Henry the Second, King of England With The Death of Rosamond. A Tragedy |
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 | 2. | ACT. II. |
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 | Henry the Second, King of England |  |
ACT. II.
SCENE I.
Enter Abbot and Fryers.Abbot.
Did you not mark with what a sprightly Joy
The Youth took fire when we saluted him?
The Blood flew up, and almost burst his Cheeks;
His Eyes did sparkle round unwonted Lustre;
His fault'ring Tongue could not express his Soul,
But with a pleas'd and eager stammering
Hinted the wond'rous Transport he was under;
Call'd us his Friends, and kiss'd our Lips with as
Much warmth as each had been a Mistress.
2 Fry.
Nay, though the Queen had sent to take her leave,
How slowly did he quit our Company!
The falling Showrs gush'd from his longing Eyes,
And spoke the wreck he felt i'th' Separation;
Then on his Knees with humble Adoration
Besought our guardian Pray'rs and Benizons.
Abbot.
It almost made me weep for Company,
But that the Fire which burns within this Bosom
Call'd back the Sap for a more Noble Use.
Now, should I speak my Thoughts,
I must declare this early pious, worshipping
Young Prince, deserves the Crown.
1 Fry.
What says my Lord?
Abbot.
Since his ill Father stands accurs'd for shedding
Most sacred Blood, and in a holy Place,
He is divested by his Holiness
Of Power and Royalty,
And only bears an empty Title now.
2 Fry.
But which of us dare to tell him so?
He has a damnable Spirit, and values
Hanging a Church-man no more than a mutinying Soldier.
Abbot.
Weak men! whose Senses are o'er-whelm'd with Ease;
Think you there goes no more to this great Work,
Than barely talking? I tell you, We must first
Joyn all the Pow'r and Int'rest we can make,
To undermine this vast Colossus.
'Tis of Consequence sufficient to engage
The whole Profession,
And call the scatter'd Levi of the World
To one entire and absolute Assembly.
Oh Becket! Oh thou Martyr for our sakes!
The only Patron of our humble Labours!
Have you forgot? Speak, has Remembrance left you?
Are all his Favours bury'd in Oblivion?
1 Fry.
No, 'tis to him and you we owe our being.
Abbo.
And shall We tamely let his Murderers sleep,
Sit down in silence to behold their Triumph?
Oh! never let Ingratitude so foul
Be lay'd at the Church door: Think of his goodness,
He took me when a Boy from my poor Parents,
Pleas'd with a forward Spirit which he saw;
And at his Charge, with Cost and Diligence,
I was instructed in Divinity;
Preferr'd me early into Holy Orders,
One of the Confessors to Majesty:
And tho' in different ways his Love did move,
You shar'd his Bounty, and to good advantage.
2 Fry.
'Tis true; and we no less than you Repine,
For want of means to shew how we'd Revenge.
Abbo.
Oh, wonderful stupidity! Is't possible!
What have we all this time been talking of?
Was it not of the Prince, the King that must be?
Does not Heav'n give the Power into our hands?
And by the Gift, plainly direct us how
To Right the Impious Murder of the Saint?
2 Fry.
I understand you now:
Abbo.
You are his Tutor, Becket gain'd you that.
2 Fry.
'Tis true.
Abbo.
Thou say'st he is ambitious; be it so:
Nourish the growing Plague, Temper the mischief;
Of Power and Sway the cunning Compound make;
On the prevailing fuel of his Pride
Set the Infection; his Spleen will feed the Fire,
Till wild Ambition blazes to Rebellion.
2 Fry.
The task is easie; for in his eager Soul
His Fathers Errors bear Pre-eminence,
With all his Mothers positive ill Nature.
Abbo.
Blessings upon thy Zeal! this plainly looks
Like Inspiration, and foretells success:
Few words, and I have done.
When thou shalt reach the Prince's Court,
Thou wilt be swarm'd to for News,
And principally from the Men in Orders;
None carry Ears more itching than
The Cloathing.
2 Fry.
Give me your full desire; tell me
Your heart, and if I fail my Trust,
Cunning forsake our Tribe.
Abbo.
