University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Enter the Earl of Leicester.
Leicester.
If there is that some call Eternal Justice—
Let not the coward Thought perplex my Soul:
My Bosom entertains Two lordly Guests,
Strong-plum'd Ambition, and Hell-gender'd Lust:
The Voice of Conscience, 'gainst their wild Domain
Is but a Whisper to the Whirlwind's Blast.
Henry Plantagenet has balk'd my Hopes;
I stand the Outcast of his Peevishness,
And disappointed Rival of his Love!
But I have deeply laid my Plan of Vengeance:
I have been long young Harry's Oracle;
His shallow Friends walk in my Leading-strings:
If Fate give him the Crown, I'll bear the Rule,
And thro' the Gate of Pow'r shall find Access
To Love, and Rosamond. But see Lord Surry.

Enter Earl of Surry.
Surry.
My Lord of Leicester, hast thou seen the Prince?

Leicester.
No. What of him?

Surry.
O he is seeking thee:
Thou hast fast wedg'd thyself within his Heart;
He calls thee valiant, faithful, just, and good:
His greedy Ear devours thy Eloquence.
He now demeans himself as we could wish;
Talks of high Fame, and hardy Feats of Arms:
Thou hast inspir'd his Soul. He swears, the Crown,
Whose Glories fade on Henry's wither'd Head,
Would better flourish on his youthful Brow:
In troth he is a mettled Youth, my Lord,
And Nature meant him well.

Leicester.
Ay, or how else
Could we have taught him his own Worth, or ours;
Or hope to raise our Honours from the Dust?
Faint Hearts will call this Treason; but, my Lord,
'Tis injur'd Merit's Cause; and we will work
To turn the Current of our low-ebb'd Fortunes
Into a fuller Channel: But he comes,
And I have joyful Tidings for his Ear.

Enter Prince Henry, and Earl of Winchester.
P. Henry.
Well, our good Friend, and trusty Counsellor,
What from our Uncle Scotland?

Leicester.
This, my Liege:
In Princely Terms he greets your Royal Highness,
And well approves th'Alliance you have offer'd:
But Words, so please your Grace, in forc'd Extent,
Are but the Texture of fine Rhetoric;
Plain Action is Sincerity's best Proof:
He has encamp'd his Troops on English Ground,
A peerless Force of Twenty thousand strong.
The Earl of Chester, with your Father's Powers,
Is in full March to meet him.

P. Henry.
Say, my Lord,
On what Pretence makes he this Armament?
For we must wait the Issue of a Battle,
Before we can avow ourself his Friend.

Leicester.
His Claim's distinct from yours. He does demand
Full Restitution of the frontier Towns,
Your Father wrested from him in the Wars:
And thus he seems no Party in our Cause,
While we, as Time shall serve, may back his Quarrel.

P. Henry.
Why these are noble Tidings, and well suit
Our Royal Purpose. This looks well, my Lords:
I will no longer bend me to the Brow
Of this old King, my Father. Leicester, Surry,
Winchester, Friends, Companions of my Fortunes,
Give me your Hands, your Hearts, and, trust me, Lords,
We bravely shall outface these perilous Times,
Assisted by your Loves.

Surry.
My hasty Will
Is on the Wing, mocking Ability,
And Zeal outstrips Performance.

Winchester.
And so, in Honesty of Heart, says Winchester.

P. Henry.
Thanks to you both: But, my good Lord of Leicester,
Are these same Scots, our new-contracted Friends,
Such as our Honour may lean safe upon?

Leicester.
Better ne'er mounted Glory's steep Ascent.
Sir, they are bold as the first Sons of Nature,
Ere Pomp and Luxury debauch'd the World:
Bred in a Land of Poverty and Want,
They live by free, uncultivated Virtue:
Ease were unnatural to their Iron Hearts;
For Labour is the Business of their Lives:
And, when they're summon'd forth to serve their Prince,
Dreadful they march, embody'd in the Field,
As the fell Storm, or Death-dispersing Bolt,
That rushes on, and levels all before it.

