University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

The English Court.
King Henry, Stanley, York.
K. Hen.
My Lords, no longer let us doubt the Truth.
'Tis certain th'Impostor is in Scotland;
Conceal'd and cherish'd by those needy Kerns;
While envious France prepares her Armaments
T'invade our Land, and aid the Vagrant's Claim.

Stan.
I trust, great Sir, that th'Alarm is false;
I cannot think that Scotland's King would e'er abet
An Impostor's Claim against your native Right;
Back'd and supported by your Subjects Voice,
Their Hands and Hearts; the best, the surest, Right
To England's Crown.

K. Hen.
That Right be ever mine.
My firmest Bulwark, against foreign Threats,
Shall ever be my Subjects Love; secure
In that, England's King, and this Sea-girt Isle,
May defy the warring World. But, Stanley,
Are our Fleets in Readiness to scower
The dastard French? to sink and burn their hostile
Transports, should they dare look forth?

Stan.
They are, my Leige.
Proudly they ride, and plow the angry Main,
As if they rul'd that boist'rous Element,
And gave old Neptune Laws in his own Dominions.
While your faithful Troops,
(Th'Remains of Bosworth's memorable Field,
Who fought so bravely 'gainst the Tyrant Richard)
Headed by gallant Buckingham, are march'd
With eager Hearts to Kent and Sussex; and vow
To shed their warmest Blood 'gainst th'invading Foe,
Who treads a Step on England's Ground.

K. Hen.
Why, ay, 'tis like an English Soldier's Vow;
It breathes forth Mettle, and native Courage,
Such, as fifth Harry felt, at th'deathful Scene
Of bloody Agincourt; when Gallic Prisoners
Trebled English Conquerors, and their mangled
Dead out-number'd both. Such again shall be
Their Lot;—Imprisonment or Death. Such their
Reward, who wound fair England's Peace.
Enter Oxford.
Now, Lord Oxford, what says my loyal City?
Are the Londoners assembled?

Ox.
They are, my Leige:
Their kindled Chiefs are gather'd in Guild-Hall;
With each a Spirit like the first Romans,
When rowz'd at midnight by th'inspiring Cry
Of save your Liberty!—When first I waked
The Mayor, and told him the French and Scots
Were making a Descent in Perkin's Cause,
Th'abrupt Relation drove the warm Colour
From his manly Cheek; but the rich Stream soon
Rush'd back with treble Force—English Courage,
Rage, and fiery Indignation; which now,
Like spreading Flames, catch,—quick—from Man to Man,
And through your loyal City nought is heard
But ‘to arms.—Death or Liberty.—and long
‘Live the King.

K. Hen.
'Tis well; I will deserve their kind Affection,
And ever be the Guardian of their Rights.
Dawbney, take care there be Dispatches sent
This Night, to the Lieutenants of our several Counties;
Bid them, without Delay, prepare their People;
Distribute Arms, and animate their Zeal;
Our self will lead them on to happy Victory,
Or hard fought Death, in England's glorious cause.

Ox.
Doubt not, my Liege; your Subjects all united
As now with Hand and Heart they firmly are,
Can never fail of joyful Victory.
The needy, restless Scots, so oft chastis'd,
Again shall feel the Vengeance of our Arms,
And ever rue this rash Attempt. As for the
French, I've often heard my Grandsire say,
That, in fifth Harry's Days, the beating them
Was but an Englishman's Recreation:
It shall be so again, my gracious Leige,
We'll drive the gaudy Rogues back to Paris Gates;
There, like beaten Curs, let them lick their bruised Wounds,
Mend their broken Limbs; and instead of making
Kings,—let them make Courantos, and follow
Their dancing skipping Avocations.

K. Hen.
Well said, my valiant Oxford. We'll make 'em feel in us
An Edward and Fifth Harry joyn'd. Ha! Stanley,
We once again shall have our Bodies clasp'd
In burnish'd blazing Steel, and together fight
Against audacious Usurpation.

York.
May the Almighty's providential Hand
Direct your Sword, and guard your sacred Life;
May Victory, with her triumphant Aspect,
Attend your righteous Cause; and bless once more
Our panting Land with cheerful welcome Peace.

Ox.
My Lord of York fights like a true Churchman,
With Zeal and Prayer, instead of Sword and Bullet;

York.
Your Taunt, my Lord, might have been better timed,
And mark'd a fitter Object for its Mirth.
For know, Sir, tho' a Priest, I'm English born,
And (in my Country's Cause) can weild a Sword,
And shed my warmest Blood in its Defence.
As daringly as any Layman of you all.

