University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Enter FAIRFAX.
O glory! how deceitful is thy View!
Such are thy Charms, that o'er th'uncertain Way
Of Vice or Faction, thou, to hide the Danger,
Dost to the outward Eye shew fair Appearance:
Which when the Follower steps on, down he sinks,
And then too late looks backward to the Path
Of long neglected Virtue.

Enter Lady FAIRFAX.
Lady FAIRFAX.
My dearest Fairfax, call not this Intrusion;
Long has Obedience combated with Love,
Ere I wou'd press upon your Privacy:
If Love has conquer'd, Love may be forgiven.
The Faults of Tenderness (if Faults they are)
E'en in offending wear the Seal of Pardon.
Why are you thus alone? and why thus chang'd?

FAIRFAX.
My gentle Lady, Thoughts of deep Concern,
That to the last Recesses of my Soul
Travel, with Pain and Penitence their Guides,
At length have found the Company they like;
Busy Reflexion, moping Melancholy,
And Silence the sure Guard that keeps the Door.

Lady FAIRFAX.
I cannot blame your Griefs; but come to share 'em.
Indeed the Cause is just: But, good my Lord,
Let not Despair take hold of that brave Heart,
And boast a Conquest which your Foes ne'er cou'd.
If (as I long have thought) the King be wrong'd,
Seek to redress, and not lament his Fortunes.
I am a Woman, not design'd for War,
Yet cou'd this Hand (weak as you think its Grasp)
Nerv'd by my Heart's Companion, Resolution,
Display the Royal Banner in the Field,
And shame the Strength of Manhood in this Cause.
Forgive this Warmth: I ne'er 'till now, my Lord,
Gave you unask'd my Thoughts, but I perceive
Your Heart is wounded, and I came to heal it:
To offer you the Balm of wholsom Counsel,
And temper my Persuasion with my Love.

FAIRFAX.
Thou hast been more than I cou'd hope in Woman:
Thy Beauty, thy least Excellence. Thou appear'st
Like a fair Tree, the Glory of the Plain,
The Root thy Honour, and the Trunk thy Friendship,
(That stands the rudest Blast of cold Adversity)
From whence branch out a thousand different Boughs;
Candour, Humility, and Angel Truth,
And every Leaf a Virtue. True, my Love,
While I conceiv'd our Liberties in danger,
I fought in their Defence; but cannot bear
This bold Design upon the Life of Charles.
We took up Arms to keep the Law entire,
Not to defend its open Violation.

Lady FAIRFAX.
I know thy honest Heart, it hates a Wrong:
'Twas Principle, not Party, urg'd thee on
To fight their Cause: But Cromwell's specious Wiles
Pervert the Justice of thy fair Designs,
And make thy Virtue pander to his Will.

FAIRFAX.
Cromwell has Art—but still I think him honest:
Yet in our late Discourse his Speech, methought,
Appear'd disjointed; and he wav'd the Theme
I spoke about—The Safety of the King—
At parting too, his Words betray'd a Purpose
Beyond the Limits of a Commonwealth;
And talk'd of highest Honours: But I hope
That my Suspicions wrong him.

Lady FAIRFAX.
No, my Lord;
Rather increase 'em; keep 'em still alive
To arm against his black Designs: Discretion,
At the Surmise of Danger, wakes incessant;
Nor drops the Eye-lid 'till she sleeps in Safety.

Enter a Servant.
SERVANT.
The Duke of Richmond and a Reverend Bishop
Desire to see you.

FAIRFAX.
Wait upon them hither:
I guess at their Desires, and wou'd to Heav'n
My Pow'r cou'd grant 'em what my Wish confirms!

Lady FAIRFAX.
And wherefore not, my Lord? The Army yours,
Who can dispute your Will? Command them hither,
And be their Threats the Safety of the King.

FAIRFAX.
Betray my Trust! Thou canst not mean such Baseness.
Shou'd I (which much I doubt, for Cromwell's Faction
Equals my Pow'r, and more, among the Soldier)
Make 'em revolt, what wou'd my Conscience say?
'Twou'd be a Mountain Crime, a Molehill Good.
The Whiteness of my fair Design to Charles,
Spread o'er the Visage of the Means that gave it;
Like thinnest Lawn upon an Æthiop Face,
Wou'd cover, not conceal the Blackness. No, my Love,
Virtue and Baseness never meet together.

Enter Bp. JUXON and D. of RICHMOND.
JUXON.
A mournful Errand, good my Lord of Fairfax,
Makes us thus rude. My gentle Lady, stay;—
Your Voice will help the Musick of our Plaint,
And swell the Notes to moving Melody:
Ill-fated Charles, deserted as he is,
Lives in your fair Report (or Fame has err'd)
Join in our Consort, as you are next his Heart,
You know to touch the String that sounds to Pity.

