University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A retir'd Grove belonging to the Palace.
Enter Prince of Wales and Leicester.
PRINCE.
My Spirit will not brook it! What avails
The empty Name and Title of a King,
Without imperial Pow'r! why with his Son
Divide his Throne, unless he meant to grant
A Share of that supreme Authority,
Which only lends Stability to Greatness
And gives its highest Lustre—to be caught
With the gay tinsell'd Garb of Royalty,
Befits an Ideot only; let him know
That Henry's Son inherits Henry's Pride,
And may in Time, with daring Hand, assume
What now he is debarr'd.

LEICESTER.
Your Wrongs are great;
But be not too precipitate and rash,
Lest you therein defeat the Means by which
You wish to gain. Beware, the watchful Eye
Of Curiosity besets our Paths;
Speak not so loud.

PRINCE.
What Danger? Shou'd the King
Himself o'er-hear, confront me Face to Face,
I would not shrink; mine Eye should not abate
Its angry Fire, nor my sunk Heart recall
The smallest Drop of that indignant Blood
That paints my glowing Cheek; but I wou'd speak,
Avow, proclaim, and boast my settled Purpose:
I have a double Cause to urge me on,
A royal Mother's Wrongs join'd to my own.
Do I not see her injur'd, scorn'd, abandon'd,
For the loose Pleasures of a Wanton's Bed,
His beauteous Minion, whom embower'd he keeps
In Woodstock's mazy Walks? Shall he do this
Un-notic'd, un-reproach'd, yet dare to check
My honest Ardour? He hath yet to learn,
That Parent who expects his Son to walk
Within the decent Pale of rigid Duty,
Should keep a heedful Watch o'er his own Steps,
And by his Practice well enforce the Doctrine
He means to have him learn.

LEICESTER.
Yet check this Passion,
And hear the Dictates of my cooler Mind.
Is not the Council here conven'd this Morn,
By Henry's Order, to debate the Courtesy
Of the French Monarch, who even now invites
Thy royal Presence to his gallant Court,
On friendly Visit?

PRINCE.
Yes—and here the Partner
In England's Throne waits, till their mighty Wisdoms
Shall have determin'd what his Course must be,
And deign to call him in; waits like a servile
And needy Pensioner, that asks a Boon.

LEICESTER.
Again you lapse into this wild Extreme.
Forget a while Ambition and Revenge,
And court cool Wisdom; act the Politician;
Play to their Humours, yield to their Decrees;
Use this French Journey, as the happy Step
To mount to your Desires.—Tho' here depriv'd
Of Pow'r, in Normandy your Half-King Title
Enables you to scatter Favours round,
Such as shall gain you popular Applause
And win your Subjects' Hearts—This Point obtain'd,
All you can ask is yours; you may command
Where now you sue, and Henry's Self may fear
Your Potency, and grant your highest Wish.

PRINCE.
By Heav'n thou hast inflam'd my eager Soul
With bright Imaginations of Renown,
Of Conquest and Ambition; I a while
Will try to sooth this proudly swelling Heart,
Into mild Heavings, and submissive Calms,
For this great Purpose.

LEICESTER.
To your Aims devoted,
I'll privily away, and meet you there;
Will worm myself into each Norman Breast;
Pour in their greedy Ears your early Virtues,
Your Love of them, their Interest and Honour;
Then join in any hardy Enterprise
That Fore-thought can suggest, and win the Palm,
Or die beside thee.

PRINCE.
Gen'rous, gallant Friend!
I have not Words to thank thee—to my Breast
Let me receive the Guardian of my Glory,
In full Assurance that his noble Friendship
Shall never be forgot.

LEICESTER.
Behold, the Queen;
She moves this Way.

PRINCE.
I will retire a while;
I would not meet her, till this hop'd Departure
Be fix'd irrevocably, lest her fond
Maternal Love and Softness might prevail
O'er that instinctive Yielding in the Breast,
Which Nature wakens when a Mother sues,
And win some Promise from my pliant Heart,
That I should scorn to break.

[Exit.
LEICESTER.
What if I try
To win her to our Cause? The frequent Wrongs
Which fire her haughty Mind, join'd to Affection
For her young Henry, may engage her Help
In any Scheme that promises Revenge.
But soft—the present is no Time for that;
For with her comes that busy meddling Abbot,
That Dealer in dark Wiles, who rules and guides
The Consciences of all who weakly crouch
To his Mock-Sanctity. I will avoid him—
Even now some Mischief broods within his Mind!
Perhaps tow'rd me; for he, of late, hath shewn me
Marks of Respect and Courtesy, wherein
He was not wont to deal. Time only will
Explain the Object of his present Aims,
For in his Proteus-Face, or even his Words,
No smallest Trace of what employs his Thoughts
Can ever be descry'd.

[Exit.
Enter QUEEN and ABBOT.
QUEEN.
Tell me no more
Of long-protracted Schemes and tedious Wiles;
My Soul is all Impatience: Talk to me
Of Vengeance, speedy Vengeance.

