 | Papal tyranny In the reign of King John |  |
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Arthur on the Walls of a Castle.Arthur.
O Hubert! Hubert! are my Hopes at last
Confin'd within these lonely, ragged Walls!
Was it for this thy fruitless Mercy spar'd me?
Ah! what is Life depriv'd of Liberty?
It shall be so, these Walls no more shall hide me:
The Mote beneath I've fathom'd with a Line,
And find its Depth proportion'd to my Stature;
At worst, the Danger's less attempting to escape,
Than pining here in hourly Fear of Death:
Take Courage Heart! whatever Chance befal thee
Cannot be sorer than my Suff'ring here.
Eternal Providence, to thee I bow,
Extend thy gracious Arm to save my Fall!
But if thy sacred Pleasure has decreed,
Thy sinful Creature must untimely bleed;
For a repentant Soul, ye Saints, make room,
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[He leaps from the Walls, and is cover'd by a Parapet between his Body and the Audience.
Enter Falconbridge, Hubert, Salisbury, Pembroke and Arundel.
Salis.
Prove him but living, and the Terms are welcome:
Nor think our Bodies have been cas'd in Steel,
To wrong the native Course of royal Pow'r:
But to assert our Liberties and Rights,
As in the Laws of Edward they are cited.
Which if the King by Charter shall confirm,
And give Enfranchisement to Royal Arthur,
Nor mew him up to choke his Days
With barb'rous Ignorance, or deny his Youth
The princely Helps of graceful Exercise,
Then shall appeas'd Resistance sheath her Sword,
Or henceforth turn it on the Foes of England!
Fal.
Spoke with the Spirit of an English Noble!
Nought then remains, but that your Eyes have Proof
Of Arthur's Health and princely Liberty.
Hubert, conduct us—
[As they are passing to the Castle, Salisbury sees the Body of Arthur in the Ditch.
Salis.
—Ha! what Body's this,
That in the Water, 'mid'st the Weeds and Rushes,
Mischance or Malice has depriv'd of Life!
[They bring the Body forward:
Ha! 'tis he! 'tis Arthur! royal Arthur breathless!
Pale, cold, and lost beyond Recovery!
Hub.
O fatal Chance—
Fal.
—Hubert! if thou hast done
This Deed, or but in Thought consented to it,
Thou art more deeply damn'd than Lucifer!
Hub.
By Heav'n! within this Hour I left him living!
Salis.
This sure is the most savage Act of Power,
The deadliest Wound that ever wall-ey'd Rage
Or Malice gave the Heart of Innocence!
Fal.
Villain! I do suspect thee grievously!
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Then, on my Soul, most grievously you wrong me!
Salis.
Wrong thee, Traitor! what Proof so palpable!
Hub.
If I in Act, Direction or Consent,
Have done, conspir'd or compass'd ought
That has bereft this hapless Youth of Life,
Let Hell want Pains to punish me!
Salis.
Since Murder thus defies the Pains of Hell,
Down then to Hell's wide Horrors that attend thee.
[Stabs him.
Fal.
What has your Rashness done, my Lord!
Salis.
—A Deed
That dries the Tears of Pity with Revenge!
Fal.
Hubert, look up, and ere thy Breath forsakes thee,
Now, as thou hop'st to find eternal Mercy!
Inform us truly how this Youth was murder'd.
Hub.
Then by those last dear Hopes I'm ignorant!
But 'tis the Fate of those who once are guilty,
Never to be believ'd when innocent.
Thus having once consented to destroy him,
The bare Intention was a Crime too great,
To pass unheaded by eternal Justice;
Yet, let me say—so may my Soul reach Heav'n,
As of this Prince's Death I'm innocent.
[Dies.
Fal.
You hear, My Lords, a dying Man's Report.
Salis.
We hear enough to charge his Death on Tyranny,
Whether by that vile Hand, or by Mischance,
It matters not, his Prison has destroy'd him!
