THE Earl of Warwick, A TRAGEDY, As it is perform'd at the THEATRE ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.
LONDON: Printed for T. DAVIES, Russel-Street, Covent-Garden; R. BALDWIN, Pater-Noster-Row; and W. GRIFFIN, Catharine-Street, in the Strand. M.DCC.LXVI. [Price ONE SHILLING and SIXPENCE.]
Advertisement. To the PUBLIC,
THE author takes this opportunity to acknowledge his obligation to the public, for their favourable reception of THE EARL OF WARWICK. He flatters himself, that the license so necessary to his plan, which he has taken in common with other writers, in deviating from historical truth, especially in a period so distant and obscure, will meet with indulgence.
For the many faults
of this piece, he can only plead that title to
is generally extended in favour of a first essay, and
that the same candour which approv'd on the stage, will accompany it to the closet.
He cannot, without the most manifest injustice, forbear to add, that the more than ordinary exertion of dramatic powers, display'd by the principal actors concerned in it, contributed in a great measure to the success of the performance.
ERRATA.
For
the blush of virgin modesty
read
the crimson glow of modesty.
PROLOGUE,
Written by GEORGE COLMAN,
Esq
Spoken by Mr. BENSLEY.
SEVERE each poet's lot; but sure most hard
Is the condition of the playhouse bard:
Doom'd to hear all that wou'd-be critics talk,
And in the go-cart of dull rules to walk!
"Yet authors multiply," you say. 'Tis true.
But what a numerous crop of critics too!
Scholars alone of old durst judge and write;
But now each journalist turns Stagyrite.
Quintilians in each coffee-house you meet,
And many a Longinus walks the street.
In Shakespear's days, when his advent'rous muse,
A muse of fire! durst each bold licence use,
Her noble ardour met no critic's phlegm,
To check wild fancy, or her flights condemn:
Ariels and Calibans unblam'd she drew,
Or goblins, ghosts, and witches, brought to view.
If to historic truth she shap'd her verse,
A nation's annals freely she'd rehearse;
Bring Rome's or England's story on the stage,
And run, in three short hours, thro' half an age.
Our bard, all terror-struck, and fill'd with dread,
In Shakespear's awful footsteps dares not tread;
Thro' the wide field of hist'ry fears to stray,
And builds upon one narrow spot his play;
Steps not from realm to realm, whole feas between,
But barely changes twice or thrice his scene:
While Shakespear vaults on the poetic wire,
And pleas'd spectators fearfully admire,
Our bard, a critic pole between his hands,
On the tight-rope, scarce balanc'd, trembling stands;
Slowly and cautiously his way he makes,
And fears to fall at ev'ry step he takes:
While then fierce Warwick he before you brings,
That setter-up and puller-down of kings,
With British candour dissipate his sear!
An English story fits an English ear.
Tho' harsh and crude you deem his first essay,
A second may your favours well repay;
Applause may nerve his verse, and chear his heart,
And teach the practice of this dangerous art.
Dramatis Personae.
KING EDWARD,
Mr. POWELL.
EARL of WARWICK,
Mr. HOLLAND.
EARL of PEMBROKE,
Mr. BENSLEY.
EARL of SUFFOLK,
Mr. PACKER.
MARGARET of ANJOU,
Mrs. YATES.
LADY ELIZ. GRAY,
Mrs. PALMER.
LADY CLIFFORD,
Miss PLYM.
OFFICERS GUARDS, &c.
SCENE, The PALACE.
THE EARL of WARWICK.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
MARGARET of ANJOU, Lady CLIFFORD.
THANKS! gracious heav'n, my royal mistress smiles,
Unusual gladness sparkles in her eye,
And bids me welcome in the stranger joy
To his new mansion.
Yes, My faithful Clifford,
Fortune is weary of oppressing me:
Through my dark cloud of grief, a chearful ray
Of light breaks forth, and gilds the whole horison.
Henry in chains, and Edward on the throne
Of Lancaster, thyself a pris'ner here,
Thy captive son torn from his mother's arms,
And in the tyrant's pow'r, a kingdom lost:
Amidst so many sorrows, what new hope
Hath wrought this wond'rous change?
That which alone
In sorrow's bitt'rest hour, can minister
Sweet comfort to the daughters of affliction,
And bid misfortune smile, the hope of vengeance:
Vengeance, benignant patron of distress,
Thee I have oft invoked, propitious now
Thou smil'st upon me, if I do not grasp
The glorious opportunity, henceforth
Indignant frown, and leave me to my fate!
Unhappy Princess! that deceiver hope
Hath often flatter'd, and as oft betray'd thee:
What hast thou gain'd by all its promises?
What's the reward of all thy toils?
Experience—
Yes, Clifford, I have read th' instructive volume
Of human nature, there long since have learn'd
The way to conquer men is by their passions;
Catch but the ruling foible of their hearts,
And all their boasted virtues shrink before you.
Edward and Warwick, those detested names,
Too well thou know'st, united to destroy me.
That was indeed a fatal league.
But mark me;
If we cou'd break this adamantine chain,
We might again be free: this mighty warrior,
This dread of kings, th' unconquerable Warwick,
Is plighted to the fair Elizabeth.
The lady Gray, you mean, the beauteous widow,
Whose husband fell in arms for Lancaster.
The same, my Clifford—Warwick long has lov'd—
And means to wed her.
But if I have art,
Or she ambition, that shall never be.
Can'st thou prevent it?
Yes, my Clifford, Warwick
Were a mean choice for such transcendent beauty;
I shall provide her with a fitter husband,
A nobler far, and worthier of her charms,
Young Edward.—
Ha! the king! impossible!
Warwick, ev'n now, commission'd by the state,
To treat with Lewis, offers England's throne
To France's daughter, and e'er this, perhaps,
Hath sign'd the solemn contract.
Solemn trifles!
Mere cobweb ties—Love's a despotic tyrant,
And laughs, like other kings, at public faith,
When it opposes private happiness:
Edward is youthful, gay, and amorous;
His soul is ever open to the lure
Of beauty, and Elizabeth hath charms
Might shake a hermit's virtue.
Hath he seen
This peerless fair one?
Yes,—by my contrivance,
When last he hunted in the forest, some,
Whom I had planted there, as if by chance
Alone directed, led him cross the lawn
To Grafton, there—ev'n as my soul had wish'd,
The dazzling lustre of her charms surpris'd
His unsuspecting heart—
What follow'd?
O!
He gaz'd and wonder'd; for a while his pride
Indignant rose, and struggled with his passion,
But love was soon victorious: and last night,
The earl of Suffolk, so my trusty spies
Inform me, was dispatch'd on wings of love,
To plead his master's cause, and offer her
The throne of England.
What if she refuse
The golden bribe?
No matter; all I wish
Is but to make them foes: the gen'rous Warwick
Is fiery, and impatient of reproof,
He will not brook a rival in his love
Though seated on a throne; besides, thou know'st,
The haughty earl looks down with scorn on Edward,
As the mere work of his all-pow'rful hand,
The baby monarch of his own creation.
Believe me, madam, Edward still reveres
And loves him, still as conscious of the debt,
Pays him with trust and confidence; their souls
Are link'd together in the strictest bonds
Of sacred friendship.
That but serves my cause:
Where ties are close, and interests united,
The slightest inj'ries are severely felt;
Offended friendship never can forgive.
Now the full prospect opens to my view,
I see thy distant aim, and trace the paths
Of vengeance: England soon will be a scene
Of blood and horror, discord's fatal torch
Once lit up it in this devoted land,
What pow'r shall e'er extinguish it? alas!
I tremble at the consequence.
And I
Enjoy it:—O! 'twill be a noble contest
Of pride 'gainst pride, oppression 'gainst oppression;
Rise but the storm, and let the waves beat high,
The wreck may be our own: in the warm struggle,
Who knows but one or both of them may fall,
And Marg'ret rise triumphant on their ruin!
It must be so; and see the king approaches:
This way he passes from the council—mark
His down-cast eye, he is a stricken deer,
The arrow's in his side—he cannot 'scape:
We'll meet and speak to him.
What mean you, madam?
To ask him—what, I know, he will refuse;
That gives me fair pretext to break with him,
And join the man I hate, vindictive Warwick;
But soft, he comes—
SCENE II.
KING EDWARD, MARGARET, CLIFFORD, OFFICER.
Is Suffolk yet return'd?
(to an Officer.)
No, my good liege.
Go, wait and bring him to me,
[Ex. Of.
I'll to my closet.
Pardon me, fair lady,
I saw you not.
Perhaps it is beneath
A conqu'ror to look down upon his slave;
But I've a boon to ask.
Whate'er it is,
Within the limits of fair courtesy,
Which honour can bestow, I'll not refuse thee.
There was a time when Margaret of Anjou
Wou'd not have deign'd to ask of Edward ought;
Nor was there ought which Edward dar'd refuse her;
But that is past, great Warwick's arm prevail'd,
And I am now your pris'ner.
Since the hour,
When fortune smil'd propitious on the cause
Of justice, and gave vict'ry to our arms;
You have been treated with all due respect,
All your condition, or your sex cou'd claim;
Serv'd like a queen, and lodg'd within our palace:
Is there ought more you can with reason ask,
Or I in prudence grant you.
Give me back
The liberty I lost, restore my son,
And I may then, perhaps, be reconcil'd
To un usurper, may with-hold my vengeance,
And let thee fit unpunish'd on—my throne.
You talk too proudly, madam; but to shew you
I cannot fear, you have your liberty.
