University of Virginia Library

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.