University of Virginia Library

ACT THE SECOND.

Scene I.

ELIZABETH in Council, CECIL, LEICESTER, &c.
LEICESTER.
With grief, my liege, this day we meet you here,
To lay our cares before you, and lament
Our country's fate; for never, since the hour
That gave the best of sov'reigns to our wishes,
Hath England felt such sad variety
Of pressing ills, or stood so much in need
Of all the aid which wisdom can suggest,
Or zeal inspire. We know, alas! too well,
What ills have flow'd from a disputed right
To England's throne, when York and Lancaster
Contended for the prize in fields of blood.
Permit us, therefore, good my liege, to urge
Our humble suit, and once more to request
That you would take a partner in your throne:
Some powerful friend that may support our cause,
Relieve your cares, and lessen your affliction.
Such is the wish of your assembled senate,
Such is the voice of your united people.

ELIZABETH.
My noble subjects, councillors, and friends,
What have I done to forfeit thus your love?
Beshrew my heart, but it doth grieve me sore,
To think that, after we so long have trod
The paths of peace and happiness together,
Ye should at last be weary of your queen.
Sink I at length, my friends, beneath the weight
Of England's crown, that thus you cast it from me,
And kindly would relieve me of a burthen
I am no longer able to support?
Why would ye rob me of my noblest power,
The glorious right to make my country happy?
Heaven is my witness: I have struggled hard
For your religion, liberty, and laws;
I wake, my subjects, but for your repose;
Live but to serve, and rule but to obey you.

SOUTHAMPTON.
We know it well, and wish but to secure
The bliss which we enjoy to future times.
In your own royal race we would transmit
Your virtues, and to ages yet unborn
Extend the blessings of Eliza's reign.

ELIZABETH.
Urge me no more, my lords, I do beseech you,
On this ungrateful subject; am I not
Already wedded? England is my husband,
And you my children; all alike shall share
A parent's riches, all divide her love.
Why was I raised to this exalted rank,
Why breathes Elizabeth but to promote
Her people's welfare and her kingdom's glory?
That pleasing task I would myself perform,
Nor will I trust it to another's hand.

LEICESTER.
If it be so, my liege, we must submit
In humble silence to your grace's will.
But O, reflect on England's hapless state,
And tremble at our danger: mark the clouds
That gather round, and soon will burst upon us.
Not one of those whom we so oft relieved
Will stretch a hand to save: in vain we ask
Of Belgia's tardy sons the promised aid
Which or they will not, or they dare not lend:
The northern powers, unfeeling and unmoved,
Or smile in cruel mirth at our misfortunes,
Or freeze in cold indifference around us.

CECIL.
Add we to this, my lords, that Spain, grown proud
By Philip's conquests, and of rival France,
No longer jealous, every hour increases
Her naval strength, and binds her force against us:
We are encircled by combining foes
On every side, and left without a friend.

ELIZABETH.
Forbid it, Heaven! there is a guardian power
Commission'd from above, that still hath made
This land of freedom his peculiar care;
He will not leave us in the perilous hour
Of our distress, but send a gracious hand
To stop th'impending ruin, and preserve us.

CECIL.
'Tis nobly urged, and in that hope we rest;
Yet unallied and unsupported, thus
To brave the storm, it is a dangerous conflict.

ELIZABETH.
And therefore worthy of us: Yes, my friends,
Against opposing millions England still
Shall guard her rights, and vindicate her throne.
The more she suffers, she but shines the more;
She grows, she thrives beneath oppression's weight,
With double strength; and, like her native oak
When winds assail, and tempests howl around,
Spreads her broad leaf, and rises from the blow.

CECIL.
Meantime it well befits us to prepare
Against the worst.

ELIZABETH.
I am prepared; for know,
Nor awed by faction, nor by parties led,
Nor sooth'd by flatterers, I repose my safety
On the firm basis of my subjects' love;
Our views, our hopes, our interests are the same.
Bless'd be the man, who, like my Cecil, knits
The sacred friendship in a golden chain;
And cursed be he who strives to disunite them.
Shall we then tremble at a distant power
That threats us from afar?

CECIL.
O, would to Heaven
Britain had nought but foreign foes to fear!
But there are hidden serpents in her bosom,
Domestic traitors, who unhinge the state;
Of these are form'd the secret friends of Rome:
Hence the rank crowd of Mary's partisans.

NORFOLK.
My lord!—

CECIL.
Nay, start not; from that poison'd spring
Rise all the noxious vapours that afflict
This wholesome land, rebellion, treasons, plots,
And foul conspiracies, that wound the peace
Of our loved sovereign's mind, and shake her throne.
Where is the man that will stand boldly forth,
And say it is not so?

