HENRY
AND
ROSAMOND.
A TRAGEDY.
Dedicated to Sir
John Philipps,
Bart.
By
WILLIAM HAWKINS,
M. A. And Fellow of
Pembroke-College
in OXFORD.
Omne animi vitium tanto conspectius in se
Crimen habet, quanto major qui peccat habetur.
JUVEN.
LONDON:
Printed for WILLIAM OWEN, at
Homer
's
Head,
near
Temple-Bar.
M. DCC. XLIX.
TO Sir
John Philipps,
Bart.
SIR,
A S the following Play comes into the World under some Disadvantage, I am happy in your Permission to shelter it under your Name.
BUT though it did not stand in need of your Favour and Patronage upon many Accounts; yet it should be remembred, that, in point of Propriety, you have an undoubted Right to these Sheets, whether you are considered as a Person sincerely attached to the University of
Oxford,
or particularly interesting yourself in the Welfare of
Pembroke-College;
to the Regard and Affection of which Society you have a double Claim, both as an Ornament, and a Benefactor.
THE common Topics of Panegyric are obvious; and I have here a fair and agreeable Opportunity of taking Notice of those many amiable Qualities, which adorn you in public and private Life, and for which you are so justly beloved and esteemed: But my Inclination is corrected by a seasonable Thought, that most Writers of the present Age have, in this respect, a particular Advantage over me, as it is infinitely more easy to make a Character, than to describe one.
BESIDES, it would be needless to enter into a Detail of those Praises, which are already in the Mouth of every Wellwisher to his Country: But I cannot resist the Impulse of Gratitude, which points to that Part of your Character, which more immediately affects me; your Good-nature and Condescension, to which I am indebted for the Honour of your Acquaintance and Friendship, and for your favourable Acceptance of the following Poem.
GIVE me Leave to assure you, Sir, that if I am anxious for the Fate of this Tragedy, one principal Motive for it, is, the amusing Hope of transmitting to Posterity a Monument of the Regard and Veneration I have for the Person and Character of Sir JOHN PHILIPPS. I am,
SIR,
Your much obliged, And most humble Servant, WILLIAM HAWKINS.
Pemb. Coll.
Oxon.
March
13, 1749.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THIS TRAGEDY having been offered to the Managers of
Drury-Lane.
Theatre, who declined accepting it, for Reasons which appeared to the Author to be rather evasive, than satisfactory, he thinks proper to submit it to the Judgment of the Public: And as he is not conscious of having had the least Intention to give Offence, and no particular Passage has been excepted against, he begs no other Prepossessions in its Favour, on this Account, than the reasonable Allowances of a candid and impartial Disposition. The Play has indeed received some considerable Alterations since it came from Mr.
Garrick
's Hands: But, as these Alterations have no manner of Connexion with what the Author presumes was the principal Objection to the Whole (for, having had no clear Intimation, he can only speak by Conjecture), he does not think himself obliged to explain himself further on that Head.
Dramatis Personae.
MEN.
King
HENRY
the Second.
Prince
HENRY.
Duke of
CORNWALL.
Earl of
SALISBURY.
Lord
CLIFFORD.
Earl of
LEICESTER.
Earl of
WINCHESTER.
Earl of
SURRY.
WOMEN.
Queen ELINOR.
ROSAMOND.
HARRIANA.
Guards and Attendants.
SCENE
in and near
CANTERBURY.
HENRY
AND
ROSAMOND.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Enter the Earl of
LEICESTER.
I F there is that some call Eternal Justice—
Let not the coward Thought perplex my Soul:
My Bosom entertains Two lordly Guests,
Strong-plum'd Ambition, and Hell-gender'd Lust:
The Voice of Conscience, 'gainst their wild Domain
Is but a Whisper to the Whirlwind's Blast.
HENRY PLANTAGENET has balk'd my Hopes;
I stand the Outcast of his Peevishness,
And disappointed Rival of his Love!
But I have deeply laid my Plan of Vengeance:
I have been long young HARRY'S Oracle;
His shallow Friends walk in my Leading-strings:
If Fate give him the Crown, I'll bear the Rule,
And thro' the Gate of Pow'r shall find Access
To Love, and ROSAMOND. But see Lord SURRY.
Enter Earl of
SURRY.
My Lord of LEICESTER, hast thou seen the Prince?
No. What of him?
O he is seeking thee:
Thou hast fast wedg'd thyself within his Heart;
He calls thee valiant, faithful, just, and good:
His greedy Ear devours thy Eloquence.
He now demeans himself as we could wish;
Talks of high Fame, and hardy Feats of Arms:
Thou hast inspir'd his Soul. He swears, the Crown,
Whose Glories fade on HENRY'S wither'd Head,
Would better flourish on his youthful Brow:
In troth he is a mettled Youth, my Lord,
And Nature meant him well.
Ay, or how else
Could we have taught him his own Worth, or ours;
Or hope to raise our Honours from the Dust?
Faint Hearts will call this Treason; but, my Lord,
'Tis injur'd Merit's Cause; and we will work
To turn the Current of our low-ebb'd Fortunes
Into a fuller Channel: But he comes,
And I have joyful Tidings for his Ear.
Enter Prince
HENRY,
and Earl of
WINCHESTER.
Well, our good Friend, and trusty Counsellor,
What from our Uncle SCOTLAND?
This, my Liege:
In Princely Terms he greets your Royal Highness,
And well approves th' Alliance you have offer'd:
But Words, so please your Grace, in forc'd Extent,
Are but the Texture of fine Rhetoric;
Plain Action is Sincerity's best Proof:
He has encamp'd his Troops on
English
Ground,
A peerless Force of Twenty thousand strong.
The Earl of
Chester,
with your Father's Powers,
Is in full March to meet him.
Say, my Lord,
On what Pretence makes he this Armament?
For we must wait the Issue of a Battle,
Before we can avow ourself his Friend.
His Claim's distinct from yours. He does demand
Full Restitution of the frontier Towns,
Your Father wrested from him in the Wars:
And thus he seems no Party in our Cause,
While we, as Time shall serve, may back his Quarrel.
Why these are noble Tidings, and well suit
Our Royal Purpose. This looks well, my Lords:
I will no longer bend me to the Brow
Of this old King, my Father. LEICESTER, SURRY,
WINCHESTER, Friends, Companions of my Fortunes,
Give me your Hands, your Hearts, and, trust me, Lords,
We bravely shall outface these perilous Times,
Assisted by your Loves.
My hasty Will
Is on the Wing, mocking Ability,
And Zeal outstrips Performance.
And so, in Honesty of Heart, says WINCHESTER.
Thanks to you both: But, my good Lord of LEICESTER,
Are these same
Scots,
our new-contracted Friends,
Such as our Honour may lean safe upon?
Better ne'er mounted Glory's steep Ascent.
Sir, they are bold as the first Sons of Nature,
Ere Pomp and Luxury debauch'd the World:
Bred in a Land of Poverty and Want,
They live by free, uncultivated Virtue:
Ease were unnatural to their Iron Hearts;
For Labour is the Business of their Lives:
And, when they're summon'd forth to serve their Prince,
Dreadful they march, embody'd in the Field,
As the fell Storm, or Death-dispersing Bolt,
That rushes on, and levels all before it.
'Tis good, and henceforth will we mould our Person
Into the Attitude of Majesty.
It fits your Highness well.
Thou hast seen me, LEICESTER, in the Bloom of Youth,
Amidst the Joys of a voluptuous Court,
Where Folly spread her silken Net before me:
There soft'ning Beauty breath'd the am'rous Sigh;
There melting Music tun'd her Syren Voice,
And the high-flowing Bowl foam'd with rich Wines,
Soliciting ev'n Abstinence to taste:
Let me not turn my gallant Thought that Way,
When Virtue's balanc'd on so nice a Poise,
One Breath of Inclination turns the Scale.
Farewel for ever Pleasure's nerveless Tribe,
Welcome the manly Pomp of crimson War,
The Heaven-scaling Noise of charging Foes,
The piercing Groans of Bravery laid in Duft,
And all the Dangers, all the Sweets of Glory.
Spoke like a Candidate for this World's Empire.
Old HARRY'S foremost Boast is only this,
That he is Father to a Prince like you.
Goto; he's weak, he's weak, and peevish, LEICESTER,
And yet 'tis current Conversation here,
That he hath well acquitted him in
France
To martial Chivalry.
True it is, my Liege,
In open Field, he'as twice o'erthrown their Powers,
And now returns—
—Ay, like a Fugitive,
Rather than Conqueror; the doting Hero
Comes whining like an Infant for his Toy:
O he is worse than distaff'd
Hercules!
Where is the Honour of your
Saxon
House,
If Harlots make a Tool of Majesty?
Fame shall record HARRY succeeded ROSAMOND,
Not HARRY HARRY.
By the immortal Name
Of my great Ancestors it is too much—
O give that noble Indignation Room!
Have you not Friends, and Justice on your Side?
Did we not all swear Fealty to your Highness,
Conven'd in full Assembly by your Father?
Or was it but a Shew of Majesty,
A solemn Farce of State for Boys to shout at?
Hold there—For ev'ry Word thy Love has utter'd,
Rebukes my tardy Soul—O 'tis most true,
As spiritless, and dull-temper'd as I seem,
This Head has born fair
England
's Diadem:
You all remember 'twas at
Winchester,
In Presence of the States of the whole Realm,
The Royal Grant was made; when on this Brow
Rested th' Imperial Crown, which should confer
High Dignity, and Share of sov'reign Sway:
It was the free Donation of our Father.
HENRY has sure forgotten him of late:
For then your Royal Highness may remember,
He well discharg'd an Office that became him.
Ay, thou dost well remind me of it, LEICESTER;
'Twas at the sumptuous Banquet then prepar'd,
I sat inthron'd, the foremost of the Feast,
Lord of that glorious Day: 'Twas then my Father
Stept forth obsequious, like a Vassal-Prince,
Tending my Kingly Board; and sure, he cry'd,
No Monarch e'er was serv'd so honourably.
I whisper'd in his Ear his Grace of
York,
That, born a Prince, I thought me not much honour'd
By this same Ministry of that Duke's Son.
My Father was no better.
Nor is now,
But in our foolish Fears. Was that same Crown
You just now spoke of but a
May-day
Garland,
Bestow'd as on an Idiot, in mere Pastime?
Unnat'ral Insult! By the Blood that's in you,
If you have Hand, or Heart, or Sword, revenge,
Revenge yourself, your Country, and your Friends;
Your Friends for you dishonour'd, slighted, scorn'd;
Your Country soften'd by effeminate Rule;
Yourself the stalking Shadow of a King.
Enough, my tow'ring Fancy grasps the Skies:
Hence, give the Word to Fate; gird on my Sword:
Thou faithful Guardian of my wav'ring Youth,
I'll go where thou and Honour point the Way.
Where are these trusty
Scots?
Quick let us join them;
I will unfold my Banner to the Sun,
And pour my Vengeance on this Parent-Foe.
Well said; but I must cool this burning Vein,
Or this mad Youth will hurry us to Ruin.
[Aside.
I meant not this: I pray your Grace be calm.
Yes, as the Sea, that quarrels with the Wind!
Who is't can tame the hungry Panther's Rage?
Glory has still an Appetite more keen:
HARRY contends not for a vulgar Prize;
It is a Crown: Repeat it to the Heavens,
With the big Mouth of War; It is a Crown:
O you should rush like Lightning from my Presence,
And boldly pluck it from the Tyrant's Brow.
Your Highness knows our Hearts and Duty yours:
But Zeal thus premature were worse than Treason:
Our growing Cause is yet too young, to combat
With this tempestuous Time: If Fortune bless
Our good Allies with Victory, the Crown
Is yours by Cov'nant, and your Right proclaim'd
By
Scotland
's King: Till when lie we in secret,
Like the unseen insinuating Flame,
That creeps while it destroys: Without this Caution,
We are not safe an Hour—Your Father comes,
And you're withdrawn from Court—Hah! how sounds that?
As I love Honour, I do fear him not.
No—But the less Suspicion's baleful Blast
Breathes on our Counsel, it takes Root the deeper.
What wouldst thou urge me to?
Come, come, my Lord,
You must yourself to Court to meet the King;
And, when he questions you of your Departure,
Be you not too submissive, nor too high:
We can find Reasons plausible enough
Besides this Disaffection—as—d'ye mark—
The Treatment of your Mother—the foul Scandal
Of a licentious Palace—and the like;
All Provocations gross: And, Sir, of this
You shall be more advis'd anon.