P. Henry.
'Tis good, and henceforth will we mould our Person
Into the Attitude of Majesty.

Winchester.
It fits your Highness well.

P. Henry.
Thou hast seen me, Leicester, in the Bloom of Youth,
Amidst the Joys of a voluptuous Court,
Where Folly spread her silken Net before me:
There soft'ning Beauty breath'd the am'rous Sigh;
There melting Music tun'd her Syren Voice,
And the high-flowing Bowl foam'd with rich Wines,
Soliciting ev'n Abstinence to taste:
Let me not turn my gallant Thought that Way,
When Virtue's balanc'd on so nice a Poise,
One Breath of Inclination turns the Scale.
Farewel for ever Pleasure's nerveless Tribe,
Welcome the manly Pomp of crimson War,
The Heaven-scaling Noise of charging Foes,
The piercing Groans of Bravery laid in Dust,
And all the Dangers, all the Sweets of Glory.

Leicester.
Spoke like a Candidate for this World's Empire.
Old Harry's foremost Boast is only this,
That he is Father to a Prince like you.

P. Henry.
Go to; he's weak, he's weak, and peevish, Leicester,
And yet 'tis current Conversation here,
That he hath well acquitted him in France
To martial Chivalry.

Surry.
True it is, my Liege,
In open Field, he'as twice o'erthrown their Powers,
And now returns—

Leicester.
—Ay, like a Fugitive,
Rather than Conqueror; the doting Hero
Comes whining like an Infant for his Toy:
O he is worse than distaff'd Hercules!
Where is the Honour of your Saxon House,
If Harlots make a Tool of Majesty?
Fame shall record Harry succeeded Rosamond,
Not Harry Harry.

P. Henry.
By the immortal Name
Of my great Ancestors it is too much—

Leicester.
O give that noble Indignation Room!
Have you not Friends, and Justice on your Side?
Did we not all swear Fealty to your Highness,
Conven'd in full Assembly by your Father?
Or was it but a Shew of Majesty,
A solemn Farce of State for Boys to shout at?

P. Henry.
Hold there—For ev'ry Word thy Love has utter'd,
Rebukes my tardy Soul—O 'tis most true,
As spiritless, and dull-temper'd as I seem,
This Head has born fair England's Diadem:
You all remember 'twas at Winchester,
In Presence of the States of the whole Realm,
The Royal Grant was made; when on this Brow
Rested th'Imperial Crown, which should confer
High Dignity, and Share of sov'reign Sway:
It was the free Donation of our Father.

Leicester.
Henry has sure forgotten him of late:
For then your Royal Highness may remember,
He well discharg'd an Office that became him.

P. Henry.
Ay, thou dost well remind me of it, Leicester;
'Twas at the sumptuous Banquet then prepar'd,
I sat inthron'd, the foremost of the Feast,
Lord of that glorious Day: 'Twas then my Father
Stept forth obsequious, like a Vassal-Prince,
Tending my Kingly Board; and sure, he cry'd,
No Monarch e'er was serv'd so honourably.
I whisper'd in his Ear his Grace of York,
That, born a Prince, I thought me not much honour'd
By this same Ministry of that Duke's Son.
My Father was no better.

Leicester.
Nor is now,
But in our foolish Fears. Was that same Crown
You just now spoke of but a May-day Garland,
Bestow'd as on an Idiot, in mere Pastime?
Unnat'ral Insult! By the Blood that's in you,
If you have Hand, or Heart, or Sword, revenge
Revenge yourself, your Country, and your Friend;
Your Friends for you dishonour'd, slighted, scorn';
Your Country soften'd by effeminate Rule;
Yourself the stalking Shadow of a King.

