University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene, another Apartment in the Palace.
Enter Adelaide and Emma.
EMMA.
Madam, forgive the fond solicitude
That on your pensive solitude presumes
Thus rashly to intrude. Those plaintive sighs,
That look of sorrow, when your dearest wishes
Seem plac'd within your reach, awake my wonder.

ADELAIDE.
Alas! my Emma, tho' the smiles of peace
Have smooth'd the rugged front of war, and Richard,
My bosom's lord, will soon receive my hand,
Given with a father's and a brother's sanction,
I feel a load of sorrow on my soul;
And my prophetic fears, in spite of reason,
Subdue my wearied spirits.

EMMA.
Thus it happens,
That wayward fancy will imagine ills
To wound the breast of peace; and when the substance
Of real evil is o'ercome, the mind
Conjures up shadows of ideal woe.
Why turn unthankful from the present good,
To fix your eye on visionary forms
Of fancied grief.

ADELAIDE.
Alas! the trembling heart
That long has felt the oppressive hand of sorrow,
Distrusts each transitory gleam of joy,
And doubts the smiles of fortune. O my Emma,
Unnumber'd dreadful images of horror
Distract my thoughts. Henry's ambitious mind,
My brother's restless spirit, and the fire
That animates my Richard's ardent temper,
Speak to my shuddering breast a thousand dangers,
Awake a thousand fears.

EMMA.
Brave tho' he is,
And truly noble, yet I own the warmth
Of Richard's passions flames with such impatience,
As mocks the guard of reason.

ADELAIDE.
O! his soul,
However fierce, when roused by sense of insult,
To me is gentler than the mildest breeze
That fans the bloom of Spring. He is all kindness.
To thee, my Richard, is my bosom drawn
By a resistless force. Thy fame, thy virtues,
Even thy defects, are dearer in my eyes
Than all the world united.

EMMA.
Yet his passions
Are quick and eager; and when once excited,
As uncontroulable as winds and waves,
When roars the wintry tempest—Even his love
Is mingled with a fervor that alarms me,
When I reflect how much your gentle bosom
May suffer from it's violence.

ADELAIDE.
Sometimes
I own the same reflections wake my fears—
Yet, when I see his nobleness of soul,
A heart incapable even of a thought
That borders on dishonor, and whose feelings
The eye at once can read, his faults are lost
In the bright radiance of surrounding virtues.
Then he redeems his errors with such kindness,
Such warm excess of tenderness and love—
I see you smile, my Emma, at my weakness.

EMMA.
Madam—the Prince—

ADELAIDE.
Leave me, my gentle friend.

[Exit Emma.
Enter Prince Richard.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Am I permitted ere I go for ever,
And take a hated object from your sight,
To speak a few short words?

ADELAIDE.
What mean those accents,
Faltering and wild, those looks of indignation?
What has disturb'd you thus?—

PRINCE RICHARD.
Perhaps you thought,
Because my bosom is not prone to doubt,
And where I gave my heart, I also gave
My warmest confidence, it was impossible,
(Almost indeed it was) that glaring falsehood
Could alter my opinion; and you wonder
To find your arts could ever be unravell'd,
Or I could see when you desired to blind me.

ADELAIDE.
Is this reproach to me?—Have I deserv'd
This mean suspicion?—On what bold pretence
Do you arraign my faith?—Some envious tongue
Has blasted my fair fame!—But let the traitor—

PRINCE RICHARD.
Madam, beware—For know, the indignation
That on the brow of slander'd innocence
Shews lovely, and is thron'd in dignity,
Speaks in the frown of guilt a harden'd mind,
That braves the sense of shame.

ADELAIDE.
Sir, could I bear
This taunt of infamy with brow unruffled,
I should by acquiescence give a colour
To this unmanly stroke of coward malice.
But, by the voice of conscious truth acquitted,
I scorn its efforts, and I court the conflict.
To the severest test, let malice bring
My every action—Point one guilty stain
To blot my spotless fame, my blameless faith
To vows, once breath'd to you, ere frantic passion
Thus taught distemper'd jealousy to start
At self-created phantoms.

