University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Enter Queen, Duke of Cornwall, and Guard.
Cornwall.
This is the Way, that leads to her Apartment:
Fortune now bids thee triumph o'er thy Rival.

Queen.
Alas! I know not how t'insult Misfortune;
Yet must I act a haughty Rival's Part,
Affect the high Disdain of Majesty,
The Rage of Jealousy, and Storm of Vengeance,
Ill-suited to my Tenderness of Nature:
But soft Compassion, dress'd in Terms of Hate,
Will make more worth the Gift of forfeit Life,
And justify my Name to future Times.

Cornwall.
These shall be near to wait th'expected Call.

[Exeunt.
Rosamond
sola.
How dreadful 'tis to commune with one's self!
It is Society, that makes Sin pleasing:
Lead-pinion'd Slumber weighs upon the Sense;
But wakeful Conscience knows no Hour of Rest,
And the clos'd Eye-lid cannot shut out Care.
Why tarries Harriana? But she comes.
Hah! I'm betray'd!—The jealous angry Queen,
And with her a grim Crew of Murderers.
Earth, open wide thy Bosom to receive me!
Night shield me with impenetrable Darkness.
Enter Queen.
Stand you without, and wait our Word of Fate.
Where is this impious and deluded Woman?
Prepare, prepare, to meet my big Resentment,
And satisfy the Vengeance of my Soul.

Rosamond.
Thus self-condemn'd, how shall I plead for Pardon?
Or stand before offended Majesty?
Yet Heav'n accepts, in Part of due Atonement,
Confession of the Crime: Here on my Knees—

Queen.
Call'st thou it Merit, to confess a Crime,
Thou dar'st no more deny, than vindicate?
Strive not in vain to deprecate my Wrath:
Think on the Anguish of an injur'd Wife;
Think on the Torture of a slighted Lover;
Think on the Hatred of a pow'rful Rival;
Think on all these; and think on Death.

Rosamond.
O, rather,
Think on the Horror of a Wretch, that stands
Upon the Brink of Death, but dares not die.
My Soul is startled at the View of Death,
And ev'ry Weakness takes the sad Alarm.

Queen.
Art thou afraid to die? I'd have thee so:
'Tis Joy to antedate thy Misery:
To suff'ring Virtue Death's a Remedy;
To Guilt, like thine, alone, a Punishment.

Rosamond.
Great Queen, relent, and spare my Bloom of Youth.
Compassion on Distress is great, and noble;
But, undeserv'd, 'tis godlike: O, remember,
Mercy's the shining Attribute of Heav'n;
'Twill sooth thee in thy last sad Hour to think,
Thou didst not plunge me into endless Ruin:
And when thou mountest to thy native Sky,
Admiring Angels shall come crouding round thee,
And own that thou, of all the Race of Men,
Hast copy'd best thy bright Original.

Queen.
Think not to whine me from my firm Resolve:
Can a Sigh cool the Sun's meridian Blaze?
Or a Tear quench the Rage of spreading Flames?
Then may this Shew of artificial Grief,
Of forc'd Remorse, appease my angry Soul.

Rosamond.
'Tis not in Art to mimic Grief like mine:
Let me conjure thee, as thou art a Woman,
By all the natural Softness of our Sex,
Not in wild Haste to dye thy Hands in Blood.
Much have I sinn'd indeed. If Love's a Sin,
That Sin in every Circumstance was Love:
Who knows not female Passions lordly Rule,
Impatient ever of cool Judgment's Sway?
Disgrace, Confusion, Ruin, Rage, and Death,
Are Arguments to Reason, not to Love:
A Woman's Weakness claims a Woman's Pity.

Queen.
A Rival's Joys demand a Rival's Hate:
If female Passions sway with lordly Rule,
Revenge may glow with Fires as hot as Lust.
Shall I forgive thee, and destroy myself?
What, let thee live to triumph o'er my Folly,
Again to riot in my Henry's Arms,
And in each Fit of wanton Dalliance,
To lisp, and prattle o'er, the dismal Tale;
Then kiss, and make him swear, 'Tis pitiful?
By Heav'n it makes Imagination mad.

Rosamond.
Witness the Pow'r supreme, that sees my Shame,
I here renounce for ever Henry's Love;
Tho' Life itself would thus be dearly bought:
But I've a fearful Reck'ning yet to make,
Much from my Soul is due to injur'd Heav'n;
Will these few Pangs discharge the Debt, or will
A Moment's Sorrow pay for Years of Guilt?

