University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Enter Lord Clifford in Disguise.
Henry must pass this Way for Becket's Tomb:
While thus attir'd, like a poor begging Friar,
I shall escape his Knowlege: I must win
His Ear to my Discourse; while I relate
The piteous Story of my Sufferings,
And circumstantially describe my Woes,
In Terms so clear, that the Similitude
Himself portraiting strongly to himself,
Shall strike upon his Soul. With a dim Eye
Personal Guilt is view'd; an Atom Spot
Sharp-sighted Censure sees in other Men:
What tho' our barren Conf'rence have no Issue?
At least I shall unload my burden'd Heart,
And probe his wounded Conscience to the Quick.
But hold—He comes.

[Enter King Henry.
K. Henry.
'Tis much—What! to submit
To painful Chastisement, and on the Flint
Wear out the slow-pac'd Night!—Be we content;
'Tis to appease our holy Mother Church—
I like this Cloister's awful Solitude:
It seems the Dwelling-place of Meditation.
Hah! who comes tow'rds us with so sad an Aspect?
Sure he's the youngest Son of Misery.
Lo here a Beggar, and a King! Wide Contrast!
Yet pass one Moment, all Distinctions vanish,
And Majesty incorporates with Dust:
Let Pride go weep: It may amuse my Thought,
To hide the King, and commune with this Fellow.
What hoa, Friend, who are you?

Clifford.
Why, who art thou,
That dost not know Lorenzo, the poor Friar?

K. Henry.
I'm come to pay Devotion to Saint Thomas,
And am a Stranger here.

Clifford.
I crave your Pardon.
Thou seem'st of noble Blood.

K. Henry.
Well hast thou said;
For such I am.

Clifford.
Then, Sir, you know King Henry.

K. Henry.
Exceeding well. I oft attend his Court,
But why's thy Tongue familiar with that Name?

Clifford.
Because I take a Pride to let thee know,
That, wretched as I am, this Arm has serv'd him.

K. Henry.
If well, I trust, that Service was repaid.

Clifford.
As Avarice could wish: Ev'n to this Day
He is the Idol of my Memory;
I serv'd him in his early Prime of Glory.
His Soldiers lov'd him all; for all believ'd him
The best of Kings, his Country's Friend and Father.
O, he was noble, gen'rous, brave, and just;
Pow'rful, but to protect, and not oppress,
Fear'd and renown'd abroad, and lov'd at Home.

K. Henry.
Praise undeserv'd is Satire's bitt'rest Gall.
[Aside.
In Faith thou hast describ'd his Highness well:
Methinks there is right Honesty about thee:
Thy Talk exceeds the Promise of that Habit.

Clifford.
Sir, I was once no Stranger to good Fortune.—
But wherefore do I hold this Talk? Farewel.

K. Henry.
Yet stay; for thou hast mov'd my Soul to learn
The wretched Circumstances of thy Life.
Why is thy Look thus sad and discontented?
Does not Religion's Garb sit easy on thee?
Say, wherefore didst thou leave the Royal Camp,
To live immur'd within these holy Walls;
Yet now, unmindful of thy Dedication,
Dost nauseate the Cup of Poverty
Thyself hast sworn to drink?

Clifford.
Thou dost not know
What 'tis to be distress'd—I could display
A Scene so mournful to thy startled Ear,
Thy Wonder should be swallow'd up in Pity.
Canst thou lend Patience to an old Man's Prattle?

K. Henry.
I will.

Clifford.
Know then the holy Brotherhood
Combat with more in this religious Warfare,
Than Down-reposing Luxury e'er dreamt of.
We're Men, but yet no Members of Mankind:
This Monastery is to us, our World;
Yon melancholy Cells thou seest, our Home;
There ev'ry Night, in pensive Meditation,
We watch the Lamp's dull Gleam; and when we sleep,
'Tis but what Nature steals from rigid Duty,
Till the shrill Cock, the Usher of the Morn,
Awakes us to the Discipline of Day.
Our homely Meals are low, and regular;
And while we stay the Rage of Appetite,
We starve the dainty Palate: To be brief,
Wealth, Business, Pleasure, Honour we renounce,
And all of us are Wretches, by Engagement:
'Tis thus we struggle with Mortality,
Rather than live. What think you of our State?

