University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

Enter King, D' Alva, Alcara, and Bruchero at a distance, the King is pensive.
D' Alva.
What fatal sadness, like a sullen Cloud,
Hangs on his Growing Brightness?

Alca.
That cursed sight of Lerma's daughter
Has sunk the hopes, and fortunes of all Spain
When must our dangers have an End,
When Lerma can beget 'em?

King.
My Lords, I wou'd be private.

D' Alva.
Wou'd your heavy thoughts, Sir,
Were as obedient as we are
And would at your command depart.

King.
I have not yet desir'd 'em to be gone.

D' Alva.
Have you the power, Sir, to force 'em:

King.
I have not power enough, it seems
To compell your obedience.

Alca.
We will be gone, to death, when you command;
Let us but leave you happy in your life.

Bru.
Oh Mighty Sir—

King.
No more, I did not doubt your Loves, or Loyalty.
I have some business in my thoughts
That does require weighing: stay without.
Exeunt.
Oh, what a Traytor is my Love
That thus unthrowns me! I am no longer King
Of any thing but sorrow; and my griefs
Have but a half obedience, they will stay;
But wou'd not go, shou'd I command 'em from me;
I see the errors that I would avoid,
And have my Reason still, but not the use on't;
It hangs about me like a wither'd Limb
Bound up and numm'd by some diseases Frost,
The Form, the same, but all the use is lost.
Enter Lerma with Maria.
She comes, and in her Mighty Beauty
Has drawn new forces up; so wondrous powerful
That Reason shrinks, to
Venture the dispute.

Ler.
Mighty Sir,
We come, like Pilgrims creeping to a shrine
Of some blest Saint, by whom kind Heaven
Dispenc'd its showre of Mercies on their
Crown'd Devotions.

King.
And I, like him that gave me power
Am pleas'd with Mercies when acknowledg'd,
But this pilgrim, you better might have call'd
Your Saint, or Mine, for her fair Mediation
Is your Blessing. Rise, Maria;
Your knees must bow to nothing but to Heaven.

Mar.
That they do now for you, Sir, though to you:
For while I bend my knees, before my King,
I beg that Heaven would preserve you so,
And give you power over your self and others.

King.
Ha!

Ler.
Death; she will spoil me yet.

King.
Wou'd Heaven wou'd grant her Prayers!

Ler.
Fond Girl, no more of these dull Orizons—
aside.
Mighty Sir, I leave this Blessing of my life,
To be a witness of my Loyalty; malice it self
Cannot I hope, shake you against this testimony.

Exit.
King.
Why do you look with fears, Maria?
As if a King were by his name alone
Made powerful in his passions, as his Throne.
Those that obey may fear a slavery,
You now may be the Tyrant, but not I.

Mar.
If this, Sir, from your power does you remove
Against your self; there's Treason in your Love.

King.
It is your power that makes me any thing.

Mar.
I wou'd preserve you Sir, to be my King.

King.
Enthrone me in your heart, and make me so.

Mar.
A Throne of passion, for a King's too low.

King.
Were I no King, but blest like other men
Wou'd you despise, or chide my passion then?

Mar.
Oh, why Sir; do you send out treacherous spies?
Should they bring back such weak discoveries,
'Twere useless, as to say, what kind of Love
Angels shou'd have to leave their Joys above.

King.
Their joys are sure, but ours are shook with care.

Mar.
Oh, raise my Father from his black despair
While we our selves to Heavens practice raise
Your Love in Mercy's show'd, and mine in praise.

King.
'Tis yours, that may encrease his power and name;

Mar.
And shou'd his Glories, Sir, spring from my shame?

King.
Suppose your Father does my joys design

Mar.
Wou'd he to purchase Honour, ruine mine?
Yet his Commands makes not my guilt the less,
For Heaven allows no pious wickedness.

King.
Thy Father shall both Life, and Honours owe
Unto thy vertues; fair Maria, know
A miracle is done, I more admire,
And inlarg'd Love grows from confin'd desire.

Enter the Duke of Medina gazing at them.
The King stands admiring.
Med.
What blasting sight is this? I must
Disturb him, with an unwelcome piece of Duty.
Sir,

King.
Ha!

Mar.
Oh my Uncle!

Med.
I was afraid, Sir, that you were not well.

King.
Not well?—wou'd you be a Physitian?

Med.
With all my heart sir, wou'd you let me practice,
And wou'd prescribe such wholsome Medicines to you
That should prevent this great distemper
Growing on you and all the Nation.

King.
The Nation.

Med.
Yes, the Nation Sir, that will of you
Demand their King, when you have lost him
In Lerma's Charms: Think of your Father, Sir,
Who did despise that any Favourite
Shou'd be a lawful Traytor by permission;
And Usurp all the power.

King.
What do you mean?

Med.
I mean Lerma, Sir, whose wicked hand
Grasps at your painted Scepter; that Lerma
That was to sink into the lowest banishment
Is creeping up into your Throne, and power.
That he had never twisted with my Sister,
And like a Snake begotten such a Viper,
Whose sliding to your bosome will but leave
A sting upon your Conscience, and disturb
The Ashes of her sleeping Mother.