Letters this morning I receiv'd from France,
Have offer'd noble ransom for your person;
Without that ransom—for the soul of Edward
Is far above the sordid lust of gold,
I grant it—from this moment you are free;
But for your son—I cannot part with him.
I scorn your bounties, scorn your proffer'd freedom,
What's liberty to me without my child?
But fate will place us soon above thy reach,
Thy short-liv'd tyranny is almost past,
The storm is gath'ring round thee, and will burst
With ten-fold vengeance on thy guilty head.
I am not to be talk'd into submission,
Nor dread the menace of a clam'rous woman.
Thou may'st have cause to dread a woman's pow'r:
The time may come—mark my prophetic word—
When wayward beauty shall repay with scorn
Thy fruitless vows, and vindicate my wrongs:
The friend thou lean'st on, like a broken reed,
Shall pierce thy side, and fill thy soul with anguish,
Keen as the pangs I feel: York's perjur'd house
Shall sink to rise no more, and Lancaster
With added lustre re-assume the throne.
Hear this and tremble—give me back my son—
Or dread the vengeance of a desp'rate mother.
SCENE III.
EDWARD.
Imperious woman! but the voice of woe
Is ever clam'rous: 'tis the privilege,
The charter of affliction to complain.—
This tardy Suffolk! how I long to know
Yet dread to hear my fate! Elizabeth,
On thee the colour of my future life
Depends, for thou alone can'st make me blest,
Or curs'd for ever:—O! this cruel doubt
Is worse than all my tortures: but he comes,
Th' ambassador of love.
SCENE IV.
EDWARD, EARL of SUFFOLK.
What news, my Suffolk?
Shall I be happy? O! I'm on the rack
Of expectation, didst thou tell my tale
As if it were thy own, and may I hope—
My royal liege.
Good Suffolk, lay aside
The forms of dull respect, be brief, and tell me,
Speak, hast thou seen her, will she be my queen?
Quick, tell me ev'ry circumstance, each word,
Each look, each gesture; didst thou mark them, Suffolk?
I did, and will recount it all;—last night
By your command, in secret I repair'd
To Grafton's tufted bow'r, the happy seat
Of innocence and beauty, there I found
Thy soul's best hope, the fair Elizabeth,
Ne'er did these eyes behold such sweet perfection:
I found her busy'd in the pious office
Of filial duty, tending her sick father.
That was a lucky moment, to prefer
My humble suit: touch but the tender string
Of soft compassion in the heart, and love
Will quickly vibrate to its kindred passion;
You urg'd our royal purpose, then?
I did,
With all the warmth of friendship, dwelt with pleasure
On ev'ry princely virtue that adorns
Your noble heart; she listen'd with attention,
And echo'd back your praises.
Was not that
A kind propitious omen?
Such indeed
Hoping to find it, I call'd in the pow'rs
Of flattery to my aid, and gaz'd upon her,
As if confounded by her dazling beauties—
Conscious she smil'd; but when, at length, I spake
Of England's monarch sighing at her feet—
The blush of virgin modesty o'erspread
Her cheek, and gave new lustre to her charms;
She turned aside, and as she silent bow'd
Her doubtful thanks, I mark'd the pearly tear
Steal down its secret track, and from her breast
Heard a deep sigh, she struggled to conceal;
If I have any judgment, or can trace
The hidden feelings of a woman's heart,
Her's is already fix'd: I fear, my liege,
With all that England, all that thou coud'st give,
The crown wou'd fit but heavy on her brow.
Not heavier, Suffolk, than it sits on mine:
My throne is irksome to me; who wou'd wish
To be a sov'reign, when Elizabeth
Presers a subject?—Then th' impetuous Warwick,
His awful virtue will chastise my weakness.
I dread his censure, dread his keen reproaches,
And dread them more because they will be just.
I've promis'd Lewis to espouse his daughter,
To strengthen our alliance: wou'd to heav'n
I had not! If I seek this coy refuser,
And break with France, Warwick will take th' alarm;
If once offended, he's inexorable.
I know him well—Believe me, Sir, the high
And haughty spirit, when it meets rebuke,
Is easiest check'd, and sinks into submission.
Let him, my liege, who ventures to arraign
His master's conduct, look into his own:
There ever is a corner in the heart
Open to folly; Warwick is not free
From human frailties.
No: ambition fires
His noble breast, love triumphs over mine:
But well thou know'st, our eyes are ever open
To other's faults, and shut against our own.
We seldom pity woes we ne'er experienc'd,
Or pardon weakness which we do not feel:
He is a hero.
Hero's are but men;
I have some cause to think so—but of that
We'll talk another time: mean while my liege,
I think lord Warwick is a useful friend.
Aye, and a dangerous foe; the people love,
To adoration love him; if he falls
From his allegiance, crouds will follow him.
England has long been rent by civil broils,
And fain wou'd rest her in the arms of peace:
Her wounds scarce clos'd, shall Edward open them,
And bid them bleed a-fresh? believe me, Suffolk,
I wou'd not be the cause of new divisions
Amongst my people, for a thousand kingdoms.
'Tis nobly said, and may thy grateful subjects,
Revere thy virtues, and reward thy love!
O! Suffolk, did they know but half the cares
That wait on royalty, they wou'd not grudge
Their wretched master a few private hours
Of social happiness.—If France consents,
I am undone: and Warwick hath e'er this
Enslav'd me: curse on this state policy,
That binds us thus to love at second hand!
Who knows but he may link me to a wretch;
Wed me to folly, ignorance, and pride,
Ill-nature, sickness, or deformity;
And when I'm chain'd to mis'ry, coldly tell me,
To sooth my griefs, 'twas for the public good.
How far you have commission'd him, I know not,
But were I worthy to advise, my liege,
I wou'd not be the dupe of his ambition,
But follow natures dictates, and be happy.
England has charms besides Elizabeth's,
And beauties that—
No more; my heart is fix'd
On her alone; find out this pow'rful rival,
I charge thee, Suffolk: yet why wish to find,
What found will make me wretched? were he bound
In cords of tend'rest friendship round my heart,
Dearer than Warwick, dearer than thyself,
Forgive me, but I fear I shou'd abhor him.
O think on something that may yet be done,
To win her to my heart e'er Warwick comes.
I hear he is expected every hour.
Grant heav'n some friendly storm may yet retard him!
I dread his presence here.
SCENE IV.
MESSENGER, EDWARD, SUFFOLK.
My liege, the earl
Of Warwick, is arriv'd.
Ha! when? how? where?
Wou'd he were bury'd in the rapid waves
That brought him hither! comes he here to night?
My liege, e'er now he might have reaoh'd the palace,
But that the shouting multitudes press hard
On ev'ry side, and seem to worship him.
SCENE V.
SUFFOLK, EDWARD.
Such adoration
But ill befits the idol, that receives it.
What's to be done? I cannot, must not see him,
Till all is fix'd: once more, my best-lov'd Suffolk;
Try the soft arts of thy persuasive tongue:
What method can'st thou think on, to evade
This promis'd marriage with ambitious France?
Summon your council, lay your thoughts before them,
Meet Warwick there, and urge a sov'reigns right,
To please himself in that which shou'd concern
Himself alone—firm Buckingham and I
Will plead your cause against the haughty Warwick,
Whom I wou'd treat with cold civility,
And distant state which ever angers more
Resentful spirits, than the warmth of passion.
'Tis well advis'd:—mean-time if possible,
I will compose my troubled thoughts to rest:
Suffolk, adieu: if Warwick asks for me,
I am not well, I'm hunting in the forest—
I'm busy—stay—remember what I told you,
Touching the earldom which I mean to give
Her father; that may bring her to the court;
You understand me, Suffolk—fare thee well.
SCENE VI.
EDWARD.
Why shou'd I dread to see the man I love—
The man I rev'rence—Warwick is not chang'd,
But Edward is—Suffolk, I know, abhors him—
A fav'rite must be hated—if he urges
This dreadful contract, I shall hate him too:
I cannot live without Elizabeth:
I'll think no more—if I must sacrifice
My friendship or my love—the choice is made.
END of the FIRST ACT.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
WARWICK (Speaking to an officer.)
'TIS well: I shall attend his highness' pleasure.
[Comes forward.]
Meet me i'th' council! Warwick might have claim'd
A private audience—After all my toils,
My perils in his service, 'tis a cold
Unkind reception: some base whisperer,
Some needy sycophant, perhaps, hath poison'd
My royal master's ear—or, do I judge
Too rashly? As my embassy concerns
The public welfare, he wou'd honour me
With public thanks.—Elizabeth will chide me
For this unkind delay—but honour calls,
And duty to my king: that task perform'd,
I haste, my love, to happiness and thee.
SCENE II.
the COUNCIL CHAMBER.
King EDWARD, Dukes of CLARENCE, and BUCKINGHAM, Earls of SUFFOLK, PEMBROKE, &c.
Good Buckingham, I thank thee for thy counsel,
Nor blame thy honest warmth; I love this freedom,
is the birth-right of an Englishman,
And doth become thee: what says noble Suffolk?
I wou'd not cross my royal master's will;
But, on my soul, I think, this nuptial league
With France prepost'rous and impolitic!
It cannot last; we are by nature foes,
And nought but mutual poverty and weakness,
Can ever make us friends—she wants our aid
Against the pow'rful Burgundy, and therefore,
Throws out this lure of beauty to ensnare you,
That purpose gain'd, she turns her arms against us.
