University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Enter King Richard, King Philip of France, and David, Prince of Scotland.
Richard.
Brother of France, Dissensions have too long
Wasted the Strength of our confed'rate Arms,
The doubtful Soldier knows not who shall lead,
And when the Trumpet calls, with jealous Ear,
Suspended stands, and muses at the Sound,
Which us'd to waken Honour in his Soul,
And flush his Eyes with Earnest of Success.
The Foe observes us, and beholds with Joy,
How on our selves we take unjust Revenge.
O! be it never said, two mighty Kings,
Zealous of Virtue, Fame, Religion, Faith,
Drain'd half their Nations, bought their People's Lives,
To sell them cheaply in a foreign Land,
And bid them fall and perish for their Sport.
Esteem we higher of our Fellow-Beings,
Not one of whom but claims our common Sire.
Think well for whom we fight—and well agree—
—Can we bid the Dew
Hang high in Air, nor touch the Subject's Head,
But only fall on Kings?—If gen'ral Blessings then
Are theirs as free as ours, then Rights are theirs
To make those Blessings certain to them all.

Philip.
This Tale of Duty might become a Priest,
But passes by me like the idle Wind,
Since injur'd Honour and repeated Wrongs
Have deaf'ned Philip's Ear—

Richard.
What Wrongs? Speak, Prince,
Point out the Man, and tho' he stand behind
The Shields of Legions, and a Wall of Brass,
This Arm shall reach him, drag him to thy Feet,
Trembling to look on Majesty incens'd.

Philip.
That Man is Richard, England's mighty King,
He who leads Armies in the Cause of Heaven,
Who on his Banners waves the bloody Cross,
Dreadful as Light'ning to the faithless Eye,
Yet can sustain to wrong a King, a Friend!

Richard.
Now by St. George, the Patron of my Arms,
Had such a Speech escap'd another Tongue,
The forward Censurer had spoke no more.

Philip.
But France, unaw'd, avows it with a Frown.

Richard.
Hah! dost thou threaten limitary Prince?
Frown on thy Vassals, thy Provincial Lords,
Let Burgundy be mute when Philip frowns,
Or terrify thy Neighbour of Navarre,
But England's King, Imperial, singly Great,
Ne'er borrows Fear from France, but sends it forth
To shake that Continent where he resides,
And, frowning, look all Europe into Peace.

Philip.
What are the Arms, the Courage which you boast!
Where grew it first, but in its native Gaul?
'Tis but a Graft upon a foreign Stock,
A Norman-Cyon fix'd on English Ground.

Richard.
It loves the Climate then, and thrives apace;
Honour mistook her Seat awhile, till lodg'd
On Gaul's Extremities, the Isle oppos'd,
Lur'd her bright Eye to wing the watry Way,
And fix her constant Habitation there.
Behold young David, born in Scotia's Frost,
How does the blooming Hero lead to Fight?
How heaves his Bosom to the Trumpet's Sound,
Beating the March of Victory within?

David.
Rather be David's Deeds unprais'd, his Name
Unheard, unknown, than see two Christian Kings,
Partners of War, in vain Debate contend:
The Wrongs unmention'd, yet the War at height;
O! how does Rage mislead the noblest Minds!

Richard.
Well urg'd, brave Youth—And may thy just Rebuke,
Lead France unpassion'd to discharge his Mind.

Philip.
My Sister, by thy Father's Choice, to thee betroth'd,
You left deserted, and abus'd his Will.

Richard.

SCENE, A Prospect of Jerusalem.
Enter King Richard and the Queen.
Richard.

Berengaria.
Now I repent not of the toilsome Way,
The painful Land-march, and the Sea-sick Couch,
Since I have seen the Longing of my Eyes,
Thee Zion fairest of ten thousand Hills,
Thee blest and haunted by immortal Guests.
But, O! my Lord, my gracious Soveraign, think
What captive Millions, Brothers of our Faith,
In Sorrow eat the Bread of Servitude,
Complaining tread the Honey-dropping Vale,
And pass the Sweets of Hermon unenjoy'd.

Richard.
Daughter of Mercy, perfect Draught of Heaven,
Fair Berengaria rest thy troubled Thought,
Thy Richard Arms to loose the fetter'd Hand,
To bid Dejection raise its humble Eye,
That por'd to Earth to find the Grave of Care,
And lift it up in Thankfulness on high.
Ye Sons of Sorrow, all your Tears are mine
I count them here—To give them to your Foes
In the full Measure of exactest Vengeance.

