University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

[SCENE I.]

SCENE.—A street in Jerusalem—A mournful procession seen at a distance.
BENAIAH and HUSHAI meeting.
Ben.
Welcome from Rabbah's camp!—your stay was short—
I trust your mission prosper'd?

Hush.
Friend—all hail
The success of my mission lies in clouds
Till time shall draw aside the mystic veil,
But, say, what means this solemn pomp? It seems
Attended by half Judah! some disaster
Has blank'd the face of Salem, do they bend
Their march to Israel's holy shrine, to seek
For aid or counsel?

Ben.
Nought of holy import
Conducts the pomp, but sacrilege and guilt
To one indeed confin'd: the crowd, are free
Tho' touch'd with honest and indignant grief
To find so foul a taint infect their name.

Hush.
Is it such guilt, as justice cannot reach?

Ben.
It can!

Hush.
What hinders then the needful stroke
That lops the foul infected limb away?

Ben.
Now they come near!—say, canst thou recognize
That reverend from that leads the mourning train?

Hush.
Can I believe my sight! 'Tis Nathan's self
The holy man! Heavens!—how serene he looks
Amid the general woe!

Ben.
Yet in his looks
Seest thou what kindling indignation gleams
At times? and how his rapid eye-beam darts
Into futurity, and what a glance
Of anger mixt with sorrow oft he throws.

Hush.
What can it mean
In such a saintly bosom, long estrang'd
From human passions, such disorder'd starts
Such flaws, as seem to shake his aged frame,
Such agony, such hear-tfelt grief, as paints
His visage, seem of some mysterious themes
With more than human organ to discourse!

Ben.
You saw him calm, but now,—he sooth'd the crowd
In the most dreadful hurricane of rage
That ever threaten'd change.

Hush.
What mov'd their wrath?

Ben.
The strange and frontless guilt
Of Nathan's son, to whom th'indulgent sire
Had given his all, and that inhuman wretch
(Spite of his double sanctity, compos'd
Of prophet and of father) forc'd him thence
(With insult, next to outrage,) in the eye
Of noon and Judah's sons, assembled round
Who gaz'd with horrour on this impious deed.

Hush.
Why, all things seem revers'd—how bore the crowd
Th'abominable fact?

Ben.
Their fury swell'd,
And seem'd beyond the power of aught, but Heaven
To sooth—when, with authoritative tone
That seem'd to palsy every lifted hand
And quench the sire in every sparkling eye
The sire commanded, and they spar'd the son—
“Go! take my farewell to the King” he said
(To a young friend, that stood dejected by)
“And tell him what you saw” then past along
Self-sentenc'd, self-exil'd. The mourning crowd
That for a benediction press around
Have thus delay'd his exit.

[Procession passes by,—some Israelites remain behind.
Hush.
This vile son
Had never dar'd this outrage, but he knew
The King's aversion to his reverend sire!

Ben.
In days of old, a prophet's mystic deeds
Were often (like the nightly waving sign
That leads the vaward of the coming storm)
An awful harbinger of Heavenly wrath
That figur'd forth disastrous days to come:
Their actions speak, when words are found to fail
Thus may it be once more!
To any ears, but thine, I should not trust
My thoughts, but this late coldness in the King
To his best friends in general, make his hate
To Nathan less prodigious.—How he sinks
From the fraternity of angels, down
To mingle with the common mass of men!—
Oh what a change! since with yon reverend sage
He us'd to mount beneath the morning star
To Olivets calm brow, like Amram's heir
There half the journey of the summer sun
Beneath her hallow'd bowers abstracted sate
With the rapt prophet, and with kindling eye
And attitude of wonder, catch afar
The strong delineations of that hand
Which trac'd the pageants of the times unborn
Thick rising to Imagination's glance
Like atoms in the sun's unfolding beam!
Oft would they traverse all the sacred hill
As if that lofty range, in time to come
Were meant the scene of some heroic deed
Or second revelation of the law
Of Heaven, like Horeb's summit: but since then
Late, in the gleam of twilight, mute and sad
The prophet of the alienated King
Has oft been seen to wander there alone
There, oft he seem'd in fixt and leaden pause
To muse awhile, then, on a sudden, rapt
With strong emotion and irregular glance
He scann'd the green lawns, and the shady bowers
As if they all seem'd conscious of the change—
The very dregs of Israel feel the change
And like foul vapours, by the sun exhal'd
They mount in mutinous revolt, and hide
The orb of majesty in dim eclipse.

