 | King Henry the VII. Or The Popish Impostor |  |
ACT IV.
Holy-rood Palace.Enter King and Sevez.
Sevez.
Again, I say, that on the Traitors Death
Depends the loyal Subject's Safety; Mercy
To one is Cruelty to the other.
K. Scot.
Sevez, I know Lord Huntley's Maxims well;
But still I think he loves us.
He must not die.
Sevez.
Sir, a King's Word is of religious Nature;
An Obligation sacred, which cannot
Be dissolved, by any earthly Power;
None but our Mother, the holy, holy
Infallible Church,—Heaven's Vice-gerent!
Before her, indeed, Laws, Oaths, Obligations,
Of what Kind soever, lose their Being.
You, Sir, in Council
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K. Scot.
'Twas by your Influence I revok'd my Word.
You urged 'twou'd be gracious in the Eye of Rome
To ally Duke Richard to our Blood,
By Marriage with Gordon's lovely Daughter.
All Means of Success were barr'd, except
My Promise of her Father's Life; which she,
Cover'd with Rage and Sorrow, from Love and
Nature's extream Reluctance, at last accepted.
Then how, my Sevez, how can I answer
My Breach of Word to her, or to myself?
Sevez.
Sacred Sir, your religious Scruple gives me Joy.
But should conscientious Fears disturb you,
A Bull of Pardon from his Holiness of Rome
Will soon ease your religious Mind.
K. Scot.
Wou'd I cou'd save his Life!
Sevez.
Sacred Sir, I know your royal Tenderness,
But if Huntley lives, your Authority
Will be too feeble to stand against him.
He is grown too popular for kingly Power
To cope with. The factious Lords, his Friends,—
And the distemper'd Rabble are at his Beck.
Already they bellow out for Justice,
Redress, Freedom, no Perkin, no Legates,
No French Council, no Italian Statesmen;
This is their Cry thro' Edinburgh Streets,
Nay, round your Palace Walls.
K. Scot.
Ha! Traitors!
Sevez.
Sir, tho' you, out of your native Goodness,
Were inclin'd to pardon those wicked Lords,
Yet our holy Church wou'd have insisted
On their Deaths; or on your Head have denounc'd
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Of the new-sprung Sect; call'd in England Lollards;
And have been most active in shaking off
The Power of Rome, which nothing but their Blood
Can expiate. ‘Your Allies of France too
‘Wou'd have stopt their Aid and Loans, and have left you
‘A Sacrifice to your rebellious Subjects
‘And to your old, your natural Enemies
‘The Purse-proud, haughty, heretic English.
K. Scot.
Sevez, they shall die.
Are all Things in Readiness for our Expedition?
Sevez.
They are, Sir; this Night Richard and his Queen
Sojourn at Berwick; and the Clans and Vassals
Of the Grants, Kenedys, Macgregers, and Macdonalds,
With those of Hamilton and Macpherson,
Are all set forward; and their Rendevouz
Is Norham Castle, which they'll reach this Night,
And there wait your royal Presence.
K. Scot.
Sevez, prepare, we will set out this this Day.
Sevez.
My Liege, all Aptness and Conveniency
Attend your royal Will and Pleasure.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in the Castle of Edinburgh.Enter Huntley, follow'd by an Officer of the Castle.
Hunt.
Marry'd! crown'd! pardon'd! Say,
Who pardon'd me?
Off.
The King.—
Hunt.
I say you are deceived, it cannot be.
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My Lord, 'tis certain she is marry'd and crown'd; the
Legate himself join'd their Hands.
(And your Pardon is the Consequence of the Marriage.)
And now with
Regal State, and pompous Train she journeys towards England.
Hunt.
O Katherine! Katherine, is this thy Reward
For all my anxious Care to form thy Mind!
Was it for this you came to offer Life?
Ambitious Syren.—Yes, I will accept it.
I will, Kate, but it shall be to glut my Vengeance.
Crown'd! pardon'd! regal State! vain, ambitious,
Proud, infamous Woman! O Happiness,
Happiness, Fancy's delusive Child,
Which every Fool creates, and no sooner
imag'd into Form, but th'airy Being
Vanishes to Sorrow!
Mine was compos'd
Of Scotland's Weal, and my Katherine's Virtue;
But Rome hath ruin'd one, and Woman's Pride
The other.
Enter Sir David Bruce.
[loud knocking without]
Sir David.