Queen.
That as Heav'n pleases; but my Anger's urgent,
And now demands an instant Sacrifice.

Rosamond.
Let me but live: Is that so great a Boon?
I'll wander in the World a Vagabond,
Turn'd loose from Human-kind, forlorn, and wild;
Each scornful Tongue, that hail'd my happier Days,
Shall mock my abject Fall: I'll owe my Life
To common Charity; from Door to Door
I'll beg Subsistence, and be proud to feast
Upon the Refuse of gorg'd Appetite.
And when the Wrath of Heav'n is satisfy'd,
And the full Term of all my Woes expires,
On the cold Flint I'll stretch my weary'd Limbs,
And bless thy Name, and die.

Queen.
Shame of thy Sex,
Whom can thy Blessings help, or Curses hurt?
Why do I trifle thus? It is resolv'd:
Inexorable Justice claims her Right.

Rosamond.
'Tis Cruelty, not Justice, thirsts for Blood.

Queen.
Be't which it will, it must be satisfy'd.

Rosamond.
What canst thou gain by killing me?

Queen.
Revenge.

Rosamond.
Will England's Queen avow so poor a Motive?

Queen.
Will England's Queen conform her great Designs
To vulgar Rules of Action? Thou shalt die.

Rosamond.
Then 'tis in vain to struggle with my Fate:
Yes, I will die, and glory in my Love;
For it is constant, gen'rous, fixt, and true,
The Will's firm Union, not the Form of Law:
It is my Pride, and I defy thy Malice:
Shall Henry's Mistress fear a Rival's Rage?
His Love shall chear me in my latest Moment;
It shall deceive thy Cruelty, to mark
With how serene a Brow I meet my Death;
And thou shalt envy Nature's parting Pang.

Queen.
So bold! But we shall try this boasted Courage.

Rosamond.
Then be my Blood on thy devoted Head!
My Lord, my Henry, shall revenge my Death:
And when the World shall hear our fatal Story,
Thy savage Rage, and unrelenting Hate,
Shall brand thy Name with Infamy for ever:
My hapless Lot shall find a gentler Treatment,
And After-times, indulgent to the Weakness,
That present Censure magnifies with Malice,
Shall rank me high among Heroic Lovers,
That liv'd Love's Votaries, and dy'd its Martyrs.

Queen.
In that poor Comfort go, and lose thy Life.
Advance ye Instruments of my just Vengeance,
And do the Work of Fate: Bear her to Death.

Enter Guard.
Rosamond.
What do I see: it melts my fixt Resolves:
Courage, and Innocence, would shake at this:
What then must Guilt, and feeble Woman, feel?
And must I fall by Ruffians brutal Hands?
O, yet forgive my Rashness; spare my Life;
Spare me at least the Horror of this Sight;
Discharge these ghastly, and grim-featur'd Wretches,
And take my Life with thy own Royal Hand.

Queen.
It is beneath me: Hence! Away with her.

Rosamond.
Pause yet one last fad Moment, and I go:
Since Death is sure, let me not die like one
That has no Foresight of a long Hereafter:
Tongue cannot tell the Anguish I now feel;
O may it purchase my eternal Peace!
Thee, mighty Queen, I above measure wrong'd:
Yet this is surely Punishment enough;
If 'tis too much, Heav'n pardon the Excess,
And not impute Severity of Justice:
Be thou yet happy in thy Henry's Love,
And, with my Life, let ev'ry Discord cease:
Yet let him wet my Tomb with one sad Tear,
And pity her his fatal Love has ruin'd:
Then may he quite forget our guilty Joys,
And bless the Nations with his Royal Virtues!
Life, Love, and Henry, all Adieu, for ever.

[Exit Rosamond guarded.
Queen.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Enter Prince Henry, Earls of Surry and Winchester.
P. Henry.
It cannot be: The Army all dispers'd!
And the Scotch King himself ta'en Prisoner!
This strikes our blasted Purpose to the Root:
Yet do we hold ourself as full of Spirit,
And royal Quality, as when we thought
To seat us in our Father's tott'ring Throne:
But halt we here, and cease the noble Chace;
Let Glory hide awhile his radiant Head,
Till, bursting, like the Sun from Ocean's Lap,
Once more he pours the Beams of Day around.
Say, where's the Right-hand of our Enterprize,
The trusty Leicester?

Surry.
May it please your Grace,
By your Command, I went last Night t'apprise
His Lordship of our sudden Overthrow:
But he was then gone forth, 'twas said, in private.

