University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The Princess of Cleve, Irene in Mourning, Song, as the Princess kneels at the State.

CHORUS.

Princess C.
Dead thou dear Lord—Yet from thy Throne of Bliss,
If any thing on Earth be worth thy view,
Look down and hear me, hear my Sighs and Vows,
Till Death has made me cold, and Wax like thee:
Water shall be my Drink and Herbs my Food,
The Marble of my Chappel be my Bed;
The Altars Steps my Pillows, while all night
Stretch'd out, I groaning lye, upon the Floor,
Beat my swoll'n Breasts, and thy dear loss deplore.

Iren.
Ah! Madam, what a Life have you propos'd?

Princess C.
Too little all for an Offence like mine;
Yet Death will shortly purge my dross away,
For Oh! Irene, where's the Joy I find it here,
Yes, I shall dye without those violent means
That might have hazarded my Soul—O Heaven—
O thou that seest my Heart, and know'st my Terrors,
Wilt thou forgive those Crimes I cou'd not help,
And wou'd not hide?

Iren.
Doubt not but your Account
Shall stand as fair in his Eternal Book,
As any Saints above—

Princess C.
Take, take me then
From this bad World, quench these Rebellious thoughts;
For Oh! I have a pang, a longing wish
To see the Luckless Face of lov'd Nemours,
To gaze a while, and take one last Farewel,
Like one that is too loose a Limb—'Tis gone—
It was corrupt, a Gangreen to my Honour,
Yet I methinks wou'd view the bleeding part,
Shudder a little—Weep—and grudge at parting.
But by the Soul of my triumphant Saint,
I swear this longing is without a guilt,
Nor shall it ever be by my appointment.

Enter Nemours.
Iren.
But if he shou'd attempt this cruel visit,
How wou'd your Heart receive him?

Princess C.
With such Temper,
So clear and calm in height of my Misfortune,
As thou thy self perhaps wou'dst wonder at.

Iren.
Ha! but he's here—

Princess C.
Is't possible my Lord?
Has then my Uncle thus betray'd my Honour?

Nem.
Start not, nor wonder Madam, but forgive
The Vidam who has thus entrap'd your Virtue,
To end a ling'ring Wretch—That dies for Love—

Princess C.
For Love, my Lord, is this a time for Love,
In Tears and Blacks, the Livery of Death?
But what's your hope, if I shou'd stay to hear you?
Ah! What can you expect from rigorous Vertue,
From Chastity as cold as Cleve himself?
You that are made, my Lord, for other Pleasures—

Nem.
Is this then the reward of all my Passion?
As if there cou'd be any Happiness
For this disconsolate despairing Wretch,
But in your Love alone?

Princess C.
You're pleas'd my Lord
That I shou'd entertain you, and I will,
Before this dear Remembrancer of Cleve;
We'll talk of murder'd Love—And you shall hear
From this abandon'd part of him that was,
How much you have been lov'd.

Nem.
Ha! Madam—

Princess C.
Yes,
Sighing I speak it Sir, you have inspir'd me
With something which I never felt before,
That pleas'd and pain'd the quicknings of first Love;
Nor fear'd him then, when with his Infant Beams,
He dawn'd upon my chill and senseless Blood.
But Oh! when he had reach'd his fierce Meridian,
How different was his form! that Angel Face,
With his short Rayes, shot to a glaring God.
I grew inflam'd, burnt inward, and the Breath
Of the grown Tyrant, parch'd my Heart to Ashes.
Nor need I blush to make you this Confession,
Because, my Lord, 'tis done without a Crime.

Nem.
Because for this most blest discovery,
I am resolv'd to kneel an Age before you.

Princess C.
Rise, I conjure you, rise, I've told you nothing
But what you knew, my Lord, too well before:
Not but I always vow'd to keep those Rules
My Duty shou'd prescribe.

Nem.
Strike me not dead
With Duty's name, by Heav'n I Swear you're free
As Air, as Waters, Winds or open Wilds,
There is no Form of Obligation now;
Nay, let me say, for Duty: O forgive me,
'Tis utmost Duty now to keep that Love
You have confess'd for me.

Princess C.
'Tis Duty's Charge,
The voice of Honour and the cry of Love,
That I shou'd fly from Paris as a Pest,
That I shou'd wear these Rags of Life away
In Sunless Caves, in Dungeons of Despair,
Where I shou'd never think of Man agen.
But more particularly that of you,
For Reasons yet unknown.

