University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE, The English Pavilion.
King Henry, and Duke of Exeter.
K. Henry.
From the French Camp? to speak with me in private!
What can it mean?—and talks of Traitors, said you?

Exe.
Brought to my Tent, she earnestly assur'd me,
I cou'd not more contribute to your safety,
Than by procuring Her a private Andience.

K. Hen.
Admit Her, Uncle.
[Exit Duke of Exeter.
A Woman Messenger from the French Camp!
There must be Myste'ry in't—my wakeful Soul
With sudden Hurry, beats the Alarm within me!
Were I inclin'd to superstitious Dreamings,
Or apt to build on Signs, and idle Omens,
There shou'd be Danger near me. Welcome Lady?
Enter Charlot.
To what unusual Cause are we oblig'd,
For your fair Greeting?

Char.
If my trembling Lips
Can speak the Purpose of my beating Heart,
I, from the Princess Catharine, come to greet you;
Command a trusty Guard to follow me,
And I will point out a discover'd Traitor;
But lose no Time—The Lords of France, who came
To guide me hither, Strangers to my Purpose,
Hold him, without, in unsuspected Conference:
Haste—lest he scape you, and your threatned Life
Be caught by sudden Danger!

K. Hen.
Life! what Life!
Cool thy Impatience, gentle Lady! stay
And temperately explain thy dark Intention.

Charl.
O! do not trifle with th'important Moments:
Give me a Guard, and save yourself from Treason
The Princess gives you Life, and bids me tell you,
She will not over-rate the gene'rous Merit;
But hopes, that thus disarming War's worst Meaning
Entitles Her to claim the Thanks of Peace.

K. Hen.
Uncle of Exeter!

Enter Exeter.
Exe.
What wills my Liege?

K. Hen.
Call me a chosen Guard.

[Exit Exeter.
Charl.
One thing I had forgot;
The Princess, fearful, for her Person's Safety,
Claims Leave to pass your interposing Camp,
And enter yon near Castle, Agincourt;
This was my only known, and publick Errand.

K. Hen.
She shall have Royal, and illustrious Welcome;
The Safety, she bestows, she must command:
We judge the Occasion happy, and we hope,
The noble-minded Princess, passing near,
Will honour us with Licence to declare,
What Thanks our Heart must owe Her; for our Words
Wou'd sully our Conceptions, and deceive Her!
Re-enter Exeter, with a Guard.
Go, with this Lady, and observe Her Orders,
And whom she points you out, seize, and secure.
[Exeunt omnes, but the King.
My Soul, with keen Impatience, waits the Issue
Of this strange Notice—Treason?—'tis impossible!
Whom has my short Reign wrong'd?—what want a People,
Whom Wealth and Plenty smile upon, at Home,
And whom, abroad, the Fame of Arms makes dreadful?
What wou'd Complaint have more?—Ill-judging Vulgar!
Were it not glorious to make Millions happy,
Who, that had Sense of Bliss, wou'd be a King!
Th'unbusied Shepherd, stretch'd beneath the Hawthorn,
His careless Limbs thrown out in wanton Ease,
With thoughtless Gaze perusing the arch'd Heavens,
And idly whistling, while His Sheep feed round him;
Enjoys a sweeter Shade, than That of Canopies,
Hem'd in with Cares, and shook by Storms of Treason!
Re-enter Exeter.
Now Uncle! what Discovery?

Exe.
Near Your Pavilion stood some French of Figure;
And with them a fair English Youth, whom oft
I have observ'd, and wonder'd at his Beauty;
The Lady mark'd him out, then took her Leave,
And as she left, we seiz'd him—

K. Hen.
Let him come in alone.
Exeter goes out, and enter Harriet in Confusion.
A very Boy!—Treason in Thee budds early!
Who art Thou? say—to whom thou dost belong?
Silent?—Nay, then, there's Guilt! why art thou dumb?
Come farther this way—if thou shun'st the Light,
Thy Deeds have Darkness in them—Immortal Heaven!
What is it, that I see?—Can'st Thou be Harriet?

Har.
Can'st Thou be Henry, and alive to ask it?
O! 'tis with Justice, Fate, thus, overtakes me,
For having meanly linger'd in my Vengeance!
High Heaven will reach Thee, Tyrant! tho' I cannot;
Since thy still-fortunate Deceits protect Thee;
Since perjur'd Love does not alone upbraid Thee,
But thy Eternal Wiles win all alike,
And even thy Foes grow treacherous, and assist Thee.

