University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The English Camp, before Harfleur;
A Chair of State.
Enter, Exeter, York, Cambridge, Scroop, Grey.
EXETER.
Now, France, stand firm—See! where Great Henry's Hand,
With thundring Summons, shakes the Gate of Harfleur,
And rising War dawns horrible upon Thee!

Cam.
Dreadfully footed on thy boastfull Shore,
We feel thy trembling Genius bend beneath Us.

Scroop.
Now, All the Youth of England are on Fire,
And silken Dalliance sleeps in dusty Wardrobes;
Now, thrive the Armourers; and Honour's Flame
Burns in the beating Breast of each rous'd Soldier.

Gray.
Even the slow Rustick, fir'd by fierce Example,
To buy the Horse, now sells the slighted Pasture.

York.
O! noble Friends! now! now! our England shines!
Her shouting Cities pour their People forth,
To aid their matchless King, with wing'd Desire:
High in the Air sits wakefull Expectation,
And covers a drawn Sword with Crowns, and Coronets,
Promis'd to Henry, and his glorious Followers.

Scroop.
The French, alarm'd at our so swift Invasion,
Shake, in their Fears; and, with pale Policy,
Seek to divert our threatning Purposes!
Encourag'd, too, perhaps, by past Success,
They hope to find some hollow Breast among Us:
O England! Model to thy inward Greatness!
Thou little Body with a mighty Heart!
What might'st thou not attain, that Honour wishes,
Were all thy Children kind, and natural!
Were all thy Subjects worthy their great King!

Gray.
The Courses of our glorious Master's Youth
Promis'd not This—

Cam.
The Joy that's least expected blesses double.

Exe.
The Breath no sooner left his Father's Body,
But Wildness, mortify'd in Him, dy'd too;
Sudden, and bright, in that one dazling Moment,
Consideration, like an Angel, came,
And stript th'offending Darkness from his Soul;
Never was such a sudden Scholar made;
Never came Reformation, in a Flood,
With such an heady Current, as in Him!

York.
Hear him but reason in Divinity,
And, All admiring, with a ravish'd Zeal,
The pious Audience wish their King a Prelate!
If he unravel the thick Web of Policy,
The wond'ring Statesman speaks his Praise in Blushes:
If He but talk of War, the List'ners hear
A Battle's Terror, in the Charms of Musick;
Soon as He speaks, the hurried Air grows calm,
And dumb Amazement dwells on Every Ear!

Exe.
How wond'rous was the Progress of these Virtues!

Scroop.
So grows the Strawberry beneath the Nettle,
And wholsome Berries thrive, and ripen best,
Neighbour'd by Fruit of baser Quality:
Thus our wise King, obscuring Contemplation
Under the borrow'd Veil of youthful Wildness,
Grew, like the Summer-Grass, fastest by Night.

Cam.
What Answer, think ye, will the King return
To this French Embassy? the proffer'd Princess
Wou'd hardly fail to stem the Tide of War,
Wou'd They, with Her, give up some Provinces;
But that vain Cavil of their Salic Law,
He frown'd on, as 'twas urg'd!

Exe.
He hears all gravely,
And, now, retir'd, as is his constant Custom,
In private, weighs their Words, and suits his Answer:
See, where He comes, and smiles with awfull Goodness!

Omnes.
Health to Your Majesty.

Enter King Henry, and sits.
K. Hen.
Uncle of Exeter! and faithful York!
And You, Lord Scroop! Cambridge, and Gray! try'd Friends!
In whom a King may safely lodge Dependance!
Concerning this new Plea, so warmly urg'd
By these Embassadors? we pray You, tell Us,
Why that fond Salic Law, they have in France,
Or shou'd, or shou'd not, barr our Right of Claim?
Be careful how You wrest, or bend, the Truth;
Speak cautiously, and give us well-weigh'd Counsell.

Exe.
Clear is Your Title, as the Sun, dread Sovereign!
There is no seeming Spot to dim your Claim;
For while they vainly plead this Salic Law,
To bar your Race from urging female Right,
Unmindfull, that their own three Royal Races,
All, from the Female, drew th'imperial Sway,
They hide them in a Net, to wrong Your Title.

K. Hen.
What says th'experienc'd Duke of York to This?

York.
A Truth so known can leave no Room for Doubt;
Fold not your bloody Ensigns, mighty Leader!
Look back on your most fam'd of famous Ancestors,
Who firm'd this envy'd Claim, You now persue;
And here, in France, o'erthrew all France's Power!
Whilst his pleas'd Father, on a neighb'ring Hill,
Hem'd with unbusied Squadrons, looking on,
Stood smiling, conscious of the Worth, He gave.

