University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Vendosme, Villeroy, Rosny.
Vend.
Look back, ye sage Recorders of past Times,
On all your mouldy Chronicles of Fame,
On States that flourish'd Ages far remote,
And Kings that govern'd Empires now in Dust;
Search your vast Annals o'er, and blush to find,
Of all your boasted fav'rite Chiefs of old,
No Parallel to Henry: Henry, the World's Wonder,
The Star that gilds the Gallick Sky, the Dread
Of other Climes, and Glory of his own.

Vill.
Worthily nam'd The Great: in every Work,
The Duty of a King, this Monarch bears
The just Pre-eminence, still standing forth
In Godlike Action first, whether in Arms
Furious he rushes to the Front of Battle,
And chains obedient Conquest to his Sword;
Or on his happy Subjects largely showers
The milder Trophies of a peaceful Reign.

Rosny.
Yet are there those, those Venom of a State,
Church-Vipers, ever sure to spite the Best,
Who strike at his Prerogative, and dare
Suggest ill Notions to the cheated Croud,
Insinuate, Heresy takes growth too fast,
Favour'd by Henry, and the few Remains
Of extirpated Hugonots. Oh Heaven!
Where would this restless Arbitrary Crew
Of Soul-enslaving Hypocrites drive on
Their bloody Tyrant-Principles of Faith?
What glorious Victims of poor martyr'd Reason,
Would these ambitious pious Butchers pay
To Superstition, Ignorance, and Pride,
Were there not some in Power, ay some endu'd
With freeborn Souls, and charitable Hearts,
That durst so well employ the Godlike Trust,
As to prescribe these Gownmen proper Bounds,
And curb the holy persecuting Spirit?

Vend.
Well hast thou touch'd, Rosny, the Curse of Nations,
And the severer Malady of France.
E'en thro the Heart and Bowels of our Kingdom,
The spreading Poison works its furious way:
With Grief of Heart, the Royal Henry sees,
Amidst the Height of Triumphs and Rejoicings,
For Wars, concluded at the Victor's Terms,
And Peace, the sweet Results of past Success,
His poison'd Subjects dwindling from his side,
And Pulpits bellowing Venerable Lyes
Against the Power that conquer'd to protect them.

Vill.
Nor stops their Malice there, nor rest the Priests
Content to wound him in his Publick State;
But in the more retired Scenes of Life,
In private Jarrings and domestick Feuds,
The chief Contrivers and Fomenters They.
Basely to irritate the jealous Queen,
His every Action is set forth to light
With false Remarks, and aggravated Blackness;
His Gallantries, his Loves, or slight Intrigues,
Bear the worst Comment Envy's curst Invention
Can brand the Royal Name with, vilely term'd
Debaucheries and Lust.

Rosny.
'Tis true, he bears
A Breast, that steel'd to every Wound beside,
To Love and Beauty's earliest Summons yields:
But yet, tho for a while he gives a loose
To each rebellious Faculty of Love,
He can at will retract the slacken'd Reins,
Mount from the downy Joy to Empire's Height,
And bravely summon back the Monarch's Soul;
As if he made those Passions serve as Shades,
To set the nobler Actions of his Life
Out to a fuller Light, and shew Mankind,
That as he rules the Tributary Globe,
With equal Power of Soul he rules himself.
But see the haughty Prelate, and the Pope's
Remarking Nuntio; this way they seem bent:
Let us avoid their Church-Dissimulation.

[Exeunt:

SCENE II.

Bishop and Nuntio.
Bish.
I have perus'd the Grievances set forth
In your Commission from the Holy See;
And trust me, Brother, with a Churchman's Heart,
A warm resenting Heart, ay such a one,
As Rome when injur'd gives her great Avengers.

Nunt.
Strikes it not deeply on a Churchman's Soul,
To see the mightiest Attribute he boasts,
Infallibility, so slightly made of,
Exploded by a Lay Self-judging Crew,
The holy darling Sweets of Priesthood lost;
Authority, Authority and Profit,
That ought to lift us up above the Run
Of common Men, dismembred from our Office?
Would it not call for Vengeance up in Stones?
Shall we be then inanimate and mute,
Sensless of Wrongs, unactive in Revenge?
We must, we will redress it; and by Means
That shall effect the Remedy or soon,
Or plunge all Europe in the general Ruin.

