University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Scene, the French Camp.
Enter Athens and Ribemont.
RIBEMONT.
Lord Constable, I was not in the Presence
When Perigort had Audience of the King.
Inform me, for I wish to know, does Peace
Her Olive-Garland weave? or must the Sword
Be kept unsheath'd, and Blood-fed Vengeance live?

Ath.
The King expecting me, I cannot tarry
To let your Lordship know Particulars;
But the good Father, who ev'n now set forward,
Carries such Terms as, from my Soul, I wish
Young Edward may accept: For 'tis resolv'd,
If they're rejected, instant to attack 'em.
Yonder's the Fugitive, I see, advancing,
Who left their Camp this Morning. If we fight,
And you have there a Friend you wish to save,
This Man may point you to his Post. Farewel.

[Exit.
Ribemont solus.
Rib.
This Man—By Heav'n, there's Treason in his Aspect!
That chearless Gloom, those Eyes that pore on Earth,
That bended Body, and those folded Arms,
Are Indications of a tortur'd Mind,
And blazon equal Villany and Shame.
In what a dire Condition is the Wretch,
Who, in the Mirror of Reflexion, sees
The hideous Stains of a polluted Soul!—
To Corners then, as does the loathsome Toad,
He crawls in Silence: There sequester'd chews
The foamy Ferment of his pois'nous Gall,
Hating himself, and fearing Fellowship.

Enter Arnold, musing.
Arn.
What have I done! And where is my Reward?—
Charney withholds his Daughter from my Arms,
My flatter'd Recompence for—Hold, my Brain!
Thought that, by timely coming, might have sav'd me,
Is now too late, when all its Office serves
But to awaken Horror!

[Aside.
Rib.
I'll accost him.—
Are you an Englishman?

Arn.
I had that Name,
(O killing Question)—but have lost it now.

Rib.
Lost it indeed!

Arn.
Illustrious Ribemont!
(For was your Person less rever'd and known
By ev'ry Son of Britain, on your Brow
That splendid Token of Renown you wear,
Would be your Herald)—Pity, if you can,
A Wretch—the most undone of all Mankind.

Rib.
I much mistake your Visage, or I've seen you
In near Attendance on the Prince of Wales.

Arn.
I was indeed,—(O Scandal to confess it)
I was his Follower, was his humble Friend;
He favour'd, cherish'd,—Lov'd me!—Heav'nly Pow'rs!
How shall I give my guilty Story Utterance!—
Level your fiery Bolts!—Transfix me here!—
Or hurl me howling to the Hell I merit.

Rib.
Invoke no Pow'r, a Conscience such as thine
Is Hell enough for Mortal to endure.
But let me ask thee, for my Wonder prompts me,
What Bait affords the World, that could induce thee
To wrong so godlike and so good a Master?

Arn.
True, he is all, is godlike, and is good!
Edward, my Royal Master, is indeed
A Prince beyond Example! Yet your Heart,
If it has ever felt the Power of Beauty,
Must mitigate the Crime of raging Love.

Rib.
Love!—Thou lost Wretch!—And could so frail a Fire
Consume whate'er was great and manly in thee?
Blot Virtue out, and root each nobler Passion
Forth from thy Mind? The Thirst of bright Renown?
A patriot fond Affection for thy Country?
Zeal for thy Monarch's Glory? And the Tye
Of sacred Friendship—by thy Prince ennobled?—
Begone, and hide thy ignominious Head,
Where human Eye may never penetrate;
Avoid Society, for all Mankind
Will fly the Fellowship of one like thee.

Arn.
Heav'n! wherefore said'st thou that we must not err,
And yet made Woman?

Rib.
Why accuse you Heav'n?
Curse your inglorious Heart for wanting Fire,
The Fire that animates the nobly brave!
The Fire that has renown'd the English Name,
And made it such as ev'ry Age to come
Shall strive to emulate,—but never reach—
There thou wert mingled in a Blaze of Glory,
Great,—to Amazement great!—But now how fall'n!
Ev'n to the vilest of all Vassal Vileness,
The despicable State of female Thraldom.

Arn.
From letter'd Story single out a Man,
However great in Council or in Fight,
Who ne'er was vanquish'd by a Woman's Charms.

Rib.
Let none stand forth, there is no Cause they should:
Beauty's a Blessing to reward the brave;
We take its Transports in relief from Toil,
Allow its Hour, and languish in its Bonds:
But that once ended, Dignity asserts
Its Right in Manhood, and our Reason reigns.