K. Henry.
'Tis all that Man can do tow'rds earning Heav'n;
It is Extremity of Wretchedness.
But yet—

Clifford.
Ha, ha, ha.

K. Henry.
What can provoke thy Mirth?

Clifford.
Your Ignorance;
For in this Light thou seest me to Advantage:
All this is Happiness, to what I suffer:
Was this the mighty Sum of all my Sorrow,
These Eyes should start in Transport from their Orbs,
And my old Heart-strings crack with rising Joy.

K. Henry.
Thy Fortune has been merciless indeed,
If this sad Place be Sorrow's Sanctuary.

Clifford.
What's this, Sir, to the Poignancy of Woe,
To inward Grief, to vital Agony,
And the keen Pang, that gnaws upon the Heart?
Poor tho' he is, the Man whose Mind's at Ease,
Beneath the Straw-built Roof enjoys his Sleep;
At pinching Hunger's Importunity
Epicure-like devours his savoury Scrap;
And, joyous, as the brain-sick Reveller,
Quaffs down the unadulterated Stream.
But O! how bitter is the scanty Morsel,
That, feeding Life, but nourishes Despair!

K. Henry.
How loudly does the Voice of Grief demand
The social Tear! O what is mortal Man,
That may be brought thus low? 'Twill glad my Soul
To make this Fellow happy.

[Aside.
Clifford.
Stranger, I thank thy Tears; they shew thee noble:
Pity flows always from the manly Heart.
Have you a Daughter, Sir?

K. Henry.
Say, why that Question?

Clifford.
O, I had one; so fair, so innocent!—
Excuse my Tears.

K. Henry.
Thou seem'st to speak of her
In pleasing Terms—So fair, so innocent!

Clifford.
O she was once the Treasure of my Soul;
Bright as the Morning's fresh-expanded Beam;
And spotless as the white-rob'd Angels are:
Whene'er I taught her Honour's sacred Law,
Her still Attention, and obsequious Look,
Seem'd the Certificates of inborn Virtue:
Sometimes I've trac'd her Mother in her Face,
Pleas'd to recall the Spring-tide of my Days,
And travel o'er Youth's chearful Road again.
For her I left the Business of the Field,
Well-pleas'd I toil'd a rural Life away,
And, joyful, saw my golden Harvests rise:
But Plenty, Peace, and Comfort, are no more;
Her coward Virtue stoop'd to brutal Love.
I could not bear the Shame: I left my House;
The Fugitive of Choice, and not of Fortune:
Sick of this worthless World, at length I sought
This Cloister of religious Poverty;
And here I mean to lay down Life, and Sorrow.

K. Henry.
Thy Loftiness of Soul amazes me.
Who was the Villain that abus'd thy Daughter?
Perdition on his Head!

Clifford.
That cuts me deep:
My most invet'rate Foe had spar'd my Fame;
But him that ruin'd it, I call'd my Friend:
He was the Man I honour'd from my Soul:
I thought him honest, noble, just, and true;
But found him treach'rous, wicked, false, and base.

K. Henry.
What means my Heart? Thou hadst a Daughter, Clifford.

[Aside.
Clifford.
My hospitable Doors had just receiv'd him,
A welcome Guest, a smiling Murderer;
While Confidence in his superior Worth
Made the curst Work of my Undoing easy.

K. Henry.
The Dagger's Point, the Scorpion's deadly Bite,
Wound not like these Soul-penetrating Words:
I'm like this very Villain.

[Aside.
Clifford.
You're disturb'd, Sir.

K. Henry.
No, not at all. Proceed you in your Tale.

Clifford.
To this Ingratitude he added more:
I had been Guardian to his tender Youth;
And (for I found a warlike Spirit in him)
Train'd him to hard Fatigues, and manly Toil;
We serv'd together in the Wars abroad,
And I was still his Pattern in the Battle:
Fame has since then spoke loudly in his Praise:
But, be he e'er so great, I made him so.

