King
HENRY
the
VII. OR
The
POPISH IMPOSTOR.
A TRAGEDY.
As it is acted
By his
MAJESTY's
Servants,
AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, IN
DRURY-LANE.
LONDON.
Printed for R. FRANCKLIN, in
Covent-Garden
; R. DODSLEY, in
Pall-Mall
▪ and J. BROTHERTON, in
Cornhill.
M.DCC.XLVI. (Price is 6
d.
)
PREFACE
THE following Piece was design'd as a Kind of Mirror to the present Rebellion; and the imagined: Advantage of having it acted before that unnatural Flame could be extinguish'd, was the Reason why it was so hurry'd in the writing; being begun and finish'd in less Time than is necessary tor the forming the Fable only of a correct Play. It was the six Weeks Labour of an Actor, who, even in that short Space, was often call'd from it by his Profession. The Players, for the Sake of Dispatch, had it to study, Act by Act, just as it was blotted; and the only Revisals it received, from the
Brouillon
to the
Press,
were at the Rehearsals of it. So that we must bespeak the Reader's Indulgence for numberless Incorrections thro' the Whole; but more particularly for the Measure and Diction; the Author having neglected them so much, that he cannot call the Manner, in which it is written, either Prose or Verse, but accidentally both. It is certain, Apologies for bad writing seldom procure Remission from the Rigid; yet the most flagrant Crimes when ingenuously confess'd, and follow'd by Repentance, admit of Extenuation from the Benevolent.
N. B.
The Lines mark'd with Commas were omitted after the first Night's acting, the Play being too long in the Performance.
PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr.
MACKLIN.
BReathes there a
Briton
longs for Popish Chains,
While
Smithfield
Fire our
English
Annals Stains;
When
Popish
Rage and Persecution blaz'd
With
British
Blood on Altars
Rome
had raised;
When Matrons saw their Sons in Flames expire,
Their Husbands crackling in religious Fire.
Then
Rome
gave Laws, our Kings and Council sway'd,
While
Albion
mourn'd her Liberties betray'd.
But now she smiles; our Laws are all our own,
Which rule alike the Cottage and the Throne.
No Tools of Power our Properties invade,
No Heads are chopt for Plots the Court hath made.
By such base Arts her Empire
Rome
maintains,
Axes her Arguments, her Logic Chains;
To these a Martyr gallant
Russel
fell,
And
Sidney
bled, whose Crime was writing well.
But under
George
such Practice is unknown,
For free-born Subjects guard and grace his Throne.
A Prince like him our Author shews to Night,
Who fought for Freedom and his regal Right.
The temporary Piece in Haste was writ,
The six Weeks Labour of a puny Wit;
With melting Measure, Critic Rules unfraught,
Artless he writes,—just as rude Nature taught:
No golden Lines, no polish'd Verse hath he,
But all like
British
Courage, rough and free.
For once then—
Judge not by Critic, but by patriot Laws;
Where Genius fails, support your fav'rite Cause.
EPILOGUE,
Spoken by Mrs.
WOFFINGTON.
BY
Hal
deliver'd from my marriage Vows,
Catherine
again is free to chuse a Spouse.
The Man, who offers fairest, shall succeed,
If
British
born, or of old
Huntley's
Breed.
Of
Rome
-nursed Husbands I have had enough,
O Ladies, they are all such dastard Stuff,
That I my self, equip'd in Cap and Jerkin,
Am every whit as good a Prince as
Perkin.
'Tis true the Boy was loving, soft and tender,
But in the Main an arrant poor Pretender.
Jesting a-part,—now Ladies, what do you say?
What is your Judgment of this hasty Play?
For your Decision here the Author stands;
Let the poor Rogue have Mercy at your Hands.
In sooth we're much beholden to his Art;
For in a female Form he hath placed a manly Heart;
And if in her bright Character you find
Superior Spirit and a
Roman
Mind,
Know, from the Life her Principles he drew,
And hopes the Piece shall live which copies you.
Dramatis Personae.
King HENRY,
Mr.
Delane.
OXFORD,
Mr.
Berry.
DAWBNEY,
Mr.
Woodburn.
Bishop of YORK,
Mr.
Havard,
STANLEY,
Mr.
Winstone.
Sir Robert CLIFFORD,
Mr.
Marshal.
Lord Mayor,
Mr.
Taswell.
1st Lord,
2d Lord,
Soldier,
Mr.
Barrington.
King of SCOTLAND,
Mr.
Stevens.
PERKIN WARBEC,
Mr.
Goodfellow.
HUNTLEY,
Mr.
Macklin.
SEVEZ, the Pope's Legate,
Mr.
Bridges.
Sir David BRUCE,
Mr.
Blakes.
FRION,
Mr.
Sparkes.
Lord.
Officer.
Lady Cath. GORDON,
Mrs.
Woffington.
JANE,
Miss
Minors.
Guards, Attendants,
&c.
King
HENRY
the
VII. OR
The
POPISH IMPOSTOR.
ACT .I.
SCENE I.
SCENE
Holy-rood Palace.
SEVEZ
and
FRION.
FRION,
we all were on the Brink of Fate;
A Nobleman who knew him, when a Child,
Avow'd him an Impostor, born at
Tournay
;
The Son of one
John Osbec
;—not the Heir
Of
England's
King—audaciously assumed.
This stagger'd many of the Court, who warmly
Opposed his Audience; I at length stood up,
And in full Council strait produced our Letters
From
Charles
of
France,
his Holiness the Pope,
And
Maximilian
of
Bohemia
;
And as they all recognize his royal Birth,
The Objection vanish'd; and the King resolved,
To give him instant Audience and support,
Befitting regal State, oppress'd and wrong'd.
Most reverend Sir, your Industry and Zeal,
So warmly active in this pious Cause,
Will ever make you dear to
France
and
Rome.
Frion,
with religious Joy we will revenge
The irreverent Contempts, lately offer'd
To our holy Church, by unholy
England,
My Functions, secular and religious,
Shall to their utmost, stretch, to fix this
Perkin
On
England's
Throne.
Henry
hath refused
Our King, by my Contrivance, his Daughter
Margaret
; which affront hath sown the Seeds
Of Hate too deep within his youthful Mind
Ever to be weeded out. His Soul's on fire,
And burns with Eagerness to pour Invasion
Into their haughty Land; to loose at once
His unremitting Grudge, on a proud Neighbour,
And a dreaded Rival. But,
Frion,
tho' we
Abound in
Scottish
Blood, ready to be drain'd
Against
England's
Peace, yet Treasure is War's
Strongest Sinew; and without that quick'ning Aid,
The devouring Body wastes to needy Peace.
That must be had.
Holy, Sir, 'tis ready.
For Years large Collections have been making
In
England, Spain,
and ever-helping
France
;
These Sums for the present are lodged with me;
But now a special Order from his Holiness
Divests me of the Charge, and to your Care
Commits the Trust.
Our unerring Father's Confidence
Does Honour to my Zeal; I will bestow
The Treasure as his Holiness directs
And the religious Cause demands. But how
Stands
Ireland?
What Hopes from thence?
None.
Th' Apostate Slaves are fallen off from
Rome,
And firmly fixt in the Usurper's Cause;
Kildare, Clanrikard,
with many others
On whom we built absolute Assurance,
Have, at their own Charge, arm'd their Friends 'and Followers,
And join'd the
English
General,
Poinings
;
For which may divine Vengeance taint their Air,
And visit them to late Posterity.
How are the
English
affected towards us?
As our Hearts could wish;
Sir
Robert Clifford,
and many others,
All of high Rank, and eminent Esteem,
In Discontent, at present, with their King,
By Gold and Promises have I firmly fixt.
Yet more, the Usurper's Bosom-Friend, the Man
Nearest his Heart, cross'd in ambitious Views,
Has secretly vow'd Revenge, and is ours
By Oath and Heart; so that
England's
Measures
Are betray'd as soon as form'd.
So far then Probability attends us,
And gives almost Assurance of Success.
But one Thing more.—Is
Perkin
well prepar'd?
Can he affect the Blush of Innocence?
Hath he the steadfast Eye that looks against
Enquiry? Can he stand the Shock of gazing
Numbers? And tell his Tale without Confusion?
Is he Master of the false Tear and feigned Sigh?
For to a crowded Presence he must speak.
He is not to be taught his Lesson now:
The blended Care of Nature and of Art
Have stamp'd him perfect; a majestic Mein,
A Countenance, where Sweetness and Command
Smile awfully together; a Deportment,
Courtly, but not effeminate; a Skill,
That calls him Master of most Languages;
But chiefly
English
; with a soothing Carriage
Which beggars the Persuasion of his Tongue.
His suppos'd Aunt,
Margaret of Burgundy,
Has form'd his Education; she has made him
A living History of
England's
Factions;
The various Interests, Battles, Revolutions,
The Friends, the Enemies of either House,
This of
Plantagenet,
or that of
Lancaster.
He is Master of many Languages;
But chiefly
English
; to ingratiate him
With the People, and stamp him native.
The King is soft and warm, susceptible of Pity,
Prompt to receive th' Impression of Humanity;
If
Perkin
do but tell his Tale with Skill,
Th' unwary Youth will sympathize in Sorrow
And take and keep what Form his Art bestows.
Doubt not his Art, my Lord, he is compleat;
And often has rehears'd his kingly Part
In
France,
in
Flanders,
and in
Italy
;
Where admiring Crowds have wonder'd forth his Praise.
And given natural Marks of Majesty;
In Look, Tone, Gesture, Gate, and Voice:
And credulous tale-believing Women,
To whom Appearances are sacred Truths,
Have, at his well-told Tale dissolved in Tears.
Thus, my Lord, like a graceful, well-skill'd Actor,
He steals, where e'er he plays his princely Part,
Or popular Applause, or melting Pity.
Frion,
some subtle Means must be contriv'd
To fling Division's Fire-brands 'mongst the
English,
For should they join their Hearts and Resolutions,
The united Pow'r of
Europe,
nay, the World
Could not prevail against them.
Care is taken.
On every Side, our Emissaries ply,
And blacken the Usurper; Gold and Prayer
Alternately are us'd, and with Success,
To bribe his Council and to win his Subjects.
Richard
's divine, hereditary Right,
A Right Infallibility confirms,
And which that Power makes indefeasible,
Is preach'd amongst them; strengthen'd by the 'Terror
Of Bulls, Anathemas, and Hell eternal
To those who disbelieve, or disobey.
'Tis well. But we must haste; the King expects us.
I'll conduct the Youth. Is he ready?
He is, my Lord.
Frion,
in your publick Manifestos
Be sure you promise free Power of Worship,
To the
Lollards,
and all Separatists.
Men fight by Halves, with a kind of bastard
Courage on Rebellion's Side, without Religion.
But when that's hook'd in, why then, Biggotry,
Flaming Biggotry, tunes Rebellion's Discord
Into pious Loyalty; and makes Men fight
With hot, enthusiastic Vigour,
And forget the Name of Rebel. For then
The Cause and Quarrel are no longer earthly
But derived of Heaven!
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
King of
SCOTLAND, PERKIN,
Courtiers,
&c.
Cousin of
York, England's
undoubted Prince,
To our Court welcome! Welcome to our Heart!
Welcome to
Scotland's
dearest Blood and Treasure!
Which, in Support of thy undoubted Right,
We promise to pour forth.
Gracious King!
Godlike, puissant, and benificent,—
And still a Title far more glorious,
Friend to Distress and Father to the Wretched;
Prostrate before your royal Feet, behold
A Prince, whose Woes, nor Time, nor weeping Pity,
With all the Store of Wretchedness they've seen,
Can match; a Prince, sprung from the noblest Blood
That ever rul'd fair
Albion's
Sea-wash'd Isle;
The high, the regal once;—but now the out-cast,
Miserable, forlorn
Plantagenet.
O royal Sir, Afflictions numberless
Have rooted in my Heart,
Ev'n from our princely Cradle, to our landing
On your hospitable Shore, Fortune, adverse
And cruel, with her Whip of Thorns hath scourg'd us.
Where e'er we went, we've been pursued and dog'd,
By wither'd Murder; the pale Assassin
Of blood-thirsty Usurpation.
Rise, royal Cousin, most unhappy Youth!
(Sevez
takes him up)
My Uncle first, unnatural, crooked
Richard,
—
Savage and bloody—by my dying Father
Appointed Guardian of the infant Lives
Of princely
Edward,
and myself, subborn'd
Two hellish Murderers, at dead of Night,
To plunge their Poignards in our guiltless Hearts,
As we lay sleeping in our royal Tower.—
Edward
's rich Blood the Butchers soon let forth.—
His Skriek of Death awak'd me;—when Horror!
Stiffening Horror! seiz'd my frighted Soul!
Close by my Side I saw my dying Brother
All weltring in his Gore; Murder's butcher'd Prey!
The grim Assassins,—
Their Hands yet reeking with the royal Blood
Seized me▪ —shuddering,—I kneel'd and beg'd for Mercy!
Instantly!
As if great Providence had interposed,
The Murderers,—Soul-struck,—stood ghast and flank!
At length soft Mercy, and relenting Nature,
Warm'd about their Hearts; and the up-rais'd Hand,
Unnerv'd by Pity, the fatal Dagger dropt.
O heav'nly Care of injur'd Royalty!
We must be Marble not to melt at this.
The repenting Men,
With Tears assur'd me of my Life and Safety;
And straight returning to my cruel Uncle,
Deceiv'd him with th' Account that both were dead.
To
Tournay
thence with Speed I was convey'd,
And there, for some Time, obscurely foster'd;
Till at length,
Margaret of Burgundy,
My loving Aunt, declar'd me
Edward
's Son.
How I have since been toss'd by Fortune's Tempests
Is in the living Volume register'd
Of all Mens Tongues.
Cousin of
England,
so I now proclaim you,
In the full Presence of our Nobles here,
Once more, of Aid, and Faith-ty'd Amity,
We give thee royal, and sincere Assurance.
Sevez,
give Order that throughout our Realm
He be acknowledged
England's
rightful King,
With such Appointments, and due Observance
As appertain to unquestion'd Majesty;
And to stamp his Person still more sacred,
Here in our Court shall be his Coronation,—
Sevez,
set Preparation forward.
My Leige, I will.
Say, is our Council summon'd; are they ready.
They are my gracious Prince.
And are the Lords
Of
Huntley, Angus,
and
Daliel
summon'd?
They are.
'Tis well:—My welcome Cozin, be chearful;
For some few Days, what Pleasures can be found
In
Scotland's
Court we wish thee to partake;
We'll after march to
England,
and taste their's;
Where we'll exchange the hospitable Word
Which now you wear, and in my Turn I'll be
Your royal Guest; and e'er 'tis long
We hope to dance a Measure in your Court.
Exeunt all but
Sevez
and
Frion.
Thus far the Gale blows right, and all goes well,—
But,
Frion,
we must leap another Bound;
Another Danger still must be encounter'd;
I must apprize thee that our
Scotch
Nobility,
Proud, and tenacious of their antient Rights,
Vent daily murmurs and form close Cabals;
Forsake the Court, and bitterly inveigh
Against the Church; as having usurp'd of late
Too much Authority in temporal Sway.
Loud are their Complaints that by Priests and
Frenchmen
They are precluded from the Royal Ear.
Some of these factious Spirits have been quell'd,
Some of them banish'd, and their Lands confiscate;
Others imprison'd, nay and some cut off:
Yet still their dreaded Leaders do remain;
Alexander Gordon,
Earl of
Huntley,
The young Lord
Daliel,
And
Archibald Douglas,
Earl of
Angus.
Still they erect their Crests, and with Impunity,
Vent their black Malice 'gainst the Church and us.
How have they scap'd?
Thro' Fear, not Lenity.
Their Friends are numerous, their Possessions large;
Their Deaths wou'd be Forerunners of our Ruin.