See who knocks, but be sure let none enter
[to the Officer.]
My Lord, I grieve to be the Messenger,
But by a special Order, just received,
The short Space of a fleeting Hour
Is your Life's utmost Limit.
Hunt.
An Hour, Sir!
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Had pleaded to the King for royal Mercy.
Sir David.
'Tis true, my Lord, the King did promise Life
To you, Angus, and Daliel; but e're he
Set forth for England, he sign'd this Warrant
For your Deaths.
Hunt,
Then, Queen Kate, thou wilt escape my Vengeance;
Fate, I find, hath reserv'd thee for his own Wrath.
Enter Officer with a Letter.
Off.
Sir, a Post from Court hath brought this Letter
For Lord Huntley.
[Sir David takes it from him and gives it Huntley
Hunt.
For me Sir?—'tis Katherine's Character
Once as welcome to my Eyes, as rising Sun
To new-recover'd Sight; now irksome as Perfidy.
What a Comfort, amidst Calamity,
Wou'd this have been, had she not fall'n to Guilt
Inexpiable!
O she was once as fair, and innocent
As was her Parent Eve, when first
She waken'd from Creation—but Satan's
Towering Crime, Thirst of imperial Sway,
Hath wrought her fall, and blackn'd all her Virtue.
Sir Dav.
My Lord,
I cannot think your Daughter's Crime—
Hunt.
Dear Bruce, Pity me.
For Sorrow's Dart ne'er reach'd my Heart till now!
The foolish Father hath quite unmann'd me,
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Of busy fondling Nature, which will have Vent,
In Spite of Art; and what I thought had quite
Engross'd me, Scotland's Love.—But I'm deceiv'd—
For the Father's Folly, I find, is uppermost,
And Rage and Sorrow rend my Heart, and my
Weak Eyes burn with scalding Rheum. O Katherine,
Did I e're think thou'dst make old Huntley weep!
Thou hast done what Death and slaughter ne'er cou'd do.
But, she's gone—fallen, and unworthy another Tear.
But come, now let us see her regal Stile,
Her royal Apology for accepting
Sovereign Sway,—and breaking a Father's Heart.
SIR,
(Opens the Letter, and after having read the Address, his Grief returns, which interrupts his Power to read.Dear Bruce, pity, pity an old Man's Weakness!
Nay, I know you will, you must—for you are
Your self a Father, and know what fond Fools
Nature makes of us—prithee Bruce, read it.
(Gives him the Letter.
For my Eyes have full Employment—unman'd,—
Quite, quite unman'd!
(Bruce reads.
SIR,
‘I have broke the Bond of Duty with the best of
Fathers, of Honour and Affection with the
most deserving of Lovers. This I have done to
give you and your noble Friends Life and Liberty,
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‘from those who have advised your Deaths, my
‘Marriage, and the innumerable Woes Scotland
‘groans under.
‘Consider, Sir, my Crime is the Effect of your
‘Precepts; which always taught me to prefer my
‘Country's Weal to Life, Fame or Family. I will
‘not sue for Pardon, but Pity, tho' you condemn
‘me, I know your tender Nature will grant to your
‘once loved—now broken-hearted,
Katherine.
Sir Dav.
Brave noble Lady! exalted as Virtue
Or patriot Love can boast. She has indeed,
Acted like Huntley's Daughter! parted with
More than Life for her King and Country's Weal.
Hunt.
O just Heav'ns! what Machines thou hast made us!
Scarce a Moment since, and I shou'd have joy'd
T'have seen my Katherine hears'd deep in the Womb
Of Death's clayie Mansion. And now, Life, Fame,
And Scotland's Fate are not so dear to me
As my Katherine's unparalell'd Virtue.
Sir Dav.
Unparalell'd indeed, my Lord! poor Lady!
She is wedded to Misery without End.
Hunt.
O my Child! my Child!
Cou'd I but see you once! cou'd my dim Eyes
But gaze once more on that dear soft Image!
Cou'd I but live to ease my Katherine's Heart,
And tell her how I laud her manly Spirit,
I wou'd then forgive Fate—Death—every Thing—
But Sevez—that curst Priest—who hath undone us all.
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To see my Katherine; for that within this Hour
The Tyrant's Ax must sever Life from Woe.
Sir Dav.
That was my last Order from the Legate.
Hunt.