K. Henry.
I stand condemn'd—it is—it cannot be—
Sure he's a Messenger from angry Heav'n,
Sent to arraign my Soul.

[Aside.
Clifford.
Are you well, Sir?

K. Henry.
A sudden Qualm has seiz'd me: But 'twill off;
'Tis a familiar Malady—Accept
These Alms—I must be gone—Again to-morrow—

Clifford.
But one Word more; something remains untold.
He further ow'd a nearer Obligation
To my Heart's Love: For once in Heat of Fight,
When he had broke his Sword, the desp'rate Foe,
With his broad Falchion, aiming at his Head,
Had levell'd him to Earth; when I rush'd in,
And disappointed Fate: This wounded Breast,
Bears yet the honest Record of that Service:
Please you, look here.

K. Henry.
Give me more Air. Away!

[Exit.
Clifford.
He has it deep: I mark'd his startled Conscience:
I drove the keen Reproach into his Heart:
He shook like a raw Novice in his Guilt.
May Heav'n indent th'Impression on his Soul!—
This is a busy Ev'ning; at this Hour,
And near this Place, my Letter did appoint
The Earl of Leicester to an Interview.
I am no more a Beggar in Disguise,
But here an open, and avenging Foe.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Enter Queen, and Duke of Cornwall.
Queen.
Thou hast well flatter'd my desponding Soul,
That had forgot to hope: O Pain of Doubt,
Next to Despair!

Cornwall.
Let not the Queen distrust
These Means of good Success: I've wish'd long since,
T'assist thy Exigence, and, but just now,
Consulted sev'rally the Royal Guard,
That keep the Watch To-night at her Apartment:
I've won them to your Int'rest, on Condition,
No Wrong be offer'd to the Fair-one's Person.
At Midnight's silent Hour, nought will obstruct
The fatal Visitation.

Queen.
My good Lord,
I thank thy Friendship; by my Hopes of Peace,
The Person of my Rival shall be sacred:
'Twill pain me to dissemble Cruelty;
For I have all the Softness of my Sex,
But no Resentment, jealous Rage, and Malice,
That wont t'inflame the Breast of injur'd Woman.

Cornwall.
Hard by yon Hill, where now the Lamp of Day
Sea-ward descends, there stands a fam'd old Convent.
Ne'er had Religion a more awful Mansion.
A Stream slow-gliding winds about its Borders,
Upon whose Banks stands a long Range of Oaks,
That cast a wide Solemnity of Shade:
O'er the high Walls the creeping Ivy climbs,
And in its high-arch'd Vaults no Sounds are heard
But whistling Winds, and deep-ton'd Falls of Water:
Remorse, and Horror, dwell for ever there;
It is the Seat of Penitence and Sorrow.
Thither be Rosamond this Night convey'd;
And, for the rest, trust Heav'n.

Queen.
This may secure
My wretched Rival; but the King, my Lord!
How shall I face his Anger? For I know—
Alas! I do not know how much he loves her.

Cornwall.
Believe me, ev'ry Circumstance shall end
In ample Illustration of thy Virtue.
My Lord of Chester has o'erthrown the Scots,
So shall you soon stand clear of all Suspicion
Of aiding jointly with your Son the War,
And injur'd Innocence again shall triumph.

Queen.
Good Omens dwell upon thy pleasing Words.
But let us hence, that I may teach my Heart
This Night's important Task.
[Exeunt.
Enter Lord Leicester with a Letter.
Fortune, thou dost exceed thy Vot'ry's Hope;
Fate does my Work herself, and spares my Pains:
How had my Brain been toiling for this Hour?
She wills me meet her here—the gentle Dame—
Harry, this once I give thee leave to rest;
Night's Mantle, dy'd in blackest Erebus,
Shroud thy unconscious Thought—Pause, this blest Hour,
The nobler Movements of my busy Soul,
And let me stoop to Beauty's pleasing Lure:
Thus the bold Bird of Prey, the princely Vulture,
Forgets a while his bloody Occupation,
To hold an am'rous Parley with his Mate.
Comes she? or—Hah!—by Hell 'tis Clifford's Self.
Unlucky Stars! But, Statesman, to thy Work.