K. Hen.
But is it possible, that Thou conspir'st?
That Thou can'st wish me dead?

Har.
Insulting Tyrant!
Cool, frosty-hearted Monster!—Wish Thee dead?
Why, 'tis the only glorious Hope, I live for!
Think on the Miseries, Thou hast wrung my Soul with;
The biting Shame, the never-dying Anguish!
Think on the guilty Arts, the Oaths, the Subtleties!
The endless, inexpressible, Deceits!
The Wiles, and Perjuries, which have undone me!
Think on the feign'd Endearments; studied Graces!
False Smiles; enticing Raptures! labour'd Flatteries!
And all that nameless Train of silent Treacheries,
Which help'd thy tempting Tongue to make me wretched!
Look back on all this dreadfull Pile of Baseness,
And then—Oh! Heaven!—if then, Thou dar'st look farther!
If frighted Memory does not fly thy Soul;
Think, in the bitter Agonies of Conscience,
What follow'd all this Train of Preparation!
See me abandon'd to the Lash of Shame;
Turn'd out an Object for sharp-ey'd Derision,
By Friends forsaken, and disown'd by Kindred:
Wild, and distracted, with unconquer'd Sorrow!
Expos'd, to be the Mirth of wiser Hypocrites,
And stand the Scorn-Mark of the hooting World:
Death!—Thou Destroyer! think of This! and then,
In the cool Insolence of Pride, and Majesty,
Ask me again—if I can wish Thee dead?

K. Hen.
'Tis true, fair Murderer! I have greatly wrong'd Thee!
And, yet, not I—but what I once was, wrong'd Thee:
'Tis a sad Theme, and Reason trembles at it:
Yet, what can be—all, that weak Words can give Thee,
And Grief, and Penitence, and Shame, and Love,
All this sit down, and hear, to calm thy Soul.

[Takes her Hand.
Har.
Perish that treacherous Smoothness—
Unhand me, that my curdled Blood, all chill'd,
As at a Serpent's Sting, when thou com'st near me,
May flow in Freedom, and give Power to curse Thee.

[Breaks from Him.
K. Hen.
Have You not Prudence? Are You mad?—Come hither!
I must, by gentle Force, compell thy Passion,
Since Reason cannot guide tempestuous Sorrow:
Calm thy loud Ravings—If thy Shame offends thee,
Why wou'dst thou thus proclaim it? Be wiser, Harriet!
The quick-ear'd Camp will spread the Telltale Sorrow:
Nay, 'tis in vain to struggle; sit, and hear me.
[He forces her into a Chair, and sits down by her.
Sit, and be patient, while Repentance pleads,
And Love's soft Sympathy condoles thy Woe;
As yet, this Dress, and its too bloody Purpose
Conceal Thee, and thou may'st be still conceal'd.

Har.
What wilt thou do? Why dost thou thus compell me
Helpless, to listen to the Voice of Ruin?
[Snatches at his Sword.
Give me thy Sword—thy Words have lost all Power
To give me Comfort;—Is that, too, deny'd me?
Then I must hear Thee; hear thy base Upbraidings;
Friendless, and destitute of all Assistance,
Must sit, and tremble at my lost Condition:
Yet, Thou art guiltier far, than I can be!
O! Thou wert born to pull down Misery on me,
[Weeping.
And, Every Way, to ruin, and destroy me.

K. Hen.
If, in this dreadfull Conflict of thy Soul,
Distracted Judgment holds her ruffled Empire,
Listen, and mark what my sad Heart shall utter.
Fatal our Course of Passion!—Its Effect
Proves bitter—but the Cause was tend'rest Love!
Youth is unbridled, blind, and void of Fear,
Ever determin'd,—deaf to Consequence,
And rolling forward upon Pleasure's Byas:
All Youth is thus—but mine was worse than All!
Wild, and disorderly, beyond Example!
Why did not thy discerning Reason tell thee,
A Wretch, like me, deserv'd no Pity from thee?
How cou'd a Madman's Hurry weigh thy Worth?
But Thou wilt say, my Oaths, and Vows deceiv'd thee!
Ascribe that Guilt to thy own Power of Charming:
When the Blood boils, and Beauty fires the Soul,
What will the Tongue not swear?—Discretion, then,
Does, with a Peacock's Feather, fan the Sun;
Yet, in the midst of all those wild Desires,
Which then divided my impatient Mind,
Thou wert the warmest Wish, my Soul persued!
My Love to Thee was permanent, and strong;
Thy Beauties were my waking Theme; and Night
Grew charming, by soft Dreams of thy Perfection.
Were I, now, what I was, when Harriet bless'd me,
Still were I Hers—My Love can never die!
And I think on thee, Harriet, with such Tenderness,
As dying Fathers bless their weeping Sons with:
And were I not a King, Thou still wert happy.