E're this the Thought of Death ne'er hurt my Mind;
But now 'tis irksome! I fain,—fain wou'd live
To see my Child again—but that cannot be—
O Scotland's Majesty, how art thou sunk!
When your royal Word is as far from Truth
As Heaven from Hell!
‘To deceive even my poor Katherine!
‘To betray her into Prostitution!
‘Sure Perfidy in Kings is the blackest Crime
‘Callous'd Infamy hath in all her Store!
But when Rome's mental Craft surrounds a Throne,
It is no Wonder Falshood and Tyranny,
Shove by Truth and Justice.—
But come, Governor, since we are to die,
Let's close the Scene, and end Life's Farce at once.
Sir Dav.
No, Lord Huntley,
Our bleeding Country hath fitter Service for you.
By me her Genius says, you must not dye.
My Lord, with jealous Eyes, and sore-griev'd Heart,
I've seen your Wrongs, and Scotland's unmatch'd Woes.
Affection to your House, which rais'd me first,
And to my dear, my native bleeding Land
Has made me watchful to preserve you both.
Hunt.
What mean you, Bruce!
Sir Dav.
This my injur'd Lord—
Many of the ancient Blood of Scotland
With heart-sore Feeling behold th'mighty Wrongs
Like to be entail'd upon Posterity,
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Or else to bleed their last in the Attempt.
Hunt.
Ay, Bruce!—what! are there such Men in Scotland!
Sir Dav.
There are, my Lord; and since your Confinement
Have oft assembled in private Parley, how
To give you and Scotland Life and Freedom.
They last Night resolv'd, as they were commanded,
To attend the King in this Impostor's
Expedition. But not a Step farther
Than they see fit Time to shake off the Yoke.—
Their faithful Clans and Vassals they have rais'd,
Who are well martial'd both in Mind and Body,
And ready to revolt upon the Word.
Near Norham Castle they are assembled,
Whither the King's encamp'd—thither must you post
This Night—where you will meet such warm greeting
As Courage feels when rous'd by Tyranny and Oppression.
Hunt.
Scotland's guardian Genius—let me embrace thee.
[Embraces him.
Sir Dav.
This Castle, my Lord, I have well provided
As is that of Sterling, by Sir Archibald Grant,
And we will hold them out to Life's Extremity.
My Lord, you must away, Scotland's bleeding.
Hunt.
Away?—why, Bruce, I will outstrip the Winds,
And leave them Laggards in the hasty Course;
I'll go, like Brutus, at the Head of Rome's
Determin'd Son's, and restore poor, banish'd
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There shall she sit incorp'rate with our King,
'Till Time shall be no more.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Norham Castle.A March at a Distance, enter the Bishop of York and many Free-holders, Gentlemen, &c.
York.
‘Friend's! Britons! and Free-men! in
Conjunction with the valiant Earl of Surrey, I'm
sent amongst you to defend England's Frontiers,
And Norham's antient Castle 'gainst the avow'd
Enemies of our Land. Consider, Britons, who
those are! a Set of rapacious Scots! Desperadoes!
Out-laws! and a few dastard French! who do not
fight for Fame or Liberty,—but theevish Booty;
your Property; and shall we give up our King,
our Liberties; our Laws, Religion, and our Families
to Rome's greedy Priests, and frenchified
hungry Scots? No, there is a robust Vigour in
Freedom unknown to Slaves. Let but your Minds
be obstinate, your Bodies never can be conquer'd.
Tyranny is a Weed that never did, nor can grow in
English Soil; the Breath of Freedom is it's Banc,
which blasts it sudden as Lightning does the Mountain
Heath.
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‘Ay, and may it forever blast it; and
every Tyrant, who comes to plant it amongst us.
York.
‘Then, Englishmen and Friends, let us
but follow the brave Examples of our Ancestors,
and we shall never be Slaves to a tyrant Deputy of
France and Rome. They know our native Plenty
—they long for it; they know our golden Commerce,
—they grieve at it; they know our Freedom,
—they fear and hate it; and well they know
our Courage,—now then let them feel it.
Freeh.
‘And so they shall.—Looky', Lord Bishop
in Behalf of my Neighbours, Countrymen,
and Friends, now present, I speak; and in plain
down-right English, will let you know our
Thoughts—which are these. We love our
King,—we'll fight for him; we love our Country,
we'll fight for that; and we love our Religion,
our Liberty, and our Laws, and we'll fight for
them too. We were born free, we have lived
free, and we'll die free. We have resolved not to
be plunder'd, nor directed by Rome, France, Scotland,
nor a Pretender. So Lord Bishop, let some
true Briton lead us on, and I'll engage we will
beat the Beggars back to their Mountains;—
where we will pen them up 'till they devour one
another; so that's ail we have to say.
