University of Virginia Library

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.