Ben.
They feel the weight of glory, and bow down
By trophies and by taxes doubly prest.
Our anarchy at home, and fame abroad
Are like the spasms of an expiring man
Who seems to grapple with a nerve of steel
Tho' Death's cold siege his lab'ring heart assails.

[Shout.
Hush.
Now, like the fiery fever's rising rage,
The people's fury threat the public weal
With wild delirium and misrule.—Behold
How the wide tumult fluctuates! now they shout
As if some demon, in the seemly mask
Of popularity had fir'd their souls.

Ben.
You guess aright—it is that artful fiend
That, in the shape of Absalom, purloins
The people's loyalty, and, in its stead
With unfelt skill infuses in their veins
Sedition's deadly bane.—Let us retire
And mark the demagogue's perfidious art.

[Retire to one side.

SCENE II.

ABSALOM—ISRAELITES.
Abs.
It must not be, my friends! my loyalty
So combates with my feelings for your woes
That I must fly the strong seducing charm
Or deviate from the strict and narrow path
That filial duty points! The royal wrath
Already burns, because I dar'd to ask
Some relaxation of your bonds! alas!
My voice is discord in my father's ear
It sounds a raven's note! some other strain
More tuneable may reach the regal sense
And touch the nerve of pity! They, whose spells
Build up the high, invisible mound, that bars
All access from the people to their King,
Can seal his eyes, when the inhuman son
Expells his father, and let Piety
Be chac'd with scorn from Salem's sacred streets.
Yet should I lift my voice at Israel's wrong
How would they conjure up the deadly forms
Of foul revolt, and charge me with the crime
Of most unnatural treason? Let this plead
Your friend's excuse, who must in silence mourn
But dare not vent his grief in aught but tears
Farewell my friends! be patient, and resign'd.

[Exeunt severally Absalom and Israelites.
Manent HUSHAI and BENAIAH.
Ben.
Such is the oil that subtle Arlist pours
Upon the flame, and bids it blaze the more;
His secret machinations cannot still
Be hid, as now; the conflagration soon
(I fear) will blaze his practice to the world
And show the danger, when beyond a cure.

Bush.
O for a man to cross the deadly spell!
A friend to King and people both at once
Whose worth might add a dignity, and give
His words due aim and weight to reach the ear
Of monarchs with effect; and touch the soul!
Not like those random and uncertain shafts
Of declamation, wing'd by every wind
That fluttering fly, and fall without a scope.—

Ben.
Unless the mandate be already given
To the destroying angel not to spare,
I know the man could stand within the breach,
Could stop th'invading pest and teach the King
To ward the danger off, a man beloved
By Israel, and his monarch's chosen friend!

Hush.
Name him!

Ben.
Your eyes were witness to his worth
Not many days ago!

Hush.
Uriah!

Ben.
He
Or none, could heal the growing malady
Which else might turn a gangrene!

Hush.
Hope suggests
That the late message of the King portends
Immediate exaltation, and high trust
To him—some powerful reasons could be given.

Ben.
True—friend!—and so I thought, when I perceiv'd
No common messenger employ'd, but one
Whose searching eye thro' courts and camps pervades
And like a sun-beam spies the latent ill.

Hush.
To me such courtly language—from a friend—

Ben.
Pardon me—but I guess'd (tho' little skill'd
Or studious in the mystic things of state
To pry) that, not alone to call the friend
Of David, you were sent, but to explore
Whether, with fervent zeal, or lukewarm love
In Israel's camp the General's name is breath'd.