ABBOT.
What can be
Devis'd to punish, pain, and mortify,
Beyond what is enjoin'd on Henry's Head?
Tho' distant from the venerable Shrine,
Where martyr'd Becket's sacred Blood was spill'd,
Is he exempt from Penance? Doth not here
Our careful Mother-Church pursue her Foe?
Is he not nightly doom'd to tread the lone
And solemn Isles of Ida's holy House,
In deep Attonement for the barb'rous Fall
Of that dear murder'd Saint?

QUEEN.
And what attones
For Eleanor's loud Wrongs, her murder'd Peace?
Will all the Penances e'er yet devis'd
By dronish Priests, relieve my tortur'd Heart?
Will they recall my Henry's truant Love,
Or blast the Charms of that deluding Witch,
Who lures him from me? This is the Redress
Which Eleanor demands—this the Revenge
Alone, which she can condescend to take.

ABBOT.
Nor is this past my Hope to purchase for you:
My Thoughts, devote to you and your Repose,
Continually labour for your Good.
Alas! you know not, mighty Queen, the Sighs
My Heart has heav'd, the Tears mine Eyes have shed,
For your injurious Treatment; and, even now,
Would you but bid your just Resentment cool,
I think the wish'd Occasion is at Hand,
That gratifies your most enlarg'd Desire.

QUEEN.
Thy Words are Balsam to my wounded Peace.
Go on, go on; dwell on this pleasing Strain,
And I will worship thee.

ABBOT.
Is not the Council
Conven'd by Henry? Do they not decree
Your darling Son shall strait for France?

QUEEN.
Ay, there
Again is England's Queen insulted, mock'd—
Have I no Right of Choice? Shall the dear Boy,
Whose noble Spirit feels his Mother's Wrongs,
Shall he be banish'd from me, torn away,
My only Comforter?

ABBOT.
He must not go.
You must prevent it—practise every Art;
Nay, bid your Pride and fierce Resentment bend
To soft Request and humblest Supplication,
Ere suffer his Departure.

QUEEN.
Tell me, Father,
How this is to be done. Canst thou speak Peace
To the tumultuous Bosom of the Deep,
When the loud Tempest tears it? Can I meet
With patient Meekness my Oppressor's Sight?
Wear an apparent Calmness in my Face,
While heaving Anguish struggles in my Mind?
It will not be.

ABBOT.
There are no other Means.
What tho' the Council urge State-Policy,
And Public-Good, for their Consent herein,
Their inward Aim is to oblige the King,
Who labours this great Point. And what's his Drift?
No courteous Scheme, to please his Brother France:
But merely to remove the gallant Prince.

QUEEN.
Say'st thou?

ABBOT.
He fears a Rival in the Hearts
Of discontented Subjects; the brave Youth,
With Speech undaunted, that disdains Disguise,
Hath freely spoke your Wrongs: Hence Jealousy
Broods in the King, lest your aspiring Son
May prove, in Time, a Bane to his Pursuits,
In wanton Dalliance, and illicit Love.

QUEEN.
Is this the End of all his boasted Care
For my Son's Weal, his Happiness and Honour?
This the great Cause his Brother. France must see
Th'all-praised Heir of England's mighty Throne?
Oh, Henry! Whither is thy Greatness sled?
Is thy bold Pride, thy Majesty of Heart,
Sunk in low Stratagems and mean Deceits?
So will it ever be; when Perfidy
Pollutes the Soul; the Sense of Honour flies,
And Fraud and Meanness fill the vacant Seat.

ABBOT.
Lose not the precious Hours in useless Reasonings;
Speed to the Presence; seize the first fair Moment:
Hang on his Garment, clasp his stubborn Knees;
Foil Art with Art, and practise every Means
To win the King from this abhorr'd Design.

QUEEN.
I go; howe'er ill-suited to the Task,
I will essay it.—Stoop, exalted Heart,
A Moment stoop; and, Tongue, learn thou a new,
An unbeseeming Lesson; let the Cause,
The noble Motive, consecrate the Means.
Remember, Eleanor, thou fall'st a while,
To rise more glorious; to record thy Name
Amid the fairest Legends of Renown,
A brave Avenger of thy Sex's Wrongs.

[Exit.
ABBOT.
Go, shallow Woman! thy impatient Soul,
That mounts to Frenzy at each slight Surmise
Of Injury, makes thee a precious Tool
For deep-laid Policy to work withal.
The Prince must here abide—his tow'ring Pride,
And Leicester's hot and enterprizing Genius,
Assisted by my subtle Aid, may raise
A Storm that shall destroy this haughty King,
This Poison to our Cause and holy Order.
Henry, thou know'st not what a Foe thou hast
In this un-mitigable Breast—my Soul
Abhors thee, and will never know Repose,
Till thou hast fall'n a Victim to my Rage.
The greatest, noblest Cause inspires my Deeds!
Look down, Oh, sainted Becket! with Delight,
On thy true Servant! Let thy blessed Spirit
Assist my Purpose, while I seek Revenge
On him who dar'd insult our holy Faith,
By instigating sacrilegious Hands
With thy dear Blood to stain our hallow'd Shrines.

[Exit.