K. Hen.
Cousin of York, none doubts your Loyalty,
Or Courage; we have oft approv'd them both.
My Lord of Oxford means you well; and his
Mirthful Jests the Church must not take ill,
Since Majesty itself is sometimes made their Butt.
'Tis true, his Humour's singular and blunt;
But his Heart is honest, which makes large amends
For the Tartness of his Wit. Come, come, we
All are Friends, nor have we Time for Jibe,
Or Anger now, but 'gainst our common Foes,
The French and Scot; there let your Pray'rs, and Jests,
And Blows, be levell'd.

Enter a Lord, and whispers Stanley.
Stan.
‘May it please your Majesty, the Mayor
‘And Citizens attend your Pleasure.

K. Hen.
‘Stanley, admit 'em.
(Exit. Stanley.
‘Their Readiness to shew their Loyalty
‘Is an added Worth to their Affection.

Ox.
‘Those Sons of Traffick know too well
‘The Sweets of golden Commerce, self-earn'd Property,
‘And English Freedom, to lose them lightly.
‘They are too wise to change such Blessings for
‘Wooden Shoes and Popish Anathema's.

Enter Stanley, Mayor and Aldermen, who kneel.
Mayor.
‘Permit us, gracious Sovereign, with warm Affection
‘And united Loyalty, to approach your sacred
‘Person. Indulge our heart-felt Zeal the Privilege
‘To express the indispensible Duty of English
‘Subjects. Subjects, who think their Happiness and
‘Liberty inseparably blended with your sacred
‘Right; and bound by Duty and Affection
‘To feel all Insults offer'd to your Majesty, in a
‘Sense, as sharp and touching, as to our individual
‘Lives, our Trade, or Liberties. Too well,
‘My Liege, we know the Schemes of ambitious
‘France, which grasps at universal Sway, to be
‘Deceived by Threats or Machinations. Her
‘Cabinet is an exhaustless Mine of blackest
‘Policy; Jealousy, Corruption, Discord and Sedition,
‘Are the Agents she sends forth to
‘Plague Mankind; but e'er her Jesuit Arts shall
‘Taint our Loyalty, or pervert our free-born State,
‘To Gallic Servitude, we here devote
‘The last Remains of English Blood and Treasure.

K. Hen.
‘For such voluntary, loyal, English Love,
‘Who would not change despotick, Gallic Sway?
‘You kneel my Subjects, but you rise my Friends;
‘Your King and Country's Pride and Treasure;
‘The industrious Bees, who gather Sweets from Earth's
‘Remotest Climes, to enrich Old England's Hive,
‘With Natures choicest Stores. Such ever be
‘Her Sons; industrious, loyal, stout, opulent,
‘And free.

Mayor.
‘And such her Kings—the Scourge
‘of France and Rome, and Guardian of their People's
‘Liberties.

K. Hen.
‘Nobles, Citizens and Friends, let each
‘Repair to his respective Charge. You, my Lord,
‘To our faithful Citizens; bid them accept
‘A Monarch's greatful Thanks; tell them their Love,
‘And Loyalty, so amply shewn, at this
‘Important Crisis, ever claim my
‘Warmest, best Affection. The Preservation
‘Of their Peace and Rights, and the Cultivation
‘Of our darling Commerce, shall ever be
‘My first and chiefest Care; so assure them,

(Ex. Citizens.
Enter Dawbney, (who whispers the King and gives him a Paper.)
K. Hen.
Where hast thou lodged him, my faithful Daubney.

Daub.
Safe in the Tower, my Liege.

King.
Enough; follow me (going off—but turns short)
this List you say's authentic.

Daw.
So he declares, my Liege

King.
'Tis well; follow me, Daubney.

(Exit Daubney.
York.
Something of Moment is in this abrupt
Departure, pray Heaven all our Hearts be whole.

Ox.
Lord Bishop, if there is a rotten Heart
Amongst us, why his Head must answer for it.

York.
Sure if there was no other abler Reason,
The Blast of Nobles in the late Rebellion,
Is Warning sufficient to all the Land,
How they again abet an Impostor's Claim.
The high-born Lincoln, Son to Delapoole,
The Earls of Kildair, Lovel, and Geraldine,
With the German Baron, bold Martin Swart,
Who all bled their last in th'Impostor Simnel's Cause,
On the crimson Plain of memorable Stoke.