Hush.
You know the humours of a camp, my friend!
How liberal of reproach against their chief
Even him that all would bleed for—but in Joab
I fear that jealous and malignant spirit
Still lives, that cost the friend of Saul so dear.

Ben.
What reason have you to suspect so deep?

Hush.
The mandate of his monarch he receiv'd
With martial dignity, but, when he learn'd
The message for Uriah, o'er his cheek
Past, in a twinkling, all the varying hues
Of close conflicting passion, till his art
Seren'd the ruffling storm; that night I stay'd,
Next morn I sought the General! but I found
Admittance was deny'd.

Ben.
To David's envoy?—
This was a strain of insolence indeed!

Hush.
This sturdy opposition will be found
Perhaps, the child of fear, a conscience gall'd
With guilt, for if to rumour we may trust
Under the shadow of a moonless night
This great commander, like a felon, stole
From his pavilion, and the trenches past.—

Ben.
What proof of this, besides malignant fame?

Hush.
His brother's doubled vigilance and care,
His trumpet singly call'd the host to arms
The absent General's part he well sustain'd
From wing to wing he travers'd all the host
And kindled up the slumb'ring war anew.

Ben.
Nor yet appear'd the Chief? and was it fear
Or sullen indignation that withheld
The General?

Hush.
Time his purpose may disclose;
Meanwhile, conjecture dogs his lonely steps
Over the burning waste to Tadmor's bounds
Where those, whom late his lifted vengeance spar'd
On the dry skirts of Midian, wait the sign
To leave those wilds, where parching thirst abides
And settle on Samaria's water'd vales
Like locusts.—Others think his course is turn'd
Among the tribes of Israel to foment
Revolt and war.

Ben.
To me, this enterprize
Seems foreign to his bent: is he a man
On bare suspicion to forsake his post?
Would he the rebels daring flag unfurl
And fling his fortune in the dubious scale
Of wild domestic rage, because her lord
Sent for a faithful servant from the camp?
It bears no semblance of his ancient art
He would not plunge himself in Jordan's flood
Because, in thought, he heard a lion roar?

Hush.
Yes—he will plunge,—but like a water snake
Close vigilance must watch the passing stream
For none can tell to what unhappy shore
The monster first will point his crested head.
—All yet is dubious, but his flight!

Ben.
And we,
Shall we conceal those tidings from the King?
'Tis fit he knew the dangers full extent!

Hush.
Far, far beyond the limits of the camp
(If I conjecture right) the danger spreads
And much more near, than Tadmor's burning sands
Or even than Jordan's bounds!

Ben.
Too true: alas!
The democratic spirit spreads abroad,
Like a proud overpeering flood it sweeps,
And levels all distinction, scorns all rule,
As if the waves should lift their foamy heads
To dash their empress from her throne of light
Whose silver wand their mighty motion sways
Uriah's popularity and skill
Might fix the helm of empire in his hand,
And bid the menac'd barque out-ride the storm.

Hush.
Or, to surprize him with unwonted honours
Or profit by his counsel; David brings
At such a time, the soldier from his post—
But it were well if some experienc'd friend
Would meet the warriour, ere he sees the King
And hint some useful topics for the times
Such as the smooth-tongued courtier dreads to use
But which a soldier's candour might enforce
And amplify with fearless eloquence.

Ben.
Is he arriv'd?

Hush.
A few short hours will see
The warriour here.

Ben.
These moments must be us'd
To counsel your brave friend, how best to serve
His country and his King.—I go to find
That friend who in his inmost bosom lives
Who best can sire his zeal, or suage his flame.

[Ex. severally.

SCENE III.

An apartment in the Palace of the Queen.
The QUEEN, TIRZAH.
Tirz.
O Princess! yet reflect! a husband's love
By arts like those was never yet regain'd!
Vengeance may quench the flame, if any spark
Should yet survive, but ne'er can wake the fire
In such a heart as his—recall thy words
And bid thy messenger return! this hour,
Perhaps this moment sees the spell begun
That calls the fiends of discord from the deep
And poisons homebred joy.