Why, let her: if she comes with hostile arm,
England thank heav'n, is ready to receive her:
I love my country, and revere my king,
As much perhaps as honest Buckingham,
Or my good fearful lord of Suffolk here,
Who knows so well, or wou'd be thought to know,
What France will do hereafter: yet I think,
The faith of nations is a thing so sacred,
It ought not to be trifled with.—I hate
As much as you th' unnatural forc'd alliance,
And yet, my lords, if Warwick is empow'r'd,
For so I hear he is, to treat with Lewis;
I know not how in honour you can swerve
From his conditions.
(shouting.)
Hark! the hero comes:
Those shouts proclaim him near: the joyful people
Will usher in their great deliverer
As he deserves.
SCENE III.
KING EDWARD, CLARENCE, SUFFOLK, BUCKINGHAM, PEMBROKE, WARWICK.
Thrice welcome, noble Warwick,
Welcome to all!
[to Clarence, Pembroke, &c.
You've had, my lord, I fear,
An arduous task, which few cou'd execute.
But Warwick, in the council and the field,
A like distinguish'd, and a like successful.
What says our cousin France?
By me, my liege,
He greets you well, and hopes in closer ties
United soon to wear a dearer name.
At length, thank heav'n! the iron gates of war
Are clos'd, and peace displays her silken banners
O'er the contending nations, ev'ry doubt
Is now remov'd, and confidence establish'd,
I hope, to last for ages.
Peace, my lord,
Is ever welcome; 'tis the gift of heav'n,
The nurse of science, art's fair patroness,
And merit's best protector; but if France
Wou'd chain us down to ignominious terms,
Cramp our free commerce, and infringe the rights
Of our liege subjects, England may repent
Too late her rash credulity, and peace
With all her blessings may be bought too dear.
The shame wou'd then be his, who made the purchase.
If any doubt my faith, my honest zeal
For thee and for my country, let him speak,
And I will answer: punish me, just heav'n,
If in the task I have consulted ought
But England's honour, and my sov'reign's glory!
Mistake me not, good Warwick, well I know
Thy spotless truth, thy honour, and thy love;
But glory has no further charms for me:
Rais'd by thy pow'rful aid to England's throne,
I ask no more:—already I am great
As fame and fortune with their smiles can make me,
And all I wish for now is—to be happy.
That too my liege, hath been thy Warwick's care;
Happy thou shalt be if the fairest form
That ever caught a gazing lover's eye,
Join'd to the sweetest most engaging virtues
Can make thee so:—Bona accepts with joy
Thy proffer'd hand: she is indeed a gem
Fit to adorn the brightest crown: to see
Is to admire her; trust me, England's self
The seat of beauty, and the throne of love,
Boasts not a fairer.
Beauty, good my lord,
Is all ideal, 'tis the wayward child
Of fancy, shifting with the changeful wind
Of fond opinion; what to you appears
The model of perfection, may disgust
My strange capricious taste.
Such charms would fix
Inconstancy itself:—her winning virtues,
Ev'n if her beauty fail'd, would soon subdue
The rebel heart, and you wou'd learn to love her.
Is passion to be learn'd then? woud'st thou make
A science of affection, guide the heart,
And teach it where to fix? impossible!
'Tis strange philosophy.
(Rises and comes forward.)
My lord, of Warwick,
Your zeal in England's, and in Edward's cause
Merits our thanks; but for th' intended marriage
With France's daughter—it may never be.
Not be! it must: your sacred word is pass'd,
And cannot be recall'd: but three days since
I sign'd the contract, and my honour's pledg'd
For the performance: heav'n's! whilst fickle France
Is branded 'midst the nations of the earth,
For breach of public faith, shall we, my liege,
Practise ourselves the vices we condemn,
Pass o'er a rival nation's ev'ry virtue,
And imitate their persidy alone?
You'll pardon me, my lord, I thought it part
Of a king's pow'r to have a will, to see
With his own eyes, and in life's little feast,
To cater for himself; but 'tis, it seems,
A privilege his servants can refuse him.
And so they ought—the king, who cannot conquer
His private int'rest for the public welfare,
Knows not his duty.
Kings, my lord, are born
With passions, feelings, hearts—like other men;
Nor see I yet, why Edward's happiness
Must fall a sacrifice to Warwick's honour.
My honour, Sir, is your's; my cause your own:
Who sent me, and whose image did I bear,
The image of a great and glorious king,
Or of a weak and wav'ring boy?—henceforth,
Choose from the herd of fawning sycophants,
Some needy slave for your mock ambassys,
To do your work, and stain the name of England
With foul reproach—Edward, I blush for thee,
And for my country; from this hour, expect
From injur'd France contempt, with deep resentment
For broken faith, and enmity eternal.
Eternal be it then; for, as I prize
My inward peace, beyond the pomp of state,
And all the tinsel glare of fond ambition,
I will not wed her. Gracious heav'n! what am I?
The meanest peasant in my realm may chuse
His rustic bride, and share with her the sweets
Of mutual friendship and domestic bliss;
Why shou'd my happier subjects then deny me
The common rights, the privilege of nature,
And in a land of freedom thus conspire
To make their king the only slave amongst 'em?
The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules,
Uncheck'd by reason and the pow'rful voice
Of friendship, which, I fear, is heard no more
By thoughtless Edward—'tis the curse of kings
To be surrounded by a venal herd
Of flatterers, that sooth his darling vices,
And rob their master of his subjects love.
Nay, frown not, Sirs, supported as ye are,
I fear you not—which of this noble train,
These well-beloved counsellors and friends,
Assembled here to witness my disgrace,
Have urg'd to this base unmanly falsehood?
Shame on you all! to stain the spotless mind
Of uncorrupted youth, undo the work
Of Warwick's friendly hand, and give him back
A sov'reign so unlike the noble Edward.
My lord, we thank you for the kind suggestion
Howe'er ill-founded, and when next we meet,
To give our voice in ought that may concern
The public weal, no doubt shall ask your leave
E'er we proceed.
My lord of Suffolk, speak
But for yourself; Warwick hath too much cause
To be offended: in my poor opinion,
Whate'er you courtiers think, the best support
Of England's throne are equity and truth;
Nor will I hold that man my sov'reign's friend,
Who shall exhort him to forsake his word,
And play the hypocrite: what tye shall bind
The subject to obedience, when his king,
Bankrupt in honour gives the royal sanction
To perfidy and falshood?
It becomes
But ill the earl of Pembroke—
Good my lords—
Let us have no dissentions here; we met
For other purposes—some few days hence
We shall expect your counsel in affairs
Of moment—for the present urge no further
This matter—fare ye well.
[The council break up and disperse.
Lord Warwick, keep
In narrower bounds, that proud impetuous temper;
It may be fatal: there are private reasons—
When time befits we shall impart them to you,
Mean-while—if you have friendship, love, or duty,
No more of Bona—I'm determin'd.
SCENE IV.
WARWICK.
So:
'Tis well: 'tis very well: I have deserv'd it;
I've borne this callow eagle on my wing,
And now he spurns me from him: 'tis a change
I little look'd for, and sits heavy on me:
Alas! how doubly painful is the wound,
When 'tis inflicted by the hand we love!
Cruel, ungrateful Edward!—
Ha! who's here?
The captive queen! if she has ought to ask
Of me, she comes in luckless hour, for I
Am pow'rless now.
SCENE V.
MARGARET of ANJOU, WARWICK.
Will Margaret of Anjou
Thus deign to visit her acknowledg'd foe?
Alas! my lord, inured to wretchedness
As I am, and familiar with misfortune,
I harbour no resentment; have long since
Forgot that ever Warwick was my foe,
And only wish to prove myself his friend.
Talk not of friendship, 'tis an empty name,
And lives but in idea; once indeed
I thought I had a friend.—
Whose name was—Edward;
Read I aright, my lord, and am I not
A shrew'd diviner? yes; that down-cast eye
And gloomy aspect say I am: you look
As if the idol, made by your own hands,
Had fallen upon and crushed you, is't not so?
Amazement! nought escapes thy piercing eye,
And penetrating judgment: 'tis too true,
I am a poor dishonour'd slave,
Not worth thy seeking; leave me, for the tide
Of court preferment flows another way.
The feast, perhaps, you have provided, suits not
With Edward's nicer palate; he disdains,
How sweet soe'er, to taste a foreign banquet,
And relishes no dainties but his own:
Am I again mistaken?
Sure thou deal'st
With some all-knowing spirit, who imparts
Each secret purpose to thee, else how knew'st thou
That Edward refus'd to wed the princess?
O! it requires no supernatural aid
To trace his actions, nor has Marg'ret trod
The paths of life with unobserving eye;
I could have told you this long since—for know,
The choice is made, the nuptial rites prepar'd,
Which, but for your return, as unexpected
As undesired, had been, e'er this, complete;
And as in duty bound, you then had paid
Your due obedience to our—English queen.
Determin'd, say'st thou? gracious heaven! 'tis well
I am return'd.
Indeed, my lord, you came
A little out of season, 'twas unkind
To interrupt your master's happiness,
To blast so fair a passion in its bloom,
And check the rising harvest of his love.
Marg'ret, I thank thee—yes, it must be so:
His blushes, his confusion, all confirm it,
And yet I am amaz'd, astonish'd.
Wherefore?—
Is it so strange a youthful prince shou'd love?
Is it so strange, a mind, unfraught with wisdom,
And lifted high with proud prosperity,
Shou'd follow pleasure thro' the crooked paths
Of falshood, shou'd forsake a useless friend,
For the warm joys of animating beauty?
No: but 'tis strange, that he who knows how much
He ow'd to Warwick, he, who ev'ry hour
Tastes the rich stream of bounty, should forget
The fountain whence it flow'd.
Alas! my lord,
Had you been chasten'd in affliction's school
As I have been, and taught by sad experience
To know mankind, you had not fall'n a prey
To such delusion.
