University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE The Tower.
Northampton and Elloways meet.
Nor.
Ell'ways be swift, for Somerset's unsettled!
The Countess too, who lately urg'd his death,
Melts in a fit of softness from her purpose!
Besure the stream of ruin then rolls rapid,
To bear him down the tide—For, if it turns,
'Twill overwhelm us all.

Ell.
Now, by my soul,
The youthful warrior, flush'd with his first hopes,
Burns not with half that heat for fame and conquest,
Which fires my wishes to compleat your will.

Nor.
Weston and Franklin—are they both resolv'd?

Ell.
They are.

Nor.
Have they the wine the Countess has prepar'd?

Ell.
They have,
And bring it as a present from Earl Somerset.

Nor.
Then he, who late, by royal favour shone,
That favour veil'd, shall straight be dark again.
So waters, at hot noon, aspire in steams,
And thin'd by heat, float gay aloft in air!
But when the sun's exhaling power withdraws,
Chill'd by the cold of night, they fall in dews,
And mix with humble dust, like Overbury.

Ell.
See, my good lord, where Isabella comes,
To visit in the Tower her prison'd lover!

Nor.
My faithful Ell'ways, watch my rival well;
And if your ear catch a suspicious sound,
Bring me immediate notice.
[Exit Ell.
Enter Isabella.
So, Madam, your proud hero falls his plume!

Isa.
Is that a Noble's voice? The brave, I thought,
Scorn'd all advantage o'er a fallen foe,
And rais'd him to be worthy their revenge.

Nor.
Since there's a storm upon your angry brow,
I am not arm'd to meet, I must retire.

[Exit.
Isa.
So, villains, when they gain th' ascent of power,
Like ravens, pois'd before the glorious sun,
Spread a black cloud, and darken all beneath.

Enter Overbury, followed by Elloways listening.
Over.
Are you thus kind? blest with your lovely presence,
A prison is a paradise—sweet mourner!
Matchless in joy—but in thy grief all heavenly!
In thee, as in a dew—drop on a flower,
A thousand mingled beauties glittering play,
Which rise, as the eye turns, in still new prospects,
And in each different light, refract new lustre.

Isa.
Why wilt thou charm me thus?—thy tuneful voice
Floats soft like music, melting in the winds!
A flutt'ring rapture fills my trembling breast,
Swells in each vein, and pants with every thought!
Yet do I view thee, with such dangers round thee,
That e'en thy sight is painful!

Over.
Wer't not for thee, my soul wou'd wing her flight,
To rest in realms of everlasting bliss.

Isa.
How know'st thou that?—Weigh first what is the soul:
'Tis not a shade that will dissolve in air,
Nor matter which, by time, can be consum'd:
Oh! then, be cautious, for the best are frail;
Venture not rashly, on an unknown being—
E'en the most perfect shun the brink of death,
And shudder at the prospect of futurity.

Over.
What means my soul?

Isa.
A thousand deaths are hov'ring round thy head!
If I have e'er deserv'd thy love—Oh! think
Thy guardian angel now inspires my tongue,
And warns thee, if thou canst, to 'scape disguis'd!

Ell.
I've heard enough.

[Exit unseen.
Over.
No; safe in innocence, I'll dare their malice.
To fly, wou'd be to leave my fame unclear'd,
My fame, much dearer to me than my life!

Isa.
Forgive me, if I err;
'Tis but a fault that springs from too much love!
Should'st thou be lost!—Oh! think upon my griefs,
See me distracted, without hope of comfort,
Profaning heaven, reading the air with shrieks,
Bursting with groans, and raving with despair!

Over.
Why was I born to make thee thus unhappy?
But see, where one observes!
'Tis dangerous here to talk—To-night farewel,
And if to-morrow blesses me again,
I shall have news to tell you.

[Exit.
Isa.
Till then, farewel.

Enter Cleora in haste.
Cle.
My friend, forgive me, if officious zeal
Forc'd me to seek you here—your foe, the Countess—

Isa.
What of the Countess?

Cleo.
Flies about disorder'd!
So stung with guilt, no place can give her ease!
Wild 'twixt the sallies of remorse and love,
She wrote these lines, and trusted 'em with me;
I think it not a treachery to betray 'em.

Isa.
'Tis pious treachery that reveals a mischief;
'Tis justice to yourself, and to the world.
[Looks on the letter.
To Overbury!—How my heart beats at it!

Cleo.
She there, repeats, and urges an old flame,
Proffers him freedom, wou'd partake his flight,
And owns the wiles that have seduc'd her lord.
Nay, more—the guards are, by her agents, brib'd,
And your name's us'd to cover the deceit,
That, should they fail, she might be still secure.