Queen.
Were I a slave
Call'd by th'inconstant smile of royalty
For a few April days of transient love
Like a fond flower to bask beneath the beam,
Then hang my patient head, surcharg'd with dew
And patient weep the sun's departing ray
Thy lessons might have weight! But I was born
Of one, whose voice, by him that lords it now,
Was dreaded worse than thunder! when thou seest
An eagle's aiery breed the patient dove
Then preach forbearance! when thou seest the drops
Of autumn wash away yon lofty frame
That lifts its brow to Heaven, expect my tears
Will melt a stubborn heart!

Tirz.
Nor prayers nor tears
Would I advise, but patience, and the calm
Of resignation, unassuming worth,
Virtues, that speak by action, and confess
That more than mortal guest that dwells within
That soul-subduing grace, whose cherub smiles
Can reach the heart, and bid revolting love
Obsequious, own your sway,—forgive my zeal
If my too liberal tongue offend! but late
You thought more calmly, and confess'd these arts
Were not below your care, by arts like these
(So well conceal'd, they seem'd no longer art)
Not many moons ago you thought you saw
His love returning.

Queen.
This augments my grief
That then, from bloody wars but new return'd
When calm reflection brooded o'er the past,
And brought again forgotten times to view
My faithfulness and zeal, when for his life
(Threaten'd by angry Saul, who sent his slaves
With bloody purpose) I expos'd my own,
Sav'd him from slaughter, and a crown bestow'd—
This he remember'd, and methought, I saw
The tender lover o'er the king prevail,
And halcyon days return! when, like a blast
That withers all the genial blooms of spring,
This syren came, a suppliant, as it seem'd,
Drest for persuasion, tho' in weeds of woe,
In all the winning eloquence of tears
Adorn'd. And with a pious charge, to gain
A brother's pardon. So the rumour past,
But all was fraudful practice, all design'd
To ruin my projected schemes, and lay
My tow'ring edifice of hope in dust.—
I will not bear it.—By the awful name
Of him, whose blood I share, his ghost shall see
Ample revenge for his insulted line!

Tirz.
Oh yet reflect! you draw a scene of guilt
With Rumour's pencil, from imagin'd wrong!—
Must Israel's sacred monarch be aspers'd
Because Uriah left his blooming bride,
And to th'inviting couch of love, preferr'd
The warrior's lonely bed. He might have stay'd—
No voice imperial call'd him to the field,
Till the revolving moons had brought again
His nuptial day . His fellow-bridegrooms all
Pleaded the law, nor for the martial trump
Would change the hymeneal lyre. But he
Disdain'd the flowery chaplet, and put on,
With pride, the warrior's plume. His spouse's prayers,
Her adjurations, and her trickling tears,
That heighten'd every charm, unmov'd he bore,
When honour call'd. And must we then conclude
That fixt aversion in her bosom grew,
Because her lord preferr'd his country's call
Before ignoble ease? Such merit claim'd
Encrease of love. And must Bathsheba stray
Down that alluring path where pleasure leads,
Because Uriah chose the rigid path
Where honour marshalls on her hermit train?
—Not such effects from such examples flow!—

Queen.
The blessed sun that bids the flower expand,
Matures the poisonous weed. And scorn with scorn,
And hate with hate the female heart repays
Oftner than tame servility, inspir'd
By contumelious negligence and pride.
Would heaven I could forget—but thy defence
Brings to my mind the hateful circumstance
Of their first meeting. Then how David's heart
Glow'd at her opening beauties, when he sought
Her father's house, a refuge from the rage
Of his pursuers! Hope inspir'd his vows—
But when he learn'd Eliam's solemn vow
Had given her to Uriah, he resign'd
His love to friendship: with dissembled virtue
He gave her—but to make her more his own!

