 | Henry and Rosamund |  |
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!
2
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?
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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.
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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.
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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,
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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;
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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,
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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.
| Henry and Rosamund | |