Say'st so?
I thank thy Penetration—I was hot,
But thou art wise and brave. This Craft shall prosper;
The staunchest Hound of State, that ever trac'd
The wily Doublings of Conspiracy,
In this same Chace shall lose his baffled Scent,
And yelp his balk'd Sagacity in Air.
May Fortune say, Amen.
My Lord of LEICESTER,
We must dispatch some fresh Instructions strait
For
Scotland
's King; then for the Court away;
We will pursue this Business, come what may.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter the Earl of
SALISBURY
and Lord
CLIFFORD.
Yet hold, good CLIFFORD.
'Tis an old Man's Weakness:
Was it not I that train'd him up to War,
That taught his feeble Arm to grasp the Sword,
And pointed out the Paths that lead to Glory?
Was it for this he robb'd me of my Daughter?
Forget it, learn to scorn this Royal Robber,
And be at Peace.
It is impossible.
Had he reduc'd me to the Beggar's Lot,
Or stript me of the Honours of my Race,
I could have smil'd at his Ingratitude:
But to deprive me of my greatest Hopes,
To steal away my choicest, sweetest Flower,
To tempt young Innocence with hellish Arts—
'Tis more than Pain—it is—what is it not?—
O 'tis too much for an old Man to bear.
But canst assure me he returns so soon?
Each Morn expects to see him crown'd with Laurels,
And rich with Spoils: Fortune still takes his Part:
Where-e'er he marches, pale-fac'd Terror stalks
With Giant Strides, and leads his Van of Battle.
Let me do Justice to the Man has wrong'd me:
My Lord of SALISBURY, from his Dawn of Youth,
I trac'd the Symptoms of an active Soul,
Suited for warlike Deeds and brave Atchievements:
But then his turbulent Passions work so strong,
His Character is ever an Extreme;
A Hero, or a Dotard in Excess;
This Day, with a deep Sense of Honour stung,
Half-Convert to fair Virtue; and the next,
Born by fierce Appetite, a Slave to Vice.
His gen'rous Temper one Day may prevail;
For Fate still throws Occasion in his Way,
To put his noble Qualities to Proof:
An unexpected Tempest from the North
Hangs low'ring o'er his Head; and the young Prince,
Who breathes a mighty and right Royal Spirit,
Has with some noble Followers left the Court.
He is ensnar'd by guileful LEICESTER'S Art:
The King, thou know'st, hath banish'd him his Presence,
He meditates Revenge in all its Venom;
And since arose the League 'twixt him and HARRY.
Report has said this Lord, on Terms of Honour,
Woo'd your fair Daughter's Love.
He did profess so;
But much I fear me with a vile Design;
And for full Satisfaction, but this Day
I've penn'd a Note, in female Characters,
As from my Daughter, full of Blandishments,
And cordial Invitations from her Love:
If I surprise him at the Place assign'd,
I shall detect his Baseness to his Face.
Perhaps I but transcribe the Sentiments
Of her abandon'd Heart—that as it may.
Think not too meanly of thy beauteous Daughter;
HENRY 'tis true engrosses all her Soul,
Yet in her lonely, solitary Hours,
Sad, she regrets her ruin'd Innocence,
And mourns, like the first Fair, her fallen State.
'Tis superficial Grief: a barren Soil
Where Reformation never can take Root:
O, that an only Child should be a Curse!
But let us hence, the Thought encroaches on me,
In Pity to myself I would divert it.
Cousin, this Way, I have yet more to tell you,
Of what my Soul is purpos'd tow'ard the King.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Enter
ROSAMOND
and
HARRIANA.
This Coolness is untimely.
HARRIANA,
Th' unpleasing Thought will sometimes steal upon me:
Great as they seem, all these are dear-bought Pleasures:
Ev'n HENRY'S Love has cost me many a Pang.
Peace is the glorious Privilege of Virtue.
The harmless Country Maid, that lives retir'd,
Beneath the Covert of a homely Hut,
And knows no View beyond her daily Bread,
Has more Heart's Ease than I.
Prepost'rous Melancholy!
Is not the World, and its first Master, yours?
Nature, thy Handmaid, still supplies thy Wishes,
Lavish of all her Stock, as who should say,
Thou shalt be happy.
These are mean Suggestions:
Know I ne'er sold my Virtue, but to Love:
The massy Store of the Wealth-pregnant Earth,
The Pomp, and Eye-attracting Blaze of Courts,
And all the gilded Baits of Female Pride,
Were Bribes my HENRY'S Love disdain'd to offer:
Such as it is, this Beauty won his Heart,
How he won mine—I know not—but he won it—
For him I threw away my Innocence,
And am the Scoff of every scornful Tongue:
For him I've stain'd the noble Name of CLIFFORD,
And pierc'd his aged Soul who gave me Being;
For him, e'en now, my Heart with Transport beats;
His Presence ever calms my troubled Breast,
Stills each dull Thought, and bids all Sorrow vanish.
Once more he comes victorious from the Field:
O meet him with thy Love's sincerest Welcome.
Yes, he returns, and Thought adieu for ever:
Hence, I defy that Tyrant of the Mind:
My Love wants not a Plea: HENRY my Lord
Is great and gen'rous: He's the Pride of Fame,
And Fortune's Darling: HENRY lulls my Soul
In soft unfelt Captivity.
But hark,
Yon Trumpet's Voice proclaims him near at hand.
O sweetest Music to my ravish'd Ear:
Now ev'ry thing begins to smile about me;
Bright seems the Season as the new-born Spring,
When every Flower put forth its earliest Fragrance,
And infant Nature breath'd her Sweets around.
'Tis now thou risest to thy proper Self;
Thy Charms are summon'd all, thy Graces dawn,
And ev'ry sparkling Beauty beams anew.
But lo, the Royal Hero—I retire.
[Exit
HARRIANA.
Enter King
HENRY.
Take me once more, my Love, into thy Arms;
Thus let me clasp thee to my faithful Breast,
Thus feed my Eyes upon thy glowing Beauties,
And pour my Soul in Transports out before thee.
What, what is Fame, or Victory, to this?
Adieu the Pomp and Pageantry of War,
And Love resume the Empire of my Soul.
Speak not my Eyes the Language of my Heart?
Or shall I open my rich Hoard of Fondness,
With all the soft Impertinence of Love?
Why has my Lord so long been absent from me?
Methinks I now receive thee in thy Tent,
Dreadfully graceful from the Field of Blood,
The manly Dew still reeking on thy Brow.
O let me sooth my Hero to his Rest,
Then kindly chide his Eagerness of Valour,
And bid him sheath the Sword for Love of me.
To thee I am devoted from this Hour:
I'll give Mankind my loose superfluous Moments,
But Love shall claim my more substantial Care.
No petty Monarchs shall divide us more:
France
and her King have felt the Wrath of HARRY.
I flew on Wings of Victory to War,
And like celestial Fire consum'd the Foe;
Then halted in the mid Career of Glory:
Conquest was Waste of Time: Quick I return'd,
And left the Business of the World unfinish'd.
Forgive me, HENRY, if I shed a Tear;
A Tear, at once, of Pity, and of Love.
Gaze not thus fondly on me whilst I speak:
It is a fatal Fondness, and betrays thee.
Possess'd of me, art thou not lost to Honour?
Where is the native Greatness of thy Soul?
Thy gen'rous Thirst of everlasting Glory?
O hadst thou never fix'd thine Eyes on me,
Fame,
on her brazen Tablet, had display'd
Thy Royal Name, and shewn it to the Stars.
But I shall blot thy Memory for ever.
Thy kind Concern is far too nice, my Love:
O ROSAMOND! 'tis but the Dream of Pride:
Kings, and their Subjects all, are Nature's Children;
And ermin'd Greatness on the Throne must own it.
What is the Monarch more than other Men?
His Appetites and Passions are the same;
He hates, revenges, hopes, and fears, as they do;
Or does he love, O does he love like me,
'Tis Glory, 'tis Ambition, to pursue
The heav'nly Fair, and win her to his Wishes.
Is it not Pride to hang upon thy Smiles?
Is it not Triumph to enfold thee thus?
Art thou not All, and is not this World Nothing?
I could for ever listen to thy Voice:
Whene'er thou speak'st, Reason gives up the Cause,
And Nature whispers, what thou say'st is right.
Be Love the Theme, and I could talk for ever.
Be Love the Theme, I could for ever hear thee.
O come, my rural Goddess, to my Arms:
We'll lie upon the Flow'r-enamell'd Turf;
The Garland-Wreath shall be our Diadem;
The Leaf-clad Bow'r our Canopy of State;
Our Music the sweet Matin of the Lark:
Then bless me with the Sunshine of thy Beauty,
Till I forget my Royal Occupation,
The Task of Greatness, and the Toil of Power,
And ev'ry Sense be full of Love and thee.
How does thy Language charm my list'ning Ears?
Yet must I dread this Indolence of Thought,
The
Scotchmen,
and their King, are up in Arms;
And, if Report say true, th' Invasion boasts
The Countenance of your Son.
Fear not, my Love:
My better Genius shall protect me still.
Lend me thy Lip—Danger seems nothing now.
O lead me to some peaceful, close Retreat,
Where all is calm and gentle as thy Breast.
Let hostile War advance, and Faction rage,
I will not deign to give Mankind a Look,
But safely rest within thy faithful Arms.
So, when the Pilgrim views the Storm arise,
To the kind Shelter of some Grot he flies,
And in that sweet Recess securely lies.
Fearless he hears the dreadful Tempests roar,
And madding Ocean bursting on the Shore;
The Heav'ns in vain their flaming Terrors spread,
And Thunders roll unheeded o'er his Head.
[Exeunt.
The End of the
FIRST ACT.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
Enter King
HENRY,
Duke of
CORNWALL,
and Attendants.
COMES on our Brother
Scotland?
Yes, my Liege:
He means to give my Lord of
Chester
Battle.
Be't so: Our Arms shall tame his Insolence.
Where is our Son? His uncurb'd Spirit of late
Gives Cause of some Suspicion: Yet we hope,
In humble wise, he will confess the Fault
Of his abrupt Departure. His new Friends
(No Friends to me; tho' Foes, I fear them not)
He must abandon; and, mean time, we trust,
A Look of our Displeasure shall controul
His heedless Folly, and enforce his Duty.
My Liege, the Queen.
I would have shunn'd her; for she awes my Soul.
I know her still a tender faithful Wife,
Wrong'd as she is: 'Tis my eternal Guilt,
That love I cannot, where I must esteem.
She comes—Why starts my Breast?—I must assume
The cruel Port of Shame-proof Villainy.
[Enter
QUEEN.
Excuse my Freedom, Madam, if I ask,
What Business has the Queen of
England
here?
I come by virtue of a better Title:
Was ELINOR no more than Queen of
England,
She had not thus disturb'd you with her Presence.
Am I nought else, my Lord?
Ay, thou'rt my Wife;
A Name that sounds offensive in my Ear.
Why didst thou teach me 'twas a pleasing Name,
Importing Peace, and Harmony, and Joy?
You lov'd me, when you made me what I am;
And yet you lov'd me but to make me wretched.
Love you have learnt, and so all Women can.
Didst thou e'er learn Obedience to a Husband?
Can Malice say I ever fail'd in that?
I pr'ythee then be dutiful, and leave me.
This Treatment is unkind. Is that the Voice,
That oft hath chid me for a Moment's Absence?
Does it displease thee to behold me thus?
Blame not the Weakness which yourself have caus'd:
'Tis Grief's allow'd Prerogative to mourn;
For sure it is no Crime to be distress'd.
Away! Thy Woman's Tears are lost on me.
Why dost thou plead against Necessity?
It was in Spite of me, I lov'd thee once;
And 'twas in Spite of me, that I forsook thee:
The Tie of Marriage is but personal;
For Love alone's the Cement of the Heart.
Yet grant that Contract good, my Falshood voids it.
I am no Husband: Why art thou a Wife?
The Bond is cancell'd. Be as free as I am;
And take thy Heart from this ungrateful Object.
Can the swift Current to its Spring recede?
Or elemental Fire to Earth descend?
Then only my fixt Thought can turn from thee.
My Love, tho' ill repaid, shall shine a Pattern
Of Faith unmov'd, without Reproach, for ever:
HENRY, tho' cruel, yet is HENRY still.
