University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Rosamond asleep. Enter the Earl of Salisbury.
Salisbury.
See where she lies asleep; poor fallen Cherub!
The maiden Freshness of th'ungather'd Rose
But imitates that Sweetness: Fair to look on,
Why art thou all Deformity within?
Oh! how unhappy is the Fate of Beauty?
It tempts the Ruffian Hand of Violence,
And, like the Diamond, sparkling in the Mine,
With its own Lustre lights the greedy Spoiler.
O Rosamond! had but indulgent Heav'n
Blasted the early Spring of thy Perfections,
'Tis like, thy Life had been as innocent,
As that same guiltless Slumber—But she wakes.
I'll stand awhile apart.

Rosamond.
Have Mercy on me!—
My Fears confound me—This sad Dwelling seems
The Anti-chamber to eternal Darkness:
They left me here to dreadful Meditation,
And weary'd Nature since has sunk in Sleep:
Am I to live? Why then that Ceremony,
That dismal Pomp of Death? Or do they mock me,
Staying the Execution of my Fate,
To fright my Apprehension?—Hah! Who's there?
It is my Father's Friend, the good Lord Salisbury.

Salisbury.
O Rosamond! I come—But I must weep first—

Rosamond.
Weep Blood, my Heart, for ev'ry Tear he sheds:
Dost thou behold me with a tender Eye,
Thou that dost Honour to the House of Clifford,
While I, vile Wretch! was born but to disgrace it?

Salisbury.
Believe me, Fair-one, these same falling Tears
Adorn thee more than Beauty's brightest Bloom.
'Twas That betray'd thee to eternal Shame,
And dy'd thy Soul in complicated Guilt;
But Tears shall wash the scarlet Stains away.

Rosamond.
Thy charitable Care, and mild Address,
Bespeak my warmest Thanks—Say, my good Lord,
Where is my injur'd Father? May I hope
(For once I knew him of a gentle Nature)
He can have Pity on an only Child,
Wretched, and sad, as Sin and Shame can make her:
For oh!—Despair will sink me, if I die
Beneath the Terrors of his righteous Curse.

Salisbury.
There yet remains a dismal Tale to tell:
Alas! my Friend thy Father is no more;
But Yesterday he dy'd by Leicester's Hand.
In his last Moments he remembred Thee
(Think it an Earnest of forgiving Heav'n):
He own'd his Daughter in that fatal Crisis,
And bless'd thee with the Fervency of Pray'r.

Rosamond.
This was my Deed: I kill'd this best of Fathers;
I drove his hoary Age to Desperation,
And made his Being painful—So is mine—
For I am now a Burden to myself—
Yet he forgave me—Ponder that, my Soul;
'Tis growing Matter for eternal Thought—
My Lord, thou know'st my Doom. Am I to die?

Salisbury.
You must prepare to live: Last Night the Queen,
But hypocritical in Cruelty,
Beneath the Mask of Vengeance meant thee Mercy:
That dreadful Guard, that bore thee from the Palace,
As to thy Fate, when they convey'd thee hither,
Fulfill'd their whole Commission: In this Convent
Thou must commence the Votary of Heav'n,
And bid Adieu to all the World for ever.

Rosamond.
Confess, my Heart, the Hand of Providence,
Plain, tho' unseen, in all its Acts of Mercy:
Here let me first, in pious Gratitude,
Implore a Blessing on her Royal Head,
Who, tho' my Rival, was not less my Friend:
May Peace, and Joy, and Love, crown all her Hours!
And, when her Length of Life is fully spun,
Let not Death seem a King of Terrors to her;
But, like a smiling Angel, sent to guide
Her fleeting Soul to Realms of endless Bliss!

Salisbury.
Thy grateful Pray'r is just: And now, O think,
Think what a Lesson thou must teach thyself:
Canst thou forget the Luxury of Courts,
The soft'ning Joys of Vanity and Ease,
And Pleasure's sweet Inchantment of the Mind?
Say, canst thou quench the Fire of youthful Love,
And blot the Name of Henry from thy Heart?
Canst thou devote thyself to pious Deeds,
To painful, rigid Holiness of Life;
To Meditation at the Midnight Hour;
To constant Watchings, and long Abstinence,
Religious Toil, that mortifies the Sense?
This is the Physic of a sickly Soul,
That labours to redeem its forfeit Peace.