Enter Lord Clifford.
Clifford.
Good Even to my Lord. You seem'd in Thought.

Leicester.
In Faith, my good Lord Clifford, so I was.
I have some certain Smatch of Poesy,
And, walking forth to taste the Ev'ning's Freshness,
My Wit 'gan to be somewhat humoursome:
I fear your Lordship has quite marr'd my Sonnet.

Clifford.
What, does the Paper you just folded up
Contain the Substance?

Leicester.
A short Sketch, my Lord,
My Muse in Miniature; a very Trifle.

Clifford.
Say, Leicester, is't a Time to trifle now?
Peace to thy Heart, I think the Season's sickly.

Leicester.
Why, so do I; and, trust me, noble Clifford,
'Tis but to cheat away my Melancholy,
I sometimes condescend to be a Fool.

Clifford.
O I could be a Fool, or ev'n a Knave;
Could rank me with the common savage Crew,
Turn Hireling, drudging Slave, and carry Burdens,
And feed on scanty Scraps with Dogs on Dunghils,
If I could purchase, with this Sum of Misery,
My wonted Peace of Mind. Sure I'm so wretched,
Fate fix'd me for its Masterpiece of Malice.

Leicester.
Great are thy Wrongs indeed: Yet we all suffer;
'Tis epidemical, this State Disorder.
And who can cure the Fever, but ourselves?
We'll be our own Physicians, my good Lord,
And let out this hot Blood.

Clifford.
I'm not so desp'rate in my Purposes:
Headstrong Impatience swells beyond its Charter,
And I must tell thee, I've that Sense of Honour,
That I could bear a Thousand gross Affronts,
That stink ev'n to the Sun, before the Guile
Of artful Villainy, that lurks unseen,
And ruins while it smiles.

Leicester.
Ev'n so, good Clifford:
Sure a clandestine Traitor is the vilest:
The Devil's most odious Quality is his Cunning:
Let us not think your Lordship has such Foes:
Mean time make use of me, and my Soul's Friendship.

Clifford.
Hah, Leicster, dost thou know what Friendship is?
'Tis not the fawning Cringe, the study'd Smile,
The honey-dropping Speech, or solemn Vow;
It is a sacred Ray of heav'nly Love:
Like that, rejoicing in the Good of others,
It scorns the narrow Bounds of Selfishness,
And knows no Bliss sincere, but social Joy:
Simple and plain, it shines in naked Truth,
And opens all the Sluices of the Heart.

Leicester.
What means all this?

Clifford.
I know no double Meaning.

Leicester.
I thought I had been known, and try'd enough,
Not to be troubled with a pedant Lecture:
Let me, my Lord, tell you another Truth;
Distrust is Friendship's Canker.

Clifford.
Then, I fear me,
Our Friendship waxes tow'rd a Dissolution:
Because sometimes Distrust is kin to Prudence.

Leicester.
That, as your Lordship thinks. For my own Part,
I know the Man will thank me for my Service;
And so Good-night.

Clifford.
Nay, hold; you go not yet:
For I have that to say will make your Heart sick,
Before we part.

Leicester.
What dost thou mean, old Dotard?
Thee, and thy peevish Menace, I defy.

Clifford.
Then I demand, in Honour's sacred Name,
As Thou would'st here make good thy Honesty,
That thou unfold the Purport of that Paper,
The Sonnet that thou talk'dst of.

Leicester.
Is my Quality
Sunk on a sudden to so low an Ebb,
That I must answer every Fool's Demand,
Which he may make, because his Humour's testy?

Clifford.
Then my Demand is fruitless, is it not?

Leicester.
Ay, and injurious too: Thy Age protects thee:
Else on this Side I wear an Advocate,
This faithful Sword, to guard its Master's Honour,
And vindicate his Name from foul-mouth'd Slander.

