University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Isabella, Cleora.
Cleo.
Why, Isabella, are these sighs of sorrow,
While crouding joys invite your blooming youth?
Love rears a thousand little tender fears,
Fate, with a smile auspicious, bids you hope;
To fear is to distrust a power supreme,
The watchful guard of virtue in distress.

Isa.
Have I not cause to fear a thousand ills?

Cleo.
No! your lov'd Overbury comes to cheer you,
Then let weak malice work up threatning mischief,
Soon shall the fairy structure melt away:
Tho' Somerset's new bride tries every wile
That slighted love, to hatred turn'd, can practise,
Her soul's chief secrets she unfolds to me,
As I to you disclose 'em.

Isa.
Kind Cleora!
Our friendship grew and ripen'd with our years!
When forc'd to lose thee at my father's death,
How mournful was our parting. I bless'd the chance,
When I beheld thee, with my guardian's bride,
Companion of her hours.

Cleo.
Of me no more:
Now let your Overbury fill your thoughts,
And every accent swell with sounds of love.

Isa.
Oh! my Cleora! he will ne'er be mine;
A dreadful dream, last night, has warn'd my soul:
Love had, methought, ordain'd our nuptial rites;
But sudden, while before the priest we stood,
A low'ring cloud hung o'er the temple's roof,
And, with slow horror, spread a fleecy darkness.
From its black center burst a rattling shower,
Th' lab'ring air groan'd big with rolling thunder,
Red, thro' the gather'd gloom, flash'd lightnings broke,
And the rent veil let in a dreadful glare,
Which, with portentous quiverings, gleam'd upon us!
The altar totter'd—and the lights grew dim—
A hollow wind sigh'd cold—and from their graves
Pale ghosts stalk'd shadowy, and scream'd hideous round me.
But oh!—around my love fierce brightness glitter'd,
A fire, triumphant, curl'd about his form,
And, winding upward, snatch'd him from my sight.

Cleo.
Yet he's not lost—See! where he smiling comes!
Let me not stay to interrupt your joys.

[Exit.
Enter Overbury.
Over.
O take me, take me, to thy heav'nly bosom!
Here let me pour out all my hoarded thoughts!
Here tower my joys! my cares be here dispers'd!

Isa.
I have a thousand tender things to say!
A thousand doubts at once to be resolv'd!
Three tedious months have heavily roll'd on,
And not one thought, perhaps has chid thy stay:
But while thy voice so sweetly strikes my ear,
My joys revive, and melt away my sadness.

Over.
Let my soul bless the music of those words!
My heart breaks rapt'rous at the softning sound!
I feast my famish'd eyes upon thy smiles!
I touch thee—and am lost in extasy!
A tide of thrilling joys flows thro' my veins,
I pant with pleasure, and I burn with love.

Isa.
I cannot, if I wou'd disguise my thoughts,
'Tho, 'tis perhaps, a fault to look thus kindly:
But, oh! beware! for thou hast dangerous foes!
Beware, Northampton, who pretends to love me!
Beware the woman who deludes thy friend!
Watchful, I strive to counterplot their mischief,
And guard thy virtue from impending danger!

Over.
Oh! thou rich source of everlasting pleasure!
Virtues rise mix'd, and sparkle in thy soul:
One glittering charm pursues another's shine,
As while I cut those seas which brought me near thee,
Sweet sun-reflecting waves roll'd glassy on;
And this no sooner kiss'd the shore, and dy'd,
But a new follower rose, and swell'd as lovely.

Enter Northampton.
Nor.
Why start you, Madam, — at a lover's presence?
Unveil your clouded beauty—since, this morning,
A smiling son looks gay on our friend's nuptials.

Isa.
My lord, I want the courtier.

Nor.
Not the woman!
I see a too-successful rival near you—
Sir, I shou'd speak you welcome—You are happy—
But, Madam, since your charms may be neglected,
For boys, unskill'd, find gems, whose worth they know not!
When such your fortune proves, think of Northampton,
And smile, tho' late, on one who lives to love you.

Over.
My lord, this injury but provokes my scorn,
The next may move my anger.

Nor.
Am I threaten'd?
Away—thou buzzing insect of the court!

Ove.
Reproaches are too mean for brave mens anger,
Or I could sting thy arrogance with talking!
Be wise! nor urge my sword against thy meanness,
Worn for a nobler quarrel.

Nor.
Sir, 'tis well!
When we meet next, what now remains to say,
May be debated.

Over.
At your speediest leisure.

[Leads off Isab.
Northampton solus.
Nor.
Well, Overbury,—thou dost right to spurn me!
If plots have power, if oaths have force to crush thee,
If there's a magic spell beneath the moon,
Or poison can be drawn from baneful plants,
Then horror, from my fury, light upon thee!

Enter Countess of Somerset.
Count.
My lord, I know not if I'm yet betray'd!
My foe shot by me with a gloomy brow,
Nor bow'd his head in passing.

Nor.
Saw you your lord?