Har.
Can'st Thou, then, mourn the Sorrows, thou hast caus'd me?
Am I still lov'd?—I thought thou hadst despis'd me.

K. Hen.
Still I regard Thee, with the same Desires;
Gaze, with the same transporting Pleasure, on Thee,
As when our bounding Souls first flew together,
And mingled Raptures, in consenting Softness.
But Kings must have no Wishes for Themselves!
We are our People's Properties! Our Cares
Must rise above our Passions! The public Eye
Shou'd mark no Fault on Monarchs; 'Tis contagious!
Else I, to Death, had borne the dear Delight,
And, bless'd in mutual Transport, still liv'd Thine!
Call it not Guilt then, 'twas a dire Necessity!
And what remains, is tenderest Penitence,
And wish'd Atonement.—For the first, my Soul
In never ceasing Anguish mourns thy Misery:
Were the last possible, my Love wou'd reach it;
But where the Ill's incurable, how vain!
To rack the Suffe'rer with our useless Cordials!
What I cou'd do, was done; but thy Disdain
Made frustrate all my Watchings, o'er thy Fortune;
And, now—

Har.
Enough; O! Yet too lovely, Henry!
My aking Heart, oppress'd, twixt Joy, and Pain,
Can bear no longer the fierce Pangs, it feels:
Take, now—but bless me yet once more, say, Henry!
Once Mine!—Dost thou, with Pity, think on Harriet?

K. Hen.
Pity's too mean a Word to reach my Woe:
The Grief, it gives me, to behold thee thus,
Can but be felt!—'Tis not in Language, Harriet,
To cloath its mighty Bulk with due Description.

Har.
Take, then, these Letters, and be happy still.
[Gives him Letters.
They will bring Safety to thee; Canst thou pardon me?
I shou'd have been consenting to thy Murder!

K. Hen.
My sad Heart pardons thee, and hopes it from thee.

Har.
Perhaps, when I go hence, we part for ever!
Pardon me, therefore, if I gaze upon thee;
My Eyes may never more behold thy Face!
The chilling Call of Death has warn'd me from thee,
And I shall be at Peace, ere long, and Happy.

K. Hen.
O! let me kiss away that mournful Sound.

Har.
Forbear—My Soul, too sad, to soften more,
Shrinks from the fatal Folly!—much oblig'd
By this Forgiveness, which has bless'd my Ruin;
By that kind Pity, which you heal my Woes with!
I have but one way left, to thank Your Goodness:
I have one new Discovery, yet, to make You,
[Feeling in her Pocket.
Containing the last Secret of my Soul;
I did not think, so soon, to have disclos'd it:
But since, without it, you can ne'er be happy,
I send it, thus—directed to my Heart.

[Draws a Dagger, and stabs herself.
K. Hen.
Rash Girl! What hast thou done?—Uncle, of Exeter!
Help me! Who waits without? oh! help! support her!
Enter Exeter, and York.
Harriet! the injur'd Harriet, dies!—O, Uncle!
Her catching Grasp, by Fits, strives hard to hold me!
Her straining Eyes half burst their watry Balls!
Vainly they glare, to snatch a parting Look!
And Love, convulsive, shakes her struggling Bosom:
Care comes too late;—Her quivering Lips grow pale;
And frighted Beauty, loth to leave its Mansion,
Ebbs slow, with the unwilling Blood, away:
O! see, the fatal Fruits of guilty Love!

Exe.
The sudden Wonder so confounds my Thoughts,
I know not what Advice to give your Grief:
Poor Harriet! was it Thee, I seiz'd for Treason?

York.
Who waits there?—Gently take away this Body,
Place it within, till you have further Orders;
The mournful Object will but feed his Sorrow.

[They carry off the Body.
K. Henry opens, and reads the Letters.
K. Hen.
O Uncles! Here is Treason will surprize You!
Letters to some, most near us, from the Dauphin,
Concerning a large Sum of Gold, in Bribe,
For our intended Murder, when the French
Shou'd first join Battle with us.

Exe.
Heaven forbid!
That such false Traitors should be near Your Person.

York.
Have not the Villains Names?

K. Hen.
Wou'd ye believe it? Scroop!

Exe.
Lord Scroop! Your Bosom Favorite!

York.
Is this possible?

K. Hen.
Cambridge, and He, join'd with Sir Thomas Gray!
These Letters lay all open; Their Delivery
Was the last Token of poor Harriet's Love:
How false, and slippery, are the Wills of Men!
—Admit the Counsell;—we'll take instant Care
To crush this Treason; for the Rest in Hand,
Delay we, till to-morrow, all Debate.