Enter Dawbney.
Daw.
Lord Chamberlain, it is the King's Command
You order his Apartment, in the Tower;
They must be instantly prepar'd, for 'tis
His Royal Pleasure to lodge there this Night.

Stan.
In the Tower?

Daw.
It was his special Command: And farther, Lords,
It is his Will you all attend him there.

Ox.
So, so—I knew some of us would be a Head shorter.
This Tower Work seldom ends otherwise.
This same Treason, I find, will furnish full
Employment for the Headsman, and the Priest.
For, it I mistake not, many wise Heads
Must be knock'd off, and many black Consciences
Absolv'd, before it ends.

(Exit.
Daw.
My Lords, the King expects you.

York.
We'll attend.

(Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in the Tower.
Clifford alone.
[Cliff.]
O Clifford! Clifford, thou hast lost all Peace!
The Traitor's guilty Sting is in thy Heart;
And his deep-dy'd Shame dwells on thy Cheek.
My Eye detests the Light; and I fain would seek
Darkness, eternal Darkness and Oblivion.
O Man, Man, weak, unsteady, insatiate Man!
My Conscience, ever faithful to its Trust,
With heav'nly Admonition, kindly warn'd
And forbad my Baseness; but Thirst of Greatness,
Infused by hellish Priest-craft, wrought my Fall,
And damn'd me to the lowest Pit of Shame.
For now, to save an ignominious Life,
Again I have broke the Band of Fellowship,
And, like a Traitor doubly steep'd in Guilt,
Have sacrificed my vile Associates.
O Shame, Shame! Hell! Hell! for ever in
The Villain's mangled Mind.

Enter Dawbney.
Daw.
Sir Robert Clifford, I've inform'd the King
Of what you gave Permission;
He has given Command I lead you to his Closet—
Be open and sincere in your Confession;
Trust to his Royal Goodness for Pardon.

Cliff.
O Dawbney, I have my Reward already.
The bearded Shafts of Guilt and Treachery
Goad thro' my Heart, and canker all within.

Daw.
Despair not, Sir; the King is merciful.
But do not dally, for his Soul's on Fire;
The Quickness of his Temper well you know.
But come, the King
Expects us in his Closet.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The King's Apartment in the Tower. A Table, Chair, and Candles.
Enter the King and Dawbney meeting.
Daw.
May it please your Majesty, Sir Robert Clifford.

King.

Admit him, Dawbney—and let Oxford and
York attend.

While the King seats himself Dawbney goes to the Door, and returns with Clifford, York, and Oxford.
King.
Clifford, draw near; 'tis needless to upbraid you,
For already I see Treason's sharp Remorse
Hath seized your Mein and Aspect;
Guilt and Self-Reproach, the Traitor's native Marks, sculk in
Your down-cast Eye.

Cliff.
My Eye! my Heart!—I am all over Villain!
[kneels]
An irresolute, ungrateful Villain!
I fear beyond the Reach of Penitence!

King.
Clifford, stand up; for Instance of thy Safety,
We offer thee our Hand.

Cliff.
I kiss it
With the Greediness of a penitent Heart,
Who pants for heavenly Mercy. O Sir,
You are a just, a righteous Master; I
The blackest Traitor, that e'er betray'd his Friend,
His King, or Country.

King.
Tell me, is every Circumstance set down
Within this Paper true? Is it a sure
Intelligence of all the Progress
Of our Enemies Intents?

Cliff.
True, my Liege,
As I wish Forgiveness of offended Heaven!

King.
Look here, my reverend Lord, the Scheme of France;
[gives him a Paper.]
The base, the mean, the shackled Terms they've made
With their Impostor King, for this fair Isle,
The Queen of Europe's Liberties.

York.
Reads.
‘First, a full Surrender of England's Trade
‘And all her foreign Acquisitions—next,
‘Obedience implicit to his Holiness
‘The Pope and the Decrees of France, in all
‘Disputable Points—lastly, a Tribute everlasting
‘Of whatever Sum their Moderation shall demand.

King.
Clifford, those are the Terms, you say, made with
England's pretended King?

Cliff.
Gracious Sovereign, they are.

King.
Well, my Lord of York, what says your Grace? Shall
We put on our Chains in Peace, ha! will they
Sit easy, think you?

York.
As the Shirt of Hercules, my Liege.
The Englishman, who signs to these, must sure
Be bloodless.—And bloodless may each Briton be
E're that Day come. O sooner may our deep,
Our watery Bulwark become our Grave,
And Land and Liberty together bravely perish.