P. Henry.
Shield him, ye Stars! my ever-faithful Friend,
That nurs'd my Youth, e'en like a tender Plant,
One Day to flourish in fair England's Garden.

Winchester.
Look, where he comes; and, lo! a sullen Guard
Of Officers of State attend upon him;
Death sits in Pomp upon each Countenance.

Enter Leicester guarded.
P. Henry.
Whence is it, Leicester, that I see thee thus?
I've known the Time when I had flown to meet thee,
Swift as the fabled Mercury: Methought
I could have grasp'd thee to my Heart for ever,
And youthful Love's Embrace was cold to mine:
But now forbidding Horrors dwell around thee;
And this first time I wish thee from my Sight,
Far as quick Magic, or the Stretch of Thought,
Could waft thee hence: Alas! what mean these Bonds?

Leicester.
I am thy Father's Pris'ner; by what Chance,
It matters not: And 'tis with Joy I tell it,
I shall not be so long; for I'm to die.
This World has trifled with my Expectations,
And I shall leave it with Indifference,
Like a disgusted Friend.

P. Henry.
Didst thou say, die?
Where is the Pow'r on Earth shall take thee from me
Against my Will? By Heav'n, my Heat of Soul
Transports me to the thund'ring Front of Battle:
Have I no Friends? Methinks ten thousand Swords
With sympathetic Rage should leave their Scabbards,
And, forcing Conquest from the Hand of Fortune,
Rescue thy Life, and my insulted Honour.

Leicester.
Why dost thou spend thy frantic Breath in vain?
Thus ruin'd as I am, I pity thee.

P. Henry.
How steady is thy Heart! Blest Lot of Virtue!
To her Death seems a kind Deliverer,
By whom the Soul long-cumber'd is set free,
And quits the Circumscription of her Prison
To range the Regions of unbounded Space.
O hadst thou clos'd thine Eyes in Honour's Bed,
The glorious Fate had claim'd my Gratulation:
But shall my Friend be led to shameful Death,
To formal, public Execution,
And make a Holy-day for vile Plebeians?
Can I endure all this?—Can I prevent it?
The mournful Image sinks me into Childhood,
And from my Eyes the deep-fetch'd Sorrow flows.

Leicester.
Weep not; for Tears are Woman's Ceremony.
My Life has been a Hurricane throughout,
And I will raise a Storm at my Departure;
As the fell Lightning strikes, while it does vanish.

P. Henry.
Thy Talk is wild: Is't possible to save thee?
I will unhinge the vast Machinery
Of Sov'reign Greatness, that my Soul had fram'd,
And be that dull, unthinking Thing I was,
Ere yet, inspir'd by thy awak'ning Breath,
The Flame of Glory play'd about my Heart;
For thee I will renounce this Bauble Crown,
Throw myself prostrate at my Father's Feet,
And there solicit for thy valu'd Life.

Leicester.
Think not of me; solicit for thyself:
Ask Pardon for the Follies of thy Youth,
And promise better Carriage for the future:
A little Whining will set Matters right,
The old Man kindly takes you by the Hand,
Bids you sit still, and all shall be forgotten.

P. Henry.
Still, Leicester, dost thou thwart my good Intent,
As if to be oblig'd were worse than Death?

Leicester.
Then hear me, hear me, and be lost for ever:
Thou poor misguided Tool, thou Pygmy Monarch,
Thou Froth-made Creature of a Courtier's Guile,
Think not I ever bore Respect to thee,
Further than Shew would answer my Design.
Thou, and thy fansy'd Title, were the Engines
Of my Ambition, and high-crested Hopes:
Had Fate done Justice to my noble Daring
I'd rioted at Will in lawless Pow'r,
And ever-blooming Love—O Rosamond!
My Thought still cleaves to thee—But all is past,
And the whole World is now not worth my Notice.

P. Henry.
Tell me, good Surry, does not this Man rave?
Or am I here, or who, or what are you?
O, 'tis too much, too much!

Surry.
Accursed Villain!
You're much disturb'd, my Lord: You grasp my Hand,
As you'd dissolve it, and Convulsions rend
Your struggling Heart, like the last Gasps of Nature.

Leicester.
Why, surely, 'twill be glorious Fun'ral Pomp,
When Princes are the Mourners.

P. Henry.
It shall be so—Where is this Son of Darkness?
I will defile my Sword with his Heart's Blood,
And drive his Soul back to the Devil his Master.

Leicester.
Ay, kill me, do; and I shall die in Triumph.