Was it like a friend,
Was it like Edward to conceal his love?
Some base insinuating, artful woman,
With borrow'd charms, perhaps.—
Hold, hold, my lord,
Be not too rash: who fights in darkness oft
May wound a bosom friend: perhaps you wrong
The best, and most accomplish'd of her sex.
Know you the lady?
But as fame reports,
Of peerless beauty and transcendent charms,
But for her virtues—I must ask of—you—
Of me? what virtues? whose?
Elizabeth's.
Amazement! no: it must not, it cannot be:
Elizabeth! he cou'd not, dare not do it!
Confusion! I shall soon discover all.
(aside.)
But what have I to do with Edward's choice,
Whoe'er she be, if he refuses mine?
Dissimulation sits but ill, my lord,
On minds like yours: I am a poor weak woman,
And so, it seems, you think me; but suppose
That same all-knowing spirit which you rais'd,
Who condescends so kindly to instruct me,
Shou'd whisper—Warwick knows the pow'r of love
As well as Edward, that Elizabeth
Was his first wish, the idol of his soul;
What say you?—might I venture to believe it?
Marg'ret, you might; for 'tis in vain to hide
A thought from thee; it might have told you too,
If it be so, there is not such a wretch
On earth as Warwick: give me but the proof—
Lord Suffolk was last night dispatch'd to Grafton,
To offer her a share in Edward's throne.
Which she refus'd: did she not, Marg'ret? say
She did.
I know not that, my lord, but crowns
Are dazzling meteors in a woman's eye;
Such strong temptations, few of us, I fear,
Have virtue to resist.
Elizabeth
Has every virtue, I'll not doubt her faith.
Edward is young and handsome.
Curses on him!
Think'st thou he knew my fond attachment there?
O passing well, my lord, and when 'twas urg'd,
How deeply 'twou'd affect you, swore by heav'n,
Imperious Warwick ne'er shou'd be the master
Of charms like hers; 'twas happiness, he said,
Beyond a subject's merit to deserve,
Beyond his hope to wish for or aspire to.
But for that Warwick, Edward's self had been
A subject still—and—may be so—hereafter.
Thou smil'st at my misfortunes.
I must smile
When I behold a subtle statesman thus
Duped and deluded by a shallow boy,
Sent on a fruitless errand to expose
His country and himself—it was indeed
A master stroke of policy, beyond
One shou'd have thought, the reach of years so green
As Edward's, to dispatch the weeping lover,
And seize the glorious opportunity
Of tamp'ring with his mistress here at home.
Did Nevil, Rutland, Clifford, bleed for this?
For this doth Henry languish in a dungeon,
And wretched Marg'ret live a life of woe:
For this you gave the crown to pious Edward,
And thus he thanks you for his kingdom.
Crowns
Are baubles, fit for children like himself
To play with, I have scatter'd many of them:
But thus to cross me in my dearest hope,
The sweet reward of all my toils for him
And for his country; if I suffer it,
If I forgive him, may I live the scorn
Of men, a branded coward, and old age
Without or love or rev'rence be my portion!
Henceforth, good Marg'ret, know me for thy friend,
We will have noble vengeance;—are there not
Still left among'st the lazy sons of peace,
Some busy spirits who wish well to thee
And to thy cause?
There are: resentment sleeps,
But is not dead; beneath the hollow cover
Of loyalty, the slumb'ring ashes lye
Unheeded, Warwick's animating breath
Will quickly light them into flames again.
Then, Edward, from this moment I abjure thee:
O I will make thee ample recompence
For all the wrongs that I have done the house
Of Lancaster:—go, summon all thy friends;
Be quick, good Marg'ret, haste e'er I repent,
And yield my soul to perjur'd York again.
The king, I think gives you free liberty,
To range abroad.
He doth, and I will use it,
As I wou'd ever use the gift of foes,
To his destruction.
That arch-pandar, Suffolk,
That minister of vice—but time is precious;
To-morrow, Marg'ret, we will meet in private,
And have some further conference; mean-time
Devise, consult, use ev'ry means against
Our common foe: remember, from this hour,
Warwick's thy friend—be secret and be happy.
SCENE VI.
MARGARET.
What easy fools these cunning statesmen are,
With all their policy, when once they fall
Into a woman's pow'r! This gallant leader,
This blust'ring Warwick, how the hero shrunk
And lessen'd to my sight!—Elizabeth,
I thank thee for thy wonder-working charms;
The time perhaps may come, when I shall stand
Indebted to them for—the throne of England.
Proud York beware, for Lancaster's great name
Shall rise superior in the lists of fame:
Fortune that long had frown'd, shall smile at last,
And make amends for all my sorrows past.
END of the SECOND ACT.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
MARGARET, CLIFFORD, Attendants.
[to a gentleman.
DISPATCH these letters strait; to Scotland—this
To the French envoy—these to th' earl of Pembroke.
[turning to lady Clifford.
Thus far, my friend, hath fortune favour'd us
Beyond our hopes: the soul of haughty Warwick
Is all on fire, and puling Edward loves
With most romantic ardour—O my Clifford,
You wou'd have smil'd to see how artfully
I play'd upon him: flatter'd, sooth'd, provok'd,
And wrought him to my purpose: we are link'd
In firmest bonds of amity and love.
Hath Warwick then so soon forgot his Edward?
Think'st thou the frantic earl will e'er exert
His ill-directed powers to pull down
The royal structure, which himself had rais'd?
Never.
What is there disappointed love
And unrestrain'd ambition will not do?
I tell thee, we are sworn and cordial friends.
Thou know'st he hates the house of Lancaster.
No matter—he has marvellous good skill
In making kings, and I—have business for him.
And can'st thou then forget the cruel wrongs,
The deep-felt inj'ries of oppressive Warwick,
To join the hand that forg'd thy husband's chains
And rob'd thee of a crown?
But what—my Clifford,
If the same hand that ravish'd shou'd restore it!
'Tis a court friendship and may last as long
As int'rest shall direct: I've not forgot,
No, nor forgiv'n; I hate, abhor, detest him,
But I will use him as my instrument;
My necessary tool, I'll make him draw
His trait'rous sword, to sheath it in the breast
Of him he loves, then point it to his own:
Yes, Clifford, I have twin'd me round his heart;
Like the fell serpent crept into his bosom,
That I might sting more surely: he shall perish;
I keep him for the last dear precious morsel,
To crown the glorious banquet of revenge.
'Tis what he merits from us, yet th' attempt
Were dang'rous, he is still the people's idol,
And so perhaps shall Marg'ret be; applause
Waits on success; the fickle multitude,
Like the light straw that floats along the stream,
Glide with the current still and follow fortune.
Our prospect brightens every hour:—the people
Are ripe for a revolt: by civil wars,
Long time inur'd to savage scenes of plunder
And desolation, they delight in war:
These English heroes, when once flesh'd with slaughter,
Like the keen mastiff, lose not soon the track
Of vengeance, nor forget the taste of blood.
What further succours have we to depend on,
Beside earl Warwick's?
O his name alone
Will be an army to us.
If we have it:
Resentment is a short-liv'd passion—what
If Warwick should relent, and turn again
To Edward?
Then I have a bosom friend
That shall be ready to reward him for it;—
But I have better hopes: without his aid;
We are not friendless: Scotland's hardy sons
Who smile at danger, and defy the storm,
Will leave their barren mountains to defend
That liberty they love: add too the aid
Of gallant Pembroke, and the pow'rs which France
Will send to vindicate her injur'd honour:
E'er Edward can collect his force and take
The field, we shall be thirty thousand strong.
But what becomes of the young prince?
Aye; there
I am indeed unhappy, O my child,
How shall I set him free?—hear nature, hear
A mother's pray'r! O guide me with thy counsel,
And teach me how to save my darling boy.
—Aye, now I have it: monitress divine,
I thank thee:—yes; I wait but for the means
Of his escape, then fly this hated palace,
Nor will return till I can call it mine.
SCENE II.
EDWARD, SUFFOLK.
I fear we've gone too far: th' indignant Warwick
Ill brook'd our steady purpose; mark'd you, Suffolk,
With what an eye of scorn he turn'd him from us,
And lowr'd defiance—that prophetic woman!
Half of her curse already is fulfill'd,
And I have lost my friend.
Some friends, perhaps,
Are better lost: you'll pardon me, my liege,
But, were it fitting, I could tell a tale
Wou'd soon convince you—Warwick is as weak—
As Edward thou woud'st say.
But 'twill distress
Thy noble heart too much, I dare not, Sir,
Yet one day you must know it.
Then by thee
Let it be told me, Suffolk, thy kind hand
Will best administer the bitter draught:
Go on, my Suffolk, speak, I charge thee, speak.
That rival whom you wish'd me to discover—
Aye, what of him? quick, tell me, hast thou found
The happy traitor? give me but to know
That I may wreak my speedy vengeance on him.
Suppose that rival were the man whom most
You lov'd, the man, perhaps, whom most you fear'd;
Suppose 'twere—Warwick.
Ha! it cannot be:
I would not think it for a thousand worlds—
Warwick in love with her, impossible!
Now, Suffolk, do I fear thou speak'st from envy
And jealous hatred at the noble Warwick,
Not from the love of justice or of Edward;
Where didst thou learn this falshood?
From the lips
Of truth, from one whose honour and whose word
You will not question; from—Elizabeth.
From her! nay, then I fear—it must be so.
When last I saw her, for again I went
By your command, tho' hopeless of success,
With all the little eloquence that I
Was master of, I urg'd your ardent passion.