Count.
I did; and strangely mov'd!
The usual sweetness of his nature's lost,
With folded arms he traverses the room,
Now red!—now pale! big on his wat'ry eyes
Prompt tears stand trembling—speak to him, and he sighs!
Or shakes his head—and groans an hollow answer!
Then, on a sudden, starts!—and flies observance!

Nor.
Now is the time to fire him to our purpose!
Their friendship broke, I have a further plot—
Ere night this Overbury sees the Tower.

Count.
Wolsey nor Burleigh ne'er projected better.

Nor.
Haste we to execute resolves of weight.
An active fire shou'd quicken vast conceptions!
For, when delay's cold influence chills our schemes,
Some adverse fate comes, like a furious blast,
And kills 'em ere they ripen into action.

Count.
O! I can match thee with an equal flame,
Not e'en the soldier's fury, rais'd in war!
The rage of tyrants when defiance stings 'em!
The pride of priests so bloody when in power!
Are half so dreadful as a woman's vengeance.

Nor.
'Tis a warm thought, and fires the mounting soul!
Revenge dares strike at every thing—
Rivers of blood mark out her smoaking way!
And kingdoms flame to give her triumphs lustre!
Welcome, dread vengeance!

Count.
Let the priest-ridden vulgar worship virtue!
Thou, virtuous Overbury, sleep, and dream!
Dream of philosophy, and puzzling honour!
Of heavenly visions, and immortal shadows!
Till slow revenge leaps suddenly upon thee:
Then start!—behold who strikes! and so expire!

Nor.
Soft! the earl comes!—be on the nicest guard!
Prove thy success but vast as are thy wishes,
Thy name shall swell on fame's immortal voice,
A wonder among women!

[Exit.
Count.
He comes!—now aid me, all my sex's falshood!

Enter Somerset musing.
Som.
They say, our thoughts distinguish us from brutes!
Wou'd I had never thought!—I had then been happy!
Reflection rivets woe upon the wretched!
Thought teaches me to feel a friend's lost worth!
When we have friends, to them we trust our griefs,
Our care lies lighten'd, and the mind sleeps calm:
To me, that comfort's lost!—I have no friend!
Oh! I cou'd pine away this wretched life!
Lean, like a willow, trembling o'er a brook!
Sigh with the winds! and murmur with the stream!

Count.
His heart seems press'd with care.
[Aside.
My gentle lord,
Why leave you thus the gaiety of friends?
And why has grinding grief usurp'd your soul?

Som.
I found myself disorder'd, and I left you—
Oft am I thus—leave me, I'll soon return.

Count.
Oh! my dear lord, I am not soon deceiv'd,
Those care-bent brows suit not a bridegroom's face!
Are folded arms the gestures of delight?
Or these sad groans the voice of inward joy?
No, no—consider, I am now your wife!
'Tis mine to ease your cares, and bring you comfort!
If you have sorrows, I must claim my part;
I sink not soon beneath a weight of woe—
If you deny me this, you love me not.

Som.
Not love thee! sayst thou? Oh! thou soul of Somerset,
Cou'd those bright eyes be turn'd into my breast,
There wou'd you see how your suspicion wrongs me!
Let me look nigh!—let me gaze here with wonder!
Where's friendship now? Why, reason yields to beauty!
What tho' the crimes, of which her foes accuse her,
Glar'd, broad as day-light, on my startled soul,
Angels play smiling in her wanton eyes,
And lend an awe to lightness—love reigns round her,
And when she speaks—the softest, sweetest music
Melts in her voice, and charms away my grief.

Count.
Oh! with what art you sooth my fainting spirits!
Then I am still your dear, your much-lov'd wife—
Why do I ask? those eyes confess I am!
But tell me—for you shou'd impart your cares—
Why are you thus?

Som.
Oh!

Count.
Nay, again you're cruel!
Still when I strive to search the cause, your voice
Sinks from the point, and answers with a groan.

Som.
What cause?—I told thee I had been disorder'd—
Thy fears are the wild coinage of thy fancy,
A subtle self-tormentor!

Count.
'Tis well, my lord!
I guess to whom I owe my loss of power;
You have a friend can tell you tales of honour,
And teach you how to triumph o'er a wife,
Who has, indeed, had faults—but whose chief crime
Is loving you, perhaps, with too much fondness.

Som.
What dost thou mean?—what friend?

Count.
Why, Overbury!
I know your tutor chides your faulty conduct!
Go then, and make your peace—be meekly penitent,
Promise to err no more—and he'll forgive you.

Som.
Hear me, sweet tyrant!—By my life, I swear
Thou'rt dear to me, as crowns to the ambitious!
Dear as these eyes, which tremble on thy charms,
Or, as this heart, which aches with joy and anguish.

Count.
Then I must tell you, Sir, your friend's a villain!

Som.
Have a care!
Let not thy rage transport thee to detraction.

Count.
Oh! were I but to speak his base attempt!

Som.
What base attempt!

Count.
No matter what it is:
I, sure, may be allow'd some secrets too.

