous Troops, which swiftly make this way.

_King_. They dare not break the Truce.

_Sold_. I know not, Sir, but something of a King I heard them talk of--

_Cleo_. It is _Vallentio_ that has kept his word--
Receive 'em, Sir, as Friends, not Enemies;
It is my Brother, who ne'er knew till now
Ought of a peopled World.

_King_. I long to see that Monarch, whose Friendship I
Must court for you, fair Princess:
If you'll accept _Thersander_ whom I offer'd,
I do not doubt an happy Peace on both sides.

_Cleo_. Sir. 'tis an honour which we ought to sue for.

_Ther_. And 'tis to me a Blessing--
I wanted Confidence to ask of Heaven.

_Enter_ Ors. Val. Hon. Art. Ism. Geron. _Soldiers, &c_. Ors.
_drest gay with a Truncheon in his Hand, advances first, is
met by the_ King, _who gaze on each other_.

_Ors_. If thou be'st he that art _Orsames'_ Enemy,
I do demand a Sister at thy Hands.

_King_. Art thou _Orsames_?

_Ors_. So I am call'd by all that yet have view'd me:
--Look on me well--
Dost see no marks of Grandure in my Face?
Nothing that speaks me King?

_King_. I do believe thou art that King, and here
[_Gives him_ Cleo.
I do resign that Sister thou demandest.

_Ors_. It is a Woman too! another Woman!
I wou'd embrace thee if I durst approach thee.

_Cleo_. You need not fear, you may embrace your Sister--
[Cleo. _embraces him_.

_Ors_. This is the kindest Women I e'er saw.

_Cleo_. Brother, behold this King no more your Enemy,
Since I must pay him Duty as a Father.

_Enter_ Queen, Olympia, _Women_.

_Ors_. Hah, _Olympia_! sure 'tis an airy Vision--

_Ger_. Approach her, Sir, and try.

_Qu_. Permit a wretched Mother here to kneel.

_King_. Rise, Madam, and receive me as your Friend;
This pair of Lovers has united all our Interests.
[_Points to_ Cleo. _and_ Thers.

_Qu_. Heavens! what's this I see, _Clemanthis_
And the Prince of _Scythia_?

_Ther_. Yes, Madam, and a Man that humbly begs
The happy Title of your Son--_Honorius_,
Of you I ask the greatest Pardon--
[_Talks to_ Olympia.

_Ors_. I am a King, and do adore thee too,
And thou shalt rule a World with me, my Fair;
A Sword I'll give thee, with a painted Bow,
Whence thou shalt shoot a thousand gilded Arrows.

_Olym_. What to do, Sir?

_Ors_. To save the expence of Cruelty;
For they will kill as sure, but rightly aim'd;
This noble Fellow told me so. [_To_ Val.

_Olym_. Sir, I'll do any thing that you will have me:
But now the Queen your Mother, Sir, expects you.

_Ors_. Instruct my Eyes, _Olympia_, for 'tis lately
I've learnt of some such thing.

_Olym_. This, Sir, you ought to kneel to her.

_Ors_. Must I then kneel to ought but Heaven and thee?
[_Kneels_.

_Qu_. My dear _Orsames_, let my Tears make way.
Before I can assure thee of my Joy.

_Ors_. Gods! how obliging is this kind Concern!
Not all my Passion for my fair _Olympia_
Cou'd ever yet betray me to a Tear.
[_Weeps_.

_Qu_. Thou'st greater need of Anger than of Tears,
Having before thy Eyes thy worst of Enemies,
One that has long depriv'd thee of a Crown,
Through what she thought her Duty to the Gods;
But now repents her superstitious Error,
And humbly begs thy Pardon.

_Ors_. I will, if you'll implore _Olympia_ but to love me.

_Qu_. I will, my _Orsames_; and 'tis the only Present
I can make to expiate my Fault.

_Ors_. And I'll receive her as the only thing
Can make me both a happy Subject and a King.
Oh, _Geron_, still if this should prove a Dream!

_Ger_. Sir, Dreams of Kings are much less pleasant.

_Enter_ Lysander.

_Lys_. Sir, there are without some Shepherdesses,
Who say they wou'd present you [_To_ Ther.
Something that will not be unwelcome to your Highness.

_Ther_. Let them come in--

_They seat themselves. Enter_ Amin. Ura. _maskt, Shepherds,
Shepherdesses, followed with Pipes, or Wind-Musick. They
dance; after which_ Amin. _kneels to the Prince_,
Ura. _to the Princess_.