Told her how much, how tenderly you lov'd her,
And press'd with eagerness to know the cause
Of her unkind refusal, till at length
Reluctantly, with blushes she confess'd
There was a cause;—she thank'd you for your goodness,
'Twas more she said, much more than she deserv'd,
She ever shou'd revere her king: and if
She had a heart to give it shou'd be—Edward's.
So kind, and yet so cruel: well, go on.
Then told me all the story of her love,
That Warwick long had woo'd her—that her hand
Was promis'd; soon as he return'd from France,
Though once her father cruelly opposed it,
They were by his consent to be united.
O never, Suffolk, may I live to see
That dreadful hour! designing hypocrite.
Are these his arts, is this the friend I lov'd?
By heav'n! she shall be mine; I will assert
A sov'reign's right, and tear her from him—what
If he rebel—another civil war!
'Tis terrible—O that I cou'd shake off
This cumbrous garb of majesty that clings
So close around me, meet him man to man,
And try who best deserves her! but when kings
Grow mad, their guiltless subjects pay the forfeit.
Horrible thought—good Suffolk, for a while
I wou'd be private—therefore wait without,
Let me have no intruders; above all,
Keep Warwick from my sight—
SCENE III.
WARWICK, EDWARD.
Behold him here;
No welcome guest it seems, unless I ask
My lord of Suffolk's leave—there was a time
When Warwick wanted not his aid to gain
Admission here.
There was a time perhaps,
When Warwick more desired and more—deserv'd it.
Never; I've been a foolish faithful slave;
All my best years, the morning of my life,
Hath been devoted to your service: what
Are now the fruits? disgrace and infamy;
My spotless name which never yet the breath
Of calumny had tainted, made the mock
For foreign fools to carp at: but 'tis fit
Who trust in princes, shou'd be thus rewarded.
I thought, my lord, I had full well repay'd
Your services with honours, wealth, and pow'r
Unlimited: thy all-directing hand
Guided in secret ev'ry latent wheel
Of government, and mov'd the whole machine:
Warwick was all in all, and pow'rless Edward
Stood like a cypher in the great account.
Who gave that cypher worth, and seated thee
On England's throne? thy undistinguish'd name
Had rotted in the dust from whence it sprang,
And moulder'd in oblivion, had not Warwick
Dug from its sordid mine the useless ore,
And stamp'd it with a diadem. Thou know'st,
This wretched country, doom'd, perhaps, like Rome,
To fall by its own self-destroying hand,
Tost for so many years in the rough sea
Of civil discord, but for me had perish'd.
In that distressful hour I seiz'd the helm,
Bade the rough waves subside in peace, and steer'd
Your shatter'd vessel safe into the harbour.
You may despise, perhaps, that useless aid
Which you no longer want; but know, proud youth,
He who forgets a friend, deserves a foe.
Know too, reproach for benefits receiv'd
Pays ev'ry debt, and cancels obligation.
Why, that indeed is frugal honesty,
A thrifty saving knowledge, when the debt
Grows burthensome, and cannot be discharg'd.
A spunge will wipe out all, and cost you nothing.
When you have counted o'er the numerous train
Of mighty gifts your bounty lavish'd on me,
You may remember next the inj'ries
Which I have done you; let me know 'em all,
And I will make you ample satisfaction.
Thou can'st not; thou hast robb'd me of a jewel
It is not in thy pow'r to restore:
I was the first, shall future annals say,
That broke the sacred bond of public trust
And mutual confidence; ambassadors,
In after times, mere instruments, perhaps,
Of venal statesmen, shall recal my name
To witness, that they want not an example,
And plead my guilt, to sanctify their own.
Amidst the herd of mercenary slaves
That haunt your court, cou'd none be found but Warwick,
To be the shameless herald of a lye?
And woud'st thou turn the vile repoach on me?
If I have broke my faith, and stain'd the name
Of England, thank thy own pernicious counsels
That urg'd me to it, and extorted from me
A cold consent to what my heart abhor'd.
I've been abus'd, insulted, and betray'd;
My injur'd honour cries aloud for vengeance,
Her wounds will never close!
These gusts of passion,
Will but inflame them; if I have been right
Inform'd, my lord, besides these dang'rous scars
Of bleeding honour, you have other wounds
As deep, tho' not so fatal: such perhaps
As none but fair Elizabeth can cure.
Elizabeth!
Nay, start not, I have cause
To wonder most: I little thought indeed
When Warwick told me I might learn to love,
He was himself so able to instruct me:
But I've discovered all.—
And so have I;
Too well I know thy breach of friendship there,
Thy fruitless base endeavours to supplant me,
I scorn it, sir,—Elizabeth hath charms,
And I have equal right with you t'admire them:
Nor see I ought so godlike in the form,
So all-commanding in the name of Warwick,
That he alone shou'd revel in the charms
Of beauty, and monopolize perfection.
I knew not of your love.
By heav'n, 'tis false!
You knew it all, and meanly took occasion,
Whilst I was busy'd in the noble office,
Your grace thought fit to honour me withal.
To tamper with a weak unguarded woman,
To bribe her passions high, and basely steal
A treasure which your kingdom cou'd not purchase.
How know you that? but be it as it may,
I had a right, nor will I tamely yield
My claim to happiness, the privilege,
To choose the partner of my throne and bed:
It is a branch of my prerogative.
Prerogative!—what's that? the boast of tyrants:
A borrow'd jewel, glitt'ring in the crown
With specious lustre, lent but to betray,
You had it, sir, and hold it—from the people.
And therefore do I prize it; I wou'd guard
Their liberties, and they shall strengthen mine:
But when proud faction and her rebel crew
Insult their sov'reign, trample on his laws,
And bid defiance to his pow'r, the people
In justice to themselves, will then defend
His cause, and vindicate the rights they gave.
Go to your darling people then; for soon,
If I mistake not, 'twill be needful; try
Their boasted zeal, and see if one of them
Will dare to lift his arm up in your cause,
If I forbid them.
Is it so, my lord,
Then mark my words: I've been your slave too long,
And you have rul'd me with a rod of iron,
But henceforth know, proud peer, I am thy master,
And will be so: the king, who delegates
His pow'r to other's hands, but ill deserves
The crown he wears.
Look well then to your own;
It sits but loosely on your head, for know,
The man who injur'd Warwick never pass'd
Unpunish'd yet.
Nor he who threaten'd Edward—
You may repent it, Sir,—my guards there—seize
This traitor, and convey him to the tow'r,
There let him learn obedience.
(Guards enter, seize Warwick, and endeavour to disarm him.
Slaves, stand off:
If I must yield my sword, I'll give it him
Whom it so long has serv'd; there's not a part
In this old faithful steel, that is not stain'd
With English blood in grateful Edward's cause.
Give me my chains, they are the bands of friendship,
Of a king's friendship, for his sake a while
I'll wear them.
Hence: away with him—
'Tis well:
Exert your pow'r, it may not last you long;
For know, tho' Edward may forget his friend,
That England will not.—now, sir, I attend you.
[Exit Warwick.
Presumptuous rebel—ha! who's here?
SCENE IV.
MESSENGER, EDWARD,
My liege;
Queen Marg'ret with the prince her son are fled;
In a few hours she hopes, for so we learn,
From those who have pursued her, to be join'd
By th' earl of Warwick, in his name it seems
She has already rais'd three thousand men.
Warwick in league with her! O heav'n! 'tis well
We've crush'd the serpent e'er his poison spread
Throughout our kingdom—guard the palace gates,
Keep double watch; summon my troops together,
Where is my brother Clarence, Buckingham
And Pembroke? we must check this foul rebellion—
SCENE V.
EDWARD SUFFOLK,.
My liege, the duke of Clarence—
What of him?
Hath left the court; this moment I beheld him
In conf'rence deep with Pembroke, who, it seems,
Is Marg'ret's firmest friend: 'tis whisper'd, both
Will join the queen.
Well:—'tis no matter: I
Have deeper cause for grief, he cannot feel
A brother's falshood, who has lost a friend,
A friend like Warwick,—Suffolk, thou behold'st me
Betray'd, deserted by the man I lov'd;
Treated with cold indifference by her
Whom I ador'd, forsaken by my brother,
And threaten'd by the subjects I protect,
Oppress'd on every side: but, thou shalt see,
I have a soul superior to misfortunes.
Tho' rebel Clarence wrings my tortur'd heart,
And faithless Warwick braves me, we will yet
Maintain our right—come on, my friend, thou know'st,
Without his boasted aid, I cou'd have gain'd
The crown, without him now I will preserve it.
END of the THIRD ACT.
ACT IV.
SCENE,
THE TOWER.
WARWICK.
MISTAKEN mortals plan delusive schemes
Of bliss, and call futurity their own,
Yet are not masters of a moment—this
Was the appointed time, the very day
Which shou'd have join'd me to Elizabeth
In nuptial bonds:—O cruel memory,
Do not torment me—if there be a crime
Of deeper dye than all the guilty train
Of human vices, 'tis—ingratitude.
'Tis now two years since Henry lost the crown,
And here he is, ev'n in this very prison
A fellow captive now: disgraceful thought!
How will he smile to meet his conqu'ror here!
O for that stoic apathy which lulls
The drowsy soul to sweet forgetfulness!
But 'twill not be:—Elizabeth, where art thou?
Perhaps with Edward—O that thought distracts me:
It is, I fear, as Marg'ret said; she's false.
But when I look on these, can I expect
To find one virtue left in human kind?
My Pembroke too! am I so soon forgotten?
O no; he comes—
SCENE II.
PEMBROKE, WARWICK.
My friend!