Now back, Sir, to the King; tell him how ill
His Proofs of Arthur living have succeeded!
But how he dy'd our Swords shall have in Question;
Our Battles are at hand, if he thinks fit
To answer us in Arms, our Arms shall make
Reply—This tell him, Sir,—Our Parley's ended.
Fal.
But this, and I have done. I know the King
Is still inclin'd to give your Griefs Redress:
Consider, therefore, if you prosecute.
This War, how far more dangerous is the Cure
Your Swords apply, than what his Sceptre offers.
Salis.
The Danger be on us—
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—Farewel, my Lords.
[Exit Fal.
Salis.
Now bear we to our Camp this injur'd Object,
Which, like the Wounds of Cæsar, when expos'd,
Shall raise the common Pity to Revenge,
And warm the neutral Coward to our Cause:
But to his mournful Mother, O! what Heart,
What Tongue the dismal Tidings shall impart!
[Exeunt with the Body of Arthur.
SCENE, a Rome of State.
Enter in Procession (to solemn Musick) Pandulph, preceeded by Clergy, &c. of several Orders. Then the Nobles and Officers of State before King John, (supported by two Abbots) wearing his Crown and Robes. Pandulph being seated, the King with the Abbots kneel to him.
Abbot.
Thus bending to the Throne of Innocent,
Our holy Sov'reign Sire, whose Heav'n-born Pow'r
All Christian Crowns implicitly obey;
Thus come we humble Supplicants in Sighs
And Sorrow for a sinful Son; whose rash
Ambition in his Pride of Pow'r has dar'd—
O! spare us to repeat the dreadful Crime,
Too black and terrible for Christian Ears!
But if the Pangs of Penitence may plead—
K. John.
Behold him prostrate, contrite, 'whelm'd with Shame!
Off'ring this sacrifice of temp'ral Glory,
His Crown surrender'd to the holy See,
To mitigate the Wrath of Heav'nly Vengeance.
[Lays his Crown at the Feet of Pandulph.
Pand.
Thy Penitence, thy contrite Heart, O Son,
Gives Joy and Transport to our holy Mother:
Not human Nature is more prone t'offend,
Than on sincere Repentance she to pardon!
Yet think not Crowns or Scepters could alone
Prevail, or tempt her, in the Pride of Nature,
T'accept these Off'rings of thy mortal Pow'r,
Which, as the human World esteems them—Thus
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[He treads upon the Crown.
But, as in social Life, Mankind requires
Controlling Kings to rule their headstrong Passions,
To curb Injustice by coercive Laws;
Thus from the sacred Apostolick Grace,
As tributary Lord, dependent ever
On our holy Father, supreme on Earth,
Receive this Circle of imperial Sway
Once more, to keep these temp'ral Realms in Awe,
And fight the sacred Battles of the Chair.
[Returns the Crown.
K. John.
With lowly Reverence and humble Heart,
Vowing Obedience to our sov'reign Pontiff,
Unworthy I receive this temp'ral Crown;
But now must kneel for an afflicted People,
Pierc'd with the Pains of Errors not their own!
O! never must these guilty Eyes look up!
Till holy Mercy shall restore their Peace,
By Revocation of her dreadful Censures!
Pand.
Arise, repentant Son, thy sweet Conversion
Shall chace these Clouds of Vengeance from thy Land,
Of Souls unheal'd will we resume the Cure:
Nor foreign or domestick Foe shall now
Presume to give thy fertile Fields Annoyance:
Now shalt thou find the holy Breath, that blew
This Tempest up, shall make the Storm subside.
This Dauphin's Thunder at our Word shall cease,
And hush'd Ambition leave thy Realms in Peace.
[Exeunt.
The Scene a Field.
Enter Dauphin, Melun, Salisbury, Pembroke, and Barons, &c.
Dauph.
Why not to-night, my Lords? Are not his late
Supplies from France in the deep Marshes lost?