P. Henry.
Enough, my tow'ring Fancy grasps the Skies:
Hence, give the Word to Fate; gird on my Swol:
Thou faithful Guardian of my wav'ring Youth
I'll go where thou and Honour point the Way
Where are these trusty Scots? Quick let us join them;
I will unfold my Banner to the Sun,
And pour my Vengeance on this Parent-Foe.

Leicester.
Well said; but I must cool this burning Vein,
Or this mad Youth will hurry us to Ruin.
[Aside.
I meant not this: I pray your Grace be calm.

P. Henry.
Yes, as the Sea, that quarrels with the Wind!
Who is't can tame the hungry Panther's Rage?
Glory has still an Appetite more keen:
Harry contends not for a vulgar Prize;
It is a Crown: Repeat it to the Heavens,
With the big Mouth of War; It is a Crown:
O you should rush like Lightning from my Presence,
And boldly pluck it from the Tyrant's Brow.

Leicester.
Your Highness knows our Hearts and Duty yours:
But Zeal thus premature were worse than Treason:
Our growing Cause is yet too young, to combat
With this tempestuous Time: If Fortune bless
Our good Allies with Victory, the Crown
Is yours by Cov'nant, and your Right proclaim'd
By Scotland's King: Till when lie we in secret,
Like the unseen insinuating Flame,
That creeps while it destroys: Without this Caution,
We are not safe an Hour—Your Father comes,
And you're withdrawn from Court—Hah! how sounds that?

P. Henry.
As I love Honour, I do fear him not.

Leicester.
No—But the less Suspicion's baleful Blast
Breathes on our Counsel, it takes Root the deeper.

P. Henry.
What wouldst thou urge me to?

Leicester.
Come, come, my Lord,
You must yourself to Court to meet the King;
And, when he questions you of your Departure,
Be you not too submissive, nor too high:
We can find Reasons plausible enough
Besides this Disaffection—as—d'ye mark—
The Treatment of your Mother—the foul Scandal
Of a licentious Palace—and the like;
All Provocations gross: And, Sir, of this
You shall be more advis'd anon.

P. Henry.
Say'st so?
I thank thy Penetration—I was hot,
But thou art wise and brave. This Craft shall prosper;
The staunchest Hound of State, that ever trac'd
The wily Doublings of Conspiracy,
In this same Chace shall lose his baffled Scent,
And yelp his balk'd Sagacity in Air.

Leicester.
May Fortune say, Amen.

P. Henry.
My Lord of Leicester,
We must dispatch some fresh Instructions strait
For Scotland's King; then for the Court away;
We will pursue this Business, come what may.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter the Earl of Salisbury and Lord Clifford.
Salisbury.
Yet hold, good Clifford.

Clifford.
'Tis an old Man's Weakness:
Was it not I that train'd him up to War,
That taught his feeble Arm to grasp the Sword,
And pointed out the Paths that lead to Glory?
Was it for this he robb'd me of my Daughter?

Salisbury.
Forget it, learn to scorn this Royal Robber,
And be at Peace.

Clifford.
It is impossible.
Had he reduc'd me to the Beggar's Lot,
Or stript me of the Honours of my Race,
I could have smil'd at his Ingratitude:
But to deprive me of my greatest Hopes,
To steal away my choicest, sweetest Flower,
To tempt young Innocence with hellish Arts—
'Tis more than Pain—it is—what is it not?—
O 'tis too much for an old Man to bear.
But canst assure me he returns so soon?

Salisbury.
Each Morn expects to see him crown'd with Laurels,
And rich with Spoils: Fortune still takes his Part:
Where-e'er he marches, pale-fac'd Terror stalks
With Giant Strides, and leads his Van of Battle.

Clifford.
Let me do Justice to the Man has wrong'd me:
My Lord of Salisbury, from his Dawn of Youth,
I trac'd the Symptoms of an active Soul,
Suited for warlike Deeds and brave Atchievements:
But then his turbulent Passions work so strong,
His Character is ever an Extreme;
A Hero, or a Dotard in Excess;
This Day, with a deep Sense of Honour stung,
Half-Convert to fair Virtue; and the next,
Born by fierce Appetite, a Slave to Vice.