Arn.
Untouch'd by Passion, all may talk it well;
In Speculation who was e'er unwise?
But Appetites assault like furious Storms,
O'erbearing all that should resist their Rage,
'Till Vigour is worn down; and then succeeds
A gloomy Calm—in which Reflexion arms
Her Scorpion Brood—Remorse, Despair and Horror!

Rib.
But could Contrition ever yet restore
To radiant Lustre a polluted Fame?
Or Man, however merciful, forget
That Justice brands Offenders for his Scorn?
Truth, the great Touchstone of all human Actions,
The fair Foundation of Applause or Blame,
Has ting'd thy Honour with too foul a Stain,
For all repentant Tears to wash away.
All Eyes 'twill urge to dart their keen Reproaches,
Each Tongue to hiss, and ev'ry Heart to heave
With Indignation at thee.

Arn.
All the Pride,
That here should kindle into high Resentment,
I find is gone! My Spirit's sunk, debas'd!
My Guilt unmans me—and I'm grown a Coward.

[Aside.
Rib.
The Trumpets may awake, the Clarions swell,
That noble Ardor thou no more canst feel,
Disgrac'd from Soldier to a Renegade.
Anon, while o'er the dreadful Field we drive,
Or dealing Deaths, or daring slaught'ring Swords!
Do thou at distance, like the dastard Hare,
All trembling! seek thy Safety. Thence away,
As Fortune, or thy Genius may direct,
Thy Conscience thy Companion. But be sure,
Whatever Land you burden with your Weight,
Whatever People you hereafter join,
Tell but your Tale, and they will all, like me,
Pronounce you Abject, Infamous and Hateful.

[Exit.
Arnold solus.
Arn.
Abject and Hateful!—Infamous!—I'm all!—
The World has not another Monster like me:
Nor Hell in all its Store of horrid Evils,
Beyond what I deserve!—Already here
I feel the Shafts, they rankle in my Bosom!
And active Thought anticipates Damnation.

Enter Mariana and Louisa.
Mar.
He's here! I've found my Heart's Companion out!
Rejoice, my Arnold, for my Father softens;
He half forgets his Hatred to thy Country,
And hears with Temper while I praise thy Virtues:
We soon shall conquer. Hah! what mean those Tears?
Why art thou thus?

Arn.
And can'st thou ask that Question?
Thou soft Seducer, thou enchanting Mischief,
Thou Blaster of my Virtue. But—begone—
By Heav'n, the Poison looks so tempting yet,
I fear to gaze myself in Love with Ruin.
Away—away: Enjoy thy ill-got Freedom,
And leave a Wretch devoted to Destruction.

Mar.
Destruction!—how the Image strikes my Soul,
As would the Shaft of Death, with chilling Horror!—
Hear me—but hear me!—'tis the Cause of Love!
Your Mariana pleads.—For Arnold's Peace,
For mine, for both—nay do not turn away,
And with Unkindness dash the rising Hope,
That strives for Birth, and struggles with Despair!

Arn.
O yes, despair!—it is most fit you should,
As I must ever do.

Mar.
Wherefore?—Why?—
How are you alter'd, or myself how chang'd,
That all our Blessings are transform'd to Curses?
Have you not sworn—(you did, and I believ'd you)
My flatter'd Beauties and my faithful Love,
Were all that Arnold wish'd to make him happy?

Arn.
Curst be your Love, and blasted all your Beauties,
For they have robb'd me of my Peace and Honour.
Looks not my Form as hideous as my Soul,
Begrim'd like Hell, and blackned to a Fiend?
Go, get thee hence—thou Blaster of my Fame,
Bear thy bewitching Eyes where I no more
May gaze my—but I've nothing now to lose,
Nought but a hated Life, which any Hand
Would be most merciful to rid me of.

Mar.
If I am guilty, 'tis the Guilt of Love,
And Love should pardon what himself inspir'd.
O smooth the Horrors of that anguish'd Brow,
Thy tortur'd Visage fills me with Affright!
Look on me kindly, look as you were wont,
Or ease my bursting Heart, or strike me dead.

Arn.
Give me again my Innocence of Soul,
Give me my forfeit Honour blanch'd anew,
Cancel my Treasons to my Royal Master,
Restore me to my Country's lost Esteem,
To the sweet Hope of Mercy from above,
And the calm Comforts of a virtuous Heart.

