University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The King and Villeroy.
King.
Is it confirm'd yet, that the flying Peers
Took diff'rent Routs?

Vill.
There is a Rumour, Sir,
The Prince of Conde is to Brussels fled,
Bouillon to his Castle of Sedan.

King.
Villeroy, I well remember, to thy Praise,
These Twenty Years hast thou stood faithful by,
And kept thro' every Scene of Royal Life,
Both in his publick and his private State,
A bold, a Critick's Eye upon thy Prince:
A stern Remarker of my several Passions,
The Virtues, or the Frailties of my Soul:
Then, with a Boldness worthy of thy self,
Tell me thy present Thoughts on our Affairs;
Say, Will a Monarch's Dignity allow
To treat with Rebel Subjects, or propose
My Pardon to the Fugitives, on Terms
Of true Submission, and a quick Return?
Or, shall I let the Sword of Vengeance loose?
Which shall I shew, my Justice, or my Mercy?

Vill.
His Passions labour as my Soul could wish;
His Danger makes him look upon his Error
With true Reflection, and with Reason's Eye.
Now, Villeroy, now improve the happy Minute,
At once to serve thy Prince, and serve thy Friend.
But I must search him deeper, deeper yet,
To work him to his Good [Aside].
What, Royal Sir,
You thus demand, 'tis dangerous to obey;
I would presume—but what can I advise?
The Grounds of their Revolt as yet unknown;
Be that demanded; then, if ought appears
Worthy Your Mercy, be Your Mercy shewn.
But if (but who would dare suppose the worst?)
They meet the Royal Summons with Disdain,
Then Justice is the Mercy You must use,
And awe them back by Force to their Allegiance.

King.
Daggers and Hell! must I again revolve
The cursed, cursed Cause that drove them hence?
The Grounds of Conde's Flight are known too well.

Vill.
Hah! is he come to this! I like it much.

[Aside.
King.
To me, Villeroy, they rise in ghastlier Shapes,
Than form'd the Horrors of Medusa's Head,
Frightful to Sight, and terrible to Thought.
But why these Tortures for a Crime unacted,
A self-revenging Crime, and only plac'd
In fruitless Wishes, unappeas'd Desires?
I lov'd; was Love a Crime? I love her still,
And must, so stubborn are my Passions there,
Were Honour, Life, and Empire all at Stake.
Why was Charlotta doom'd for Conde's Bed?
Why were they marry'd? or, when marry'd, then,
Why was the Secret kept from me alone?

Vill.
Let him go on, and give the Frenzy way,
Drive thro' these Billows of tumultuous Thought;
These Strugglings, if my Soul divines aright,
Foretell a calm and fortunate Result.

[Aside.
King.
Then shall I condescend? a Monarch stoop
To such inglorious Terms as are prescrib'd me?
Enrich a Subject, and undo my self?
Compound and barter for the publick Peace
My own more valu'd private Peace within?
It would indeed be generously cruel.
What then shall Henry, He, who never yet
Gave way to Terror, or shrunk back from Danger,
The hottest Rage of desp'rate Fight, the Noise
Of charging Squadrons, or the Groans of Death,
And all the loud Artillery of War:
Now shall he fear to do a daring Good,
A Justice to a Subject and Himself?

Vill.
I pity him indeed! Sure, sure, at last
His Nobleness of Temper will prevail,
Surmount the slavish Toil, and set him free.

[Aside.
King.
Since thus upon a Precipice I stand,
Why do I pause, as doubting which to chuse,
Or headlong plunge, or make a safe Retreat?
—'Tis done at last; I am my Self once more!
Villeroy, be quick, and execute my Orders,
By Proclamation call the Nobles back;
The Prince's Pardon's sign'd; in that besides,
(I judge he fled in Friendship to the Prince)
Include Bouillon: Soon as they return,
All Difference shall be heard, and reconcil'd.

Vill.
With all the honest Heart-exulting Joy,
That Loyalty or Friendship can impart,
I haste to execute the pleasing Orders.
[Exit Villeroy.

Enter Le Brosse.
King.
Hah! who is this, that with officious Boldness,
Thus breaks upon the Privacy of Kings?

Le Brosse.
Let not thy Anger thus unjustly rise
On thy most loyal Slave; on one, Oh King!
Who bears such Business as imports thee much:
Was Royal Henry anxious for his Good,
Would he attend this Warning of his Fate,
One who has now a stronger Title here,
Than any Fav'rite Statesman in thy Court.

King.
Thou talk'st in Riddles, make thy Meaning plain;
If thou bear'st aught of Moment to the King,
Thou hast the King's Command to speak it out.

