 | Sir Thomas Overbury |  |
ACT III.
SCENE I.
Northampton and Countess of Somerset.Nor.
The King comes here in private—then all's right,
And, in good time, we've stirr'd your husband's anger.
Count.
The courtiers are in Overbury's interest.
Nor.
No matter—they'll desert him in his fall:
Like Persians they adore the rising sun,
But when the great man's glories shrink away,
Shrubs, which grew under him, shoot up ungrateful,
And brave him in declension—None assist him,
No kind hand lifts him from engulphing ruin,
But all join strength to press him lower still—
You have not heard, perhaps, that Overbury
Courts friendship with your Essex.
Count.
How! with Essex!
Nor.
What if he should betray your letters to him?
146
The villain dares not!
Nor.
If he does, you're lost—
What! know you of his love to Isabella?
Count.
Oh! name it not—
It cannot be—I've fear'd, but would not find it.
Nor.
Wou'd 'twere a secret then—but see this packet,
These are his letters to that Isabella.
Their superscriptions wanting—happy that!
To tell how I acquir'd 'em, would be tedious:
Let it suffice, these undirected papers
Shall bear the force of proofs to Somerset,
Most fatal to his friend. Sir Gervas Ell'ways,
Who bears a weighty part in this design,
Is coming tow'rds us—Please to leave him with me.
I am an exile from the royal presence,
But you, the King expects, should bless his eyes.
[Exit Countess of Somerset.
That he sees Essex I am well inform'd,
And blew that spark to raise her to a flame.
Enter Sir Gervas Elloways.
Let me congratulate my faithful Elloways!
The Tower-lieutenancy will now be yours,
For Somerset has said it.
Ell.
My kind lord!
147
Nay, I have news
That more will please you, if you love Northampton.
The man I hate will soon be in my power.
All the proud steps, by which he climb'd to greatness,
Sink from his feet, and let him fall to ruin.
Ell.
Can Somerset forsake him?
Nor.
He detests him.
Ell.
Prodigious change!—this news indeed surprizes!
Nor.
To gain the unbeliever to my wishes,
I stirr'd his temper with such cautious art,
That, ere his judgment cou'd exert its phlegm,
His blood took ferment from a warmth of passion:
Then, while his fi'ry spirit flam'd with rage,
In its full heat, I stamp'd it with revenge.
Ell.
The depth of wisdom flows, in all your actions,
Like a strong current, which, oppos'd by piles,
Works gently thro', and saps the mound unseen,
Till, gathering force, it pours resistless in,
And the bank floats before it—End you there?
Nor.
No—Overbury's death must crown my conduct!
Ell.
There's danger there!
Nor.
Not so—I've weigh'd it well.
Th' assassinating Spanish way's unsafe,
Suspicion were its follower—and suspicion
Wou'd, like a bloodhound, trace our steps too near!
What think you of the close Italian's means?
148
Ell.
I dare the worst.
Nor.
Know then, that Somerset
Has noted Overbury as most intimate
With some, whose zeal is mark'd against the state:
Now to inflame the King with jealousy,
An embassy to Russia will be offer'd him:
This love and policy forbid him taking,
And if he not accept it, all's confirm'd;
It speaks him plainly loth to leave his faction,
And so he comes committed to your care.
Ell.
The rest may be compleated easily:
'Tis but to change the doubted officers,
And place such round him as will suit our purpose.
Nor.
No more—be secret.
Enter Somerset.
Som.
Good Sir Gervas Elloways!
I greet you gladly, with your new-giv'n honour,
Which the King's pleasure, thus confirms by me.
[Delivers a commission.
Ell.
My lord, you bind me ever to your service.
Som.
Oh—my Northampton!
Nor.
Why that sigh, my lord?
Som.
I have been thinking, when we lose a friend,
'Tis like an eye pluck'd from its bleeding orb.
No more the other holds the joy of sight,
149
So mourns my widow'd soul for Overbury.
Nor.
Why do you name him still thus tenderly?
Methinks your wrongs shou'd rise against your weakness,
And sting you with reflection.
Som.
Ay, mention those, and I relapse to fury!
My restless thoughts drive round like veering winds,
Forgetful of their center!—yet the soul,
Like a soft babe, inur'd to foolish fondness,
Is hard to wean from wailing—Oh! forgive me:
'Tis the last struggle of expiring friendship.
Nor.
Your passions late were wing'd, like vengeful whirlwinds,
Now they sink, sighing, to a gale of sorrow!
Shame on your softness—where's the soul of Somerset?
Where's that fierce fire which us'd to kindle in you,
And sparkle, from your eyes, in fierce resentment?
What! all extinguish'd?
Som.
No: I am still the same.