What was it, but my Love, that sent me hither?
I thought I durst not come—but still I came,
Unwelcom'd, slighted Stranger as I am.
I see thy Virtue, and respect it, ELINOR:
But what is Virtue in the Eye of Love?
Fate wrongly join'd us, and mismatch'd our Hearts.
Thou art fram'd tender, innocent, and good,
For private Comfort, and domestic Joy:
My restless Spirit ranges uncontroul'd,
As Fancy sways, or lawless Passion guides.
And yet thou canst be true, tho' not to me:
That restless Spirit ROSAMOND can rule,
The Mistress of my Property, thy Heart.
Throw that detested Wanton from thy Breast:
The Pride of Woman's Nature sues for this.
O do not wrong me in the Face of Day,
And I will bear thy Hate with Chearfulness.
Thou hast the Licence of an injur'd Wife;
And 'tis a Woman's Privilege to rail;
Else, let me tell thee, ELINOR, 'twere Treason,
What thou hast just now said.
I ask your Pardon:
I had forgot how dearly HENRY loves her;
And 'tis my Duty to promote his Joy:
Nor justly can I hate ev'n her my Rival;
Woman is frail, and HENRY more than Man:
Be happy then, blest Pair, while I'm undone:
A jealous Wife no more shall spoil your Loves:
I will not taint your Peace with one Upbraiding,
But lay me down without a Groan, and die.
This Tenderness reproaches me yet more
Than all the just Invectives thou couldst offer.
O live to scorn the Man has wrong'd thee thus.
Provoke I not thy utmost Enmity?
Thou canst provoke my Sorrows, not my Hate.
Have I not giv'n thee Cause? Be but my Foe,
I shall enjoy the Sharpness of thy Malice;
But Goodness undeserv'd, unask'd, torments me.
Love, Honour, Pity, tear my lab'ring Soul.
[Aside.
Life had been happy with thee—But 'tis past;
And I submit—Live, and be happy thou.
By Heav'n, this moves my Stubbornness of Temper;
And ROSAMOND, and ELINOR, distract me.
Must I then ruin one, whom Laws divine,
And my free Choice, decreed mine own for ever,
And coolly mark her close her Eyes in Death?
Or can I leave the gentle ROSAMOND,
That tender Prime of Youth, that Spring of Beauty,
First won by Promise of eternal Love?
Painful Extreme of Madness, either Way!
For either Way I'm doom'd to be a Villain.
Seek not Excuses for thy broken Vows:
I freely give those sacred Pledges back;
Nor shall I e'er ascribe the Pangs I suffer,
To HENRY'S Crime, but Heav'n's afflicting Hand.
I know thee great and noble still by Nature.
Thou wilt hereafter reverence my Name,
And praise the Woman, whom thou could'st not love.
O Heart, Heart, Heart, why art thou not my own?
Hadst thou attack'd me like a Fiend from Hell,
Arm'd with keen Malice, and severest Wrath,
I had not shunn'd the Conflict: But as now
Thou shinest Angel-like, and all-forgiving,
Thou dost perforce convict my guilty Soul,
And sink my Thoughts in black Despair for ever.
O ELINOR, my Queen!—But soft, some News.
Enter
GUARD.
My Liege, the young Prince HENRY waits without,
And asks Admission to your Majesty.
He comes in proper Time: Let him advance.
[Enter Prince
HENRY.
Well, thou young Man!—With what a lordly Look
Thou mak'st Approach—Dost thou not know me, HARRY?
Yes, Sir, you are my Father, and my King;
Names sacred both: But still more sacred those
Of Faith, and Honour; these are what enroll
The Monarch's Name in Glory's noble List,
And stamp substantial Royalty upon him.
Th' Imperial Robe, the bright-deck'd Diadem,
The lifted Brow, the World-commanding Nod,
Ay, and the loud-tongu'd Voice of Acclamation,
That bears up frail Mortality to Heav'n;
These all are Majesty's Appendages;
The Dress, but not the Substance; that disgrace
The Undeserver, and but lift him high
To a Pre-eminence of splendid Shame.
What! art thou come to preach to us, thou Boy?
Are these th' obsequious Terms of filial Duty?
But mark, I henceforth warn thee to Obedience;
And therefore satisfy our Royal Pleasure
Why thou didst leave the Court?
That's a plain Question,
My Mother could have answer'd.
Hah, our Queen!
Thou seem'st surpris'd. Is that a Face of Guilt?
Speak, speak; for my shock'd Soul has form'd a Thought
Too black for Utt'rance.
By my Hopes of Heav'n,
(For there perhaps I shall at last have Peace)
I only know that I am innocent.
I know no more than that, and that's enough.
Shall I beseech awhile your Royal Ear
To give me patient Audience?
Well, I'll hear thee.
Did HENRY leave the Court? Not so, my Liege;
For HENRY left a Brothel, not a Court:
Loose Riot and Intemperance dwelt there,
Soft-seated Indolence, and Female Foppery,
And pamper'd Jollity, with full-blown Cheeks,
Keeping high Festival, and Jubilee.
Was it for me to trust my Spring of Youth,
That takes Impression like the yielding Wax,
With such licentious Characters as these?
Was it for me, to sink in Luxury,
To see a dimpled Harlot's wanton Reign,
While, banish'd from your House, your Board, your Bed,
The best of Women languish'd Time away,
At once a Widow, and at once a Wife?
I saw her Griefs, I heard her just Complaints,
I left, by her Advice, th'unhallow'd Roof,
Lest I should seem to abet the Injury,
And triumph o'er the Woes of her that bore me.
Woman has not her Match on this Side Hell:
Fool! to believe a scorn'd, abandon'd Wife
Less subtle, or malicious, than the Devil:
Is this the praying, dying ELINOR!
Curse on thy fawning, Honey-steep'd Deceit!
What! dost Thou practise with my secret Foes
In dev'lish League? Dost Thou foment Rebellion?
Say, Woman, dost thou?
What shall I say?
Wilt thou, thou rash, hard-hearted Youth, undo me?
Revoke the impious Slander of thy Tongue,
And save thy Mother's Name from foul Dishonour.
It is too late—I see confed'rate Mischief,
This stripling Traytor has betray'd thy Counsel:
Thee I had long since hated, now despise.
For you, our sometime Son, but that I scorn
To waste a Thought upon thee, I could humble
That lofty Spirit, till its fallen Crest
Should crouch, and offer Homage to the Dust.
But Majesty is fenc'd with Adamant,
Proof against Treason's Darts, that but recoil,
And mock the Force that threw them.—It is thus
The Ocean does but fret upon the Strand,
And the Storm breathes against the deep-bas'd Tow'r.
Will it avail me to appeal to Heav'n?
O may its choicest Stores of Wrath consume me,
If e'er in Word, or Thought, I urg'd this Variance!
He has abus'd thee with a well-feign'd Tale,
Screening some dreadful Purpose.
Peace, I say.
You've fool'd me once, and would you make me mad?
Hah! who shall tame me then? By Heav'n, if Thought
But halts a Moment in Suspense to doubt thee,
Full-sated Sense rebukes it.
O my Son,
The Pain thou gav'st me once, was Ease to this:
Why was thy Birth-day hail'd with general Joy?
Why did I bless the Sun that saw thee first?
Why did I fondly rear thy feeble Age?
Is thy Heart Flint? O yet unweave thy Craft,
Ere the sad Scheme be ratify'd above,
And Fate has sign'd the Warrant.
Let not these Fear-indited Words deceive
The King, while, on my Knee, I call to witness
The guardian Pow'rs that shield the Lives of Princes,
That not in pers'nal Pique, or private Grudge,
Or Peevishness of Appetite restrain'd,
Or the wild Policy of high Ambition,
I sought this Breach; but in an honest View
Of Duty to a Mother's just Request,
And Hope to reconcile you to her Love.
Thou ly'st as well as she—You both meant more.
Abuse fair-spoken Honour, and e'en Love
Becomes a Malecontent.
Damn'd Hypocrites!
Ye Home-bred Plagues, ye vile intestine Mischiefs!
O had Rebellion bellow'd in the Field,
And boldly challeng'd forth the Lord's Anointed,
I could have calmly met its hottest Battle:
But to reflect on unsuspected Treason,
Most unsuspected, as unnatural,
Spreading its Poison ev'n within my Walls,
Insulting in the sacred Name of Justice▪
Or stabbing with the smiling Look of Love;
This grinds my Thought—Now let Confusion reign,
All Order and Relation be dissolv'd:
And thou, O Nature, turn aside thy Face,
Crimson'd with Blushes—All my firm Resolves
Are brittle now, and Patience turns a Fury.
Who's there? Our Loving Wife, and Loyal Son!
Thy loving Wife, but most disloyal Son
To me, and thee: Let me appeal, my Lord,
To the fair Judgment of your former Love.
Did I not ever make your Will my Law?
Was I deceitful, treach'rous, artful, then?
'Tis true, my Wrongs are great: but sure no Wrongs
Can alter Nature, or invert the Mind:
My Wrongs call for Revenge; but sure a Queen
Could well revenge a nobler Way than this.
O take my All, my Liberty, my Life;
But leave me, leave me, my good Name untainted.
Woman, no more. Have I not heard thy Son?
He is no Son of mine.
What! would the Queen
So poorly yield her well▪ contested Right?
I know thy Cause, and know my Duty better.
Take heed, ere yet an injur'd Mother's Curse
Fix on thy Bloom of Youth.
Her Grief distracts her.
Yet let me quit my Honour to the King:
Wherein is my Complaint unwarrantable?
Is it Rebellion, Sir, to sue for Justice,
Which the poor Country Hind, if he but lose
His starveling Scrap of Property, demands?
Is this deny'd your Son? Be the King sure
I know my Right, and, knowing, dare maintain it.
Thou hast no Right to move, to speak, to breathe,
But with our Royal Licence: Cease, thou Fool,
To parly with our high Authority:
Thy trait'rous Friends have poison'd thy young Ear:
HARRY, I know them well: But mark, I charge thee,
Forsake for ever all that Vermin Tribe;
Or know their rotten Counsels will undo thee.
Forsake my Friends? Hear me, all-conscious Heav'n,
While I renounce the base unmanly Thought:
Forbid it, Justice! and forbid it, Honour!
Not one of them but lives in my best Love,
Dear as the vital Stream, that warms my Heart:
Great are their Virtues, and their Persons sacred:
Let the whole World be told, my Life protects them:
And here I swear, not all the Pow'rs combin'd,
Of Earth or Hell, shall drive me from this Purpose.
Hah! Didst thou ever see thy King in Wrath?
If my large Weight of Vengeance fall upon thee,
'Twill crush thee, like an Insect, into Dust.
What! am I brav'd by thee? Shall HENRY walk
Within the scanty Sphere of thy Prescription?
Fame, stop thy Mouth; nor be it known abroad,
That He, whose wide Circumference of Sway
In its vast Fold embraces Nations round,
Was tutor'd by a Boy: Droop thy Head, Greatness,
If Striplings shall give Law to Pow'r like mine.
Be wise in Time, and know, young Counsellor,
Our Wisdom pities thy raw Youth; but learn
More low Demeanour, or thou'lt fire my Blood,
And damn thyself for ever.
Words are Wind;
Still noisy, but not hurtful: 'Tis that Blood,
That Blood of thine, that sparkles in my Veins,
Forbids Capitulation: Could I brook
Terms of high Challenge, I were not your Offspring.
Shall I be frighted, when an old Man storms?
Or fear a peevish Father in my Foe?
Let Majesty shine forth in all its Pow'r,
I dare, unmov'd, behold its fiercest Blaze;
And like an Eagle face this burning Sun.
So take thy unregarded Threatnings back.
Still so untam'd, young Man!—What Hoa! our Guard.
[Enter Guard.
Stand off, ye Ministers of Tyranny.
Who dares with impious Hand to touch our Person,
I spurn to Hell's black Centre.—Ye vile Slaves,
Be motionless at our supreme Command:
See ye not sacred Majesty about us?
Sir, we well know our sov'reign Dignity,
When thus infring'd—The Crown, your Grant bestow'd,
With our best Force we will till Death defend.
It is enough—Hence from our Sight for ever.
A last Farewel to Duty! You're obey'd.
And know, if ever more I greet your Ear,
'Twill be with Thunder, and the Voice of War.
[Exit
PRINCE.
