University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Nuntio and Bishop.
Nunt.
Brother, I like the holy Motion well,
The Spirit of our Cause must be kept warm,
We must work on with a religious Fury,
Take hold on ev'ry Prop, Device, or Fraud,
Howe'er unjust, unwarrantably vile,
The Practice may appear to common Eyes,
To reach the glorious Goal of our Designs.
Delays too oft create a Lethargy,
The constant Issue of a vulgar Plot,
Form'd by mechanick Heads of drowsie Lay-men:
We who have sanguine Views, and Souls confirm'd
In the mysterious Principles of Rome,
Can weave our Scheme so fine, that he who dares
Inquisitively tread th'ambiguous Maze
In Search of our Designs, shall sink himself.
The Prince of Conde, and the proud Bouillon,
Both discontented league in one Revenge;
There, as you well advise, we work the next.

Bish.
Not that our Cause can need their puny Aid,
But 'twould be glorious Mischief, great Success,
To make them both (since they are both, 'tis plain,
Secret Abettors of this upstart Faith)
The Instruments of Ruin to themselves,
And the pernicious Faction they espouse.
But see, where close, in amicable Port,
Hugging each other on their new Alliance,
The vengeful Nobles come.

Nunt.
They come indeed:
Methinks, as when from far, with cruel Joy
The Eagle meditates his distant Prey,
My Heart, with an Alarm of prosp'rous Gladness,
Leaps at the future Mischief it intends 'em.
Let us withdraw some Distance hence, where yet
Unseen, we may attend their Conference.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Conde and Bouillon.
Cond.
Let others from the happier Scenes of Life,
From mutual Profits, and from social Joys
Contract a pleasant League of easie Friendship;
We from the strongest, as th'unhappiest Cause,
Commence Alliance, and engage our Souls,
As equal are our Wrongs, and our Complaints,
To equal speedy Measures for Revenge.
The King, O Heav'n! that e'er I should have Cause
To charge that sacred Character with ought
That bears th'Injustice he has offer'd me!
But injur'd me he has; in me, Bouillon,
The Subject and the Husband suffer both.

Bou.
It is enough, we know that we are wrong'd,
Both of the fav'rite Jewels of our Souls;
Rifled, despoil'd by Violence and Fraud,
Thou by our Monarch, and by Vendosme—I.
Shall we remain thus smarting with our Wounds,
Yet ignorant or slow to search the Cure?
Fix but the Means, what dares not one like me
Attempt, in Vengeance for neglected Love?
You know the State and Genius of our Land;
There is a potent Party, ripe for Arms,
Dispirited they seem; but 'tis for want
Of due Protection, and a proper Head:
Let but the Prince of Conde once appear,
Twice Twenty thousand Men shall own his Cause,
And with their faithful Swords relate his Wrongs.

Con.
Now thou indeed hast call'd forth all my Soul
To the severest Touch. O Loyalty!
O Honour! All my Obligations there
Are cancell'd by my Injuries. Hah, Friend!
Tell, tell me, now my Soul is hot with Rage,
Moulded for ev'ry Enterprize of Vengeance;
Say, shall we fly from hence, and rouze once more
The discontented Hugonots to Arms?
That, that will look like Vengeance; Hah, Bouillon!

Bou.
Resolv'd; let Conde lead, Bouillon's fix'd
To hazard All upon the Glorious Cast.
Hence, e'er the blabbing Tongue of noisie Rumour,
Or dull Suspicion, give the least Alarm:
Quick let us fly the Court, and City too:
The Reason for our Flight (if so 'tis call'd)
Will be best render'd at an Army's Head.

Con.
Now, Thought, be still; I would not have thee raise
The least untimely Penitence within me;
Remorse and idle Tenderness shall now
Be utter Strangers to my desart Soul:
Or, if Thought will be roaming, let it lay
The blacken'd Image of my Wrongs before me;
Fresh let 'em rise, and to my View present
The wanton King, and my adult'rous Wife;
Then will I join thy Counsels with a Soul
Abandon'd to each Method of Revenge.
I have the horrid full Idea now;
Death! even now the amorous Pair indulge
The lawless Raptures of a lewd Embrace,
Wantoning, gloating each the other o'er,
Proudly they brave it in the Eye of Day,
And call me stupid Cuckold to my Face!
Bouillon, take me hence, my Sword shall part them.

Bou.
Come then, away, my Lord; Bouillon feels
The jealous Agonies of injur'd Love,
To as severe Extremity as You.