Rosamond.
O Terms of Life severe, yet merciful!
The wholsome Discipline of Penitence
Shall reconcile me to offended Grace:
Wilt thou, thou good old Man, solicit for me?
Thy pious Intercession well shall speed
My tardy Vows, and waft them up to Heav'n.
Hence I give up the World without a Sigh;
The World! What's that? I give up Henry too:
The Bubble breaks, the painted Scene is clos'd:
And now the calm, and sadly-pleasing View
Of peaceful Innocence, and purer Joys,
And Virtue, blasted like a beaten Flower,
Shocks my Remembrance, and upbraids my Soul.

Salisbury.
Sense of past Vice is future Virtue's Basis,
And Self-conviction at the Bar of Conscience
More awes the waken'd Mind, than the Tribunal
Of solemn Justice, and the Pomp of Law:
Methinks, I hear the Host celestial shout,
And praise the noble Purpose thou hast made.
Heav'n is not deaf to Sorrow's piercing Voice:
Relenting it beholds the wounded Breast,
And kindly sheds the healing Balm of Mercy.

Rosamond.
Thy Words distil the honey'd Sweets of Peace:
A Beam of Comfort chears my sinking Soul,
And brighter Prospects open to my View:
Folly has sully'd my Renown of Youth,
But strict Severity of Thought and Action
Shall change the black Complexion of my Guilt
To Snow-white Purity. Ages to come
Shall hear my Tale with Pity, not Reproach;
And those who curse the shameful Name of Mistress,
Shall bless the Convert, and admire the Saint.

Salisbury.
If the blest Lot of righteous Men above
Admits of Augmentation, it will glad
Thy Father's Spirit, to perceive this Change,
And give a better Relish to his Heav'n.

Rosamond.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter King Henry, and Attendants.
At length the holy Task is full perform'd,
And my freed Soul is clear of Becket's Murder.
Now we may view our Royal State at Home:
Our Brother Scotland is our Prisoner:
If we think good, we seize upon his Crown;
Or bid him reign the Monarch of our Nod.
Let him attend the Sentence of our Will.
For our proud Son; we trust this late Defeat,
And Leicester's Death, shall clip his tow'ring Wing;
Of him we shall think further at our Leisure:
For now more tender Thoughts possess my Soul;
To Love's soft Influence all its Motions yield,
And ev'ry Passion owns its sov'reign Master.
Queen of my Heart, my Rosamond, I come.
Enter the Duke of Cornwall.
Hah! Cornwall, why that Terror in thy Look?

Cornwall.
Pardon, my Liege, the Messenger of Fate,
That brings afflicting Tidings to your Ear:
But what is done, 'twere Folly to disguise.
Then, to be brief: Last Night the jealous Queen—

K. Henry.
Hold, on thy Life! Thou dost affright Conception:
I could with Patience hear the Knell of Death,
But not thy horrid Tale: Yet let me know it—
Proceed, and tell me nought but Truth, thou Wretch!
But dare not tell me, Rosamond is dead.

Cornwall.
See where she comes herself. I stand discharg'd
Of my ungrateful Office.

Enter Queen.
K. Henry.
Can it be?
With how compos'd a Brow she hides her Guilt!
Dove-like Appearance, with a Serpent's Heart!
May I not hope a Woman will speak Truth
To do a Mischief? Therefore tell me, Elinor,
Without the forc'd Evasion of a Lye,
Where is my Love, my Life, my Rosamond?

Queen.
Would all King Henry's Foes were safe as she!
Poor Wretch! she's fast asleep.

