University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE, A French Pavilion.
Princess, and Charlot.
Princess.
O, Charlot! how will this new Tryal shake me!
What shall I do to arm my threaten'd Mind
Against th'Assaults of Madness?—Tyrant Duty!
Why are thy Laws so binding?—If Obedience
Must thus be blind, then, sure! Command shou'd see
With Eagle-Ey'd Discernment!—Unkingly Father!
As if, to offer me, were Shame too gentle,
Curse on the blushful Thought!—I'll go to meet him!
Meanly obtrude my self upon his Scorn,
And hear the Bargain of my Price debated!
Is this to be a Princess? Perish Pride!
Oh let my base Example teach the Humble,
How happy 'tis to stand below Ambition.

Char.
Were my poor Counsell worthy Your Attention,
There's yet a Way, perhaps, to move the King;
His Tenderness is Equal to his Fear,
And may be mov'd to counterpoize Your Danger:
Disclose, with speaking Tears, the fatal Secret;
Tell him, how All Your Heart, already fill'd,
Has Room for no new Comer.

Prin.
Art thou mad?
That were a dreadful Means to wound me deeper:
The Pride of State wou'd then new-fire his Anger,
And I, by Force, driv'n on, to wed this Monster,
This fighting Dæmon in the Dress of Royalty!
Shou'd lose all Hope once more to see the Stranger,
The lovely, unknown, Conqueror!—whose Addresses,
Whose, not to be describ'd, unnam'd, Perfections,
Twelve long Months since first charm'd my list'ning Soul,
Spite of unequal Birth, to wish him mine,
And even tho' hated England gave him Being.

Char.
There I have something new, to warm Your Hope with:
Led, by kind Chance, among the shining Train
Of English Youth, who came with Exeter,
Occasion gave me Scope to form some Questions,
Which past as an unmeaning Love of Novelty:
I ask'd what Cavalier, some twelve Months since,
Glitt'ring with Gems, outshone by his Behaviour,
Came with the Earl of Westmorland to France;
Was call'd his Nephew, thrice appear'd at Court,
Then vanish'd, on Pretence of further Travel:
By this Description, All, at once, agreed,
That Owen Tudor was the Person meant;
And lavish'd Hours of Rhetoric in his Praises.

Prin.
Alas! did I not know all This before?
England boasts no such Charmer, but her Tudor!
This is not, what I hop'd, from thy Beginning.

Char.
I further learnt, that Tudor's Birth is such,
As may entitle Him to Royal Love;
That fear'd Objection is of Force no longer,
When Your great Father shall perceive Your Flame,
Burning, undimn'd, for an Imperial Off-spring,
Deriv'd from a long Line of Britain's Kings.

Prin.
Ay! this indeed strikes Lustre thro' my Sorrows!
There's Promise in this Hope—O! gentle Charlot!
Secret, as Death, conceal the dear Intelligence,
As a last Prop to my endanger'd Passion:
Now, will I boldly meet this Champion Lover!
This courtly Sir—who woo's in War, and Thunder!
Enter Dauphin.
So, Brother, will the King consent to spare me?
Or must I stoop to see this shamefull Interview?

Dau.
You must excite Your Spirits to Your Aid,
And bid a bold Defyance to Your Blushes;
I've try'd all Arts, in vain, that Reason teaches.
Come!—I must guide You to the Lists of Love,
And You must teach Your Charms new Ways of Wounding:
The King will have Your Beauty take the Field,
And does not fear, he says, but You can conquer!—
Him, whom our Armies fly from, You must face.

Prin.
Yes—I will go; but not, as He expects me,
I'll face this Foe of France; like France's Daughter!
The Woes of Ruin overtake those Reptiles,
Whose dronish Souls, bent under Age, or Fear,
Have thus misled their Master!—Yes, my Eyes
Shall dart keen Glances—but the Wounds, they give,
Shall be of Shame, not Love—

[A Trumpet sounds.
Dau.

