University of Virginia Library

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.