Then plainly thus:
Lay all the Churches sufferings on the Rack,
Let every scratch appear a mortal Wound;
Breath to their fickle Souls desire of change,
And never quit the Subject: Extol the Prince
With all the Rhetorick Interest can invent;
Paint the vile King upon the stretch of Fancy,
Attempt the Root of his Prerogative,
And load with endless fears each branch of Power,
Till we have stripp'd him naked of all Trust.
Observe the Factious Chiefs, and there inlarge
Thy well wrought Sophistry.
Say thou Amen.
2 Fry.
My zealous Spirit glows to be at work.
Abbo.
When e're thou com'st among the Female Sex,
Bemoan the dreadful prospect of our Woes,
Work 'em to Tears, melt 'em with Apprehension;
For none ingender mischief like that Sex:
Enquire amongst their Sins, And those
Thou find'st still most accountable and fearful,
Work up with dreadful Industry and Terror;
Sigh out Damnation with prodigious Accent,
And tell 'em nought can stop such festring wounds,
But being mighty forward in this Cause:
Oh, thou shalt see 'em work their Husbands up,
And teach their lisping Babes to Curse the King:
They are the Train by which we Blow up Fools;
There's nothing worthy Note is done without 'em.
2 Fry.
Let me be gone; I'm eager to be at it.
Abbo.
Get all things ready; at Night meet
Me at home, i'th' Morning you set
Forward; away I must; to th'Queen.
1 & 2 Fry.
Success attend you.
[Ex. 1 & 2 Fry.
Abbo.
Now Becket, if thy Ghost
Will look so low as us that will revenge thee,
Dart from thy Saints bright Rays, a Providence
That may encircle and protect our Actions:
If Souls which from the Worlds rich Arms are forc'd,
Torn from their Right in Nature by Oppression,
And sent unjustly, unprepar'd, away,
To give an Answer at a moments warning
To a long Scrowl of all their ill-spent Lives,
Ben't a Barbarity abhorr'd by Christians,
Morality good night;
Conscience and Equity be ever Banish'd:
And Arbitrary Strength officiate Justice.
No, Becket, thou shalt have full revenge,
If Blood can give it measure.
I've trac'd his Lust,
Where he supinely does indulge himself;
Found out his Paramour, and the Queen shall
Know it.
Thus my Revenge I'll back with Jealousy;
A Rival is a plague that tortures Woman
Worse than her being cross'd in her Ambition.
And Oh, what a charming mischief must that prove,
That's Got by a Church Hate, and Nurs'd by Injur'd Love!
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Enter Sir Tho Vaughan, and Rosamonds Women.Sir Tho.
Was there ever so perverse a Baggage! Hast thou neither respect
to my Age nor my Person? Who am I? what am I? Tell me
quickly, or I shall grow very furious, I shall.
Wom.
Sir, I neither regard your Age nor your Person: And your
Anger would do better to be shewn among them that fear you, than
here, where you're so little welcome.
Sir Tho.
Why Huzzy? I'm a Gentleman.
Wom.
'Tis a very improper employment this, if you are so.
Sir Tho.
Look you, my Lady's Gentlewoman, I will not be popp'd off
with the flap of a Fox Tail, I come with a Message from the King, do
you mark? I must have an Answer from your betters e're I return.
Wom.
I think you have had Answers enough to have put any Man
out of Countenance that had a grain of Modesty in him.
Sir Tho.
Tell the Wind where it shall blow Child; I'm a thorow-pac'd
Courtier, us'd to denyals, but that never disheartens me; he
that sits down contented with a Lady's answering Nay, twice or thrice,
will be Curst by the Woman, and Laught at by the World. Importunity
and Impudence are the Supporters of our Coat of Arms; indeed
our Argent is somewhat scandalous; but our Rampant is very ancient;
It came in with Infidelity, and always had the upper hand of Honesty
in this World.
Wom.
I don't understand your Heraldry Sir.
Sir Tho.
I am an unlucky Dog, never eloquent but among the vulgar;
and there it's always thrown away: Come Rogue, I must needs
see your Lady.
Wom.
Her positive Orders were to see none; and I will not infringe
'em to merit your thanks and her displeasure.
Sir Tho.
To see none? If she means of the Common sort she's much
in the right on't, I commend her Judgment: But I come from the
King, Child.
Wom.
There's the more danger: But I tell you she makes no distinction.
Sir Tho.