P. Henry.
Hold! Shall I save him from the Hand of Justice,
And honour his foul Treason?—Drag him hence;
Be sure you grind his Carcase into Dust;
Then send each Particle to hottest Hell,
To suffer sep'rate Pain—

Leicester.
I leave my Imprecations to you all;
I have disturb'd Mankind, and die content.

[Exit guarded.
P. Henry.
If there's a Torment yet unfelt below,
Thou wilt disturb the Damn'd—For me what's left
But air-encount'ring Wrath, and sad Despair,
And self-reproaching Shame?—Are you my Friends?
Give me Credentials of your Honesty;
Smile, cringe, and hug, and swear, and then deceive me.

Surry.
Could I unfold the Bottom of my Heart,
Your Grace would see it all your own.

P. Henry.
Impossible!
I tell thee, Surry, there's no Faith in Nature.
I'd ride a Bulrush in a stormy Sea,
Ere I would trust a Friend: Ingratitude!
Thou damning Sin of Devils, and of Men!
Our Patriarch-Father, happy in himself,
Enjoy'd his solitary Paradise:
But his first Bosom-friend, his Wife, betray'd him.

Winchester.
My Soul abhors the Falshood of that Traitor:
For me—

P. Henry.
Heav'n only knows how much I lov'd him:
He lay within my Bosom's closest Fold,
And saw the Springs that mov'd my Soul to Action:
Had one poor Morsel been my Life's Subsistence,
And Leicester's craving Appetite unsated,
He should have shar'd his precious Moiety
Exact, even to a breath-light Atom's Weight.
Is this the Man that has abus'd me thus?
The brute Beast softens to good Offices:
The churlish Cur frisks at his Master's Feet:
Nay, the great Lion fondles with his Keeper,
And bloody Tygers lick the Hand that feeds them:
Man only of all Creatures is ungrateful.
Heav'n too but wastes its Bounty on the Wretch:
Why sheds yon golden Orb his daily Light?
Mark! his meridian Brightness glares unheeded
By thankless Mortals, like a common Meteor.

Winchester.
Forget what's past—Awake your wonted Spirit—

P. Henry.
Never, my Lord.—But, Yesterday, methought,
Like a full Tide, I spread myself abroad,
While Plenty smil'd along my fruitful Shores:
But now Heav'n's scorching Wrath has choak'd my Springs;
My sinking Stream forsakes its thirsty Banks,
And all my Urns are dry—O! I'm undone.

Winchester.
Kind Heav'n send Peace to your disorder'd Soul!

P. Henry.
Why dost thou talk of Peace? Orig'nal Chaos
Was more at Peace than I: If thou would'st please me,
Drive me into some vast Extremity,
Some Precedent of Horror yet unheard-of.
Would I could conjure up a hellish Spirit,
Should rend asunder this Sea-mantled Isle!
Sure I am fit for nought but some damn'd Deed,
To chronicle my Name a Plague for ever.

Surry.
Come, come, my Lord! Youth is a sportive Tale,
That Men peruse, and are not critical.
The King will yet forgive, on Terms of Honour,
The Rashness of us all.

P. Henry.
Curse his Forgiveness!
Was I acquitted to Ten thousand Worlds,
O! I should damn myself: Has Henry been
The chosen Instrument of Knavery,
Still pliant to a Villain's forming Hand?
And am I but a Dupe to such a Wretch?
Impartial Fame, that registers all Deeds,
Will write this first Page of my History,
In Terms most vile, and insignificant:
Had I the nervous Arms of Hercules,
The ample Sway of Philip's conqu'ring Son,
Proud Cæsar's Fortune, or great Arthur's Soul,
Harry, and Fool, would still be join'd together.
O Shame eternal, insupportable!

Surry.
To err is to be mortal: Where is he,
That falls not in the slipp'ry Path of Life?
But future Conduct cancels Failings past:
All may be yet retriev'd; the cloud-wrapt Morn
Is oft the Prologue to a glorious Day.

P. Henry.
Think'st thou I bear an ordinary Mind?
Who sets out wrong, ought to forego his Journey:
Hence I'll divorce me from the faithless World,
Step from the Prince, and study to forget
My Royal Sphere, 'till I am reconcil'd
To low Obscurity, and abject Life,
And ev'ry Thought be level with my Fate.

Surry.
These deep Refinements seem akin to Madness.
[Aside.
Your Highness speaks the Language of Despair.

P. Henry.

[Exeunt.