 | The Earl of Warwick |  |
SCENE I.
MARGARET, CLIFFORD, Attendants.MARGARET.
[to a gentleman.
Dispatch these letters strait; to Scotland—this
To the French envoy—these to th'earl of Pembroke.
[turning to lady Clifford.
Thus far, my friend, hath fortune favour'd us
Beyond our hopes: the soul of haughty Warwick
Is all on fire, and puling Edward loves
With most romantic ardour—O my Clifford,
You wou'd have smil'd to see how artfully
I play'd upon him: flatter'd, sooth'd, provok'd,
And wrought him to my purpose: we are link'd
In firmest bonds of amity and love.
CLIFFORD.
Hath Warwick then so soon forgot his Edward?
Think'st thou the frantic earl will e'er exert
His ill-directed powers to pull down
The royal structure, which himself had rais'd?
Never.
MARGARET.
What is there disappointed love
And unrestrain'd ambition will not do?
I tell thee, we are sworn and cordial friends.
CLIFFORD.
Thou know'st he hates the house of Lancaster.
MARGARET.
No matter—he has marvellous good skill
In making kings, and I—have business for him.
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And can'st thou then forget the cruel wrongs,
The deep-felt inj'ries of oppressive Warwick,
To join the hand that forg'd thy husband's chains
And rob'd thee of a crown?
MARGARET.
But what—my Clifford,
If the same hand that ravish'd shou'd restore it!
'Tis a court friendship and may last as long
As int'rest shall direct: I've not forgot,
No, nor forgiv'n; I hate, abhor, detest him,
But I will use him as my instrument;
My necessary tool, I'll make him draw
His trait'rous sword, to sheath it in the breast
Of him he loves, then point it to his own:
Yes, Clifford, I have twin'd me round his heart;
Like the fell serpent crept into his bosom,
That I might sting more surely: he shall perish;
I keep him for the last dear precious morsel,
To crown the glorious banquet of revenge.
CLIFFORD.
'Tis what he merits from us, yet th'attempt
Were dang'rous, he is still the people's idol,
MARGARET.
And so perhaps shall Marg'ret be; applause
Waits on success; the fickle multitude,
Like the light straw that floats along the stream,
Glide with the current still and follow fortune.
Our prospect brightens every hour:—the people
Are ripe for a revolt: by civil wars,
Long time inur'd to savage scenes of plunder
And desolation, they delight in war:
These English heroes, when once flesh'd with slaughter,
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Of vengeance, nor forget the taste of blood.
CLIFFORD.
What further succours have we to depend on,
Beside earl Warwick's?
MARGARET.
O his name alone
Will be an army to us.
CLIFFORD.
If we have it:
Resentment is a short-liv'd passion—what
If Warwick should relent, and turn again
To Edward?
MARGARET.
Then I have a bosom friend
That shall be ready to reward him for it;—
But I have better hopes: without his aid;
We are not friendless: Scotland's hardy sons
Who smile at danger, and defy the storm,
Will leave their barren mountains to defend
That liberty they love: add too the aid
Of gallant Pembroke, and the pow'rs which France
Will send to vindicate her injur'd honour:
E'er Edward can collect his force and take
The field, we shall be thirty thousand strong.
CLIFFORD.
But what becomes of the young prince?
MARGARET.
Aye; there
I am indeed unhappy, O my child,
How shall I set him free?—hear nature, hear
A mother's pray'r! O guide me with thy counsel,
And teach me how to save my darling boy.
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I thank thee:—yes; I wait but for the means
Of his escape, then fly this hated palace,
Nor will return till I can call it mine.
| The Earl of Warwick | |