 | The Earl of Warwick |  |
SCENE I.
MARGARET of ANJOU, Lady CLIFFORD.CLIFFORD.
Thanks! gracious heav'n, my royal mistress smiles,
Unusual gladness sparkles in her eye,
And bids me welcome in the stranger joy
To his new mansion.
MARGARET.
Yes, My faithful Clifford,
Fortune is weary of oppressing me:
Through my dark cloud of grief, a chearful ray
Of light breaks forth, and gilds the whole horison.
CLIFFORD.
Henry in chains, and Edward on the throne
Of Lancaster, thyself a pris'ner here,
Thy captive son torn from his mother's arms,
And in the tyrant's pow'r, a kingdom lost:
2
Hath wrought this wond'rous change?
MARGARET.
That which alone
In sorrow's bitt'rest hour, can minister
Sweet comfort to the daughters of affliction,
And bid misfortune smile, the hope of vengeance:
Vengeance, benignant patron of distress,
Thee I have oft invoked, propitious now
Thou smil'st upon me, if I do not grasp
The glorious opportunity, henceforth
Indignant frown, and leave me to my fate!
CLIFFORD.
Unhappy Princess! that deceiver hope
Hath often flatter'd, and as oft betray'd thee:
What hast thou gain'd by all its promises?
What's the reward of all thy toils?
MARGARET.
Experience—
Yes, Clifford, I have read th'instructive volume
Of human nature, there long since have learn'd
The way to conquer men is by their passions;
Catch but the ruling foible of their hearts,
And all their boasted virtues shrink before you.
Edward and Warwick, those detested names,
Too well thou know'st, united to destroy me.
CLIFFORD.
That was indeed a fatal league.
MARGARET.
But mark me;
If we cou'd break this adamantine chain,
We might again be free: this mighty warrior,
3
Is plighted to the fair Elizabeth.
CLIFFORD.
The lady Gray, you mean, the beauteous widow,
Whose husband fell in arms for Lancaster.
MARGARET.
The same, my Clifford—Warwick long has lov'd—
CLIFFORD.
And means to wed her.
MARGARET.
But if I have art,
Or she ambition, that shall never be.
CLIFFORD.
Can'st thou prevent it?
MARGARET.
Yes, my Clifford, Warwick
Were a mean choice for such transcendent beauty;
I shall provide her with a fitter husband,
A nobler far, and worthier of her charms,
Young Edward.—
CLIFFORD.
Ha! the king! impossible!
Warwick, ev'n now, commission'd by the state,
To treat with Lewis, offers England's throne
To France's daughter, and e'er this, perhaps,
Hath sign'd the solemn contract.
MARGARET.
Solemn trifles!
Mere cobweb ties—Love's a despotic tyrant,
And laughs, like other kings, at public faith,
When it opposes private happiness:
Edward is youthful, gay, and amorous;
His soul is ever open to the lure
4
Might shake a hermit's virtue.
CLIFFORD.
Hath he seen
This peerless fair one?
MARGARET.
Yes,—by my contrivance,
When last he hunted in the forest, some,
Whom I had planted there, as if by chance
Alone directed, led him cross the lawn
To Grafton, there—ev'n as my soul had wish'd,
The dazzling lustre of her charms surpris'd
His unsuspecting heart—
CLIFFORD.
What follow'd?
MARGARET.
O!
He gaz'd and wonder'd; for a while his pride
Indignant rose, and struggled with his passion,
But love was soon victorious: and last night,
The earl of Suffolk, so my trusty spies
Inform me, was dispatch'd on wings of love,
To plead his master's cause, and offer her
The throne of England.
CLIFFORD.
What if she refuse
The golden bribe?
MARGARET.
No matter; all I wish
Is but to make them foes: the gen'rous Warwick
Is fiery, and impatient of reproof,
He will not brook a rival in his love
Though seated on a throne; besides, thou know'st,
5
As the mere work of his all-pow'rful hand,
The baby monarch of his own creation.
CLIFFORD.
Believe me, madam, Edward still reveres
And loves him, still as conscious of the debt,
Pays him with trust and confidence; their souls
Are link'd together in the strictest bonds
Of sacred friendship.
MARGARET.
That but serves my cause:
Where ties are close, and interests united,
The slightest inj'ries are severely felt;
Offended friendship never can forgive.
CLIFFORD.
Now the full prospect opens to my view,
I see thy distant aim, and trace the paths
Of vengeance: England soon will be a scene
Of blood and horror, discord's fatal torch
Once lit up it in this devoted land,
What pow'r shall e'er extinguish it? alas!
I tremble at the consequence.
MARGARET.
And I
Enjoy it:—O! 'twill be a noble contest
Of pride 'gainst pride, oppression 'gainst oppression;
Rise but the storm, and let the waves beat high,
The wreck may be our own: in the warm struggle,
Who knows but one or both of them may fall,
And Marg'ret rise triumphant on their ruin!
It must be so; and see the king approaches:
This way he passes from the council—mark
His down-cast eye, he is a stricken deer,
6
We'll meet and speak to him.
CLIFFORD.
What mean you, madam?
MARGARET.
To ask him—what, I know, he will refuse;
That gives me fair pretext to break with him,
And join the man I hate, vindictive Warwick;
But soft, he comes—
| The Earl of Warwick | |