K. Henry.
What! dost thou mock me?
Dost thou with Triumph own thy Cruelty?
My vast Revenge shall tear thee—Soft, my Soul—
This Rage becomes me not—Fly hence, thou Tygress,
Lest I forget, in Wrath, myself, and thee,
And stain my Hands ignobly with thy Blood.

Queen.
Thy Menaces, great Monarch, fright me not.
What I have done, was but the Deed of Justice.
Didst thou believe me then so tame of Soul,
That I could bear my Injuries for ever?
Yet, Henry, in my utmost Pride of Heart,
Let me confess my tender Love for thee:
Cast out that hated Wanton from thy Thoughts,
And I can yet forgive thee all my Wrongs.

K. Henry.
'Tis well! Thank Heav'n, in full Contempt I hear thee.
But, O, Philosophy's no Cure for Love;
This only Way Fate could unman my Soul:
O Rosamond, for ever, ever lost!
My Love was sweeter than the op'ning Flow'r,
That trembles with the Morning silver's Dew:
Fair, as the Down of Swans, or Mountain's Snow;
Then she was faithful as the Turtle's Mate,
And harmless as the Smile of Infancy.
Why was I born a Ruler of the World,
First Potentate on Earth, and Lord of Nations;
Yet could not keep one Jewel worth them all?
O Rosamond, for ever, ever lost!

Queen.
Triumphant, happy Rival, ev'n in Death!
Does then a a Harlot's Fate deserve those Tears?
Had the cold Tomb receiv'd me to my Rest,
It had not cost thy barb'rous Heart a Sigh;
Thou wouldst have bless'd the lucky Destiny,
That took away the nauseous Inconvenience.

K. Henry.
Time was I did revere thy boasted Virtue.
Now thou hast done a Deed that startles Nature.
And wouldst thou still profess thy Love for me?
Can Hell produce Hypocrisy like thine?
Would she, that loves me, stab me to the Heart?
Couldst thou have form'd one tender gen'rous Thought,
Thou hadst in Pity spar'd my Soul's first Darling;
Thy Mercy had well prov'd thy Love unfeign'd,
And won my Praise, and Fame's fair Palm for ever.
But now, away!—Thou dost delight in Blood.

Queen.
Could I have hop'd, my Lord, by gentle Means—

K. Henry.
Silence, false Woman! Thou didst know full well,
The Temper of my Soul, by Nature, noble;
And now, ev'n now, I mean to prove it so:
'Twas thine to gratify a mean Revenge,
The King, and Husband, scorns to stoop so low:
Go hence, and let thy Punishment be Life.
What have I done? Alas! my Rosamond,
Didst thou not call upon thy Henry's Name?
Didst thou not wish me to avenge thy Death?
Oh, no; thy tender Nature did forgive
The Stroke of Cruelty, and dy'd in Smiles.

Queen.
I can no more.
Joy to thy Heart! thy Rosamond yet lives.

K. Henry.
Hah! did I hear? Was it an Angel's Voice?
Speak it, O speak again, ye Heav'ns, in Thunder!

Queen.
I told my Lord, that Rosamond yet lives.

K. Henry.
Where is she? Let me fly into her Arms,
That I may tell my Heart's full Transport there:
Lost Crowns recover'd, sprightly Health restor'd
To Nature sunk, were Blessings poor to this:
Who sav'd her precious Life? He's my best Friend,
And let him take a Kingdom for his Service.

Queen.
That Friend was I.

K. Henry.
What can thy Malice mean?
Fortune acts underhand, and fools my Soul:
Whom shall I hear, or what shall I believe?
Can none resolve my Doubts? My Lord of Cornwall,
As thou know'st ought has chanc'd, I charge thee speak.

Cornwall.
My Liege, the Queen has utter'd but the Truth

K. Henry.
O ye immortal Pow'rs! how can this be?

Queen.
That I've this Day abus'd your Royal Ear,
Thus humbly on my Knee I ask Forgiveness:
'Tis the first Time I ever yet deceiv'd you.
Let Actions speak for me; hear, and believe
How I have lov'd thee, how I love thee still!
Fortune, last Night, gave me sure means of Vengeance,
But, great as thine, my Soul disdain'd them all.
She lives, my Rival lives, tho' not for thee;
Happy, tho' thou shalt charm her Eyes no more;
A Convent's sacred Walls secure the Fair,
Where Heav'n (I trust) shall with free Grace accept
The pious Tribute of her future Duty.