King.
Though your bold Duty might receive a pardon
For any large discourse; know yet,
(That ignorantly you may not snatch your Fate)
All injuries to Maria's virtues,
Shall be forgiven as I wou'd a malice
Studied to blast my Honour.

Lerma whispers to the King.
Med.
My Life, Sir, is a thing you once believ'd;
I did despise to ballance with your service.
For her, Sir; Nature be my witness,
I wou'd preserve her full as vertuous
As I believe her wretched Mother was,
But then she must not Sir, be the foul means
To charm your Sacred breast, to breath out honours
On every thing that is but Lermas Creature,
Whose hungry Poverties must eat as deep
As Famine to the Nation. Honours, mighty Sir;
When they meet fortunes, are support's to Thrones
But joyn'd to Poverty are the shakers of it:
And wasting Crowns, sink with such deep Consumptions.

King.
I can give no greater Testimony
That all your former services to my Father
Are not forgotten, then to pardon you now.

Med.
If this, Sir, that I say, be an offence,
Tha I wou'd have none to be King but you,
Take your forgiveness back; for I must live
A Traitor by your Mercy.

King.
If you despise our Mercy.

Med.
Oh Sir, upon my knees I beg it rather
But 'tis for all your Kingdom, not for me:
Think, Sir, what 'tis to fit upon your Throne
Without your Thunder; only so much left
As a swel'd Favourite will please to lend you.
Enter Lerma, whispers to the King.
To hurl at honest Truths; so, he may speak,
And at this idle time sure you may hear.
(to Maria.
What, is your Father turn'd your careful Bawd?
For his ambitious ends he wou'd have been
So to thy Mother too, but that her vertue
Had an unshaken soundness; thou art rotten
As he that did beget thee; only Nature
Painted thee over with a fair resemblance
Of her blest Image, wou'd it were blotted out.

King.
Ha! she weeps, that insolent Man
That dares draw tears from fair Marias eyes
Shall drop his blood as fast: Without there, my Guards.

Mar.
Let mine, Sir, drop, before you shed my Uucles.
Think how the world would curse me, when they hear
Medina's love to vertue, lost his life.
He talkt to me of nothing but of goodness;
And when he spoke of that, (as he must needs)
He nam'd my Mother, and by chance I wept.

King.
Thy vertue is too excellent, let thy goodness
Punish him for the injuries he did thee,
Though I forgive him; and hence forward
I will send for you when I want your Council,
to Medina.
Till then, forbear my sight.

Ler.
Mighty Sir;
Perhaps his wilde and unbecoming passions
Had their beginnings from an ill-tim'd Duty.
(If boldness to a Sovereign may be call'd so)
Yet I dare swear, his Loyalty is perfect,
Though my fond Nature is a partial surety
For what I Love.

Med.
Oh, spare your partial kindness, good my Lord;
'Tis your old Craft to whet your sharpest weapon
Upon pretended friendship; and cut a Throat,
as smoothly, as if it were good manners.

King.
No more, left your rude breath raise an anger
More fatal then you snarling: from hence be
Duke of Lerma, and your next friend, what you
Will call him—Come Maria,
At thy fair sight my blushing anger shrinks
As if some Angel from above descended,
Whose powerful vision made all passions cease,
But only Love, still waited on by peace.

Exeunt.
Manet Medina.
Lerma looking back upon him
Med.
What a look was there
To out-stare honesty?
Sure he practices to set his eyes,
As some do Guns to make 'em carry right,
But he can take no Aim but at the fearful;
Those he may hit perhaps; his full-charg'd eyes
Will hardly carry level to brave minds.
I must do something I think it is no Treason
To snatch a King from falling down a precipice:
But in Marias eyes, lies Lerma's power
And I must find a way to put those Lights out,
Nor will I leave to help him one small spark
Then let him grope for power in the dark.
Enter D'Alva, Alcar. and Bruchero.
How now my Lords, do you seek any thing?

D' Alva.
The King, my Lord.

Med.
He's lost.

Alca.
Does not your Lordship know which way he went?

Med.
Wou'd you find the King?

D' Alva.
Yes.

Med.
Look in his Fathers Grave then; for his Ashes
Do yet retain more Majesty then he.
If you look after him that shou'd be King.
You may perhaps find him in Lerma's pocket.

Alca.
We are miserable.

Med.
It tamely adds to misery to talk on't,
Like hearts weaken'd with griefs, that spend
Faint sorrows on their dying friends
When they should strive
Rather to give them help; my worthy Lords
Were all your Courages, and Wisdoms ready
To snatch at any honest opportunity
That fortune offers: keep near the King,
And cross him not, till you hear more of me:
Something I'le do to merit from you all,
At least, deserve your pity, if I fall.

Exit.
D' Alva.
Heaven prosper and direct you;
This mans soul is greater then his Title.

Alca.
We have new Titles.