York.
‘All! 'tis all that a Brion can say. There
is an Eloquence more prevalent in homely British
Freedom, than in all the Jesuit Rhetoric of France
and Rome. It passes to the Heart, there in spirits
and kindles up an active Vigour unknown to all
Mankind but Britain's Sons.
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Gent.
‘A Gentleman disguised, and muffled in
Scotch Garb is at the Castle Gate, and prays Admittance,
and instant Converse with your Lordship,
and if I mistake not it is the gallant Earl of
Huntley;—but from the Battlements your Grace
may descry him plainly.
York.
‘If it be Huntley, we may admit him; for
cold Treachery and he are Strangers? Were Scotland's
Subjects all of his Temper, intermeddling
France would never dare to offer Laws or Kings to
Britain. But let us to the Battlements! if it be
he, perhaps his Business may bring general Good.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
An open Country. A March near Norham Castle.The Scotish Army.
Perkin and Frion enter apart from the main Body.
Frion.
The King's gone to his Tent and expects you.
Why, Sir, do you retire so gloomily?
As if black Melancholly had seiz'd your Mind?
What is't hangs so heavily on your Spirits?
Perkin.
O Frion, my Catherine, my Wife is lost.
Sorrow hath sunk so deep into her Heart,
That Death,—or silent Madness must ensue.
Since we left Holy-rood, not an Accent
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She sits; with Eyes fixt as if rivited
To Earth; while Tears insensibly steal down
Her pensive Cheeks, which look like weeping Dew
Fallen on the Statue of Despair.
Frion.
Do, droop; convince the King, his Court and Army,
That your cold, your watery Veins are Bankrupt
Of royal Blood. Convince them you are Impostor,
Who wou'd not fight for such a fertile Isle
As envied Britain.
‘Then do not droop, nor rest till that you die
‘The milky Rose you wear in the luke-warm Blood
‘Of Henry's Heart;’ and the stiff-neck'd sturdy Knaves,
Who now oppose your Claim, be tame and humble
As the dullest Boor that ever trampt in Wood.
Gall them with Yokes till that their stubborn Necks
Bow to the lowest Slave in France, and own
Them for their Masters.
Perkin.
Were I but once upon the Throne I wou'd.
Their free-born Insolence should be forever check'd.
But my dear Katherine makes me inactive;
She hangs about my Heart.
Frion.
Haste, Sir, be gone, the King expects you in his
Tent. Drop, drop the Lover, shake it
From your Heart; and put on th'enkindled Warrior.
Shew the Soldiers you are going to fight
For a Crown; not to die for a Puppet,
A melancholy whining Girl.
[Exit Perkin.
Frion.
This it is to have Concern with Wretches
Born to be Tools. Well! to change Nature's Bent
I see is not in the Power of Art;
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As valiant as Cæsar, and as courtly
As sportful Anthony. The united Skill
Of France and Rome have joyn'd to form his Mind;
The Clergy indeed have discharg'd their Part
Effectually; for he tells his Tale
With as specious and smooth Hypocrisy
As our Church can boast. But for his Courage
He is as great a Stranger to it as he
Is to Royalty.
But I must not be absent lest he betray
The Milkiness of his coward Liver.
[Exit.
SCENE V.
A Field near Norham Castle.Enter Huntley, and all the Scotch Nobility.
Hunt.
Nobles, Freemen, and Scots; I've transgress'd the Laws
Of our King and Council, and 'gainst their Sentence,
From Death, have borrow'd a few Hours to live
Amongst you. Then as my Time is short,
I cannot waste it in golden Speech or
Rounded Phrase; for if my Subject will not
Move you, my Eloquence cannot. Then to th'Purpose.
Many I see here whose Sires, and Grandsires,
Have fought with me for Liberty, in the
Very Field where now we stand. You Matthew Steward,
Earl of Lenox, Alexander Lord Forbes,
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To you I speak particularly—your
Fathers I well remember to've fought with.
And many more no doubt are here, which
My Eye cannot now take in. I have seen
Their free, their willing Swords plow thro' Tyranny,
And their smoaking Blood sluic'd to manure this Field.