Salisbury.
His gen'rous Temper one Day may prevail;
For Fate still throws Occasion in his Way,
To put his noble Qualities to Proof:
An unexpected Tempest from the North
Hangs low'ring o'er his Head; and the young Prince,
Who breathes a mighty and right Royal Spirit,
Has with some noble Followers left the Court.

Clifford.
He is ensnar'd by guileful Leicester's Art:
The King, thou know'st, hath banish'd him his Presence,
He meditates Revenge in all its Venom;
And since arose the League 'twixt him and Harry.

Salisbury.
Report has said this Lord, on Terms of Honour,
Woo'd your fair Daughter's Love.

Clifford.
He did profess so;
But much I fear me with a vile Design;
And for full Satisfaction, but this Day
I've penn'd a Note, in female Characters,
As from my Daughter, full of Blandishments,
And cordial Invitations from her Love:
If I surprise him at the Place assign'd,
I shall detect his Baseness to his Face.
Perhaps I but transcribe the Sentiments
Of her abandon'd Heart—that as it may.

Salisbury.
Think not too meanly of thy beauteous Daughter,
Henry 'tis true engrosses all her Soul,
Yet in her lonely, solitary Hours,
Sad, she regrets her ruin'd Innocence,
And mourns, like the first Fair, her fallen State.

Clifford.
'Tis superficial Grief: a barren Soil
Where Reformation never can take Root:
O, that an only Child should be a Curse!
But let us hence, the Thought encroaches on me,
In Pity to myself I would divert it.
Cousin, this Way, I have yet more to tell you,
Of what my Soul is purpos'd tow'rd the King.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Enter Rosamond and Harriana.
Harriana.
This Coolness is untimely.

Rosamond.
Harriana,
Th'unpleasing Thought will sometimes steal upon me:
Great as they seem, all these are dear-bought Pleasures:
Ev'n Henry's Love has cost me many a Pang.
Peace is the glorious Privilege of Virtue.
The harmless Country Maid, that lives retir'd,
Beneath the Covert of a homely Hut,
And knows no View beyond her daily Bread,
Has more Heart's Ease than I.

Harriana.
Prepost'rous Melancholy!
Is not the World, and its first Master, yours?
Nature, thy Handmaid, still supplies thy Wishes,
Lavish of all her Stock, as who should say,
Thou shalt be happy.

Rosamond.
These are mean Suggestions:
Know I ne'er sold my Virtue, but to Love:
The massy Store of the Wealth-pregnant Earth,
The Pomp, and Eye-attracting Blaze of Courts,
And all the gilded Baits of Female Pride,
Were Bribes my Henry's Love disdain'd to offer:
Such as it is, this Beauty won his Heart,
How he won mine—I know not—but he won it—
For him I threw away my Innocence,
And am the Scoff of every scornful Tongue:
For him I've stain'd the noble Name of Clifford,
And pierc'd his aged Soul who gave me Being;
For him, e'en now, my Heart with Transport beats;
His Presence ever calms my troubled Breast,
Stills each dull Thought, and bids all Sorrow vanish.

Harriana.
Once more he comes victorious from the Field:
O meet him with thy Love's sincerest Welcome.

Rosamond.
Yes, he returns, and Thought adieu for ever:
Hence, I defy that Tyrant of the Mind:
My Love wants not a Plea: Henry my Lord
Is great and gen'rous: He's the Pride of Fame,
And Fortune's Darling: Henry lulls my Soul
In soft unfelt Captivity.

Harriana.
But hark,
Yon Trumpet's Voice proclaims him near at hand.