Impetuous in his Folly, let him go.
This Notice has diminish'd Majesty.
See you this Night arrest the Earl of LEICESTER:
[To the Guard▪
I know him well the Pillar of the Faction.
Our Queen still here!—in Tears!—She's innocent—
Ay, and the Devil's not black—Away, false Woman▪
Follow, for Shame, this Hero of thy own,
Or curse thy disappointed Fraud at Home:
you have vext my Heart—But ROSAMOND
With Love shall heal it—To her Arms I fly—
What! do I gall thee with that envy'd Name?
Thank Heav'n, my utmost Hate is Justice now:
o, ELINOR, farewel; Rave, and despair,
Then die, and be thy Name forgot for ever.
[Exeunt
KING, &c.
And shall I then expostulate with Heav'n?
mpious, and vain! No rather let me die,
Perish for him, for whom alone I liv'd;
And, self-acquitted, leave the World in Peace.
The watchful Eye of Providence, that sees
Thro' Night's most sable Shade, and well discerns
Each dark Intrigue, each Crevice of the Heart,
Shall one Day vindicate my Innocence,
And crown my injur'd Love with Praise immortal.
Then, when I'm laid in Dust, my cruel Lord,
O'er my cold Grave shall shed a pitying Tear,
And own, I well deserv'd a happier Fate.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Enter King
HENRY,
and
ROSAMOND.
And will you go?
But for this Night, my Fair.
This Night: how many Hours are in this Night?
How many Minutes in each tedious Hour?
Methinks I dare not trust thee from my Arms.
Thou know'st, my Love, the solemn Vow I made:
I must do Penance at the sacred Shrine
Of
Becket,
ere I close mine Eyes in Sleep.
The Holy Father of the Church injoin'd it.
If I refuse, I draw upon mine Head,
Curses, Anathemas, and Execrations,
And all th' Artillery of angry Priesthood.
This once perform'd, I am thy own for ever.
O let my Lord excuse my selfish Fears:
For what is HENRY'S Safety but my own?
Why, we shall live to triumph over both,
This Traitress Queen, and fierce hot-headed Son.
But I forget them, while I view thy Beauty;
Sole Comfort adequate to kingly Care:
The soothing Freshness of the vernal Breeze,
The lulling Notes of dying Harmony,
The rapt'rous Calm of good Mens golden Dreams,
Bring not such balmy Quiet to the Soul,
As thy Sense-stealing Softness.
Can my Love
Stray but a Moment, ev'n in Thought, from thee,
Joy of my Life, and Sov'reign of my Wishes?
Such Sighs as these within your Bosom heav'd,
Such lively Fondness sparkled in your Eyes,
Such tuneful Accents trembled on your Tongue,
When first transported at my Feet you sigh'd,
My Royal Captive, and there swore you lov'd.
Thy Charms had caught me but some Days before.
Let me look back on that delightful Hour;
'Twas in an Ev'ning of the blooming
May,
The Nymphs, and Swains, in rural Garb attir'd,
To the Pipe's woodland Strain, upon the Lawn,
In mirthful Freedom, join'd the sprightly Dance;
You shone superior 'midst the Virgin Throng,
Fairest among the Fair: Auspicious Fortune
Had led my Steps that Way: I came, I saw,
And, seeing, lov'd.
Love, like a watchful Spy, surpris'd my Heart,
Well-fitted to receive the soft Impression:
Thy graceful Presence drew my wond'ring Eyes:
I sigh'd, but knew not 'twas a Sigh of Love;
I wept, but knew not that I wept for thee;
Till Nature by degrees inform'd my Heart,
And something told me I was made for you.
For me, for me alone; those heav'nly Charms,
Had been dishonour'd by inferior Love:
Nature design'd thee for the noblest Conquest,
And, giving thee such Excellence of Beauty,
Wisely contriv'd a Blessing for a Monarch.
And, of all Monarchs, only for my HENRY,
Who shines distinguish'd 'midst a Tribe of Kings,
As they among the vulgar Herd.
Enough:
Be it my Glory to deserve thy Sweetness.
Be it my Glory to repay thy Truth.
How strong the Tie which Love himself has made!
One dear Embrace, and for this Night adieu!
I grudge ev'n Saints a Moment of thy Time:
How shall I sigh, and languish, in thy Absence?
How shall I spring to hail thy safe Return,
With a fond Heart full-fraught with Love and Joy?
So the poor Bird sits pensive in her Nest,
While tender Fears disturb her anxious Breast:
At length she kens her Mate with piercing Eye,
On rapid Pinions skim along the Sky:
With welcome Notes she chears the vocal Grove,
And fondly chirps, and bills, with most officious Love.
[Exeunt
The End of the
SECOND ACT.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Enter Lord
CLIFFORD
in Disguise.
HENRY must pass this Way for BECKET'S Tomb:
While thus attir'd, like a poor begging Friar,
I shall escape his Knowlege▪ I must win
His Ear to my Discourse; while I relate
The piteous Story of my Sufferings,
And circumstantially describe my Woes,
In Terms so clear, that the Similitude
Himself portraiting strongly to himself,
Shall strike upon his Soul. With a dim Eye
Personal Guilt is view'd; an Atom Spot
Sharp-sighted Censure sees in other Men:
What tho' our barren Conf'rence have no Issue?
At least I shall unload my burden'd Heart,
And probe his wounded Conscience to the Quick.
But hold—He comes.
[Enter King
HENRY.
'Tis much—What! to submit
To painful Chastisement, and on the Flint
Wear out the slow-pac'd Night!—Be we content;
'Tis to appease our holy Mother Church—
I like this Cloister's awful Solitude:
It seems the Dwelling-place of Meditation.
Hah! who comes tow'rds us with so sad an Aspect?
Sure he's the youngest Son of Misery.
Lo here a Beggar, and a King! Wide Contrast!
Yet pass one Moment, all Distinctions vanish,
And Majesty incorporates with Dust:
Let Pride go weep: It may amuse my Thought,
To hide the King, and commune with this Fellow.
What hoa, Friend, who are you?
Why, who art thou,
That dost not know LORENZO, the poor Friar?
I'm come to pay Devotion to Saint THOMAS,
And am a Stranger here.
I crave your Pardon.
Thou seem'st of noble Blood.
Well hast thou said;
For such I am.
Then, Sir, you know King HENRY.
Exceeding well. I oft attend his Court,
But why's thy Tongue familiar with that Name?
Because I take a Pride to let thee know,
That, wretched as I am, this Arm has serv'd him.
If well, I trust, that Service was repaid.
As Avarice could wish: Ev'n to this Day
He is the Idol of my Memory;
I serv'd him in his early Prime of Glory.
His Soldiers lov'd him all; for all believ'd him
The best of Kings, his Country's Friend and Father.
O, he was noble, gen'rous, brave, and just;
Pow'rful, but to protect, and not oppress,
Fear'd and renown'd abroad, and lov'd at Home.
Praise undeserv'd is Satire's bitt'rest Gall.
[Aside.
In Faith thou hast describ'd his Highness well:
Methinks there is right Honesty about thee:
Thy Talk exceeds the Promise of that Habit.
Sir, I was once no Stranger to good Fortune.—
But wherefore do I hold this Talk? Farewel.
Yet stay; for thou hast mov'd my Soul to learn
The wretched Circumstances of thy Life.
Why is thy Look thus sad and discontented?
Does not Religion's Garb sit easy on thee?
Say, wherefore didst thou leave the Royal Camp,
To live immur'd within these holy Walls;
Yet now, unmindful of thy Dedication,
Dost nauseate the Cup of Poverty
Thyself hast sworn to drink?
Thou dost not know
What 'tis to be distress'd—I could display
A Scene so mournful to thy startled Ear,
Thy Wonder should be swallow'd up in Pity.
Canst thou lend Patience to an old Man's Prattle?
I will.
Know then the holy Brotherhood
Combat with more in this religious Warfare,
Than Down-reposing Luxury e'er dreamt of.
We're Men, but yet no Members of Mankind:
This Monastery is to us, our World;
Yon melancholy Cells thou seest, our Home;
There ev'ry Night, in pensive Meditation,
We watch the Lamp's dull Gleam; and when we sleep,
'Tis but what Nature steals from rigid Duty,
Till the shrill Cock, the Usher of the Morn,
Awakes us to the Discipline of Day.
Our homely Meals are low, and regular;
And while we stay the Rage of Appetite,
We starve the dainty Palate: To be brief,
Wealth, Business, Pleasure, Honour we renounce,
And all of us are Wretches, by Engagement:
'Tis thus we struggle with Mortality,
Rather than live. What think you of our State?
'Tis all that Man can do tow'rds earning Heav'n;
It is Extremity of Wretchedness.
But yet—
Ha, ha, ha.
What can provoke thy Mirth?
Your Ignorance;
For in this Light thou seest me to Advantage:
All this is Happiness, to what I suffer:
Was this the mighty Sum of all my Sorrow,
These Eyes should start in Transport from their Orbs,
And my old Heart-strings crack with rising Joy.
Thy Fortune has been merciless indeed,
If this sad Place be Sorrow's Sanctuary.
What's this, Sir, to the Poignancy of Woe,
To inward Grief, to vital Agony,
And the keen Pang, that gnaws upon the Heart?
Poor tho' he is, the Man whose Mind's at Ease,
Beneath the Straw-built Roof enjoys his Sleep;
At pinching Hunger's Importunity
Epicure-like devours his savoury Scrap;
And, joyous, as the brain-sick Reveller,
Quaffs down the unadulterated Stream.
But O! how bitter is the scanty Morsel,
That, feeding Life, but nourishes Despair!
How loudly does the Voice of Grief demand
The social Tear! O what is mortal Man,
That may be brought thus low? 'Twill glad my Soul
To make this Fellow happy.
[Aside.
Stranger, I thank thy Tears; they shew thee noble:
Pity flows always from the manly Heart.
Have you a Daughter, Sir?
Say, why that Question?
O, I had one; so fair, so innocent!—
Excuse my Tears.
Thou seem'st to speak of her
In pleasing Terms—So fair, so innocent!
O she was once the Treasure of my Soul;
Bright as the Morning's fresh-expanded Beam▪
And spotless as the white-rob'd Angels are:
Whene'er I taught her Honour's sacred Law,
Her still Attention, and obsequious Look,
Seem'd the Certificates of inborn Virtue:
Sometimes I've trac'd her Mother in her Face,
Pleas'd to recall the Spring-tide of my Days,
And travel o'er Youth's chearful Road again.
For her I left the Business of the Field,
Well-pleas'd I toil'd a rural Life away,
And, joyful, saw my golden Harvests rise:
But Plenty, Peace, and Comfort, are no more;
Her coward Virtue stoop'd to brutal Love.
I could not bear the Shame: I left my House;
The Fugitive of Choice, and not of Fortune:
Sick of this worthless World, at length I sought
This Cloister of religious Poverty;
And here I mean to lay down Life, and Sorrow.
Thy Loftiness of Soul amazes me.
Who was the Villain that abus'd thy Daughter?
Perdition on his Head!
That cuts me deep:
My most invet'rate Foe had spar'd my Fame;
But him that ruin'd it, I call'd my Friend:
He was the Man I honour'd from my Soul:
I thought him honest, noble, just, and true;
But found him treach'rous, wicked, false, and base.
What means my Heart? Thou hadst a Daughter, CLIFFORD.
[Aside.
My hospitable Doors had just receiv'd him,
A welcome Guest, a smiling Murderer;
While Confidence in his superior Worth
Made the curst Work of my Undoing easy.
The Dagger's Point, the Scorpion's deadly Bite,
Wound not like these Soul-penetrating Words:
I'm like this very Villain.
[Aside.
You're disturb'd, Sir.
No, not at all. Proceed you in your Tale.
To this Ingratitude he added more:
I had been Guardian to his tender Youth;
And (for I found a warlike Spirit in him)
Train'd him to hard Fatigues, and manly Toil;
We serv'd together in the Wars abroad,
And I was still his Pattern in the Battle:
Fame has since then spoke loudly in his Praise:
But, be he e'er so great, I made him so.
I stand condemn'd—it is—it cannot be—
Sure he's a Messenger from angry Heav'n,
Sent to arraign my Soul.
[Aside.
Are you well, Sir?
A sudden Qualm has seiz'd me: But 'twill off;
'Tis a familiar Malady—Accept
These Alms—I must be gone—Again to-morrow—
But one Word more; something remains untold.