I've the King's orders for this embassy,
And Overbury's sent for.
Nor.
If he refuses,
We place him on the pinnacle of fate!
There shall big-gathering winds sing round his head,
And whirl him to destruction—Ell'ways be ready.
[Exit Elloways.
150
But, my good lord, this treachery startles me,
'Tis an unmanly vengeance.
Nor.
Fye, my lord!
Som.
Why, rather, not accuse him face to face,
And, with an open anger, prove the charge?
Nor.
There may be guilt, you wou'd not wish to prove—
Look on these letters! sent without direction!
Artful and safe that caution—Know you the hand?—
How soft are the contents!
Som.
Wou'd I were blind!
Nor.
Wou'd not he wrong his King who wrongs his friend!
Come, come, my lord—you must be won to wisdom!
Tho' the soft dove brood, gall-less, o'er your breast,
Yet let the wary serpent arm your mind.
Som.
O heaven! he comes! he shocks me with his presence!
Nor.
See!—Essex leaves him—had he been your friend,
He wou'd not thus be seen. My lord—farewel.
[Exit.
Som.
'Tis death to meet him!—yet I cannot stir.
Enter Sir Thomas Overbury.
Over.
My lord, I come obedient to your summons,
151
And I must love you still.
Som.
Dissembling villain!
[Aside.
I have a message from the King, this morning,
That will, I doubt, surprize you—'tis his pleasure,
That you prepare yourself, without delay,
For a short embassy to Russia.
Over.
The warning's sudden!
Som.
The design is deep!
Perhaps too, not propos'd by your best friends.
Over.
Now, my lov'd lord, I'll try your friendship's faith!
When sick'ning reason labours in the mind,
Advice is the soul's cordial—How shall I act?
Som.
If honesty's your guide, you cannot stray.
Over.
If to be blest and honest were the same,
I shou'd not be unhappy.
Som.
He seems innocent.
'Tis a hard struggle to dissemble thus!
[Aside.
Over.
If your looks wrong you not, you are disorder'd!
Som.
Have you resolv'd? I wait for your reply.
Over.
So cool in your advice!—nay, now I read you!
Northampton and your wife!—Serpent and woman!
Have turn'd you 'gainst your friend!
And your plain mind, unfashion'd for deceit,
Knows not to veil its frailty.
152
Have a care—
Over.
What! am I threaten'd too? — ungrateful Somerset!
Have I advis'd you with a brother's tenderness,
Pin'd for your peace, and made your cares my own,
To be rewarded thus?—Here end our friendship!
And, for my answer, I desire a pause.
Som.
Then I must tell the King, you're not resolv'd?
Over.
That as you please—I'll serve him till I die,
Till the reward of loyalty o'ertakes me:
For patriots still must fall for statesmens' safety,
And perish by the country they preserve.
Som.
'Tis dangerous, thus, to tax the royal gratitude!
I see you're rash, and wou'd advise you better—
If, when you touch'd me in too weak a part,
I shrunk—'twas from quick sense of aching pain.
I was to blame—I knew not what I said—
Excuse it as a friend.
Over.
Said you, you were to blame?—if you're sincere,
My fit of rage, like lightning on a desart,
But flashes—and is lost.
Som.
Can he be false?
And yet I must not doubt—
[Aside.
Over.
What! still uneasy?
Som.
You know, I'm rais'd on fortune's fav'rite spoke!
If I grow giddy, I shall move away,
153
Over.
Let me guard you—
And, to be near you, not accept this embassy—
Form some fair cause, and urge it as my answer.
Som.
I'll to the King this instant, and attempt it.
[Exit.
Over.
This message, from the King, bears some design,
But I'm more touch'd with Somerset's disorder!
Let me still mark him—As he passes on,
He starts!—stops short!—and ponders in suspence!—
Now he proceeds!—All this shou'd bode some mischief!
Enter the Countess of Somerset.
Count.
Now, now, support me, pride, or I am lost!
[Aside.
Over.
Ha! she here!
Count.
Why start you, calm, insulting man?
Is love a crime too great to be forgiven?
But thy cold soul admits no warmth of passion:
I, like the sun, darted too fierce a blaze!
Yet, thy chill wishes
Dawn'd some sick hope, when Isabella's eyes,
Like a pale moon, gleam'd her faint beams upon thee.
Over.
How! knows she that? [Aside.]
When honour lights up love,
Th' illumin'd soul burns lambent with a flame,
154
Such were the wishes mov'd by Isabella.
Count.
How I disdain thee!—yes, I scorn thee!—hate thee!
Thou, who cou'dst stoop to expose a woman's weakness!