Else, let me speak it like a true
Romish
Church-Man,
Their irksome Beings had not now perplex'd us.
They have absented long from Court and Council;
But late a special Summons from the King
Has order'd their Attendance here to Day,
On Pain of Banishment and Confiscation.
But, holy Sir, I doubt these headstrong Lords
Will not assent to aid our
Perkin
's Claim.
No Matter,
Frion,
we can do without them;
For me, I'm determin'd; and for the King,
He acts by my controuling Will, not his own.
It is not prudent that the Church of
Rome
Should e're let Kings or Rulers think for themselves;
Th' unerring See should ever be their Guide.
As to those heretic Lords, their Assent
For
Perkin
is our least Concern. We have
More important Views upon them.—Death, Death.
Frion, Huntley
must not live, he stalks and roars
But one Day more in Freedom's spacious Forest.
The Toil is set for th' unwily Lion;
And his own boundless Spirit drives him in.
He thinks the King mislead, and will bellow
Without Guile or Guard; for the Fool is brave,
Ev'n to romantick Madness. '
Scotland
's Good
'So strongly burns within him, it appears
'His only Passion. Freedom is his God;
Which he so idolizes, he would make
The World his Proselytes, did they but hear him.
Lord
Sevez,
'tis not fit such Men exist.
O they are dangerous in a Court like ours,
Where the King's Interest wanders from the Peoples.
But his Majesty's prepar'd,—and resolved
This Day, by my Advice, to silence
Huntley
's
Free speaking, or his Head answer th' Default.
Omniscient Wisdom still directs your Mind
And points your Purpose to some holy End.
But, my right reverend Sir, one thing remains
Unsettled yet, which only you can finish:—
You know this
Perkin
burns for
Huntley
's Daughter,
Scotland
's gay Ornament, and Nature's Pride;
This Angel-looking Maid, this
Katherine Gordon,
To young Lord
Daliel
has been late betroth'd,
The Follower and fervent Friend of
Huntley
;
Your Wonder-working Wisdom now must break
This fatal Knot, or
England
's blazing Crown
Will sit like Death upon his princely Head.
This Business in the Council has been weigh'd;
The King resolves to gratify his Wish,
And give the lovely
Katherine
to young
Perkin.
Which Match will either fix this dangerous
Huntley
in our Cause, or with enraged Madness
Break his proud stubborn Heart: For his Daughter
Next to Liberty is his earthly Idol.
But I must leave you;—for the Council sits
To found those factious Lords.—I must attend.
Exit.
My Brother Priest is zealous in our Cause;
His Pride and Avarice must be the Tools,
With which we work.—They are sharp and handy
And in a Priest, who sways the royal Mind,
Will rid much Business:
Gordon
's lovely Daughter,
(Who is of royal Blood) to
Perkin
join'd,
Will knit the Scots to us, indissolubly.
For after Marriage, should they find the Cheat,
'Twill then become their Interest to conceal it;
Nay to espouse it too.—Which if they do refuse,
The Magazines of
Rome
's affrighting Vengeance,
In damning Bulls, and terrible Anathemas,
Shall to the liquid Gulph of penal Flames
Devote their black, their superstitious Souls,
Till Penitence and Gold buy out their Pardon.
Exit.
SCENE III.
The Council-Chamber.
The King,
SEVEZ,
Sir
DAVID BRUCE, Council and Attendants.
How! not attend!—
Angus
and
Daliel
ill.
So their Oracle, Lord
Huntley,
reports,
And farther, that he's emproxied to express
Their Thoughts in aught that may concern the public Weal.
Their Sickness is all Pretence!—but admit him.
Exit
Sir David Bruce,
and returns with
Huntley.
Lord
Huntley,
welcome to the royal Walls
Of
Holy-rood
! and well we wish you never
Had estranged them. It would have joy'd us much
To've seen the Lords
Daliel
and
Angus
here.
As you are Subjects, Nobles and Kinsmen,
We with your Love; and we intreat, all Lets,
That may impede our Concord, be remov'd:
Your Presence will be Gladness to our Heart,
Therefore, be oftener in our Eye.
My Leige, I am unfashion'd for your Court.
My Speech, like my Manners, are plain and uncourtly.
I have been bred a Soldier, a
Scotch
Soldier,
Not an
Italian
Flatterer. My old Body
Is dry'd and chill'd with toilsome Marches, thro'
Numbing Frost, and scorching Heat, to grapple with
My Country's Foe.
I have not been used to silken Coverli Is,
And
Solon
Beds,—but to the friendly Plaid,
And swampy Earth; and my best Lodging oft
Hath been the dryest Turf, the blooming Hether,
The wholesome Fern. Our unletter'd Bards then
Flatter'd not the Living but prais'd the Dead.
Their Songs were not who steep'd deepest in
Italian
Luxury, or deck'd gayest in foreign Frippery,
But who had most Wounds in Battle, or fought
Hardiest in their Country's Cause. This Court
Was not then the Rendezvous of
Italian
Minstrels,
Priests and Legates,—but the hospitable Home
Of
Scotch
Nobility, whose Ancestors
This Realm coeval'd; and when grown strengthless
By fighting
Scotland's
Battles, grew venerably grey
In her faithful Councils.—Where are they now?
Here are none such. Your Nobles are Strangers
To your Court, your Courtiers Strangers to your Nobles.
Huntley,
to taunt and to revile
Was not the Purport of our Summons; but
To counsel and assist.
Sir, Counsel, void of Freedom,
May flatter and mislead, but never can assist.
Freedom is the Guide, the unerring Guide
To sacred Truth, in a Nation's Council.
The
free-born
Subject's indisputable Right;
And never suffer'd Prohibition yet,
But from Priests and Tyrants.
—Sir, to your vast,
High-taught Notions of Freedom we are no
Stranger. Rabble
Kerns
too, we hear, copy your
Licentious Knowledge; and in rude saucy
Language, dare revile our sacred Person;
Libellously branding our Wisdom, with
French
and Priest-rid Weakness.
My Leige, when the Yoke galls,
Nature will wince. Arrests, Imprisonments,
And Confiscations compose your Subjects Dreams,
And break their restless Sleep. We lie down
With Anguish at our State,—and rise despairing
Ever to see it mend; and the Heart-stinging
Prospect that opens to our View, is,
Posterity scourged, by
French
and
Romish
Tyranny.
O Sir, your distemper'd Fancy frames
Sprites and Goblins, Men of sounder Judgments never see.
Pray Heaven it may be Fancy.—
My Liege, I have fought my Country's Battles
In Sweat and Blood; when every Object
To Eye, and Ear, and Thought, brought certain Death
Into the Mind; the whole a moving Scene
Of busy Fate. And after Battle, I have
Seen the hard-fought, conquer'd Field, strew'd with Death
And Slaughter. There I've beheld our gallant,
Helpless Nobles, breathing out final Groans;
Their active Blood baked and clotted
By scorching Heat, or swallow'd by the greedy
Sun-crack'd Earth. There I beheld Brothers and
Kinsmen stript, and piled on mangled Heaps
Of Slaughter;—
Kerns
and
Thanes
promiscuous.
There searching for my dear, my darling, only Son,
I found his well-known, headless Trunk, all gash'd
And mangled,—with his Brains dash'd and scatter'd
'Gainst a blood-stain'd Oak.—Yet these were Sights of Joy
To what I now behold.
I see my Country bleeding in her vital Vein;
I see her Nobles banish'd, imprison'd, and assassin'd;
I see
Scotland's
Dregs compose her Councils;
All Concerns, sacred, civil, and military,
Sold and huckster'd as in a publick Mart.
I see Majesty—deluded Majesty,
Hem'd in by a Band of crawling Parasites,
Who taint his royal Mind with a King's bluest Plague,
Seditious Jealousie of his best Subjects.
O awake, awake, anointed Sir, and
Be the Father, not the Tyrant of your People.
Ferret from your Court these Rats, who'll undermine
The Roof that shelters them, and leave your Fame
And Country to perish in the Ruins.
Lord
Huntley,
your ill-manner'd Heat of Temper
Makes you forget the Presence you are in.
The Homage and Respect due to Majesty
You wilfully and audaciously omit.
The Homage and Respect! the envenom'd slander,
And the tell-tale Pick-thanks, you mean, my Lord;
Which taint the purest Loyalty to blackest Treason.
My Lord, your Manners grow foul, and beneath your Rank.
My Priest, your Pride grows insolent,
And above your Rank; and the same Recipe
That discharges the black Stains from your Conscience
Will cleanse my Manners.
Stains from my Conscience, Lord!
Ay Priest, 'twas my Phrase.
My Leige, this Treatment,
In your royal Presence too, is beyond
The Sufferance of wholesome Policy,
And human Nature;—it demands instant
Chastisement.
Chastisement, Priest!
Ay Chastisement, Lord.
—
Huntley,
—be calm. Why, how now, Sir,
Have you forgot our Presence?
—No, my Lord—
Rows to to the King, then with a stifled Rage turns to
Sevez.
—You are a Priest—in Council,—but no matter—
—'Tis well:—
O
Scotland, Scotland,
how is thy Spirit broke!
When that a
Kern
-bred, upstart,
Rome
-taught Priest
Dares hold a Rod of menaced Chastisement
Over the Minds of free-born Peers.
Huntley,
you grow seditious.
My Liege, Truth will ever be Sedition
While
France
and
Italy
direct your Council.
Sir, my Allies of
France
and holy
Rome
Must not be revil'd by you, or any
Slander-spreading Subject within my Realm.
Pray, my good Lord, if Heart will give you Leave,
Will you inform his Majesty and Council,
In what this out-stretch'd Power of
Rome
consists.
Ay,
Huntley,
let us cooly hear at once,
These arbitrary and oppressive Grievances
In Church and State, and if they appear such,
Our royal Word is 'gaged for the Redress.
Ay, Sir, now you speak like a King,
Whose noblest Office is to hear and to redress.
Proceed, Sir, in your Grievances, you have free Leave.
Most heartily I thank your Majesty.
Your gracious Boon I will accept.
And in my homely Plainness dreadless use it,
Tho' I were sure this Freedom were my last.
To begin then.—
Free-speaking Parliaments are thrown aside,
As superfluous in our State; and prostitute
Bulls from marketing
Rome
supply their Place.
The regal Council of the Realm consists—
First of
William Sevez,
now the Pope's Legate;
A Man, issued from the base perfidious Clan
Of vile
Mackgreger.
He with religious Guile
And Gallic Craft, infacinates the royal Mind.
The Subject's Lives, their Rights, and Properties,
He grinds and arbitrates with tyrant Will;
And, to pleasure subtle
France,
misguides our Land
To a perfidious War, in support
Of an Impostor's Title, against our
True Allies, the Faith-observing English.
Dread Sir, this Insult to distress'd Royalty
Is not to be borne
Let him proceed;
'Tis the last Time he speaks in
Scotish
Council.
Be it so, my Liege. Then 'tis the last Service
I shall do my Country. But to your Council,
Since it is my last. Right against your Priest
An English Minstrel stands, who tho' at Home
A Vagrant, now gives Vote in Council here;
And, for
Scotland
's Honour, keeps a Court Auction
For royal Boons, where the highest Bidder
Rises to Preferment.
There are many more of the like Nature
About your Palace; and tho' excellent
In their various Talents, yet there is one
They all unite in, which is—a servile,
Thorough-paced Obedience in Court Measures,
To gall your Subjects, and oppress the Land.
Lord
Huntley,
'Freedom of Speech was your Request;—
'You had it; and, by my Troth, full freely
'Hast thou used it. We know to gloss Matters
'Is not your Use; Plain-dealing, however rude,
'Is the Mark you aim at:' You have portraid
A most lively, speaking Picture, of our self,
Our Council, our Religion, and our Laws;
And 'tis but meet such high-colour'd Patriotism
Shou'd be rewarded. Therefore
We here solemnly engage our royal Word
Before our upstart,
Rome
-directed Council,
To reward your Treasons with immediate Death.
Treason, my Liege!
Ay Treason, frontless Traytor.
My misguided King,—as you love fair Truth,—
For my sacred Master, your dead Father's sake,
Who, in Horrors of the raging Battle,
Proved my Loyalty, do not call me Traytor.
'The Traitor's Blood is cold, and treacherous;
'Mine, tho old and dearth, is hot, and loyal.
'Now indeed it cannot gush as 'twas wont,
'When lavish'd daringly, in your Defence,
'And your House's Cause; yet in
Scotland's
Right
'It still can trickle, a Sacrifice to your
'Misguided Vengeance'. Be kind then, sacred Sir,
Take,—Take my old Life, but murder not my Fame.
For a Traitor's Name stabs deeper in a
Loyal Heart than all the Tortures Tyranny
Can invent.
Sir, for your Time, you may find better Use;
'Tis not of long Duration; employ it
To Advantage. Sir
David Bruce,
he is your Prisoner;
Convey him to the Castle.
My kind Liege,—
To the virtuous Man, Extent of Life
Is but of small Concern; to me 'tis none.
But how Life is spent ought to be a King's
First Care. For as the Welfare of Millions
Depends on him, his Life demands the strictest
Circumspection. Kingship, is not an Office
Of Rapine, Riot, Tyranny, and Will,
But of Care, Affection, Duty, and Circumscription,
Inviolable to the Subject's Right.
If to remind a Monarch of this Duty,
Be deem'd a Traitor's Office—would to Heav'n
Your Council were all such! 'tis the Treason
For which I wish to live; and if it be the Treason
For which I die, next to the Field of Battle,
In our dear Country's Cause, it is the best,
The noblest Death a free-born Soul can meet.
And now, farewell, whom I honour as my King,
Obey as my Master, rev'rence as my Father,
Love as my Friend, and lastly, to that
Which contains, and is dearer than them all,
A long, long Farewell,—my ruin'd Country.
Huntley
led off as to the Castle of
Edinburgh.
If your faithful
Sevez,
My honour'd King, may presume farther to
Advise,
Angus
and
Daliel
both should die.
For Lord
Huntley
's Death, should they survive it,
Instead of quenching their enkindled Spirits,
Would, like Flames pent up in fu
ll'd Caverns,
Make them burst forth and blaze with treble Fierceness.
Besides, my Leige,
The Confiscation of their Lands will be
A double Prop to your royal Power.
First, 'will punish, and deter foul Traitors
Who wou'd lessen, or subvert your royal Sway.
Next, 'twill be a rich Exchequer, to push
The War 'gainst scoffing
England
; who with Eye,
Contemptful, views
Scotland's
King as poor and needy.
And with sarcastic Jest scorn'd our Alliance,
And refused their Daughter; but we'll repay
Their gibing Taunts.
Greedy Ravage shall havock thro' their Land,
Till they atone their Insolence, and accord
Plantagenet
's Right!
Your Reign, great Sir, to future Kings 'will be
'A Document of wisest Policy
'How to direct a State.
Sevez,
give Order
Daliel
and
Angus
suffer with Lord
Huntley.
I shall, my Liege,
We'll now prepare for
Richard
's Coronation,
Then to
England
; where we'll affix his Right,
Or in that hostile Land resign our Breath.
End of the first ACT.
ACT II.
The English Court.
King
HENRY, STANLEY, YORK.
MY Lords, no longer let us doubt the Truth.
'Tis certain th' Impostor is in
Scotland
;
Conceal'd and cherish'd by those needy Kerns;
While envious
France
prepares her Armaments
T' invade our Land, and aid the Vagrant's Claim.
I trust, great Sir, that th' Alarm is false;
I cannot think that
Scotland's
King would e'er abet
An Impostor's Claim against your native Right;
Back'd and supported by your Subjects Voice,
Their Hands and Hearts; the best, the surest, Right
To
England's
Crown.
That Right be ever mine.