--My dear _Amintas_, do I find thee live?
Fortune requites my Sufferings
With too large a share of Happiness.

_Amin_. Sir, I do live to die again for you.

_Ther_. This, my Divine, is he who had [_To_ Cleo.
The Glory to be bewail'd by you; for him you wept;
For him had almost dy'd.

_Amin_. That Balm it was, that like the Weapon-salve
Heals at a distance--

_Cleo_. But why, Amintas, did you name _Thersander_,
When you were askt who wounded you?

_Amin_. Madam, if loss of Blood had given me leave,
I wou'd have told you how I came so habited,
And who I was, though not how I was wounded.

_King_. Still I am in a mist, and cannot see the happy path I tread.

_Ther_. Anon we will explain the Mystery, Sir.

_Hon_. Now, great _Orsames_, 'tis but just and fit
That you receive the Rites of Coronation,
Which are not to be paid you in a Camp;
The Court will add more to that joyful Day.

_King_. And there we'll join our Souls as well as Swords,
Our Interests as our Families.

_Ors_. I am content that thou should'st give me Laws:
Come, my _Vallentio_, it shall ne'er be said
I recompense thy Services
With any thing less grateful than a Woman:
--Here, I will chuse for thee--
And when I know what 'tis I more can do,
If there be ought beyond this Gift, 'tis thine.
[_Gives him_ Sem.

_Ther. Scythia_ and _Dacia_ now united are:
The God of Love o'ercomes the God of War.
_After a Dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses, the Epilogue
is spoken by Mrs_. Barry, _as a Nymph; at his Royal
Highness's second Exile into_ Flanders.

EPILOGUE.

_After our showing Play of mighty Pains,
We here present you humble Nymphs and Swains.
Our rustick Sports sometimes may Princes please,
And Courts do oft divert in Cottages,
And prize the Joys with some young rural Maid,
On Beds of Grass beneath a lovely Shade,
'Bove all the Pride of City-Jilts, whose Arts
Are more to gain your Purses than your Hearts;
Whose chiefest Beauty lies in being fine;
And Coyness is not Virtue, but Design.
We use no Colours to adorn the Face,
No artful Looks, nor no affected Grace,
The neighbouring Stream serves for a Looking-glass.
Ambition is not known within our Groves;
Here's no Dispute for Empire, but for Loves;
The humble Swain his Birth-right here enjoys,
And fears no Danger from the publick Voice;
No Wrong nor Insolence from busy Powers,
No Rivals here for Crowns, but those of Flowers,
His Country and his Flocks enjoy with ease,
Ranges his native Fields and Groves in Peace;
Nor forc'd by Arbitrary Votes to fly
To foreign Shores for his Security.
Our humble Tributes uncompell'd we pay,
And cheerful Homage to the Lord of May;
No Emulation breaks his soft Repose,
Nor do his Wreaths or Virtues gain him Foes:
No publick Mischiefs can disturb his Reign,
And Malice would be busy here in vain.
Fathers and Sons just Love and Duty pay;
This knows to be indulgent, that t'obey.
Here's no Sedition hatcht, no other Plots,
But to entrap the Wolf that steals our Flocks.
Who then wou'd be a King, gay Crowns to wear,
Restless his Nights, thoughtful his Days with Care;
Whose Greatness, or whose Goodness cant secure
From Outrages which Knaves and Fools procure?

Greatness, be gone, we banish you from hence,
The noblest State is lowly Innocence.
Here honest Wit in Mirth and Triumph reigns,
Musick and Love shall ever bless our Swains,
And keep the Golden Age within our Woods and Plains_.

THE CITY HEIRESS; OR, SIR TIMOTHY TREAT-ALL.

ARGUMENT.

The scene is London. Sir Timothy Treat-all, an old seditious knight, that
keeps open house for Commonwealthsmen and true Blue Protestants, has
disinherited his nephew, Tom Wilding, a town gallant and a Tory. Wilding
is pursuing an intrigue with Lady Galliard, a wealthy widow, and also
with Chariot, heiress to the rich Sir Nicholas Get-all, recently
deceased. Lady Galliard is further hotly wooed by Sir Charles Meriwill, a
young Tory, but she favours Wilding. Sir Charles is encouraged in his
suit by his roystering uncle, Sir Anthony. Wilding introduces his
mistress Diana to Sir Timothy as the heiress Charlot; and at an
entertainment given by Sir Timothy, Charlot herself appears, disguised as
a Northern lass, to watch the progress of Tom's intrigue with the widow,
who eventually yields to him. Sir Charles, none the less, backed by Sir
Anthony, still persists, and after various passionate scenes forces her
to consent to become his bride. Meanwhile Sir Timothy has arranged a
marriage with Diana, whom he firmly believes to be Charlot. During the
progress of the entertainment he is visited by a strange nobleman and his
retinue, who offer him the crown of Poland and great honours. That night,
however, his house is rifled by thieves and his money and papers stolen.
He himself is pinioned hand and foot, the foreign lord bound fast in his
own room, and all his followers secured. Sir Timothy having married Diana
discovers that she is none other than his nephew's mistress, and,
moreover, the Polish ambassador was Tom in masquerade, the attendants and
burglars his friends, who by obtaining his treasonable correspondence are
able effectually to silence the old knight. Wilding is united to Charlot,
whilst Lady Galliard weds Charles Meriwill.