Le Brosse.
Then hear what thus thro' me profoundly read
In Nature's Secrets, and the Book of Fate,
Taught by an early Converse with the Stars,
To see into Futurity, and judge
The distant Destiny of Things unborn,
And Things mature for Action, good or ill;
By Inspiration prompted from above,
By my own watchful Zeal, and boding Heart,
Thy Guardian Genius bids thee well beware,
With cautious Thankfulness, and full Belief.
Doubt me not, Monarch; for on this depends
Thy Safety, or thy Fall; thy Life, or Death;
Nought less this Evening, as the Stars forebode,
Is busy Fate at work to bring about;
Dang'rous thy Foes, and bloody their Designs.
Again I charge thee, Trust the sad Prediction:
Thou fall'st beneath the Stroke; unless thy now
Foreknowledge baffle, and thy Care avert it.

King.
And am I then, Ye Pow'rs, reduc'd so low,
To suffer, unchastis'd, the busy Dotage
Of every dreaming, prophesying Fool,
To pry into my Destiny, and search
The Planets for Intelligence of State?
Thou Dotard, these Chimæras of mad Brains,
These proper Subjects to employ a King?
Hence with thy insolent Pretensions, hence;
Those Stars that blabb'd the Secrets of my Fate,
Go false, or they had sav'd thy Trouble here;
They should have then inform'd thee, 'twas in vain
To try thy Wizard Art on Henry's Mind;
Thou talk'st of Dangers, Enemies and Plots,
Would'st thou not have me think thee an Accomplice,
Thus set at Work to fright me from my self,
Corrupt my Nature, and unman my Soul,
To fall the easier Victim to your Treasons?
Leave me, I say, and plot, or doat, elsewhere.

Le Brosse.
I go, since You command, but O my Prince,
'Tis with a heavy, a reluctant Heart,
To find my honest Zeal misunderstood,
My Knowledge slighted, and my Counsels spurn'd.
Thy daring Greatness hurries thee too far,
And blinds thee to thy Danger. Oh! that Dagger
That aims its Point at thee, and in thee stabs
The Heart, the Lustre, and the Nerves of France!
I see too plain (may once my Science err)
The sad Event must prove, but then too late,
The Truth of my Predictions and thy Fate.

[Exit Le Brosse.
King.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Villeroy, Prince of Conde, Bouillon.
Vill.
Thy Jealousies were rash, and grounded ill,
Imaginary Injuries; the King's
Unhappy Passion wrong'd himself, not Thee.
Embrace the gracious Pardon, Nobles both,
Whilst Mercy stretches forth her peaceful Hand,
Be reconcil'd to Loyalty again.

Bou.
That's our Resolve, our Business now at Court;
Stung with Remorse, by Duty summon'd back,
E'er yet our Rashness reach'd its purpos'd End,
We came, with all the Wings of conscious Guilt,
To throw our selves both Suppliants at the Throne.

Vill.
And you will find a Father for a Judge,
Tender to hear, and easy to forgive:
Believe me, Sirs, you will.

Prince.
Believe thee, Villeroy?
Can'st thou then think that we are sunk so deep
In Guilt's dark Gulph, so fetter'd with Despair,
As not to dare look up, to dare believe
There is a Heav'n for Penitence reserv'd?
My Wife is guiltless; and my King forgives
The rash Suspicions of a tainted Brain;
This is my Heav'n: Oh! aid me to support
The swelling Flood of Bliss that breaks upon me!
Charlotta, my suspected, injur'd Wife,
With added Lustre, and diviner Charms,
White as on starry Nights, the feather'd Snow,
And splendent as at Noon, the Orb of Day;
With all the Softness of a pitying Maid,
Invites the Rebel Husband to her Arms,
And hugs me into Extasies of Love.

Vill.
Hah! Who comes here? The Father of your Wife.

Prince.
O curs'd Return of Horror, Guilt, and Shame!
What! Montmorency? hide me, hide me, Villeroy;
Gape quickly Earth, and screen me from his Sight.
My Crime, like Lightning, flashes in my Face,
And makes me less than Man: I shake with Doubt,
And throw spontaneous Tortures on my self.

Enter Count Montmorency.
Mont.
Hah! Dost thou tremble only at my Sight?
Then think, thou monstrous Cause of all my Horrors,
Those Horrors that my Griefs have now prepar'd
To lay before thy Eyes in blackest Pomp,
To damn thy Baseness, and confront thy Guilt:
How will thy Soul support the shocking Charge,
That calls for Justice on thee, Ruffian Lord,
Thou Ruin of my Daughter and my House!
Thou Murtherer, thou Pois'ner of thy Wife!
Nay, thou shalt more than hear it; thy own Eyes
Shall justify the Truth, and to thy Soul
Report the Crime that damns it o'er and o'er.

