University of Virginia Library

SCENA II.

Queen.
Can it be true, Sir, that your Fatal breath
Has cruelly pronounc'd my Daughters Death?
Can you so suddenly degenerate
From Love's soft Passion to a mortal Hate?

King.
Madam, more, then my Life, I still love Her;
But I the Kingdom's weal to both prefer.
Complain not of the Hardship you endure,
Since your own hands contain a present Cure.

Queen.
When Love his message to a Virgin brings,
Slow Patience lends him Feet, and clips his Wings.

King.
With Patience, like Love's Martyr, I have born
Not only her Denials, but her Scorn:
It is not Modesty, which makes her Cold;
Her Heart instead of Love does malice hold:
A guilty Passion she does clearly show
To him, who is her King's, and Country's Foe.

Queen.
If she stood so inclin'd, how can you doubt,
But that a Mother's Eye would find it out?

King.
Whether that ignorance, which now you show,
Be Real, or Affected, you best know:
To me her words, and Actions both declare
Which way her Inclinations byass'd are.
The Traytour Richmond holds so large a Part
Within her Bosom, as excludes my Heart:
But in few hours I will Possession get,
And drive him thence, or else destroy the Seat.

Queen.
O Sir! pass not a Judgment so severe,
Till the suggested Crime does more appear.
If she refuse the Courtship of a Crown,
She cannot stoop a meaner Flame to owne;
And quit the Glory of a Queen, to live
The obscure Wife of a poor Fugitive.

King.
But this starv'd Snake warm'd by her special Grace
Invades the Land, and rises in my Face.
Madam, your Daughter's Choice will quickly show,
Whether his Crimes belong to her, and you.
To morrow's Sun shall light her to my Throne,
Or on her Treason see due Justice done.

Queen.
Be not so hasty to pronounce her Fate;
Can her not loving be a Crime of State?

King.
Madam, we lose but time, whilst you apply
To the improper place your Remedy:
For the malignant part of this Disease
Lyes only in your Daughter's Stubborness:
Cure that, and she no longer will be seen
Her King's just Pris'ner, but the Nation's Queen.
[Exit King.

Queen.
Which shall I call the Cruel, or the Mild,
This bloody Tyrant, or my Stubborn Child?
Both are alike resolv'd, and act their Part
To break, and tear a tender Mothers Heart.
She no Concern for Life does seem to owne,
But Death accepts more gladly, then the Crown.
I find the Charm, which does this Spirit raise;
Richmond, as Sovereign in her Bosom sways.

[Enter Sir Will. Stanly.