(King rises, perusing the Paper.)
King.
Our Right of Commerce! Sovereignty at Sea!
England's darling, rightful Treasure! purchased
For Ages, with her best, her choicest Blood,
Must we be subject to audacious France.
Our foreign Acquisitions too must be
Humbly laid at our Gallic Master's Feet.
Even the Freedom of religious Thoughts,
They are not pleased to leave us.
Infallibility steps in and dictates,
‘Britons, thus you must think—or Perdition
‘Is your Doom.’—Hard Sentence,—lastly, Tribute,
Everlasting, of whatever Sums their
Moderation shall demand!—Moderation!
Gallic Moderation!—What,—shall Englishmen!
Freedom's favourite Sons! shall we, my Lord,
Like Slave-born Wretches bow our Necks,
For France to tread on? Shall we, like Dastards,
Crouch to Cravens we so oft have beat? No—
E're a Hair's Weight of English Liberty
Be yielded up,—e're the lowest Briton,
Be Subject to the haughtiest Peer in France,
We'll dye our dear, our native Land with Royal Blood.
(sits down.)
But come, Sir, on with your Discovery.
What Pow'r hath France sent with our Brother King?

Cliff.
But small, my gracious Liege, as yet, if any.
But most mighty Promises are made him,
In conjunction with Spain's Embassador.
Three solemn Councils at Paris have been held;
And their Result was this; Sussex and Kent
Are to be visited with twenty thousand
Of the choicest Troops of France; while proud Spain
Into Ireland pours an equal Number;
And Rome, ever active to wound England's Peace,
Has secretly dispersed, throughout your Realm,
Her subtlest Priests to poison and seduce
Your Subjects Minds, in Favour of th'Impostor.

King.
I cannot observe in this Scheme of yours,
That Spain or Scotland's Kings are in Treaty
For any Part or Share of this gallant Spoil.

Cliff.
Royal Sir, to that Part of their Councils
I must declare myself a Stranger.

King.
Um—it may be so.
I find then, my kingly Rival, the Pope,
Scotland, and Spain, are all the Tools of France.
The Wind-mill-pated Spaniard dreams of Glory;
The Scot of his usual Trade of Plunder;
His Holiness of Peter's obsolete Pence;
And Cousin Perkin of filling England's Throne!
And thus the Wreck of English Liberty,
Is parcel'd out by those despotick Spoilers!
[rises
But if we must be Slaves, my Lord of York,
Let us put on our Chains like Englishmen
Reeking with Frenchmens Blood.—
Let's have one Tug for our Sea-wash'd Isle,
Our Laws, our Commerce, and our Liberties;—
They're worth disputing—
[sits
Ha! are they not, York?

York.
As Life,—or Sustenance,—when raging Famine clings us.
Th'coldest Coward would fight for such Blessings.
Even our Women, by Nature soft and gentle,
As Peace or Innocence, would, in England's Cause,
Unsheath the frightful Sword, and
Stain their snow-white Arms, with hostile Gore.

King.
Of what Friends and Followers
Is this itinerant Monarch's Court composed?

Cliff.
Of all kinds that are base, and infamous;
Of all Nations, and of all mean Conditions;
Bankrupts, Sanctuary Men, Thieves, Robbers,
Vagabonds, and Scotch Banditti:
Who under Mask of Justice, and Religion,
Commit unheard-of Outrages.—Spoil, Rape,
Rapine and Murder, are their daily Practice;
And all are sanctified by the Priests of Rome.

King.
O wicked Use of Heavens chiefest Blessings!
O Rome! Rome! this is thy infallible Truth!
And, civilized France, thy most Christian Policy!

Ox.

‘Why, my Liege, the French have a Factory on
Purpose for Politics, where the Devil, the Cardinal,
and the Pope weave State Mischief for all
the Courts of Europe; but we will let 'em know,
that neither their Politics nor their Bulls will sell
in an English Mart,—whatever they may do in
other Countries.’

King.
‘I think, Sir, you named Priests and Emissaries,
‘Dispersed about the Realm to poison Minds,
‘And diffuse Sedition 'mongst our Subjects.
‘Know you any of them by Name, or Person?

Cliff.
‘Many, my Liege.

King.
‘Name them quick;—be brief, Sir.

Cliff.
‘The chief are Sir John Ratcliff, Lord Fitzwalter,
‘Sir Simon Mountford, Sir Thomas Thwaits,
‘William Dawbney, Thomas Cressenor, Thomas
‘Astwood!

