University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Lists at Greenwich, prepared for a Tournament. Flourish. Enter King Henry, Queen Anne, Lords, Ladies, Attendants, Men-at-arms, etc. The King and Queen seat themselves under the cloth of state. Then enter the lists Viscount Rochford and other Knights, as Challengers, with Heralds, Squires, Pages, etc. Trumpets sound a challenge. To them enter Sir Henry Norris and other knights, as Defenders, with Attendants, etc. Flourish. Rochford, Norris, and their respective Knights, engage. Norris and his party are driven back.
Queen Anne.
I pray your highness, let them breathe a while;
Their sport grows earnest. Ill may come of this:
Rochford is dangerous when his blood is up.

King Henry.
Poh! poh! mere bruises. Would you rather see
Rochford or Norris wounded?

Queen A.
Neither, neither!—
Good sir, 't is frightful.

King H.
Ha! so kind to both?
Then love admits not of relationship.

Queen A.
Sound, herald, sound!

(Trumpets sound a retreat, and the combat ceases.)
King H.
Now, by the holy rood!
[Starts up.]
If we were speechless, Heaven had been most kind
In sending one to exercise our function.

Queen A.
I feared, my liege—

King H.
O, this is nothing new:
You have governed England, me amongst the rest,
Since God knows when!—You thing of painted cloth,
When next you blow without your king's command,
Look to your tabard.—Is our queen our tongue?
[Queen Anne, in her terror, drops her handkerchief. Norris picks it up, kisses, land returns it.]
Monstrous, by Jove! What, in our very presence!—
Shameless adulteress! Let the tilt be stopped!
We are as patient as most ill-used men,
But this we cannot bear. Set on, before!
Was ever king thus openly defied?

[Exit with Courtiers]
Queen A.
O! horror, horror!

[She faints, and is borne off.]
Rochford.
Norris, did I hear?
Or am I singled from among you all,
To bear the terrors of this fantasy?

Norris.
Alas! your senses serve too faithfully:
Would I could doubt you sane!

(Enter Thomas Wyatt, hastily.)
Wyatt.
Fly, Rochford, fly!
And you, Sir Henry Norris, if you 'd live.

Nor.
I fly! and wherefore?

Wyatt.
Ask not, but away—
Away to Scotland; nor till every inch
Of English ground has vanished from your sight,
Draw rein or spare the spur!

Roch.
O! I am stunned
With mere intensity of present grief;
No after blow, that cuts my torpid soul
Loose from its clay, can bear a pang for me!
I will not fly to live. I have beheld
A sight to force me into league with death—
The most unkingly, meanest, foulest deed
That brother's eyes e'er saw.

Wyatt.
Now 't is too late.

(Enter an Officer and Guard.)
Officer.
Lord Rochford and Sir Henry Norris, yield;
I do arrest you for high treason, sirs.
Give up your arms, and follow to the Tower.

Roch.
Yes, yes. Come, Norris; for I make no doubt
What was our virtue has become our guilt:
Love to the queen is treason to the king.
When the great fall the little must be crushed.

Nor.
Wyatt, what means this? I accused of treason!

Wyatt.
Ay, 't is a royal charge!

Nor.
Ha! say you so?
Had you this order from his majesty,
Or from the Council?

[To the Officer.]
Offi.
From the king direct.
Come, gentlemen; my office stands in peril
By my indulgence to you.

Roch.
Farewell, Wyatt!

Nor.
My lord, be not down-hearted. This affair
Will soon blow over.

Roch.
Yes, to other men;
But I much fear that on my latest day
It will have reached its climax.

Offi.
Come, sirs, come!

Wyatt.
Heaven send your innocence a quick release!

Roch.
With death to bear the warrant.

[Exeunt Rochford, Norris, Officer, and Guard.]
Wyatt.
So I fear,
Doomed victims of a ruthless tyranny.
O, coming shape of English liberty,
Have my desires played wanton to mine ears;
Or do I hear the faint prophetic sound
Of thy approaching footsteps echoing through
The mists of coming time? Ye noble souls,
Grim heroes of the field of Runnymede,
Showing more glorious in your iron arms,
On peaceful deeds, than in successful wars—
Inspire the souls of your too slothful race!
Must all the liberty your courage won
Slip from the hands to which you rendered it;
Till the supineness of our base neglect
Sink us to slaves? Is there no man alive—
No heaven-marked hero, from the people sprung—
To lead the roaring multitudes of earth
Along the fated pathway they must tread,—
Ay, though they cross the throne, and trample out
The sacred name and dignity of king?
Has man no rights but what a tyrant doles?—
No fate above his will? no claim on justice?
Then doth God wrong His own dread sovereignty,
And free us from allegiance. And she has fallen,
Sole star amid this night of tyranny!
How low I know not; but what eye e'er saw
The falling star remount and shine again?
I feel my weakness to support her cause,
Against this pampered monster of a king—
This frightful idol of the people's will,
Throned on the superstitious reverence
Of the poor fools that glut his savage maw.
O, what a curse to have an honest heart,
Hemmed in and cramped by the fixed frame of things,
That, were it free, might move the stubborn world,
And hang its glories on the brow of time!

[Exit.]