[Exeunt.
SCENE changes to a Barrier, on a Bridge, Trumpets from Both Sides:
Enter, on one Part, the French King, on the Bridge, attended by the Dukes of Orleans, and Bourbon, &c. below:—On the other Side of the Bridge, King Henry, with the Dukes of Exeter, and York, Scroop, Cambridge, and Gray, below:
[The Kings Embrace over the Bar.]
Fr. King.
The Peace, we wish for, smile upon this Meeting!
Health, and the Joys of a long happy Life
To our lov'd Brother England!—Right glad we are
Thus to behold Your Face; Bless'd be the Issue
Of this good Day! that these contending Kingdoms,
England, and neighb'ring France! whose Chalky Shores
Look pale with Envy, at Each other's Happiness,
May, henceforth, cease their Hate, and plant Accord!
'Till War no more advance her bleeding Sword,
To prey on Strife between them!

K. Henry.
To This, Amen!

Fr. King.
Since we thus meet You, let it not disgrace me,
If I demand th'Impediment, why Peace,
Dear Nurse of Arts! shou'd not in this best Garden
Of the fair World, lift up her lovely Visage?
Too plain, alas! the Marks of her short Absence!
Our Vine, the merry Chearer of the Heart,
Withers, unprun'd;—Our Hedges, shooting wild,
Like careless Pris'ners, overgrown with Hair,
Thrust forth disorder'd Twigs; Darnel, and Hemlock,
Root on our fallow Lays, and, springing thick,
Beneath their Shade, hide the neglected Culter.

K. Hen.
Not for Delight in Blood have we thus far
Advanc'd our Standard in the Eye of France;
Our deep-laid Purpose boasts a nobler Meaning:
The Eye of Kings shou'd watch their People's Safety:
And Ill shou'd I discharge the Trust, Heaven leads me,
If, sleeping o'er the Wrongs, You do my Country,
I not demanded back the Power, You hold,
And turn, with threatning Point, against our Bosom.

Fr. King.
Of this, already, we have let You know
Our Thoughts, and Purpose;—It remains, to weigh,
If, by wide differing Means, we may not reach
The End, we jointly aim at?—Many Arrows
Come to one Mark; Far distant Rivers flow
Ten thousand Ways, yet meet in one main Sea!
How many Lines close in the Dial's Center!
So, may our various Purposes, at last,
Meet, in one fix'd Resolve, and please us Both.
Enter the Dauphin on the Bridge, leading the Princess in a Veil, attended by Charlot.
Our Son, the Dauphin, has, we hear, of late,
Fir'd with the first warm Flash of Provocation,
Return'd Defiance, with too fierce a Throw;
Young Blood will boil;—and You, so fam'd for Courage,
Will weigh That Error light;—Receive Him, Brother,
As one, who wishes Peace, and seeks Your Love.

[Presenting the Dauphin.
Dau.
Sir! Kings, and Fathers, claim a double Right
[To King Henry.
To tax our Duty; and will be obey'd;
I wou'd have met you with a warmer Grasp,
Had France been held by me; but since His Will,
Who governs mine, holds back the Edge of War,
And wou'd reach Peace, by Roads, less sharp, and rugged,
I greet your Royal Presence; and submit
To Measures, which I cannot, yet, approve.

K. Hen.
Approve is mine—I'm yet your Debtor, Sir,
But purpose to repay the Favour soon;
The Time is near, when you, perchance, may feel,
That wise Defiance should be arm'd with Safety,
And Fierceness, wanting Strength, but gnaws herself.

Dau.
When That wish'd Time—

Fr. King.
Our Son, reply no more;
Daughter! Your Hand.

Prin.
Your Pardon, Royal Sir! if I offend,
Or seem to wrong the Promise of my Duty!
I came in forc'd Obedience to Your Will,
To attend this Interview;—But if your Majesty
Permits me to declare my secret Thoughts
Of England's King, our publick Enemy;
Then, let that Duty, which I owe my Country,
Inspire me to confess, what fix'd Aversion,
What rooted Hatred, Nature bids me bear
To Him, of all Mankind, the most abhorr'd;
Who brings Destruction on to mark his Way,
And woo's the Daughter, with the Father's Ruin.

Dau.
Bravely declar'd, thou Sister of my Soul!

[Aside.
K. Hen.
Sorry we ought to be, that War's Offences
Have made the Fair our Foe;—You are an Enemy,
Whom we, spite of Your being such, can fear!