Bish.
Spoke with the Spirit of a Son of Rome?
Oh how it warms these winter wither'd Veins,
Glads this old Heart, that droop'd e'en to Despair
At the malignant Injuries our Church,
And we, its Venerable Chiefs, endure;
The Innovations this pernicious Weed
Of Heresy, this Thinking Reasoning Tribe
Makes day by day uncensur'd, unreprov'd;
To see we yet have Champions like thy self,
Unshock'd aspiring Souls, that dare stand up
In brave Defiance to a Rebel Age.

Nunt.
The State is sick, corrupted through and through,
Whilst from the Head the Malady proceeds:
Say we not then, since we have trac'd the Source,
To stop the Progress of the growing Ill,
The Cure must be attempted on the Head?

Bish.
Thy Words too plainly intimate thy Thoughts,
And bear the Truth and Anguish of thy Soul,
I join in thy Opinion, as I swear
By all that Priests hold dearest, Wealth and Power,
By all the Hopes and Sweetness of Revenge,
To join in any Enterprize propos'd,
To raise the Priestly Honour, and to cut
From Earth, Top, Root, and Branch, this Rival Sect.

Nunt.
What honest zealous Catholick reflects,
But with the strongest Violence of Joy,
On that for ever memorable Day,
When at this Henry's Wedding, by the Sword
Of Pious Leaguers, at one destin'd Hour,
Two Hundred Thousand of this cursed Race
Met with a glorious unexpected Banquet,
Lay drunk and floating in each other's Blood,
One common Victim to the Rage of Rome?

Bish.
O Heart-reviving Scene! O great Remembrance!
Such ever be the Doom, and such the Fate
Of that impassive, that repugnant Tribe
Of unconforming Hereticks, who dare
Set up malignant Notions of their own,
And whom our injur'd Church marks out for Vengeance:
Oh! to compleat the Fortune of that Day,
Conclude their Ruin, and our own Revenge,
At what a Price, what Hazard would I purchase
A new, like that, auspicious bloody Hour,
To make the Holy Massacre entire,
And sweep away the Gleanings of the last!

Nunt.
Rightly observ'd, and piously resolv'd;
There must be yet a second Day of Vengeance,
As well prepar'd and bloody as the first,
Where (cursed Oversight of credulous Pity!)
This perjur'd Henry, this Apostate King,
Vow'd with a feign'd Remorse, and faithless Heart,
An unsincere Conversion to our Church;
And thus (Oh damn'd successful Artifice!)
Surviv'd the Fate and Slaughter of the Day.
Yet will we drive him to the Verge of Fate,
High as he stands in Empire, strongly fenc'd
By a successive Chain of prosperous Guilt,
Dreadless of Harm, and in himself secure,
Him with the Refuse of his Tribe devote,
A bloody grateful Sacrifice to Rome:
Thus all our dreaded Injuries atone,
Prevent the future, and revenge the past.

Bish.
Since thus our Thoughts are mutual to advance
Our mutual Interests, and the Church's Power,
Here break we off, to some more safe Retreat,
Where Plots take birth, and deep-laid Treasons thrive;
There in the friendly Gloom of secret Night,
Concert secure this holy Grand Affair.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Charlotta and Alicia.
Ali.
It must not be; this melancholy Mien,
This inauspicious Countenance of Sorrow,
But ill becomes the Prince of Conde's Bride,
Now at those Minutes, when each happier Thought
Should teem with greedy Hopes of promis'd Transport,
Each Look, each Feature speak the Soul's Content,
Put on the most inviting Form of Love,
To welcome and receive th'expected Joy.

Char.
That Joy, Alicia, is for them alone,
Whom Providence points out the happy Pair,
Where mutual Passions in one Current join,
Where of itself, unbiass'd, unconstrain'd,
Almighty Love the faithful Union ties,
Transmits to each kind Breast its social Heats,
One Heart, one Soul, one Thought, and one Desire:
This, my Alicia, this is Joy indeed;
Such Joy, alas! as I must never hope.
If a vast Hoard of ever-springing Sweets,
Is the blest Portion of the Bridal Bed;
Such is the cruel Doom of Heaven and Fate,
A bitter Hoard of Wretchedness is mine,
Wedded to Pomp, yet wedded to Despair.