Arms, Horses, Ammunition, Treasure, all
Immers'd and bury'd in the Floods of Welland?
And shall we now stand pausing o'er our Prey?
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Salis.
Consider, Sir, our Shadows lengthen with
Our March! the Sun scarce lending Light to lead us!
Let us at least take Day enough for Slaughter;
Nor let their Fears, behind the Shield of Night,
Skulk from the Sword of blinded Victory.
Pem.
And for the Succours they have lost, 'tis not
A Day or Moon's Duration can recruit them.
Salis.
That Load will lie as heavy on their Hopes
To-morrow—
Pem.
—Should we now engage them, Sir,
While the long March that hangs upon our Troops,
Brings down the Spirit to a drooping Eye,
How might the Enemy, tho' less in Numbers,
Hail with Repose, and confident in Vigour,
With more than equal Strength sustain the Battle?
Salis.
Let us then take th'Advantage of the Night
For Rest, and of the Morn for stronger Action.
Dauph.
O! if your Spirits were inflam'd like mine,
To rest this Night would be a harder Toil,
Than all the Labours of immediate Battle!
See, Pandulph too, the holy Legate comes,
With eager Pace and Triumph in his Eye,
As if a Band of Angels on our part
Stood rank'd in Arms to stimulate our Action.
Enter Pandulph and Falconbridge.
Pand.
Joy, Peace, and bloodless Conquest crowns our Arms,
Our Wars are done: The Triumphs of this Day
Shall, in the Annals of revolving Empire,
Stand eminently high on Hills of Fame,
While Praise and Wonder, to a Transport rais'd,
Shall read this Record of religious Glory.
Dauph.
What means your Eminence? Our Wars are done.
Pand.
Furl up thy Colours, and unbrace thy Drums,
King John is now no more an Enemy.
His Crown this Hour surrender'd at our Feet,
Which now in tributary Vassalage
He holds of Rome, has cancell'd all his Crimes.
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Paternal Pardon has confirm'd his Throne,
And now, e'en France, shall honour and embrace him.
Dauph.
Eternal Vengeance! France! shall France embrace him?
His Crown surrender'd! Ha! what Crown has John,
That is not claim'd by France? Or how comes Rome,
In wrong to us, t'accept that Resignation?
Are thus your Champions of the Chair rewarded?
Is this the Kingdom which her Bulls decreed me?
Has John's Repentance thrown his Crimes on us,
That France must like a Vassal wave her Right,
Because the holy Pride of Rome's appeas'd?
Pand.
Is't possible?—
Dauph.
—Was it not you that first
Inflam'd this War? And to my Father's Doubts
Clear'd up my Title to fair England's Crown?
Is not the Bar of Arthur's Right, as thou
Foretold'st, remov'd? Is he not dead? Nay murder'd?
(Is that too pardon'd by your juggling Mercy?)
Is there a Life before me now, that stays
My Right, or makes it, at your Will, precarious?
Pand.
Beware, rash Youth, nor tempt our holy Vengeance,
Unknowing as thou art! I tell thee, Prince,
This England is St. Peter's Fee, and Kings
Hereafter in that holy Right shall rule it.
Dauph.
Cardinal, 'tis false, I do deny th' Assertion.
England was never yet, nor ever shall,
While Arms or Life can urge my Claim, become
The Papal Patrimony. No, nor shall
This Subterfuge, this Farce of John distress'd,
Laugh me to Peace, or save him from my Vengeance.
Pand.
O mortal Sin! abandon'd Imputation!
Dauph.
Think'st thou, fond Man, I brought my Arms so far,
Only to slake Rome's holy Thirst of Sway?
If you want Kingdoms, buy them with the Danger;
Endure the Toils, and fight yourselves your Battles;
Nor hope to make my youthful Sword and Honour,
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Pand.