Clifford.
Come, thy Hypocrisy's a thread-bare Cloak:
You've worn it long, my Lord; and now 'tis seen through.
If thy Complexion were as black as Hell,
I'd conjure up a Blush into thy Cheeks.
Know then I sent that Scroll.

Leicester.
Know then, I care not.

Clifford.
O thou vile Spoiler!
Wherein, or when had I offended thee,
That thou couldst calmly mean me so much Wrong?
Lost as she is to Henry's damn'd Inchantments,
My Daughter's not a gen'ral Prostitute;
Or, say she was the Play-thing of Mankind,
My Friend would spurn at her, but pity me.

Leicester.
Thee, and whatever else shall dare presume
To thwart my Pleasures, I despise alike.
That I am disappointed, is most true;
Love, and fair Rosamond, had fir'd my Hopes:
But for the Venom of thy scurrilous Tongue,
It hurts not me; go, rail against the Winds:
My Heart is Adamant, and feels it not:
What dost thou here? Dost thou dissemble too?
By my balk'd Joys, thou're Partner in the Trade;
Thou sharest in the Spoil, and standest here,
The Pander of thy Daughter's fulsome Lust.

Clifford.
Hold—Let me wait—for Heav'n itself perhaps
Will take my Part, and blast thee on the Spot;
Or does it leave me to revenge myself?
This trusty Sword, that never yet unmask'd,
But in the Field of Honour, shall for once
Be stain'd in single Fight with Traitor's Blood.

Leicester.
Fortune, and Rosamond, but smile this Hour,
And this shall be the Birth-day of my Bliss.
I draw the Sword of keenest Hate: Come on.

[Fight. Clifford falls.
Clifford.
Leicester, the Glory and the Guilt is thine,
That hast oppos'd thy Wrath to rev'rend Age:
But Life was burdensome—and, for this once,
Ev'n Thou art kind—I pity, and forgive thee.
O Heav'n!—Hah! who are these?

Enter Officer and Guards.
Officer.
My Lord of Leicester,
I arrest thee here, in the King's Name, for Treason
In holding Correspondence with the Scots.
Secure him, Guard—What's here?—Lord Clifford fall'n!
O cursed Deed!—How fares it with your Lordship?

Clifford.
Well art thou come to catch my parting Breath;
(For I perceive Compassion in thy Look).
Bear my last Words to gentle Salisbury:
He shall report them, where the Sound shall startle,
And, like the Voice of Heav'n, command Attention.
—Henry was once old Clifford's Royal Friend,
And Rosamond was Clifford's only Daughter—
But Rosamond and Henry more than kill'd me;
For, O! this mortal Wound is Titillation
To Honour's painful Stab—Yet witness, Friend,
That in this calm, this reconciling Hour,
I steep all Passion in Forgetfulness—
Warn them some Angel; ere Heav'n's Wrath be ripe,
To separate their fatal Loves for ever,
That we may meet in Harmony above,
Where Folly, Grief, and Pain, shall be no more—
So prays, as for his Soul, the dying Clifford.

[Dies.
Officer.
Heav'n hear thy pious Wish, thou good old Man!
—For you, my Lord; but for this last black Deed,
That makes ev'n Pity callous, I could grieve,
To bid you be prepar'd to die To-morrow.

Leicester.
It had been Cowardice to rush on Death,
When Fate had other Mischiefs in Reserve;
Else my own Hands had freed me from the World,
And Henry's idle Spleen: But let him know
I dare defy the utmost of his Power:
Come Death, come Hell, I will be Leicester still.

Officer.
Far other Words in this Distress would better—

Leicester.
Away! I was not born to know Distress;
My Soul, high-tow'ring on her full-fledg'd Wing,
And independent on Contingency,
Hears Fortune's air-spent Arrows hiss beneath her:
Defeated, I still boast in my vast Purpose:
I play'd a dang'rous, but a noble Game:
'Twas Fortitude to venture Life for Glory;
And, next to that, 'tis Fortitude to die.—
I have but one Request to make—your Leave
To see the Prince.

Officer.
I have no Orders to refuse you that.

Leicester.

[Exeunt.