Prince.
Forbear in Words to aggravate my Sin,
But lead me where the dreadful Scene may glare
Full in my Face, and witness your Report.
If true, by all my Guilt, I, on my self
Will execute what Justice you demand.
[Exeunt.
[The Scene changes, and discovers Charlotta dead, her Women mourning over her. Montmorency, Prince of Conde, Villeroy, Bouillon, Re-enter. Montmorency pointing to the dead Body.]
There, there, with all the sharpest Self-Reproach,
That conscious Guilt can raise, or this extort,
Survey the Havock (recent Act of Woe!)
This villainous Fiend Jealousy has wrought.
There look thy self to Madness; but, alas!
The Sight is too, too terrible for me.

[Exit Montmorency.
Prince.
If possible, I'll stare away my Soul;
[Staring ghastfully upon the dead Body.
My black, self-lashing, self-corroding Soul.
No, I will take a nobler, speedier Way,
Thou much abus'd, thou falsly blacken'd Whiteness;
Thou crying Victim to a Villain's Guilt,
To do thee Justice on thy Traytor Husband.

[Draws his Sword, and offers to stab himself.
Vill.
Art thou a Man? forego this Start of Madness,
[Villeroy prevents him.
Enough of Slaughter is already here;
One Crime can never be aton'd by more:
Calm Thought, and Reason, set thee right again.

Prince.
Why dost thou form a Wish so much unkind?
Calmness of Thought, and Reason, come to me!
The Two severest Enemies of Guilt,
The dreaded sure Returns of constant Pain.
Thinking is Hell, and Reason is a Glass,
That makes me, trembling, startle from my self,
By seeing my Deformity too plain;
Each Blot, each Stain, and Wrinkle of the Soul.
Oh! Villeroy! Oh! Bouillon! would you wish
To see me happy? wish me ever mad.
My injur'd Monarch, and my murther'd Wife,
There, as she lies, dire Sight! upbraiding me,
Stiff in the icy Arms of envious Death,
Are Scenes too dark for Reason to survey.
Come whip me, rack me, use me as you please,
As Justice dooms it, and my Crimes deserve.
Unshock'd, all outward Punishments I'll bear,
Let me escape the sharper Tortures here.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Nuntio.
This Change so sudden, and so ill foreseen,
The Rebel Peers recall'd, and King appeas'd,
Almost o'ershoots my Politicks, and mars
The deep concerted Measures of our Cause,
Just ripe for Execution: Curs'd, curs'd Turn!
What Means can now retrieve it? None but this;
We must dispatch this Minute, on our Foes
Or fire the Train, or be blown up our selves.
Startled at this damn'd Counterplot of Fate,
I bad Ravilliac should attend me here;
And see, the desp'rate Youth obeys me well.
I need but give the Word, the Work is done.

Enter Ravilliac.
Ravil.
Your Eminency's Orders I attend.

Nunt.
Ravilliac, as our Church has mark'd thee out,
Deputed thee the Glory of her great
Revenger, and the Strength'ner of her Faith;
Nay, we her rev'rend miter'd Sons have heard,
And witness'd to thy Vows; which unperform'd
Plunge to a certain Hell thy perjur'd Fear.
If done (as who shall dare distrust thee now?)
Procure thee Absolution, Fame, and Heav'n.
I need not ask thee, Whether now prepar'd?
(For Souls like thine disdain a Coward Pause)
This Minute to discharge thy sacred Oath,
And strike this Poniard home—Thou know'st the Place.

[Giving him a Dagger.
Ravil.
In Henry's Heart.

Nunt.
Enough; let it be done;
And fear not for thy self: And, above All,
Stand firm; let neither Promises, nor Threats,
Extort a mean Confession who employ'd
Thy righteous Arm, and prompted the just Blow;
That will undo the Labour of thy Hands,
And mar the Merit of the pious Deed.
This Ev'ning, as he goes to publick Vespers,
Join with th'encircling Crowd, and strike him there.
But once again, I caution thee, be secret;
Look on the hissing Flames, or threatning Wheel,
As on the Tracks to Glory and Reward:
Quit, with a Martyr's Pride, this meaner World,
And trust thy Merits in the next to Me.

Ravil.
Nor doubt me, nor detain me longer here,
I pant to be Immortal! Here's the Means:
[Holding out the Dagger.
This shall my Arm launch forth with sure Success,
Or reach the Tyrant's Heart, or pierce my own.
[Exit Ravilliac.

