University of Virginia Library

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.