Why, 'tis impossible; a Pox on thee, thou hast mistook her
Orders; if she is resolv'd to see no body, let her come and tell me so
her self: What, does she think she was made for no other use than our
Shrines are, to be shewn upon Holidays only?
Wom.
I am the Servant of her pleasure, Sir.
Sir Tho.
So am I of my Masters: prithee let them put their pleasures
together, and come to a right understanding. A young Woman,
a handsome Woman, a brisk Woman, of a yielding Complexion, a
sappy Constitution, a languishing Nature, turn Recluse? Why the
Devil would as soon turn Tayler, and be bound to Thread his Needle
years hence, when she's weary of the World, satiated with Flesh, and
sit for no other thing, but a Fryar to mumble his Mattins o're.
Wom.
What d'ye mean Sir?
Sir Tho.
Why Child, I know 'tis against the Grain of any Woman
in the World to be lock'd up, even in Spain it self, Love. But see,
Rogue, see what the King has sent thee, all Yellow, prevailing Yellow, undeniable
Yellow; this will dye Honour, or Conscience, Chastity, Friendship
of any Colour whatsoever; and make Adultery look as Beautiful
as the Snow-driven Sheets of a Virgin Sacrifice in Wedlock. Besides,
he has provided for thee a Husband, a huge feeding Fellow, and
as tuff as Whalebone.
Wom.
You have such pleasant humours—but I dare not take it—
my Lady is so—
Sir Tho.
If thy Lady's such a Fool to stand in her own light, must
the Maid follow the example? Be wiser Child; for let me tell thee, a
Stale Waiting-woman is a scurvy Commodity; refuse but the Market,
and 'twill hang on thy hands long enough.
Wom.
If I must take it: But I can do nothing for't.
Sir Tho.
Pshaw, pshaw, say what thou wilt; but do as thou think'st
fit.
Wom.
But she has sworn never to see the King.
Sir Tho.
What! not see the King! O Lord! O Lord! she's in the
state of Damnation; I'll get a Father presently; but now I think on't,
there's none can Absolve her better than himself he'l take pains to
Convert her.
Wom.
She comes.
Enter Rosamond.
Sir Tho. Vaugh.
Let me alone with her.—How does my sweet
Lady, Nature's Pride, Pleasure of all our Senses, the Day's Comfort, the
Night's Enlightner?
Rosa.
Away, thou venerable Bawd, thou shame
To Age and Sanctity.
Sir Tho.
A very hopeful beginning!
Rosa.
The Badge of Years, which should be Honourable,
In thee appears a Mark of Infamy.
Leave me! Be gone! Thy sight does strike a Horror,
Such as if Hell should yawn the Tempter up,
To second thy Delusion.
Sir Tho.
She'll make me believe I'm a Fury anon,
Enter King.
Oh! 'tis well your Majesty has relieved me;
I'm school'd to a fright, and give like a
Tomb-stone against rainy Weather, Dew all over; Come, Charge,
come; 'tis not for you and I to listen to State-affairs; he's a going to
swear her of his Cabinet-Council.
[Exeunt Sir Tho. & Wom.
Rosamond sees the King, and is going out.
King.
Why dost thou shun my Love, thou Charming Maid?
Why turn away thy Eyes, now they've undone me?
Thou shouldst have hid their killing Fires before:
Too well thy conscious Soul their Lustre knew,
Foresaw the Adoration they'd beget;
Thou shouldst have ever kept 'em from Mankind,
Or mingl'd Pity with their barb'rous Pow'r.
Rosam.
Why will you thus perplex your self and me?
How often have I begg'd you to desist!
Methinks the many times I have deny'd,
Might satisfie you your Attempts are vain.
King.
Judge rightly of the Patience of my Love,
With what a meek untir'd Zeal 't has waited,
Born all the cold Rebukes of rigid Virtue,
The harsh Denials of a vigorous Honour,
Still creeping up to what I knew would crush me:
Like the weak Reed against the blust'ring North,
That nods and crouches to each angry Blast,
Sinks down o'er-press'd by the insulting Storm;
Yet still it swells, and slowly strives to rise,
To be blown down again.
Rosam.
Oh! why do you pursue me?
King.
Because my Peace has took her flight that way,
And I must follow through this rugged Road
To find it out, though every step I tread
Brings my strict search but nearer to Destruction.
Rosam.