Con.
Those Agonies then spur us to the Field,
Give Edges to our Swords, and push Success.
Let Boys forgive, and dastard Souls endure,
We will revenge the Wounds we cannot cure.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Nuntio and Bishop return.
Nunt.
There let the shallow Politicians go,
Fret, rave, and foam, and bluster in high Words,
There lies their Talent, for Designs they've none;
Or if they have, they run not quite so deep,
But may be fathom'd with but half an Eye:
Spirit they have,—and may it drive them on
To all the pleasing Mischiefs, that our Church
Can wish this Knot of Heretick Opposers.

Bish.
But mark'd you whence their Grievances proceed?
The King has been too free with Conde's Wife;
Bouillon's Quarrel is a Love-Grudge too;
And that's, you know, the Principle from which
These brisk high-mettl'd Blades form all their Actions;
Hence Youthful Chiefs revolt; from hence arise
Rebellion, Discontents, and Civil Wars;
Hence do those Storms take Birth, that prove so oft
The Fate of Monarchs, and the Wreck of Empires.

Nunt.
Right, Love's their Maxim, as Religion ours:
Yet tell me who, the bravest of them all,
Tho' fierce Resentment boils in ev'ry Vein,
Can push his Vengeance with a Churchman's Spirit?
And yet, so much my Soul delights to hear
The Clash of Discord, and the Sword of Ruin,
Should one of these fierce talking, threatning Heroes
(Since on themselves they point their Civil Rage)
Dare some prodigious Mischief, could I hug
The useful Villain: nay, for once, almost
Run Counter to the Tenets of our Church,
And give the Rebel Heretick his Pardon.

Bish.
Tush, let 'em act or purpose what they please,
Resolve, break off, agree, or disagree,
Or carry their Resentments on, or take
A cool Reflection, and a serious Pause;
Already have we div'd into enough
To serve our present Cause, and ruin them:
The Kings and Conde's Wife, there's, there's our Mark!
Our Pulpits may from hence make glorious Use,
Shew forth the Royal Sinner, and his Vices,
With all the blackest Turns of sharp Reflection,
Our much-fam'd Jesuit Eloquence can reach;
Thus frighten from his side the People's Hearts,
And cloud his Lustre in the publick Eye,
Then take him off unpitied, unbelov'd.

Nunt.
The sooner the decisive Blow is struck,
The surer, and the safer for our Cause.
The discontented Nobles Flight from Court
Assures Success, and intimates, Strike now!
Who will not take the Odium all from us,
And throw the undisputed Guilt on them?
As for Ravilliac, him I doubt the least;
E'en now he's blaming the too tardy Hours,
That keep the happy bloody Minute back,
And panting to be register'd a Saint.
But hold,—I hear th'unwelcome Steps of some
That tend this way: 'Tis fit we disappear.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Vendosme and Louisa.
Vend.
Now by the Glory of my Father's Reign,
By thy own Beauty, and by Vendosme's Love,
Thy Doubts are causeless, as thy Fears unkind.
Bouillon fled disgusted from the Court,
False to his Friend, his Country, and his King,
Is punish'd in his own disloyal Breast:
Friendship's dissolv'd, those Adamantine Ties,
That might have dash'd my Joys in Love and Thee,
He has broke first, and left me free to act
As Love shall dictate, and my Hopes inspire.

Lou.
Vendosme thou think'st 'tis vain for me to strive
To hide a Weakness thou hast prov'd too far;
Yet let me tell thee, I am still resolv'd
To be so much the Mistress of my self,
So far by Reason sway'd, and Virtue rul'd,
E'en in this Height and Guilt of foolish Love,
As to prefer my Honour, Fame, and Peace,
Before the Lure of idle Joys, to which
Thou thus invit'st me with a flatt'ring Tongue.
First let Bouillon to the Court return,
And be your antient Amity renew'd,
Before Louisa shall resign her Hand.

Vend.
Should any but Louisa thus reply,
Thus with ungenerous Scruples still disturb.
The whiter Prospect of a Life of Love,
How could I censure what I dare not now?
But thus far I must speak, for now indeed,
Now when Bouillon, when my Rival Friend
Has put it from his Pow'r to wrong me more,
These Scruples wear an inauspicious Face:
It looks, as if you mourn'd Bouillon's Loss;
At least, forgive me if I judge amiss,
These cool Delays, these weak Evasions bode
The fainting Symptoms of declining Love,
To the deluded, the unhappy Vendosme.

Lou.
Now you pull off the Vizor you have worn,
And shew me what you are, a perfect Man,
Bred up in Guile, and practis'd in Deceit.
False Sex! and falsest Vendosme! this the great
Return from him, I singled from a Crowd
Of thronging Suitors, of the foremost Rank
That France could boast, or Virgin Beauty draw!
This the Reward Louisa might expect
For all her kind Attention to thy Vows,
Her easy, generous, too believing Goodness?
E'en now, too tender of a worthless Wretch,
My ill paid Generosity was prov'd,
When I declin'd thy proffer'd Vows of Marriage,
Oppos'd a Heart that lov'd thee but too well;
Unwilling to involve thy House or Thee
In the attending Consequence of Ruin.