Hear me and tremble! while I tell thee, Boy,
As well thou might'st provoke the Serpent's Sting,
Or seize upon the feeding Lion's Paw,
As safely might'st oppose thy naked Eye,
Against the Level of a bearded Arrow,
As tempt the Vengeance of our holy Pow'r:
This Instant quit thy hostile Purpose, and depart
This Land—or Woe on thy rebellious Head.
[Exit.
Dauph.
Now by the Royal Rage that swells my Heart,
Here will I leave these lifeless Bones,
To Kites and Ravens an inglorious Prey,
Than e'er hold Friendship with this recreant John,
Or yield an English Pasture to the Pride of Rome.
Fal.
And by that Royal Blood thou hast defam'd,
I plaud thy Treatment of this Priestly Tyrant;
Yet think not, that in fear of thee our King
Has bow'd to this insatiate Pontiff. No,
But to conciliate to his Love his People,
Whose Blaze of Zeal had blinded their Obedience:
For know, the warlike Monarch is at hand,
Not trusting to this deep-mouth'd Legate's Thunder,
But to his Pow'rs prepar'd; whose Rods of War
Shall whip this dwarfish Rout, these Pigmy-arms,
From out the Circle of his Territories.
Dauph.
Take to thy Saf'ty; hence, our Drums shall answer thee.
Fal.
O that the Sun could hold his drooping Head
One Hour above the Earth to grace this Battle.
Dauph.
Reserve thy Vauntings for the dawning Morrow,
Nor at the Night repine, whose Shades may save thee.
[Exit Dauphin with his Train.
Fal.
Now, noble Lords, what think you of your Cause?
The holy Sword of Rome, you see, forsakes you;
Her Politicks, like other mortal Motives,
Begin their wiser Charities at home;
Let but her pious Views be gorg'd with Pow'r,
Her full Contentment slumbers in her Chair,
And leaves Devotion for the vulgar Comfort!
For Shame resume your Sense! see for your selves!
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Salis.
Well hast thou warn'd us to oppose Ambition,
A Passion oft so ignorant of Glory,
By its own Nature so corruptible,
That it shall stoop to be a Tyrant's Slave,
To play the greater Tyrant o'er its People.
This—in the Shame of his surrender'd Crown,
Our servile King has prov'd a Truth notorious.
Fal.
To you, to you, rash Lords, we owe that Stain,
Had your weak Cause alone supported you,
His Crown unblemish'd had maintain'd his Right!
Obedience to Prerogative had bow'd,
And in the Monarch's Grandeur both been glorious!
Can you then think the Perfidy is worse,
That stoops below itself to save a Kingdom,
Than is the mad Resistance that would sell it:
For such must be the Consequence, if France
Prevail; France then becomes your Purchaser.
Rome might, indeed, plead Custom for her Claim,
But France had none, save what your Fears have found,
Or to your foreign Masters may have granted.
Would you, then, change the Lion for the Fox?
Be rather Slaves to grinding Vice-Roys here,
Than bear the Errors of your native King?
Salis.
Perdition on the abject Soul that thinks it!
No, Falconbridge, whate'er has drawn our Swords,
However under Grievances we grone,
Think not but English Spirits would as soon
Admit the Devil, as a Vice-Roy here.
No, not to lord it o'er a Village in
The Fens of England:—
Fal.
—Then I ask no more!
Howe'er our civil Discord may divide us,
Let not our Enemy enjoy the Breach.
Salis.
Against Invasion let us, close united,
[Embracing.
If Vows or sacred Oaths can hold our Faith,
Already have we sworn, that no Success
Shall lead Obedience to the Claims of France.
Fal.
This News has hush'd my Fears. This to the King
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By Peace, those Streams of Blood that boil for Battle;
If not,—tho' now to diff'rent Sides we part,
Let each Opposer shew an English Heart.
[Exeunt severally.
King John from his Tent, supported by two Attendants.
K. John.
O feeble Frame! is this a Time to fail me!
When my collected Spirits should inflame
The Eye to lead and animate the War?
Why has the Monarch so much Use for Life?
Yet in his Health is levell'd with the Peasant!