K. Hen.
Call in the French Embassador; for, now
We stand confirm'd yet more,—and, by Heaven's Help,
And Yours, the noble Sinews of our Power,
France being ours, we'll bend it to our Awe,
Or break it into Pieces;
Enter the Duke of Bourbon, attended by French Officers.
Not to answer
The weak Objections, you have urg'd to-day,
We wou'd be glad to hear that other Message,
From our good Cousin Dauphin—He, w'are told,
Has sent us rugged Greeting; pray ye speak it.

Bour.
Please it Your Majesty to give me Leave,
Freely to render what He gave in Charge?
Or shall I, sparingly, show You, far off,
The Dauphin's Meaning, softned o'er with Shadings?

K. Hen.
We are no Tyrant, but a Christian King,
Our Passions are the Subjects of our Reason:
Therefore with an uncurb'd, and vigorous Plainness,
Speak out the Dauphin's Meaning.

Bourb.
Thus then in Brief;
Your Majesty, invading France, in Claim
Of certain Dukedoms, which you call your Right,
By your great Predecessor, the Third Edward;
In Answer to this Hope, our Prince, the Dauphin,
Says, that your Aim savours too much of Youth,
And bids you be advis'd:—There's Nought in France,
That with a nimble Galliard can be won;
You cannot revel into Dukedoms, here!
He therefore sends you, suited to your Spirit,
A Tun of Treasure, and in Lieu thereof,
He begs you let the Dukedomes, that you claim,
Hear no more of you—This the Dauphin speaks.

K. Hen.
What Treasure, Unkle?

Exe.
Tennis-Balls, my Liege!

K. Hen.
We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us,
And that he feels his Country's Woe so lightly:
We'll furnish fitter Balls e're long, than these,
And, if he stands his Challenge, play a Sett,
Shall strike his Father's Crown into the Hazard:
He with mistaken Insult wrongs our Nature,
Who, by our wild Days past, wou'd judge the Present:
I have, 'tis true, in England, slept too long,
And, with a Spendthrift's Rashness, wasted Fame;
But tell the Dauphin, I will keep my State,
Look like a King, and spread my Sails of Greatness,
When I have rows'd me in my Throne of France.
[King rises.
Your pleasant Prince will mourn this vain Reproach,
When his proud Soul, charg'd with its rising Vengeance,
Shall answer to the Widows, and the Orphans,
Whose Husbands, and whose Fathers, falling Towers
Shall bury quick beneath their batter'd Ruins;
So get ye hence in Peace—Give 'em safe Conduct.
[Exit Duke of Bourbon.
Now, gallant Friends! the Soul of England smiles;
O! glorious York! Old as thou art, and drooping,
Thy sleepy Spirits, rous'd by our Countrey's Honour,
Start into Force, and snatch at future Action.

Enter an Officer from the Town attended by French Soldiers.
Offic.
The Citizens of Harfleur, much distress'd,
'Twixt Loyalty, and Danger, greet your Majesty.

K. Hen.
How yet resolve They? As I am a Soldier,
A Name, that, in my Thoughts, becomes me best,
If I am forc'd to finish but yon Battery,
I'll bury your rash City in her Ashes;
The Gates of Mercy shall be shut against Ye,
And the flesh'd Soldier, rough, and hard of Heart,
In Liberty of bloody Hand, shall range,
With Conscience, wide as Hell:—What is't to Me,
If then blind War, when you yourselves are Cause,
Match his foul Actions to his smear'd Complexion?
If your lov'd Infants shall be mow'd, like Grass,
And your pure Virgins meet hot Violation?
What Rein can hold licentious Wickedness,
When, down the Hill he drives his fierce Career?
Therefore, while yet the cool, and temperate Breeze
Of Conduct overblows these Clouds of Rapine,
Take Pity of your Town, and spare your People.

Offic.
Their Expectation has this Day an End,
The Dauphin, whom for Succour they entreated,
Returns 'em, that his Powers are not yet ready;
Therefore, Great King! they yield to your hop'd Mercy;
Enter their Gates, dispose of them and Theirs.

K. Hen.
Stay, Scroop, and hold our Forces fit for Motion,

[Exeunt (with the French and English Soldiers) King Henry, Exeter, York.
Scr.
My Lord of Cambridge, and Sir Thomas Gray!
It happens well, that we are thus together;
Our Hope grows rich! The Dauphin scruples nothing;
The Million of bright Gold, which we demanded,
Whate'er we wish, is Ours, so Henry dies.