No, King, in vain you lay a Siege;
The Fort's impregnable.
King.
You think my Power's the less because I sue,
Begging that Blessing which I might command.
How easie might I seize the long'd-for Joy;
But Force dissolves the sweetness of the Charm.
Let then my Sufferings urge at last some Hope,
Let cruel Virtue yield but to a Parley,
Grant my Request, and make thy own Conditions.
Rosam.
What can you hope from such a wretched Conquest,
Where all the Spoil is Infamy and Shame?
Why would you soil the Glories of your Life,
In mingling with the Creature you have made?
King.
Nature may boast Thee as her Master-piece;
Thou'rt the result of vast and long Contrivance;
She practis'd hard e'er she could reach her mind.
The Copy struck her with amazing Pleasure,
And full Perfection recompenc'd the Toil.
Rosam.
Wou'd Id been born a Leper,
And all those Graces which have wrong'd my Virtue,
By breeding this Infection in your Heart,
Had been consum'd or blasted in their Bud.
King.
Oh fearful Blasphemy!
Rosam.
I have reason to curse all Charms that do attract
Your Eyes: But should I once encourage your
Attempts, you that are Wedded, out of all Pow'r
Of making recompence for what you must destroy;
How will the World censure my senseless weakness!
I must expect the Brand of Infamy,
All good Mens Curses, and be truly wretched.
King.
No, Rosamond, I'll place thee in a Sphere
Above the reach of foul-mouth'd Envy,
Or the blackest Malice; where, like a Deity,
Thou maist look down, and either pity
Or revenge thy Wrongs.
Rosam.
Yes, by committing greater.
Therefore upon my Knees let me intreat,
That you would cease this most ungrateful Suit,
Or kill me, that will be a deed of Mercy.
King.
Would'st thou command me to commit Self-murther?
My Life's in thine, and must partake its Fate.
Inexorable Fair! why wert thou made
So wondrous charming, yet in Love so cruel?
Rosam.
I must be gone; he gains upon my Heart,
My Resolution thaws before his Heat,
And the rich Treasure of my spotless Honour
Will moulder into Dross.
King.
No, 'twill be refin'd,
And, like the Ore torn from the fertile Womb
Of the rich Mine, suffer a noble Trial,
Gaining the Royal 'Say.
Rosam.
Impossible!
There's such antipathy 'twixt Vice and Virtue,
They will run counter, ne'er incorporate.
King.
You are become a glorious Disputant,
A harden'd Rebel 'gainst the Cause of Love.
Rosam.
I am no Enemy to Love, my Lord;
Far from the Title, I admire the Deity,
Cou'd pay him Homage: But you are so far,
So infinite above my humble State,
Ruine attends the minute I comply.
You, like the Sun, while in its mid-way Path
The Trees to bloom, the Earth to yield her Fruits:
But when you draw too near the lower Orb,
Heat shoots too fierce, and withers all around.
Let me go hence.
King.
Not till you see me dead,
My Heart-strings broke, and this half-dying Body
Become a Victim to your Cruelty.
Rosam.
Oh I am lost!
My thirsty Soul drinks up his Words,
And, pleas'd with the rich Philtre, craves for more.
King.
She's at a stand.
[Aside.
Must we then part for ever, Rosamond?
Rosam.
For ever.
King.
Oh hard sound! For ever, said you?
Rosam.
If you still love me, as you say you do,
Unloose my hand.
King.
Bid the poor dying Wretch quit his Reprieve,
Or tell the hunger-starv'd he must not eat,
Both will obey like me.
Rosam.
You have undone a miserable Maid.
King.
Ha! What do I hear! Is pity enter'd?
Am I call'd to Life?
Rosam.
No, I will not hear you, see you, mind you,
Know you; My heart beats false, and if my Eyes
Tell Tales, believe 'em not.
King.
You must not go.
Rosam.
I will, and follow if you dare; for I
Will never yield.
King.
Nay, I must follow.
Rosam.
Must you? then I'll stay.
King.
Do.
Rosam.
No.
King.
May I not follow?
Rosam.
I will not speak;
You grow too strong, Oh do not tempt the weak!
[Exit.
King.
Her Virtue gives apace.
Be bold my Love, pursue her while she's warm;
An easie Rape will now dissolve the Charm.
[Exit King.
| Henry the Second, King of England | |