NORFOLK.
Behold him here:
Norfolk, the friend of injured majesty,
Beauty oppress'd, and innocence betray'd.

CECIL.
Perdition on her charms! They have involved
One hapless nation in perpetual discord,
And half destroy'd another.

NORFOLK.
O, my lords,
If you have hearts to feel for the distress'd,
You must lament in sympathetic sorrow
Her hard, her cruel sufferings: but last night
I saw th'afflicted fair one. You like me
Had pitied, if like me you had beheld
The lovely mourner: on her homely couch
Reclined, she sate in mean and coarse attire,
(Ill suited to her rank,) whose sable hue
Gave sweet relief to her contrasted beauties,
And doubled all her charms; her lovely cheek
Was wetted, like the dew-besprinkled rose,
With many a tear, whilst sighs unnumber'd stole
From her full heart, and spoke the grief within.
Pensive she lean'd upon her snowy arm,
That mock'd the Parian marble's rival whiteness,
Then stretch'd her hand, and in a voice as sweet
As ever brighten'd the fair face of joy,
Or sooth'd the soul of anguish to repose,
Told her sad tale.

ELIZABETH.
Which we have heard before,
My lord of Norfolk; 'tis a tedious story,
And may be spared.
We came not here, my lords,
To talk of Mary's suff'rings, or to hear
A rapt'rous lover déscant on her beauties.
Cecil, what tidings do those letters bring?

CECIL.
Sussex informs us here, the northern rebels
Are up in arms, headed by Westmoreland.

ELIZABETH.
This wounds us deep indeed. Alas! how much
Hath England suffer'd from ingratitude;
It rives my heart to see her children thus
In impious rebel-league combined, and those
Who should support, united to destroy her.

ARUNDEL.
Fear not, my liege, the sons of loyalty
Will soon chastise their insolence; brave Rutland,
The noble Warwick, Willoughby, and Clinton
Will stop their rapid course, and turn the storm.

CECIL.
I doubt it not; nor had they dared so far
Without the kind support of fellow-madmen
Amongst us here. What says my lord of Norfolk?
Are there not some who wish these rebels well?
Some who would smile to see their country lost,
Enjoy her chains, and triumph in her ruin?

NORFOLK.
There may be such, there may be statesmen too,
Sagacious ministers, who love to find
A plot, or make one, to alarm their sov'reign
With fancied ills, or visionary danger;
Who raise the peaceful waves into a storm,
Only to shew how well their skilful hand
Can smooth the turbid seas, and quell their rage.

CECIL.
Neglect and cold indifference, my lord,
At times like these are little less than treason;
And he who is not now an open friend,
And zealous too, may prove a secret foe.

NORFOLK.
A foe to whom? my country, or my queen?
When we shall both be call'd on for our service,
'Twill then be seen who best deserves that name.

ELIZABETH.
For shame, my lords, I charge you on your duties,
Urge it no further now; is this a time
For private quarrels, and domestic feuds,
For party rage, and idle jealousies,
When every nerve should strain, and every arm
Be raised with vigour in our country's cause;
When universal ruin threatens all,
And nothing but our union can preserve us?
Begone! I'll hear no more: break up the council.
Cecil, a word with you—we'll meet again
To-morrow. For my lord of Norfolk there,
Let him be careful on what pillow next
He lays his head; it may concern him near.

[The Council breaks up and disperses.

Scene III.

ELIZABETH, CECIL.
ELIZABETH.
Cecil, I was not born to be controll'd:
Could Leicester think I ever would submit
To an imperious husband; to partake
A broken sceptre and divided empire?
That from a queen thy mistress would descend
Into a poor dependent wife, and stoop
To be a second in my own dominion?
He little knows Elizabeth!

CECIL.
Forgive
His honest zeal, he meant not to dispute
Your royal will; but sought the public good.

ELIZABETH.
And therefore wish'd, it seems, Eliza's race
Might reach to future times: we thank him for
His kindness, but I want no gaping heir
To England's throne, to watch my slow decay,
And count the ling'ring moments that withhold
The glitt'ring bauble from his eager hand.
This Norfolk too, I fear me, is—

CECIL.
A traitor,
Who hath conspired against your throne and life.
I have such proofs of his disloyalty,
As want but little confirmation. Hickford,
His confidential servant, is ere now
Secured; and, for I know him base of soul,
In hopes of pardon will discover all.
Within, my liege, I will impart the whole
Of this dark business: Alva and Ridolphi
Are much to blame, but Norfolk's forfeit life
Must pay for both. Meantime, we'll give him fair
And open trial.

ELIZABETH.
Yes, he shall have justice;
For he has spurn'd at mercy, and refused
The grace we offer'd: if the laws condemn,
'Tis not his riches, title, rank, or power,
No, nor his loved, his darling queen shall save him.