From whence reviv'd the sweetest fairest Flower
That e're adorn'd Scotland's Soil.
Liberty, my Friends! Priest-stab'd Liberty!
This Flower,
Countrymen, your Fathers have transmitted
To your Care. Then take Heed on't, preserve it
As you wou'd Existence; set it in the Centre
Of your Hearts; that's it's native Soil, there,
Only there 'twill flourish,—Trust it to Rome,
Priests, or Priest-rid Monarchs, 'twill surely perish.
Lord.
My Lord, sorely
We feel our Country's Wrongs, and wish to cure them.
Hunt.
I've had secret Conference, in Norham Castle,
With his Grace of York; and have settled such
Terms as will, I hope, restore Peace and Freedom
To our harrass'd Land; and befit the Honour
Of our King to ratify.
O Countrymen, I have not Time nor Memory
To sum up our Evils; they are beyond
Arithmetic's enumerating Power:
'Tis your own feeling that can convey
The Number of your Stings, and your own Deeds
That must redress 'em.
So all those, who are in love
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Let them remain behind—those who love their King,
Scotland and Liberty, follow me.
Omnes.
Liberty, Liberty, Scotland, huzza!
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
A Royal Tent near Norham Castle.Enter King of Scotland, Perkin, Sevez, Frion, and all the King's Attendants.
K. Scot.
Cousin, after long Absence from our native Land
Nature at our Return feels eager sympathizing Joy;
How happens the Reverse in you?
Perkin.
I own Sadness sits round my Heart,
To think, I must depopulate, and waste
My Native Land; to wade thro' Cruelty,
Blood and Slaughter! to have the Infant slain!
The Aged murder'd! to have Sword, Fire,
And total Devastation overspread the Land,
E're I can purchase my just Inheritance!—
This, in extream Grief, my Soul deplores.
O, Sir, my Heart grieves for my poor People!
K. Scot.
Your People, methinks, deserve your Anger
More than your Sorrow; for not a Man as yet
Hath rais'd Hand or Voice in your Defence.
But, on the contrary, all seem resolute against you.
Why come not Sir Robert Clifford and Stanley,
As they promis'd?
Frion.
Sir, be assur'd they are not inactive.
Clifford, I know, is true as Heart can wish;
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Within his Heart ever to be eras'd.
The Clergy, to a Man, are warm and zealous;
And, already, under Pretence of not
Paying a Subsidy, have privately
Stirr'd up twenty thousand hardy Britons
Now in Arms in Cornwal.—Many Friends too
Lurk slily in the great Metropolis,
And thro'out the Realm, who artfully joyn
The common Cry against Invasion, France,
Scotland, and the Pretender.—But when Time
Serves, are ready, one and all, to use and
Massacre the Heretics, and all whom
They suspect as Enemies to our Church,
Or young Plantagenet's Claim.
K. Scot.
But, Frion, France and Spain are tardy;
Where are those Troops were to be pour'd
Into Ireland? And the South and West of England?
Frion.
Most royal James, France and Spain
Are prompt as Revenge and Hatred can inspire;
But as yet they cannot stir—the English
With their Fleets will not let them
Look forth; or e're this, Devastation wou'd
Have o'er-run their Land, swift as Contagion,
Or epidemic Plagues.
K. Scot.
Unless your Friends are numerous and powerful
In England, or France send some speedy Aid,
I fear, young Prince, Adversity will still attend you.
Enter a Lord.
Lord.
So please your Highness, a Gentleman just
arriv'd from Cornwall, who calls himself Flamock,
humbly craves Audience of Princely Richard, England's
lawful Heir.
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I know him well, so please your Majesty;
A warm and active Friend he is, and of much
Power in the West.
K. Scot.
'Tis like he brings Dispatches of Importance!
Give him instant Audience.
[Exit Perkin and Frion.
Sevez, this Business wears not an Aspect
So fair as we cou'd wish—
Sevez.
Dread Sir, I trust this Gentleman from Cornwall
Brings some Intelligence of good Complexion.
K. Scot.
Is Advice arriv'd yet of Huntley's Death?
Sevez.
Not yet, my Liege. But every Moment
I expect it. Sir David Bruce is not
Wont to be remiss. He is sure and trusty,
And will the Instant it is over send Dispatch.
[Three Shouts, each approaching gradually.