My Pembroke, welcome:
Thee I have ever found most just and kind;
But, in the darkness of adversity
The jewel friendship shines with double lustre.
I am not of the infect train that bask
In fortune's sunshine, and when ev'ning damps
Arise, are seen no more: no, Warwick, what
I speak, I mean: you have been hardly treated.
O! Pembroke, didst thou know but half the wrongs
That I have suffer'd, thou wou'dst pity me.
I wou'd do more, much more, my Warwick: he
Who only pities but insults the wretched;
I come with nobler views, I come to tell thee,
That I have felt thy inj'ries as my own,
And will revenge them too.
How kind thou art
To feel for Warwick!
Ev'ry honest breast
Must feel the inj'ries that a good man suffers:
Thine is the common cause of all: adieu
To English freedom, when our liberty
Shall be dependent on a sov'reign's nod,
When years of honest service shall be paid
With infamy and chains.
I've not deserv'd them.
Nor shalt thou wear them long: for thou hast great
And pow'rful friends—the noble duke of Clarence.
Behold his signet—this, my Warwick, gain'd me
Admission here—we must be secret.
Then I am not forsaken: Clarence!—Ha!
Yes:
The gallant youth, with honest zeal, declar'd
He lov'd his brother much, but justice more.
Then, Edward, I defy thee: gen'rous Clarence!
Thou know'st, the man who thus cou'd treat a friend,
Wou'd soon forget a brother—but say, Pembroke,
How stands the duke of Buckingham?
Fast bound
To Edward; he and that smooth courtier Suffolk
Are the two rotten pillars that support
His tott'ring throne: but Marg'ret—
Aye: how fares
My new ally? has she escaped the tyrant?
She has: and by some wond'rous means contriv'd
To free her captive son.
Tho' I abhor,
I must admire that enterprising woman:
Her active mind is ever on the wing
In search of fresh expedients, to recover
The crown she lost.
Already she has rais'd
A pow'rful army; all the secret foes
Of York's ambitious line rush forth in crowds,
And join her standard: e'er to-morrow's sun
Shall dawn upon us, she will set thee free.
O! Pembroke, nothing wounds the gen'rous mind
So deep as obligations to a foe.
Is there no way to liberty, my friend,
But through the bloody paths of civil war?
I fear there is not.
Then it must be so:
I cou'd have wish'd—but freedom and revenge
On any terms are welcome.
Here then join we
Our hands—
Our hearts.
Now, Warwick, be thou firm
In thy resolves; let no unmanly fears,
No foolish fond remembrance of past friendship
Unnerve thy arm, or shake thy steady purpose.
No: by my wrongs it shall not: once, thou know'st,
I lov'd him but too well, and these vile chains
Are my reward,—O give me but the use
Of this once pow'rful arm, and thou shalt see
How it shall punish falshood.—are thy forces
Prepar'd?
They are, and wait but for my orders;
Clarence will join us soon: our first great end
Is to secure thy liberty; that done,
We haste to seize the palace and redeem
The fair Elizabeth.
Redeem her, ha!
Is she a captive too?
A willing slave;
A gay state pris'ner, left to roam at large
O'er the young monarch's palace.
Aye, my Pembroke,
That's more inviting than a prison:—O
She's false, she's false—who sent her there?
She came
It seems, to thank him for his royal bounties
To her good father, the new earl of Rivers,
Who will no doubt persuade her to accept—
Of Edward's hand—distraction! fly, my friend,
Haste thee to Marg'ret, tell her if she hopes
For Warwick's aid, she must release him now,
E'er Edward's ill-tim'd mercy shall prevent her.
I go; my friend, adieu! when next we meet,
I hope to bring thee liberty.
Farewel.
She's lost: she's gone: that base seducer Edward,
Hath wrought on her weak mind, it must be so.
SCENE III.
MESSENGER, WARWICK.
My lord,
The lady Elizabeth.
Amazement! sure
It cannot be! admit her sir—why, what
[Exit Mess.
Cou'd bring her here? Edward has sent her hither,
To see if I will crouch to him for pardon;
Be still, my jealous heart.—
SCENE IV.
ELIZABETH, WARWICK.
My Warwick!
'Tis a grace I look'd not for,
That a fair fav'rite, who so late had tasted
The pleasures of a court, shou'd condescend
To visit thus a poor abandon'd captive.
I come to take my portion of misfortune,
To pour the balm of comfort in, and heal
If possible, the wounds which I had made.
Too well I know, I was the fatal cause
Of all thy sorrows,—but the noble Edward,
For so indeed he is—
And art thou come,
To plead the cause of him who sent me hither?
I came to be the messenger of peace,
To calm thy troubled soul, and give thee rest,
To teach my Warwick to forget his wrongs.
Forget my wrongs! was that thy errand here,
To teach me low submission to a tyrant;
To ask forgiveness, kneel and deprecate,
The wrath of blust'ring Edward? If thou com'st
On terms like these to bring me freedom, know
It will not be accepted: now I see
Thro' all your arts, by heav'n, I'd rather lose
A thousand lives, than owe one to his bounty.
Either my Warwick is much chang'd, and so
I fear he is, or he wou'd never talk
Thus coldly to me, never wou'd despise
A life so precious, if he knew how much
Elizabeth had suffer'd to preserve it.
The gallant Edward won by my entreaties—
Entreaties! didst thou then descend so low,
As to entreat him for me?
Hadst thou seen,
When I implor'd him to forgive my Warwick,
How kind he look'd, how his repenting heart
Heav'd with the pangs of agonizing friendship,
Thou wou'd'st have pity'd him.
Deceitful woman,
I see thy falshood now, I am betray'd,
And thou art leagu'd with Edward to destroy me.
Go to your royal lover and unite
Those only fit companions for each other,
A broken friendship, and a perjur'd love:
Give up discarded Warwick, and to make
The compact firm, cement it with my blood.
I thought the soul of Warwick far above
Such mean suspicions—shall the man, whose truth,
Whose constancy, and love have been so long
My bright example, shall he stoop so low,
As thus to listen to an idle tale
Told by some prating courtier? if indeed
Thou cou'd'st believe it, I should pity thee.
Where is your father, the new earl of Rivers?
Why sends he not his forces to our aid?
He cannot: honour, gratitude, forbid,
That he shou'd lift up his rebellious arm
Against his benefactor! well thou know'st,
Of late, when civil discord reign'd among'st us,
He fought with Henry, and with Henry fell:
When injur'd Edward gen'rously forgave,
Restor'd his forfeit lands, and late advanc'd him
To rank and title.
Infamy and shame;
The common nets which fearful knav'ry spreads
To catch ambition's fools: mean sordid bribes!
We know the treasure they were mean't to purchase.
Unkind suggestion! how have I deserv'd it?
Have I for this refus'd a youthful monarch,
And spurn'd his offer'd sceptre at my feet,
To be reproach'd at last by cruel Warwick?
Had I once listen'd to him! had these eyes
Been dazzled with the splendor of a court,
I need not thus have chang'd it for a dungeon.
But since I am suspected, witness heav'n,
And witness Warwick to my vows! henceforth,
Dear as thou art, I cast thee from my love;
Elizabeth will never wed—a traitor.
Am I awake, and did Elizabeth
Say she wou'd never wed her faithful Warwick?
Then bear me witness too, all judging heav'n!
Here yield I up all visionary dreams
Of future bliss, of liberty, or life,
Ev'n the sweet hope of vengeance that alone
Sustain'd my spirit, loses all its charms;
I wish'd for freedom but to purchase thine:
For life, but to enjoy it with my love,
And she disclaims me.
Heav'n forbid! O Warwick,
Let not the tide of passion thus overwhelm
Thy reason.
Can'st thou pardon me? thou know'st
Th' unguarded warmth, the weakness of my nature.
I wou'd not wrong thee, but I've been so oft
So cruelly deceiv'd
I know thou hast;
But never by Elizabeth.
O no!
It is impossible that perfidy
Shou'd wear a form like thine.
(Looking at her.)
I wonder not
That Edward lov'd, no; when I look on thee,
All beauteous, all enchanting as thou art:
By heav'n! I think I cou'd almost forgive him.
Then wherefore not be reconcil'd?
To whom?
The author of my wrongs? It cannot be:
Know, I have promis'd Marg'ret to destroy him.
Destroy thy friend! ungen'rous cruel Warwick,
Is't not enough that thou hast triumph'd here?
Already we have pierc'd his noble heart
With the keen pangs of disappointed love:
And woud'st thou wound his breast with added sorrows;
Woud'st thou involve a nation in his ruin?
Elizabeth, no more: alas! too well
Thou know'st, there is a pow'rful advocate
In Warwick's breast, that pleads for perjur'd Edward.
Cherish the soft emotion: O my Warwick!—
That angel form can never plead in vain;
But then, my friends—where is my solemn vow
To Marg'ret, and to Pembroke? there's the tie;
My honour's dearer to me—
Than thy love;
Dearer, much dearer, than Elizabeth?
But I have done: farewel, my lord, I see
Thy deep resentment is not to be mov'd
By my weak influence o'er thee.
(Going.)
Stay, I charge thee.
What is this phantom, honour, this proud idol
That tramples thus on ev'ry humble virtue?
This cruel bloody Molock, that delights
In human sacrifice? O! wou'd to heav'n
I were its only victim! but with me,
You offer up your country and your king.
Think on my vow, think on my promise giv'n.
Thy league with Marg'ret must be fatal: grant
We should succeed, and Lancaster once more
Assume the throne; how dear the victory,
That's purchas'd with our fellow-subjects blood!
Alas! such triumphs make the conqu'ror weep.