He further ow'd a nearer Obligation
To my Heart's Love: For once in Heat of Fight,
When he had broke his Sword, the desp'rate Foe,
With his broad Falchion, aiming at his Head,
Had levell'd him to Earth; when I rush'd in,
And disappointed Fate: This wounded Breast,
Bears yet the honest Record of that Service:
Please you, look here.
Give me more Air. Away!
[Exit.
He has it deep: I mark'd his startled Conscience:
I drove the keen Reproach into his Heart:
He shook like a raw Novice in his Guilt.
May Heav'n indent th' Impression on his Soul!—
This is a busy Ev'ning; at this Hour,
And near this Place, my Letter did appoint
The Earl of LEICESTER to an Interview.
I am no more a Beggar in Disguise,
But here an open, and avenging Foe.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Enter
QUEEN,
and Duke of
CORNWALL.
Thou hast well flatter'd my desponding Soul,
That had forgot to hope: O Pain of Doubt,
Next to Despair!
Let not the QUEEN distrust
These Means of good Success: I've wish'd long since,
T' assist thy Exigence, and, but just now,
Consulted sev'rally the Royal Guard,
That keep the Watch To-night at her Apartment:
I've won them to your Int'rest, on Condition,
No Wrong be offer'd to the Fair-one's Person.
At Midnight's silent Hour, nought will obstruct
The fatal Visitation.
My good Lord,
I thank thy Friendship; by my Hopes of Peace,
The Person of my Rival shall be sacred:
'Twill pain me to dissemble Cruelty;
For I have all the Softness of my Sex,
But no Resentment, jealous Rage, and Malice,
That wont t'inflame the Breast of injur'd Woman.
Hard by yon Hill, where now the Lamp of Day
Sea-ward descends, there stands a fam'd old Convent.
Ne'er had Religion a more awful Mansion.
A Stream slow-gliding winds about its Borders,
Upon whose Banks stands a long Range of Oaks,
That cast a wide Solemnity of Shade:
O'er the high Walls the creeping Ivy climbs,
And in its high-arch'd Vaults no Sounds are heard
But whistling Winds, and deep-ton'd Falls of Water:
Remorse, and Horror, dwell for ever there;
It is the Seat of Penitence and Sorrow.
Thither be ROSAMOND this Night convey'd;
And, for the rest, trust Heav'n.
This may secure
My wretched Rival; but the KING, my Lord!
How shall I face his Anger? For I know—
Alas! I do not know how much he loves her.
Believe me, ev'ry Circumstance shall end
In ample Illustration of thy Virtue.
My Lord of CHESTER has o'erthrown the
Scots,
So shall you soon stand clear of all Suspicion
Of aiding jointly with your Son the War,
And injur'd Innocence again shall triumph.
Good Omens dwell upon thy pleasing Words.
But let us hence, that I may teach my Heart
This Night's important Task.
[Exeunt.
Enter Lord
LEICESTER
with a Letter.
Fortune, thou dost exceed thy Vot'ry's Hope;
Fate does my Work herself, and spares my Pains:
How had my Brain been toiling for this Hour?
She wills me meet her here—the gentle Dame—
HARRY, this once I give thee leave to rest;
Night's Mantle, dy'd in blackest
Erebus,
Shroud thy unconscious Thought—Pause, this blest Hour,
The nobler Movements of my busy Soul,
And let me stoop to Beauty's pleasing Lure:
Thus the bold Bird of Prey, the princely Vulture,
Forgets a while his bloody Occupation,
To hold an am'rous Parley with his Mate.
Comes she? or—Hah!—by Hell 'tis CLIFFORD'S Self.
Unlucky Stars! But, Statesman, to thy Work.
Enter Lord
CLIFFORD.
Good Even to my Lord. You seem'd in Thought.
In Faith, my good Lord CLIFFORD, so I was.
I have some certain Smatch of Poesy,
And, walking forth to taste the Ev'ning's Freshness,
My Wit 'gan to be somewhat humoursome:
I fear your Lordship has quite marr'd my Sonnet.
What, does the Paper you just folded up
Contain the Substance?
A short Sketch, my Lord,
My Muse in Miniature; a very Trifle.
Say, LEICESTER, is't a Time to trifle now?
Peace to thy Heart, I think the Season's sickly.
Why, so do I; and, trust me, noble CLIFFORD,
'Tis but to cheat away my Melancholy,
I sometimes condescend to be a Fool.
O I could be a Fool, or ev'n a Knave;
Could rank me with the common savage Crew,
Turn Hireling, drudging Slave, and carry Burdens,
And feed on scanty Scraps with Dogs on Dunghils,
If I could purchase, with this Sum of Misery,
My wonted Peace of Mind. Sure I'm so wretched,
Fate fix'd me for its Masterpiece of Malice.
Great are thy Wrongs indeed: Yet we all suffer;
'Tis epidemical, this State Disorder.
And who can cure the Fever, but ourselves?
We'll be our own Physicians, my good Lord,
And let out this hot Blood.
I'm not so desp'rate in my Purposes:
Headstrong Impatience swells beyond its Charter,
And I must tell thee, I've that Sense of Honour,
That I could bear a Thousand gross Affronts,
That stink ev'n to the Sun, before the Guile
Of artful Villainy, that lurks unseen,
And ruins while it smiles.
Ev'n so, good CLIFFORD:
Sure a clandestine Traitor is the vilest:
The Devil's most odious Quality is his Cunning:
Let us not think your Lordship has such Foes:
Mean time make use of me, and my Soul's Friendship.
Hah, LEICESTER, dost thou know what Friendship is?
'Tis not the fawning Cringe, the study'd Smile,
The honey-dropping Speech, or solemn Vow;
It is a sacred Ray of heav'nly Love:
Like that, rejoicing in the Good of others,
It scorns the narrow Bounds of Selfishness,
And knows no Bliss sincere, but social Joy:
Simple and plain, it shines in naked Truth,
And opens all the Sluices of the Heart.
What means all this?
I know no double Meaning.
I thought I had been known, and try'd enough,
Not to be troubled with a pedant Lecture:
Let me, my Lord, tell you another Truth;
Distrust is Friendship's Canker.
Then, I fear me,
Our Friendship waxes tow'rd a Dissolution:
Because sometimes Distrust is kin to Prudence.
That, as your Lordship thinks. For my own Part,
I know the Man will thank me for my Service;
And so Good-night.
Nay, hold; you go not yet:
For I have that to say will make your Heart sick,
Before we part.
What dost thou mean, old Dotard?
Thee, and thy peevish Menace, I defy.
Then I demand, in Honour's sacred Name,
As Thou would'st here make good thy Honesty,
That thou unfold the Purport of that Paper,
The Sonnet that thou talk'dst of.
Is my Quality
Sunk on a sudden to so low an Ebb,
That I must answer every Fool's Demand,
Which he may make, because his Humour's testy?
Then my Demand is fruitless, is it not?
Ay, and injurious too: Thy Age protects thee:
Else on this Side I wear an Advocate,
This faithful Sword, to guard its Master's Honour,
And vindicate his Name from foul-mouth'd Slander.
Come, thy Hypocrisy's a thread-bare Cloak:
You've worn it long▪ my Lord; and now 'tis seen through.
If thy Complexion were as black as Hell,
I'd conjure up a Blush into thy Cheeks.
Know then I sent that Scroll.
Know then, I care not.
O thou vile Spoiler!
Wherein, or when had I offended thee,
That thou couldst calmly mean me so much Wrong?
Lost as she is to HENRY'S damn'd Inchantments,
My Daughter's not a gen'ral Prostitute;
Or, say she was the Play-thing of Mankind,
My Friend would spurn at her, but pity me.
Thee, and whatever else shall dare presume
To thwart my Pleasures, I despise alike.
That I am disappointed, is most true;
Love, and fair ROSAMOND, had fir'd my Hopes:
But for the Venom of thy scurrilous Tongue,
It hurts not me; go, rail against the Winds:
My Heart is Adamant, and feels it not:
What dost thou here? Dost thou dissemble too?
By my balk'd Joys, thou're Partner in the Trade;
Thou sharest in the Spoil, and standest here,
The Pander of thy Daughter's fulsome Lust.
Hold—Let me wait—for Heav'n itself perhaps
Will take my Part, and blast thee on the Spot;
Or does it leave me to revenge myself?
This trusty Sword, that never yet unmask'd,
But in the Field of Honour, shall for once
Be stain'd in single Fight with Traitor's Blood.
Fortune, and ROSAMOND, but smile this Hour,
And this shall be the Birth-day of my Bliss.
I draw the Sword of keenest Hate: Come on.
[Fight.
CLIFFORD
falls.
LEICESTER, the Glory and the Guilt is thine,
That hast oppos'd thy Wrath to rev'rend Age:
But Life was burdensome—and, for this once,
Ev'n Thou art kind—I pity, and forgive thee.
O Heav'n!—Hah! who are these?
Enter
OFFICER
and Guards.
My Lord of LEICESTER,
I arrest thee here, in the King's Name, for Treason
In holding Correspondence with the
Scots.
Secure him, Guard—What's here?—Lord CLIFFORD fall'n!
O cursed Deed!—How fares it with your Lordship?
Well art thou come to catch my parting Breath;
(For I perceive Compassion in thy Look).
Bear my last Words to gentle SALISBURY:
He shall report them, where the Sound shall startle,
And, like the Voice of Heav'n, command Attention.
—HENRY was once old CLIFFORD'S Royal Friend,
And ROSAMOND was CLIFFORD'S only Daughter—
But ROSAMOND and HENRY more than kill'd me;
For, O! this mortal Wound is Titillation
To Honour's painful Stab—Yet witness, Friend,
That in this calm, this reconciling Hour,
I steep all Passion in Forgetfulness—
Warn them some Angel; ere Heav'n's Wrath be ripe,
To separate their fatal Loves for ever,
That we may meet in Harmony above,
Where Folly, Grief, and Pain, shall be no more—
So prays, as for his Soul, the dying CLIFFORD.
[Dies.
Heav'n hear thy pious Wish, thou good old Man!
—For you, my Lord; but for this last black Deed,
That makes ev'n Pity callous, I could grieve,
To bid you be prepar'd to die To-morrow.
It had been Cowardice to rush on Death,
When Fate had other Mischiefs in Reserve;
Else my own Hands had freed me from the World,
And HENRY'S idle Spleen: But let him know
I dare defy the utmost of his Power:
Come Death, come Hell, I will be LEICESTER still.
Far other Words in this Distress would better—
Away! I was not born to know Distress;
My Soul, high-tow'ring on her full-fledg'd Wing,
And independent on Contingency,
Hears Fortune's air-spent Arrows hiss beneath her:
Defeated, I still boast in my vast Purpose:
I play'd a dang'rous, but a noble Game:
'Twas Fortitude to venture Life for Glory;
And, next to that, 'tis Fortitude to die.—
I have but one Request to make—your Leave
To see the Prince.
I have no Orders to refuse you that.
Yet for one Moment my tough Heart must bend,
And Nature shock'd confess a transient Pang:
The Dream of Bliss now swims before my Eyes.
Fortune had plac'd my Happiness in View;
And, when I rush'd to grasp the solid Joy,
She marr'd my Hopes, and dash'd them to the Ground.
The Merchant thus the wish'd-for Haven sees,
And chears his Soul with Hopes of future Ease:
But, unforeseen, the threat'ning Tempests rise,
And Clouds black-lowring gather in the Skies;
Winds roar, Seas swell, his shatter'd Bark is tost,
And, in a sudden Wreck, his Mass of Wealth is lost.
[Exeunt.
The End of the
THIRD ACT.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Enter
QUEEN,
Duke of
CORNWALL,
and Guard.
THIS is the Way, that leads to her Apartment:
Fortune now bids thee triumph o'er thy Rival.
Alas! I know not how t' insult Misfortune;
Yet must I act a haughty Rival's Part,
Affect the high Disdain of Majesty,
The Rage of Jealousy, and Storm of Vengeance,
Ill-suited to my Tenderness of Nature:
But soft Compassion, dress'd in Terms of Hate,
Will make more worth the Gift of forfeit Life,
And justify my Name to future Times.
These shall be near to wait th' expected Call.
[Exeunt.
How dreadful 'tis to commune with one's self!
