University of Virginia Library

SCENE draws and discovers Rotherick Catholicus, and Guards.
Rothe.
What have we no Intelligence to Day?
No Strangers, nor no Leinster Men brought in?

Catho.
Several Parties of your Horse, and Foot,
Whose Orders were to cross the Shannon,
Are Hourly expected back my Leige.

Retho.
'Tis well, but if they bring not Prisoners with them,
Those who command those Men, shall surely die.
I Rotherick O' Connor, King of Connaught,
Will make the Nation tremble at my Sway,
And force each native Slave, to drive away
These Vagabonds, these Strangers, from our Land.
Well my good Catholicus, have you perus'd.
The Copy of that Grant? sent to be sign'd,
By that most mighty Lord, of all our Church,
Infallible and never erring Pope
Adrian the fourth, and since that confirm'd,
By Allexander's Bull, to give my Land
Away to Henry the English King.
Now by St. Patrick, who was a greater Man,
Then ever fill'd your jugling, Papal Chair,
I swear revenge on all the Romish Tribe.
Would thou have done so, hadst thou been a Pope?
No! I know thou durst not Who gives the Priest
The Power, he pretends to have on Earth?
Is it not your King; and pray now, who am I?
Your Spiritualities of Tuam,
Are not worth much, without my Subjects Gold.
You talk of Heaven, but you covet Earth.

Catho.
Far be it from my thoughts; to disobey
My Royal Master's Will; we know our Church,
Our Lives, and all we have, center in you.
And we of Ireland, have never own'd
The Pope's Supremacy, or Power here;
For from St. Patrick, to this present time,
Our Church has always, strenuously opposed him.

Rothe.
Or there should be no Churches, through my Realm.
What use have I for Priests? except their talk
Can keep the wild, unruly Mob in awe,
And give a Sanction to my Kingly Actions.

Catho.
I and my Clergy are at your Devotion.

Rothe.
Or they would live but slavish, wretched Lives.
Catholicus, full well I know thy Worth;
And what I think a mighty Vertue in thee;
Thou never contradicts, in ought, my Will;
Thy Zeal has never been impertinent,
Nor push'd it self between me and my Pleasures:
Thy Knowledge is too great, to think that Kings,
Are tyed to Rules, like other Mortal Men.
Oh! how I would crush a Fellow that should cry,
His Liberty, or talk of self defence,
Property, or scan the Actions of his Prince:
Thou should Excommunicate the saucy Slave;
And doubting that thy Curse would not take Place,
This Javelin should push his Soul to Hell.
A Noise without.
Catholicus, go learn from whence that Noise.

Catholicus goes to the Door and returns.
Catho.
My Leige, the Guards are leading
Dermonds Son to Death, according to your late Commands.

Rothe.
Call back the Wretch, I'll see him e'er he Dyes.

(Catholicus goes out and returns with Cothurnus)
Catho.
Bring him near the King.

Rothe.
Bring him nearer yet.

Cothur.
Barbarous Tyrant, when my Thoughts were fixt
On future pleasing Joys, and things above;
Why wouldst thou make me think of Hell and thee?

Rothe.

So you'r prepar'd to die, your Mind is calm,
and you forgive your greatest Enemies.

Cothur.
Mankind I can forgive, but thou'rt a Devil.

Rothe.
Am I so? that Devil shall torment thee then.

Catho.
For shame, you talk not like a dying Man,
Nor know not the Respect to Majesty.

Cothur.
Call'st thou that Pageant Wretch a King?
He is a Rebell with a Tyrant's Power;
And has usurp'd my Father's lawfull Right.
His Life has been, one Scene of Wickedness,
Rapine, Lewdness, Murder Paricide;
And thou his fawning, pious, cringing Priest,
With your exalted Hands, and turn'd up Eyes,
Can first confess and then absolve him for it.

Catho.
So please your Majesty, 'tis time he dies.

Rothe.
Let him talk his Glass, 'twill soon be run:

Catho.
He rails against the Church, no Priest of mine
Shall give the Wretch a Christian Burial.

Cothur.
I shall go to Bliss, without thy Pasport.
Thou Wolf, crouded into a sheepish Cloathing.

Catho.
The people, are with Impatience waiting
For the Execution, so please my Leige,
The Guards may now conduct the Heretick there.

Rothe.
Hold, let me talk and reason with the Youth,
Thy Father it is true, was King of Leinster,
And had he govern'd well, might still have reigned;
But you forget, he ravished O Rourk's Wife,
Who was the Daughter of the King of Meath;
Know you, that he plunder'd all the Country round,
And forc'd O Neale. O Carroll and Mc Loughlin,
To give him Hostages, which he destroy'd;
Whilst O Borne and Daniel Prince of Ossory,
Amazed at all his horrid Villanies,
As all good Men should do, deserned him;
At which the abandon'd Wretch to England flies,
And humbly sues, to Vagabonds and Strangers,
Bringing the lawless Rout to murder us,
And for their Reward, gives them whole Cities,
Notwithstanding which, he sues to me for Peace;
And I, as good Catholicus can tell,
Took his Homage, but on these Conditions;
That he shou'd dismiss the English Strangers,
You his Son was sent to me as an Hostage,
And had he but perform'd, you should have had
My Daughter Avelina for your Bride;
But he you know, has broke through all his Oaths,
And let the British Stranger you call Strongbow,
With his Rebell Rout, invade and plunder Meath.
I did upbraid him for his Breach of Oaths,
And threatned, if he kept not well the Peace,
That you his favourite Son, shou'd lose your Head,
His surly Answer was; He would proceed
To conquer Connought, which the Villain claim'd
As if it once had been his ancient Right,
For which base Act of his, you suffer Death.

