University of Virginia Library

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.