Enter Scroop, Cambridge, and Gray, with others; who, with the King, Exeter, and York, sit down at the Table.
K. Hen.
Surrounded, as we are, give us Your Thoughts,
My faithful Friends! for, sure, none here have Cause
To wish us Evil!—Think ye, the Troops, we head,
Will cut their Passage thro' th'opposing Frenchmen?

Scroop.
No doubt they will, if Each Man do his Best.

K. Hen.
Can we doubt That?

Cam.
There's not a single Heart in Your whole Army,
That gives not full Consent to all your Wishes.

Gray.
Never was Monarch more belov'd, and fear'd,
Than is Your Majesty—There's not, I think,
Among Your happy Millions, one griev'd Subject.

Scroop.
The Men, who were your Father's Enemies,
Have steep'd their Gall in Honey; and obey You,
With Hearts brimfull of Duty, and of Zeal.

K. Hen.
We judge no less—Uncle, of Exeter!
Enlarge the Man committed Yesterday,
For railing at our Person;—we consider,
It was Excess of Wine, that push'd him forward,
And, on more serious Thoughts, we pardon Him.

Exe.
Your Majesty is rich in Clemency;
And 'tis a Princely Virtue!

York.
Kings, not more
By Power grow dreadful, than rever'd for Mercy.

Scroop.
Yet Mercy, sometimes, savours of Security;
Presumption shou'd be punish'd, lest Example
Spread, by Forbearance.

K. Hen.
Oh! let us still be merciful!

Cam.
So may Your Majesty, yet punish, too.

Gray.
You show great Mercy, if this Fellow lives,
After due Taste of sharp Correction.

Exe.
O! do not thus, with Cruelty's keen Breath,
Blow off, and scatter, the sweet Dew of Mercy;
When, from the Heav'n of Power, that soft Rain falls,
The thriving State looks fresh; Dominion prospers,
And parch'd Rebellion shuts her drowthy Gapings.
Mercy is the becoming Smile of Justice;
This makes her lovely, as her Rigour, dreadfull:
Either, alone, defective:—but when join'd,
Like Clay, and Water, in the Potter's Hands,
They mingle Influence, and together rise,
In Forms, which neither, separate, cou'd bestow.

Scroop.
Well has his noble Grace of Exeter
Declaim'd on Mercy!—Mercy is a Topic,
Copious, and fair; but Men, who councell Monarchs,
Must smile at naked Nature's moral Dreams,
And, skill'd in manly Rigour, cast off Pity:
Pity! that Waster of a Prince's Safety!
What! shall a Villain Hind defy his King?
Spurn at his Laws, and then cry—Help me Mercy!
I wou'd have us'd my Sovereign, like a Slave,
And, therefore, must have Mercy—Out upon't!
'Tis the Priest's Rattle! Heaven's Ambrosial Diet!
Too thin a Food for Mortals!—Men wou'd starve on't:
Mercy is soft, indeed, as his Grace says,
And so is Rottenness in hoarded Fruit;
Yet, is such Softness so far wide of adding
To the Fruit's Value, that, if not cut off,
It spreads Contagion, and o'er-runs the Sound.

Gray.
The Advice is just, and I stand up to second it.

Cambr.
He cannot love the King, who counsells Mercy.

K. Hen.
My Lords! Your too warm Love, and Care of me,
Are heavy Orisons against this Wretch:
But, if small Faults, arising from Distemper,
May not be wink'd at, how must we stretch our Eye,
When capital, cool, Crimes, ripe, and digested,
Shall come before us;—We'll howe'er enlarge Him;—
Now, to our other Business—Our French Cares.
We have thought fit to name three new Commissioners,
For what, the written Causes, here, will show:
My Lord of Cambridge, there is one to you!
This, Scroop! is yours! This yours, Sir Thomas Gray!
Read them, and know, I know your Worthiness!
[Gives them the Dauphin's Letters.
Look! how they change! Why, how now, Gentlemen?
What find you in those Papers, that you, thus,
Lose your Complexions?

Cambr.
Sir, I confess my Fault; and 'twere in vain,
Now, to deny, what may be prov'd, too plainly!

Grey.
I, also, own my Guilt.

Scroop.
We throw us on Your Mercy.