Tirz.
Thus still suspicion clouds the noblest deeds,
With her Tartarean shades! Let Reason speak,
Reason will tell, that if she scorn'd her spouse,
Who sought, at Honour's call, the bloody field.—
She too must scorn that lover, who resign'd,
At Friendship's voice her blooming virgin charms.—
Reason will tell, that he, whose strenuous hand
Could shut the pleasing image from his heart,
At Friendship's call, would never wound the peace
Of one, for whom he sacrificed his feelings!—
O then my sovereign, hear thy servant's plea,
Recall your mandate! trust not vague report,
Nor be it ever said that she, who draws
Her blood from Israel's first and mightiest king,
Should seek the level of the slave, and mine
Domestic peace! 'Tis nobler far to look
Above such injuries! and leave to time
To cure such casual wand'rings of the heart.
If he have stray'd!

Queen.
Thinkst thou I would proceed such dreadful lengths,
Without the clearest proof?
Were it but casual, there indeed were hopes
Of speedy reformation. But I fear,
I fear! nay, I am certain. Years on years
Have seen their passion grow! It ne'er can be,
It gives the lie to reason, that a glance,
A casual look, tho' arm'd by Heaven or Hell,
With all their enginry, should fire the heart
At once. Of spells and magic I have heard,
But not believed. And there are men whose hearts
Yield at first onset. But, 'mongst such, the name
Of David numbers not.

Tirz.
There must be charms
Of mind, as well as person, to secure
Lasting esteem; unhappy is that fair,
Who, trusting to th'enchantment of the eyes
Alone for conquest, when th'artillery fails,
Has no supply of mental charms within.
Hers is a short dominion!

Queen.
To her charms
The fair adult'ress trusts not! There are powers
Whose strong assemblage keeps her in the throne
Of royal favour. And, should she be cast
Aside, the busy panders soon would find
Another in her room! By her, they rule;
She is their instrument to wind at will
This royal engine to their sordid ends.
And, does it not become my birth, my place,
To scatter that obnoxious cloud, that damps
The royal virtues? Long the sacred lamp
Of Judah has burn'd dim beneath the gloom,
But soon it shall revive, and justice reach
The trembling victim, tho' behind the throne.
A loyal few, who lov'd my father's name
(Trusty and bold, all friends of antique stamp,
Who mourn my degradation feel the fall
Of her, that added lustre to the name
Of Bethlehem's haughty lord,) shall aid my views.
To David's counsels they shall find their way,
And force attention to the people's prayers.
The house of Saul again shall lift its head
In ancient splendour, on the blasted hopes
Of those, who scoff her faded fortunes now.—
But, see! my faithful messenger returns;
His chearful looks proclaim the deed is done,
And I shall rest in peace! But thou retire.
His message needs no witness.

Tirz.
Heaven forefend
Those evils, which my sad presaging soul
Sees in approach, perhaps before the sun
Descends; for council now is all in vain.

[Exit Tirzah.

SCENE IV

The QUEEN—SHIMEI.
Queen.
Thy countenance declares, before thy speech,
The success of thy message.

Shim.
Yes, my queen!
The deadly vapours of illicit love
Have reign'd too long. But soon the wholesome gale
Of great revenge shall lift its awful voice,
And sweep from yon polluted palace walls
The noxious brood, that long in swarms besieg'd
Each avenue, and banish'd from its bounds
The sons of modest merit, ancient worth,
And lineal honour! Soon that upstart race,
With that perfidious, bloody man, who slew
Thy father's friend, shall lower their haughty crests.

Queen.
Follow me to my chamber—there disclose
Thy tidings at full leisure, the loose tribe
Of profligates and panders soon shall find
Their empire at an end—convene your friends
But one by one, left over-curious eyes
Should mark their movements.

Shim.
I but stay to meet
One of my confidential friends who waits
My coming at this instant, and the next
Shall see me, with the rest, attend thy will.