Cambr.
My Letters speak the same.

Gray.
And mine; But tell me,
Think ye not This too much? This Death of Henry?
There, Treason seems to wear too deep a Grain!

Cambr.
I cou'd be better pleas'd, were That excus'd us.
Why shou'd it not suffice, that our Intelligence,
Securely blasting all His fear'd Designs,
Prevents the threatned Ill, and saves their Kingdom.

Scr.
In Faith, my Friends! these Doubts disgrace our Purpose.
The Man, who pauses in the Paths of Treason,
Halts on a Quicksand, the first Stop engulphs Him!
Why must I urge so oft your Wrongs by Henry?
Have you not Both been Sufferers?—You, Lord Cambridge?
Is not your Blood wrong'd? York's great House dethron'd?
And your just Claim robb'd of a Crown, your Due?
What is a Cause, if this can fail to move you?
Sir Thomas Gray!—Why must I still remind you,
What vile Indignities this Henry's Hate
Has heap'd upon your Person!—He's my Friend!
My Bosom-Partner!—Yet, like Roman Brutus,
I sacrifice his Love to Peace, and Liberty.
Why look You pale then? and grow sick with Horror?
He, who betrays a Prince, He fears to kill,
Like some rash Madman, holds a Lyon's Tail,
While the check'd Beast turns back in Rage, and tears Him.

Cambr.
More than the Thoughts of Death I hate This Henry,
I hate his Name, his Race, his Interest, Person;
To you, Lord Scroop, I lend a daring Will,
Point out the Means, and lead me at your Pleasure.

Gray.
I cannot love a Man, who loves not me;
Thrice have I miss'd a Suit, I stoop'd to kneel for,
And thrice seen Low-born Peasant Clowns supplant me;
Drudges in War! the brawny Works of Nature!
Sturdy-limb'd Ruffians, fam'd for Fist, and Football;
Broad-shoulder'd Rogues, strong-built to carry Armour,
The humane Sumpter-Mules of haughty Harry!
Fellows, whose Souls seem'd seated in their Stomachs!
The Curse of Poverty involve my Fortune
If I forget the Scorn, till I've reveng'd it.

Scr.
To Night, assembled in my Tent, we'll weigh
The fairest Means to reach the Point in View;
Meanwhile—a Secret This!—You Both remember
The lovely Harriet, my dead Brother's Daughter?

Grey.
Alas! poor Harriet! she, too, owes much to Henry!
The lawless Rover, e're his Father dy'd,
While the griev'd Nation rung with his Debauches,
Sullied your hapless Neice's Virgin Innocence.

Scr.
But, tir'd, like some mean Prostitute, He left Her;
On poor Pretence, that, by his Father's Death,
The Kingdom's Cares, reclining on his Breast,
Must banish Softness thence.—So turn'd Her off
Disgraceful, with the cold Consideration
Of a vile Pension, which had she accepted,
Had doubly punish'd Her in base Reward;
A sharp Memento, to remind her daily,
That even her Pride was owing to her Shame!

Cambr.
Something, like This, Report brought scatter'd to Me;
I grieve to find it True—and hop'd it Slander;
Th'unhappy Lady, doubtless, feels much Woe.

Scr.
No Woe, my Lord! the Blood of Scroop disdains it;
Her Soul, too strong for Grief, boasts nobler Passions;
Stung with the pointed Sense of Shame, and Scorn,
She labours with Revenge, and aids my Plottings;
Shading her Charms beneath a Boy's Appearance,
She baffles the keen Eye of watchful Policy,
And works out Wonders for the Cause, we strive in:
Six Days are past, since I dispatch'd her hence
To the French Camp, whence I expect Her hourly,
With Notices of more than vulgar Import:
My Lord, she comes—Perhaps 'twou'd be too sudden
At once to greet Her with confess'd Detection;
Please you a Moment to retire, and leave me,
By gradual Preparation, to instruct Her,
How safely she may trust you with her Story.

Cambr.
The Caution is well weigh'd:

Gray.
Pursue your Purpose.

[Exeunt Cambridge, and Gray:
Enter Harriet.
Scr.
Welcome Thou guardian Genius of thy Country!
Born to revenge thy own, and All our Wrongs!
Welcome, as Peace to Scroop, or War to Henry.