K. Henry.
If this be true—and sure I feel it is,
I must not, dare not, think how I have wrong'd thee;
Earth does not bear so black a Wretch as me.
What hast thou done? Thou hast been wond'rous good;
Yet cruel to Excess—See her no more?
Shine then no longer, Sun—What! not to part?
Not one kind Word, one Kiss, one last Embrace!
O mournful, sad, eternal Banishment!
Banish'd? From whence? From a wild World of Folly,
To Virtue's calm Abode; banish'd to Heav'n.
And am I griev'd at this, because I lov'd her?
O sudden, painful Test of Sense and Honour!
Strong is the Voice of Reason, and of Virtue;
But Love pleads too, and Nature will be heard.

Queen.
I did not this with any mean Design:
Virtue seeks not Advantage from her Deeds:
Therefore I say not this deserves your Kindness:
The cool Respect of Gratitude I scorn;
My Love for thee was ever from the Heart,
And equal Love alone can make me happy:
Else, tho' undone, I have discharg'd my Duty.

K. Henry.
I pr'ythee, pr'ythee, leave me, Elinor—
Yet stay—By Heav'ns, again she holds me fast,
The lovely Image clings about my Soul!
Hence, dear Illusion, pleasing Phantom, vanish!—
'Tis done—Methinks, yon golden Cloud descends;
And, lo! a heav'nly Form, that calls my Love!
And now they glide across th'ethereal Plain:
Am I then left behind? For what, just Heav'n?
Do I not know for what?
'Tis mad to pause, and madder to resolve:
O that for one kind Minute Thought could stagnate!

Queen.
Assist his struggling Soul, all-gracious Heav'n!

Cornwall.
So please your Majesty, the Prince approaches.

Enter Prince Henry, Winchester, and Surry.
K. Henry.
A Stranger come to Court—Well, my young Hero,
What, are your conqu'ring Forces up in Arms?
Or dost thou kindly offer Terms of Peace?

P. Henry.
Oh, Sir, 'tis past—Here, at your Royal Feet,
Behold this Rebel Son, a Penitent.
My haughty Soul, that erst climb'd Heaven high,
Is but a Reptile now—Ambition shrinks,
Ev'n like an empty Vapour vanishing,
Whose Place is seen no more—I only ask
Pardon, and Peace, for me, and these my Friends.

Queen.
Unhop'd for Change!—O let the King grant both.
Thou art my Son again.

K. Henry.
What may this mean?
Harry, I lov'd thee once.

P. Henry.
And if you lov'd,
May I presume to hope you will forgive too?
Sir, I once flourish'd in your Royal Smile:
Early my Soul began to pant for Glory:
But as the Seeds of Honour grew within me,
An artful Villain tamper'd with the Soil,
And spoil'd a goodly Crop—The rest you know—
Fortune, unequal to my daring Cause,
Has open'd since my Eyes: I wak'd indeed;
But only wak'd to see my Shame and Sorrow.

K. Henry.
Can I have Faith in this? Thou hast deceiv'd me.

P. Henry.
'Twas in the fatal Day of youthful Folly:
But now the Purpose of Deceit is over;
For I am going henee, to that high Court,
Where Cunning cannot screen, or Darkness hide.

Queen.
Alas! my Fears! What didst thou say, my Son?

P. Henry.
Let me not waste my most important Moments.
I have this Morning drank a deadly Draught.
I feel all-conqu'ring Death advancing on me;
He lays close Siege: My sinking Spirits fail;
My Nerves are slacken'd all; my Blood runs cold,
And Nature's Out-works yield; tho' still my Heart,
Like a strong Citadel, resists the Storm.

Queen.
Is there no Help? O fatal, woful Deed!