Bru.
And likely to have more, all the Spawn
Of that poor slave, Caldroon, must be
Call'd Something, as well as he is now
They say a Marquis.

D' Alva.
The Queen! her looks are full of sorrow,
All is not well.

Enter the Queen and Catilina with Ladys.
D' Alva.
Madam.

Alca.
Royal Lady.

Bru.
Is your Majesty not well?

Queen.
Ha! I was thinking of the King.

D' Alva.
What of him Madam?

Queen.
I know not what, but yet he lately seeks
Retirements from his friends, and from himself.
A fatal sadness grows upon his youth
And makes him haste (before it comes) to age.

D' Alva.
He has ill Council, Madam.

Alca.
From Lerma too.

Queen.
I thought e're now, he had been banisht.

Bru.
He'l banish us all, if his power holds.
He hangs in the Kings bosome like his Crucifix,
And with no less an Adoration.
He may be safe in power, that can beget
Those beauteous Charms that have subdu'd the King,
Power seems to grow, nay grow his own Inheritance.

Queen.
We must quickly try to prevent
This growing danger to us all, and Spain,
Where's Medina?

D' Alva.
Shall he be sent for?

Queen.
Ha!—I feel a coldness creeping in my veins
What haste it makes to my griev'd heart.—
Ah me!—

She faints.
Bru.
Carry her in, this news
Has troubled her.

The Queen is carried off.
D' Alva.
I cannot tell, I am suspicious of all Accidents.

Alca.
These fainting fits seem as if she were
With Child.

D' Alva.
With Death, I fear.

Enter Catalina.
Alca.
How now, how does the Queen?

Cata.
I fear there is as little hopes now left,
As signs of life; just as we laid her on the bed,
She fetcht a heavy groan mixt with a sigh,
I fear all the small stock of breath
That she had left.

D' Alva.
This is sudden.

Cata.
'Tis fit your Lordship know all my suspicion;
I doubt she's poyson'd, this fatal day:
There came a Fryer with a face unknown
To the Queens Anti-chambet;
To all, a stranger, and to the Queen her self;
By him, a Letter was deliver'd to her,
Which had no name, but in its matter fair:
When she had half read o're the fatal Paper
Her eyes seem'd to grow weary, and her pulse
Kept an uneven, and a heavy time, and then
Just as you saw her now, she fainted.

Alca.
What became of the Fryer?

Cata.
'Tis not yet known; for in this hurry
While every one was careful of the Queen
He vanisht.

Bru.
'Twas poyson on my life.

D' Alva.
'Tis evident, we must make further
Search into't.

Bru.
You must assist us Madam; and by your faith
Revenge the murder of your Mistriss.

Cata.
Doubt not my Faith or Secresie,
I must return I fear, to a dead woman.

Exit.
Alca.
Here's a strange Relation:

Bru.
It must be kept with secresie:
We are Hunted, and the toyls pitcht about us.

Enter to them, Caldroon, the Arch-Bishop of Toledo.
Alca.
See the new Indian Stars.

D' Alva.
Silence, he gapes; a Proclamation sure.

Cald.
The Duke of Lerma, Constable of Spain;
By Father Francisco late Confessor to
His Majesty, now Arch-Bishop of Toledo
And me Roderigo del Caldroon, Marquis
Of Mirida; and Treasurer of Spain;
Commands thee, Philip Duke D' Alva
Don Pedro, Marquis of Alcara;
And Don Bruchero, Great Major Domo;
Within an hour to meet in Council.

D' Alva.
Here's a volley of Titles.

Cald.
We must inform you further, of
The Queens death.

Alca.
The Confessor should have told us that.

Bru.
The Arch-Bishop, you forget your self:

Arch.
Markt ye that my Lord?

Cald.
Why my Lords, the truth is nothing lessen'd
In my Report.

D' Alva.
No nor the sadness: we shall attend the Constable.

Arch.
I do not like that word of Alcara.

Exeunt D' Alva, Alca, and Bru.
Cald.
Pish, 'tis a fond fear, who shou'd
Reveal it to him? he slept not since
'Twas done, and cou'd not dream it.

Arch.
Wou'd 'twere undone.

Cald.
Oh, your treacherous Conscience
Wakes too late; who shou'd betray it?

Arch.
The disguiz'd Fryer.

Cald.
He was ignorant of what he carry'd,

Arch.
I have some business that commands
Me hence, the rest your self can mannage.

Cald.
Be constant, or you loose us—
Exit.
I like him not, this scrupulous Church-man
Has a shrinking Liver, that stops the motion
Of his bloud sometimes, and such another
Fright, may like an Earthquake
Shake him into discoveries of all;
A blush, in such a case as this,
Is evidence sufficient for a Jury.
But I'le confirm him, or send his faint
Contrition to th'other world, and he
Shall be the messenger.
He must be held in use, or he will Rust,
We must find mischiefs out to keep him busie,
Lest he have time to think how to be good;
Leisure begets relapses in his Blood.

Exit.