Nem.
Unknown they are,
And wou'd to Heav'n they might be ever so,
Since 'tis impossible they shou'd be just;
Nay, Madam, let me say the Ghost of Cleve—

Princess C.
Ah! Sir, how dare you mention that dear name,
That drains my Eyes, and cries to Heav'n for Blood.
Name it no more without the Consequence,
For 'tis but too too true, you were the Cause
Of Cleve's untimely Death, I Swear I think
No less than if you had stabb'd him through the Heart.

Nem.
O! Cruel Princess, but why shou'd I answer,
When thus you raise the shadow of a reason
To ruin me for ever? Is it a fault
To Love? Then blame not me; No, Madam, no,
But blame your self, who told it to your Husband;
But Oh! you wou'd not argue thus against me
If ever you had lov'd—
You have deceiv'd your self and flatter'd me;
Why am I thrown else from the Glorious Height,
Snatch'd in a moment from my blissful State,
And hurl'd like Lightning by the hand of Fate?

Princess C.
Be satisfi'd, my Lord, you are not flatter'd,
I have such Love for you, that Duties bar,
Wou'd prove too weak to hinder our Engagement.
But there is more.

Nem.
More Fancy, more Chimera!
But let it come, I'll stand the stalking Nothing,
And when the bladder'd Air wou'd turn the Ballance,
I'll cast in Love substantial, pondrous Love,
Eternal Love, and hurl him to the Beam.
But speak, and if a Hell of Separation
Must part my Soul and Body, do not Rack me,
But let the Poyson steal into my Veins,
And Damn me mildly, Madam, as you can.

Princess C.
Hear then, my bosom thought—'Tis the last time
I e'er shall see you, and 'tis a poor reward
For such a Love, yet, Sir, 'tis all I have,
And you must ask no more.

Nem.
Be Witness, Heav'n,
Of my Obedience, I will ask her nothing.

Princess C.
Know then, my Lord, you're free, and I am so
Free for the eternal Bond of Marriage—
My Heart too is inclin'd by Love like yours,
Nor can I fear the censuring World shou'd blame us.
But now, my Lord, What Power on Earth can give
Security that Bond shall prove Eternal?

Nem.
Ha! Madam.

Princess C.
Silence, silence I command you;
No, no, Nemours. I know the World too well,
You have a Sense too nice for long Enjoyment,
Cleve was the Man that only cou'd love long:
Nor can I think his passion wou'd have lasted,
But that he found I cou'd have none for him.
'Tis Obstacle, Ascent, and Lets and Bars,
That whet the Appetite of Love and Glory;
These are the fuel for that fiery Passion,
But when the flashy stubble we remove,
The God goes out and there's an end of Love.

Nem.
Ah Madam! I'm not able to contain,
But must perforce break your commands to answer,
Once to be yours, is to be for ever yours,
Yours only, without thought of other Woman.

Princess C.
Why this sounds well and natural till you're cloid,
But Oh! when one satiety has pall'd you,
You sicken at each view, and ev'ry glance
Betrays your guilty Soul, and says you loath her.
I know it, Sir, you have the well-bred cast
Of Gallantry and Parts to gain success;
And do but think when various Forms have charm'd you,
How I shou'd bear the cross returns of Love?

Nem.
Ah Madam! now I find you're prejudic'd
To blast my hopes.

Princess C.
'Tis Reason, all calm Reason;
Nature affirms no violent thing can last,
I know't, I see't, ev'ry new Face that came
Wou'd charm you from me—Ha! and cou'd I Love
To see that Fatal day, and see you scorn me,
To hear the Ghost of Cleve each hour upbraid me;
No, 'tis impossible, with all my Passion,
Not to submit to these Almighty Reasons;
For this I brave your noblest Qualities,
I'll keep your Form at distance, curb my Soul,
Despair of Smiles and Tears, and Prayers and Oaths,
And all the Blandishments of Perjur'd Love:
I will, I must, I shall, nay, now I can,
Defie to Death the lovely Traytor Man.

Nem.
No. Madam, think not you shall carry't thus,
'Tis not allowable, 'tis past example,
'Tis most unnatural, unjust and monstrous;
And were the rest of Women thus resolv'd,
You wou'd destroy the purpose of Creation.
What, when I have the happiness to please,
When Heav'n and Earth combine to make us happy,
Will you defeat the aim of Destiny,
By most unparallel'd extreams of Vertue,
Which therefore take away its very Being?

Princess C.
Away, I must not answer, but conjure you
Never to seek occasion more to see me;
Farewel—'Tis past.

Nem.
I cannot let you go;
I'll follow on my Knees, and hold your Robe,
Till you have promis'd me that I shall see you,
To shew you how each day by slow degrees
I dye away: This you shall grant by Heav'n,
Or you shall see my Blood let out before you.