Isa.
Here too, she urges him to feign some illness,
That, so retir'd to rest, and none left near him,
She in the silent darkness introduc'd,
May find him in his chamber, and instruct him
What means may bring him safety:
Fate sent this clue to unravel all her falshood;
Flatter her artfully with his compliance:
And if she comes—But see, the Earl of Somerset.
Night steals upon us fast—Be sure you bring her.

[Exit Cleora.
Enter Earl of Somerset.
Som.
My Isabella!—why that mournful brow?
Why do those eyes, that sparkled gladness round 'em,
Lose their keen lustre now, and look so languid?

Isa.
Shou'd I forget, my lord, that fatal day,
When my dear father's trembling hand prest yours,
His dying eyes, wet with paternal tears,
While agonizing sweats bedew'd his face,
To you, my lord, he rais'd his falt'ring voice,
And gave me to your care? Kind was the thought,
And pleas'd, he bade farewel—and breath'd his last.

Som.
Have I not us'd thee with the tend'rest care,
And chear'd thy virtue with the smiles of fortune?

Isa.
Oh! my good lord, you've been a father to me,
And 'tis for you these swelling sighs rise sad,
And my tears flow for gratitude.

Som.
What mean'st thou?

Isa.
If Overbury wrong'd—

Som.
No more of Overbury!
My child, avoid him, as thou wou'dst thy ruin.

Isa.
You are misled—

Som.
The subject's harsh—farewel.

Isa.
You must not go—thus on my knees, I beg you,
For your own sake, but hear me—you're betray'd.
Oh! think how dear this man was to your soul!
By friendship join'd, you comforted each other;
Joy crown'd your days, your minds were then serene,
Your thoughts had harmony, and you were blest.

Som.
Indeed, I thought so.

Isa.
Oh! reflect again!
Why have you cast him thus unkindly from you,
And open'd your dear breast to vile Northampton?

Som.
Why dost thou injure thus my lord Northampton?

Isa.
One, who wou'd undermine an orphan's virtue,
Is sure unworthy of her guardian's friendship.

Som.
And cou'd Northampton that?

Isa.
I blush t'affirm it.
Yet more your virtue wanders in the dark!
The Countess—

Som.
Who!—I charge thee, name not her!
Shou'd I but hear a word to taint my wife,
'Twould urge me so, I might forget my nature,
And use thee harshly!

Isa.
'Tis death to undeceive you!
But, in the cause of virtue, I am arm'd
To meet all dangers boldly—be prepar'd,
For I must wound you with such piercing accents,
That your poor heart, I fear, will bleed with anguish!

Som.
Suspense is the worst rack—speak what thou know'st.

Isa.
Read this—'twill speak all for me.

[Gives a letter.
Som.
'Tis my wife's hand—ha! To Sir Thomas Overbury!
A strange direction that! where had it you?

Isa.
From one she trusted as her messenger.

Som.
Sure 'tis some mist, which hell has rais'd to blind me!
My eyes belie her—let me again peruse it!

Isa.
'Tis as I thought.

[Aside.
Som.
'Tis all black forgery!—
False Isabella!

Isa.
Who is false, my lord?

Som.
Why thou art false—I prithee, own thou art;
For should an angel charge her with these crimes,
I fear I shou'd misname that angel, fiend!

Isa.
'Tis but to wait her presence, if you doubt it;
Night is already round us, and ere long,
She comes, conceal'd, to find him—Be you witness,
And then, who's false, discover.

Som.
If thou art so, fly, where I ne'er may see thee!
But if thou'rt true, then I'm a wretch indeed.

Isa.
My lord, retire—I think, she comes already.

[Exeunt.
Enter Countess of Somerset and Cleora.
Count.
O my Cleora, whither am I going?
But thou art faithful, nor wilt chide my frailties!
I go t'atone my Overbury's wrongs,
To meet my love—my love!—What's then my husband?
Hold brain—resist that rushing rack of thought—
The night, now brooding o'er her gloomy shades,
Owns not a spectre half so foul as I am.
Oh state of horror! Oh despair! O shame!

Cleo.
Yet think—

Count.
Fain wou'd I—but all thought forsakes me!
My flame revives!—each fit comes stronger on me!
Varying convulsions torture every nerve!
I love! I rage!—hate—fear—and love again!
And burn, and die with a whole war of passions!

Cleo.
But will you see him?

