 | Henry and Rosamund |  |
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.
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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;
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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,
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
| Henry and Rosamund | |