Princess C.
Alas! Nemours, O Heav'n! why must it be,
That I shou'd charge you with the death of Cleve?
Alass! why met we not e'er I engag'd
To my dead Lord? And why did Fate divide us?

Nem.
Fate does not, No—
'Tis you that cross both Fortune, Heav'n and Fate;
'Tis you obstruct my Bliss, 'tis you impose
Such Laws as neither Sense nor Vertue warrant.

Princess C.
'Tis true, my Lord, I offer much to duty,
Which but subsists in thought, therefore have patience,
Expect what time, with such a love as mine,
May work in your behalf; my Husband's death
So bleeding, fresh I see him in the Pangs;
Nay, look, methinks I see his Image rise.
And point an everlasting Separation;
Yet Oh! it shall not be without a Tear.

Nem.
O! stay.

Princess C.
Let go, believe no other Man
Cou'd thus have wrought me, but your self, to Love—

Nem.
Stay then.

Princess C.
I dare not—Think I love you still—

Nem.
I do—But stay and speak it o'er agen—

Princess C.
Believe that I shall love you to my death.

Nem.
I will. But live and love me.

Princess C.
Off, I charge you.
Believe this parting wounds me like the Fate
Of Cleve or worse: Believe, but Oh! farewel—

Nem.
Believe, but what? That last thought I implore.

Princess C.
Believe that you shall never see me more.

[Exit.
Enter the Vidam.
Vid.

Well, and how goes the Game? What, on the Knee, a gather'd
Brow, and a large dew upon it? Nay, than you are a looser.

Nem.
Didst thou see her pass?

Vid.
I did—she wrung me by the hand and sigh'd,
Then look'd back twice,
And totter'd on the threshold at the door.

Nem.

Believe that you shall never see me more—she Lyes, I'll Wager
my State, I Bed her eighteen months three weeks hence, at half an hour
past two in the Morning.

Vid.
Why Faith, and that's as exact as e'er an Astrologer of 'em all.

Nem.
Give me thy hand, Vidam, I know the Souls of
Women better than they know themselves;
I know the Ingredients just that make 'em up,
All to loose Grains, the subtlest volatile Atoms,
With the whole Mish-mash of their Composition.
Heark there without, the voice of Marguerite,
Now thou shalt see a Battle worth the gazing,
Mark but how easily my reason flings her,
And yet at last I'll swing into Friendship
Because I love her—

Enter Bellamore.
Bell.
The Princess—shall I stop her?

Nem.
No, let her come,
With flying Colours, and with beat of Drum—
Like the Fanatick, I'll but rub me down,
And then have at her, Vidam, stay you here—
By Heav'n I'm jealous of this changeable Stuff,
Therefore the hits will be the livelier o'both sides,
The Dauphin, but no more—she comes, she comes.

Enter Marguerite pushing Bellamore.
Marg.
Be gon, Villain, Devil, Fury, Monster of a Man.

Nem.
But hear me but six words in private.

Enter Poltrot, Celia.
Pol.

And I swear by this lascivious bit of Beauty, I will cleave to
my Celia for Better for Worse, in Searge, Grogrum or Crape, though a
Queen shou'd come in my way in Beaten Gold—

Nem.

What then, Gentlemen, I perceive there have been Wars at home—

Pol.

Not a Battle, my Lord, only a Charge, a Charge sounded or so.

Nem.

What was it a Trumpet, or through a Horn Sir?

Pol.

A Horn Sir, a Horn Sir, no Sir, 'twas not a Horn Sir—Only my
Celia was a little disdainful, but we are Friends agen Sir, and what then Sir?

Nem.

Come, come, all Friends, were Tournon here I wou'd forgive
her, a litte Scorn in a pretty Woman, so it be not too much affected, is a
Charm to new Friendship; therefore let each Man take his Fair one by
the hand, thus lay it to his Lips, and Swear a whole Life's Constancy—

St. A.

As I will to my Nelle, though I haule Cats at Sea, or cry Small-coal;
and for him that upbraids her, I'll have more Bobs, than Democritus
when he cry'd Poor-Jack. There's more Pride in Diogenes, or under
a Puritan's Cap, than in a King's Crown.

Nem.

For my part, the Death of the Prince of Cleve, upon second
thoughts, has so truly wrought a change in me, as nothing else but a Miracle
cou'd—For first I see, and loath my Debaucheries—Next, while I
am in Health, I am resolv'd to give satisfaction to all I have wrong'd;
and first to this Lady, whom I will make my Wife before all this Company
e'er we part—This, I hope, whenever I dye, will convince the
World of the Ingenuity of my Repentance, because I had the power to
go on.

He well Repents that will not Sin, yet can,
But Death-bed Sorrow rarely shews the Man.