University of Virginia Library

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.