Mar.
Sure Kindness should not construe into Guilt
My fond Endeavours to preserve thee mine,
Life, Love and Freedom are before you all,
Embrace the Blessings, and we yet are happy.

Arn.
What! with a Conscience sore and gall'd like mine?
To stand the Glance of Scorn from ev'ry Eye?
From ev'ry Finger the indignant Point?
In ev'ry Whisper hear my spreading Shame?
And groan and grovel a detested Outcast?
A taunting Frenchman, with opprobrious Tongue,
Pronounc'd me Abject, Infamous and Hateful!
And yet I live!—And you yet counsel Life!
The Damn'd beneath might find or fancy Ease,
And fear to lose Existence soon as I!—
No, die I must—I will—but how—how—how—
Nay loose my Arm, you strive in vain to hold me.

Mar.
Upon my Knees—see, see these speaking Tears!—

Arn.
Be yet advis'd, nor urge me to an Outrage:—
Thy Pow'r is lost—unhand me—then 'tis thus,
Thus I renounce thy Beauties—thus thy Guilt—
Life, Love and Treason I renounce for ever!

[Exit.
Mar.
Then welcome Death, Distraction, ev'ry Curse!
Blast me, ye Lightnings; strike me, roaring Thunders!
Or let me tear, with my outrageous Hands,
The peaceful Bosom of the Earth, and find
A Refuge from my Woes and Life together.
[Flinging herself on the Ground.
Stand off—away—I will not be withheld—
I will indulge my Phrenzy:—Loss of Reason
Is now but loss of Torment—Cruel Arnold!—

Enter Charney.
Char.
Whence is this Voice of Woe? This frantic Posture?
Why is my Child, my Mariana thus?

Mar.
Thy flinty Heart can best resolve the Question:
[Rising.
Thou that relentless saw'st my Tears descend,
And, urg'd by stubborn Haughtiness and Hatred,
Hast given me up to endless Agonies.
The Man that merited thy best Regard,
The Man I lov'd, thy Cruelty has made
Alike implacable: He's gone, he's lost!
Arnold is lost, and my Repose for ever.

Char.
Why let him go, and may th'impending Ruins,
The hov'ring Mischiefs that await their Arms,
Him, them, and all of their detested Race,
Involve in one Destruction.

Mar.
No, let Ruin
O'ertake the proud, severe and unforgiving,
Crimes that are Strangers to an English Nature.
They are all gentle; He was mild as Mercy,
Soft as the Smiles that mark a Mother's Joy,
Clasping her new-born Infant. Shield him, Heav'n!
Protect him, comfort him.—Thou cruel Father,
Thou Cause of all my Sufferings, all my Woes!
Give him me back, restore him to my Arms,
My Life, my Lord, my Arnold! Give him to me,
Or I will curse my Country, thee,—myself!—
And die the Victim of despairing Love.

[Exit.
Char.
Follow her, watch her, guard her from her Fury.
[Exit Louisa.
O dire Misfortune! this unhappy Stroke
Surpasses all the Sorrows I have felt,
And makes me wretched to the last Extreme.

[Exit.
The Scene drawing discovers the Prince of Wales seated in State in his Tent; at the Entrance to which his Standard stands displayed: The Device, three Ostrich Feathers, with the Motto of Ich Dien: Warwick, Salisbury, Audley, Chandos, Nobles, Officers and Guards standing.
Prince.
I've sent my Lords of Oxford, Suffolk, Cobham,
To meet the Nuncio, and conduct him hither:
From whom we may expect to hear the Terms
On which the French will deign to give us Safety.

[Trumpets.
Chan.
Those Trumpets speak the Cardinal's Arrival:
And see!—the Lords conduct him to your Presence.

[Trumpets.
Enter three English Lords, preceding Cardinal Perigort and his Retinue. On the Nuncio's bowing, the Prince advances from his Seat and embraces him.
Prince.
Lord Cardinal, most welcome to my Arms:
I greet you thus, as England's kindest Friend,
Misfortune's Refuge, and Affliction's Hope.
It is an Office worthy of your Goodness,
To step betwixt our Danger and Destruction,
Striving to ward from threatned thousands here
The Blow of Fate.