My firmest Bulwark, against foreign Threats,
Shall ever be my Subjects Love; secure
In that,
England's
King, and this Sea-girt Isle,
May defy the warring World. But,
Stanley,
Are our Fleets in Readiness to scower
The dastard
French?
to sink and burn their hostile
Transports, should they dare look forth?
They are, my Leige.
Proudly they ride, and plow the angry Main,
As if they rul'd that boist'rous Element,
And gave old Neptune Laws in his own Dominions.
While your faithful Troops,
(Th' Remains of
Bosworth's
memorable Field,
Who fought so bravely 'gainst the Tyrant
Richard)
Headed by gallant
Buckingham,
are march'd
With eager Hearts to
Kent
and
Suffex
; and vow
To shed their warmest Blood 'gainst th' invading Foe,
Who treads a Step on
England's
Ground.
Why, ay, 'tis like an
English
Soldier's Vow;
It breathes forth Mettle, and native Courage,
Such, as
fifth Harry
felt, at th' deathful Scene
Of bloody
Agincourt
; when Gallic Prisoners
Trebled
English
Conquerors, and their mangled
Dead out-number'd both. Such again shall be
Their Lot;—Imprisonment or Death. Such their
Reward, who wound fair
England's
Peace.
Enter
OXFORD.
Now, Lord
Oxford,
what says my loyal City?
Are the
Londoners
assembled?
They are, my Leige:
Their kindled Chiefs are gather'd in Guild-Hall;
With each a Spirit like the first
Romans,
When rowz'd at midnight by th' inspiring Cry
Of
save your Liberty
!—When first I waked
The Mayor, and told him the
French
and
Scots
Were making a Descent in
Perkin
's Cause,
Th' abrupt Relation drove the warm Colour
From his manly Cheek; but the rich Stream soon
Rush'd back with treble Force—
English
Courage,
Rage, and fiery Indignation; which now,
Like spreading Flames, catch,—quick—from Man to Man,
And through your loyal City nought is heard
But 'to arms.—Death or Liberty.—and long
'Live the King.
'Tis well; I will deserve their kind Affection,
And ever be the Guardian of their Rights.
Dawbney,
take care there be Dispatches sent
This Night, to the Lieutenants of our several Counties;
Bid them, without Delay, prepare their People;
Distribute Arms, and animate their Zeal;
Our self will lead them on to happy Victory,
Or hard fought Death, in
England
's glorious cause.
Doubt not, my Liege; your Subjects all united
As now with Hand and Heart they firmly are,
Can never fail of joyful Victory.
The needy, restless
Scots,
so oft chastis'd,
Again shall feel the Vengeance of our Arms,
And ever rue this rash Attempt. As for the
French,
I've often heard my Grandsire say,
That, in
fifth Harry's
Days, the beating them
Was but an
Englishman
's Recreation:
It shall be so again, my gracious Leige,
We'll drive the gaudy Rogues back to
Paris
Gates;
There, like beaten Curs, let them lick their bruised Wounds,
Mend their broken Limbs; and instead of making
Kings,—let them make Courantos, and follow
Their dancing skipping Avocations.
Well said, my valiant
Oxford.
We'll make 'em feel in us
An
Edward
and
Fifth Harry
joyn'd. Ha!
Stanley,
We once again shall have our Bodies clasp'd
In burnish'd blazing Steel, and together fight
Against audacious Usurpation.
May the Almighty's providential Hand
Direct your Sword, and guard your sacred Life;
May Victory, with her triumphant Aspect,
Attend your righteous Cause; and bless once more
Our panting Land with cheerful welcome Peace.
My Lord of
York
fights like a true Churchman,
With Zeal and Prayer, instead of Sword and Bullet;
Your Taunt, my Lord, might have been better timed,
And mark'd a fitter Object for its Mirth.
For know, Sir, tho' a Priest, I'm
English
born,
And (in my Country's Cause) can weild a Sword,
And shed my warmest Blood in its Defence.
As daringly as any Layman of you all.
Cousin of
York,
none doubts your Loyalty,
Or Courage; we have oft approv'd them both.
My Lord of
Oxford
means you well; and his
Mirthful Jests the Church must not take ill,
Since Majesty itself is sometimes made their Butt.
'Tis true, his Humour's singular and blun
;
But his Heart is honest, which makes large amends
For the Tartness of his Wit. Come, come, we
All are Friends, nor have we Time for Jibe,
Or Anger now, but 'gainst our common Foes,
The
French
and
Scot
; there let your Pray'rs, and Jests,
And Blows, be levell'd.
Enter a Lord, and whispers
Stanley.
May it please your Majesty, the Mayor
And Citizens attend your Pleasure.
Stanley,
admit 'em.
Exit. Stanley.
Their Readiness to shew their Loyalty
Is an added Worth to their Affection.
Those Sons of Traffick know too well
The Sweets of golden Commerce, self-earn'd Property,
And
English
Freedom, to lose them lightly.
They are too wise to change such Blessings for
Wooden Shoes and
Popish
Anathema's.
Enter
Stanley,
Mayor and Aldermen, who kneel.
Permit us, gracious Sovereign, with warm Affection
And united Loyalty, to approach your sacred
Person. Indulge our heart-felt Zeal the Privilege
To express the indispensible Duty of
English
Subjects. Subjects, who think their Happiness and
Liberty inseparably blended with your sacred
Right; and bound by Duty and Affection
To feel all Insults offer'd to your Majesty, in a
Sense, as sharp and touching, as to our individual
Lives, our Trade, or Liberties. Too well,
My Liege, we know the Schemes of ambitious
France,
which grasps at universal Sway, to be
Deceived by Threats or Machinations. Her
Cabinet is an exhaustless Mine of blackest
Policy; Jealousy, Corruption, Discord and Sedi
ion,
Are the Agents she sends forth to
Plague Mankind; but e'er her Jesuit Arts shall
Taint our Loyalty, or pervert our free-born State,
To Gallic Servitude, we here devote!
The last Remains of
English
Blood and Treasure.
For such voluntary, loyal,
English
Love,
Who would not change despotick, Callic Sway?
You kneel my Subjects, but you rise my Friends;
Your King and Country's Pride and Treasure;
The industrious Bees, who gather Sweets from Earth's
Remotest Climes, to enrich
Old England
's Hive,
With Natures choicest Stores. Such ever be
Her Sons; industrious, loyal, stout, opulent,
And free.
And such her Kings—the Scourge of
France
and
Rome,
and Guardian of their People's Liberties.
Nobles, Citizens and Friends, let each
Repair to his respective Charge. You, my Lord,
o our faithful Citizens; bid them accept
A Monarch's greatful Thanks; tell them their Love,
And Loyalty, so amply shewn, at this
Important Crisis, ever claim my
Warmest, best Affection. The Preservation
Of their Peace and Rights, and the Cultivation
Of our darling Commerce, shall ever be
My first and chiefest Care; so assure them,
Ex. Citizens.
Enter
Dawbney, (
who whispers the King and gives him a Paper.
)
Where hast thou lodged him, my faithful
Daubney.
Safe in the
Tower,
my Liege.
Enough; follow me
(
going off—but turns short
)
this List you say's authentic.
So he declares, my Liege
'Tis well; follow me,
Daubney.
Exit Daubney.
Something of Moment is in this abrupt
Departure, pray Heaven all our Hearts be whole.
Lord Bishop, if there is a rotten Heart
Amongst us, why his Head must answer for it.
Sure if there was no other abler Reason,
The Blast of Nobles in the late Rebellion,
Is Warning sufficient to all the Land,
How they again abet an Impostor's Claim.
The high-born
Lincoln,
Son to
Delapoole,
The Earls of
Kildair, Lovel,
and
Geraldine,
With the
German
Baron, bold
Martin Swart,
Who all bled their last in th' Impostor
Simnel's
Cause,
On the crimson Plain of memorable
Stoke.
Enter
DAWBNEY.
Lord Chamberlain, it is the King's Command
You order his Apartment, in the Tower;
They must be instantly prepar'd, for 'tis
His Royal Pleasure to lodge there this Night.
In the Tower?
It was his special Command: And farther, Lords,
It is his Will you all attend him there.
So, so—I knew some of us would be a Head shorter.
This Tower Work seldom ends otherwise.
This same Treason, I find, will furnish full
Employment for the Headsman, and the Priest.
For, if I mistake not, many wise Heads
Must be knock'd off, and many black Consciences
Absolv'd, before it ends.
Exit.
My Lords, the King expects you.
We'll attend.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in the Tower.
alone.
O
Clifford! Clifford,
thou hast lost all Peace!
The Traitor's guilty Sting is in thy Heart;
And his deep-dy'd Shame dwells on thy Cheek.
My Eye
detests
the Light; and I fain would seek
Darkness, eternal Darkness and Oblivion.
O Man, Man, weak, unsteady, insatiate Man!
My Conscience, ever faithful to its Trust,
With heav'nly Admonition, kindly warn'd
And forbad my Baseness; but Thirst of Greatness,
Infused by hellish Priest-craft, wrought my Fall,
And damn'd me to the lowest Pit of Shame.
For now, to save an ignominious Life,
Again I have broke the Band of Fellowship,
And, like a Traitor doubly steep'd in Guilt,
Have sacrificed my vile Associates.
O Shame, Shame! Hell! Hell! for ever in
The Villain's mangled Mind.
Enter
DAWBNEY.
Sir
Robert Clifford,
I've inform'd the King
Of what you gave Permission;
He has given Command I lead you to his Closet—
Be open and sincere in your Confession;
Trust to his Royal Goodness for Pardon.
O
Dawbney,
I have my Reward already.
The bearded Shafts of Guilt and Treachery
Goad thro' my Heart, and canker all within.
Despair not, Sir; the King is merciful.
But do not dally, for his Soul's on Fire;
The Quickness of his Temper well you know.
But come, the King
Expects us in his Closet.
Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The King's Apartment in the Tower. A Table, Chair, and Candles.
Enter the
KING
and
DAWBNEY
meeting.
May it please your Majesty, Sir
Robert Clifford.
Admit him,
Dawbney
—and let
Oxford
and
York
attend.
While the King seats himself
Dawbney
goes to the Door, and returns with
Clifford, York,
and
Oxford.
Clifford,
draw near; 'tis needless to upbraid you,
For already I see Treason's sharp Remorse
Hath seized your Mein and Aspect;
Guilt and Self-Reproach, the Traitor's native Marks, sculk in
Your down-cast Eye.
My Eye! my Heart!—I am all over Villain!
[kneels]
An irresolute, ungrateful Villain!
I fear beyond the Reach of Penitence!
Clifford,
stand up; for Instance of thy Safety,
We offer thee our Hand.
I kiss it
With the Greediness of a penitent Heart,
Who pants for heavenly Mercy. O Sir,
You are a just, a righteous Master; I
The blackest Traitor, that e'er betray'd his Friend,
His King, or Country.
Tell me, is every Circumstance set down
Within this Paper true? Is it a sure
Intelligence of all the Progress
Of our Enemies Intents?
True, my Liege,
As I wish Forgiveness of offended Heaven!
Look here, my reverend Lord, the Scheme of
France
;
[gives him a Paper.]
The base, the mean, the shackled Terms they've made
With their Impostor King, for this fair Isle,
The Queen of
Europe's
Liberties.
Reads.
First, a full Surrender of
England's
Trade
And all her foreign Acquisitions—next,
Obedience implicit to his Holiness
The Pope and the Decrees of
France,
in all
Disputable Points—lastly, a Tribute everlasting
Of whatever Sum their Moderation shall demand.
Clifford,
those are the Terms, you say, made with
England's
pretended King?
Gracious Sovereign, they are.
Well, my Lord of
York,
what says your Grace? Shall
We put on our Chains in Peace, ha! will they
Sit easy, think you?
As the Shirt of
Hercules,
my Liege.
The
Englishman,
who signs to these, must sure
Be bloodless.—And bloodless may each
Briton
be
E're that Day come. O sooner may our deep,
Our watery Bulwark become our Grave,
And Land and Liberty together bravely perish.
(
King rises, perusing the Paper.
)
Our Right of Commerce! Sovereignty at Sea!
England's
darling, rightful Treasure! purchased
For Ages, with her best, her choicest Blood,
Must we be subject to audacious
France.
Our foreign Acquisitions too must be
Humbly laid at our Gallic Master's Feet.
Even the Freedom of religious Thoughts,
They are not pleased to leave us.
Infallibility steps in and dictates,
Britons,
thus you must think—or Perdition
Is your Doom.'—Hard Sentence,—lastly, Tribute,
Everlasting, of whatever Sums their
Moderation shall demand!—Moderation!
Gallic Moderation!—What,—shall
Englishmen!
Freedom's favourite Sons! shall we, my Lord,
Like Slave-born Wretches bow our Necks,
For
France
to tread on? Shall we, like Dastards,
Crouch to Cravens we so oft have beat? No—
E're a Hair's Weight of
English
Liberty
Be yielded up,—e're the lowest
Briton,
Be Subject to the haughtiest Peer in
France,
We'll dye our dear, our native Land with Royal Blood.
(
sits down.
)
But come, Sir, on with your Discovery.
What Pow'r hath
France
sent with our Brother King?
But small, my gracious Liege, as yet, if any.
But most mighty Promises are made him,
In Conjunction with
Spain's
Embassador.
Three solemn Councils at
Paris
have been held;
And their Result was this;
Sussex
and
Kent
Are to be visited with twenty thousand
Of the choicest Troops of
France
; while proud
Spain
Into
Ireland
pours an equal Number;
And
Rome,
ever active to wound
England's
Peace,
Has secretly dispersed, throughout your Realm,
Her subtlest Priests to poison and seduce
Your Subjects Minds, in Favour of th' Impostor.
I cannot observe in this Scheme of yours,
That
Spain
or
Scotland's
Kings are in Treaty
For any Part or Share of this gallant Spoil.
Royal Sir, to that Part of their Councils
I must declare myself a Stranger.
Um—it may be so.
I find then, my kingly Rival, the
Pope,
Scotland,
and
Spain,
are all the Tools of
France.
The Wind-mill-pated
Spaniard
dreams of Glory;
The
Scot
of his usual Trade of Plunder;
His
Holiness
of
Peter's
obsolete Pence;
And Cousin
Perkin
of filling
England's
Throne!
And thus the Wreck of
English
Liberty,
Is parcel'd out by those despotick Spoilers!
rises
But if we must be Slaves, my Lord of
York,
Let us put on our Chains like
Englishmen
Reeking with
Frenchmens
Blood.—
Let's have one Tug for our Sea-wash'd Isle,
Our Laws, our Commerce, and our Liberties;—
They're worth disputing—
sits
Ha! are they not,
York?
As Life,—or Sustenance,—when raging Famine clings us.
Th' coldest Coward would fight for such Blessings.
Even our Women, by Nature soft and gentle,
As Peace or Innocence, would, in
England's
Cause,
Unsheath the frightful Sword, and
Stain their snow-white Arms, with hostile Gore.
Of what Friends and Followers
Is this itinerant Monarch's Court composed?
Of all kinds that are base, and infamous;
Of all Nations, and of all mean Conditions;
Bankrupts, Sanctuary Men, Thieves, Robbers,
Vagabonds, and
Scotch
Banditti:
Who under Mask of Justice, and Religion,
Commit unheard-of Outrages.—Spoil, Rape,
Rapine and Murder, are their daily Practice;
And all are sanctified by the Priests of
Rome.
O wicked Use of Heavens chiefest Blessings!
O
Rome! Rome!
this is thy infallible Truth!
And, civilized
France,
thy most Christian Policy!
Why, my Liege, the
French
have a Factory on Purpose for Politics, where the Devil, the Cardinal, and the Pope weave State Mischief for all the Courts of
Europe
; but we will let 'em know, that neither their Politics nor their Bulls will sell in an
English
Mart,—whatever they may do in other Countries.