But if we fail—
Impossible!
O! think
Betimes! what dreadful punishments await
The vanquish'd rebel: thou, perhaps, my love,
Shalt then be doom'd on th' ignominious block
To fall inglorious; and, when thou art gone,
Who shall defend thy poor Elizabeth?
Alarming thought! It staggers my firm purpose,
And makes me half a villain.
SCENE V.
WARWICK, ELIZABETH, an OFFICER.
Madam, the king demands your presence, I
Have orders to convey you to the palace.
And wilt thou leave me?
This, my Warwick, this
Is the decisive moment, now determine,
Accept of mercy, e'er it be too late;
E'er hasty Edward—Shall, I say, thou wilt
Return to thy obedience, and receive
Thy pardon? shall I? speak my love.
Perhaps
I may accept it, if 'tis brought by thee.
Then we shall meet in happiness—
Farewel!
SCENE VI.
WARWICK.
Now to those worst companions in affliction,
My own sad thoughts again, they're gloomy all,
And like my habitation full of horror.
I like not Edward's message—if he hears
My league with Margaret, he still has pow'r
To make me feel his rage: I have deserv'd it—
[a trampling heard without.
Methought I heard a noise—this way they come,
Perhaps it is the messenger of death—
SCENE VII.
PEMBROKE, WARWICK.
The messenger of vengeance—see her sword;
Accept it and be free.
(offers the sword)
First let me know
To whom I am indebted for't.
To me.
Soon as the rumour of thy foul disgrace
Had reach'd the public ear, th' impatient people
Uncertain of thy fate, tumultuous throng'd
Around the palace, and demanded thee;
Give us our Warwick, give us back, they cry'd
Our hero, our deliv'rer—I step'd forth
And bade them, instant, if they wish'd to save
The best of men, from infamy, and death,
To follow me: transported they obey'd:
I led them hither: forced the prison gates,
And brought thee this—direct it as thou wilt.
(Gives the sword.)
Welcome once more, thou dearest gift of heav'n
Immortal liberty! my friend, I thank thee.
O Pembroke, woud'st thou had'st been here! my love,
My dear Elizabeth is true.
At least
You think so.
She has told me such sweet truths;
Edward repents him sorely, he is griev'd
At his ingratitude.
And well he may;
I fear thou art betray'd: alas! my Warwick,
Thy open gen'rous unsuspecting virtue
Thinks ev'ry heart as honest as thy own.
Thou know'st not Edward—nor Elizabeth.
The kingdom is in arms, and ev'ry hour,
It is expected France will join the queen:
England will want its great protector's aid.
Edward and Rivers have conspired to cheat
Thy credulous ear, and who so fit to spread
The flimsy web as thy Elizabeth,
Their fair ambassadress? I see thou'rt caught.
By heav'n! it may be so: I am the sport
Of fortune and of fraud.
Away, my friend:
It is not now a time to think of her:
Marg'ret, supported by thy pow'rful name,
And join'd by Clarence, waits us at the head
Of fifteen thousand men, who, eager all
To crush a tyrant, and pull down oppression,
Attend thy wish'd-for presence; not a soldier
Will act or move till Warwick shall direct them.
Edward and England's fate depend on thee.
Away my friend, I'll follow thee.
[Exit Pembroke.
Yet stop
A moment—let not passion hurry me
To base dishonour—if my country calls
For Warwick's aid, shall I not hear her voice,
And save her? Pembroke may have private views,
And subtle Marg'ret too—Elizabeth!
I must not lose thee—O! direct me heav'n!
END of the FOURTH ACT.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
ELIZABETH.
THE royal pardon came too late, and Pembroke
Already has releas'd him; he is gone—
Elizabeth may never see him more.
A thousand terrors haunt me, a fond father,
A guiltless sov'reign, a distracted lover,
Fame, fortune, friends, and country, all depend
On one eventful moment—hark! the sound
Of distant groans! perhaps the king—perhaps
My Warwick bleeds. O! agonizing thought!
Great God of armies, whose all-guiding hand
Directs the fate of nations, O! look down
On thy own image, let not cruel discord
Divide their kindred souls! in pity hear,
Pour thy benignant spirit o'er their hearts,
And once more knit them in the bonds of peace!
SCENE II.
ELIZABETH, SUFFOLK.
The pray'r of innocence is always heard.
Ha! Suffolk, whither hast'st thou? art thou come—
I come to heal thy sorrows, lovely fair one,
To tell thee, Edward, and thy much-lov'd Warwick,
Once more are friends.
Indeed! O welcome news!
My joy's too great for utt'rance: tell me, Suffolk,
How was it? speak, is Warwick safe? O heav'n!
A moment's patience, and I'll tell thee all.
Marg'ret, thou know'st, had rais'd a pow'rful force,
That doubled Edward's troops: elate with pride,
And almost sure of victory, she urg'd
The tardy spearmen; on they rush'd, as if
Secure of conquest: the unhappy king
Stood nobly firm, and seem'd to brave his fate,
When Warwick like a guardian god appear'd:
His noble mien and all-commanding look
Struck deep attention; ev'ry eye was bent
Upon him, and an awful silence reign'd
O'er either host, he rais'd his voice on high,
And stop, he cry'd, your sacrilegious hands,
Nor touch my friend: who pierces Edward's breast,
Must pass through mine: I rais'd him to the throne,
And will support him there: to you I gave,
From you my fellow-soldiers I expect him:
Howe'er his cruel wrongs have wounded me,
He never injur'd you, and, I—forgive him.
He spake, and instant thro' the gazing croud
A murmur ran; down dropp'd their nerveless arms,
As if enchanted by some magic pow'r,
And with one voice they cry'd, long live king Edward!
How pow'rful is the tongue of eloquence,
When in the cause of virtue!—well, what sollow'd?
Encourag'd by the shouting soldiers, Edward
On like a modest virgin wishing came,
Yet fearful, Warwick with a bridegroom's speed
To meet him flew; into each other's arms
They ran with speechless joy: the tender scene
Affected ev'ry heart, and the rough soldier,
Unused to melting sympathy, forgot
His ruthless nature, and dissolv'd in tears.
Sweet reconcilement! then, Elizabeth,
Thou didst not plead in vain; but, say, how brook'd
The haughty queen this unexpected change?
Abash'd, confounded, for a while she strove
To stem the torrent, but in vain; then fled
Precipitate.
But where, O where's my Warwick?
With a few chosen squadrons he pursues
The disappointed Marg'ret.
O my fears!
I know not why, but at that hateful name
I tremble ever, my foreboding heart
Presages something dreadful.
Do not vex
Thy tender mind with visionary dangers.
O! wou'd to heav'n that he were shelter'd here,
And safe within these arms!
Be not alarm'd:
He is the care of heav'n: all good men love,
All bad ones fear him.
Such superior merit
Must have a thousand foes, the constant mark
Of envy's poison'd darts.
There Suffolk feels
The keen reproach; with blushes I confess
There was a time, when, urg'd by fond ambition,
I look'd on Warwick with a jealous eye:
But this last noble deed hath won my heart,
And I am now a convert to his virtues;
But see, the king approaches.
SCENE III.
EDWARD, ELIZABETH.
Health and peace,
And happiness to fair Elizabeth!
Thou art no stranger to the joyful news;
The lustre of those speaking eyes declares it.
Suffolk, ev'n now, hath bless'd me with the tidings.
O! 'tis amazement all: Elizabeth,
When last we met, thou wert the suppliant, now
'Tis I must ask forgiveness, I who injur'd
The dearest, best of men; O! thou hast say'd
Edward from shame, and England from destruction.
Did I not say my Warwick wou'd be just?
Thou did'st, and on those beauteous lips fair truth
And soft persuasion dwell; long time he stood
Inflexible, and deaf to friendship's voice,
Listen'd to nought but all subduing love.
In after-times, thy name shall be enroll'd
Amongst the great deliv'rer's of their country.
I have no title to the lavish praise
Thy gen'rous heart bestows; I only said
What duty prompted, and what love inspir'd;
Indulgent heav'n has crown'd it with success.
Thou hast done all: I am indebted to thee
For more, much more than I can e'er repay.
Long time, with shame, I own, hath Warwick soar'd
Above me, but I will not be outdone
For ever by this proud aspiring rival:
Poor as I am, there yet is one way left
To pay the debt of gratitude I owe him,
One great reward for such exalted virtues,
Thyself, Elizabeth.
What means my lord,
My royal master?
Yes; when next we meet
I will bestow it on him, will resign
All my fond claim to happiness and thee;
Tho' thy dear image ne'er can be effac'd
From Edward's breast, tho' still I doat upon thee,
Tho' I could hang for ever on thy beauties;
Yet will I yield them to their rightful lord;
Warwick has earn'd, Warwick alone deserves them.
Wou'd he were here to thank thee for thy goodness!
Know, gen'rous prince, Elizabeth has long
Admir'd thy virtues, and cou'd love admit
Of a divided heart, the noble Edward
Wou'd share it with his friend.
SCENE IV.
MESSENGER, EDWARD.
My royal liege,
The rebels are dispers'd, queen Marg'ret's son
Was slain in the pursuit—and she—
I hope
Secur'd—
Is taken pris'ner, and will soon
Be here—
But where's lord Warwick?
Sir—the queen—
SCENE V.
MARGARET Prisoner.
Once more I am your pris'ner.
'Twill be prudent
Henceforth to keep you so.
You dare not!
Thou think'st, perhaps, that I shall sue to thee
For mercy: no; in Marg'ret of Anjou,
Thou fee'st the wife, and daughter of a king.
