University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE, an Apartment in the Palace.
Enter the KING and VERULAM.
KING.
True, Verulam, and it must be thy Care
To check this growing Pride, which mounts so fast,
And like the forward Sapling boldly strives
To emulate the lofty Cedar's Height,
Which long hath tower'd in unrivall'd Strength,
The Glory of the Wood.

VERULAM.
That Zeal and Love,
Which hitherto hath won my Master's Confidence,
Long as the Life-blood warms this aged Heart,
Shall be employ'd to serve him: but this asks
The nicest Caution; soft Advice must sooth
His head-strong Spirit, that, on the least Surmise
Of an usurp'd Authority, would start
Aside, indignant of Controul.

KING.
To thee,
Thy Love and Prudence, we confide the Whole.
Thy polish'd Sense, thy Knowledge of Mankind,
And long Experience, render thee most fit
For this great Task.

VERULAM.
The Time of his Departure,
Is it yet fix'd?

KING.
On our Decree alone
That Point depends; he shall with Speed away;
These rude Commotions, that assail us round,
May call us from our Realm; should it prove so,
He must not here remain; his Stay were fatal.

VERULAM.
Not so, I hope, my Liege.

KING.
Prudence enjoins
Our strictest Caution. What his own Ambition
Might of itself attempt, we cannot say,
But there's a farther Danger to be fear'd.

VERULAM.
His Virtues will defend him from such Deeds,
As Honour and Obedience must alike
Condemn; and he has Virtues which, I trust,
Will cast a Lustre o'er his rising Years,
When the flight Indiscretions of his Youth
Are buried in Oblivion.

KING.
I trust so, too;
Yet, Verulam, where splendid Virtues grow
Great Errors also shoot; his Time of Life
Is now in that capricious, wavering State,
When the soft Bosom is susceptible
Of ev'ry new Impression; his Colleague,
(From whom we wish him sunder'd) subtle Leicester,
Is ever at his Ear, watchful to seize
Th'unguarded Moment of the youthful Heart,
When dark Insinuations may prevail
Upon his ductile Mind. Be thou in Readiness,
On our first Notice.

VERULAM.
This important Point,
Which waited only, what this Morn hath given,
The Council's Sanction, hath been long debated.
I am prepar'd, my Leige.

KING.
Behold our Son!
Enter the PRINCE.
Henry, the Council, zealous for thy Welfare,
The ripe Improvement of thy growing Virtues,
And the successive Glories of our Line,
Have by their Voices sanctified our Will,
In thy Departure hence. Go, reap that Profit
Which the discerning and ingenious Mind
Gains from new Climes, that Knowledge of the World,
Of Laws, of Customs, Policy, and States,
Which Observation yields alone, and Books
And learned Guides imperfectly convey.

PRINCE.
I thank my Father's Love; the Council wisely
Bend to thy Will; they but allot what else
Had been demanded by the future Heir,
And present Partner in th'imperial Seat.
My glowing Youth and kindling Spirit scorn
To live coop'd up within one scanty Bound:
Would Life permit, it were Delight to trace
Each scepter'd Region of the peopled World,
To mark, compare, define their various Modes,
And glean the Wisdom that results from all.

KING.
Blest in th'Inheritance of England's Throne,
This Ardour well befits thee. Go, my Henry,
Visit our Brother France; there shine a Star
Of this rich Diadem; let the bright Dawn
Of thy young Virtues glitter in their Eyes;
Those Virtues which shall grace this glorious Isle,
When we are low in Dust.

PRINCE.
And shew a Heart
Prepar'd to vindicate each royal Due,
With the last Drop that warms its swelling Veins.

KING.
Spoke with a free-born Spirit—Yet beware,
Be not impetuous to grasp at Power,
Nor use it, when obtain'd, beyond the Limits
Of Reason and Uprightness; in the Monarch
Do not forget the Man. This honest Lord,
An able Counsellor and steady Friend,
We make Companion of thy Expedition;
Receive him, Henry, from thy Father's Hand,
Worthy thy Friendship, wear him near thy Heart;
And should some hasty Warmth mislead thy Youth,
Be his white Hairs the rev'rend Monitors,
To warn thee back to the neglected Path,
From which thy Steps had stray'd.