O painful Majesty! unequal State!
Not all the gorgeous Pomp, thy Flags of Pow'r,
Thy Dignities, Dominions, Ceremonies,
The Crown, the Sceptre, and the Royal Ball,
The purple Robe, nor Princely Crowds, whose Press
Of Duty intercepts the wholsom Air;
Not all these Glories, for one precious Hour,
Can buy the Beggar's Health or Appetite.
Enter Falconbridge.
Fal.
To Arms, my Liege, th'embattl'd Foe comes onward;
Their Armour, gilded by the blazing Sun,
Reflects another Day. Defend me, Heav'n!
How fares your Majesty?—
K. John.
—Disorder'd still!
This Autumn Fever hangs upon my Limbs;
But in the Field we'll sweat it from the Blood!
Prepare my lighter Helmet and my Litter:
Cousin, on thee the Conduct and the Care
Of this Day's Action may devolve,—be watchful.
Fal.
With my best Blood will I account for it!
But go not, Sir, I beg you, to the Field.
K. John.
If Life is done, let me with Honour end it.
Lead forth my Horse, and let the Trumpet sound
The warning Blast to Victory or Death.
Fal.
Would you repose, it might relieve you.—
K. John.
—No!
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My fierce, though mortal, Flames within shall glow,
Refulgent on my Brow—and burn against the Foe.
[Exeunt leading off the King.
The SCENE opening discovers the funeral Ceremony of Arthur moving towards Swinstead-Abbey to a Dead-March; Lady Constance with the Abbot and Mourners attending.
Const.
Down, down, thou rolling Sun, to Darkness down,
Lose in eternal Shades thy hateful Beams,
Never to give these Eyes more painful Day!
See there an Object stains thy conscious Lustre!
Not all thy Promises of blooming Springs,
Or Autumn Fruit, can this dead Flow'r supply!
Thus mercilesly cropp'd by fell Ambition!
O since the Birth of Cain, the first Male-Child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire,
There was not such a gracious Creature born.
Abbot.
Repine not at the Will of Heav'n, and this
Thy Comfort be, that in the World to come
The dearest Friends shall meet and know each other.
Const.
O didst thou see his chang'd and ghastly Semblance,
Thy frighted Sense would not remember him;
That Canker Death has so devour'd his Beauties,
So blanch'd the damask Bloom upon his Cheek;
All the soft Smiles that wanton'd in his Eye,
The sweet and graceful Spirit of his Features,
So sunk, so faded from their native Hue,
That, e'en in Heav'n, my Soul must pause to know him.
Abbot.
O yet retire! part from this Feast of Death,
Where solemn Rites and Forms on Forms succeeding,
Feed but the fatal Appetite of Grief!
Hark, the last Bell now calls us to the Grave.
[Bell tolls.
Const.
O piercing Sound! O agonizing Knell!
Stay your officious Haste! one Moment's Pause!
[To the Bearers.
And the same Service shall be sung for both
Our parted Souls! Inexorable Death!
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Behold in me the Wretch that dares thy Rage!
A grieving Mother, whose Distress defies thee!
That thus arrests thy Triumph o'er her Child,
And will not let it pass. The Grave shall not devour him;
O! we must never part, one Earth shall hold us,
Now seize me, strike me, and compleat the Tyrant!
Abbot.
Be watchful o'er her Health, gently support her
Till Grief subsiding may admit Repose:
[To her Attendants, who lead her off.
But hark, the Terrors of the Field are ended!
The hostile Wounds of France and England now
Are, by the Trumpet's loud Retreat, proclaim'd.
Behold the harass'd Barons from the Toil retiring.
[Exit after Constance.
Enter Pembroke, Salisbury, &c. at a distance.
Pem.
We were deceiv'd, the King was stronger than we thought him.
Salis.
I fear'd his late Submission to the Pope,
Would draw the Commons thronging to his Side:
Had not the timely Night stept in between
Our Swords, I tremble to conceive what Fate
Had follow'd us.—
Pem.