Vend.
What shall I say to justify my Soul,
And shew my Fair how much she has mistook me?

Lou.
Say nought, or say, at least, that thou art false,
And then I may believe the cruel Truth.
But be thou what thou wilt, yet falser still,
Henceforth I'll study to repay thy Wrongs,
Recover back my Heart by strong Resentment,
And learn to throw thee off, or love thee less.

[Exit.
Vendosme, solus.
Vend.
Distraction! how abandon'd is that Wretch
Condemn'd, like me, to be a Slave to each
Capricious Humour of this giddy Sex?
And yet Louisa is—Alas! my Soul
That feels her Chains, can best explain her Pow'r.
Yes, I must love the Charmer; and, by Heav'n,
Spite of these jealous Humours, she deserves it.
[A Flourish behind the Scenes.
The King and Court approach: They must not find
This unbecoming Lethargy about me.

SCENE V.

The King, Villeroy, Rosny, and other Courtiers.
[The King and Villeroy as talking together.]
King.
Both fled Post speed from Paris! By my Crown,
If yet thro' ev'ry Station I have born,
Or in the Council-Chamber, or the Camp,
My Soul may make this Boast, To have ever stood
Above the weak Assaults of a Surprize;
As freely will I own, This News, Villeroy,
Bore down my Guard, broke on me with a Shock
As strong as unexpected.

Vill.
'Tis indeed
The Cause of general Wonder, whence they took
This sudden strange Resolve, nor left behind
Their Grievances, or Reason for their Flight.

King.
From this was our Surprize; for know, Villeroy,
That common Notion in the World, call'd Fear,
That Curse of Villains, Hypocrites, and Slaves,
Henry disdains to be acquainted with.
If, as it seems, they're false, and dare revolt
From their Allegiance to my Crown and Me,
I know the Pow'r and Duty of a King,
And dare chastize the Treason and the Traitor.
Have you no Notice of the Rout they took?

Vill.
None in the least as yet.

King.
I do suppose
That their Intents are (for they must be ill)
To spirit up the Hugonots to Arms:
Send out for sure Intelligence; till then
Our Measures of Pursuit must be deferr'd.

Vend.
Should they but make, (as Heav'n forefend they should)
The least Attempt against their Country's Peace,
Your Majesty stands safe, Your Coffers full,
A strong and loyal Army at Command,
To check Rebellion in its Infant Rise:
They only sink their Party and themselves.

King.
Vendosme, I tell thee, That I rather grieve,
That they should forfeit their Allegiance thus,
Than with the least alarm from their Designs.
When Justice arms our Cause, to doubt Success,
Is to distrust that Providence, that holds
The Balance of the World, and weighs Events
In golden Equity's unerring Scales.
But why? why now, my Schemes when almost ripe,
My Levies full, and general Treaties form'd,
With half the leagued World's confederate Arms,
To propagate the Christian Cause, and lop
The vast Expanse of Pow'r, the o'er-grown Bulk
Of the incroaching Ottoman: Why now
Must I decline the Enterprize, against
My own unnatural Subjects turn my Force?
These are thy Toils, O Pow'r! and these the Cares
That reach the Monarch, and embitter Empire.
My Friends retire; thus ruffled, thus fatigu'd,
My Mind requires a while to be alone.

[The Courtiers go out.
King, solus.
King.
Said I Alone? Alone I cannot be;
My busie Thoughts, that hurry up and down,
And travel thro' Varieties of Woe,
Are Company too much. I am a King!
I know it well! no fuller Proof I need,
Than the superior Burthen that's assign'd me.
Two Factions discontented with my Reign,
Both Hugonots and Catholicks my Foes.
But see! support me, Ever-watchful Powers,
That make the Guardianship of Kings Your Care!
A far more dreaded Foe to Henry's Peace,
Than Catholick, or Hugonot, comes here.

Enter Charlotta.
Cha.
Your Pardon, gracious Monarch! for a Wretch,
That dares this un-allow'd Intrusion here:
Nor had I now presum'd it, but my Griefs,
Such Griefs as have a Privilege to Boldness,
To Orders deaf, or by Respect unaw'd,
Oblig'd me to the melancholy Duty,
To open to Your Soul a Scene of Woe,
(Wretch that I am, so long to have conceal'd it!)
That equally concerns Your Self as me.
O that my falt'ring Tongue might be excus'd
Th'ungrateful Subject, and my Tears unfold
In dumb expressive Eloquence, my Heart!

King.
Now by my Love, this Prelude of thy Tale,
Has quite unstring'd my Nerves of Resolution;
Unconscious of ought Ill, I shudder yet
With Apprehension from I know not what.
But rid me of this Misery of Doubt,
And if I must be tortur'd, let it be
From certain Dangers, and a real Cause.