Ali.
These are indeed the 'Plainings of Despair,
Accents of Woe, but Accents suiting ill
Charlotta's better State, and whiter Hours.
Forgive me, Madam, why do you withdraw,
With sullen Aspect, and with grief-swoln Heart,
From all the Pomp and Pleasures of the Court,
Th'Amusements of Society and Mirth,
To mingle with Affliction, and indulge
Unnecessary Thoughts, and causless Sorrows?

Char.
Beware, beware, nor aggravate my Madness,
Nor drive me by Reflection to explore
Too deep the burning Anguish of my Heart.
Hah! didst thou call them causless? But to thee,
Unconscious of the Smart, they may indeed
Seem causless and unnecessary too,
But I will tell thee, for I think thou'rt faithful.
No, rather let me bury in this Breast,
From thee, and all the busy censuring World,
The curs'd Heart-stabbing Cause, that on this Day,
This Day of Marriage, that should ever be
Sacred to Mirth, and set apart for Joy,
With furious Griefs engrosses all my Soul,
And turns me loose amidst a Hell of Horrors.

Ali.
Then if Alicia ever yet was thought
Worthy to bear a pleasant social Share,
Thro every gayer Scene of kinder Fate,
Now, Madam, make me Partner of the bad,
Leave me not out a Stranger to your Sorrows;
Disclose the Cause, that I may know to cure,
Or learn at least to grieve and mourn like you.

Char.
'Tis kind, Alicia: yes, I will to thee,
Tho neither thou, nor I, nor all the World,
Nor Reason's Virtue, nor Physician's Skill,
Can bring me Aid; yes, to thy faithful Breast
I will unbosom all the horrid Load,
And in the sad Narration find a short
Delusive slight Amusement from my Pain.
Oh Henry! Henry!—

Ali.
Heavens! does she name the King?

Char.
The King—the Great, the Godlike King of France,
The foremost Champion in the Field of War,
The brightest Courtier, and the softest Lover,
That ever prostrate bow'd to Beauty yet.

Ali.
Where can this end? What means this frantick Grief?

Char.
Yes, him; this King, a hundred hundred times
Have I beheld with Pity, Pride, and Joy,
With bended Knee, and supplicating Tears,
In short-breath'd Accents of impatient Love,
Adore these deify'd, now wretched Charms,
And languish for a Smile.

Ali.
Alas! what Hopes
Could you propose from this Great Monarch's Love?

Char.
Hopes I had none, nor ever durst receive
The flattering Thought of unexpected Bliss:
'Tis true, for sure our Passions are no Sins,
Or if they are, what Virtue can prevent
The furious Struggles of inclining Nature?
So well, so long he pleaded, that his Love
Rais'd by degrees an equal Warmth in me;
From hence Charlotta's Misery dates its birth;
Both lov'd, both wish'd, yet sentenc'd to Despair:
So far unknowing what it did, my Soul
Harbour'd the dangerous Guest, the Royal Foe:
But when he farther press'd his fatal Suit,
Then Modesty and Honour were my Guards;
I vow'd in presence of the raging King,
I never would admit the impious Joy.

Ali.
Oh what a Train of Woes have you prepar'd!
Why, conscious that your Heart was thus dispos'd,
Would you consent to give the Prince your Hand?

Char.
That, that's the Curse that hangs upon my Soul,
Upbraids my lawless Thoughts, and guilty Heart.
What could I do? a hapless Wretch I stood,
Drove out from Hope, from Anchor, and from Shore,
Of Conduct void, and destitute of Friends,
My Mind at war, my Passions all my Foes;
What then could I decline, or what resolve?
Once to myself I swore, (Oh dire Remembrance!
Since I so soon have violated all
The sacred Obligation) tho harsh Laws
And Honour's rigid Rules forbad the rest,
Still to preserve my Virgin Heart the King's,
And since it was not doom'd that I should live
Enjoy'd by him, die unenjoy'd at all.

Ali.
But since at last Necessity demands
A just Obedience to your present Fate,
Make use of the Occasion that presents
The happy Means of Freedom and Content.