Prin.
Oh my high beating Heart! 'tis Tudor's Voice!

K. Hen.
In vain you shade Your Charms—That lovely Face,
Hid, as it is, remains no Stranger to us;
We wear Your Image, Lady! on our Heart.

Prin.
'Tis He!—'Tis Tudor!—O! amazing Chance!
[Aside.
Where slept my Soul, that, at our first Approach,
It flew not forth to meet him?—Support me, Charlot,
A sudden Mist dances before my Eyes.
O, Charlot! This is He! Whom we thought Tudor
[To Charlot.
Was Royal Henry! What a Chance is This?
Let me lean on Thee to devour his Accents,
And gaze him thro' at every word, He speaks!

K. Hen.
Drawn by the soft Remembrance of Your Charms,
Which, in my late-lost Father's Days, I saw,
When, at Your Court, I was a Guest unknown;
In Honour, Madam! of your hostile Beauty,
I stopt th'impetuous Progress of my Arms!
Rein'd in the Vigour of impatient War,
And wasted Fortune's Smiles, to gain this Meeting:
If I, now, listen to the Voice of Peace,
Whence must it come, but from the Call of Love?
When You, fair Foe! shall try your wondrous Power,
I cannot promise Fame t'oppose Your Will;
The healing Sweetness of your soft Command,
Spread o'er your rescued Land, might quiet War;
Might, like sweet Musick's Influence, still Your Air;
Might bid loud Discord die away, before it,
And drown th'inspiring Trumpet's shrill Alarms.

Prin.
Foe, as you are to France, there shines, methinks,
A kind of manly Merit in Your Meaning;
Something! I know not what, that Courage charms with,
Wakes my Discernment to admire Your Worth:
And, spite of my Resentment, bids me greet You:
Bow to Your Virtues, and confess Your Glory:
Cou'd my Desires incline Your Wills to Peace,
The unbrac'd Drum shou'd sleep, and the glad Trumpet
Fall its fierce Hoarsness, and inspire Delight;
All shou'd be calm, and while th'unruffled Kingdoms
Hush down the troubled Swell of dying Strife,
France shou'd no more, in her torn Bowels, feel
The strong Convulsions, which she shakes with, now.

Fr. King.
Why, that's well said—So speaks the Sex's Softness;
Your gentle Natures were not fram'd for Discord.

Dau.
Sister! That Mist you talk'd of, has, I doubt,
Risen o'er Your Senses, and obscur'd Your Memory.
Sir! on my Knees, since your too gracious Nature
[to the Fr. King.
Stands bent to Quiet, and o'ervalues Danger;
I beg Permission to unfold a Notice,
The welcome Import of whose smiling Promise
May rouse Your Royal Soul, to change its Purpose.

Fr. King.
Rise, and, with all just Freedom, speak your Meaning.

Dau.
Even now, as I approach'd your Royal Presence,
Posts, from our several Camps, have brought Intelligence,
That these rash English are enclos'd betwixt us;
Full sixty thousand French, this Night, surround 'em!
Yet, at this glorious Juncture, we submit
To lose, in Treaty, what is ours by Arms.

K. Hen.
Enjoy, unenvy'd, that imagin'd Benefit:
Courage is poorly hous'd, that dwells in Number:
The Lyon never counts the Herd about him,
Nor weighs how many Flocks, he has to scatter:
My Followers scarce are more, than one to Six
Of Your encircling Swarms;—Sickness has shrunk us,
And the enfeebled Few, whom I command,
Are, now, scarce better, than as many Frenchmen;
Yet, when we please to move, we shall come on,
Tho' France, conjoin'd with such another Neighbour,
Stood in our Way;—Now, even this Night, we'll march!
Passage left free, 'tis well!—if 'tis disputed,
We shall your tawny Plains, with your hot Blood
Discolour.—Now, You know our State, and Purpose.

Fr. King.
Advantage cannot change my Love of Peace,
And I yet offer the propos'd Conditions.