A spirit not to be subdu'd; tho fall'n
Triumphant still, and tho' a pris'ner free.
For know, I bear a mind above the reach
Of fortune or of Edward—I have lost
All I cou'd wish to live for in my child;
And gain'd what most I wish'd to gain, revenge!
Or life or death are now indiff'rent to me.
For thy unbounded goodness, pow'r supreme
Accept our praise!
(kneeling)
Accept our humble pray'r!
Insulting piety! the common trick
Of hypocrites and slaves: when ye shall know
What Marg'ret knows, ye may not be so thankful.
Methinks 'tis pity Warwick is not here
To join in your devotion.
Wou'd to heav'n
He were!
That monster, that perfidious slave
Who broke his faith to Marg'ret, and to thee;
Thy coward soul, unable to defend
The treasure thou hadst stol'n, cou'd meanly stoop
To court the traitor whom thou dar'st not punish.
Not so the injur'd Marg'ret—she repell'd
The wrongs she felt, and the deceiver met
The fate he merited.
What fate?—ev'n now
Crown'd with immortal wreaths, the hero comes
To bless his friends, and punish guilt like thine.
Proud and deluded wretches! I look down
With pity on you: Captive as I am,
'Tis mine to judge and punish; be it yours
To hear and tremble.
Ha!
What can this mean?
If I mistake not, Warwick is your friend,
Your lover too, I think.
My lord, my husband.
Know then, that friend, that lover, perjur'd Warwick,
Hath not an hour to live.
What murth'rous hand—
Mine, tyrant mine: think not I mean to hide
The noble deed; it is my happiness,
It is my glory: thou wilt call me base,
Blood-thirsty, cruel, savage, and revengeful.
But here I stand acquitted to myself,
And ev'ry feeling heart that knows my wrongs.—
To late posterity dethroned queens,
And weeping mothers shall applaud my justice.
Justice, on whom?
Can Edward ask me? who
Imprison'd Henry, rob'd me of a crown,
And plac'd it on a proud usurper's head?
Who gave his sacred promise to a queen,
And broke it? who, for which indignant heav'n
Chastis'd him, basely murther'd my sweet boy?
Bereft of honour, fortune, husband, child,
Depriv'd of ev'ry comfort, what remain'd
For me but vengeance, what for him but death?
What hast thou done? when? where? speak, murthress, speak.
Press'd by surrounding multitudes, and made
A slave, they dragg'd me to the conqu'ror's tent,
There the first horrid object I beheld,
Was the pale corse of my poor bleeding child:
There—as th' insulting Warwick stood, and seem'd
To triumph o'er him—from my breast I drew
A ponyard forth, and plung'd it in his heart.
Th' astonish'd soldiers throng'd around him, seiz'd
And brought me here—now to your pray'rs again.
[Elizabeth faints.
She faints, good Suffolk, help there, help, support
Assist her.—lead her in.
[Exit Elizabeth.
If it be true,
As much I fear it is, a thousand deaths
Were punishment too little for thy guilt;
Thou shalt be tortur'd.
Tyrant, I defy thee;
Thy threats appall not me: prepare your tortures,
Let them be sharp and cruel as thyself,
All that ingenious malice can suggest,
Or pow'r inflict, 'twill be my comfort still,
They cannot be so great as those you feel.
Guards, take the monster hence, let her be chain'd
In some deep dungeon, dark as her own thoughts,
There let her perish—hence, away with her.
Despair, and horror visit thee—farewell—
He comes, my triumph is complete—look there!
SCENE VI.
WARWICK, leaning on two soldiers.
Where is he? lead me, lead me to my king.
My Warwick! my preserver!—she shall bleed
For this in ev'ry vein.
Think not of her,
She has no pow'r to hurt thee; and with guilt
Like hers, 'tis punishment enough to live:
This is no time for vengeance; death comes on
With hasty strides, 'tis but a little while,
A few short moments, and we part for ever.
My friend—
I am not worthy of the name,
For I disgrac'd, dishonour'd, murther'd thee;
Edward's unkindness was the cause of all:
Can'st thou forgive me?
O! may Warwick's crimes
Ne'er meet forgiveness from offended heav'n,
If from my soul, I do not pardon, love,
And honour thee!
Away, let me support him;
'Tis the last office I shall e'er perform
For thee, my Warwick—wilt thou lean upon me
And seal my pardon with one kind embrace?
We never hated.
But my love was blind.
And blinder my resentment.
I forgot
Thy services.
And I remember'd not
Thou wert my king—my sweet Elizabeth,
Where is she? Edward, do not keep her from me,
We are no rivals now.
Shock'd at the news
Of thy untimely fate, she sunk beneath it,
And fainted in these arms; I seiz'd th' occasion,
And bade her weeping maidens bear her hence:
This would have been a dreadful sight indeed.
I can, I will, support it.
Ha! that voice—
Sure 'tis Elizabeth's!
SCENE the last.
ELIZABETH, WARWICK, EDWARD.
O! give me way,
For I must see him—O! my Warwick!
O!
This is too much, the bitterness of death
Is to be sever'd thus from those we love.
Why wou'd you bring her here!
(to the attendants.)
Elizabeth,
Be comforted.
O no, it is my doom
Never to taste of joy or comfort more:
No; from this hateful world will I retire,
And mourn my Warwick's fate, imploring heav'n
That I may soon wear out my little store
Of hopeless days, and join thee in the tomb.
That must not be: I've done my friend a wrong,
And only thou can'st make atonement for it.
Thy hand, Elizabeth, if e'er thou lov'st,
Observe me now—thine, Edward—for my sake
Cherish this beauteous mourner, take her from me,
As the last present of a dying friend.
If ought cou'd make the precious gift more dear,
It wou'd be Warwick, that it came from thee.
O! I will guard her with a parent's care,
From every ill, watch over and protect her;
And when the memory of thee shall awake,
As oft it will, her poignant griefs, repel
The rising sigh, wipe off the flowing tear,
And strive to charm her to forgetfulness.
Wilt thou indeed? then I shall die in peace.
Yet thou may'st live.
Impossible:—I feel
The hand of death press cold upon my heart,
And all will soon be o'er:—I've liv'd to save
My falling country, to repent my crimes,
Redeem my honour, and restore my king.
Alas! my friend, the memory of thee
Will poison every bliss.
All-healing time
That closes ev'ry wound, shall pour it's balm
O'er thine.—mean-while, remember Warwick's fate.—
I gave my word to Margaret, and broke it;
Heav'n is not to be mock'd, it soon o'ertakes us,
And in our crime we meet our punishment.
O Edward, if thou hop'st that length of days,
And fair prosperity shall crown thy wishes,
Beware of passion, and resentment—make
Thy people's good and happiness thy own,
Discourage faction, banish flatt'rers, keep
Thy faith inviolate, and reign in peace.
I can no more—my love! have mercy heav'n!
(dies.)
He's gone!—
And with him all my hopes of bliss.
Let ev'ry honour to a soldier due,
Attend the hero to his tomb—mean-while,
Deep in the living tablet of my heart,
Will I engrave thy words—illustrious shade!
Living thou wert my counsellor and friend,
And dead I will remember, and obey thee.
Warwick farewel, I shall not long survive thee.
I hope thou wilt—Elizabeth, remember
His dying charge, think on thy promise giv'n.
Thou shall remain with me, with me lament
Our common benefactor; we will sit
And talk together of my Warwick's virtues,
For I will try to emulate them all,
And learn, by copying him, to merit thee.
His great example shall inspire my breast
With patriot zeal, shall teach me to subdue
The pow'r of faction, vanquish party rage,
And make me, what alone I wish to be,
The happy king of an united people.
FINIS.
EPILOGUE,
Written by DAVID GARRICK,
Esq
Spoken by Mrs. YATES.
EXHAUSTED quite with prisons, racks, and death,
Permit me here to take a little breath!
You who have seen my actions, known their springs,
Say, are we women such
insipid
things?
Say, lords of the creation, mighty men!
have you surpass'd us,
where?
and
when?
I come to know to
whom
the palm is due,
To us weak vessels, or to stronger you?
Against your conqu'ring swords, I draw—my fan,
Come on!—now parry Marg'ret, if you can.
(Sets herself in a posture of defence.
Stand up, ye boasters!
(to the pit)
don't there sneaking sit;
Are you for
Pleasure, Politics,
or
Wit?
The boxes smile to see me scold the pit.
Their
turn is next—and tho' I will not wrong 'em,
A woeful havock there will be among 'em.—
You our best friends,
(to the pit)
love, cherish, and respect us;
Not take our fortunes, marry, and neglect us.
You think indeed, that as you please, you rule us,
And with a strange importance often school us!
Yet, let each citizen describe a brother,
I'll tell you what you say of one another.
My neighbour leads, poor foul, a woeful life,
A worthy man—but govern'd by his wife!
How, say you? what, all silent?—then, 'tis true:
We rule the city—Now, great Sirs; to you.
(to the boxes.)
What is your boast?—Wou'd you, like me, have done,
To free a captive wife, or fare a son?
Rather than run such dangers of your lives,
You'd leave your children, and lock up your wives.
When with your noblest deeds, a nation rings!
You are but puppets, and we play the strings.
We
an no battles—true—but out of fight,
the fun,—and armies halt or fight!
You have th' advantage, Ladies—wisely reap it,
And let me
nt the only way to keep it.
men of vain ideas, have their sill,
bounce, stride, strut,—while you, with happy skill,
, use the finest silken thread;
enough—nor check the tugging head:
The
ounder—you with gentle hand,
And
, must bring the
trout
to land;
cannot be—
falls with
Me.