FAIRFAX.
My Lords, I guess your Purpose, and assure you,
If my Persuasion or my Wish avail,
Charles feels no Stroke, 'till Nature gives the Blow.
Long may the Fruit of Health adorn the Tree,
And ripen with his Years in warmer Times!

RICHMOND.
'Tis truly spoke, my Lord, and worthy Fairfax;
Whom I have still consider'd in this Light;
As nobly just, and but at worst misled.

JUXON.
How wou'd this Man adorn the Royal Cause,
Who makes Rebellion wear the Face of Virtue?
[Aside to Richm.
How I am pleas'd to find you feel this Woe,
And strive for its Prevention—Let these speak—
[Weeps.
These Eyes must else have known the dismal Office
To see the Widow's and the Orphans Sorrows:
Complaint had been my Language, Care, my Bed,
And Contemplation my uneasy Pillow.
Now by your Hopes of Mercy plead this Cause;
Know it a Labour that will pay it self,
E'en in this World—and when you mount above,
You will behold it of so vast a Value,
It will out-weigh th'Offences of your Life.

FAIRFAX.
Without this Intercession, good my Lord,
I had done all within my feeble Pow'r;
Yet think what Outcries din the Parliament,
How many Zealots call aloud for Justice!
Then think what you may hope, and what not fear.

Lady FAIRFAX.
No matter, Fairfax; 'tis a virtuous Cause,
And Heav'n will bless the Purpose with Success.

JUXON.
There Mercy spoke, and in her softest Voice:
‘And Heaven, I doubt not, signs the Prophesy.

Enter CROMWELL.
CROMWELL.
Indeed! Does Fairfax keep such Company?
Shame on his pitying Heart! His Soul's unmann'd,
His Resolution dwindled to a Girl's:
Now, in the Name of Fight, is this the Man
Whom Armies fled from, and whom Conquest lov'd?
Behold him now crept to a private Corner,
Counting out Tears with Priests and Women.

[Aside.
FAIRFAX.
See
Where Cromwell comes, I will once more assail him,
And be your selves the Witness of his Answer.
Good Cromwell, welcome! And let my Petition,
Join'd with these Lords, prevail upon your Pity;
Let Charles have Life? Is that so hard a Boon?
In lieu of three fair Kingdoms, give him Life.

CROMWELL.
Why this Address to me? Am I the Parliament?
'Tis they who justly call him to account,
And form this high Tribunal.

JUXON.
Justly, Cromwell.

CROMWELL.
Ay, good Bishop, justly!
I cry you Mercy! By the good old Cause!
It is but Gratitude in you to plead:
Episcopacy was the Rock he split on;
And he has ventur'd fairly for your Lawn:
How learnedly did he uphold your Cause,
When Henderson inveigh'd against your Miters,
Did he not write full nobly? Say'st thou, Bishop?—

JUXON.
His Conscience prompted him to what he did;
His Zeal for us can never be forgotten.

CROMWELL.
His Conscience! you say true- his Conscience did it:
He wou'd have stretch'd to Arbitrary Sway,
And swallow'd down our Liberties and Laws:
His Conscience wou'd have soon digested them.

FAIRFAX.
Let us not into Insult turn our Pow'r;
Good-fortune is not wedded to our Arms:
Conquest, like a young Maiden with her Lover,
If roughly treated, turns her Smiles to Frowns,
And hates where once she lov'd.

CROMWELL.
I stand corrected.
To me then you apply in Charles's Favour,
And wait my Answer, which is briefly thus:
I am but one, and (as the weaker must)
Flow in the Current of Majority:
My single Voice be it against, or for,
Avails him little: If the rest incline
To think of Mercy and of Charles together,
'Tis fairly done, and e'en to Cromwell's Wish:
This is the Sum of all I can deliver—
Fairfax, I have matter for your private Ear.

JUXON.
We humbly take our Leaves.

FAIRFAX.
My Lords, Farewel!

[Exe. Jux. Rich. and Lady Fairfax.
CROMWELL.
How can you waste your time on Trash like this?
Were Fairfax's Honour to be doubted, this might make
The Child Suspicion grow to Certainty;
But we are confident in you. Your Actions speak:
Yet, Fairfax, do not let thy noble Eye
Catch the Contagion of weak-judging Pity,
And sympathize with Beggars. To my Purpose:
The Council, at whose Head your Wisdom sits,
Weighing some Depositions 'gainst the King,
Wou'd have your Judgment's Sanction: They request
Your Presence there; I bear their Will with Pleasure.