I think, Sir, you named Priests and Emissaries,
Dispersed about the Realm to poison Minds,
And diffuse Sedition 'mongst our Subjects.
Know you any of them by Name, or Person?
Many, my Liege.
Name them quick;—be brief, Sir.
The chief are Sir
John Ratcliff,
Lord
Fitzwalter,
Sir
Simon Mountford,
Sir
Thomas Thwaits,
William Dawbney, Thomas Cressenor, Thomas
Astwood!
Come, Sir, the rest.
The rest are all religious Persons.
William Rochford
And
Thomas Poins,
Dominican Friars;
Doctor
William Sutton, William Worsely,
Dean of St.
Paul's; Robert Laiborn, Richard 'Lessley
;
With divers others of inferior Rank, all influenced
By the Power of
Rome,
with Orders to absolve
Whatever Blood may be shed in the righteous
Cause.
Have you named all, Sir
Robert?
All but one, my Liege, and when I name him,
I fear my Truth will lose all Credit; yet your
Chamberlain, Sir
William Stanley,
tho' last
Named, is first against you.
My Chamberlain!
He, Sir.
Clifford,
beware how you accuse a Man,
Whose Love and Loyalty we've experienced.
We know the Tricks of Guilt and Treachery;
Arts to discharge their own detected Crimes,
By tainting others nobler than themselves.
My Liege, again I say your Chamberlain,
Sir
William Stanley,
is a vile Traitor,
Both in Purse and Council,
To this pretended Heir his chief Assistant;—
This I can prove.
What!
Stanley!
my Friend! my retired, inmost Friend!
My Heart's Partner! my other self!
Patience; Royal Sir.
Patience! why, my Lord,
Stanley's
a Traitor.
(
rises.
)
A dear, a friendly, secret, bosom Traitor!
Hear that, Lord Bishop, and then preach Patience.
I confess, my Liege, 'tis dreadful.
Dreadful!—O dear
York!
you cannot know my
State of Mind.—None but a King, distrustful
Of his Friends, when wild Rebellion threatens,
Can feel what I feel now. Adversity,
And Exile I have known, with some Degree
Of Comfort,—nay, tho' driven by this Impostor
From my Crown and People, confin'd in Cells,
Or doom'd to die on the Traitor's Scaffold;
Yet still I should have found some Consolation;
But Treachery of Friends is comfortless:—
It is a poison'd Wound which drives to Madness,
Or Despair.
O
York!
what have I done to lose my
Stanley's
Heart—or he his own, 'He, who in
Bosworth
Field
Rescued me from
Richard's
death-dealing Sword;
And from his cloven Head first snatch'd the Crown,
And like Lightning flew to encircle mine.
But let him from my Thoughts.—
Dawbney,
to Night
Within the square Tower let him be imprison'd;
Set a strong Guard on him.—
Clifford,
you Sir, must
Lodge there too; we'll talk more with you to Morrow.
My Liege, the Night is far advanced; it is
Almost Morn, and your troubled Mind demands
Repose and balmy Sleep.
O Lord Bishop, in my Apartment now,
Whom shall I trust? I must have Doors and Walls
Of Brass; I must lie down,—for Sleep I cannot,
In honest friendly Armour; 'tis now the
Only Safety I have left. I must wear it
Amidst my Council and my Friends, as in
The Day of Battle, lest the Poniard, dark,
And traiterous, reach my Heart.
Good Sir, banish such Thoughts.
Ay Sir, drive them from your Breast 'and 'let me.
'Be your Door, your Wall of Brass, your Armour,
'And I'll engage your Safety—tho' the Devil,
'The Pope, the Pretender,
France,
and
Stanley,
'Should all conspire to corrupt me.
O my honest
Oxford,
fair Confidence,
Who with her coral Lip, her rosy Cheek,
And cherub Aspect, used to sport about
My peaceful Heart, is banish'd now;
Stanley
Hath murder'd her; and planted in her room
A livid, trembling, pale squint-eyed Friend, gnaw|'ing
Suspicion.
Dear Sir, get rid of her as soon as you can,
For she is a little insinuating Imp,
Who, under Mask of Friendship, steals into
A Monarch's Breast, and never parts
'Till the ferret-ey'd Fiend hath eaten Repose,
And stung the contented Mind to Madness.
Banish her, banish her, my Liege.
You, my Lords, we believe pure,
And uncorrupt, as Light, or Truth itself,
And this Night, will commit
Ourself to your loyal Care; you shall watch
In our Apartment, while we court coy Sleep,
To our weary Lids,
And try to sooth our State-vex'd anxious Breast,
With restor'd Confidence, and balmy Rest.
Exeunt.
End of the Second ACT.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
An Apartment in the Tower.
Enter
YORK, OXFORD,
and several other Lords, all as from
STANLEY's
Tryal.
(York
to one of the Lords.
)
PLEASE to inform the King we wait his Pleasure.
[Ex. Lord.]
I fear, my Lords, his Majesty, from his
Tenderness innate, and extream Affection,
To this unhappy
Stanley,
will extend
His royal Mercy beyond its prudent Bounds,
And grant him Pardon of all his Treasons.
Will he? Why then 'tis Pity he
Shou'd ever be without a Traitor in
His Bosom; for a blacker, or one so
Unprovok'd, History cannot produce.
Enter
KING
attended.
Well, Lords, what says our apostate Minion;
Have you condemn'd him?
His Treasons have, Sir;
Which were as manifest, as foul and dangerous.
The conscious Guilt of his Conspiracy
Press'd him so close, it forc'd Confession from him,
Unimportun'd.
O Lord Bishop, that argued Shame and Sorrow
For his Folly; and tho' in letter'd Law
It stands against him, yet in our Mercy,
And the Softness of our friendly Nature,
It pleads strongly for him.
Extremity of Law is sometimes too sharp
Even for our traiterous Subjects; on whom,
Especially when penitent, Chastisement
Shou'd fall not with a rigorous Cruelty,
But paternal Sorrow; as the fond Father
Corrects his truant Child. Let me then, Lords,
For this unhappy Man, I once call'd Friend,
Wear a grateful Pity in my Breast.
He gave me Life and Crown in
Bosworth
Field;
Let me repay the Debt, and give him Life,
Too justly forfeited by foul Rebellion.
My Lord, from my Heart I wish the Treason
Cou'd be punish'd, and th' unhappy Traitor
Spar'd. But I believe your Subjects, at this Juncture,
Expect Examples of publick Justice.
It gives me Grief to say it, but Clamour
Is so violent against him, 'mongst all
Degrees of People, that I fear Mercy,
At this Time, wou'd be an Act dangerous
To yourself and State.
Lord
Oxford
councils well.
Th' Insolence of this Rebellion must be
Crush'd with speedy War and Laws utmost Rigour.
'Mongst the great Ones more particularly,
In whom, when Traitors, most Power of Mischief's lodged;
And tho' Mercy in Season is a King's
Heav'nly Attribute, yet to use it now
Wou'd, I fear, be deem'd a dangerous Weakness.
Then be it so—since
England's
Weal demands it.
That we shall ever make the sole Guidance
Of our Laws and Will.—Did he assign no
Cause for his flagitious Crimes?
None, Sir; when urg'd, his humble Request was,
To see his Royal Master e're he dy'd;
That then, the Motives of his Discontent
Shou'd have free and ample Declaration.
O
York!
I'll see him! but 'tis a hard Tryal
Of tender Nature, to see the Man we've lov'd,
Surrounded by Guilt and Death. The King indeed
At such a Sight may stand unmov'd, but the Friend,
In Spite of Justice, will relent,
And soften into womanish Pity.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in the Tower.
Enter
STANLEY,
in black, Guards, &c.
What awful Pomp attends the Traitor's Death!
What Preparations to affright his Soul!
Yet all are slight! the Guilt he feels within
Out-shocks them all.
Enter
KING, YORK, OXFORD, DAWBNEY,
Lords Yeomen of the Guard.
Ha! the King—once my Joy—
My Ambition! my greatest Happiness!
But now my Reproach! my Terror!
See, Lord Bishop, the unhappy Man is cover'd
With Confusion, and cannot turn this Way.
He looks as Death wou'd be a more welcome Guest
To his afflicted Mind, than our reproachful
Presence.—
The King approaches him.
O
Stanley!
how different is this Interview
From that in
Richard's
Tent,
When
Bosworth
's slaughter'd Scene was o'er.
When the Tyrant
Richard
lay extended in our View,
My first Thought was, how to reward
Your Love and Loyalty; I made you Master
Of the Tyrant's Wealth.—The Spoil was mighty;—
And had it been immence as
Columbus
'
Late discover'd Mines, my o'er-flowing Heart
Wou'd have thought it poor—poor as Beggar's Alms,
For my
Stanley
's Friendship.—My Mind—My Treasure—
My Will hath since been yours.—My all, at your
Direction. What then cou'd provoke your black,
Your atrocious Perfidy?
Ambition.
Misguided, restless, insatiate Ambition!
O thou unhappy Mark of human Frailty!
From Patriot Honour fallen to traiterous Shame.
Sure the utmost Height of human Glory
Is Steadiness in our Country's Good!
Myriads of Blessings
Are pour'd on the Patriot's Head; all are anxious
For his Health and Welfare, and the People,
From their abundant, their o'erflowing Hearts,
Shout out their Acclamations as he passes.
By his Example Millions are made virtuous;
Even Parricides, who for trait'rous Gold
Wou'd stab the Vitals of their maternal Land,
Are forc'd to sculk behind a patriot Mask,
Lest the good Man's spirit-stirring Virtue
Hurl popular Vengeance on th' Villain's Head.
This is the Patriot.—Now see the Reverse;
See in yourself the Traitor whom all Men curse.
Not his noble Titles, nor all the Honours
Treacherous Wealth can heap, can screen him
From popular Shame, nor ease from Self-reproach
His guilt-stab'd Heart.
Here you both stand, the Patriot this, the Traitor that;
Pointing to the Bishop and Stanley.
The one
England's
invaluable Blessing;
The other, her deepest, blackest, vilest, Curse.
O Sir, I feel the sad Condition.
It hath thrown Guilt intense into my Breast,
And tells me I deserve the worst of Deaths my
Country's Laws, or your just Vengeance can inflict.
Why say—shou'd we grant you Life! shou'd Mercy
Be so abus'd! so prostituted! where!
Where cou'd you reside? With whom associate?
None.—Patriots wou'd shun you out of Virtue,
Traitors out of Policy,
Then the greatest Blessing our Power can give,
Or your sad State admit,—is instant Death.
It is, my Liege—and my Request to see you
Was not to protract, or sue for Life.—
But to atone, in some Degree, my Guilt,
By full Confession of the groundless Cause,
Which hath for ever damn'd my Fame,
Then know, Sir, your Goodness has undone me;
—Your Royal Kindness
Heap'd such abundant Favours on me, that
My ambitious Soul was lost, in Prospect
Of boundless Power. Your Father-in-law,
My Brother, you rais'd to th' Earldom of
Darby,
Envy and exorbitant Ambition
Made me request the Earldom of
Chester
;
Which, without Injury manifest, you
Cou'd not alienate, being ever annex'd
To
England's
Heir. But I, with Love of Pow'r
Intoxicated, unus'd to meet Repulse,
From that Moment, like a poisonous Serpent,
Whom you had nourish'd in your kindly Bosom,
Lost Sight and Memory of all Gratitude;
Former Favours, by this Refusal, I
Chang'd to Injuries, and my wild Ambition
To inflam'd Revenge; which I sought to
Gratify by stabbing my dear Country
Thro' my Friend and royal Master's Side.
This, Sir, was my dark, my hellish State of Mind.
Which is a glaring, but faithful Picture
Of ambitious, disappointed Courtiers;
Who ne'er know Peace of Mind, 'till they destroy
The State, or, in their Treason, meet their Death:
And if my Example may stand a Beacon
To the lavish Fondness of future Kings,
And to the Pride of insatiate Minions,
My Crime will be of Service to my Country.
So, farewell the best of Kings,—the warmest Friend,
The kindest Master.—And oh for ever
Farewel Guilt and Shame—and welcome deserved Death.
Ex. guarded.
Unhappy Victim of incens'd Ambition!
Stain to thy noble Blood, and
English
Truth!
Enter
DAWBNEY.
My Liege, I bring unwelcome News.
Out with it,
Dawbney.
The
Cornish
Rebels, so late defeated
On
Blackheath,
by gallant
Oxford,
and who
So amply felt your Royal Mercy,
Again are up in Arms, in the Pretender
Perkin's
Favour.
Rome
's Emissaries have
Once more rous'd th' ungrateful Herd, while
James
Of
Scotland
is raising a powerful Army to support
His Claim.
Gives him the Chamberlain's Staff.
Dawbney,
accept this Staff,—wear it with Truth
Equal to my Confidence.—Give Order
Clifford
be confin'd within the Limits
Of his own House and Park at
Newbury,
'Till Rebellion's Flame is quench'd.—Lord Bishop,
To you and faithful
Surry
we commit
The important Business of the North;
With ample Power to act as Need shall chance.
Ourself, and my old, my valiant
Oxford,
Will to the West to chastise those
Unnatural Rebels.—
I warrant you, my Liege, we'll soon chastise them.—These Traitors have had Royal Mercy once.—But they are like the ungrateful ditchsprung Nettle, which handled tenderly stings with greater Violence, but with Vigour grasp'd, and crush'd at once, loses all its Energie.
Come, my Lords, your Country's Wrongs demand your Swords.
The gaudy Garb of silken Peace must now
Be doff'd, and the mail'd Coat of
Mars
put on.
Tottering storm-drench'd Tents must be our Palaces,
And our rich-wrought Carpets the aguish Earth;
Our Music must be the leaden Messengers of Death,
Whose whizzing Notes omen to each Man's Ear
Irrevocable Doom.
And glorious th' Doom when gain'd in Freedom's Cause;
The noblest Fate an
Englishman
can meet.
The Hatchment of such a Death will be preserv'd
The patriot Mark to late Posterity;
The free-born Son will kindle at the Sight,
'Till in his King and Country's Cause, he burns
To emulate his Father's deathless Virtue.
For my Part, my Liege, tho' Coward Custom,
And my sacred Function, might exempt me
From the Task; yet, with
English
Pride, I boast
To change th' holy Crosier
For the defensive Sword.—My Dependants
Brethren, Followers, and Friends I will convene,
And by the Assistance of the Almighty,
Protect our Laws, Religion, and our Rights
Or bravely perish in their Defence.
I defy the Pope in his whole Conclave to
Shew me such a Prelate as this—
My Lord, for your Sake I shall
Love an
English
Priest as long as I live.
My Lord,
E're we part let us once embrace.
They all embrace.
Now each Man to his Charge, and when we fight,
Let us remember this, we fight 'gainst Gallic Chains
For
English
Liberty.
Exeunt
York
one Way,
King
and
Oxford
t'other.
SCENE III.
Scotland.
(
In Holy-rood Palace.
)
Enter
King of Scotland
and
Sevez.
Have our Council sat upon those Traitors?
They have, my Liege;
Each Man refus'd to plead, and Lord
Huntley,
With his usual Boldness, deny'd your Power,
And the Legality of private Tryals.
Call'd 'em Inquisitions—Us,—pack'd Parasites;
And with his wonted Roughness call'd for Justice,
And demanded his Peers.
But all were over-rul'd, and their Silence
We made the clear Evidence of their Guilt;
Upon which they were quickly attainted,
And Judgment of Death directly follow'd.
But the Time, Place, and Manner, wait on your
Royal Will.
The Place shall be the Castle,—'Tis not
Meet that
Huntley
harangue the Populace;
There may be Danger in't.—The giddy Herd
Affect him much.
Are their Lands seized?
They are, my Liege.