PRINCE.
I love his Virtues,
And thus receive the Man my Sire esteems.

Enter the QUEEN.
QUEEN.
Must I then lose him? Is he not my Son?
Or has a Mother's Tongue no Right to plead
In her own Sufferings? Oh, my Lord, my Henry,
Stand thou between thy Wife, and the hard Sentence
Of Men, who feel not the soft Ties of Nature,
And give me back my Boy.

KING.
Madam, forbear!
Parental Feelings in my Bosom sway,
Strong as in thine. Is he not lost alike
To Henry as to Eleanor? Subdue
This unbecoming Weakness, that prefers
Self-Satisfaction to the public Weal.
He must away.

QUEEN.
Alas! there was a Time
When Henry's Speech had falter'd o'er and o'er,
Ere he had utter'd, with determin'd Breath,
So harsh a Sentence. Is that Time forgot?
—Nay, turn not from me, Henry! doth thy Heart
Shame to avow the Guests it harbour'd once,
Fond Love and gentle Pity?

PRINCE.
Cease, my Mother,
Oh, cease to interrupt my Course of Glory;
I go but for a Season, to return
More worthy thy Endearments.

QUEEN.
Art thou, too,
A Traitor to my Peace? And dost thou wish
To fly a Mother's Arms? To leave her here,
Helpless and unprotected! Oh, my Son!
Oppose not thou my Wish, but rather join
To melt a Father's Heart.

KING.
'Twere useless, Madam;
Think who thy Husband is, and what his Ties.
How light, how wavering must he appear
In public Eyes, should he abjure the Point
He hath just labour'd! Recollect thyself—
Thou canst not wish him so to slight the Claims
Of Wisdom, and of Honour.

QUEEN.
Nor the Claims,
The soft'ning Duties of domestic Life;
The Claims of Happiness, of inward Peace,
Which long my Heart hath sigh'd for.

KING.
Eleanor,
Once more, remember who we are; a King
That will not brook to be arraign'd and school'd
For petty Indiscretions. Henry judges
His own Mis-doings, and the Chastisement
Must be inflicted by his conscious Mind,
Not the bold Railings of another's Tongue.

QUEEN.
I will be mild, be patient, be advis'd;
I do recall my Words, revoke each free,
Each hasty Breath of my unguarded Speech,
Which hath offended thee; henceforth I bend
My Temper to thy Will, thy nicest Wish,
So I may keep my Son.

KING.
No more—thou askest
What cannot be.

QUEEN.
Thus lowly on my Knee
Will I turn Suppliant for him.

KING.
Oh, forbear!
That Posture ill becomes us both. I grieve
Thou shou'dst be so importunate, for what
We must not, cannot, will not grant.

QUEEN.
For this
Have I debas'd myself? Hath England's Queen
Bent lowly to the Earth, to be denied
A Suit, the Mother had a Right to claim?
My Heart swells high, indignant of the Meanness,
And scorns itself for such Servility.

KING.
Prefer a proper Suit, thou can'st not ask
What Henry shall refuse.

QUEEN.
Oh no! Thy Grants,
Thy kind consenting Smiles, thy soothing Accents,
Thy Love, thy Faith, are all withdrawn from Eleanor,
And given to another; conscious Shame
O'er-pow'rs me, while I own they once were dear:
But I will now forget them, rase them out
From my officious Mem'ry, which hath dar'd
To call them back to my insulted Heart.

KING.
Well doth this Railing, which thy Fury promis'd,
Warn us to part; our Kindness meant to give
Some Days Indulgence to the Mother's Feelings.

QUEEN.
I scorn both that and thee.

PRINCE,
[Aside.]
My Bosom swells,
Impatient of her Wrongs—down, down, a while,
The Time—the Time will come—

KING.
Lord Verulam,
Prepare thee, on the Instant; he shall hence
Before yon Sun decline. If thou hast aught
Of Love or Duty for thy Mother's Ear,
Thou hast free License, Henry, to employ
The present Moments in that pious Office;
Yet take good Heed—let not a Woman's Weakness
Melt thy Resolves, and tempt thee to forget
The Debt thou ow'st thy Country and thy King.

