University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

An Apartment in the Tower.
Enter Stanley, in black, Guards, &c.
(Stanley.)
What awful Pomp attends the Traitor's Death!
What Preparations to affright his Soul!
Yet all are slight! the Guilt he feels within
Out-shocks them all.
Enter King, York, Oxford, Dawbney, Lords, Yeomen of the Guard.
Ha! the King—once my Joy—
My Ambition! my greatest Happiness!
But now my Reproach! my Terror!

King.
See, Lord Bishop, the unhappy Man is cover'd
With Confusion, and cannot turn this Way.
He looks as Death wou'd be a more welcome Guest
To his afflicted Mind, than our reproachful
Presence.—
[The King approaches him.
O Stanley! how different is this Interview
From that in Richard's Tent,
When Bosworth's slaughter'd Scene was o'er.
When the Tyrant Richard lay extended in our View,
My first Thought was, how to reward
Your Love and Loyalty; I made you Master
Of the Tyrant's Wealth.—The Spoil was mighty;—
And had it been immence as Columbus'
Late discover'd Mines, my o'er-flowing Heart
Wou'd have thought it poor—poor as Beggar's Alms,
For my Stanley's Friendship.—My Mind—My Treasure—
My Will hath since been yours.—My all, at your
Direction. What then cou'd provoke your black,
Your atrocious Perfidy?

Stan.
Ambition.
Misguided, restless, insatiate Ambition!

King.
O thou unhappy Mark of human Frailty!
From Patriot Honour fallen to traiterous Shame.
Sure the utmost Height of human Glory
Is Steadiness in our Country's Good!
Myriads of Blessings
Are pour'd on the Patriot's Head; all are anxious
For his Health and Welfare, and the People,
From their abundant, their o'erflowing Hearts,
Shout out their Acclamations as he passes.
By his Example Millions are made virtuous;
Even Parricides, who for trait'rous Gold
Wou'd stab the Vitals of their maternal Land,
Are forc'd to sculk behind a patriot Mask,
Lest the good Man's spirit-stirring Virtue
Hurl popular Vengeance on th'Villain's Head.
This is the Patriot.—Now see the Reverse;
See in yourself the Traitor whom all Men curse.
‘Not his noble Titles, nor all the Honours
‘Treacherous Wealth can heap, can screen him
‘From popular Shame, nor ease from Self-reproach
‘His guilt-stab'd Heart.
‘Here you both stand, the Patriot this, the Traitor that;
[Pointing to the Bishop and Stanley.
‘The one England's invaluable Blessing;
‘The other, her deepest, blackest, vilest, Curse.

Stan.
O Sir, I feel the sad Condition.
It hath thrown Guilt intense into my Breast,
And tells me I deserve the worst of Deaths my
Country's Laws, or your just Vengeance can inflict.

King.
Why say—shou'd we grant you Life! shou'd Mercy
Be so abus'd! so prostituted! where!
Where cou'd you reside? With whom associate?
None.—Patriots wou'd shun you out of Virtue,
Traitors out of Policy.
Then the greatest Blessing our Power can give,
Or your sad State admit,—is instant Death.

Stan.
It is, my Liege—and my Request to see you
Was not to protract, or sue for Life.—
But to atone, in some Degree, my Guilt,
By full Confession of the groundless Cause,
Which hath for ever damn'd my Fame.
Then know, Sir, your Goodness has undone me;
—Your Royal Kindness
Heap'd such abundant Favours on me, that
My ambitious Soul was lost, in Prospect
Of boundless Power. Your Father-in-law,
My Brother, you rais'd to th'Earldom of Darby.
Envy and exorbitant Ambition
Made me request the Earldom of Chester;
Which, without Injury manifest, you
Cou'd not alienate, being ever annex'd
To England's Heir. But I, with Love of Pow'r
Intoxicated, unus'd to meet Repulse,
From that Moment, like a poisonous Serpent,
Whom you had nourish'd in your kindly Bosom,
Lost Sight and Memory of all Gratitude;
Former Favours, by this Refusal, I
Chang'd to Injuries, and my wild Ambition
To inflam'd Revenge; which I sought to
Gratify by stabbing my dear Country
Thro' my Friend and royal Master's Side.
This, Sir, was my dark, my hellish State of Mind.
Which is a glaring, but faithful Picture
Of ambitious, disappointed Courtiers;
Who ne'er know Peace of Mind, 'till they destroy
The State, or, in their Treason, meet their Death:
And if my Example may stand a Beacon
To the lavish Fondness of future Kings,
And to the Pride of insatiate Minions,
My Crime will be of Service to my Country.
So, farewell the best of Kings,—the warmest Friend,
The kindest Master.—And oh for ever
Farewel Guilt and Shame—and welcome deserved Death.

[Ex. guarded.
King,
Unhappy Victim of incens'd Ambition!
Stain to thy noble Blood, and English Truth!

Enter Dawbney.
Daw.
My Liege, I bring unwelcome News.

King.
Out with it, Dawbney.

Daw.
The Cornish Rebels, so late defeated
On Blackheath, by gallant Oxford, and who
So amply felt your Royal Mercy,
Again are up in Arms, in the Pretender
Perkin's Favour. Rome's Emissaries have
Once more rous'd th'ungrateful Herd, while James
Of Scotland is raising a powerful Army to support
His Claim.

[Gives him the Chamberlain's Staff.
King.
Dawbney, accept this Staff,—wear it with Truth
Equal to my Confidence.—Give Order
Clifford be confin'd within the Limits
Of his own House and Park at Newbury,
'Till Rebellion's Flame is quench'd.—Lord Bishop,
To you and faithful Surry we commit
The important Business of the North;
With ample Power to act as Need shall chance.
Ourself, and my old, my valiant Oxford,
Will to the West to chastise those
Unnatural Rebels.—

Ox.

I warrant you, my Liege, we'll soon chastise
them.—These Traitors have had Royal Mercy
once.—But they are like the ungrateful ditch-sprung
Nettle, which handled tenderly stings with
greater Violence, but with Vigour grasp'd, and
crush'd at once, loses all its Energie.

King.
Come, my Lords, your Country's Wrongs demand your Swords.
The gaudy Garb of silken Peace must now
Be doff'd, and the mail'd Coat of Mars put on.
Tottering storm-drench'd Tents must be our Palaces,
And our rich-wrought Carpets the aguish Earth;
Our Music must be the leaden Messengers of Death,
Whose whizzing Notes omen to each Man's Ear
Irrevocable Doom.

Ox.
And glorious th'Doom when gain'd in Freedom's Cause;
The noblest Fate an Englishman can meet.
The Hatchment of such a Death will be preserv'd
The patriot Mark to late Posterity;
The free-born Son will kindle at the Sight,
'Till in his King and Country's Cause, he burns
To emulate his Father's deathless Virtue.

York.
For my Part, my Liege, tho' Coward Custom,
And my sacred Function, might exempt me
From the Task; yet, with English Pride, I boast
To change th'holy Crosier
For the defensive Sword.—My Dependants
Brethren, Followers, and Friends I will convene,
And by the Assistance of the Almighty,
Protect our Laws, Religion, and our Rights
Or bravely perish in their Defence.

Ox.
‘I defy the Pope in his whole Conclave to
‘Shew me such a Prelate as this—
‘My Lord, for your Sake I shall
‘Love an English Priest as long as I live.

King.
My Lord,
E're we part let us once embrace.
[They all embrace.
Now each Man to his Charge, and when we fight,
Let us remember this, we fight 'gainst Gallic Chains
For English Liberty.

[Exeunt York one Way, King and Oxford t'other.