'Tis well—
Are all Things ready for
Richard
's
Coronation?
All, my Liege.
Quickly then,
Let the royal Ceremony be perform'd,
With due Magnificence and regal Pomp.
To morrow we resolve for
England,
there
Again to crown the young
Plantagenet.
Do you prepare his Highness.
Ex. Sevez.
Enter a Scot. Lord.
May it please your Majesty, Lord
Huntley
's
Daughter, the Lady
Katharine Gordon,
Is come to Court; and with distracted Aspect,
And grief-swoln Eyes, prays Admittance
To your Royal Presence.
Conduct her in—belike she comes to move us
For her Father's Life—but it must not be
But on one Condition.
Enter
Katherine.
O Royal
James!
if the House of
Gordon
E're deserv'd your Love, if the many Lives
They have lost in your Defence, if the Blood
Of Generations, spilt in
Scotland's
Cause,
From earliest Time,
Down to my grey-hair'd Sire, if these, I say,
Deserve your Love, or Pity, then spare, spare,
For Love of Mercy, spare my poor old Father.
O, do not stop his Ebb of Life, with the
Traitor's Ax, a Death unknown to
Gordon
's Sons,
Who all have perish'd in the loyal Field.
Rise,
Katherine,
The House of
Gordon
we have ever deem'd
The fairest, brightest Jewel in our Crown.
Your Father hath ever been dear to us, dear as Love,
Or the Tyes of kindred Blood could make him.
'Till his o'erbearing Temper leap'd all Bounds;
Till he compell'd us
To shake off his iron Yoke; which hath provok'd him
To Cabals, Jibes, Murmurs, and disloyal Threats.
O believe it not, Sir, they abuse your Ear
Who say so. Truth it self
Is not fairer than his Loyalty;
Which is incapable of Stain or Blemish.
O, Royal Sir, if you think him false,
You do not know him. Perchance his Temper,
Warm in his Country's Cause, may urge him beyond
The Bounds of Prudence; but this Heart is sound;—
Sound, as the Genius of our Land could wish.
Katherine,
I commend your filial Warmth,
And wish you had not Cause to sorrow;
But be assur'd from me,
Huntley
's a Traitor.
Royal Sir,
Do not call him Traitor; for well I know,
That Name is sharper to his Soul, than death's
Keenest Dart.—My Liege, he is no Traitor.
I find, Lady, your Father's daring Spirit,
In some Sort, breathes in your soft Form.
It does, my Liege!
From Time, beyond the reach of Record,
It hath been our Race's Pride to cherish
Loyalty and our Country's Weal above
Our Lives. It hath
Been
Huntley
's first Precept to his Children,
Night, Morn, Hourly. No wonder then some Part
Remains with me. O had you heard him
Tell the warlike Deeds of
Gordon
's Ancestors,
For their King and Country; you then, I'm sure,
Wou'd have believ'd him Loyal.
Katherine,
we did believe him faithful,
'Till we found him rising above our Power,
And striving to awe, with subject Insolence,
Our sacred Majesty.
Gracious Sir,
If his free Spirit hath outstept Discretion,—
Impute it not to traiterous Insolence,
But to a biass'd Mind in
Scotland
's Cause.
Merciful Sir, give me his precious Life,
He never, never, shall offend again.
He shall retire to our antient Castle,
The Nursery of
Gordon
's Ancestors;
Till weary'd Life steals from his feeble Frame,
Gently and unperceived as the setting Sun.
Well,
Katherine,
on Condition he reside
For Life's Remains, within the Confines
Of Gordon's fertile Barony, we grant
Him full Pardon.—Provided, my fair Cuz,
That you accord our Sollicitation
In Favour of a royal Suit of ours.
Command it, my Liege,
kneels.
Be it Banishment, or Death, or lingring Famine,
Save but his Life, and conclude it done.
No, my lovely Cuz; nor Death nor Banishment,
Nor aught ungentle, or unkind, will reach
This lovely Form, while we have Sway to hinder;
Nature design'd it for her noblest Use,
For a Monarch's Bliss, and Partner of his Crown,
For Joy in Youth, Content and Happiness in Age.
A youthful Prince must fill those snowy Arms;
And from this soft Image
Albion's
King must rise.
Sir!
Know,
Katherine,
our Cousin, young
Plantagenet,
Burns with a Lover's Flame,
And longs to make you the happy Partner
Of his Bed and Throne.
Me, Sir!
Ay, fair
Katherine!
Grant his Suit, and
Huntley
's Life is safe.
If not—You deny him Mercy, not I.
For the sharp Ax must fall where Law directs,
Unless by you prevented.
O, royal Sir.—
(
kneels,
)
how shall I speak it!—O some
Heavenly Power guide my distracted Mind!
O Sir!—My Heart is not my own;—'tis already given,
Betroth'd, and ty'd by Love, Honour, and all
The sweet, the witching Charms of blended Hearts.
Daliel!
the blooming
Daliel!
sweetest Blossom
Of
Scotland
's Peers, has got my Heart, and to Morrow
By full Consent, and Joy of both our Parents,
The holy Priest was to unite us.
Rise Cousin;—we will not controvert your Love,
Nor strive with Argument to sway Affection;
Your own free Will shall be your Guide,—therefore,
We offer this Alternative,—and chuse
You must this Night—That's our utmost Limit.
Prepare or to be crown'd as
England
's Queen,
Or to be whelm'd in Grief as
Huntley
's Orphan.
Exit.
Now, Horror, thou art at Work, and I defy
Thy madning Power to out-terrify
My distracted Mind. Scaffolds—Axes—
Daliel,
And
Huntley,
pierce through my distemper'd Brain,
And Madness must guide me thro' the Chaos.
My Father—no, they shall not murder you.
I will wed sharpest Misery and triumph
In Wretchedness to save a Father's Life.
Exit.
SCENE IV.
An Apartment in
Edinborough
Castle.
Enter
Huntley
and Sir
David Bruce,
meeting.
Good Day, my Lord.
Wou'd it were, Sir
David!
But Italian Policy and good Days
Never shine together.
I was in Hopes
E're this, my Lord, that the King's Resentment
Wou'd have 'bated. Lord
Huntley,
my Heart bleeds,
To see you still within these hated Walls.
Bleed for me, Sir
David?
O
Bruce,
let it
Bleed for your poor Country.
My Lord!
That Ruin o'er spreads our Land, is obvious!
Wou'd to Heav'n the Remedy were as plain;
Did I but know it, at hazard of my Life I wou'd apply it.
Why how dare you declare that
Scotland
's ruin'd,
While an
Italian
Legate holds the Helm?
Why I avow'd no more.
But where are my Brother Traitors,
Angus,
and
Daliel?
Mayn't we embrace
E're we shake of our Treason, and set out
Upon our final Journey?
My Lord, I have strict Command
Against your seeing each other, or admitting
Any Person to or from you without
Special Order from the King or
Sevez.
Report is, you're all to suffer privately
To morrow, in different Parts of the Castle.
O rare Tyranny!
Rome
's Christian Policy,
Her Holy Inquisition.
Enter an Officer.
Sir, your Daughter Lady
Catherine
is below,
She hath brought a special Order from the King,
For her Admittance.
My Daughter! my Child!
Pray Sir, conduct the Lady up.
Exit Officer.
I hope, my Lord, she brings an Order for
Your Enlargement.
Just as King
Sevez
pleases.
Your Daughter may have some private Converse,
I'll leave you, my Lord.
Sir, your Confidence shall not be abused.
Exit. Sir David
Enter Officer and
Katherine,
Officer goes out again.
So, my
Katherine!
my Child!
(
embraces her
)
My all that's left,
Of
Gordon
's antient Stock. The long Descent
Must end to Morrow by the Traitor's Axe.
Kate,
what wilt thou do when I am gone?
How wilt employ thy self?
You'll have no feeble Father to sooth now;
Death will rid you of that endearing Care,
And me, of all my doating Fondness.—Nay, nay.
Do not weep.
The Sight of thee hath ever brought
Joy and Comfort to my old Heart; prithee
Do not vex it now. Let me die like
Huntley,
You bear it like his Daughter.
O Sir!
'Tis Nature's hardest Task to look on Death,
For that fell Tyrant is her utmost Shock.
And in a Father—
Hold,
Katherine,
mistake not, it is not Death,
But Guilt, Guilt, my Child, is Nature's utmost Shock.
To the Innocent, Death is a Guide to Life eternal.
But to the Guilty, a ghastly Summoner,
Which frights, and goads, and stings to endless Tortures
Death! 'tis Nature's Companion!
He attends every Action of our Lives!
I have seen the bare-rib'd Tyrant in as
Many Forms, as there were armed Soldiers
In the Field; sometimes darting from Man to Man,
Levelling Ranks, and sweeping down armed Files;
While brazen Engines his iron Messengers
Sent forth, and with a Loudness that deafen'd
Nature, proclaim'd his Triumph! and can I
After this, fear his Block and Ax! no Child,
Only the Traitor starts at those; th' Patriot
Beholds them with a Fortitude that smiles
And triumphs, like the holy Martyr; who,
Before his Fall, sees his Reward register'd
In Heaven.
Sure, Sir, you cannot be in love
With Death!
No,
Katherine
; he, who says he is,
Deceives himself; but my declining Life
Is not worth much Concern; the Oyl is almost spent;
And like a dying Flame on an exhausted Lamp
Wou'd of itself have soon expir'd, without
My cruel Master's hasty Breath.
By me, Sir, he sends you offer of Life.
Does he!
He cou'd not have chosen, in Mercy's smiling Train
A lovelier Messenger—Thou art her rosy
Cherub—and Life from thee will come with
Double Relish—but, hear you,
Katherine,
have you
Brought Life's Blessing with it? It's cordial Drop?
It's balmy Sweet?
What mean you, Sir?
Liberty, my Child! heav'n-born Liberty!
Without which, Life is a Curse, and he, who
Rids me of the Plague, is my best-lov'd Friend.
O, say not so, but accept his Promise;
Accept of precious Life at any Rate.
Ha!
Katherine!
what upon base ignoble Terms!
To be a Court Creature; to do filthy Jobs,
As Priests and
Rome
direct; to bow, defame,
And fawn, and cringe; and beg to be employ'd
In some brave Man's Destruction? To flatter
A pride-swoln Priest; and pamper up
His Avarice and Revenge, with my Country's Ruin.
Is this a Life for
Huntley?
No.
I know you will not council it—
Well, upon what Terms will our royal Master
Give us Leave to breathe?
Know then—O Heav'ns! how shall I speak them!
[apart.]
Nay, if you hesitate, I'm sure they are base.
Your Conscience is a faithful Monitor,
A Dial set by an unerring Hand,
And heavenly Truth is the Light it goes by;
Obey it now, and be silent.
No, Sir, I must name it,
Tho' you look me dead, which wou'd be the cruell'st
Death, Fate has in Store. Know then, that the King
Hath promis'd Life, and Liberty, to you, and
The other Lords—on Condition—
Out with it—
Quick—for the Approach of Infamy is
Dreadful.—And I see something in my
Katherine's
Eye, was never there before. Shame, conscious Shame!
But come,—the Conditions!
The Conditions are,
First, that I marry his suppos'd Cousin,
The Impostor
Perkin
—
Katherine,
We have convers'd enough upon this Subject;
Our Life is short, therefore we must prepare
To give in our Account as perfect as
We can; not on the Eve of Death to add
To the inadvertent Sallies of Youth
Premeditated Infamy.
I trust I shall employ my short Space to more Advantage.
O my foreboding Heart! 'twas what I fear'd!
To herself.
But,
Katherine,
lest you shou'd mistake and
Err into Infamy, know that your mangled
Body in Death wou'd give me Joy,
When your lovely blooming Person in such
A prostituted Marriage, wou'd bring cureless
Sorrow;—it wou'd rive my old Heart in twain.
My Child, farewel
(embraces her)
when you
Have better Thoughts
Bring them to comfort me. These vex me sorely;
Farewel,—I am going to my Cell, to
Think of Heaven and you.
Exit.
And what shall I think of!
Death! Death! fell horrid Death! turn where I will
I see the Skeleton dogging
My Father's Steps—and softly stealing with
His shadowy Arm uprais'd, ready to aim
His final Dart.
O some unerring Power direct me!
If I wander into Error; the Crime
Is not in my Will, but my Ignorance;
For I find filial Gratitude and partial
Nature struggling at my Heart, and prompting
That I must not let Him dye, who gave me Life.
I find Love too pleading for my
Daliel
;
Sure all this must be right, or Heaven would not
Permit it?—No, they shall not dye;
My Father is cruel to himself and me,
And Nature, sympathizing Nature,
Will be obey'd, and they must live.
For on their Lives alone depends my Fate,
As does the Peace of our distracted State.
Exit.
ACT IV.
Holy-rood Palace.
Enter
KING
and
SEVEZ.
AGAIN, I say, that on the Traitors Death
Depends the loyal Subject's Safety; Mercy
To one is Cruelty to the other.
Sevez,
I know Lord
Huntley
's Maxims well;
But still I think he loves us.
He must not die.
Sir, a King's Word is of religious Nature;
An Obligation sacred, which cannot
Be dissolved, by any earthly Power;
None but our Mother, the holy, holy
Infallible Church,—Heaven's Vice-gerent!
Before her, indeed, Laws, Oaths, Obligations,
Of what Kind soever, lose their Being.
You, Sir, in Council
Gave religious Word, Lord
Huntley
should die.
'Twas by your Influence I revok'd my Word.
You urged 'twou'd be gracious in die Eye of
Rome
To ally Duke
Richard
to our Blood,
By Marriage with
Gordon
's lovely Daughter.
All Means of Success were barr'd, except
My Promise of her Father's Life; which she,
Cover'd with Rage and Sorrow, from Love and
Nature's extream Reluctance, at last accepted.
Then how, my
Sevez,
how can I answer
My Breach of Word to her, or to myself?
Sacred Sir, your religious Scruple gives me Joy.
But should conscientious Fears disturb you,
A Bull of Pardon from his Holiness of
Rome
Will soon ease your religious Mind.
Wou'd I cou'd save his Life!
Sacred Sir, I know, your royal Tenderness.
But if
Huntley
lives, your Authority
Will be too feeble to stand against him.
He is grown too popular for kingly Power
To cope with. The factious Lords, his Friends,—
And the distemper'd Rabble are at his Beck.
Already they bellow out for Justice,
Redress, Freedom, no
Perkin,
no Legates,
No
French
Council, no
Italian
Statesmen;
This is their Cry thro'
Edinburgh
Streets,
Nay, round your Palace Walls.
Ha! Traitors!
Sir, tho' you, out of your native Goodness,
Were inclin'd to pardon those wicked Lords,
Yet our holy Church wou'd have insisted
On their Deaths; or on your Head have denounc'd
Her hottest Vengeance. For they're Hereticks
Of the new-sprung Sect; call'd in
England Lollards
;
And have been most active in shaking off
The Power of
Rome,
which nothing but their Blood
Can expiate. 'Your Allies of
France
too
'Wou'd have stopt their Aid and Loans, and have 'left you
'A Sacrifice to your rebellious Subjects
'And to your old, your natural Enemies
'The Purse-proud, haughty, heretic
English.
Sevez,
they shall die.
Are all Things in Readiness for our Expedition?
They are, Sir; this Night
Richard
and his Queen
Sojourn at
Berwick
; and the Clans and Vassals
Of the
Grants, Kenedys, Macgregers,
and
Macdonalds,
With those of
Hamilton
and
Macpherson,
Are all set forward; and their Rendevouz
Is
Norham
Castle, which they'll reach this Night,
And there wait your royal Presence.
Sevez,
prepare, we will set out this this Day.
My Liege, all Aptness and Conveniency
Attend your royal Will and Pleasure.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in the Castle of
Edinburgh.
