University of Virginia Library

SCENA IX.

The Curtain is opened. The King appeares in a distracted posture, newly risen from his Bed, walking in his Dream with a dagger in his hand, and surrounded by the Ghosts of those whom he had formerly killed.
King.
Forrest! Rogue, Traitour! can thy Coward hands
Tremble, and faulter, when thy King commands?
They are not dead; they walk, they threaten me:
Dispatch; Kill them again, or I'le kill thee.
Varlet, make haste; Go poyson, strangle, drown
My Brother, Nephews, Wife, to save my Crown.
Small Victims may less Deities become;
To Soveraign Power belongs a Hecatome.
My Breath shall raise a Storm, my Hand a Flood,
And make this Isle float in a Sea of Blood.
Hah! Ghosts? there are no Ghosts, nor ever were,
But in the Tales of Priests, or Womens Fear.
If you be Ghosts, to your dark Mansions go:
If you be Ghosts, 'twas I that made you so.
I of your Substance these pale Nothings made;
How dare you then your Conquerour invade?
Go home, dark Vagabonds! must I not have
Rest in my Bed, nor you Rest in your Grave?
What Magick can Night-Vapours thus condense
To Forms, which cheat, and terrifie the Sense?
Saint Henry! get thee hence to thy cold Bed;
So tame, alive? so fierce, now thou art Dead?
A holy King did not the Throne become;
Thy Godliness prepar'd thee for a Tomb.
I did from Tewksbery dispatch thy Heir,
In the next World to be thy Harbinger:
Would you have staid behind, when he was gone?
A Father ought not to out-live his Son.
Hah! Brother? Wife? Stand off! No tyes of Blood
Are by aspiring Monarchs understood:
They to secure my Crown did Life resign;
She in a Cup, he in a Butt of Wine.
Peace, Conscience! I long since have conquer'd thee:
Yet still thou art dispos'd to Mutinie.
Oft have I par'd thy Branches; but thy Root
Does lye so deep, I cannot tear it out.
Of Soveraign Power it is the only Curse,
To be Successful, and then feel Remorse.

The Curtain falls.