It is Society, that makes Sin pleasing:
Lead-pinion'd Slumber weighs upon the Sense;
But wakeful Conscience knows no Hour of Rest,
And the clos'd Eye-lid cannot shut out Care.
Why tarries HARRIANA? But she comes.
Hah! I'm betray'd!—The jealous angry Queen,
And with her a grim Crew of Murderers.
Earth, open wide thy Bosom to receive me!
Night shield me with impenetrable Darkness.
Enter
QUEEN.
Stand you without, and wait our Word of Fate.
Where is this impious and deluded Woman?
Prepare, prepare, to meet my big Resentment,
And satisfy the Vengeance of my Soul.
Thus self-condemn'd, how shall I plead for Pardon?
Or stand before offended Majesty?
Yet Heav'n accepts, in Part of due Atonement,
Confession of the Crime: Here on my Knees—
Call'st thou it Merit, to confess a Crime,
Thou dar'st no more deny, than vindicate?
Strive not in vain to deprecate my Wrath:
Think on the Anguish of an injur'd Wife;
Think on the Torture of a slighted Lover;
Think on the Hatred of a pow'rful Rival;
Think on all these; and think on Death.
O, rather,
Think on the Horror of a Wretch, that stands
Upon the Brink of Death, but dares not die.
My Soul is startled at the View of Death,
And ev'ry Weakness takes the sad Alarm.
Art thou afraid to die? I'd have thee so:
'Tis Joy to antedate thy Misery:
To suff'ring Virtue Death's a Remedy;
To Guilt, like thine, alone, a Punishment.
Great Queen, relent, and spare my Bloom of Youth.
Compassion on Distress is great, and noble;
But, undeserv'd, 'tis godlike: O, remember,
Mercy's the shining Attribute of Heav'n;
'Twill sooth thee in thy last sad Hour to think,
Thou didst not plunge me into endless Ruin:
And when thou mountest to thy native Sky,
Admiring Angels shall come crouding round thee,
And own that thou, of all the Race of Men,
Hast copy'd best thy bright Original.
Think not to whine me from my firm Resolve:
Can a Sigh cool the Sun's meridian Blaze?
Or a Tear quench the Rage of spreading Flames?
Then may this Shew of artificial Grief,
Of forc'd Remorse, appease my angry Soul.
'Tis not in Art to mimic Grief like mine:
Let me conjure thee, as thou art a Woman,
By all the natural Softness of our Sex,
Not in wild Haste to dye thy Hands in Blood.
Much have I sinn'd indeed. If Love's a Sin,
That Sin in every Circumstance was Love:
Who knows not female Passions lordly Rule,
Impatient ever of cool Judgment's Sway?
Disgrace, Confusion, Ruin, Rage, and Death,
Are Arguments to Reason, not to Love:
A Woman's Weakness claims a Woman's Pity.
A Rival's Joys demand a Rival's Hate:
If female Passions sway with lordly Rule,
Revenge may glow with Fires as hot as Lust.
Shall I forgive thee, and destroy myself?
What, let thee live to triumph o'er my Folly,
Again to riot in my HENRY'S Arms,
And in each Fit of wanton Dalliance,
To lisp, and prattle o'er, the dismal Tale;
Then kiss, and make him swear, 'Tis pitiful?
By Heav'n it makes Imagination mad.
Witness the Pow'r supreme, that sees my Shame,
I here renounce for ever HENRY'S Love;
Tho' Life itself would thus be dearly bought:
But I've a fearful Reck'ning yet to make,
Much from my Soul is due to injur'd Heav'n;
Will these few Pangs discharge the Debt, or will
A Moment's Sorrow pay for Years of Guilt?
That as Heav'n pleases; but my Anger's urgent,
And now demands an instant Sacrifice.
Let me but live: Is that so great a Boon?
I'll wander in the World a Vagabond,
Turn'd loose from Human-kind, forlorn, and wild;
Each scornful Tongue, that hail'd my happier Days,
Shall mock my abject Fall: I'll owe my Life
To common Charity; from Door to Door
I'll beg Subsistence, and be proud to feast
Upon the Refuse of gorg'd Appetite.
And when the Wrath of Heav'n is satisfy'd,
And the full Term of all my Woes expires,
On the cold Flint I'll stretch my weary'd Limbs,
And bless thy Name, and die.
Shame of thy Sex,
Whom can thy Blessings help, or Curses hurt?
Why do I trifle thus? It is resolv'd:
Inexorable Justice claims her Right.
'Tis Cruelty, not Justice, thirsts for Blood.
Be't which it will, it must be satisfy'd.
What canst thou gain by killing me?
Revenge.
Will
England
's Queen avow so poor a Motive?
Will
England
's Queen conform her great Designs
To vulgar Rules of Action? Thou shalt die.
Then 'tis in vain to struggle with my Fate:
Yes, I will die, and glory in my Love;
For it is constant, gen'rous, fixt, and true,
The Will's firm Union, not the Form of Law:
It is my Pride, and I defy thy Malice:
Shall HENRY'S Mistress fear a Rival's Rage?
His Love shall chear me in my latest Moment;
It shall deceive thy Cruelty, to mark
With how serene a Brow I meet my Death;
And thou shalt envy Nature's parting Pang.
So bold! But we shall try this boasted Courage.
Then be my Blood on thy devoted Head!
My Lord, my HENRY, shall revenge my Death:
And when the World shall hear our fatal Story,
Thy savage Rage, and unrelenting Hate,
Shall brand thy Name with Infamy for ever:
My hapless Lot shall find a gentler Treatment,
And After-times, indulgent to the Weakness,
That present Censure magnifies with Malice,
Shall rank me high among Heroic Lovers,
That liv'd Love's Votaries, and dy'd its Martyrs.
In that poor Comfort go, and lose thy Life.
Advance ye Instruments of my just Vengeance,
And do the Work of Fate: Bear her to Death.
Enter
GUARD.
What do I see: it melts my fixt Resolves:
Courage, and Innocence, would shake at this:
What then must Guilt, and feeble Woman, feel?
And must I fall by Ruffians brutal Hands?
O, yet forgive my Rashness; spare my Life;
Spare me at least the Horror of this Sight;
Discharge these ghastly, and grim-featur'd Wretches,
And take my Life with thy own Royal Hand.
It is beneath me: Hence! Away with her.
Pause yet one last sad Moment, and I go:
Since Death is sure, let me not die like one
That has no Foresight of a long Hereafter:
Tongue cannot tell the Anguish I now feel;
O may it purchase my eternal Peace!
Thee, mighty Queen, I above measure wrong'd:
Yet this is surely Punishment enough;
If 'tis too much, Heav'n pardon the Excess,
And not impute Severity of Justice:
Be thou yet happy in thy HENRY'S Love,
And, with my Life, let ev'ry Discord cease:
Yet let him wet my Tomb with one sad Tear,
And pity her his fatal Love has ruin'd:
Then may he quite forget our guilty Joys,
And bless the Nations with his Royal Virtues!
Life, Love, and HENRY, all Adieu, for ever.
[Exit
ROSAMOND
guarded.
The painful Task is done; and grievous 'twas,
To trace the strong Emotions of her Soul;
This Suff'ring is enough for all her Crimes.
But, lo! the silver Gleam of Morning breaks.
O thou supreme, all-wise, o'er-ruling Pow'r,
That seest the mighty Wrongs of ELINOR,
Bless, if it seemeth good, this honest Art,
And touch with deep Remorse my HENRY'S Heart:
But if 'tis fix'd, by thy unalter'd Will,
That I should still be scorn'd, be wretched still;
If 'tis recorded in the Book of Fate,
That I was born to love, and He to hate;
The next sad Boon my weary'd Soul shall crave,
Is Rest eternal, and a peaceful Grave.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Enter Prince
HENRY,
Earls of
SURRY
and
WINCHESTER.
It cannot be: The Army all dispers'd!
And the
Scotch
King himself ta'en Prisoner!
This strikes our blasted Purpose to the Root:
Yet do we hold ourself as full of Spirit,
And royal Quality, as when we thought
To seat us in our Father's tott'ring Throne:
But halt we here, and cease the noble Chace;
Let Glory hide awhile his radiant Head,
Till, bursting, like the Sun from Ocean's Lap,
Once more he pours the Beams of Day around.
Say, where's the Right-hand of our Enterprize,
The trusty LEICESTER?
May it please your Grace,
By your Command, I went last Night t'apprise
His Lordship of our sudden Overthrow:
But he was then gone forth, 'twas said, in private.
Shield him, ye Stars! my ever-faithful Friend,
That nurs'd my Youth, e'en like a tender Plant,
One Day to flourish in fair
England
's Garden.
Look, where he comes; and, lo! a sullen Guard
Of Officers of State attend upon him;
Death sits in Pomp upon each Countenance.
Enter
LEICESTER
guarded.
Whence is it, LEICESTER, that I see thee thus?
I've known the Time when I had flown to meet thee▪
Swift as the fabled
Mercury:
Methought
I could have grasp'd thee to my Heart for ever,
And youthful Love's Embrace was cold to mine:
But now forbidding Horrors dwell around thee;
And this first time I wish thee from my Sight,
Far as quick Magic, or the Stretch of Thought,
Could waft thee hence: Alas! what mean these Bonds?
I am thy Father's Pris'ner; by what Chance,
It matters not: And 'tis with Joy I tell it,
I shall not be so long; for I'm to die.
This World has trifled with my Expectations,
And I shall leave it with Indifference,
Like a disgusted Friend.
Didst thou say, die?
Where is the Pow'r on Earth shall take thee from me
Against my Will? By Heav'n, my Heat of Soul
Transports me to the thund'ring Front of Battle:
Have I no Friends? Methinks ten thousand Swords
With sympathetic Rage should leave their Scabbards,
And, forcing Conquest from the Hand of Fortune,
Rescue thy Life, and my insulted Honour.
Why dost thou spend thy frantic Breath in vain?
Thus ruin'd as I am, I pity thee.
How steady is thy Heart! Blest Lot of Virtue!
To her Death seems a kind Deliverer,
By whom the Soul long-cumber'd is set free,
And quits the Circumscription of her Prison
To range the Regions of unbounded Space.
O hadst thou clos'd thine Eyes in Honour's Bed,
The glorious Fate had claim'd my Gratulation:
But shall my Friend be led to shameful Death,
To formal, public Execution,
And make a Holy-day for vile Plebeians?
Can I endure all this?—Can I prevent it?
The mournful Image sinks me into Childhood,
And from my Eyes the deep-fetch'd Sorrow flows.
Weep not; for Tears are Woman's Ceremony.
My Life has been a Hurricane throughout,
And I will raise a Storm at my Departure;
As the fell Lightning strikes, while it does vanish.
Thy Talk is wild: Is't possible to save thee?
I will unhinge the vast Machinery
Of Sov'reign Greatness, that my Soul had fram'd,
And be that dull, unthinking Thing I was,
Ere yet, inspir'd by thy awak'ning Breath,
The Flame of Glory play'd about my Heart;
For thee I will renounce this Bauble Crown,
Throw myself prostrate at my Father's Feet,
And there solicit for thy valu'd Life.
Think not of me; solicit for thyself:
Ask Pardon for the Follies of thy Youth,
And promise better Carriage for the future:
A little Whining will set Matters right,
The old Man kindly takes you by the Hand,
Bids you sit still, and all shall be forgotten.
Still, LEICESTER, dost thou thwart my good Intent,
As if to be oblig'd were worse than Death?
Then hear me, hear me, and be lost for ever:
Thou poor misguided Tool, thou Pygmy Monarch,
Thou Froth-made Creature of a Courtier's Guile,
Think not I ever bore Respect to thee,
Further than Shew would answer my Design.
Thou, and thy fansy'd Title, were the Engines
Of my Ambition, and high-crested Hopes:
Had Fate done Justice to my noble Daring
I'd rioted at Will in lawless Pow'r,
And ever-blooming Love—O ROSAMOND!
My Thought still cleaves to thee—But all is past,
And the whole World is now not worth my Notice.
Tell me, good SURRY, does not this Man rave?
Or am I here, or who, or what are you?
O, 'tis too much, too much!
Accursed Villain!
You're much disturb'd, my Lord: You grasp my Hand,
As you'd dissolve it, and Convulsions rend
Your struggling Heart, like the last Gasps of Nature.
Why, surely, 'twill be glorious Fun'ral Pomp,
When Princes are the Mourners.
It shall be so—Where is this Son of Darkness?