[Exit Queen.
Shim.
alone.
O sacred house of Benjamin! again
Thou shalt resume the sceptre, or at least
Its lineal honours share.—Alas! with them
The old renown of Jacob sinks in night
Our glory is departed! Freedom fell
With thee, or what of freedom still remain'd
And bloody conquest now, and martial law
And costly pomp, by parasites ador'd
Succeed the rustic majesty of Saul
Who mingled with the people, nor disdain'd
To lead their legions, or in peace partake
Their humble joys—but see! my trusty friend
Approaches to my wish—Abdon—all hail.

SHIMEI—ABDON.
Shim.
The moment comes, when they, who shed the blood
Of Abner, thy lamented friend shall pay
The fine of festal treason, and prepare
A banquet of revenge, that fiends might smile
To view!
Uriah comes, and in himself an host
Arm'd with his wrongs, he soon shall shake the walls
Of parasitic power! the kindred hosts
Of Ammon and of Tadmor thro' the tribes
That line yon courts, would scatter less dismay
If our designs succeed!

Abd.
Too well I know
Uriah's spirit—still untractable
And stern, he moulds his manners on the code
Of our republic: and her name adores
With true devotion: our neglected laws
He so reveres, that neither power, nor wealth
(Tho' next to regal honours on his brow
Were plac'd, with liberal hand) could bend his soul
To smother his revenge or let his wrath
Be satisfied with gentler penalty
Than what the law requires.

Shim.
And that is death
With propagated shame!

Abd.
And wouldst thou wish
That shame should reach to David? could'st thou bear
To find the name of that heaven favour'd man
Tainted with scandal's vile ignoble blot
An imputation, made by factious hands
Perhaps the fuel of the people's rage?—

Shim.
aside.
Then is it as I fear'd—this interview
Was timely—but I must dissemble now
And wear the mask of loyalty!

To Abd.
My soul
Is seiz'd with horrour at the thought!—But still
Some moderate method may be found, to steer
Between the wild extremes, the Sanhedrim
And popular delegates at Salem now
Conven'd, thy art may sound—they all revere
The patriot's name, and hate the haughty man
Who leads our armies—and, for selfish ends
Fires, with incessant schemes of foreign wars
The royal mind, that he may hold the sword.—
His is the power—the shadow here remains
Behind at Salem—should the general vote
Prefer Uriah, (ere the husband knows
His bed's abuse,) his wrongs perhaps might rest
In long oblivion.—Bathsheba's return
To welcome home her warriour, with the spell
Of loyalty and wedded love at once,
Might lull the whirlwind to a lasting calm.

Abd.
Be it my business then to sound the tribes
Perhaps the monarch, struck with deep remorse
Nor less by merit won (by chance, or heaven
Combin'd, at this fair crisis) may consent
To crown the warriour, tho' he wrong'd the man
And all at last be amity and peace.

[Exit Abdon.
Shim.
Go! loyal fool! and, like the sightless mole
Mine for me! while the rude materials rais'd
By thy blind industry, shall raise a pile
Of finer masonry, exalted far
Above the present fabric, which thy love
So idolizes! this Jessean stem
If Fate's mysterious volume right I read
Shall know no second spring! He little dreams
I hate Uriah too! vain-glorious man!
He scorns the courtier, prizes honesty,
And looks contemptuous on the lazy herd
That bask at ease, beneath the royal beam
At home, while he sustains the sultry noon
And reaps an iron harvest—not aware
That, bought and sold, the single-hearted slave
Toils out his weary youth to feed our pride
But we are grateful—witness he, who walks
Thro' yonder shades in contemplation deep
Fain would I listen—but his friend is near
Achitophel, the partner of our hopes—
He will discover all in proper time
Nor at this crisis would I here be found!