[Exit with Verulam.
PRINCE.
Restrain those precious Drops, my dearest Mother,
That trembling stand in thy swoll'n Eyes, and shew
Like the full Bubblings on the Fountain's Brim,
Pressing to pass their Bounds; abate this Grief,
And bid thy Bosom rest.

QUEEN.
If thou behold'st
One Tear disgrace mine Eye, fierce Indignation,
Not Grief, hath call'd it forth—away, away—
Seem not solicitous about the Cause
That pains thee not; thou art no more a Son,
No more a Comfort to thy Mother's Woe.

PRINCE.
Oh, by the Hopes I have of future Fame,
I do not merit these ungentle Terms.
Revoke thy Words—resume those gentle Strains,
Which wont to fall upon thy Henry's Ear,
And Nature's Feelings will unsluice my Heart
In Blood to thy Complainings.

QUEEN.
Art not thou
Join'd with the rest, a Foe to my Repose?
See'st thou not how thy Mother is neglected,
Abandon'd, scorn'd? Yet thou canst yield Obedience
To the Decrees of him who thus insults me,
And leave me to my Wrongs.

PRINCE.
Can I oppose
A Parent's absolute Command? Oh, Madam!
Think on my State, how critically nice;
'Twixt two such urgent Claims, how hard to judge!
I must resist a King and Father's Power,
Or seem neglectful of a Mother's Woes.
Judge me not so; even while I own the Strength
Of this imperial Mandate, and prepare
To speed for France, I feel for your Afflictions,
Lament your helpless State, and could, with Joy,
Yield up my Life, to save you from Disgrace.

QUEEN.
There spoke my Son again! Oh, my dear Henry!
If thy Soul's Truth confirms these precious Words,
(And that it does, I trust that starting Tear)
Reflect what further must betide my Life,
What future Hoards of Misery and Shame
Fate hath to pour upon my wretched Head.
My Share in the imperial Seat, my Life
Even now, perchance, is doubtful; all Ills threaten;
And when the mighty Measure is complete,
When every Breast, but thine, is callous tow'rd me,
Must I call out in vain for my Defender?
Or must I yield my Spirit to my Wrongs,
And poorly die beneath them?

PRINCE.
Ere the Hour
Arrive, that should behold that dire Event,
I would myself redress thee, wou'd excite
My Norman Subjects in thy just Defence;
Wou'd head them, and oppose my vengeful Sword
To each oppressive Breast, (save One alone)
To vindicate thy Rights.

Enter VERULAM.
VERULAM.
The King, my Lord,
Expects you.

PRINCE.
I attend him strait.

[Exit Verulam.
QUEEN.
This Haste
Hath Malice in it.

PRINCE.
Heed it not, my Mother;
This Journey (if my Guess deceive me not)
Shall be the Source of Good; and on thy Head
May all that Good descend! Be Death my Lot,
So I give Peace to thee!

QUEEN.
I will not shame
Thy noble Spirit with weak wom'nish Tears,
Or one disgraceful Sigh. Wilt thou remember
Thy Mother's Wrongs?

PRINCE.
I will.

QUEEN.
Adieu, begone;
[Exit Prince.
Glory and Bliss be thine! This gallant Boy
(So my prophetic Mind forebodes) shall prove
My great Avenger, and Oppression's Scourge.
Perfidious Henry! thou impell'st my Soul
To these Extremes; thou mak'st me what I am.
Hadst thou continu'd, what I knew thee once,
Endearing, tender, fond—but hence the Thought!
Let me shun that, lest my great Heart recoil,
And shrink inglorious from its mighty Task.
Why comes he not? This Abbot! Oh, 'tis well.
Enter the ABBOT.
Where are thy Councils now? Thy subtle Schemes?
All weak and un-availing—I am lost;
Sunk in my own Esteem; have meanly bent
Beneath injurious Henry's lordly Pride,
And heard my Prayers rejected.

ABBOT.
Hapless Queen!
Thy Wrongs, indeed, cry loud.

QUEEN.
My Son's torn from me.