[Exeunt.
Scene changes to a private apartment; Queen Mary, with female attendants; she rests on a sofa, whilst her attendants sing the following
INVOCATION TO SLEEP.
Sleep, thou patron of mankind,
Great physician of the mind,
Who dost nor pain nor sorrow know,
Sweetest balm of every woe,
Mildest sov'reign, hear us now,
Hear thy wretched suppliants vow:
Her eyes in gentle slumbers close,
And continue her repose:
Hear thy wretched suppliants vow,
Great physician, hear us now.

Mary.
(Rising.)
It will not be;—e'en music's magic power,
And the sweet voice of friendship, plead in vain
For wretchedness like mine. The god of rest
And peaceful slumbers seldom deigns to visit
The daughters of affliction. O my friends,
Am I not sadly changed from what I was?

EMILY.
Not much indeed, not much; though grief has spread
Its sable curtain o'er thy drooping charms.
The piercing rays of native beauty still
Shine through the veil, and brighten all around them.

MARY.
O, name it not: there was a time, perhaps,
When youth's fair roses glow'd on Mary's cheek
With purple lustre; but the scythe of time,
Sharpen'd by sorrow to a keener edge,
Hath mow'd them down with unrelenting hand.
O Emily, what bitter waters flow'd
On me from that sweet fountain: henceforth never
Let the fond mother for her daughter wish
The charms of beauty; 'tis a fatal gift,
Parent of guilt, and pregnant with misfortune,
As I have known too well: a few short years
Did fickle fortune, like an autumn sun,
With dazzling lustre shine too bright upon me,
When the gay Francis woo'd me to his arms
With ardent zeal, and thought a noble kingdom
Too little for the purchase of my love.

EMILY.
I was a joyful witness of thy triumph,
And shared it with thee.

MARY.
O how I cherish still
The fond remembrance: when, in dearest France,
The seat of pleasure and the throne of love,
My happy hours on downy pinions fled;
When flatt'ry's dear delicious poison flow'd
From every tongue, when envious beauty frown'd,
And rival kings contended for my smiles.
But O, too soon the clouds of sorrow came,
And buried all my joys in storm and tempest.
My faithful Emily remembers well,
For she was with me in the fatal ship
That bore me weeping from the land I loved.

EMILY.
Close by thy side I wept the cruel lot
Of innocence distress'd; nor I alone,
Afflicted beauty drew the natural tear
From every eye, and the rough mariner
In sympathetic silence mourn'd your fate.

MARY.
With eyes still fix'd on the retreating shore,
Pensive I stood, and ‘O, Farewell,’ I cried,
‘Beloved country, O, farewell for ever;’
Then sigh'd: and when the envious night appear'd,
That hid it from me on the lonesome deck,
Sleepless I waited the return of day,
That once more bless'd me with the distant view
Of her loved towers, which, slowly lessening, mock'd
My wearied eyes, and left me in despair.
O, never since that melancholy hour
Hath thy poor mistress tasted the sweet cup
Of joy unmixed with bitterness and woe.

EMILY.
Still let us hope a ray of light may gleam
Through the dark scene, and brighter days succeed.
Fair freedom, soon a welcome stranger, led
By gallant Norfolk, comes—

MARY.
This very moment,
I know not why, but my presaging soul
Forebodes some ill, touching my noble friend.
O Emily, I fear his frantic zeal
And wild enthusiasm will destroy the cause
He means to serve: 'tis ever the hard lot
Of princes to be ruin'd by their friends,
And such will be my fate. O, would to Heaven
I had not listen'd to his golden dreams
Of visionary bliss; nor rashly promised
To venture with him on the stormy sea,
Where once I wreck'd my honour and my fame:
But sad necessity—
Ha! who comes here?

Enter NORFOLK.
NORFOLK.
Still, my fair mourner, brooding o'er thy griefs,
And still lamenting; must those beauteous eyes
For ever be suffused with fruitless tears?
Look up, my love; the night of sorrow's past,
And smiling joy beams on the cheerful morn:
I came to bring thee tidings of fair comfort,
And hoped a kinder welcome.

MARY.
O, my friend,
The flatt'rer, Hope, so often hath deceived me,
I dare not listen to his fond delusion,
Though brought by thee; but say, my noble Norfolk,
What hast thou done? what gracious power hath raised?

NORFOLK.
Thou shalt again be free; shalt rise once more
To empire and to glory: only say,
Wilt thou be mine? Will Mary condescend,
If fortune smile propitious on our purpose,
To bless the faithful Norfolk with her charms.