Enter Huntley, and all the Lords, with several of the Soldiers all arm'd, their Swords drawn.
[The King starts up, Sevez, and the rest run behind him.
King.
Huntley!
Hunt.
Ay, my Liege!
King.
Where are my Friends?
Hunt.
Here, Sir!
All these are Friends.
King.
Am I to be assassin'd?
Hunt.
No Sir—;
We all kneel, Sir,
[All kneel.
Your natural, loving, Subjects; dutiful—
But free—free as the Glory of our King—
The Welfare of our bleeding Land,—and our
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K. Scot.
Why how now, Sir; who dare controul our Will?
Hunt.
Justice dare—gracious Sir, let Reason school
Your youthful distemper'd Heat, and sound Judgment
Soon will follow; with sincere Allegiance
And Affection we're come to close this Breach,
'Twixt a hasty
Mistaken King, and his much-wrong'd
Banish'd Subjects. Let not the latent Poison
Of subtle France and Rome insinuate and work
Against our Love and Loyalty.
K. Scot.
Well, Sir, let us
See an Instance of your Love and Loyalty.
Hunt.
You shall Sir,—first, you Priest, who Coward like
Puts Majesty in Front when Danger threats,
You, Sir, to your Sphere—the Altar—a Throne
[Pulls him from behind the King, and throws him to the Guard.
Of Freedom never was design'd for Rome's Priests.
Now, Sir,
[To the King.]
You are, as you shou'd be, King of Scotland;
Before, the Pope was.
K. Scot.
Hear me, rash Man—do not presume—
Hunt.
My Liege,
Rome's Legates have no Business round our Throne;
The Church is their Capitol,—there let them thunder out
Their Threats, Pennance, Bulls, and Absolutions;
And if they can, why, let 'em save our Souls;—
But for our Property, and our Freedom,
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Their Infallibility.
K. Scot.
Lord Huntley,
This Insolence is beyond Sufferance.
Hunt.
Sir, 'tis not Insolence but Loyalty;
Built on Nature's first Law—and the first Compact
That made a King. The People's Interest,
In a free Nation, is blended, and co-equal
With the King's; and he who separates, or
Over-values either, is the Traitor;
Not we, who want to unite and poise them.
K. Scot.
Sir, this is a Language, I'm unus'd to.
Hunt.
I know it is, young King; therefore I speak it.
For when Tyrant Folly surrounds the Throne,
The Truth to our King is the Nation's best
Loyalty. Look into our honest Neighbour's,
The English Annals; see their Insolence
In Defence of Liberty encroach'd by
Rome-directed Kings. See their determin'd
Honest Souls, wading thro' mercenary
Slavish Blood, to shake off France and Rome's usurp'd
Authority. See each Man, active as
The first Brutus, driving out the Tarquins
Of their Land—and sacrificing themselves
And Sons to Liberty.—Copy them, them
My Liege—not France and Rome.
K. Scot.
These Sounds are harsh
They grate and discord in the Ears of Kings.
Hunt.
Sir, none reverence Majesty more than I.
'Tis the People's sacred Repository
Of Freedom, Justice, Mercy, and all their
Social Happiness; and as such, when pure,
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By Tyranny and Priestcraft, it becomes
A Magazine of Vengeance, and all our
Veneration turns to Contempt and Wrath.
K. Scot.
Huntley, if you love us cease this Doctrine.
[Bows to the King—then turns to the Lords.
Hunt.
I have done—my Lords, this reverend Priest,
Our Paramount, sent us from meddling Rome;
See he has safe Conduct to Edinburgh;
My traiterous Apartments in the Castle,
I believe will suit his Reverence; they are
Retir'd and fit for Meditation.
K. Scot.
I charge you, let not his Life be touch'd!
Hunt.
Why Sir—the foremost Man of all the World,
Great Cæsar, bled for wounding Liberty;
And shall a paltry Priest of Rome escape?
Is there not one—one Brutus to be found
Within wide Scotland's Realm, dares stab the Villain
Who wou'd basely enslave his native Land?
Be yourself that Brutus,
And let your Dagger be th'unbiass'd Censure
Of a Scotish Parliament.
K. Scot.
Sir, we are
In your Power; and your Will must be our
Dictator.
Hunt.
No, Sir—your Glory—and Scotland's Welfare
Shall dictate. Dispatch them to the Castle.
[Exit Guards with Sevez.
Enter a Lord.
K. Scot.
The News!