Enter
Huntley,
follow'd by an Officer of the Castle.
Marry'd! crown'd! pardon'd! Say,
Who pardon'd me?
The King.—
I say you are deceived, it cannot be.
My Lord, 'tis certain she is marry'd and crown'd; the
Legate himself join'd their Hands.
(And your Pardon is the Consequence of the Marriage.)
And now with
Regal State, and pompous Train she journeys towards
England.
O
Katherine! Katherine,
is this thy Reward
For all my anxious Care to form thy Mind!
Was it for this you came to offer Life?
Ambitious Syren.—Yes, I will accept it.
I will,
Kate,
but it shall be to glut my Vengeance.
Crown'd! pardon'd! regal State! vain, ambitious,
Proud, infamous Woman! O Happiness,
Happiness, Fancy's delusive Child,
Which every Fool creates, and no sooner
imag'd into Form, but th' airy Being
Vanishes to Sorrow!
Mine was compos'd
Of
Scotland's
Weal, and my
Katherine
's Virtue;
But
Rome
hath ruin'd one, and Woman's Pride
The other.
Enter Sir
David Bruce. [
loud knocking without
]
See who knocks, but be sure let none enter.
[to the Officer.]
My Lord, I grieve to be the Messenger,
But by a special Order, just received,
The short Space of a fleeting Hour
Is your Life's utmost Limit.
An Hour, Sir!
Why
Bruce,
I thought my Daughter's Infamy
Had pleaded to the King for royal Mercy.
'Tis true, my Lord, the King did promise Life
To you,
Angus,
and
Daliel
; but e're he
Set forth for
England,
he sign'd this Warrant
For your Deaths.
Then, Queen
Kate,
thou wilt escape my Vengeance;
Fate, I find, hath reserv'd thee for his own Wrath.
Enter Officer with a Letter.
Sir, a Post from Court hath brought this Letter
For Lord
Huntley.
Sir
David
takes it from him and gives it
Huntley
For me Sir?—'tis
Katherine's
Character!
Once as welcome to my Eyes, as rising Sun
To new-recover'd Sight; now irksome as Perfidy.
What a Comfort, amidst Calamity,
Wou'd this have been, had she not fall'n to Guilt
Inexpiable!
O she was once as fair, and innocent
As was her Parent
Eve,
when first
She waken'd from Creation—but
Satan
's
Towering Crime, Thirst of imperial Sway,
Hath wrought her fall, and blackn'd all her Virtue.
My Lord,
I cannot think your Daughter's Crime—
Dear
Bruce,
Pity me.
For Sorrow's Dart ne'er reach'd my Heart till now!
The foolish Father hath quite unmann'd me,
And hath brought out all the stifled Weakness
Of busy fondling Nature, which will have Vent,
In Spite of Art; and what I thought had quite
Engross'd me,
Scotland
's Love.—But Im deceiv'd—
For the Father's Folly, I find, is uppermost,
And Rage and Sorrow rend my Heart, and my
Weak Eyesburn with scalding Rheum. O
Katherine,
Did I e're think thou'dst make old
Huntley
weep!
Thou hast done what Death and slaughter ne'er cou'd do.
But, she's gone—fallen, and unworthy another Tear.
But come, now let us see her regal Stile,
Her royal Apology for accepting
Sovereign Sway,—and breaking a Father's Heart.
SIR,
Opens the Letter, and after having read the Address, his Griefreturns, which interrupts his Power to read.
Dear
Bruce,
pity, pity an old Man's Weakness!
Nay, I know you will, you must—for you are
Your self a Father, and know what fond Fools
Nature makes of us—prithee
Bruce,
read it.
Gives him the Letter.
For my Eyes have full Employment—unman'd,—
Quite, quite unman'd!
Bruce
reads.
SIR,
I Have broke the Bond of Duty with the best of Fathers, of Honour and Affection with the most deserving of Lovers. This I have done to give you and your noble Friends Life and Liberty, in Hopes you will rescue your King and Country from those who have advised your Deaths, my Marriage, and the innumerable Woes
Scotland
groans under.
Consider, Sir, my Crime is the Effect of your Precepts; which always taught me to prefer my Country's Weal to Life, Fame or Family. I will not sue for Pardon, but Pity, tho' you condemn me, I know your tender Nature will grant to your once loved—now broken-hearted,
Katherine.
Brave noble Lady! exalted as Virtue
Or patriot Love can boast. She has indeed,
Acted like
Huntley
's Daughter! parted with
More than Life for her King and Country's Weal.
O just Heav'ns! what Machines thou hast made us!
Scarce a Moment since, and I shou'd have joy'd
T'have seen my
Katherine
hears'd deep in the Womb
Of Death's clayie Mansion. And now, Life, Fame,
And
Scotland
's Fate are not so dear to me
As my
Katherine
's unparalell'd Virtue.
Unparalell'd indeed, my Lord! poor Lady!
She is wedded to Misery without End.
O my Child! my Child!
Cou'd I but see you once! cou'd my dim Eyes
But gaze once more on that dear soft Image!
Cou'd I but live to ease my
Katherine
's Heart,
And tell her how I land her manly Spirit,
I wou'd then forgive Fate—Death—every Thing—
But
Sevez
—that curst Priest—who hath undone us all.
But you say, Governor, I must not live
To see my
Katherine
; for that within this Hour
The Tyrant's Ax must sever Life from Woe.
That was my last Order from the Legate.
E're this the Thought of Death ne'er hurt my Mind;
But now 'tis irksome! I fain,—fain wou'd live
To see my Child again—but that cannot be—
O
Scotland
's Majesty, how art thou sunk!
When your royal Word is as far from Truth
As Heaven from Hell!
To deceive even my poor
Katherine!
To betray her into Prostitution!
Sure Perfidy in Kings is the blackest Crime
Callous'd Infamy hath in all her Store!
But when
Rome
's mental Craft surrounds a Throne,
It is no Wonder Falshood and Tyranny,
Shove by Truth and Justice.—
But come, Governor, since we are to die,
Let's close the Scene, and end Life's Farce at once.
No, Lord
Huntley,
Our bleeding Country hath fitter Service for you.
By me her Genius says, you must not dye.
My Lord, with jealous Eyes, and sore-griev'd Heart,
I've seen your Wrongs, and
Scotland
's unmatch'd Woes.
Affection to your House, which rais'd me first,
And to my dear, my native bleeding Land
Has made me watchful to preserve you both.
What mean you,
Bruce!
This my injur'd Lord—
Many of the ancient Blood of
Scotland
With heart-sore Feeling behold th' mighty Wrongs
Like to be entail'd upon Posterity,
Which they resolve most bravely to foresend,
Or else to bleed their last in the Attempt.
Ay,
Bruce!
—what! are there such Men in
Scotland!
There are, my Lord; and since your Confinement
Have oft assembled in private Parley, how
To give you and
Scotland
Life and Freedom.
They last Night resolv'd, as they were commanded,
To attend the King in this Impostor's
Expedition. But not a Step farther
Than they see fit Time to shake off the Yoke.—
Their faithful Clans and Vassals they have rais'd,
Who are well martial'd both in Mind and Body,
And ready to revolt upon the Word.
Near
Norham
Castle they are assembled,
Whither the King's encamp'd—thither must you post
This Night—where you will meet such warm greeting
As Courage feels when rous'd by Tyranny and Oppression.
Scotland
's guardian Genius—let me embrace thee.
Embraces him.
This Castle, my Lord, I have well provided
As is that of
Sterling,
by Sir
Archibald Grant,
And we will hold them out to Life's Extremity.
My Lord, you must away,
Scotland
's bleeding.
Away?—why,
Bruce,
I will outstrip the Winds,
And leave them Laggards in the hasty Course;
I'll go, like
Brutus,
at the Head of
Rome
's
Determin'd Son's, and restore poor, banish'd
Freedom to her Throne.
There shall she sit incorp'rate with our King,
'Till Time shall be no more.
Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Norham
Castle.
A March at a Distance, enter the Bishop of
York
and many Free-holders, Gentlemen,
&c.
Friend's!
Britons!
and Free-men! in Conjunction with the valiant Earl of
Surrey,
I'm sent amongst you to defend
England
's Frontiers, And Norham's antient Castle 'gainst the avow'd Enemies of our Land. Consider,
Britons,
who those are! a Set of rapacious
Scots!
Desperadoes! Out-laws! and a few dastard
French!
who do not fight for Fame or Liberty,—but theevish Booty; your Property; and shall we give up our King, our Liberties; our Laws, Religion, and our Families to
Rome's
greedy Priests, and frenchified hungry
Scots?
No, there is a robust Vigour in Freedom unknown to Slaves. Let but your Minds be obstinate, your Bodies never can be conquer'd. Tyranny is a Weed that never did, nor can grow in
English
Soil; the Breath of Freedom is it's Bane, which blasts it sudden as Lightning does the Mountain Heath.
Ay, and may it forever blast it; and every Tyrant, who comes to plant it amongst us.
Then,
Englishmen
and Friends, let us but follow the brave Examples of our Ancestors, and we shall never be Slaves to a tyrant Deputy of
France
and
Rome.
They know our native Plenty—they long for it; they know our golden Commerce,—they grieve at it; they know our Freedom,—they fear and hate it; and well they know our Courage,—now then let them feel it.
And so they shall.—Looky', Lord Bishop, in Behalf of my Neighbours, Countrymen, and Friends, now present, I speak; and in plain down-right
English,
will let you know our Thoughts—which are these. We love our King,—we'll fight for him; we love our Country, we'll fight for that; and we love our Religion, our Liberty, and our Laws, and we'll fight for them too. We were born free, we have lived free, and we'll die free. We have resolved not to be plunder'd, nor directed by
Rome, France, Scotland,
nor a Pretender. So Lord Bishop, let some true
Briton
lead us on, and I'll engage we will beat the Beggars back to their Mountains;—where we will pen them up 'till they devour one another; so that's all we have to say.
All! 'tis all that a
Brion
can say. There is an Eloquence more prevalent in homely
British
Freedom, than in all the Jesuit Rhetoric of
France
and
Rome.
It passes to the Heart, there inspirits and kindles up an active Vigour unknown to all Mankind but
Britain
's Sons.
Enter a Gentleman.
A Gentleman disguised, and muffled in
Scotch
Garb is at the Castle Gate, and prays Admittance, and instant Converse with your Lordship, and if I mistake not it is the gallant Earl of
Huntley
;—but from the Battlements your Grace may descry him plainly.
If it be
Huntley,
we may admit him; for cold Treachery and he are Strangers? Were
Scotland's
Subjects all of his Temper, intermeddling
France
would never dare to offer Laws or Kings to
Britain.
But let us to the Battlements! if it be he, perhaps his Business may bring general Good.
Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
An open Country. A March near
Norham
Castle.
The
Scotish
Army.
Perkin
and
Frion
enter apart from the main Body.
The King's gone to his Tent and expects you.
Why, Sir, do you retire so gloomily?
As if black Melancholly had seiz'd your Mind?
What is't hangs so heavily on your Spirits?
O
Frion,
my
Catherine,
my Wife is lost.
Sorrow hath sunk so deep into her Heart,
That Death,—or silent Madness must ensue.
Since we left
Holy-rood,
not an Accent
Hath escap'd her faded Lips.—Motionless
She sits; with Eyes fixt as if rivited
To Earth; while Tears insensibly steal down
Her pensive Cheeks, which look like weeping Dew
Fallen on the Statue of Despair.
Do, droop; convince the King, his Court and Army,
That your cold, your watery Veins are Bankrupt
Of royal Blood. Convince them you are Impostor,
Who wou'd not fight for such a fertile Isle
As envied
Britain.
'Then do not droop, nor rest till that you die
'The milky Rose you wear in the luke-warm Blood
'Of
Henry
's Heart;' and the stiff-neck'd sturdy Knaves,
Who now oppose your Claim, be tame and humble
As the dullest Boor that ever trampt in Wood.
Gall them with Yokes till that their stubborn Necks
Bow to the lowest Slave in
France,
and own
Them for their Masters.
Were I but once upon the Throne I wou'd.
Their free-born Insolence should be forever check'd.
But my dear
Katherine
makes me inactive;
She hangs about my Heart.
Haste, Sir, be gone, the King expects you in his
Tent. Drop, drop the Lover, shake it
From your Heart; and put on th' enkindled Warrior.
Shew the Soldiers you are going to fight
For a Crown; not to die for a Puppet,
A melancholy whining Girl.
Exit Perkin.
This it is to have Concern with Wretches
Born to be Tools. Well! to change Nature's Bent
I see is not in the Power of Art;
If it had,—this
Perkin
might have been e're this
As valiant as
Caesar,
and as courtly
As sportful
Anthony.
The united Skill
Of
France
and
Rome
have joyn'd to form his Mind;
The Clergy indeed have discharg'd their Part
Effectually; for he tells his Tale
With as specious and smooth Hypocrisy
As our Church can boast. But for his Courage
He is as great a Stranger to it as he
Is to Royalty.
But I must not be absent lest he betray
The Milkiness of his coward Liver.
Exit.
SCENE V.
A Field near
Norham
Castle.
Enter
HUNTLEY,
and all the
SCOTCH
Nobility.
Nobles, Freemen, and
Scots
; I've transgress'd the Laws
Of our King and Council, and 'gainst their Sentence,
From Death, have borrow'd a few Hours to live
Amongst you. Then as my Time is short,
I cannot waste it in golden Speech or
Rounded Phrase; for if my Subject will not
Move you, my Eloquence cannot. Then to th' Purpose.
Many I see here whose Sires, and Grandsires,
Have fought with me for Liberty, in the
Very Field where now we stand. You
Matthew Steward,
Earl of
Lenox, Alexander
Lord
Forbes,
And
Duncan Dundass,
Lion King of Arms,
To you I speak particularly—your
Fathers I well remember to've fought with.
And many more no doubt are here, which
My Eye cannot now take in. I have seen
Their free, their willing Swords plow thro' Tyranny,
And their smoaking Blood sluic'd to manure this Field.
From whence reviv'd the sweetest fairest Flower
That e're adorn'd
Scotland
's Soil.
Liberty, my Friends! Priest-stab'd Liberty!
This Flower,
Countrymen, your Fathers have transmitted
To your Care. Then take Heed on't, preserve it
As you wou'd Existence; set it in the Centre
Of your Hearts; that's it's native Soil, there,
Only there 'twill flourish,—Trust it to
Rome,
Priests, or Priest-rid Monarchs, 'twill surely perish.
My Lord, sorely
We feel our Country's Wrongs, and wish to cure them.
I've had secret Conference, in
Norham
Castle,
With his Grace of
York
; and have settled such
Terms as will, I hope, restore Peace and Freedom
To our harrass'd Land; and befit the Honour
Of our King to ratify.
O C
untrymen, I have not Time nor Memory
To sum up our Evils; they are beyond
Arithmetic's enumerating Power:
'Tis your own feeling that can convey
The Number of your Stings, and your own Deeds
That must redress 'em.
o all those, who are in love
With
Rome,
Priestcraft, and Slavery,
Let them remain behind—those who love their King,
Scotland
and Liberty, follow me.
Liberty, Liberty,
Scotland,
huzza!
Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
A Royal Tent near
Norham
Castle.
Enter
King
of
Scotland, Perkin, Sevez, Frion,
and all the King's Attendants.
Cousin, after long Absence from our native Land
Nature at our Return feels eager sympathizing Joy;
How happens the Reverse in you?
I own Sadness sits round my Heart,
To think, I must depopulate, and waste
My Native Land; to wade thro' Cruelty,
Blood and Slaughter! to have the Infant slain!
The Aged murder'd! to have Sword, Fire,
And total Devastation overspread the Land,
E're I can purchase my just Inheritance!—
This, in extream Grief, my Soul deplores.