—But see the Corps of Arthur!
Salis.
Alas! poor injur'd Youth, but for thy Death
Our private Griefs had spar'd this fruitless Battle,
And due Redress had hush'd us into Peace.
Enter Melun wounded, led by Soldiers.
Melun.
O lead me, lead to the revolted Barons!
Salis.
When we were happy we had other Names.
Melun.
I come, my Lords, to warn you of your Danger;
When you have serv'd the Dauphin's Ends, you die.
Salis.
Die for our Services? explain this Riddle.
Melun.
Know then, this Dauphin hearing you had bound
Your Swords, by private Oaths, never to yield
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The Claims of France. This so inflam'd his Rage,
That on the Altar at St. Edmond's-Bury,
Where, to your firm Alliance, first he swore
Determin'd Faith and lasting Amity;
There did he secretly make After-oath,
That when his Arms should have subdu'd King John
Your Heads should be the Victims of his Right
Refus'd.—
Pem.
—Perfidious France!—
Salis.
—Can this be true?
Melun.
What in this World should make me now deceive you?
Have I not hideous Death within my View?
See you not Life like a meer Form of Wax,
Dissolving to the Fire? When Life is done,
Useless were all Deceit; but needful is Remorse,
When Oaths so ill devis'd require Atonement;
Repentance, then, has mov'd me to reveal
This Oath, which in my Rashness I had taken,
If you can pardon it—Your Charity
Will hence appoint me to some safe Repose,
Where I may breathe my latest Hour in Peace,
And pass my dire Account with Heav'n's Inquiry.
Salis.
Gently conduct him to Relief and Rest.
Dauphin, we thank thee for this Treachery,
That now so timely warns us to repay it.
What a strange Mixture had this Frenchman's Heart
Tainted with Falshood, yet inclin'd to Honour?
Pem.
That Mystery, my Lord, explains itself;
His Grandsire was, you know, of English Blood;
Perhaps from him he had his Honesty.
Salis
Let us then make our Profit of his Virtue,
Protect ourselves, and while Occasion serves,
March to the King, accept his offer'd Peace,
With old Allegiance heal our civil Wounds,
And on this Dauphin's Head revenge his Falshood.
[As they go off, Constance re-enters to the Funeral, with the Abbot, &c.
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Thy holy Counsels, Father, have reliev'd me;
Misfortunes now, familiar to my Sense,
Abate their Terror. Now my peaceful Heart,
With tearless Eyes, shall wait him to the Grave.
Enter Falconbridge.
Fal.
O Reverend Father, haste, the dying King
Implores thy holy Aid.—
Abbot.
—Said'st thou the King?
Fal.
Dying he seems, or cannot long survive:
Whether by Heat of Action in the Field,
His latent Fever is inflam'd to Danger,
Or, as Suspicion strongly has avouch'd,
The gloomy Monk, who serv'd him with the Cup,
Might impiously infuse some Bane of Life,
We know not; but his Interval of Sense
In Grones calls earnest for his Confessor.
Const.
In his accounted Sins be this [Pointing to the Corps of Arthur.]
remember'd.
Fal.
If Grief or Prejudice could bear to hear me,
I could a Truth unfold would calm thy Sorrows.
Const.
Lies not my Child there murder'd?—
Fal.
—Hear my Story.
[He seems to talk apart with Constance.
Enter Salisbury with Arundel, &c.
Salis.
How fortunate the Hour! that he had Sense
To ratify our Rights and seal the Charter.
Abbot.
What News, my Lords? How fares the King?
Salis.
I fear me, poison'd! his whole Mass of Blood
Is touch'd corruptibly, and his frail Brain,
Which some suppose the Mansion of the Soul,
By the disjointed Comments that it makes,
Foreshews its mortal Office is expiring.
Fal.
And Hubert dying disavow'd the Deed.
[Apart to Constance.