Enter Avelina.
Ave.
Oh! dread Sir, recall your horrid Sentence,
And let nor that brave Youth, be punish'd so;
By your Commands, I gave him up my Heart,
And you declared I was to be his Wife.

Rothe.
Go too; my Mind is altered, that's enough for you.
Take back your foolish Bauble of a Heart,
And carry it with you to a Nunnery.

Ave.
To Death most willingly, I can't survive him.

Rothe.
Ha! what says't thou? Death! die, and if you dare,
I'll make you live, and live in Torture too,
That rebell against your King, your Father.

Catho.
It is a crying, roaring heavy Sin.
Perhaps a Nunnery and Penitence,
With Store of Fasting, may wash off the Crime.

Cothur.
Rotherick, forbear to use your Daughter ill
Pour all your haughty Vengeance down on me;
It is a double Death to see her Tears.

Cothur.
Oh! have I found a way to Torture you,
And bring your haughty Soul within its Bounds,
I have a Pleasure yet to come; your Death
Had been a petty Vengeance to my mind.
But you are deep in Love, and with my Daughter:
Now by the Gods
She straight shall suffer Death before your Face
And whilst her trickling Blood is reeking Hot,
I'le open all your Veins, to mix amongst it.

Ave.
Thou best of Fathers, dearest best of Kings,
That Sentence is the Thing I wish'd for most;
My tender Heart, can never bear to see
His mangl'd Carcass, thrown about the Streets;
But whilst I am dying, I may fix my Eyes
With eager Wishes, give a parting Sigh,
And hope to mingle with his Righteous Soul;
Above the unbounded Regions of the Air.

Catho.
She's raving Sir, and has not mention'd yet,
One word of Paradise, and Purgatory;
I dare pronounce, he's taught her how to Raile
Against the Mother-Church, and Pious Church-men;
'Twere fit we purge her of her Sins before
She suffers Death, mean while if he were Dead,
She might be brought to own, her horrid Sin,
Be penitent, and so be made a Saint.

Rothe.
Well, it shall be so, haste and see him die:
And Avelina too shall see him die,
Cothurnus, 'tis your Father's sins have drawn
This heavy Death upon your youthful Soul,
He sold his Country to a forreign Yoke:
Be satisfy'd in this, I'll seek him out,
And soon his groveling Corps, shal overtake thee:

Ave.
In pity to my tender Youth, forbear
To blast his Soul, whilst mine is blossoming.

Cothur.
How tender does she plead, and would prevail,
With any thing that's humane, but a Tyrant.
Farewell my softest, fairest Avelina,
Death I can bear, but not the Sight of you.

Catho.
Make way there, and let the Prisoner pass.

Cothur.
Farewell proud Priest, we two shall meet no more;
I shall mount up, whilst you must sink below.

Enter a Souldier.
1 Guard.
My Leige, a Messenger from Leinster's King,
Is with a Trumpet come and brought this Letter.

The King opens the Letter.
Catho.
The King is taken up with State Affairs,
You have your Orders, lead the Prisoner off.

Ave.
Oh cruel Man, 'tis from my Fathers mouth
You must receive the Orders for his Death.

Rothe.
Cothurnus, for a Day or two your Life's
Prolong'd, your Father writes me Word, he'll send
Donagh, Abbot of Furnes to this Place,
To treat with me about the safest Way;
Of driving back these Welsh, and English Men;
Perhaps it is a Stratagem of his
To gain some Time, or may be to Surprize
Some Fortress, or some Castle in the Frontiers,
Be it so, we can Revenge it soon enough:
Catholicus, my Daughter is your Care;
If Dermond sends us Peace, she may Love on,
If not 'tis fit she bid the World Adieu:
Guards, lead back Cothurnus to his Prison.

Cothur.
I thank you not, since Death's my Lot;
Happen when it will, it shall be welcome.

Exit.
Catho.
Perhaps my Leige, he is prepar'd to die:

Rothe.
If so Catholicus, where's my Revenge?
To take him from a State of noise and Strife,
And give him Happiness beyond my own;
So from an Enemy become a Friend:
A Monarch's made to Rule each petty Slave,
To bid him Live, or send him to his Grave.
Mercy, is for a vile Mechanick Soul,
No humane Passion, should a King controul:
'Tis Justice is the Rule, that Guides his way;
And all is Just and Good that Monarchs say.

Exeunt.