Char.
Mistaken Notion! that can never be:
What, change a fierce Antipathy to Love?
Turn Chains to Freedom, Sorrow to Content?
Bid me extract from mortal Poison Life,
Make Time roll back, and Seasons past return,
Give Laws to Seas, to Winds, or Beasts of Prey;
Far less Impossibilities than that.
Content is lost to me, let me prepare
To welcome Misery in its highest Pomp:
Could Providence stand pitiless, and see
A rigid Father with a Tyrant-Frown,
On pain of Disobedience, and the Threats
Of a Paternal Curse and Exile Fate,
Awe his devoted Daughter to a Match
Adverse to Choice, to Nature, or to Love?

Ali.
Yet howsoe'er your discontented Heart
Brooks this unequal Match, it much behoves,
That you confine your secret Murm'rings there,
And well disguise your outward Form with Shews
Of false Affection and dissembled Gladness:
What may the Prince conclude, when once he finds,
Instead of willing Charms and blending Love,
A mourning Consort and a Bed of Tears?

Char.
For pity urge no more the shocking Subject;
The Prince is loving, generous, and great,
And well deserving of a better Wife;
But we were never pair'd for one Embrace.
Oh Virtue! Virtue cannot say I err,
Is it my Crime our Souls do not agree,
Nor our Affections meet? let Heaven that saw,
And, not preventing, seal'd the fatal Marriage,
Stamp it no Crime, or make that Crime its own.
But hold, my Lord, the Prince of Conde waits,
And a Bride's Duty summons me away,
To false distasteful Joys and glittering Woe.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The King, Duke of Vendosme, Bouillon, Villeroy, Rosny, Pope's Nuntio, and Bishop.
King.
These the Resolves of Council, in reply
To his ill-grounded Jealousies, return
With duteous Reverence, and with kingly Greeting
To the great Head, and Father of our Church.
The Grievances he mentions are too slight,
Unworthy of our Caution or our Dread,
Rather on false Insinuations rais'd,
Unjust Chimeras of a Bigot Mind,
Than any threatning Cloud of real Ill:
The Enemies he points at are suppress'd,
Crush'd with a Victor-Hand, and bridled hard;
Each but suspected Hugonot depriv'd
Of Means, Support, Alliances, or Power,
To make a second Head, or new Attempt
Against Ourself, our Empire, or our Church,
His Goods sequestred, and his Conscience tax'd.

Nunt.
Yet must our Church complain, and justly too,
Of bad Administration from the Hands
Of some corrupted biass'd Men in Power,
Who too remisly partial, ill observe
To put in proper Force the Penal Laws:
These are the Foes we dread, and such there are,
Strong in the Favour of your Royal Ear,
The Chief in Council, and the first in Trust.

King.
Hah! here is Priestly Insolence indeed!
Does your Commission run so far as this,
To challenge me, my Council, and my Friends,
All in the List of sentenc'd Hereticks,
Foes to the Church, and Traytors to the State?
Have I through War's Fatigues, thro Fields of Blood,
Thro a long Series of approv'd Success,
Cut out my dangerous Passage to the Throne,
Tho League on League was form'd to bar my Way,
Mounted with Laurel to the Royal Height,
To wield at last a Tributary Sceptre,
Dependant on a Tribe of saucy Priests?

Nunt.
Your Majesty misconstrues my Intent,
And does my true and honest Meaning wrong.

King.
No, subtle Gownman, hood-wink'd as you think me,
Blind at this Height, I see into you all;
I know your Talents, Passions, and Designs,
Your Views, your Malice, Arrogance, and Pride,
Your Thirst for Power, and Itch of Persecution:
But you shall find no Pageant-Tool in me,
To take your idle Quarrels on myself,
And perpetrate the Mischiefs you contrive.

Rosny.
Now when the Sword is sheath'd, the World surveys
With jealous Wonder, and a rival Dread,
Our Nation from the Heat of Party-Rage,
The Wounds of Faction, and a Civil Sword,
Rais'd by a Gracious Monarch's sovereign Balm,
Strong from their Wounds, and mighty from Despair,
High as young Scipio rais'd the Roman State,
When Loss on Loss, Defeat upon Defeat,
And Cannæ's Slaughter made their Bulwark shake,
Their Rival Empire nod, each Heart grow faint,
Their Counsels waver, and their Armies droop:
Who dares foment, when Henry thus declines
To kindle dying Embers to new Rage,
And bids the Sword of Persecution sleep?

King.

[Exeunt.