O, Sir, my Heart grieves for my poor People!
Your People, methinks, deserve your Anger
More than your Sorrow; for not a Man as yet
Hath rais'd Hand or Voice in your Defence.
But, on the contrary, all seem resolute against you,
Why come not Sir
Robert Clifford
and
Stanley,
As they promis'd?
Sir, be assur'd they are not inactive.
Clifford,
I know, is true as Heart can wish;
And for
Stanley,
his Resentment is too deep
Within his Heart ever to be eras'd.
The Clergy, to a Man, are warm and zealous;
And, already, under Pretence of not
Paying a Subsidy, have privately
Stirr'd up twenty thousand hardy Britons
Now in Arms in
Cornwal.
—Many Friends too
Lurk slily in the great Metropolis,
And thro'out the Realm, who artfully joyn
The common Cry against Invasion,
France,
Scotland,
and the Pretender.—But when Time
Serves, are ready, one and all, to use and
Massacre the Heretics, and all whom
They suspect as Enemies to our Church,
Or young
Plantagenet's
Claim.
But,
Frion, France
and
Spain
are tardy;
Where are those Troops were to be pour'd
Into
Ireland?
And the South and West of
England?
Most royal
James, France
and
Spain
Are prompt as Revenge and Hatred can inspire;
But as yet they cannot stir—the
English
With their Fleets will not let them
Look forth; or e're this, Devastation wou'd
Have o'er-run their Land, swift as Contagion,
Or epidemic Plagues.
Unless your Friends are numerous and powerful
In
England,
or
France
send some speedy Aid,
I fear, young Prince, Adversity will still attend you.
Enter a Lord.
So please your Highness, a Gentleman just arriv'd from
Cornwall,
who calls himself
Flamock,
humbly craves Audience of Princely
Richard, England
's lawful Heir.
I know him well, so please your Majesty;
A warm and active Friend he is, and of much
Power in the West.
'Tis like he brings Dispatches of Importance!
Give him instant Audience.
Exit
Perkin
and
Frion.
Sevez,
this Business wears not an Aspect
So fair as we cou'd wish—
Dread Sir, I trust this Gentleman from
Cornwall
Brings some Intelligence of good Complexion.
Is Advice arriv'd yet of
Huntley
's Death?
Not yet, my Liege. But every Moment
I expect it. Sir
David Bruce
is not
Wont to be remiss. He is sure and trusty,
And will the Instant it is over send Dispatch.
Three Shouts, each approaching gradually.
Enter
Huntley,
and all the Lords, with several of the Soldiers all arm'd, their Swords drawn.
The King starts up,
Sevez,
and the rest run behind him.
Huntley!
Ay, my Liege!
Where are my Friends?
Here, Sir!
All these are Friends.
Am I to be assassin'd?
No Sir—;
We all kneel, Sir,
All kneel.
Your natural, loving, Subjects; dutiful—
But free—free as the Glory of our King—
The Welfare of our bleeding Land,—and our
Infringed, constitutional Rights demand.
Why how now, Sir; who dare controul our Will?
Justice dare—gracious Sir, let Reason school
Your youthful distemper'd Heat, and sound Judgment
Soon will follow; with sincere Allegiance
And Affection we're come to close this Breach,
'Twixt a hasty
Mistaken King, and his much-wrong'd
Banish'd Subjects. Let not the latent Poison
Of subtle
France
and
Rome
insinuate and work
Against our Love and Loyalty.
Well, Sir, let us
See an Instance of your Love and Loyalty.
You shall Sir,—first, you Priest, who Coward like
Puts Majesty in Front when Danger threats,
You, Sir, to your Sphere—the Altar—a Throne
Pulls him from behind the King, and throws him to the Guard.
Of Freedom never was design'd for
Rome's
Priests.
Now, Sir,
[To the King.]
You are, as you shou'd be, King of
Scotland
;
Before, the Pope was.
Hear me, rash Man—do not presume—
My Liege,
Rome's
Legates have no Business round our Throne;
The Church is their Capitol,—there let them thunder out
Their Threats, Pennance, Bulls, and Absolutions;
And if they can, why, let 'em save our Souls;—
But for our Property, and our Freedom,
We can preserve them ourselves without troubling
Their Infallibility.
Lord
Huntley,
This Insolence is beyond Sufferance.
Sir, 'tis not Insolence but Loyalty;
Built on Nature's first Law—and the first Compact
That made a King. The People's Interest,
In a free Nation, is blended, and co-equal
With the King's; and he who separates, or
Over-values either, is the Traitor;
Not we, who want to unite and poise them.
Sir, this is a Language, I'm unus'd to.
I know it is, young King; therefore I speak it.
For when Tyrant Folly surrounds the Throne,
The Truth to our King is the Nation's best
Loyalty. Look into our honest Neighbour's,
The
English
Annals; see their Insolence
In Defence of Liberty encroach'd by
Rome
-directed Kings. See their determin'd
Honest Souls, wading thro' mercenary
Slavish Blood, to shake off
France
and
Rome's
usurp'd
Authority. See each Man, active as
The first
Brutus,
driving out the
Tarquins
Of their Land—and sacrificing themselves
And Sons to Liberty.—Copy them, them
My Liege—not
France
and
Rome.
These Sounds are harsh
They grate and discord in the Ears of Kings.
Sir, none reverence Majesty more than I.
'Tis the People's sacred Repository
Of Freedom, Justice, Mercy, and all their
Social Happiness; and as such, when pure,
I kneel, and I adore it—but when defil'd
By Tyranny and Priestcraft, it becomes
A Magazine of Vengeance, and all our
Veneration turns to Contempt and Wrath.
Huntley,
if you love us cease this Doctrine.
Bows to the King—then turns to the Lords.
I have done—my Lords, this reverend Priest,
Our Paramount, sent us from meddling
Rome
;
See he has safe Conduct to
Edinburgh
;
My traiterous Apartments in the Castle,
I believe will suit his Reverence; they are
Retir'd and fit for Meditation.
I charge you, let not his Life be touch'd!
Why Sir—the foremost Man of all the World,
Great
Caesar,
bled for wounding Liberty;
And shall a paltry Priest of
Rome
escape?
Is there not one—one
Brutus
to be found
Within wide
Scotland's
Realm, dares stab the Villain
Who wou'd basely enslave his native Land?
Be yourself that
Brutus,
And let your Dagger be th' unbiass'd Censure
Of a
Scotish
Parliament.
Sir, we are
In your Power; and your Will must be our Dictator.
No, Sir—your Glory—and
Scotland's
Welfare
Shall dictate. Dispatch them to the Castle.
Exit Guards with
Sevez.
Enter a Lord.
The News!
So please your Majesty a Herald from
Norham
Castle is arrived, Harbinger
To the warlike Prelate
York,
who in his
Master's Name demands Audience of
Scotland's
King.
I pray your Majesty will give him Presence.
He may be charged with Power of Treaty,
Such as your Glory and
Scotland's
Distress
May wish.
Give him Conduct.
Exit Lord.
Well, Sir, what are the Dictates we must attend to?
Sir, we are not in plight for wasteful War.
Intestine Feuds, and
Rome's
black Exactions,
Have drain'd us below the Might of coping
With industrious
England
; who from thriving
Commerce, and domestic Union, are stout
And finewey. Therefore, we pray this War,
Stirr'd and fomented by subtle-working
France,
In favour of an Impostor, may be dropt.
Enter
York.
Now my Liege you may behold the Difference
'Twixt an
English
and a
Scotish
Prelate.
The one roused and spirited by Freedom's Voice
Is fighting for the Franchisement of his Land;
The other, sway'd by the Craft of
France
and
Rome,
Is praying to enslave it.
From
England's
awful King I come; not to
Cringe or beg for Peace; but for mutual Good
Of both the Realms to stop ruinous War's
Bloody Effusion. And that on such Terms
As befits
Scotland's
Honour to accept,
England's
to offer.
Lord Prelate,
England
Cannot be more in love with Amity
Than
Scotland
is. But the Insults offer'd
To our
Scotish
Youth, here on
Norham
Plain,
At their mirthful annual Festival,
In cold Blood, and in Time of Peace too, hath
Long gone unaton'd, tho' oft remonstrated.
Those, whose Policy it is to create Dissention,
No wonder they have mistold that Business.
Sir,
Henry's
Scorn of our Alliance with
His Daughter
Margaret
hath not been mistold.
That we ourself experienced and can't forget.
Sir, I come with Power, I hope, to end all Feuds,
Groundless or otherwise. With
Henry's
Voice
In this Presence I offer new Alliance
To
Scotland
; and to make the Bond of strictest
Union now, let there be Affinity with
Royal
James,
and Princess
Margaret; England's
Unparalell'd Beauty; whose Proxy here I stand
Ready to conclude instant Affiance.
And farther, the annual Loan receiv'd
Of
France,
we promise to make good to
Scotland
By way of Portion; which on Survival
Must be settled, as Dower, on
Scotland's
Queen;—
Provided Connexion be broke with those
Breed-bate
French,
and their Tool th' Impostor
Perkin
Be render'd up.
How!
York!
break our royal Faith!
No; our sacred Word was his Sanctuary:
Nor will we defile it by Treachery.
Our Tutor,
The rigid
Huntley,
I believe will not
Prescribe us that.
My Liege, your royal Word was given, as you thought,
To
England's
Heir; this is an Impostor,
As can be proved; hatch'd and foster'd by the vile,
The hellish Juncto of
France, Spain,
and
Rome
;
On Purpose to enslave this Island's Realms.
For when once their Deputy rules in
England,
Scotland
must bid farewel to Peace and Freedom.
Let him be proved an Impostor, and we
Shall think ourselves in Justice and in Honour bound
Not only to yield him up, but with Contempt
And Ignominy. But 'till that is done
We must not break our Faith.
My Liege, you shall
Have ample Proof; so full, that not the Shadow
Of a Doubt shall disturb your Mind.
The other Terms we do accept, and if
Approv'd by
Henry,
will send Lord
Huntley
To ratify them—so inform your Master.
I shall.
Exit.
Huntley,
we shall trouble you with the Trust.
Attend us for our farther Instructions.
With most willing Duty and Diligence.
Exit King.
You see, my Lords, that by the King's Commands
[
To the
Scotch
Lords
]
I must strait to
England
to ratify
This hasty Peace. His Sincerity, as yet,
I cannot judge of. But lest
Rome
's wicked,
Temporizing Craft should be his Policy,
I beseech you, let not a Fort, or Castle,
Be surrender'd, till the Legate hath stood
A free, a candid Enquiry of his Peers;
And the Justice they doom, be fairly dealt him:
Saving the Power of royal Mercy,
If it shall think proper to interpose.
Consider, Countrymen, how this Struggle
For native Liberty will shine, when read
To a free Posterity.
The Youth will glow to emulate this Deed,
The Sire will bless us for his Country freed;
And from your Loins a patriot Race proceed.
End of the Fourth ACT.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
King
Henry's
Tent near
Taunton.
Enter
King, York, Oxford,
Lords and Gentlemen.
MY rev'rend
York,
let me embrace thee.
York
kneels, the King embraces him.
Rise,—come to my Heart,—and there let my Love
Enshrine your Truth, your Loyalty, and Friendship.
This is indeed a Monarch's Happiness,
In Day of Battle, and wild Rebellion,
To be enpal'd with such Ranks of Loyalty,
Fences, nor War, nor Treachery can shake.
But what of our Brother
Scotland?
Does he
Still persist in Conjunction with his Allies
Of
Rome, France
and
Spain,
to send
England
Laws and Kings?
Or will he sheath his redoubted Anger?
And let us rule in Peace our Nook of Freedom.
Grievance and Disunion o'erspread their Land;
This brought
Huntley
disguis'd to
Norham
Castle;
Where, in the Name of all free-born
Scots,
He demanded Friendship with
England
's King;
I readily embrac'd the mutual Blessing,
When Preliminaries strait by us were settled,
Which the aggriev'd People pray'd their King to sign.
He did—and this contains their full Matter.
kneels and gives him a Paper.
Which Lord
Huntley,
with other
Scotish
Peers,
Fraught with ample Power, are ready to conclude
And ratify, provided the Substance
Shall please your Majesty.
Lord Prelate, of your
Wisdom in making Terms for our Glory,
And
England
's Interest, we will not doubt.
Lord
Oxford, Huntley
is your antient Friend,
I know your honest Heart longs to see him;
Conduct him hither.
Exit
Oxford.
But, my Lord,
What of the Impostor? is he deliver'd up?
So please your Grace,
Scotland's
King consented
To yield him up—but, suddenly, the Impostor,
His Wife,
(the miserable
Katherine Gordon
)
The Traitor
Frion,
and others of his Train,
Disappear'd beyond the Reach of labour'd Intelligence.
Enter
Oxford
and
Huntley,
and several
Scotish
Lords.
Here he is, my Liege; as tough a Piece as ever
War or Winter foster'd. Many and many a Day have
We harrass'd each other; and many a bitter Night have
Watch'd for the grey Dawn, to steal the Advantage
Of the first Blow—which we old Soldiers think no
Contemptible Part of a Battle.
Lord
Huntley,
welcome to our tented Court;
Dignity of Forms, proper to your high Place,
And exalted Worth, confus'd Rebellion
Will not allow. But if sincere Reception
Can compensate Lack of Ceremony,
Scotland
's Ambassador, and the Lord
Huntley
Are most welcome.
In
Scotland's
Name I here greet
England's
Love,
And stand a faithful Hostage of Return.
As for myself, next my royal Master's,
Henry
's Esteem is my greatest Honour.
Lord
Huntley,
for some Hours
Peaceful Treaty must give Way to Civil War.
When mad Rebellion's lawless Crew have
Awak'd his Wrath, the chastising Vengeance
Of fire-ey'd
Mars
must keep Pace
With Lightning's Rage. When that precarious Scene
Is over, as the Justness of our Cause
Deserves, your high Business we then will ratify;
Mean Time, my Lord,
Such Accommodation, and such Safety—
As Courage needs in Honour's Cause, ler me have;
Or such as Lord
Oxford
here shall have, I request;
No other, I beseech your Majesty.
Haggish Age hath not yet so thin'd my Blood,
But I can toil one Day more in Honour's Field
With my honest old Competitor. As Foes
We oft have try'd each other's Soldiership;
To Day let it be try'd as Friends.
Spoke like a Soldier zealous in our Cause,
We will accept your honest Sword. You shall be
Oxford
's, your old Antagonist's Volunteer
And a stancher never stood by
Caesar.
Come you veteran Volunteer, come to my Heart.
(
embrace
)
How oft when we have been each other's Prisoners, for retreating was not in Fashion with us, have we wish'd for a Cause to joyn our Hearts in?—At length, Thanks to her Capriciousness, the blind Lady hath given us the Opportunity; and in faith we'll make use on't.
We'll try what Mettle there is in
French
-rais'd Rebels. Side by Side we'll march thro' their disjoynted Ranks, like Death and Time. The Rogues shall sicken at our Sight. Pale Pannic shall catch from Eye to Eye, 'till the trembling Phantom beat at their rebel Hearts Death's last Alarm.
Enter
Dawbney.
Now—Lord
Dawbney
—the News!
My Liege, by a trusty Spy, just escap'd,
I've learn'd that th' Impostor arriv'd last Night
In the Rebel's Camp; with some straggling
French
And
Highlanders,
a few Priests and
Irish
;
And a Lady, whose Beauty and Sorrow
Fill'd the whole Camp with Pity and Amazement.
Ha! it is my Child! my brokenh-earted
Katherine!
Heaven be prais'd! now we shall see our bold
Invider.
Dawbney,
let strict Observance
Be kept at all our Ports, lest he escape.
And a Reward thro' out our Realm proclaim'd
Of one thousand Marks to him who brings his Head.