ABBOT.
I've heard it all.

QUEEN.
And sat inactive down,
To wait the slow Events of Time and Chance!

ABBOT.
Misdeem me not, great Queen; I have revolv'd
Each Circumstance, with nicest Scrutiny;
Ev'n from this Journey, which we wish'd to thwart.
Much Good may be deriv'd; if the Prince breathe
The Spirit of his Mother—

QUEEN.
Peace! my Policy
Hath flown before thee there; I have explor'd
His active Spirit; found him what I hop'd:
For me he sallies forth; for me returns,
To vindicate my Rights.

ABBOT.
As we cou'd wish;
And a sharp Spur, to forward his Designs
In any daring Enterprize, is Leicester.
By secret Emissaries I have learn'd,
Within this Hour, that warm, ambitious Friend
Withdraws from Court, and speeds to join the Prince
In Normandy.

QUEEN.
But what avail these Views,
Of distant Vengeance, to my present Pangs?
Here I endure the Bitterness of Woe,
While my curst Rival, bane of all my Joys,
Dwells in Tranquility and soft Content;
In placid Ease, within her Fairy-Bower,
Enjoys my Henry's Smiles, his fond Endearments,
And Vows of Love—Ah! due to me alone!

ABBOT.
That Dream shall vanish quickly.

QUEEN.
Say'st thou, Father?

ABBOT.
This very Evening, my religious Function
Demands me at the Fair-one's Bower.

QUEEN.
The Fiend's—

ABBOT.
To thy sole Use the Time shall be employ'd.
I will awaken in her tim'rous Mind
The Dangers of her State; load her with Scruples;
Then work her Temper to some dang'rous Scheme,
That shall undo her Favour with the King.

QUEEN.
Its Nature?—Speak—

ABBOT.
Tax me not, gracious Mistress,
To farther Explanation—Let me have
The Triumph and Delight to pour at once
My subtle Scheme, and its desir'd Success,
In thy enraptur'd Ear.

QUEEN.
Enough—go on,
And give me this great Comfort; let me hear
The Sorceress is sundered from his Arms;
Work me this Miracle—Renown, and Wealth,
Unbounded Power, and royal Patronage
Shall be thy great Reward.

[Exit.
ABBOT.
For Wealth and Power
I on myself alone depend—Vain Dreamer!
Who weakly canst suppose I toil for thee.
No, I have further, higher Views, beyond
Thy feeble Stretch;—the supple Rosamond
Shall prove a greater Bane to thy Repose,
Than thou divin'st; her will I instigate,
With her soft Blandishments and witching Phrase,
To practise on her Lover, till she lure him
To cast thee from thy regal Dignities,
Divorce thee from his Bed and Throne; that done,
Th'Enchantress rises to the vacant Seat;
Thus one great Point of my Desire is gain'd;
Power uncontroulable awaits my Nod:
The Gewgaw, dazzl'd with her Pomp, shall
Rule the King, and I rule all, by ruling her.

[Exit.
SCENE changes to a Cloister.
Enter CLIFFORD, dressed as an Abbot.
CLIFFORD.
Thou Garb, for holy Purposes design'd,
Assist my honest Artifice; conceal
My aged Form from Recollection's Trace,
And be my Passport to my mourning Child,
I'll hallow thee with Gratitude and Tears.
This is the awful Hour, if right I learn,
When in these solemn Isles the royal Henry
Treads, Pilgrim-like, these Flints, and pours his Soul
In Sighs for murder'd Recket—where, alas!
Where are the deep Laments, the bitter Tears,
Which he should shed for Clifford's ruin'd Peace?
He comes, the great Disturber of my Breast:
Ev'n noble in his Guilt!—my Heart avows
The fond Affection that I bore his Youth,
And melts within me.—Let me shun his Sight
A Moment, to retrieve my sinking Spirit.

[Retires.
Enter the KING, as a Pilgrim.
KING.
Must it be ever thus? still doom'd to tread
This sullen Course, and for a bitter Foe?
Becket, tho' in his Grave, torments me still.
And what avails it him, who sleeps unconscious
Of my forc'd Penance? Heart, resume thy Strength!
Rouse thee! resist the bigot Imposition,
And be thyself again.

