University of Virginia Library

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.