K. Hen.
Mercy?—Dare Mercy's Foes lay Claim to Mercy?
You must not dare, for shame, to think of Mercy!
Your own Advice turns short upon yourselves,
And worries you, as Dogs devour their Masters.
Why shou'd you reap a Good, you envy Others?
See you, my noble Lords! these English Monsters!
My Lord of Cambridge, here! you all remember,
How he has shar'd our Favour—yet this Man
Has, for a worthless Sum of shameful Gold,
Conspir'd to kill us, in the Cause of France!
So has This Knight, tho' no less bound to us,
By Acts of Grace, than Cambridge—But, Lord Scroop!
What shall I say to Thee? Thou, who didst bear
The Key of all my Counsels! Thou, who might'st
Have coin'd my Crown out into Gold, to serve thee!
Canst Thou wish Death to Henry?—Is it possible,
That foreign Hire can bribe my Scroop against me?
If that vile Demon, who seduc'd thee thus,
Shou'd, with his Lyon Gait, walk round the World,
He might return, and say to his fellow Fiends!
I cannot, in my boundless Compass, find
One Soul, so easy, as that Englishman's!
O! how hast thou, with Jealousy, infected
The Confidence of Friendship!—A Guard here instantly!
Enter a Guard.
Touching our Person, seek we no Revenge;
But we our Kingdom's Safety must so tender,
Whose Ruin you have sought, that, to her Laws,
We must deliver you—Go, bear 'em hence.

[Exeunt Scroop, Cambridge, and Gray, guarded.
Exe.
This, as an Earnest of Heaven's Favour, promises
A glorious Issue of our noble Enterprise.

York.
[A Trumpet sounds.
Exeter, looking out,

Enter Princess, with Charlot and Attendants.
K. Hen.
Instruct my Wishes, fair, and generous, Enemy!
What I shall do, to thank you, as I ought!
You have, in spight of Fortune, conquer'd me,
And I grow weak in Arms, as Love grows stronger.

Prin.
Tho' by the Duty, which I owe my Country,
I must, perforce, regard you, as a Foe;
Yet cou'd I not permit such Worth to fall
By Treason, which, by Arms, I ought to wish
O'erthrown—but shou'd be glad to save, even there.

K. Hen.
From Honour's Lessons I have learnt to know,
That He, whose Life you sav'd, shou'd live for you:
I thought, when, in your Father's Court, I first
Fed my devouring Eye with your Perfection;
I thought, fond Novice, and unlearn'd in Love!
I, then, felt Passion, which cou'd ne'er be heighten'd;
But, now, enflam'd by growing Admiration,
As I come nearer your amazing Excellence,
Dazled with Lustre, I adore your Virtue,
Feel your whole Influence, and am lost in Love.

Prin.
It pleases me, that You, thus, own my Favour!
This noble Gratitude adorns your Nature;
I hope, I shall not vainly put to Tryal
This generous Temper of your Royal Soul:
If I am half so dear to Henry's Wishes,
As his too-flattering Tongue has painted me,
He will not, cannot, then, deny my Prayer:
Accept the Terms, my Father lately offer'd,
And pay me back the Debt, you owe my Care.

K. Hen.
That were to prove unworthy your Regard.

[Alarm of Drums, Trumpets, and Shouts. Enter Exeter.
Exe.
The French advance, on every side, upon us,
Spreading, like Mists, they cloud the neighb'ring Hills!
The Dauphin heads them; and they come, determin'd,
To force us on a Battle.

Prin.
Restless Brother!
Unhappy Accident!—O! Royal Henry!
How shall my Wishes speak, divided thus?
Kind Heaven, at least, watch o'er thy noble Person!
And shield thee from the Danger of the Battle.

K. Hen.
The Night comes on; and 'twere a braver Part,
To have their Courage witness'd by the Morning.
Madam! you see, I am not fond of Blood,
Your furious Brother throws Himself upon me,
And if his Country bleeds, He gives the Wound:
Whate'er the doubtful Chance of War may be,
I bear such Memory of your Excellence,
As cannot die, but with me—Uncle, of Exeter!
Be it your Care to see the Princess safe,
To Agincourt's near Castle—May you live
Long to adorn the World with your Perfections!

Prin.
Farewell! and, if we never more must meet,
Think, 'tis our Fate, and not my Choice, divides us.

Exeunt Princess, Charlot, and Exeter.
Enter Duke of York.
K. Hen.
Who's That?—Good York.

York.
York, on his aged Knees,
Most humbly begs, since the proud Foe comes on,
He may command your Vanguard.

K. Hen.
Gallant York!
Take, and enjoy, with Glory, thy brave Wish:
Night's sable Scene is now so closely drawn,
The Foe, however rash, must wait the Dawn;
Then, Skill in Arms assist my lab'ring Brain,
And give that Conquest, Valour scarce cou'd gain:
The Souls of Leaders must inspire their Bands,
For all War's Fate lies in the General's Hands.