Berengaria.
Ah! how polluted are the Martyr's Graves,
The holy Reliques of departed Saints,
Mix'd with foul Ashes, and dishonour'd Dust;
How do their hov'ring Shades in dead of Night,
With Voices destin'd for celestial Choirs,
Sigh on their broken Urns, and Tombs profan'd?

Richard.
Think not that Care disturbs the silent Dead,
Or that the loosen'd Ghost with nightly Watch
Is pain'd for Atoms of disorder'd Clay.
The Priests, good holy Market-Men, may tell
Of bleeding Statues, and lamenting Shrines,
Sell the forg'd Drops—And long as Priests can lye,
Folly and Female Ignorance will believe.

Berengaria.
Forgive the pious Error of my Thought.

Richard.
Indeed, my Queen, a nobler Purpose brings
Thy Richard here—The Cause of Heav'n is mine,
I stand its Substitute to spread true Faith,
To scourge the black Imposture back to Hell,
And re-instate Religion on her Throne.

The following Scene is, supposed, between Armida and Prince David of Scotland.
Prince.
What Seraph wand'ring from his heavenly Bower,
Has chose this shining Vehicle of Flesh
To soften heavenly Beauty to the Sight,
And blunt the Rays that Nature could not bear?
Or art thou rather some familiar Saint,
Veiling thy Glories in this mortal Shrine?
O speak!—That I may wonder—And adore.

Lady.
Nor Saint, nor Seraph I, but human born;
Who ask no Worship, but refuse the Gift
Of Idol Praises, and misguided Zeal,
Tho' a Priest's Tongue should gloss the pleasing Lye.

Prince.
[Aside.
Hah! 'tis a Woman!—But excelling all
That Truth and Fable heap upon the Sex.
Give me a Tyrant's Power, and Giant's Force;
With all the Passion of all Lust deceas'd;
And some bold Dæmon mix their Spirits high,
That I may rush and seize the tempting Ray.

Lady.
You tremble, Sir!

Prince.
The Thunder of the War has broke the Sky,
While Clamour, roaring with a thousand Tongues,
Ruffles the gentle Wing of Contemplation,
And hunts her from the sweet Abode of Peace.

Lady.
Say, sad Inhabitant, of this forlorn—
Who? And thy Office? For no common Air,
Thy Aspect show—

Prince.
Why? Nature's Friend,
Who mark the sweet Progression of her Work,
Rise with the Day-spring up, and rising draw
The dewy Fragrance of the Morning's Breath.
Who read the living Fires that roul on high,
And note the starry Jelly as it falls.

Lady.
And has this Solitude such wond'rous Charms?

Prince.
As many more as Thought can multiply,
When at the streaking down the Mind goes forth,
Sees nothing round her but this beauteous Scene,
One solid Region of extended Truth.
Nought offers to the View that can molest
The growing Freedom of the mounting Soul;
Nor Thought of Sire, or Child; or dearer Wife,
Dutiful Shadows of Domestic Sweets,
For ruthless Sorrow cannot enter here,
So sacred and so hallow'd is the Place.

Lady.
What are Alliances of human Life,
But as they run in Virtue's clearest Stream?
A Stranger is my Father if he's brave,
My Father is a Stranger if he's ill.

King Richard, attended by one of his Lords, after he was wounded.
King.
I thank thee Heaven, this Wound indeed is precious,
And well becomes a Soldier in thy Cause.
The blushing Token will remind my Eyes
Whose Badge I wear, and ev'ry Drop I bleed,
Bleeds Death to Hundreds—You my Friends,
If I forget this Courtesy of War,
Speak loudly that you saw your bleeding King
Trailing a wounded Body to his Tent,
Nodding and reeling—Say you saw him fall
On the low Earth, and gnaw the Ground in Shame—

Lord.
Your Highness needs no Monitor for Fame—
But now it more imports a Subject's Love
To speak your Danger, and prevent our Fate;
For we all die in Richard, and our Fame,
That should live after, dies before us too.
The poison'd Arrow may be dipt in Death—
And then—

Richard.
What then?—
Think'st thou I fear to die, acommon Fate,
A general Doom? That's Argument to me
To dread it not, and justify my God.
For were there some exempt, and some to die,
All of the Species of this human Race,
'Twere worse for Mortals than it can be now.
Could we, as from a Hill, behold a Chain
Of Fellow-Beings; pressing to a Gulf,
Pushing each other in the Road of Death;
Now singly fall, then tumble Heaps on Heaps,
These come to live and be, those pass and be no more.
Were such a Prospect ours!
How would compassionating Nature wake
In Vows, in Prayers, in agonizing Cries,
“That my Father, that my dearest Child,
“My Friend—My Wife—O wretched Immortality!