[Exit Shimei.
DAVID, (ACHITOPHEL—at a distance.)
[Seeing Achitophel.
Ach.
My sovereign lord,
My faithful counsels—

David.
—Fed my passions high.
'Twas thou inflam'd my pride, and woke the war
With Ammon , for a slight affront, a wrong
Which wisdom would have smil'd at. Thou advis'd
To leave the toils and hazard of the war
To Joab, and rest at home, lull'd by the sound
And distant din of arms. A stripling's scorn
Must be repaid with blood, while sloth at home
Fosters worse passions. Had I brav'd the field,
And cop'd alone with unbelieving foes,
Cas'd in bright arms, beneath the beam of noon,
My worst foe had not found me!

Ach.
Witness Heaven!
Witness my honour unimpeach'd! no views
But for thy sacred safety sway'd my voice
To counsel thy delay!

David.
O blessed times,
Tho' deem'd afflictive, when, from hill to hill
I fled the royal blood-hounds! Them I thought
My only foes, my only trust was Heaven!
His favour to obtain, my vigilance
And caution still with keen, observant eye,
Guarded against the taint of every vice,
I saw but one protector, but one way
To gain his favour. Every morning shone
On some new miracle. Some wond'rous scene
Of prompt deliverance.

Ach.
Let my sovereign lord
Not forfeit his dependance. On despair
Heaven frowns, and hates the soul that doubts his love.

David.
His love!—Too much I trusted in his love!
Abus'd his mercy and his power defy'd,
But now, alas, I dread the eye of man.
My heart is bare and bleeding—every glance
Sends a shaft thro' it—tho' but late it seem'd
Enclos'd in steel. Say, is Uriah come?
And is there hope to veil the glaring shame
From every eye, but Heaven's—for man to man
Is an inhuman judge, and I have foes
That soon would dog my name, and hunt it down
Thro' every maze of endless infamy!

Ach.
Uriah is return'd.

David.
And wherefore yet
Has he not claim'd an audience? Tho' I dread
To see him, yet his absence wounds me more.
I know not what to wish, or to enquire
Has he vouchsaf'd a visit yet at home?—
Or has allegiance vanquish'd love, and sent
The gallant, injur'd warrior, first to pay
His duty to his king?

Ach.
At your command
His motions all are spy'd.

David.
And what result?
Torture me not with doubt; nor, on your life
Dare to conceal the worst!

Ach.
Compell'd, adjur'd,
My loyalty commands, what love would hide.
Ere those you sent had met him on the way,
Who meant, beneath some seeming fair pretext
To tend his footsteps till they lodg'd him safe
Lest any foul report, or dark surmise
Should taint his eyes, or ears—he was observ'd
In close and serious conference with Shimei.—

David.
Then all is public—that curst Benjamite
(Sworn foe to me and mine) has told the tale
Whate'er he knew, and what he knew not, feign'd
Disloyal, tardy slaves! whose task it was
To meet him first, and keep his mind serene
From each contagious rumour! all is lost!
Has he yet reach'd his home, or have you learn'd
Of his reception there?

Ach.
I had not means.—

David.
How seem'd he on his coming to the palace?
I know his open nature, far above
Dissembling, or the usual craft of courts
Whate'er he feels, his feelings he proclaims,
Each look and gesture shows his inmost soul—
Oh! could I read his looks!—but mine would show
What most I want to hide!

Ach.
He will not brook
(Proud, and a soldier as he is) to tell
Whate'er he knows to all, if aught he knows—

David.
If aught he knows!—where'er the serpents sang
Was fixt, the poison rankles in the wound—
And Shimei's love to me I long have known!—
That Benjamite by every art has try'd
To taint my purest actions with the stain
Of some malignant view, and put the mask
Of malice, even on innocence—oh then
What horrid vizors for deformity?—
It needs none, for the slightest hint of truth
Is foul enough!

Ach.
Yet Shimei scarce would dare
To give his venom breath—for, well I know
The coward tongue would falter in his fears
He is not one whom noble Natures soon
Would condescend to trust!—there is between
His nature, and Uriah's such repulse
Such fierce antipathy as ne'er would blend
Their jarring natures in one common view
Or common trust.—

David.
Go find him, and explore
His spirit, while I study to receive him.

[Ex. severally.
End of the First Act.