University of Virginia Library

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.