K. Hen.
What, in my Flow of Fortune, I refus'd,
Can never, in its Ebb, deserve Acceptance.

Dau.
France has but slept, proud King, tho' she seem'd dead!
Now shall thy punish'd Folly shame thy Weakness;
Now shalt thou praise our Patience;—England's Insolence
Shall bow beneath the Ransom of her Pride!
I cannot see what Chance can save Thee now;
Thou art so near the Gulph, thou need'st must drive,
Till catch'd, whirl'd round, and swallow'd!—Therefore, haste,
Remind thy Followers of a short Repentance,
That, from our vengeful Fields, their Souls ascending
May make a peaceful, and sedate Departure,
While their doom'd Bodies, mouldring on our Plains,
Enrich our Harvests, and attone thy Mischief.

K. Hen.
Madam! My Heart had Hopes, that Your sweet Voice
Might, free from Interruption, have decided
The yet uncertain End of bloody War;
But This gay Prince, ambitious of Distinction,
Ill brooks, that any but Himself should talk:
Sir!—It is well—Your Words are full of Fire!
Take heed, the dusty Field choak not the Blaze:
My surly Soldiers cannot threaten thus;
Their speaking Actions keep their Valour silent,
And when their Swords find Work, their Tongues are idle;
But for their Bodies, many shall, no doubt,
Find Native Graves; and Monuments, on which
Witness of this Day's Work shall live in Brass:
For those, who leave their scatter'd Bones in France,
Dying like Men, tho' bury'd on your Dunghills,
Even there, your Sun shall greet them with his Beams,
And draw their reeking Honours up to Heaven:
But I grow proud;—This Air of France infects me:
And I am swell'd with your contagious Vanity!
No more—when next we meet, our Swords shall argue.

Fr. King.
Why then 'tis War!—

Dau.
'Tis Glory and Revenge!

[Exeunt severally the Kings, follow'd by the English, and French Parties.
Princess and Charlot come forward on the Stage.
Prin.
Now! what can Flattery find to give me Comfort?
Where are my Prospects now? Did ever Fortune
Thus send Discovery in a Flash of Hope!
Just to show Joy, then leave it lost in Darkness!

Charl.
How happy had your Highness now been made,
Cou'd you have known, that All you wish'd was Henry!

Prin.
Tormentor! So they paint the punish'd Fiends,
Stung by an envy'd View of distant Heaven!
Now is War's raging Tide again broke in,
And all my Hopes are swept away before it:
O, Cruel! Tantalizing! Curse of Fortune!
In high-try'd Malice just to show him to me!
Just to convince me what a Bliss 'twou'd be,
To have him mine; then, drag him ever from me!
Heaven!—How he talk'd!—His Words, like Summer Breezes,
Ruffled, and fann'd at once my glowing Soul:
O! what a Scorn of Danger grac'd his Eyes!
What wanton Gayness sparkled in His Smiles,
And made even Terror charming! Then his Courage!
With what a clear and equal Fire it blaz'd!
Not blown about, or spread, by Blasts of Anger:
How manly, yet how tender, was his Love!
O! I shall die with Shame of my own Folly;
Who ever labour'd thus to be undone,
And courted her own Misery? who knows,
If the two Armies join, whether his Breast
May not be gor'd, by some ill-guided Spear?
And his Blood pay the Price of my mistaking!
It is too much! O, Charlot! I am mad!
I cannot bear the Thought! Horror distracts me!

Charl.
Lord Scroop's young Messenger not yet has left
Our Camp, but waits some Letters from the Dauphin;
Perhaps, if he were trusted with your Wishes,
He might propose some Means—

Prin.
Ha!—say no more—
For thou hast started something in my Soul,
That bears a Form, too dreadful for Description.
The Letters, which my Brother sends, are meant
To bring on Treason, and inhumane Murder!
The Death of Henry was propos'd from England,
And who can answer for my Brother's Hate?
Crush the false Traytors, All-avenging Heaven!
But Heaven is slow to punish—Let me think—
Why may not I?—I must—I will prevent it—
Ages to come, when they shall hear the Fame
Of my just Act, shall bless my living Name;
What, tho' his Arms my Country's Peace oppose?
All, who hate Treason, and strike gene'rous Blows,
Shall praise this Deed, which I to Honour owe;
And, in the Lover's Cause, forget the Foe.