University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—A Room in the Provost's House.
Enter Sir James Learmont, Sir D. Lindsay, Norman Lesslie, Moneypennie of Pitmillie, Lumsdaine, Melvil, Kirkaldy, &c.
LEARMONT.
Lesslie, 'tis right—I say, 'tis just and right,
That he who pitches up his Romish hat
In opposition to the Scottish crown,
Beneath its broad outlandish shadow working
Tyrannic bloody deeds, without the least
Semblance of recognized authority,—
I say, 'tis right that he should be lopp'd off,
As a destructive, mortifying limb,
From preying on the body politic:
He is no better than the murderer
That prowls upon the high-way, whom who slays
Does to his fellow-citizens a service.

NORMAN.
Speak not upon it more—I'm mad to think
That one of us sign'd over to the death
By this usurper, should sit idling thus,
Scrupling and shilly-shallying here about it.

MONEYPENNIE.
The question is, shall this man, unopposed,
Thrust his illegal poniard in our hearts?
Or shall we rise above the law for once,
To vindicate that law so sinn'd against,
And save ourselves, whom law is bound to save?
If Brutus' hand was justified in slaying
His dearest friend, because he dispossest
The law, and put his person in its place—
Having to Brutus no malevolence;
Are we not more, who do not only find
This man enthroned in blood upon law's tomb,
But know his malice busily at work
To murder us, and all our country's friends?—
The love of country recommends the deed,
The law of self-defence does more, requires it.

CARMICHAEL.
Yea, tooth for tooth, and eye for eye, God says:
He that in public places has deprived
The saints of life, hath forfeited his own;
And had the wicked man a hundred lives,
Their sum could not compensate one just man's.

SIR D. LINDSAY.
I own 'tis right, my friends—you're justified
Before both God and man in this complot;
But yet—

NORMAN.
Home to your Mount, Sir David, home
With your But yets, and scruples, and demurs!
'Tis always so with you, milk-liver'd bards,
From Cic'ro downwards, him who lost his head
For vacillation, it hath aye been so:
Why, to peruse your tomes and tragedies,
That are so daub'd with massacre and gore
Enough to make a reading damsel scream,
One might exclaim, These poets sure must be
Huge heroes, swingeing swordsmen at a strife!
Alack-a-day! their hero'sm is all lodged
Within the hollow of their poor goose-quills;
Their warlike fancy cuts tremendous capers,
Foining and fencing with unreal swords;
But shew them one of palpable good steel,
Sir Bard becomes a maiden with green sickness,
And Cic'ro sneaks into his study, leaving
Brutus and Casca to perform the feat
Which in his next nice volume he will praise:
Gang your gaits, Lindsay—when we've wrought with steel
This plot of ours, e'en write a Tragedy,
And make the plot your own with pen and paper!
[Exit Sir David Lindsay.
Now, that cold Scruple's gone, and hot Zeal left,
Let us carve out the work.

MELVIL.
Our hinds already
Stand metamorphosed into barrowmen,
Girt with fair aprons red with lime and sand,
In expectation of being soon required.
They know their task, and will not pillow down
Their heads to sleep until it be accomplish'd.

KIRKALDY.
Let us all muster in the Abbey Church-yard,
With our false workmen, by the break of day;
Thence let us issue, when the Castle-gates
Are open'd, and the draw-bridge lower'd down
T'admit the real artizans to work.
I with a few will first advance, and hold
Some parley with the porter, to while off
His notice from suspicion, till you join me,
And enter'd numbers make us confident.
Then shall we seize the keys, turn out unharm'd
Workmen and all that lodge within the place,
And so obtain possession.

NORMAN.
Excellent!
All excellent, Kirkaldy; but remember,
When you have overleapt and got command,
Bar every passage, block the postern up,
Watch every wicket, port, and gutter-hole
Through which the water runneth to the sea,
Lest Card'nal Fox should slily slip away,
And leave the goodly greyhounds at a fault,
Worrying themselves to death for missing him.

KIRKALDY.
To guard each outlet shall be my concern.

NORMAN.
And mine shall be to ferret out the knave
From his most secret corner of concealment,
Ev'n were he sleeping coffer'd 'mid his gold,
Or refuged up the chimney 'mid the soot.
This dagger shall explore each hiding-place,
Until its point be housed in his heart.

CARMICHAEL.
Well, you have each chalk'd out his fitting part;
I hope I'll stumble on some choice one too,
Which I shall leave to Providence; and yet
I would fain give this slayer of the saints
A salutary lecture ere he die.

LEARMONT.
I'll keep the town from tumult, which, perhaps,
Rising from some fore-flying chance-report,
Might stop or interrupt the enterprize;
But, when 'tis done, I hope you'll hoist him up
Somewhere on high, to ascertain my sense,
Our Prelate has been quietly dispatch'd.

NORMAN.
'Tis all adjusted then; we'll meet at five
At the Church-yard:—till then let us be cool,
And force our spirits into some constraint!

CARMICHAEL.
I'll to the fatal spot where Wishart died,
There to inflame me with wild melancholy,
And keep the sharp edge of my spirit up,
Until he be revenged.
[Exit Carmichael.

LEARMONT.
Let us, my friends,
Refresh ourselves until the break of day.

[Exeunt.