Count.
See him?—Oh! I must—
My soul will have it so—the wrongs, I meant him,
Require atonement, more than love can give him,
Come—guide me, my Cleora!

[Exeunt.
Enter Northampton and Elloways.
Nor.
Escaping! say'st thou?

Ell.
What I then heard was little.
But now a trusted yeoman of the guard
Betray'd their whole design of present flight;
But why have you, thus led me thro' the darkness?

Nor.
The darkness best befits my purpos'd vengeance.

Ell.
What means my lord by vengeance?

Nor.
The poison not yet given—my sword shall end him.
Secure the passage—bar the outward doors,
While I resolve within, where Weston left us.

[Exeunt.
Enter Somerset and the Countess, meeting in the dark.
Count.
'Tis wond'rous dark! and night wears double horror!
Each step, methinks, I hear my husband's voice!
The creep of distant whispers damps my soul!
Hark! how the thunder rolls! the wind too roars!
Who's that, my Overbury?

Som.
Yet hold my heart!

[Aside.
Count.
You had my letter then?

Som.
I had—Oh heaven!

Count.
Reach me your hand, and lead me to your chamber!
For I have much to say—but stay—Cleora
Waits me hard by—I'll caution her a moment,
And find you here again.

[Exit.
Som.
Why do I live?
Let me turn wild!—Or tear out my fond heart,
That cou'd be thus far wrong'd, and not discern it!
O thou false woman! O my injur'd friend!
Mad, rash, deluded Somerset!

Enter Northampton from a private door in the back scene; a light within.
Nor.
Now, Overbury, die!

[Draws.
Som.
Villain!—Northampton!

[Draws.
Nor.
Save me, some angel, from this strange illusion!

Som.
View my eyes well!—do they not flash with fury?
And tell thee, that 'tis Somerset thou look'st on?

Nor.
Northampton was not born to look with fear,
Tho' hell blaz'd angry in the eyes of Somerset.
My honour's equal!—my descent more noble!
Come, we mistake each other—as a friend,
I'd moderate this rage.

Som.
Thou sycophant!
Thou wouldst again betray me to thy friendship,
To ruin, with more ease, my Isabella.

Nor.
Ha!

Som.
But she is proof against thy base assaults:
My wife was easy, and success there met thee,
And Overbury was to fall your victim.

Nor.
No more—I can no longer brook this railing;
Whate'er I do, I always dare to answer!
Let this defend it all—

[Fight, Northampton disarmed.
Som.
Why art thou living in the power of Somerset?
I wish thee dead, but dare not kill thee basely;
Give me the chance once more—

[Offers his sword.
Nor.
No; take my life;
'Tis now not worth defending.

Som.
Live, and repent!—and be as curs'd as I am!
Go—save me from the pain thy presence gives me!
Now, whither shall I wander?
[Exit Northampton.
Going, meets the Countess entering.
Death and confusion!

Count.
I heard, or I'm deceiv'd, the clash of weapons,
Yet was the passage barr'd—yon gleam of light
Shews a drawn sword bent hither.

Som.
Tremble at it—'tis the sword of justice!

Count.
Ha! let me not betray myself—'tis Somerset.
[Aside.
What mean you, Sir? methinks your words sound angry—

Som.
Traitress! false! foul! fickle—damn'd—lovely traitress!
Know'st thou this letter?—thou ungrateful woman!

Count.
Now I am lost indeed!

Som.
What can thy guilt expect?

Count.
You will not kill me?

Som.
Not kill thee, say'st thou! yes, deceiver! Hear me;
Hadst thou as many lives as thou hast crimes,
My fury wou'd reach all—wrong'd love and friendship,
With double cry, demand thy death in vengeance!

Count.
Oh! but do hear me.

Som.
Not one siren word.

Count.
Oh! by the endearing softness of that bosom,
Look but on her you lov'd so much! so lately!
See how she pants for life! and begs for mercy!
Let me die, slow, some ling'ring death of sorrow,
But send me not to the eternal bar,
With all my crimes about me!

Som.
Do, crocodile, weep on—thy tears become thee.
Think what I suffer! think how thou hast wrong'd me!
Oh! I will stab thee!—tho' my heart-strings burst.

Count.
Yet, but a moment, hear me!

Som.
No—I will not;
Be dumb for ever—for, whene'er you speak,
You bring a base infection o'er my anger,
And I, at once, grow sick with pity—Off!
Why cling'st thou to me?

Count.
O spurn me!—drag me—
Yet my poor limbs shall grasp thee to the last,
And e'en my dying groans plead soft for pardon.

Som.