To taint her fame, and blast her to the world!—
All my fierce passions rise with that reflection,
Inward they rage—a winding train takes fire,
The flashy blaze runs swift thro' ev'ry vein,
And my brain splits with agony!
Over.
You wrong me, Madam—I, with humblest gratitude,
Thank'd and conceal'd your passion—If your fame
Is tainted—your divorce has caus'd it—Modesty
Must guard a woman's seemings——
Oh! that my words, like the sun's powerful rays,
Were with attraction arm'd—till, from your breast,
This flood of frailty rose, exhal'd in sighs,
Or flow'd away in streams of soft repentance.
Count.
Upbraider!
Over.
I not upbraid your love, but your wild passions,
Which wou'd, like envious shades, eclipse those beauties,
That else, with justice, sure, must charm mankind!
But, Madam, think—there's not a homely peasant,
If grac'd with innocence, tho' nurs'd in toil,
155
Count.
Preaching statue!
Where are my letters?—thou detain'st 'em poorly,
With aim to awe my anger.
Over.
Ere you ask'd 'em,
Mov'd by a conscious hope to ease your fears,
Honour induc'd me thus to give 'em up:
Now, they are yours again—But their effect
Will still live in me, and whene'er your image
Enriches my remembrance—the humblest gratitude
Will teach my heart new tenderness.
[Gives letters.
Count.
This generous act has waken'd love again,
And pity pleads against me—What shall I do!
If I continue here, and he thus charms me,
My scheme, at once, is air—Like jarring elements
My passions war—and thought opposing thought,
Shakes my whole frame, till I am mad with doubting.
[Aside.
Over.
Why are you thus disturb'd?
Count.
Can I so ill reward his generous heart,
As to apply these letters to his ruin,
Which might have ruin'd me, had he with-held 'em?
And yet I must—Fate's slippery ice has caught me,
And, if I not slide on, I sink for ever.
Let me not stay—O wretch! death hovers o'er thee!
He grasps a dart, and, in pale fury, shakes it
High o'er thy head!—Now, now it falls, and strikes thee!
156
[Exit in confusion.
Over.
Or I'm ensnar'd—or madness seiz'd the countess.
Enter Isabella.
My Isabella!
Isa.
Oh! let us join as friends, who meet in sorrow,
To weep!—and sigh!—and mingle mutual woes!
Over.
What wou'd my love's soft fears divine of ill,
That merits this sweet sadness?
Isa.
Oh! I am wild! and say I know not what—
This will explain.
Enter Sir Gervas Elloways, and guards.
Ell.
Sir Thomas Overbury,
I come to bring you an unwelcome message;
'Tis the King's pleasure, that you stand confin'd,
Close in the Tower, a prisoner to the state.
Over.
What have I done, that I should be a prisoner?
Ell.
Has not the Earl of Somerset inform'd you?
Over.
The Earl of Somerset!—What dost thou mean?
The polar star shall be no longer fix'd,
But turn delusive to the sailor's eye,
Sooner than Somerset prove false to me—
May I not see my friend?
157
I dare not grant it.
Over.
No!—that's hard, indeed!
I thought I cou'd have met the worst, unmov'd;
[Turns to Isabella.
But to see thee thus press'd with griefs not thine,
I cannot bear the pang which rend my soul!—
Teach me some art, but to assuage thy sorrows,
And mine are griefs to smile at.
Isa.
The voice of music can compose distraction:
Oh! then, let thine but sooth me into comfort;
Say something soft and kind—But whither fly you?
Perhaps to death!
Over.
What's death but losing thee?
Life is a trifle, where no love enriches it;
And when the guiltless die the death of traitors,
The scaffold steps, but, like the patriarch's ladder,
Form an assent to heaven.
Isa.
Oh! talk not thus!
There's madness in that thought.
Over.
Nay, do not weep!
Thy grief attracts with such a melting force—
That my lost soul evaporates to air,
Glides in each breath, and mingles with thy sighs —
Help manhood, or I'm lost!—lead to the Tower.
Isa.
That place bodes ruin—there, the good sixth Henry,
158
Such secret death, perhaps, may prove thy fate.
Over.
Why dost thou fright thyself at fancy'd ills?
Isa.
I have a thousand, thousand anxious fears!—
No cheering hope dawns thro' the cloudy woe,—
'Tis darkness all—What will not malice dare?
But if I must—
Over.
Oh! I cou'd gaze for ever!
Thus, when high seas swell foaming o'er the coast,
The wretch, who treads the dangerous beach is lost;
Plung'd in his fate, like me, he strives to rise,
And seeks the swallow'd land with wistful eyes!
But, as his arms extend to reach the shore,
The waves o'erwhelm him, and he's seen no more.
[Exeunt severally.
| Sir Thomas Overbury | |