MARY.
Thy ardent passion merits more, my lord,
Much more, alas! than my unhappy fate
Hath left me to bestow: canst thou prefer,
To youthful beauty's lure, the poor remains
Of wasted life, and when the precious ore
Is all exhausted, shall I offer thee
The worthless dross and refuse of my love?

NORFOLK.
Talk not thus meanly of the loveliest form
That ever graced a crown: for years on years
Hath fortune stood indebted to thy virtues;
But she shall pay thee soon the long arrear,
And make thee full amends for all thy sorrows.

MARY.
O, that in early youth indulgent heaven
Had blest me with a sight of worth like thine:
How many days of sorrow and of guilt
Had I escaped, with all the cruel cares
Of royalty, and spent in mutual bliss
A life of peace with innocence and thee.

NORFOLK.
Come then, my lovely queen, and let me lead thee
From this detested prison to the seats
Of joy and pleasure; in a few short hours
The sun of fair prosperity, that long
In clouds had veil'd his splendor, shall break forth,
Spread his bright beams of happiness around us,
And gild the evening of our peaceful day.
Malignant fortune! I defy thy power;
Thou canst not hurt us now.

MARY.
Provoke her not;
For oft she frowns severely on the proud
Who brave her wrath: alas! too well I know
Thy ardent courage, and intrepid soul,
Which nothing can appal; whate'er th'attempt,
(For I am yet a stranger to thy purpose,)
I fear, 'tis full of peril.

NORFOLK.
Would it were
A thousand times more perilous! for then
I should deserve thee more: a prize like this
Demands a sacrifice; for such a treasure
Who would not hazard all that's dear on earth,—
Fame, honours, fortune, liberty, and life?

[Enter an officer with guards, they seize on Norfolk, and disarm him.
OFFICER.
My lord of Norfolk, by the queen's command,
I do arrest thee of high treason.

NORFOLK.
Ha!
Of treason! who shall dare accuse me of it?
Where are the proofs of my disloyalty?
What crimes—

MARY.
Alas! you need not ask the cause;
I am the treason. O there wants no more
To fix the sentence, and to seal thy fate:
'Tis guilt enough to have protected me.

NORFOLK.
I must have justice.—Lead me to the queen.

OFFICER.
You will have justice, but defence is vain:
For know, the papers, which you fondly hoped
Were buried in oblivion, are discover'd,
Nor can you hope for pardon; in a word,
Ross has confess'd, and Hickford hath betrayed you.

NORFOLK.
Then, Cecil, thou hast caught me in the snare,
And all is lost: there is no confidence,
No trust in faithless man; and I must fall,
The victim of my own credulity.

MARY.
'Tis as I fear'd; my cruel destiny
Prevails o'er all, and I have dragg'd thee down
To equal ruin with me.

NORFOLK.
Sad reverse!
But just united to be parted thus:
Thus torn asunder, and the cup of bliss
Dash'd rudely from my lips; but I was born
To taste th'extremes of happiness and woe.

MARY.
Yet mayst thou live: perchance, Elizabeth,
If we consent to part and meet no more,
May yet forgive, may spare thee yet. O, Norfolk,
Dear as I hold thy converse and thy love,
I would forego them; shall I promise that,
And give up all?

NORFOLK.
Not for a thousand worlds.
No, could Eliza grant me years on years,
A patriarch's length of days, I would refuse,
And spurn the proffer'd gift on such conditions.

MARY.
Norfolk, no more: thy every word but adds
Fresh grief to my afflicted heart, and shews
How much I have to feel by losing thee.

NORFOLK.
When death shall come, and he is not far off,
I'll be prepared: if yet I feel a pang,
It is for thee, that I must leave thee thus,
Without a guide, a guardian, or a friend.
'Tis not the parting with a few short years
Of fleeting life that sinks my soul to anguish;
But that the task, for which alone I wish'd
To live, is yet unfinished,—thy revenge.
Could Norfolk's death have purchased Mary's freedom,
And crown'd her days with happiness and joy,
Well pleased, I should have met the mortal blow,
Smiled on th'uplifted axe, and bless'd my fate.

MARY.
O, that in kind compassion to our woes,
Heaven had at last permitted us to fall
Together: but since I must still be left,
The mark of future vengeance; whilst it spares
This long devoted life, I will remember
Thy unexampled tenderness and truth;
Mourn o'er thy bier, and, with thy weeping country,
Regret the loss of such exalted virtues.

NORFOLK.
To die lamented thus, and thus beloved,
Is better than to live abhorr'd and fear'd,
Like Cecil and Elizabeth. Farewell,
My lovely queen, perhaps for ever: if
We meet again, 'twill be in happiness
And triumph o'er our foes. Once more, farewell:
I'll not disgrace thee with unmanly tears
Or desperation; I have lived with honour,
And will not die unworthy of thy love.