I will defile my Sword with his Heart's Blood,
And drive his Soul back to the Devil his Master.
Ay, kill me, do; and I shall die in Triumph.
Hold! Shall I save him from the Hand of Justice,
And honour his foul Treason?—Drag him hence;
Be sure you grind his Carcase into Dust;
Then send each Particle to hottest Hell,
To suffer sep'rate Pain—
I leave my Imprecations to you all;
I have disturb'd Mankind, and die content.
[Exit guarded.
If there's a Torment yet unfelt below,
Thou wilt disturb the Damn'd—For me what's left
But air-encount'ring Wrath, and sad Despair,
And self-reproaching Shame?—Are you my Friends?
Give me Credentials of your Honesty;
Smile, cringe, and hug, and swear, and then deceive me.
Could I unfold the Bottom of my Heart,
Your Grace would see it all your own.
Impossible!
I tell thee, SURRY, there's no Faith in Nature.
I'd ride a Bulrush in a stormy Sea,
Ere I would trust a Friend: Ingratitude!
Thou damning Sin of Devils, and of Men!
Our Patriarch-Father, happy in himself,
Enjoy'd his solitary Paradise:
But his first Bosom-friend, his Wife, betray'd him.
My Soul abhors the Falshood of that Traitor:
For me—
Heav'n only knows how much I lov'd him:
He lay within my Bosom's closest Fold,
And saw the Springs that mov'd my Soul to Action:
Had one poor Morsel been my Life's Subsistence,
And LEICESTER'S craving Appetite unsated,
He should have shar'd his precious Moiety
Exact, even to a breath-light Atom's Weight.
Is this the Man that has abus'd me thus?
The brute Beast softens to good Offices:
The churlish Cur frisks at his Master's Feet:
Nay, the great Lion fondles with his Keeper,
And bloody Tygers lick the Hand that feeds them:
Man only of all Creatures is ungrateful.
Heav'n too but wastes its Bounty on the Wretch:
Why sheds yon golden Orb his daily Light?
Mark! his meridian Brightness glares unheeded
By thankless Mortals, like a common Meteor.
Forget what's past—Awake your wonted Spirit—
Never, my Lord.—But, Yesterday, methought,
Like a full Tide, I spread myself abroad,
While Plenty smil'd along my fruitful Shores:
But now Heav'n's scorching Wrath has choak'd my Springs;
My sinking Stream forsakes its thirsty Banks,
And all my Urns are dry—O! I'm undone.
Kind Heav'n send Peace to your disorder'd Soul!
Why dost thou talk of Peace? Orig'nal Chaos
Was more at Peace than I: If thou would'st please me,
Drive me into some vast Extremity,
Some Precedent of Horror yet unheard-of.
Would I could conjure up a hellish Spirit,
Should rend asunder this Sea-mantled Isle!
Sure I am fit for nought but some damn'd Deed,
To chronicle my Name a Plague for ever.
Come, come, my Lord! Youth is a sportive Tale,
That Men peruse, and are not critical.
The King will yet forgive, on Terms of Honour,
The Rashness of us all.
Curse his Forgiveness!
Was I acquitted to Ten thousand Worlds,
O! I should damn myself: Has HENRY been
The chosen Instrument of Knavery,
Still pliant to a Villain's forming Hand?
And am I but a Dupe to such a Wretch?
Impartial Fame, that registers all Deeds,
Will write this first Page of my History,
In Terms most vile, and insignificant:
Had I the nervous Arms of HERCULES,
The ample Sway of PHILIP'S conqu'ring Son,
Proud CAESAR'S Fortune, or great ARTHUR'S Soul,
HARRY, and Fool, would still be join'd together.
O Shame eternal, insupportable!
To err is to be mortal: Where is he,
That falls not in the slipp'ry Path of Life?
But future Conduct cancels Failings past:
All may be yet retriev'd; the cloud-wrapt Morn
Is oft the Prologue to a glorious Day.
Think'st thou I bear an ordinary Mind?
Who sets out wrong, ought to forego his Journey:
Hence I'll divorce me from the faithless World,
Step from the Prince, and study to forget
My Royal Sphere, 'till I am reconcil'd
To low Obscurity, and abject Life,
And ev'ry Thought be level with my Fate.
These deep Refinements seem akin to Madness.
[Aside.
Your Highness speaks the Language of Despair.
I speak but what I feel: Methinks, 'tis done:
By Heav'n I would not stoop to take a Crown;
The Head that wears that shining Burden akes for't▪
Who rules too, rules o'er Men; and I'd not hold
All Earth upon Security precarious,
As is the Weather-changing Faith of Men:
I hold no farther Correspondence with them.
Let the vile Miscreants prey on one another;
While I, on Fortune's mischievous Caprice,
Will diet my Reflection, and refine
To pure Conception my world-weaned Soul.
How happy is the Sage, in his Retreat,
That human Footsteps never yet profan'd!
No jarring Passions vex his gentle Breast;
Peace crowns his Days, his Nights unbroken Rest;
Slave to no Int'rest, aiming at no End,
He neither fears a Foe, nor wants a Friend;
Careless, what Nations rise, what Empires fall,
He hears not wild Ambition's noisy Call:
Wise to shun Pleasure, Fortune to defy,
He only seems to live, that he may die.
[Exeunt.
The End of the
FOURTH ACT.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
ROSAMOND
asleep. Enter the Earl of
SALISBURY.
SEE where she lies asleep; poor fallen Cherub!
The maiden Freshness of th'ungather'd Rose
But imitates that Sweetness: Fair to look on,
Why art thou all Deformity within?
Oh! how unhappy is the Fate of Beauty?
It tempts the Ruffian Hand of Violence,
And, like the Diamond, sparkling in the Mine,
With its own Lustre lights the greedy Spoiler.
O ROSAMOND! had but indulgent Heav'n
Blasted the early Spring of thy Perfections,
'Tis like, thy Life had been as innocent,
As that same guiltless Slumber—But she wakes.
I'll stand awhile apart.
Have Mercy on me!—
My Fears confound me—This sad Dwelling seems
The Anti-chamber to eternal Darkness:
They left me here to dreadful Meditation,
And weary'd Nature since has sunk in Sleep:
Am I to live? Why then that Ceremony,
That dismal Pomp of Death? Or do they mock me,
Staying the Execution of my Fate,
To fright my Apprehension?—Hah! Who's there?
It is my Father's Friend, the good Lord SALISBURY.
O ROSAMOND! I come—But I must weep first—
Weep Blood, my Heart, for ev'ry Tear he sheds:
Dost thou behold me with a tender Eye,
Thou that dost Honour to the House of CLIFFORD,
While I, vile Wretch! was born but to disgrace it?
Believe me, Fair-one, these same falling Tears
Adorn thee more than Beauty's brightest Bloom.
'Twas That betray'd thee to eternal Shame,
And dy'd thy Soul in complicated Guilt;
But Tears shall wash the scarlet Stains away.
Thy charitable Care, and mild Address,
Bespeak my warmest Thanks—Say, my good Lord,
Where is my injur'd Father? May I hope
(For once I knew him of a gentle Nature)
He can have Pity on an only Child,
Wretched, and sad, as Sin and Shame can make her:
For oh!—Despair will sink me, if I die
Beneath the Terrors of his righteous Curse.
There yet remains a dismal Tale to tell:
Alas! my Friend thy Father is no more;
But Yesterday he dy'd by LEICESTER'S Hand.
In his last Moments he remembred Thee
(Think it an Earnest of forgiving Heav'n):
He own'd his Daughter in that fatal Crisis,
And bless'd thee with the Fervency of Pray'r.
This was my Deed: I kill'd this best of Fathers;
I drove his hoary Age to Desperation,
And made his Being painful—So is mine—
For I am now a Burden to myself—
Yet he forgave me—Ponder that, my Soul;
'Tis growing Matter for eternal Thought—
My Lord, thou know'st my Doom. Am I to die?
You must prepare to live: Last Night the Queen,
But hypocritical in Cruelty,
Beneath the Mask of Vengeance meant thee Mercy:
That dreadful Guard, that bore thee from the Palace,
As to thy Fate, when they convey'd thee hither,
Fulfill'd their whole Commission: In this Convent
Thou must commence the Votary of Heav'n,
And bid Adieu to all the World for ever.
Confess, my Heart, the Hand of Providence,
Plain, tho' unseen, in all its Acts of Mercy:
Here let me first, in pious Gratitude,
Implore a Blessing on her Royal Head,
Who, tho' my Rival, was not less my Friend:
May Peace, and Joy, and Love, crown all her Hours!
And, when her Length of Life is fully spun,
Let not Death seem a King of Terrors to her;
But, like a smiling Angel, sent to guide
Her fleeting Soul to Realms of endless Bliss!
Thy grateful Pray'r is just: And now, O think,
Think what a Lesson thou must teach thyself:
Canst thou forget the Luxury of Courts,
The soft'ning Joys of Vanity and Ease,
And Pleasure's sweet Inchantment of the Mind?
Say, canst thou quench the Fire of youthful Love,
And blot the Name of HENRY from thy Heart?
Canst thou devote thyself to pious Deeds,
To painful, rigid Holiness of Life;
To Meditation at the Midnight Hour;
To constant Watchings, and long Abstinence,
Religious Toil, that mortifies the Sense?
This is the Physic of a sickly Soul,
That labours to redeem its forfeit Peace.
O Terms of Life severe, yet merciful!
The wholsome Discipline of Penitence
Shall reconcile me to offended Grace:
Wilt thou, thou good old Man, solicit for me?
Thy pious Intercession well shall speed
My tardy Vows, and waft them up to Heav'n.
Hence I give up the World without a Sigh;
The World! What's that? I give up HENRY too:
The Bubble breaks, the painted Scene is clos'd:
And now the calm, and sadly-pleasing View
Of peaceful Innocence, and purer Joys,
And Virtue, blasted like a beaten Flower,
Shocks my Remembrance, and upbraids my Soul.
Sense of past Vice is future Virtue's Basis,
And Self-conviction at the Bar of Conscience
More awes the waken'd Mind, than the Tribunal
Of solemn Justice, and the Pomp of Law:
Methinks, I hear the Host celestial shout,
And praise the noble Purpose thou hast made.
Heav'n is not deaf to Sorrow's piercing Voice:
Relenting it beholds the wounded Breast,
And kindly sheds the healing Balm of Mercy.
Thy Words distil the honey'd Sweets of Peace:
A Beam of Comfort chears my sinking Soul,
And brighter Prospects open to my View:
Folly has sully'd my Renown of Youth,
But strict Severity of Thought and Action
Shall change the black Complexion of my Guilt
To Snow-white Purity. Ages to come
Shall hear my Tale with Pity, not Reproach;
And those who curse the shameful Name of
Mistress,
Shall bless the Convert, and admire the Saint.
If the blest Lot of righteous Men above
Admits of Augmentation, it will glad
Thy Father's Spirit, to perceive this Change,
And give a better Relish to his Heav'n.
From my Example let the Fair be warn'd,
To shun the pleasing Snares of lawless Love,
As they would fly the Serpent's bitter Tooth:
Its sweetest Pleasures leave a Sting behind:
To virtuous Minds Religion's Path is smooth;
But she that falls like me, like me must tread
The thorny Road of sad Remorse and Sorrow.
Hail, gloomy Mansions! hail! Here will I dwell,
In lonely Cloisters, and a dreary Cell,
A sad Recluse, I'll waste my Youth away,
Steal from Mankind, and shun the Face of Day.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Enter King
HENRY,
and Attendants.
At length the holy Task is full perform'd,
And my freed Soul is clear of BECKET'S Murder.
Now we may view our Royal State at Home:
Our Brother SCOTLAND is our Prisoner:
If we think good, we seize upon his Crown;
Or bid him reign the Monarch of our Nod.
Let him attend the Sentence of our Will.
For our proud Son; we trust this late Defeat,
And LEICESTER'S Death, shall clip his tow'ring Wing;
Of him we shall think further at our Leisure:
For now more tender Thoughts possess my Soul;
To Love's soft Influence all its Motions yield,
And ev'ry Passion owns its sov'reign Master.
Queen of my Heart, my ROSAMOND, I come.
Enter the Duke of
CORNWALL.
Hah! CORNWALL, why that Terror in thy Look?
Pardon, my Liege, the Messenger of Fate,
That brings afflicting Tidings to your Ear:
But what is done, 'twere Folly to disguise.