Som.
Nay, this is wrong!—to brand him first with villain!
Then, in a dusky phrase, elude the charge!
Truth seldom lies conceal'd in mystery,
Clearly to reason she reveals her light,
And errors vanish, like a mist, before her.

Count.
Why—what if he design'd against my honour?

Som.
Your honour! 'tis impossible!—

Count.
Form all that treacherous guilt wou'd dare to act,
And sum it up in this pretended friend.

Som.
I prithee, do not make me mad! — speak plainly!

Count.
Knowing your passion, he durst urge his own—
He told me you were false!—designing—jealous!—
Try'd every art of treachery to supplant you;
And when he found his wiles were unsuccessful,
Attempted force, and threaten'd me with slander.

Som.
Force!—Slander!—thou hast warm'd me!—think once more!
He cou'd not be so base!

Count.
He was.

Som.
Impossible!—
Ere yet my fury mounts into a blaze,
Ere I upbraid him with these black designs,
I charge thee do not tax him wrongfully,
For thou may'st open such a scene of horror,
'Twill shake thee to behold it!
Dare you confirm it with an oath?

Count.
I will.

Som.
Nay, but weigh well what you presume to swear!
Oaths are of dreadful weight—and, if they're false,
Draw down damnation—those who murder fame,
Kill more than life-destroyers—Think again!
For, at that day, when each must stand arraign'd,
Their lots will fall in the severest fires.

Count.
By all my hopes,
What I have said—

Som.
No more—I must believe you—
Believe you, said I! what must I believe?
If you prove false!—if you traduce my friend!
And wrong my faith! may sorrow blast thy beauties!
May conscience rise in all her dreadful triumph!
Scare every sense! and strike thee with distraction!
Yet, sure thou'rt true! those eyes which shine so sweetly,
Can wear no dusky stain of barbarous falshood!—
What then must Overbury be? Reflection
Sickens with doubt, and dies in dark confusion.

Count.
My lord—

Som.
Thou need'st not speak—I said I would believe thee;
Thou art my life, the fountoin of my joy!
Yet, let me think!—Force!—Slander!—yes, 'tis so!
He's false! he's false!—Curse on all treacherous friends!

Count.
Nay, but I meant not thus to fire your anger,
Forget a friend's first falshood.

Som.
Never! never!
No—tho' this day was vow'd to peace and love,
Tho' crowds of noble guests have grac'd my joys;
Nay, tho' the king should add his sacred presence,
My fury brooks no stay—my fame! my honour!
Both are concern'd, and rouze my soul to vengeance.

Enter Northampton.
Nor.
Why are the bride and bridegroom thus retir'd?
Crouds of all ranks press in to join your pleasures!
And every instrument of music vies
To sound sweet notes, and swell the hours of love.

Som.
Alas, my lord! even harmony grows harsh!
Thought's out o'tune, discord has struck my ear,
And my soul jars within me.

Nor.
What's the cause?

Som.
'Tis a vile world, Northampton!
The oaths of friendship, like those made to girls,
Are meant but to betray, and broke o'course.

Nor.
This I knew well before—but who has wrong'd you?

Som.
The darkest of all villains—a false friend!
But as I am a man, I will revenge it!—
Oh! what a change has my poor heart sustain'd!
But a few moments since, this man's lov'd memory
Sat soft, as brooding halcyons, on my soul;
Now my rouz'd rage cou'd hunt him in full scent,
Till his last dust were scatter'd in the air,
And driven like chaff before the angry wind.

Nor.
My lord, this seems th' extravagance of passion!
When anger rushes, unrestrain'd, to action,
Like a hot steed, it stumbles in its way!
The man of thought wounds deepest, and strikes safely;
Premeditation makes his vengeance sure!
And levels it directly to the mark.

Som.
I cannot, like a courtier, kill with smiles!
My fury scorns to glow, conceal'd in embers:
No; it shall blaze abroad with flaming lustre!
If I must fall, why I was born to die,
And fall as a man shou'd—If I revenge me,
I right my injur'd honour, as I ought.

Nor.
My lord, this stream must have another course:
This Overbury—

Som.
Saidst thou Overbury!
Now, by my soul, there's magic in the name,
And my charm'd rage grows still as midnight silence!
Why wou'dst thou speak it?—Let me not dwell upon him!
Talk of false friendship! of abandon'd honour!
Of hate! revenge!—distraction!—
But spare that name—at which my fury melts,
Or guilt will smile, like sweet-ey'd innocence.

Count.
My lord, I wish you cou'd surmount your anger.
'Tis nobler to forgive, than to revenge.

Som.
Dost thou plead too!—why—he has wrong'd thy fame!
E'en to my ear has wrong'd it!—generous charmer!

Nor.
Your frowns will blast what sprung but by your smiles.

Som.
I'll think a while—your counsel shall direct me.
Thou injur'd friendship, my griev'd soul inspire
With awful justice, and vindictive fire!
Let my revenge, to match th' ungen'rous wrong,
Be swift as eagles, and as lions strong!
Dreadful as flames by furious whirlwinds driven,
Or thunder bursting from offended heaven!

[Exeunt.