University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

SCENE A Hall in Salisbury's House.
Salisbury
solus.
Curse on the Statesman's Grave who married first,
Debauching the pure Stream of Politicks,
With the base mixture of Connubial Love.
O Rome, wise Rome, thy nobler Genius scorns
These little ties of fond Humanity.
Fearing that Nature might o'er-rule thy Sons,
You check that Fear, and o'er-rule Nature first.
Hence no Affection, no Remorse controuls
Thy Statesmen's Hands, no tender look of Love
Disarms thy holy Butchers in their Wrath.
Had I not wedded—I had had no Children,
No lawfully endearing Name of Daughter,
To tear my Heart-strings, and disgrace my Age.

Enter Gundamor.
Gun.
You seem disturb'd, my Lord, now when our Joys
Should rise at highest, like encount'ring Tides,
Meeting each other with a strong Embrace,
And murmuring o'er the Wreck our Anger made.

Sal.
[not minding.]
Sure Nature form'd all Women for our shame,
Perverse of Will, and obstinate in Wrong.
Where Law and Custom give 'em no Pretence,
Their curious Tempers and their Passions drive
The weakest Sex to do the greatest Ills,
And mar and spoil all Mischief but their own.

Gun.
He talks of Women, Wrongs, and Mischief,
The English Topicks of neglected Love.
How much Mens Passions vary with their Climes!
The Spaniard cloaks his Injuries in Smiles,
Till fair Occasion prompts him to Revenge,
And Life or Honour pay the Debt of Scorn.
[Aside.
Cecil, unlock thy Bosom to thy Friend;
I know the Windings of the subtle Sex,
And have a Clue to every Maze they tread.

Sal.
Can'st thou mould Nature new, or change
The pre-determin'd Qualities of Things,
Bid sweet taste bitter, and the bitter sweet;
Turn Hatred into Love, and Love to Hate,
And make me curse my Daughter, my Daughter?

Gun.
What Cause, my Lord—

Sal.
Raleigh's Life is sav'd,
The Warrant is revok'd, by her revok'd,
To please her sickly Appetite, that chose
(Damn'd fatal Choice!) his Issue for a Lover.

Gun.
Shame on the Father's Age, that gave Consent,
Suff'ring the Fruit of sixteen Winters Growth,
Just at the Point of ripening time, to fall
Faded and blasted by a Woman's Breath.
Were there not Baits enough, to lure her Eye
From one poor Object? where were all the Snares
Of Splendor, Title, Vanity and Show,
That catch their Eyes, and blind the Sex to Dotage?
Should wayward Children thus be pleas'd in Spain,
None but old Matrons, Shadows of the Sex,
Were left to walk the sacred Cloyster round,
Frighting each other o'er the Midnight Lamps.
And half the Saints that Tyrant Fathers made,
Were blotted from the List of Holy Church.

Sal.
All is not lost my Lord; my lab'ring Thought
Teems with a Project of more certain Ruin,
That saves our Fame, while it defeats his Friends,
And mocks e'en Pity in the Traitor's Fall.

Gun.
The dying Queen—that Thought has long been mine,
But Judgment check'd it at a second View,
As doubtful of Event. When Pow'r can kill,
Who would trust Fortune with the wav'ring Bait
Of accidental Honour, or Disgrace?

Sal.
E'en now the learned Consultation broke,
The Leeches gave the customary Sign
Of Death, and shook their careful Heads,
In Pity to the Frame they could not mend.
And yet his well-known Vanity will try
His Chymick Skill, where Art and Science fail.
By this he perishes, and gives the Means
To stir the People, and incense the King,
While the Queen's Murder is the general Cry.

Gund.
'Tis plausible; and if he should prevail,
Yet many Doors are open to his Fate;
Transfer the Honour to another's Hand,
Or swear 'twas Magick, and condemn him so.

Sal.
Here comes Sir Julius Cæsar, he shall go
The Messenger of Mischief to his Friend.

Enter Sir Julius Cæsar.
Sal.
You come, Sir Julius, in a happy Hour,
To cure the Fears of a distracted State.
The good desponding Queen asks Raleigh's Aid;
All other Arts are try'd; but he, you know,
Boasts Secrets, that cut short the Wings of Fate,
Arrest the flying Spirit in its Course,
And reconcile it to its House of Clay.

J. C.
I came to move the Question to your Ear,
And hear with Joy your Wishes run with mine.

Gun.
Who knows where Nature hides her various Gifts?
Not all who search her, find her wond'rous Ways.
Tell him, good Cæsar, that my friendly Voice
Has added to the Weight of Cecil's Love.

J. C.
I go, my Lords. Impatience wings my Way.
No Minutes must be lost, when Monarch's stay.

[Exit.
Sal.
Blind, blind Effects of fond Credulity,
That measures Things by the deceiving Line
Of its own Wishes!—Be it ever so
With all our Foes.

Gun.
I add another Pray'r!
Now Death be busy in the Pois'ner's Hand,
Exalt each liquid Drop with subtle Flame,
To rack and torture the despairing Frame;
Till dying Groans shall eccho round the Bed;
And the last Sound be heard,—The Traitor's Head.

[Exeunt.