Per.
Grant, gracious Heaven, I may!
For from my Soul, great Prince, I wish your Rescue;
And have Conditions from your Foes to offer,
Which, if accepted, save ye.

Prince.
We attend.

[Takes his Seat.
Per.
No Art for mild Persuasion in your Cause
Have I omitted: But imperious France,
Too fond of Vengeance, and too vain of Numbers,
Insists on Terms, which only could be hop'd
From such a scanty unprovided Host,
And Prudence will direct, from many Evils
To choose the lightest. Their Conditions are,
“That to the Castles, Towns, and Plunder taken,
“And offer'd now by you to be restor'd,
“Your Royal Person, with an hundred Knights,
“Are to be added Pris'ners at Discretion!”

Prince.
Hah! Pris'ners!—

Aud.
O insolent, detested Terms!

Sal.
An hundred thousand first of Frenchmen fall,
And Carrion-taint the Air!—I cannot hold.

[Aside.
Prince.
[After a Pause.]
My good Lord Cardinal, what Act of mine
Could ever usher to their Minds a Thought,
That I would so submit?—

Per.
Could I prescribe,
You should yourself be Umpire of the Terms;
For well I know your noble Nature such,
That Int'rest would be made the Slave of Honour.
But to whate'er I urg'd, the King reply'd,
“Remember Cressy's Fight! to us as fatal,
“As that of Cannæ to the Roman State.
“There fell two mighty Kings, three sovereign Princes,
“Full thirty thousand valiant Men of Arms,
“With all the Flower of French Nobility,
“And of their firm Allies; for which (he cried)
“What can redeem the Glory of my Crown,
“But to behold those Victors in our Chains?”
It is a bitter Potion; but reflect,
That Royal John is noble, and will treat
Such Foes with Dignity; while Fortune pays
Less than the Stock of Fame his Father lost.

Prince.
Yes, Philip, lost the Battle with the odds
Of three to one. In this, if they obtain it,
They have our Numbers more than twelve times told,
If we can trust Report. And yet, my Lord,
We'll face these Numbers, fight 'em—Bravely fall!
Ere stoop to linger loathsome Life away
In Infamy and Bondage. Sir, I thank you,—
I thank you from my Soul, for these,—for me,—
That we have met your Wish to do us Kindness:
But for the Terms our Foes demand, we scorn
Such vile Conditions, and defy their Swords.—
Tell 'em, my Lord, their Hope's too proudly plum'd,
We will be conquer'd ere they call us Captives.

Per.
Famine or Slaughter—

Prince.
Let them both advance
In all their horrid, most tremendous Forms!
They'll meet, in us, with Men who'll starve, bleed—die!
Ere wrong their Country, or their own Renown.
Sound there to Arms!—My pious Friend—farewel.
Disperse, my Lords, and spirit up the Troops!—
Divide the last Remains of our Provision—
We shall require no more; for who survives
The Fury of this Day, will either find
Enough from Booty,—or a Slave's Allowance.

Per.
How much at once I'm melted and amaz'd!
Stop, my Lords, and give a Soul of Meekness Scope,
In Minutes of such Peril. By the Host
That circles Heav'n's high Throne, my bleeding Heart
Is touch'd with so much Tenderness and Pity,
I cannot yield ye to the dire Decision.
Let me, once more, with ev'ry moving Art,
Each soft Persuasion, try the Gallic King:
Perhaps he may relent—permit the Trial—
I would preserve such Worth, Heav'n knows I would!
If hazard, labour,—Life! could buy your Safety.

Prince.
Lord Cardinal,—your Kindness quite unmans me
My Mind was arm'd for ev'ry rough Encounter;
But such Compassion saps my Fortitude,
And forces Tears—They flow not for myself,
But these endanger'd Followers of my Fortunes:
Whom I behold as Fathers, Brothers, Friends!
Here link'd together by the graceful Bonds
Of Amity and Honour: All, to me
For ever faithful, and for ever dear.
The worth that rooted while my Fortune smil'd,
You see not ev'n Adversity can shake!
Think it not Weakness then that I lament them.

Per.
It is the loveliest Mark of Royal Virtue,
'Tis what demands our most exalted Praise,
Is worthy of yourself—and must endear
The best of Princes to the best of People.
'Till my Return be Hope your Comforter:
If 'tis within the scope of human Means,
I'll ward the Blow.