Then, to be brief: Last Night the jealous QUEEN—
Hold, on thy Life! Thou dost affright Conception:
I could with Patience hear the Knell of Death,
But not thy horrid Tale: Yet let me know it—
Proceed, and tell me nought but Truth, thou Wretch!
But dare not tell me, ROSAMOND is dead.
See where she comes herself. I stand discharg'd
Of my ungrateful Office.
Enter
QUEEN.
Can it be?
With how compos'd a Brow she hides her Guilt!
Dove-like Appearance, with a Serpent's Heart!
May I not hope a Woman will speak Truth
To do a Mischief? Therefore tell me, ELINOR,
Without the forc'd Evasion of a Lye,
Where is my Love, my Life, my ROSAMOND?
Would all King HENRY'S Foes were safe as she!
Poor Wretch! she's fast asleep.
What! dost thou mock me?
Dost thou with Triumph own thy Cruelty?
My vast Revenge shall tear thee—Soft, my Soul—
This Rage becomes me not—Fly hence, thou Tygress,
Lest I forget, in Wrath, myself, and thee,
And stain my Hands ignobly with thy Blood.
Thy Menaces, great Monarch, fright me not.
What I have done, was but the Deed of Justice.
Didst thou believe me then so tame of Soul,
That I could bear my Injuries for ever?
Yet, HENRY, in my utmost Pride of Heart,
Let me confess my tender Love for thee:
Cast out that hated Wanton from thy Thoughts,
And I can yet forgive thee all my Wrongs.
'Tis well! Thank Heav'n, in full Contempt I hear thee.
But, O, Philosophy's no Cure for Love;
This only Way Fate could unman my Soul:
O ROSAMOND, for ever, ever lost!
My Love was sweeter than the op'ning Flow'r,
That trembles with the Morning silver's Dew:
Fair, as the Down of Swans, or Mountain's Snow;
Then she was faithful as the Turtle's Mate,
And harmless as the Smile of Infancy.
Why was I born a Ruler of the World,
First Potentate on Earth, and Lord of Nations;
Yet could not keep one Jewel worth them all?
O ROSAMOND, for ever, ever lost!
Triumphant, happy Rival, ev'n in Death!
Does then a a Harlot's Fate deserve those Tears?
Had the cold Tomb receiv'd me to my Rest,
It had not cost thy barb'rous Heart a Sigh;
Thou wouldst have bless'd the lucky Destiny,
That took away the nauseous Inconvenience.
Time was I did revere thy boasted Virtue.
Now thou hast done a Deed that startles Nature.
And wouldst thou still profess thy Love for me?
Can Hell produce Hypocrisy like thine?
Would she, that loves me, stab me to the Heart?
Couldst thou have form'd one tender gen'rous Thought,
Thou hadst in Pity spar'd my Soul's first Darling;
Thy Mercy had well prov'd thy Love unfeign'd,
And won my Praise, and Fame's fair Palm for ever.
But now, away!—Thou dost delight in Blood.
Could I have hop'd, my Lord, by gentle Means—
Silence, false Woman! Thou didst know full well,
The Temper of my Soul, by Nature, noble;
And now, ev'n now, I mean to prove it so:
'Twas thine to gratify a mean Revenge,
The King, and Husband, scorns to stoop so low:
Go hence, and let thy Punishment be Life.
What have I done? Alas! my ROSAMOND,
Didst thou not call upon thy HENRY'S Name?
Didst thou not wish me to avenge thy Death?
Oh, no; thy tender Nature did forgive
The Stroke of Cruelty, and dy'd in Smiles.
I can no more.
Joy to thy Heart! thy ROSAMOND yet lives.
Hah! did I hear? Was it an Angel's Voice?
Speak it, O speak again, ye Heav'ns, in Thunder!
I told my Lord, that ROSAMOND yet lives.
Where is she? Let me fly into her Arms,
That I may tell my Heart's full Transport there:
Lost Crowns recover'd, sprightly Health restor'd
To Nature sunk, were Blessings poor to this:
Who sav'd her precious Life? He's my best Friend,
And let him take a Kingdom for his Service.
That Friend was I.
What can thy Malice mean?
Fortune acts underhand, and fools my Soul:
Whom shall I hear, or what shall I believe?
Can none resolve my Doubts? My Lord of CORNWALL,
As thou know'st ought has chanc'd, I charge thee speak.
My Liege, the QUEEN has utter'd but the Truth
O ye immortal Pow'rs! how can this be?
That I've this Day abus'd your Royal Ear,
Thus humbly on my Knee I ask Forgiveness:
'Tis the first Time I ever yet deceiv'd you.
Let Actions speak for me; hear, and believe
How I have lov'd thee, how I love thee still!
Fortune, last Night, gave me sure means of Vengeance,
But, great as thine, my Soul disdain'd them all.
She lives, my Rival lives, tho' not for thee;
Happy, tho' thou shalt charm her Eyes no more;
A Convent's sacred Walls secure the Fair,
Where Heav'n (I trust) shall with free Grace accept
The pious Tribute of her future Duty.
If this be true—and sure I feel it is,
I must not, dare not, think how I have wrong'd thee;
Earth does not bear so black a Wretch as me.
What hast thou done? Thou hast been wond'rous good;
Yet cruel to Excess—See her no more?
Shine then no longer, Sun—What! not to part?
Not one kind Word, one Kiss, one last Embrace!
O mournful, sad, eternal Banishment!
Banish'd? From whence? From a wild World of Folly,
To Virtue's calm Abode; banish'd to Heav'n.
And am I griev'd at this, because I lov'd her?
O sudden, painful Test of Sense and Honour!
Strong is the Voice of Reason, and of Virtue;
But Love pleads too, and Nature will be heard.
I did not this with any mean Design:
Virtue seeks not Advantage from her Deeds:
Therefore I say not this deserves your Kindness:
The cool Respect of Gratitude I scorn;
My Love for thee was ever from the Heart,
And equal Love alone can make me happy:
Else, tho' undone, I have discharg'd my Duty.
I pr'ythee, pr'ythee, leave me, ELINOR—
Yet stay—By Heav'ns, again she holds me fast,
The lovely Image clings about my Soul!
Hence, dear Illusion, pleasing Phantom, vanish!—
'Tis done—Methinks, yon golden Cloud descends;
And, lo! a heav'nly Form, that calls my Love!
And now they glide across th' ethereal Plain:
Am I then left behind? For what, just Heav'n?
Do I not know for what?
'Tis mad to pause, and madder to resolve:
O that for one kind Minute Thought could stagnate!
Assist his struggling Soul, all-gracious Heav'n!
So please your Majesty, the Prince approaches.
Enter Prince
HENRY, WINCHESTER,
and
SURRY.
A Stranger come to Court—Well, my young Hero,
What, are your conqu'ring Forces up in Arms?
Or dost thou kindly offer Terms of Peace?
Oh, Sir, 'tis past—Here, at your Royal Feet,
Behold this Rebel Son, a Penitent.
My haughty Soul, that erst climb'd Heaven high,
Is but a Reptile now—Ambition shrinks,
Ev'n like an empty Vapour vanishing,
Whose Place is seen no more—I only ask
Pardon, and Peace, for me, and these my Friends.
Unhop'd for Change!—O let the King grant both.
Thou art my Son again.
What may this mean?
HARRY, I lov'd thee once.
And if you lov'd,
May I presume to hope you will forgive too?
Sir, I once flourish'd in your Royal Smile:
Early my Soul began to pant for Glory:
But as the Seeds of Honour grew within me,
An artful Villain tamper'd with the Soil,
And spoil'd a goodly Crop—The rest you know—
Fortune, unequal to my daring Cause,
Has open'd since my Eyes: I wak'd indeed;
But only wak'd to see my Shame and Sorrow.
Can I have Faith in this? Thou hast deceiv'd me.
'Twas in the fatal Day of youthful Folly:
But now the Purpose of Deceit is over;
For I am going henee, to that high Court,
Where Cunning cannot screen, or Darkness hide.
Alas! my Fears! What didst thou say, my Son?
Let me not waste my most important Moments.
I have this Morning drank a deadly Draught.
I feel all-conqu'ring Death advancing on me;
He lays close Siege: My sinking Spirits fail;
My Nerves are slacken'd all; my Blood runs cold,
And Nature's Out-works yield; tho' still my Heart,
Like a strong Citadel, resists the Storm.
Is there no Help? O fatal, woful Deed!
Why weeps my gentle Mother? What I did,
Was in the Frenzy of extreme Despair;
And Madness, if my Hopes have not been flatter'd,
Bars not the Gate of everlasting Mercy.
Reason has since resum'd her proper Seat,
And all is calm within—Yet would I take
A Father's Blessing with me to the Grave.
May Heav'n forgive thy hapless Youth, as I do!
Then welcome Death!—And, if in this last Hour,
I have found Grace, O let me recommend
The QUEEN, my injur'd Mother, to your Love:
She never bore a Thought against your Highness.
Behold! she faints—Support her, righteous Pow'rs!
For she deserves your Care—Now, Farewel both—
Let not the busy World be prattling of me—
But write upon my Stone—"Here lies a Prince,
"That, once misled, could not sustain the Shame."—
'Tis dark—O Mercy!—
[Dies.
Honour, more than Grief,
Is due to Death like this, which has absolv'd,
By ending mortal Frailty: Mourns the QUEEN
So bitterly for him, whose hasty Spirit,
Aspers'd her spotless Name?
That Name's now clear;
And he that did asperse it, was my Son.
He was my Son indeed—O there's the Sting!
And is it thus that we are reconcil'd?
Is Death alone the Peace-maker between us?
Why then I'll follow thee—Farewel, my Lord;
For, now, this Life has no Temptation left;
Yet, ev'n in Death, my Faith shall be approv'd,
And my last Breath shall be a Pray'r for thee.
It was the Study of my Life to please thee:
That fail'd, and I have now no farther Care.
That I ne'er meant thee Evil, ev'n in Thought,
By Proof too fatal Providence has shewn:
And to die justify'd is still my Glory.
O, hold, talk not of Death; for I, alone,
Am fit for Ruin—O, my ELINOR,
I tremble at the Thought of what I am!
Canst thou forgive me from thy very Heart?
Can HENRY, from his Heart, desire Forgiveness?
I can, I must, I do. The Conflict's over:
I am thy wondrous Virtue's Proselyte.
Receive me in thy Arms, thou Excellence,
Thou Glory of thy Sex—Here will I hide
My guilty Head, till thy kind Smile shall raise me;
For Shame, and Joy, and Love, so work within me,
That I can only speak them thus and thus—
O let my Language too, my Lord, be this.
Bear hence the Body; for it grieves our Sight.
Curst that I was to wrong such Innocence!
'Twill be my Shame for ever—
It is past:
A Moment's Love has made Amends for all;
And I forget, that ever you was false.
When I prove so again—'Tis Sin to think on't.
From this auspicious Day my Soul shall labour
To heal thy Sorrows, to redeem lost Time,
And pay thee all my vast Arrears of Love.
Thanks to all-bounteous Heav'n!
And thy own Virtue!
Enter
SALISBURY.
Welcome, Lord SALISBURY! Where's the good old CLIFFORD?
It is beneath a King to do Injustice;
But it is more beneath him to defend it.
Will he forgive my Baseness? For, methinks,
All is not right, till he is reconcil'd.
That's spoke indeed like great PLANTAGENET:
I read Content in ev'ry chearful Face,
And I am griev'd to spoil the gen'ral Joy:
My Liege, poor CLIFFORD lies a breathless Coarse,
By LEICESTER slain—But, dying, he forgave you—
It ever was his Wish to see this Day.
By holy Friendship thou hast touch'd my Soul.
It was but Yesterday I saw him well:
His keen Device did gall me to the Heart.
CLIFFORD, accept these Tears; for Tears are all
The Monarch, or the Friend, can give thee now.
We will do Honour to his Memory,
And show'r our Royal Bounty on his House:
O SAL'SBURY, let me take thee to my Heart,
Dear as thy Kinsman was.
I thank your Highness.
From this Day's Fortune, let crown'd Heads be wise:
Kings are not privileg'd to do a Wrong.
The Laws divine bear universal Sway;
Princes are Men, and Men must all obey.
Virtue's the Gem, that decks the Royal State;
And only, to be Good, is to be Great.
[Exeunt omnes.
THE END.