Our Spy brought farther News—he say'd 'twas rumour'd in the Rebels Camp that the Earl of
Devonshire
and his Friends, the Mayor of
Exeter,
and many of the Citizens, were march'd to joyn your Majesty, and that the Rebels had resolv'd to advance and give us Battle e're the Junction cou'd be effected—and by a Gentleman just arriv'd, the Earl is now within an Hour's March.
The Earl is most valiant, as are all his Friends!
In their March from
Exeter,
the Villains have been guilty of most unheard of Outrages; as if Waste, Ruin, Havock, and Desolation were their only Purport. At
Perrin,
my Liege, they have committed a savage Cruelty. The Commissioner, for daring to expostulate concerning the Revenue, was cruelly murder'd! while his Wife, and two virgin Daughters, before his dying Eyes, were sacrificed to their brutal Lust!
Barbarous Villains! Shame to human Kind!
But speedy Vengeance shall o'ertake them.
What may the Number of their savage Force
Amount to?
Rumour calls 'em thirty Thousand,
But the strictest Intelligence, my Liege,
Cannot muster them to above Five and Twenty.
Ay, Men, so please your Majesty, meer Men; not a Soldier amongst them; all Rabble, the rank hot-blooded Sores of the Commonwealth, which every now and then will break out into the Murrain of Rebellion. Then, my Liege, let us not waste Time in waiting farther Aid; already we are enow to beat their disordered Numbers thrice told.
Lord
Oxford,
Security oft hath been
The teeming Mother of blind Destruction.
Let not our Safety then beget our Ruin;
But let us fight with that Caution and Courage,
As if each rude Rebel was a Caesar.
Let our Judgment be cool, our Battle warm,
The Blow will then be sure. Their Numbers are
Formidable, what e'er their Discipline,
Or Courage may be. Then, e'er we charge 'em, Lords,
Let us into Council, and debate the Means;
Whether it shall be as we now stand muster'd,
Or to wait the Junction of the Earl
And his Friends.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Field near the Rebels Camp.
Enter
Katherine
dress'd like her Husband
Perkin,
followed by her Maid
Jane.
I charge you by your Duty and Affection
Follow me no farther; enquire no more
Into my Design.
Madam, I will not.
Let me but attend you in any Shape.—
I will purchase manly Garments, and travel
With you. For my Patroness,
Your dead Mother's Sake, let me share the Fate;
Be it Toil, or War, or Famine or Death,
It will be welcome, much more welcome,
Than cruel Banishment, from my dear Mistress.
Jane,
press me no farther—I must be obey'd,
Return to my Husband's, King
Richard
's Tent;
There wait my Presence, or my Messenger's.
And as you wish my Happiness, let not
Utterance, or Advertisement, escape you,
By any Means of this my unseemly
Immodest Garb.
Jane,
this strange Request, give it not Complyance
As my Servant who obeys, but as my Friend
Who loves.
It never shall escape me. But, dear Madam,
From the earliest Time, my Memory
Can trace, my Life hath been employ'd with you;
I've been bred up with you, not under you.
You have not been a Mistress to me, but
A tender Equal. Sorrow and Servitude
Were unknown in
Gordon
's hospitable House;
Menial Content was the lordly Owner's
Benevolent Joy; and the Servant's Pain
Anguish'd in the kind Master's humane Heart:
Then, Madam, be not angry,
My grateful Heart, bursts to think I never,—
Never shall again behold, from this Moment,
One of
Gordon
's Race—my impetuous Tears
Are masterless.—I cannot stop them—they
Will gush, in spite of all my Labour to prevent 'em.
Jane,
do not wound me thus.
There is a Cruelty in this Sorrow
My Nature cannot bear. The grateful Tears
You've shed upon my Hand, melt in my Heart:
Pity's tender Anguish is in each Drop.
They shall offend no more; for tho' they ease
My throbing Heart, yet e're they grieve my Mistress,
They shall turn to liquid Flames, and
Etna
like,
Destroy their own Mansion—Madam, my Fears
Inform me I shall never see you more.
That in this strange, this
English
Land, I shall
For ever lose my Patroness.
Again I will not importune to attend,
Or bear you Company in this strange Design.
But shou'd you command me—or give me leave
To follow, and watch at Distance, lest some
Of those hot-blooded
English
—
Fear not,
Jane.
Virtue knows no Danger, it is it's own Shield;
It may be assaulted, but never can be hurt:
Therefore as you regard my Peace, or Love,
Expostulate no more; but straight leave me.
My Patroness, farewel.
And may the watchful Eye of Providence guard and direct you!
Farewel, my tender, honest-hearted
Jane.
They embrace, Exit Jane.
Poor Maid! she was ever gentle and loving;
And her tender Heart will grieve sorely,
When she shall hear that my Soul hath shook off
This galing Prison.
Now
Scotland, Huntley, Daliel,
Life, and Woe,
Farewell for ever. You dauntless
English,
This Day, let th' aking Sighs, the mournful Tears
Of your Parents, Wives, and Children,—let your
Ravag'd Country, your Love of Liberty,
And whatever else your tenacious Souls
Hold dear,—rouse, and quicken in your honest Hearts,
This Day, that intrepid Courage, my dear Father
So oft hath prais'd in you. O let this Garb,
This Impostor Garb, allure your Vengeance
On me your supposed Invader; so shall
My Husband be the Cause of ending
The cureless Sorrow his detested Love begun.
(
Trumpet
)
Heark I am summon'd,—
Joyful Sound! O War! Death's fav'rite Harbinger,
If ever thou had'st partial Wrath against
A single Life! Or a first Victim in
Thy raging Onset, O then, for Pity's Sake,
Let me be the cull'd Sacrifice of this
Dreadful Day! let your remorseless Agents,
Sword, Pike, Dart, Javelin, and all your fell Crew,
Swarm, and cover me with distinguishing Wounds,
That when my disfigur'd Body is found,
Memory of Friend may find no Trace of Knowledge,
To shed a Tear o're the mangled
Catherine.
Trumpets at a Distance.
Again I am summond! and now,—Despair
And Danger be my Guides.
Exit.
SCENE III.
Field of Battle, Charge,
&c.
Enter King,
Oxford, York.
Where is this Impostor, who wants a Crown?
This spurious, this
Rome
-hatch'd Plantagenet?
If he hath royal Blood within his Veins,
Or one Spark of
English
Flame about his Heart,
Now, now, while War rages, and the Blood boils,
Let him stand forth and prove himself a King.
My Liege, have better Guard upon your Person,
Do not expose it thus in Danger's Front.
How,
York!
when I am fighting for a Crown,
Wou'd you have me shew my loyal Subjects
I am unworthy wearing it? No
Forward,—Charge,—Victory,—or Death!
Exeunt, Charge, Excursions.
Charge, &c. Enter
Huntley.
Thro' War's crimson Chaos I have fought the Impostor
But cannot reach him! if Death is not Death,
Him by my Hand—
Going off meets
Catherine,
who is taken Prisoner by a Soldier.
A Villain, offer to kill my Prisoner in cold Blood.
Ha! 'tis he! now
Scotland
and
England's
guardian Genius be ready to accept this Sacrifice. Inspire my Rage with one Blow—
Going to assault
Catherine
she falls on her Knees.
My Father! O behold and bless your
Catherine
E'er you give the fatal Blow—
Angels bless and guard my Child!—Fate, what art thou doing! ha! 'tis she herself—I feel her at my Heart, nature softens at her Touch.—
embraces her
The faithful Centinel starts at the Alarm,
And wakens all the Father in my Soul!
My Child! O my Child.
Your Child!
Ay, my Child! Lord
Huntley
's Child, if thou knowest that Name.
As well as I do my General, Lord
Oxford
's.
Then I am he,—and this my Daughter!
Then, Sir, I am glad I have saved her Life with all my Heart. I took her for the Pretender, and thought I had had a good Prize,—but as I know my General loves and honours you, and you him, I assure you, Sir, I am better pleased with my having sav
young Lady and your Daughter, than I should have been with the Reward for
Perkin.
Let me embrace thee for that generous Thought. Thou hast saved my Child from Death, and me from endless Woe.
embraces the Soldier.
Fear Shame, and Joy
Press all at once upon my longing Heart.
I
wou'd ask
H
w
oor
Scotland
fares? How
Daliel?
How my
Father escap'd the Snares of wicked
Sevez?
And if he hath yet forgiven the Disobedience
Of his
Catherine?
Forgiven! Why thou art thy Country's Glory!
And your mourn'd Absence is the only Grievance
Scotland
now bewails. Me thou hast made
Jocund as lusty Youth. My May of Life's
Return'd; and my Child again is born to me
In Nature's full Perfection. And
Daliel,
The solitary, hapless
Daliel,
still lives,
And languishes for his betroth'd
Catherine.
O, I have a thousand Questions to ask you. But first, what brings you to this dreadful Place, where Death and Slaughter reign? And why this vile, this impostor Garb, which had like to ensnare me into a Crime my Nature starts to think of, the Murderer of my Child?
Quite worn down with Sorrow, my hopelorn Soul flew to War's Rage, and this detested Garb as to the surest Means to compass Death; frail Nature's last Cure for comfortless Despair; but this Soldier seized and snatch'd me from the raging Conflict, and would have brought me Prisoner to the King; when another Soldier follow'd, and claim'd Part in the Reward; and to make his Claim the surer the cruel Villain would instantly have kill'd me, which this honest Soul prevented,—disdaining in cold Blood to kill an Enemy.
The Soldier's Blessings, Humanity, Courage, and Success attend him to his Death's Hour.—If you have Children, may the Father's Joy, the Extasy I now feel, for ever flow about your humane Heart. Come, my Mars, in Triumph lead your fair Prisoner, and thou shalt have Reward, not such as Monarchs, but doating Fathers give.
Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
A Field, a Retreat sounded.
Enter
Henry, York, Oxford,
Prisoners guarded.
Here they are, my Leige, the Ringleaders of these Rebels.
O, you base! you degenerate
Britons
!
Are you not asham'd to fight for Slavery!
For
France
and
Rome
your sworn natural Foes!
Do you not blush to stain your native Herbage
With
English
Blood, and bruise it with hostile Paces!
Ungrateful Vipers! who with Rebellion's
Intestine Sting, have wounded the Bowels
To the three Leaders.
Of this fost'ring Land! the tenderest Mother,
And the kindest Nurse this World can boast.
Hence you Parricides! you unfilial Wretches!
Exeunt three Leaders.
To Execution with them strait!—for you,
To the Rebels in general.
Blind, mistaken Men, who have been ensnar'd
By these hell-bred Agents, accept the Mercy
Of your Country, whose tender Nature
Out of War's Rage, cannot bear the cool Slaughter
Of her Sons! the Wounds you have given her, she weeps
In Tears of Blood! your intended Parricide,
She grieves and pities! and her relenting
Nature punishes it with Mercy's mildest
Chastisement, Forgiveness and Repentance!
Hence, to your forlorn Families! comfort
Their disconsolate Hearts with domestic Peace;
And your injur'd Country with future Loyalty.
Exeunt Rebels.
Lord
Oxford,
there is
A Soldier of your Regiment, whose Face we oft
Have notic'd, to whom we are much indebted.
To his single Arm, this Day, we owe our Life.
He must be found, my Lord, and rewarded,
As becomes the Affection of a fellow Soldier;
The Gratitude and Honour of a King.
He shall be sought, my Liege,
With utmost Diligence.
Hath any Discovery yet been made, whither
The Impostor Fled?
O, to the old Place, my Liege, the Church; the Villains accustom'd Sanctuary. The gallant Hero never appear'd in Battle; but like a politic Prince in Time of Danger, kept a loof; and at last, thought proper to make a religious Retreat to
Bewley
Monastery. But Lord
Dawbney,
hath made bold to beat it about the Abbot's Ears, and hath dragg'd thence our
French
-made Monarch.
You see, Lord Bishop, even in the Day
Of Battle;
Oxford,
will have his Jest upon the Church.
My Liege, it hurts not me. I am the Church's
Advocate, but as it befriend's Religion,
And the Happiness, and Freedom of our Land!
But when with Tyranny and Persecution
It perverts those Blessings
As a Priest, I disown
That Church; and as an
Englishman
will fight
Against it.
Enter
Dawbney,
and
Perkin.
My Liege, we have secured the Impostor; for so he now stands self-confessed. He acknowledges himself the Son of a reform'd
Jew,
one
John Osbeck
of
Tournay
; but nurs'd and cherish'd by
France
and
Rome,
and the evil-hearted Dutchess of
Burgundy,
on purpose to plague this Land with Wars fell Contention.
Bear the Wretch to instant Execution.
Let an ignominious Death put a Period
At once to his Woe, and his Ambition.
See, my Liege, where
Scotland
's Honour comes; feebly he drags the Remains of Life, which wasting War and Time have left him. Yet my Veterian was not unactive to Day; his biting Whinyeard made some of the Rogues skip.
Enter
Hunt. Cath.
and Soldier.
Welcome my Volunteer, how now, what have we here another Pretender!
Ay, my Lord, a Pretender she is indeed;
But one who ne'er meant ill to
England.
It is my dear
Katherine
; whose Woes outraging
The Cure of Patience, flew to War, and this
Impostor Garment, as to the swiftest
Means of Death. In the Midst of Battle she
Was taken; and now kneels
England's
Pris'ner.
Rise, fair
Katherine
; your Woes we oft have pity'd,
But we hope they now are ended. The Joy
Your Deliverance brings to
Huntley's
Heart,
We share in; and that Joy shall be your Ransom.
Thanks to your Majesty!—but here is the Man,
takes the Soldier by the Hand.
Whose Humanity and Courage add Lustre
To the Soldier,—Dignity to human Nature.
This is her Deliverer; fated by
Providence this Day to stand between my Child
And Death.
Or Memory plays me false,
Or thou art the Man, who this Day sav'd me
From the
Highland
Pole-Ax.
So please your Majesty, I did see you sorely smote in the Battle, and down, and bleeding, that I must confess. And had a common Fellow-Soldier been in that Condition, I would have cover'd him from farther Harm if I could. But, when I saw my King in Danger, I would have lost a thousand Lives, but I would have brought him off.
Honest Soul—Lord
Oxford,
let this Soldier
Constantly be near our Person. Let him
Command our Body-Guards,—our Battle-Axes,
As Earnest of what we farther intend him.
Thou dear Deliverer of my Child, let me add my Acknowledgment to thy Worth. Receive this Ring, the bright Inheritance which hath descended thro' the House of
Gordon
for many Generations. Wear the precious Pledge, not as a Reward, but a Mark of endless Gratitude, from a tender Father, and a loving Friend.
Lord
Huntley,
we now will haste towards
Scotland's
Frontiers,
Where we will celebrate the happy Nuptials
Of royal
James,
and our Daughter
Margaret.
Joy shall revel thro' both our Realms, and every
Subject's Heart shall abound with Happiness.
York, Oxford, Huntley,
and all my Fellow Soldiers,
Shall be crown'd with Wreaths of smiling Victory;
For they have fought this Day, like true
Britons
;
Such as great
Caesar
had to cope withal;
Whose unpolish'd Courage, not all the Art
And tutor'd Discipline of War—like
Rome
Cou'd conquer.
Ay, ay, my Liege, let but the Kings of this little Nook, all act their Parts as you do yours, and I'll engage the People will never fail in theirs; let them but give us our constitutional Freedom, and we in Return will give them our Hearts and Purses; and then my Life for it, they never fail of Victory, let who will attack them.
My Lord, your Remark is just;
English
Courage
Must be foster'd with
English
Liberty;
And the King's Power supported by the Peoples Hearts.
United thus, let King and Subject stand,
Shields to each other, Guardians of the Land;
Let Faction cease, Commerce and Freedom smile,
The World can't conquer then, this War-Proof Isle.
FINIS.