Nunt.
This Bigot Boy, this Necessary Tool,
Has rouz'd me once again with Glorious Hopes,
To see my Mines spring well, my self secure.
The Deed once done, I will my self appear
First in the Bustle, loudest in my Griefs,
And, if demanded, give my foremost Voice
For instant Justice on th'Assassin's Guilt.
A double Policy is answer'd there:
Success is purchas'd cheaply with the Ruin
Of one Religious Lunatick. Now, Fate
To work; be quick and bloody as thou wilt!
But some few Minutes pass, and, lo! again
Our Church shall triumph, and our Order reign.
[Exit Nuntio.

SCENE IV.

Bouillon and Vendosme.
Bou.
To Court return'd, and pardon'd by my King,
Deign'st thou to hear it, gen'rous injur'd Friend?
Would'st thou receive this Fugitive again?
Vendosme, to thee my Penitence is due.
The lovely fatal Cause, that urg'd me on
To break the Union of cemented Hearts,
Forfeit my Vows, and violate my Faith,
Shall be the Means to join us one again.
Where I most wrong'd, I'll make Atonement there:
And didst thou ever feel the Force of Love,
In all the furious Violence of Wishing,
Passions awake, and restless Night and Day;
Thou must conclude it ample Justice done,
To curb a burning Heart, and bid thee now
Be bless'd unrivall'd in Louisa's Love.

Vend.
Bouillon, now be cancell'd all that's past;
Like social Rivers, sever'd by a Storm,
We re-unite one Kindred-Stream again.
This great Concession has inrich'd me so,
My Heart knows scarcely which to value most,
The Giver, or the Gift. I wo'not wrong thee,
But with a lavish Gratitude repay
A Proof of Generosity like this.

[The Trumpets sound.
Bou.
These Trumpets speak our Monarch's near Approach.

[The King, Villeroy, Rosny, and Guards, as crossing the Stage. Ravilliac among the Throng, presses forwards to the King, with a Paper in his Hand; Villeroy speaking to him.
Vill.
Why dost thou press thus?

Ravil.
On a Subject's Right,
To offer my Petition to the King.

King.
Come forth, and let thy Grievance have Redress.

Ravil.
Thus, Tyrant, I redress my Grievance here.

[He stabs the King.
King.
Hah, Ruffian!—Thou hast play'd thy Part too well.
Inglorious Destiny!—But I submit.
Life fleets away apace! its Sluices drain'd!
Le Brosse predicted true, and Henry falls!

[The King dies.
[The Guards going to kill Ravilliac, Vendosme forbids 'em.
Vend.
Forbear you Swords, a Punishment too mild,
Reserve him for the Rigour of the Law,
For studied Deaths, and meditated Tortures.
O bleeding Piece of butcher'd Majesty!
Who has a Heart, but that curs'd Regicide,
That can survey thy Wounds, and not partake them?
My Father, and my King!—Villeroy, Rosny,
Why do you stand thus nail'd with Horror there?
Come here, fall prostrate on the Royal Coarse,
And pay your breathless Monarch Tears for Blood,
The poor Devotion you can offer now.

Rosny.
Why, Vendosme, dost thou vainly bid us move?
Have we or Life, or Soul, or Motion left,
When He, the Blood and Spirit of us All,
Lies there a Lump of Earth, deserted Clay?
O poor forsaken Country! Naked France!
Who now shall be thy Fence to gird thee round?
Who now survives to lead thy Armies forth,
To fight thy Battles, and maintain thy Glories?
To hoard thy lavish Sweets of fruitful Peace?
Thy Monarch, Husband, Father, Leader dead!

Vill.
Surprize & Horror have choak'd up my Words,
But Oh! what Words! what Utterance of Grief,
Whilst thou, O bleeding Majesty, ly'st there,
Can equal half thy Wounds, and our Despair?

Bouil.
to Ravil.
Thou Monster! thou Young Villain! canst thou view
The Dev'lish Scene that thou hast acted here,
And not shrink back with Frenzy at the Thought
Of all those dire Varieties of Death,
Those Tortures, that shall wring from thee the Truth,
From whence this Hellish Resolution grew?

Ravil.
Thy Tortures threaten, like thy self, in vain;
I dare confess, and glory in the Deed:
Our Church had damn'd the Heretick; our Church
Deputed me to push her Sentence home.

Vend.
What! must Religion colour o'er thy Guilt?
Thou Hypocrite! thou Traitor!—Bear him hence
To Chains and Dungeons, till releas'd by Death.
[The Guards carry Ravilliac off.
Bear to the Palace back the Royal Corpse,
In melancholy Pomp, and slow-pac'd Grief;
Whilst we, in publick Council strait conven'd,
Fix the Succession, and th'Assassin's Death.


And now let Faction's future Rage rebate,
And know, That Henry's Fame survives his Fate:
She can no more pursue her bloody Will;
In every Loyal Heart he triumphs still,
Out-lives his Wounds, commences there again
A longer, surer Life, and happier Reign.