Rosamond.
O sweetest Music to my ravish'd Ear:
Now ev'ry thing begins to smile about me;
Bright seems the Season as the new-born Spring,
When every Flower put forth its earliest Fragrance,
And infant Nature breath'd her Sweets around.

Harriana.
'Tis now thou risest to thy proper Self;
Thy Charms are summon'd all, thy Graces dawn,
And ev'ry sparkling Beauty beams anew.
But lo, the Royal Hero—I retire.
[Exit Harriana.

Enter King Henry.
K. Henry.
Take me once more, my Love, into thy Arms;
Thus let me clasp thee to my faithful Breast,
Thus feed my Eyes upon thy glowing Beauties,
And pour my Soul in Transports out before thee.
What, what is Fame, or Victory, to this?
Adieu the Pomp and Pageantry of War,
And Love resume the Empire of my Soul.

Rosamond.
Speak not my Eyes the Language of my Heart?
Or shall I open my rich Hoard of Fondness,
With all the soft Impertinence of Love?
Why has my Lord so long been absent from me?
Methinks I now receive thee in thy Tent,
Dreadfully graceful from the Field of Blood,
The manly Dew still reeking on thy Brow.
O let me sooth my Hero to his Rest,
Then kindly chide his Eagerness of Valour,
And bid him sheath the Sword for Love of me.

K. Henry.
To thee I am devoted from this Hour:
I'll give Mankind my loose superfluous Moments,
But Love shall claim my more substantial Care.
No petty Monarchs shall divide us more:
France and her King have felt the Wrath of Harry.
I flew on Wings of Victory to War,
And like celestial Fire consum'd the Foe;
Then halted in the mid Career of Glory:
Conquest was Waste of Time: Quick I return'd,
And left the Business of the World unfinish'd.

Rosamond.
Forgive me, Henry, if I shed a Tear;
A Tear, at once, of Pity, and of Love.
Gaze not thus fondly on me whilst I speak:
It is a fatal Fondness, and betrays thee.
Possess'd of me, art thou not lost to Honour?
Where is the native Greatness of thy Soul?
Thy gen'rous Thirst of everlasting Glory?
O hadst thou never fix'd thine Eyes on me,
Fame, on her brazen Tablet, had display'd
Thy Royal Name, and shewn it to the Stars.
But I shall blot thy Memory for ever.

K. Henry.
Thy kind Concern is far too nice, my Love:
O Rosamond! 'tis but the Dream of Pride:
Kings, and their Subjects all, are Nature's Children;
And ermin'd Greatness on the Throne must own it.
What is the Monarch more than other Men?
His Appetites and Passions are the same;
He hates, revenges, hopes, and fears, as they do;
Or does he love, O does he love like me,
'Tis Glory, 'tis Ambition, to pursue
The heav'nly Fair, and win her to his Wishes.
Is it not Pride to hang upon thy Smiles?
Is it not Triumph to enfold thee thus?
Art thou not All, and is not this World Nothing?

Rosamond.
I could for ever listen to thy Voice:
Whene'er thou speak'st, Reason gives up the Cause,
And Nature whispers, what thou say'st is right.

K. Henry.
Be Love the Theme, and I could talk for ever.

Rosamond.
Be Love the Theme, I could for ever hear thee.

K. Henry.
O come, my rural Goddess, to my Arms:
We'll lie upon the Flow'r-enamell'd Turf;
The Garland-Wreath shall be our Diadem;
The Leaf-clad Bow'r our Canopy of State;
Our Music the sweet Matin of the Lark:
Then bless me with the Sunshine of thy Beauty,
Till I forget my Royal Occupation,
The Task of Greatness, and the Toil of Power,
And ev'ry Sense be full of Love and thee.

Rosamond.
How does thy Language charm my list'ning Ears?
Yet must I dread this Indolence of Thought,
The Scotchmen, and their King, are up in Arms;
And, if Report say true, th'Invasion boasts
The Countenance of your Son.

K. Henry.

[Exeunt.