University of Virginia Library

Act. I.

Scæn. I.

Enter old Clarimont in Prison, in his Night-gown, his Servant following him.
Condemn'd unheard! Just heavens, it cannot be:
Why, Tyranny it self could do no more;
The pale ghosts of Tiberius and Nero
Would blush to see an act so foul and horrid,
So full of black ingratitude as this.
'Twas I that set the Crown upon his head,
And bid him live King of his Enemies,
When he durst hardly hope it:
And does he thus requite me! Now I see,
Who by the Compass of his Merit sails,
May guide his Fraught of Hopes in seasons fair
And calm; but when storms come,
All his good deeds, with his good days, must perish:
Oh my unhappy Stars!—

[Beats his breast.]
Ser.
My Lord, let not a fruitless passion
Make you to die less Man then you have lived.

Clar.
Who art thou?

Ser.
I was lately one, my Lord,
Of the vast Crowd that waited on your fortunes,
But am now become the whole Train,
The rest have left you.

Clar.
Prethee do thou leave me too.
[Servant exit.]
The clap o'th' Vulgar, and loud popular applause,
Are not the Eccho of our Acts, but Fortunes.
Great men but Dials are, which when the Sun
Is gone, or hides his face, are hardly lookt upon.
But yesterday I was Times Minister;
On me the whole Court gaz'd, as at
Some Comet set in Cassopeia's chair:
Who but old Clarimont could with Nodds create,
And with a speaking Eye, command bare heads and knees?
But now—
[Beats his breast again.]
Greatness is but the shadow of the beams
Of Princes favors, nourisht in extreams;
First taught to creep, and feed on hopes, to live
Upon the glance, and humbly to observe
Each Under-Minion, till its own desire
Work it self neer enough to set it self on fire.
[Studies a little.]
Fain would I make my Audit up with Heaven,
For 'tis a large one; but the small vain hopes
Which yet I have of life and of revenge,
Smother these thoughts within me
Faster then they are born.
Enter Fidelio disguised like a Friar.
—A Ghostly Father!
My minutes are but few, I see by this.
Sir, you are welcom:
I was but now considering how to die,
And, trust me, I do find it something hard,
I shall extreamly need some such good help
As yours, to do it well.

Fid.
Faith, my Lord, Divines do hold,
The way to die well, is to live well first.

[Discovers himself.]
Clar.
Fidelio!

Fid.
Not too loud, there's danger in't:
The King has promised life, but none as yet
Must know't; the Enemies are too potent,
And must be softned by degrees.

Clar.
Why then I see, he hath not quite forgot
Past services.

Fid.
—Not too much of that:
This is not gratitude; or if it be, it does
As thankfulness in great ones use to do,
It looks asquint and seems to turn to favors,
But regards new ends.

Clar.
Prethee unriddle.

Fid.
Why to be short, it is your daughters beauty,
Not your merit.

Clar.
My fears prompt me too quick;
She's not turn'd whore, is she?

Fid.
No, but her honesty is so strait beset,
That if she be not victualled well within
And have some sudden succors,
She will I fear ere long surrender.

Clar.
O Fidelio, when Kings do tempt,
Th'had need be Angels that endure the shock,
Not women—

Fid.
'Tis true, my Lord,
Yet let not uncertain fears create new griefs:
Doubt is of all the sharpest passion,
And often turns distempers to diseases:
Collect your self, and be assur'd my zeal
Shall watch abroad; and when I may reveal
My self your servant, I'll not do't in breath,
But with the adventure of my life or death.

Clar.
Oh you are noble, Sir, I know't,
And mean to hope the best, Farewell.

Exeunt.
Enter Lorenzo and his Father with servants, whispering together and frowning, pass over the Stage, Exeunt.
Enter Lorenzo solus, as going to Prison.
Arm'd with the love of soveraignty and revenge,
Ile ravish Fortune and all Engines trie
That heaven or hell have yet discovered,
But I will scale my end, and plant desire
As high as any thought durst ere aspire:
The dotage of the King shall not secure thee, poor old man;
Clarimont, I come; this night our quarrel ends,
Nothing but death could ever make us friends.
[Knocks at the Prison-door.]
Enter the Keeper.
Where's old Clarimont?

Keep.
In's bed, my Lord.

Lor.
In's grave, thou wouldst have said.

Keep.
Must he then die to night?

Lor.
The King will have it so,
He fears the people love him, and to save
His life may prove tumultuous.

Keep.
Poor Gentleman! how quick is Fate come on him!
—How sudden is all woe!
Bad days have wings, the good on crutches go.
My Lord, wilt please you walk into that private chamber?
The Executioner shall strait be here.

[Lorenzo goes forth, murders him within, enters again.]
Lor.
You must be sure to keep it secret now:
Perchance the King, to try your honesty,
And blind his daughters eyes, will send to ask
Of's welfare.

Keep.
Oh my Lord!

Lor.
Nay I know you understand, Farewell.
[Turns back again.]
One thing I had forgot: If any ask
What groan that was, say 'tis an usual thing
Against great mens death to hear a noise
At midnight—
So, now Royal Letcher set you safe,
'Tis your death must secure my life:
I'le on, Danger is but a bug-word,
My Barque shall through,
Did mountains of black horrors me surround,
—When Fortunes hang in doubt,
Bravely to dare, is bravely to get out.