King.
‘Come, Sir, the rest.

Cliff.
‘The rest are all religious Persons. William Rochford
‘And Thomas Poins, Dominican Friars;
‘Doctor William Sutton, William Worsely,
‘Dean of St. Paul's; Robert Laiborn, Richard Lessley;
‘With divers others of inferior Rank, all influenced
‘By the Power of Rome, with Orders to absolve
‘Whatever Blood may be shed in the righteous
‘Cause.

King.
Have you named all, Sir Robert?

Cliff.
All but one, my Liege, and when I name him,
I fear my Truth will lose all Credit; yet your
Chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, tho' last
Named, is first against you.

King.
My Chamberlain!

Cliff.
He, Sir.

King.
Clifford, beware how you accuse a Man,
Whose Love and Loyalty we've experienced.
We know the Tricks of Guilt and Treachery;
Arts to discharge their own detected Crimes,
By tainting others nobler than themselves.

Cliff.
My Liege, again I say your Chamberlain,
Sir William Stanley, is a vile Traitor,
Both in Purse and Council,
To this pretended Heir his chief Assistant;—
This I can prove.

King.
What! Stanley! my Friend! my retired, inmost Friend!
My Heart's Partner! my other self!

York.
Patience; Royal Sir.

King.
Patience! why, my Lord, Stanley's a Traitor.
(rises.)
A dear, a friendly, secret, bosom Traitor!
Hear that, Lord Bishop, and then preach Patience.

York.
I confess, my Liege, 'tis dreadful.

King.
Dreadful!—O dear York! you cannot know my
State of Mind.—None but a King, distrustful
Of his Friends, when wild Rebellion threatens,
Can feel what I feel now. Adversity,
And Exile I have known, with some Degree
Of Comfort,—nay, tho' driven by this Impostor
From my Crown and People, confin'd in Cells,
Or doom'd to die on the Traitor's Scaffold;
Yet still I should have found some Consolation;
But Treachery of Friends is comfortless:—
It is a poison'd Wound which drives to Madness,
Or Despair.
O York! what have I done to lose my Stanley's
Heart—or he his own, ‘He, who in Bosworth Field
‘Rescued me from Richard's death-dealing Sword;
‘And from his cloven Head first snatch'd the Crown,
‘And like Lightning flew to encircle mine.
But let him from my Thoughts.—Dawbney, to Night
Within the square Tower let him be imprison'd;
Set a strong Guard on him.—Clifford, you Sir, must
Lodge there too; we'll talk more with you to Morrow.

York.
My Liege, the Night is far advanced; it is
Almost Morn, and your troubled Mind demands
Repose and balmy Sleep.

King.
O Lord Bishop, in my Apartment now,
Whom shall I trust? I must have Doors and Walls
Of Brass; I must lie down,—for Sleep I cannot,
In honest friendly Armour; 'tis now the
Only Safety I have left. I must wear it
Amidst my Council and my Friends, as in
The Day of Battle, lest the Poniard, dark,
And traiterous, reach my Heart.

York.
Good Sir, banish such Thoughts.

Ox.
Ay Sir, drive them from your Breast ‘and let me
‘Be your Door, your Wall of Brass, your Armour,
‘And I'll engage your Safety—tho' the Devil,
‘The Pope, the Pretender, France, and Stanley,
‘Should all conspire to corrupt me.

King.
‘O my honest Oxford, fair Confidence,
‘Who with her coral Lip, her rosy Cheek,
‘And cherub Aspect, used to sport about
‘My peaceful Heart, is banish'd now; Stanley
‘Hath murder'd her; and planted in her room
‘A livid, trembling, pale squint-eyed Friend, gnawing
‘Suspicion.

Ox.
‘Dear Sir, get rid of her as soon as you can,
‘For she is a little insinuating Imp,
‘Who, under Mask of Friendship, steals into
‘A Monarch's Breast, and never parts
‘'Till the ferret-ey'd Fiend hath eaten Repose,
‘And stung the contented Mind to Madness.
‘Banish her, banish her, my Liege.

King.
You, my Lords, we believe pure,
And uncorrupt, as Light, or Truth itself,
And this Night, will commit
Ourself to your loyal Care; you shall watch
In our Apartment, while we court coy Sleep,
To our weary Lids,
And try to sooth our State-vex'd anxious Breast,
With restor'd Confidence, and balmy Rest.

[Exeunt.