P. Henry.
Why weeps my gentle Mother? What I did,
Was in the Frenzy of extreme Despair;
And Madness, if my Hopes have not been flatter'd,
Bars not the Gate of everlasting Mercy.
Reason has since resum'd her proper Seat,
And all is calm within—Yet would I take
A Father's Blessing with me to the Grave.

K. Henry.
May Heav'n forgive thy hapless Youth, as I do!

P. Henry.
Then welcome Death!—And, if in this last Hour,
I have found Grace, O let me recommend
The Queen, my injur'd Mother, to your Love:
She never bore a Thought against your Highness.
Behold! she faints—Support her, righteous Pow'rs!
For she deserves your Care—Now, Farewel both—
Let not the busy World be prattling of me—
But write upon my Stone—“Here lies a Prince,
“That, once misled, could not sustain the Shame.”—
'Tis dark—O Mercy!—

[Dies.
K. Henry.
Honour, more than Grief,
Is due to Death like this, which has absolv'd,
By ending mortal Frailty: Mourns the Queen
So bitterly for him, whose hasty Spirit,
Aspers'd her spotless Name?

Queen.
That Name's now clear;
And he that did asperse it, was my Son.
He was my Son indeed—O there's the Sting!
And is it thus that we are reconcil'd?
Is Death alone the Peace-maker between us?
Why then I'll follow thee—Farewel, my Lord;
For, now, this Life has no Temptation left;
Yet, ev'n in Death, my Faith shall be approv'd,
And my last Breath shall be a Pray'r for thee.
It was the Study of my Life to please thee:
That fail'd, and I have now no farther Care.
That I ne'er meant thee Evil, ev'n in Thought,
By Proof too fatal Providence has shewn:
And to die justify'd is still my Glory.

K. Henry.
O, hold, talk not of Death; for I, alone,
Am fit for Ruin—O, my Elinor,
I tremble at the Thought of what I am!
Canst thou forgive me from thy very Heart?

Queen.
Can Henry, from his Heart, desire Forgiveness?

K. Henry.
I can, I must, I do. The Conflict's over:
I am thy wondrous Virtue's Proselyte.
Receive me in thy Arms, thou Excellence,
Thou Glory of thy Sex—Here will I hide
My guilty Head, till thy kind Smile shall raise me;
For Shame, and Joy, and Love, so work within me,
That I can only speak them thus and thus—

Queen.
O let my Language too, my Lord, be this.

K. Henry.
Bear hence the Body; for it grieves our Sight.
Curst that I was to wrong such Innocence!
'Twill be my Shame for ever—

Queen.
It is past:
A Moment's Love has made Amends for all;
And I forget, that ever you was false.

K. Henry.
When I prove so again—'Tis Sin to think on't.
From this auspicious Day my Soul shall labour
To heal thy Sorrows, to redeem lost Time,
And pay thee all my vast Arrears of Love.

Queen.
Thanks to all-bounteous Heav'n!

K. Henry.
And thy own Virtue!
Enter Salisbury.
Welcome, Lord Salisbury! Where's the good old Clifford?
It is beneath a King to do Injustice;
But it is more beneath him to defend it.
Will he forgive my Baseness? For, methinks,
All is not right, till he is reconcil'd.

Salisbury.
That's spoke indeed like great Plantagenet:
I read Content in ev'ry chearful Face,
And I am griev'd to spoil the gen'ral Joy:
My Liege, poor Clifford lies a breathless Coarse,
By Leicester slain—But, dying, he forgave you—
It ever was his Wish to see this Day.

K. Henry.
By holy Friendship thou hast touch'd my Soul.
It was but Yesterday I saw him well:
His keen Device did gall me to the Heart.
Clifford, accept these Tears; for Tears are all
The Monarch, or the Friend, can give thee now.
We will do Honour to his Memory,
And show'r our Royal Bounty on his House:
O Sal'sbury, let me take thee to my Heart,
Dear as thy Kinsman was.

Salisbury.
I thank your Highness.

K. Henry.

[Exeunt omnes.