Har.
O, Uncle! must this Man for ever flourish?
Harfleur, as I now pass'd, receiv'd him Conqueror:
How long will he escape the Woes, he gives!
When will he fall, and the wrong'd World have Justice?
But down, big Heart—to-morrow, from the Dauphin
Your Hopes, I think, will all find happy End.

Scr.
Saw you this peerless Pride of France, this Catharine?
Our Camp is fill'd with Rumours of her Beauty.

Har.
Beauty?—by Heaven, there's Meaning in that Question,
And not in vain these French Embassadors
Have urg'd the Match with Catharine—O! no sooner
They spread the Net, than caught the willing Prey!
This Traitor King, This Ruiner of Woman,
Fir'd with her Praise, grows mad to have Her His;
More to undo me, He wou'd blast Himself;
To heap more Shame, more Misery on my Head,
Wou'd meanly wed his Country's Enemy,
And lull a Wife to Sleep with my curst Story:

Scr.
Quiet the jealous Fiend, that starts within Thee,
And quell these furious Sallies of thy Soul:
There is some Reason in thy Fears, but none
In thy wild Transports.

Har.
Reason?—I detest it—
'Tis that, which gives an Edge to all my Sufferings!
Am I not lost, disgrac'd, forsaken, scorn'd?
And owe I not this Ruin to my Love?
Has not the Man, I doted on, destroy'd me?
He, for whose sake I had no Ear for Honour!
Has he not left me, like a common Creature,
And paid me, like a Prostitute?—Death find Him!
Has he not offer'd me a sawcy Pension,
Told out the Hire of Infamy? and judg'd
Wealth an Equivalent for my Undoing?
Has he not dar'd all This?—and does He now,
While my Disgrace is new, freshblown, and flagrant,
Now, does he think to live, and wed another!
Calm? No—Let Cottage Fools, with helpless Sighs,
Bewail their ruin'd Innocence—My Soul,
Full charg'd with Hate, and Pride, breaks out in Passion,
Bold, as my Wrongs, and dreadfull, as my Purpose.

Scr.
At least be moderate, till—

Har.
Touch me not—
For there's a Flame, that blazes round my Heart,
Will catch, and burn You up, like Fire-touch'd Flax;
Wou'd You be heard with Patience, teach my Fury,
Instruct my Wishes; Let me learn a Way,
To leave my outstript Will behind my Vengeance;
Teach me to hunt him thro' the Night's still Dreams;
To pinch his Soul with Woe, his Heart with Pain,
To rack his restless Thoughts with Discontent,
To wear away his Life in endless Agony,
And feast upon the Joy of his Destruction:

Scr.
Retire, where, less observ'd, I may convince Thee,
That this new-offer'd Match is yet an Embrio;
Is yet rejected, and, perhaps, dislik'd!
For I but doubt from some dark Words of Henry's,
What You, with wild Excess of Fear, confirming,
With needless Rage perplex your hurried Soul,
And drive th'unwilling Torment thro' Your Bosom:

Har.
And was it only Doubt then?—Pardon me,
In generous Pity of my lost Condition!
Who that is wrong'd like me, can sit down tamely,
And, with dull Goodness, bless th'Undoer's Wishes?
You have forgiv'n me—but the barb'rous World
Meet me with speaking Eyes, and silent Scorn;
The balefull Brow of each proud Girl upbraids me;
Where-e'er I go, some new-born Anguish finds me;
And, when I strive to drown the hated Memory
Of my past Guilt, some keen Reproach, unmeant,
Strikes on the jarring String, untunes my Soul,
And rouzes the pale Image of my Shame:
Heaven! must the Traytor Man pursue our Sex,
With restless Artifice, and labour'd Vileness;
Hunt us thro' all the Wiles, and Turns of Caution,
'Till tir'd with vain Defence, his Snares surround us;
And shall he, then, when, pitying his feign'd Torments,
We give Him up our All—shall he then shun us?
With cold Disdain, or curst Indifference,
Repay the Fierceness of a Flame, he rais'd?
And shall we not revenge the Traitor's Falshood?
Religion never spoke it—Only Saints,
And cool-soul'd Hermits, mortify'd with Care,
And bent by Age, and Palsies, whine out Maxims,
Which their brisk Youth had blush'd at.

Scroop.
Gentle Harriet!
No more—the Means are ripe'ning for a Purpose,
Which, once successfull, will repay thy Sorrows
Back on his Head, who caus'd them;—Thou shalt have Means
To attend Exeter to the French Camp;
There, furthering our Intent, as I'll instruct Thee,
Crown wish'd Revenge, and disappoint this Marriage.

Har.