CLIFFORD.
Who thus vents forth
[Advancing.
His sore Disquiets?

KING.
What is he who asks?
If yon expiring Lamp deceive me not,
Thy Garb betokens a religious Function.

CLIFFORD.
Thou judgest well.

KING.
Inform me, holy Guide,
What boot the Punishments your Laws enjoin?
Self-Castigation, balmy Sleep renounc'd,
And lonely Wand'rings o'er the rugged Flint,
Thro' the long-cloister'd Isle?

CLIFFORD.
Much, pious Stranger,
Much they avail: within these silent Walls
Chaste Contemplation dwells; this hallow'd Gloom
Inspires religious Musings, ardent Prayer,
Which, by their fervid Impulse, waft the Soul
Of erring Man, above this Vale of Weakness,
And teach him to regain, by heavenly Aid,
What he had forfeited by human Frailty.

KING.
Divinely spoke! But well may'st thou declaim
On their Utility, who ne'er hast felt
Their harsh Severities—Thou haply canst
Produce the Legend of a Life unstain'd.

CLIFFORD.
No—would to Heaven I had that Boast; but rank'd
'Mongst Error's Sons, I share the general Lot.
Too numerous are my Faults; but one, alas!
Beyond the rest I mourn—Spare me a Moment,
While I give Respite to my swelling Grief.

KING.
Methinks thou hast involv'd me in a Share
Of thy Distress. For what art thou enjoin'd
This rigid Duty, similar to mine?
Who hath inflicted it?

CLIFFORD.
Myself—my Conscience.

KING.
Thyself!

CLIFFORD.
The Mind that feels its own Demerits,
Needs no Infliction from another's Tongue.

KING.
My Ears, my Soul, are open to thy Words—
Give me to know thy Crime.

CLIFFORD.
How can I utter it,
And not sink down with Shame?

KING.
Let Shame betide
The coward Heart that will not own its Frailties;
If there's a Grace in Man superior far
To all beside, it must be that true Pride,
That bids him speak his own Misdeeds. Proceed.

CLIFFORD.
I had a Friend—the Darling of my Soul—
He lov'd, he honour'd me—the Trade of War
He taught my Youth; in many a hardy Field
Have we together fought, asserted England's
And noble Henry's Fame, Henry, the greatest,
The best of Kings!—

KING.
Oh, painful Recollection!
[Aside.
Thou once hadst such a Friend, ungrateful Henry!

CLIFFORD.
A Length of Brotherhood we 'joy'd together,
Till all its Blessedness was spoil'd by me.
He had a Daughter, beauteous as the Eye
Of Fancy ere imagin'd—

KING.
Spare me, spare me—
Oh, bitter Tale! thou hadst a Daughter, Clifford!

[Aside.
CLIFFORD.
I mark'd her for my own; pour'd the false Tale
Of wily Love into her credulous Ear,
And won her artless Heart.

KING
Tumultuous Pangs
[Aside.
Rush like a Torrent thro' my bursting Breast;—
My Crime, reflected by this Stranger's Tale,
Glares frightful on me! Till this Hour, I knew not
My Trespass was so great—Oh, with what weak,
What partial Eyes we view our own Misdeeds!
The Faults of others are a huge Olympus,
Our own an Emmet's Nest.

CLIFFORD.
Heart, Heart, be strong!
[Aside.
He muses deeply on it—I have hurt
[To the King.
Thy soft Humanity, I fear.—Perchance
Thou hast a Daughter, who, like this my Victim,
Hath stray'd from Virtue's Path.

KING.
Away, Away—
I can endure no more—O Conscience, Conscience,
[Aside.
With what a wild Variety of Torments
Thou rushest thro' my Soul!—'Tis all Distraction,
And asks some more than human Strength of Reason,
To save me from Despair.

[Exit.
CLIFFORD.
Kind Heaven, I thank thee;
His noble Nature is not quite extinguish'd,
He's wounded deep—Oh! may he but retain
This Sense of the sore Pangs he brought on me,
Till I have rescu'd my repentant Child,
And all my Bus'ness in this Life is done.

[Exit.