Const.
Admitting this, that meer Mischance destroy'd him,
What but his Wrongs expos'd him to Mischance?
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But as Oppression may be less than Murder.
Enter Pembroke.
The King seems more at Ease, and holds Belief,
That were he brought into the open Air,
It might asswage the Ferment that consumes him.
Salis.
Behold the sad Remains of Royalty!
Fal.
Let those who lov'd him not endure the Sight,
When he is gone, my Hopes in Life are friendless.
[Exit.
King John is brought in.
Abbot.
How fares your Majesty?—
K. John.
—The Air's too hot.
It steams, it scalds, I cannot bear this Furnace!
Stand off,—and let the Northern Wind have Way!
Blow, blow, ye freezing Blasts from Iceland Skies!
O blissful Region, that I there were King!
To range and roll me in eternal Snow,
Where Crowns of Icicles might cool my Brain,
And comfort me with Cold.—
Abbot.
—O gracious Heav'n!—
Relieve his Senses from these mortal Pangs,
That his reflecting Soul may yet look back
On his Offences past with Penitence!
K. John.
Why am I tortur'd thus? I kill'd him not;
Was it so criminal to wish him dead!
If Wishes were effectual, O, my Crown,
My Crown should from the Grave with Joy redeem him!
Abbot.
If Penitence, not Frenzy, prompts thy Tongue,
Behold this Object of Calamity,
Whom thy Severities have sunk with Sorrow.
O carry not, beyond the Grave, your Enmity.
K. John.
Constance, the mournful Relict of my Brother,
How do thy Wrongs sit heavy on my Soul;
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Thou seest me now an Object of thy Triumph,
The vital Cordage of my Heart burnt up!
All to a single Thread on which it hangs
Consum'd; now may the fearless Lamb approach,
Now close the Lion Eye of Enmity.
Hence but a Moment all this Royalty,
This Pride of Pow'r will crumble into Ashes.
Abbot.
In his Extremities Heav'n help the King.
Const.
And may his contrite Soul receive its Mercy.
K. John.
The Lamp of Life is dry—Thy Pray'rs, O Father!
At Worcester let these mortal Bones have Rest.
My Eyes refuse the Light—the Stroke is giv'n.
O, I am call'd—I wander—Mercy, Heav'n!
Const.
He's gone.
The turbulent Oppressor is no more.
The Hour of heav'nly Justice has at last
Demanded his Account of England's Empire;
But since he seem'd to pass in Penitence,
Let all his Crimes be bury'd in his Grave.
Thou Pow'r ador'd, what Thanks shall I repay thee,
That my Afflictions have subdu'd my Soul,
T'extend its Charity ev'n to my Enemies?
Now, Life, I have no farther Use for thee;
Defer a while the Obsequies of Arthur,
Pass but some Hours and I shall soon o'ertake him,
Then lay us in one peaceful Grave together.
[Exit, led off.
Enter Falconbridge, who, seeing the King, starts back.
Fal.
My Fears are true, good News comes now too late;
Deaf is the Ear which best might give it hearing.
Salis.
O Falconbridge! if thou hast ought that may
Dispel our gen'ral Consternation, speak it.
Fal.
Something I bring to cheer this sudden Sadness;
From France the Lady Blanch, arriv'd, has wrought
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That hearing you the Barons had disclaim'd him,
He now accepts the Legate's Mediation,
And, on such Terms as Honour may accord,
He and his Forces leave our Land in Peace.
Salis.
Lose not a Moment then to close this Treaty;
Build we a Bridge of Gold for his Retreat!
And may the recent Dangers we have pass'd,
Never by civil Discord be recall'd.
Fal.
There only lives the Error can mislead us.
Let not Self-wounds our native Strength impair,
What rash Invader can have Hope to shake us?
Come the three Corners of the World in Arms,
England no foreign Force shall e'er subdue,
While Prince and Subject to themselves are true.
| Papal tyranny In the reign of King John | |