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So please your Majesty a Herald from
Norham Castle is arrived, Harbinger
To the warlike Prelate York, who in his
Master's Name demands Audience of Scotland's King.
Hunt.
I pray your Majesty will give him Presence.
He may be charged with Power of Treaty,
Such as your Glory and Scotland's Distress
May wish.
King.
Give him Conduct.
[Exit Lord.
Well, Sir, what are the Dictates we must attend to?
Hunt.
Sir, we are not in plight for wasteful War.
Intestine Feuds, and Rome's black Exactions,
Have drain'd us below the Might of coping
With industrious England; who from thriving
Commerce, and domestic Union, are stout
And sinewey. Therefore, we pray this War,
Stirr'd and fomented by subtle-working France,
In favour of an Impostor, may be 'dropt.
Enter York.
Now my Liege you may behold the Difference
'Twixt an English and a Scotish Prelate.
The one roused and spirited by Freedom's Voice
Is fighting for the Franchisement of his Land;
The other, sway'd by the Craft of France and Rome,
Is praying to enslave it.
York.
From England's awful King I come; not to
Cringe or beg for Peace; but for mutual Good
Of both the Realms to stop ruinous War's
Bloody Effusion. And that on such Terms
As befits Scotland's Honour to accept,
England's to offer.
K. Scot.
Lord Prelate, England
Cannot be more in love with Amity
Than Scotland is. But the Insults offer'd
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At their mirthful annual Festival,
In cold Blood, and in Time of Peace too, hath
Long gone unaton'd, tho' oft remonstrated.
York.
Those, whose Policy it is to create Dissention,
No wonder they have mistold that Business.
King.
Sir, Henry's Scorn of our Alliance with
His Daughter Margaret hath not been mistold.
That we ourself experienced and can't forget.
York.
Sir, I come with Power, I hope, to end all Feuds,
Groundless or otherwise. With Henry's Voice
In this Presence I offer new Alliance
To Scotland; and to make the Bond of strictest
Union now, let there be Affinity with
Royal James, and Princess Margaret; England's
Unparalell'd Beauty; whose Proxy here I stand
Ready to conclude instant Affiance.
And farther, the annual Loan receiv'd
Of France, we promise to make good to Scotland
By way of Portion; which on Survival
Must be settled, as Dower, on Scotland's Queen;—
Provided Connexion be broke with those
Breed-bate French, and their Tool th'Impostor Perkin
Be render'd up.
King.
How! York! break our royal Faith!
No; our sacred Word was his Sanctuary:
Nor will we defile it by Treachery.
Our Tutor,
The rigid Huntley, I believe will not
Prescribe us that.
Hunt.
My Liege, your royal Word was given, as you thought,
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As can be proved; hatch'd and foster'd by the vile,
The hellish Juncto of France, Spain, and Rome;
On Purpose to enslave this Island's Realms.
For when once their Deputy rules in England,
Scotland must bid farewel to Peace and Freedom.
K. Scot.
Let him be proved an Impostor, and we
Shall think ourselves in Justice and in Honour bound
Not only to yield him up, but with Contempt
And Ignominy. But 'till that is done
We must not break our Faith.
Hunt.
My Liege, you shall
Have ample Proof; so full, that not the Shadow
Of a Doubt shall disturb your Mind.
K. Scot.
The other Terms we do accept, and if
Approv'd by Henry, will send Lord Huntley
To ratify them—so inform your Master.
York.
I shall.
[Exit.
K. Scot.
Huntley, we shall trouble you with the Trust.
Attend us for our farther Instructions.
Hunt.
With most willing Duty and Diligence.
[Exit King.
You see, my Lords, that by the King's Commands
[To the Scotch Lords
I must strait to England to ratify
This hasty Peace. His Sincerity, as yet,
I cannot judge of. But lest Rome's wicked,
Temporizing Craft should be his Policy,
I beseech you, let not a Fort, or Castle,
Be surrender'd, till the Legate hath stood
A free, a candid Enquiry of his Peers;
And the Justice they doom, be fairly dealt him:
Saving the Power of royal Mercy,
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Consider, Countrymen, how this Struggle
For native Liberty will shine, when read
To a free Posterity.
The Youth will glow to emulate this Deed,
The Sire will bless us for his Country freed;
And from your Loins a patriot Race proceed.
End of the Fourth ACT.
| King Henry the VII. Or The Popish Impostor | |