Char.
Then look upon Charlotta, know from her
The threatning Danger points at Henry's Head.

King.
From her already have I suffer'd all
The fatal Insults of a cruel Beauty;
My sharpest Agonies of prostrate Love,
My Vows, my Proffers, Promises, and Prayers,
Repuls'd with Pride, and thwarted with Disdain:
And are there, barb'rous Fair! more Tortures still
To plague this Royal Wretch, this Love-sick King?

Ch.
Why, cruel Fate! and thou, more cruel King!
Why did You first pursue this lawless Flame?
Why form such Vows, or press such loose Desires,
Which conscious to Your self, it stood not just
For Virtue to receive, or me to hear!
Attend the sad Events;—Charlotta comes
A mournful Herald of the threatned Vengeance.
Why did You seek to alienate my Heart,
And meanly plot on her that was Another's?
What have my Griefs discover'd? and to whom?
Upon my Knees I ask Your Royal Pardon:
Forgive the Heat of this ill-manner'd Frenzy;
I am the only Guilty, I, who heard
Your Vows, with too, too gentle a Repulse!
I am the Trait'ress, who foresaw the Fate
Your furious Passion drove on, yet was slow
To warn You timely of the hidden Shelve.
On me, Ye Pow'rs! Your gather'd Vengeance fall!
As was the Crime, the Punishment be mine!

K.
Still dost thou lead me thro' a Maze of Doubt,
My Passions all alarm'd, and Thoughts as dark
As the benighted Traveller's, whose Mind
Strays into Horrors, and starts back from Shadows.
Thou hast indeed prepar'd me for the worst
That Fate can menace, or thy Griefs forebode.
Solve me this Knot, and utter forth thy Soul:
Yet is there one unhappy Article,
I would advise thee friendly to omit:
Sure, or my Apprehension ran too far,
And brought me false Reports, thou saidst, Charlotta,
But pray unsay that part,—thou wert Another's.

Char.
It is so true, that to deny it now,
Would be but basely to deceive You on:
It is as true, as that Charlotta's doom'd
The most abandon'd, miserable Woman,
That ever yet was sentenc'd, barter'd, sold
To an unequal Match, and hated Bed:
As true, as that the Prince of Conde is ------

King.
Whirlwinds and Thunder drown thy direful News!

Ch.
That fiery, vengeful, surly, jealous—Husband,
Who grown suspicious on our Wedding-Day,
Lay lurking for Intelligence, and mark'd,
With a severe Construction, when You last
Came to enhance our mutual Miseries,
And sigh forth Your unhappy, fatal Passion.
To him, by my stern Father's dire Command,
Was I oblig'd to yield my Virgin Hand;
And thus am I requited! He it is,
That threatens Desolation and Revenge.

K.
Distraction! this was that one dang'rous Secret,
That my distrusting Thoughts declin'd to search.

Char.
Hah! does a Monarch tremble! Well may I,
A poor defenceless Woman, give a Loose
To every rising Break of frantick Horror.
Thus given up to Scandal's busie Tongue,
Unjust Reflections, or malicious Pity,
My Virtue murther'd, and my Honour stab'd;
Are They then lost, and shall My Self survive?
No! 'tis a Thought below my Sex, or Me;
I scorn to live disgrac'd, and dare be free;
Rather to other Worlds for Refuge go,
That Aid, I found not here, to seek below:
Let all their thousand several Tortures glare,
'Twill be a Variation of Despair,
And can't exceed my own;—I'll venture there.
[Exit Charl.

The King, solus.
King.
If, as Philosophy lays down the Maxim,
The real Greatness of a human Soul,
Must, e'er its Value's known, be try'd like Gold,
Purg'd of its Dross, prov'd Standard by the Furnace
Of deep Afflictions, and refin'd by Fire;
Who can support the Trial? He who dares,
(Spite of these rigid Rules of learned Dotage)
Throws of his Being, and is more than Man.
The Prince of Conde!—Sink, Heart-racking Subject!—
That Name has rais'd a Wild-fire in my Breast,
And set me on a Blaze; reviv'd such Thoughts,
As I would give my Empire to elude.


Before mistaken Pride let Glories fly;
Let Splendors glitter to the flatter'd Eye;
Let, with a greedy Hand, the Wretch in State
Grasp the false Bounties of delusive Fate;
Survey, with brutal Joy, or wanton Ease,
The Spoils of War, or Luxuries of Peace.
He, he is blest, (O were that Blessing here!)
Whose Thoughts are one pure Calm, and Conscience clear.
Unclogg'd, he soars above the Reach of Woe,
And looks with Pity on the World below.

[Exit.