University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Enter Rosamond and Harriana.
Harriana.
This Coolness is untimely.

Rosamond.
Harriana,
Th'unpleasing Thought will sometimes steal upon me:
Great as they seem, all these are dear-bought Pleasures:
Ev'n Henry's Love has cost me many a Pang.
Peace is the glorious Privilege of Virtue.
The harmless Country Maid, that lives retir'd,
Beneath the Covert of a homely Hut,
And knows no View beyond her daily Bread,
Has more Heart's Ease than I.

Harriana.
Prepost'rous Melancholy!
Is not the World, and its first Master, yours?
Nature, thy Handmaid, still supplies thy Wishes,
Lavish of all her Stock, as who should say,
Thou shalt be happy.

Rosamond.
These are mean Suggestions:
Know I ne'er sold my Virtue, but to Love:
The massy Store of the Wealth-pregnant Earth,
The Pomp, and Eye-attracting Blaze of Courts,
And all the gilded Baits of Female Pride,
Were Bribes my Henry's Love disdain'd to offer:
Such as it is, this Beauty won his Heart,
How he won mine—I know not—but he won it—
For him I threw away my Innocence,
And am the Scoff of every scornful Tongue:
For him I've stain'd the noble Name of Clifford,
And pierc'd his aged Soul who gave me Being;
For him, e'en now, my Heart with Transport beats;
His Presence ever calms my troubled Breast,
Stills each dull Thought, and bids all Sorrow vanish.

Harriana.
Once more he comes victorious from the Field:
O meet him with thy Love's sincerest Welcome.

Rosamond.
Yes, he returns, and Thought adieu for ever:
Hence, I defy that Tyrant of the Mind:
My Love wants not a Plea: Henry my Lord
Is great and gen'rous: He's the Pride of Fame,
And Fortune's Darling: Henry lulls my Soul
In soft unfelt Captivity.

Harriana.
But hark,
Yon Trumpet's Voice proclaims him near at hand.

Rosamond.
O sweetest Music to my ravish'd Ear:
Now ev'ry thing begins to smile about me;
Bright seems the Season as the new-born Spring,
When every Flower put forth its earliest Fragrance,
And infant Nature breath'd her Sweets around.

Harriana.
'Tis now thou risest to thy proper Self;
Thy Charms are summon'd all, thy Graces dawn,
And ev'ry sparkling Beauty beams anew.
But lo, the Royal Hero—I retire.
[Exit Harriana.

Enter King Henry.
K. Henry.
Take me once more, my Love, into thy Arms;
Thus let me clasp thee to my faithful Breast,
Thus feed my Eyes upon thy glowing Beauties,
And pour my Soul in Transports out before thee.
What, what is Fame, or Victory, to this?
Adieu the Pomp and Pageantry of War,
And Love resume the Empire of my Soul.

Rosamond.
Speak not my Eyes the Language of my Heart?
Or shall I open my rich Hoard of Fondness,
With all the soft Impertinence of Love?
Why has my Lord so long been absent from me?
Methinks I now receive thee in thy Tent,
Dreadfully graceful from the Field of Blood,
The manly Dew still reeking on thy Brow.
O let me sooth my Hero to his Rest,
Then kindly chide his Eagerness of Valour,
And bid him sheath the Sword for Love of me.

K. Henry.
To thee I am devoted from this Hour:
I'll give Mankind my loose superfluous Moments,
But Love shall claim my more substantial Care.
No petty Monarchs shall divide us more:
France and her King have felt the Wrath of Harry.
I flew on Wings of Victory to War,
And like celestial Fire consum'd the Foe;
Then halted in the mid Career of Glory:
Conquest was Waste of Time: Quick I return'd,
And left the Business of the World unfinish'd.

Rosamond.
Forgive me, Henry, if I shed a Tear;
A Tear, at once, of Pity, and of Love.
Gaze not thus fondly on me whilst I speak:
It is a fatal Fondness, and betrays thee.
Possess'd of me, art thou not lost to Honour?
Where is the native Greatness of thy Soul?
Thy gen'rous Thirst of everlasting Glory?
O hadst thou never fix'd thine Eyes on me,
Fame, on her brazen Tablet, had display'd
Thy Royal Name, and shewn it to the Stars.
But I shall blot thy Memory for ever.

K. Henry.
Thy kind Concern is far too nice, my Love:
O Rosamond! 'tis but the Dream of Pride:
Kings, and their Subjects all, are Nature's Children;
And ermin'd Greatness on the Throne must own it.
What is the Monarch more than other Men?
His Appetites and Passions are the same;
He hates, revenges, hopes, and fears, as they do;
Or does he love, O does he love like me,
'Tis Glory, 'tis Ambition, to pursue
The heav'nly Fair, and win her to his Wishes.
Is it not Pride to hang upon thy Smiles?
Is it not Triumph to enfold thee thus?
Art thou not All, and is not this World Nothing?

Rosamond.
I could for ever listen to thy Voice:
Whene'er thou speak'st, Reason gives up the Cause,
And Nature whispers, what thou say'st is right.

K. Henry.
Be Love the Theme, and I could talk for ever.

Rosamond.
Be Love the Theme, I could for ever hear thee.

K. Henry.
O come, my rural Goddess, to my Arms:
We'll lie upon the Flow'r-enamell'd Turf;
The Garland-Wreath shall be our Diadem;
The Leaf-clad Bow'r our Canopy of State;
Our Music the sweet Matin of the Lark:
Then bless me with the Sunshine of thy Beauty,
Till I forget my Royal Occupation,
The Task of Greatness, and the Toil of Power,
And ev'ry Sense be full of Love and thee.

Rosamond.
How does thy Language charm my list'ning Ears?
Yet must I dread this Indolence of Thought,
The Scotchmen, and their King, are up in Arms;
And, if Report say true, th'Invasion boasts
The Countenance of your Son.

K. Henry.

[Exeunt.