SOURCE.

The City Heiress is most manifestly borrowed from two main sources. Sir
Anthony Meriwill and Charles are Durazzo and Caldoro from Massinger's
_The Guardian_ (licensed 31 October, 1633, 8vo, 1655). Mrs. Behn has
transferred to her play even small details and touches. The burglary,
that most wonderful of all burglaries, is taken and improved from
Middleton's _A Mad World, My Masters_ (4to, 1608), Act ii, where Sir
Bounteous Progress is robbed by Dick Folly-Wit, his grandson, in
precisely the same way as Sir Timothy is choused by Tom. On 4 February,
1715, Charles Johnson produced at Drury Lane his _The Country Lasses; or,
The Custom of the Manor_, a rifacimento of Fletcher's _The Custom of the
Country_ and _The City Heiress_. It is a well-written, lively enough
comedy, but very weak and anaemic withal when compared to Mrs. Behn. B.
G. Stephenson, in his vivacious libretto to Cellier's tuneful opera,
_Dorothy_, produced at the Gaiety Theatre, 25 September, 1886, has made
great use of Johnson's play, especially Act i, where the gallants meet
the two ladies disguised as country girls; the duel scenes of Act v; and
the pseudo-burglary of Act iii. He even gives his comic sheriff's officer
the name of Lurcher, who in Johnson is the rackety nephew that tricks his
hospitable old uncle, Sir John English. The _Biographia Dramatica_ states
that Mrs. Behn 'introduced into this play (_The City Heiress_) a great
part of the _Inner Temple Masque_ by Middleton.' This charge is
absolutely unfounded, and it would not be uninteresting to know how so
complete an error arose. The two have nothing in common. It must be
allowed that Mrs. Behn has displayed such wit and humour as amply to
justify her plagiarisms. Sir Timothy Treat-all himself is, of course,
Shaftesbury almost without disguise. There are a thousand telling hits at
the President of the Council and his vices. He was also bitterly
satirized in many other plays. In Nevil Payne's _The Siege of
Constantinople_ (1675) he appears as The Chancellor; 1680 in Otway's
Shakespearean cento cum bastard classicism _Caius Marius_ some very plain
traits can be recognized in the grim Marius senior; in Southerne's _The
Loyal Brother_ (1682) Ismael, a villainous favourite; in _Venice
Preserved_ (1682) the lecherous Antonio; in the same year Banks
caricatured him as a quite unhistorical Cardinal Wolsey, _Virtue
Betray'd; or, Anna Bullen_; in Crowne's mordant _City Politics_ (1683)
the Podesta of a most un-Italian Naples; the following year Arius the
heresiarch in Lee's _Constantine the Great_; in the operatic _Albion and
Albanius_ (1685), Dryden does not spare even physical infirmities and
disease with the crudest yet cruellest exhibition, and five years later
he attacked his old enemy once more as Benducar in that great tragedy
_Don Sebastian_.

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

_The City Heiress; or, Sir Timothy Treat-all_ was produced at the Duke's
House, Dorset Garden, in 1682. Downes specially mentions it as having
been 'well acted', and it was indeed an 'all star' cast. It had a
tremendous ovation but in spite of its great merit did not become a stock
play, probably owing to the intensely political nature of much of its
satirical wit, a feature necessarily ephemeral. It seems, however, to
have been presented from time to time, and there was a notable revival on
10 July, 1707, at the Haymarket, for the benefit of Husband and Pack. Sir
Timothy was played by Cross; Tom Wilding, Mills; Sir Anthony, Bullock;
Foppington, Pack; Lady Galliard, Mrs. Bradshaw; Charlot, Mrs. Bicknall;
Clacket, Mrs. Powell. It met with a very favourable reception.

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