Prince.
Good Heav'n repay you, Sir:
Tho' Acts of Kindness bear such Blessings with them
As are their full Reward.—My Lord, farewel.

[Exit Perigort, attended as he came in.
Manent Prince, Warwick, Salisbury, Audley, Chandos, Nobles, Officers and Guards.
Aud.
Well, Sir, how fare you now?

Prince.
O! never better:
If I have Frailty in me, Heav'n can tell,
It is not for myself, but for my Friends.
I've run no mean inglorious Race, and now,
If it must end, 'tis no unlucky Time.
As yon great Planet, thro' its radiant Course,
Shoots, at his parting, the most pleasing Rays!
So to high Characters a gallant Death
Lends the best Lustre, and ennobles all.

Aud.
Why there, my Prince, you reach even Virtue's Summit:
For this I love you with a fonder Flame,
Than proud Prosperity could e'er inspire.
'Tis Triumph, this o'er Death!—

Prince.
And what is Death,
That dreadful Evil to a guilty Mind,
And awe of Coward Natures? 'Tis but Rest:
Rest that should follow every arduous Toil,
Relieve the Valiant, and reward the Good:
Nor find we aught in Life to wish it longer,
When Fame is once establish'd.

War.
That secure,
Our Foes, who wail its Loss, can ne'er recover
The Glory ravish'd from 'em.

Prince.
Who can tell—
Has Fortune been so badly entertain'd
That she should leave us? No, my noble Friends!
Her Smiles and Favours never were abus'd:
Then what we merit we may yet maintain.

Chan.
An hundred of us, with your Royal Person,
Deliver'd up their Pris'ners at Discretion!
The French have surely lost all Modesty,
Or the Remembrance of themselves and us.

Aud.
But here, in my Mind's Tablet, there remains
A Memorandum, that might make 'em start
In this career of their presumptuous Hope.
Nine times the Seasons scarce have danc'd their Rounds,
Since the vain Father of their present King,
Philip, who stil'd himself his Country's Fortune!
Gaudy and garnish'd, with a numerous Host,
Met our great Edward in the Field of Fight.
I was one Knight in that Illustrious Service,
And urge I may (for 'tis a modest Truth)
We made the Frenchmen tremble to behold us:
Their King himself turn'd pale at our appearance,
And thought his own trim Troops, compar'd with ours,
Effeminated Cowards.—Such they prov'd;
And since that Day, what Change in them or us,
Can ground Security on wondrous odds?
The same undaunted Spirits dare the Combat;
The same tough Sinews and well-temper'd Blades,
Again shall mow them down, like Autumn Corn,
Another Harvest of Renown and Glory.

Chan.
There the brave Monarch of Bohemia strove,
In vain, to kindle Valour in their Hearts:
He fought, he fell!—when our victorious Prince
Seiz'd his gay Banner with yon Boast, “I serve:”
[Pointing to the Prince's Standard.
Which now more suited to his Princely Charge,
Triumphantly, as Conqueror, he wears!
And in his Honour England's eldest Hope
Shall ever wear it, to the end of Time.

Sal.
Now as I live, I wish we were at work,
And almost fear the Nuncio may succeed.
Methinks we should not lose the blest Occasion,
Or for surpassing ev'ry former Conquest,
Or gaining glorious Death, immortal Fame.

Prince.
Then set we here ill Fortune at defiance,
Secure, at least, of never-fading Honour.
O my brave Leaders! in this warm Embrace,
[They all embrace.
Let us infuse that Fortitude of Soul,
To all but England's daring Sons unknown;
Firm as the stately Oak, our Island's Boast,
Which fiercest Hurricanes assault in vain,
We'll stand the driving Tempest of their Fury.
And who shall shake our martial Glories from us?
Yon puny Gauls! They ne'er have done it yet,
Nor shall they now: O! never will we wrong,
So far, ourselves and our renown'd Forefathers.—
Here part we, Lords; attend your sev'ral Duties.
Audley, distribute thro' the Camp Provisions—
Keep ev'ry Soldier's Spirits in a Glow!
'Till from the French this final Message comes:
Then, if their Pride denies us Terms of Honour,
We'll rush outrageous on their vaunting Numbers;
And teach them that with Souls resolv'd, like ours,
Ev'n Desperation points the way to Conquest.
When (in defiance of superior Might)
Plung'd in the dreadful Storm of bloody Fight!
Shall ev'ry Briton do his Country Right.

Exeunt.