FAIRFAX.
It is not needed, Sir.
As to the Purpose of their Meeting, say,
If they incline to Mercy, let their Charge
Be weaker than it is; but if to Rigour,
They have, I fear, too much of that already:
Let 'em (if friendly Fairfax may advise)
Judge with that Candour, they expect of Heaven.

CROMWELL.
You will not go then?

FAIRFAX.
Say I cannot go.
My Reason pleads against so bad a Deed,
And Inclination holds me; nay, yet more,
A secret Impulse strikes upon my Soul,
Which, tho' I had the Will, wou'd yet detain me.

CROMWELL.
Folly and Superstition! Drive 'em hence;
And in exchange, wear Honours and Renown:
Of this I've said—And, noble Fairfax, believe me,
That when the Wind of Promise and of Hope
Stretches the Canvas out of Resolution,
The Bark, Design, flies swift before the Gale,
And quickly anchors in Good-fortune's Bay;
Then we unlade our Freight of Doubts and Fears,
And barter 'em for Happiness and Glory.

[Exit.
FAIRFAX.
He who embarks himself in Cromwell's Ship,
Out-sails fair Truth and ev'ry honest Purpose.
'Tis now too plain—How cou'd I doubt so long?
My Honesty has made me Cromwell's Tool:
His Arts have turn'd my Virtue to a Sword,
And now 'tis bared against me.
But say, shall Fairfax, who in open Field
An Army cou'd not conquer, fall a Prey,
To the ambitious Prospects of one Man?
No, Fairfax, rouse up the Resentment's Force,
And rescue thy Renown from Infamy.

[Exit.
SCENE, A Chamber.
King CHARLES discover'd reading.
KING.
What art thou, Life, so dearly lov'd by all?—
What are thy Charms, that thus the Great desire thee,
And to retain thee part with Pomp and Titles?
To buy thy Presence, the Gold-watching Miser
Will pour his Bags of mouldy Treasure out,
And grow at once a Prodigal. The Wretch
Clad with Disease and Poverty's thin Coat,
Yet holds thee fast, tho' painful Company.
O Life! thou universal Wish; what art thou?—
Thou'rt but a Day—a few uneasy Hours:
Thy Morn is greeted by the Flocks and Herds,
And every Bird that flatters with its Note,
Salutes thy rising Sun; Thy Noon approaching,
Then haste the Flies and every creeping Insect
To bask in thy Meridian; that declining
As quickly they depart, and leave thy Evening
To mourn the absent Ray: Night at hand,
Then croaks the Raven Conscience, Time mispent;
The Owl Despair screams hideous, and the Bat
Confusion flutters up and down—
Life's but a lengthen'd Day not worth the waking for.
Enter the QUEEN.
My dearest Queen!
I have been summing up th'Amount of Life,
But found no Value in it, 'till you came.

QUEEN.
Do not perplex yourself with Thoughts like those:
Ill Fortune at the worst, returns to better,
At least we think so, as it grows familiar.

KING.
No, I was only arming for the worst.
I have try'd the Temper of my inmost Soul,
And find it ready now for all Encounters:
Death cannot shake it.

QUEEN.
Do not talk of Death:
The Apprehension shakes my tender Heart;
Ages of Love, I hope, are yet to come,
Ere that black Hour arrives: Such chilling Thoughts
Disgrace the Lodging of that noble Breast.

KING.
What have I not to fear? Thus close confin'd;
To-morrow forc'd to Trial. Will those Men,
Who insolently drag me to the Bar,
Stop in the middle of their Purpose? No.
I must prepare for all Extremities:
And (be that Pow'r ador'd, that lends me Comfort)
I fell I am—Oh, do not weep, my Queen;
Rather rejoice with me, to find my Thoughts
Outstretch the painful Verge of humane Life,
And have no Wish on Earth—but thee! 'tis there
Indeed I feel: Peace and Resignation
Had wander'd o'er the Rooms of ev'ry Thought,
To shut Misfortune out, but left this Door
Unclos'd, thro' which Calamity
Has enter'd in thy Shape to seize my Heart.

QUEEN.
Be more yourself, my Lord; let Majesty
Take root within thy Heart, nor meanly bend
Before ill Fortune's Blast.

KING.
O doubt me not!
'Tis only on the Side where you are plac'd,
That I can know a Fear. For Charles's self,
Let fierce Encounter with the Sword of Danger
Bring him to bloodiest Proof; and if he shrinks
Despise him. Here, I glory in my Weakness.
He is no Man whom Tenderness not melts,
And Love so soft as thine. Let us go in.
And if kind Heav'n designs me longer Stay
On this frail Earth, I shall be only pleas'd,
Because I have thy Presence here to crown me.
But if it destines my immediate End;
(Hard as it is, my Queen, to part with thee)
I say, farewel, and to the Blow resign,
That strikes me here—to make me more divine.