PRINCE RICHARD.
This is all.
Your sex's art, screening your own inconstancy
Beneath a lover's weakness, and excusing
Your own mean falsehood by the storm of jealousy
Excited by that falsehood. Think again—
Search well your inmost soul, and answer truly,
If I am not betray'd.

ADELAIDE.
No—on my honor—
Not even in thought by me.

PRINCE RICHARD.
False maid, beware—
Honor's a sacred name, by which adjur'd
Even open guilt, that is not sunk by meanness,
Debas'd, as well as profligate—will pause.—

ADELAIDE.
This is too much! Have I deserv'd this usage?
Knighthood should blush, basely to injure one
Without a friend to right her; left an hostage
Here among strangers—yet I have a brother—
Ah no! rash Philip is a rude associate
Of your designs. I am alone—deserted—
The mock of fortune.

PRINCE RICHARD.
You the mock of fortune?
Is England's monarch then, is potent Henry
Become so low as not to have the power
To vindicate his mistress? Does that wound you?
I see the conscious guilt glow in your face—
Your blushes speak your falsehood.

ADELAIDE.
Yes—the blood,
Rous'd by the sense of virtuous indignation,
Mounts to my cheek, to hear the base aspersion
By cruel malice fram'd. My Lord! My Lord!
There needed not this subtle veil of slander
To hide your wavering heart. O you were free
To follow your own will—you might have left me,
Have gone where proud ambition's gilded trophies,
Or newer charms, had lur'd you, and not form'd
This wretched scheme, improbable as false,
To stain my virgin fame. I was deceiv'd—
I thought that bosom, tho' the slave of passion,
Was more the slave of virtue, and could never
Harbour a thought that honor disavow'd.
How has my heart been frozen oft by terror,
When I have pictur'd to myself the dangers
That might await your rashness, and have seen you
In fancy's eye, borne from the fatal combat
A bleeding corse. What are my sufferings now?
To view the idol of my adoration,
The image of all glory, all perfection,
Form'd by my partial love, defac'd, and mangled
By this injurious stroke of mean suspicion—
O! 'tis too much—it rives my tortur'd soul.

[Supports herself against the Scene.
PRINCE RICHARD.
What have I done? My rash impetuous frenzy
O'erpowers her gentle frame—I cannot leave her
In this distress—humanity forbids it.
Look up, my Adelaide!

ADELAIDE.
That well known voice
Recalls my wandering senses—But, alas!
Where are the gentle kindness, and affection,
That once attun'd each accent of that tongue?
You now are anxious to suppose me guilty,
And listen to the most unlikely tale
That monstrous calumny could e'er invent,
With credulous prejudice.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Howe'er my soul
Started with horror at the direful thought
Of your inconstancy, you cannot doubt
My earnest wish to find you innocent.

ADELAIDE.
What can my innocence avail, if thus
Each groundless doubt enflames your jealousy;
And every tale, that busy scandal frames,
Condemns me in your eye, while accusation
Alone is proof of crimes that trembling nature
Sickens to think of.

PRINCE RICHARD.
O! my Adelaide,
Wound not my bosom farther—deign to clear
This mystery of fate!—My ear shall drink
Each word with dumb attention; and my love
Shall turn the scale of justice on your side
With partial fondness.

ADELAIDE.
Such partial fondness
I once had claim'd, and gloried in it's cause.—
I now should only ask for rigid justice,
Could I descend so low as to defend
My slander'd innocence—But know, my heart
Disdains the thought!—If you suppose me guilty,
Is it not worth my slightest care to shew
The injurious falsehood?—I forswear your presence!—
Enjoy your frantic visions!—yet, when time
Shall vindicate my pure, my spotless fame,
My faith to you unshaken, then, perhaps,
You may, too late, repent the hasty passion
That wrong'd me by suspicion!

PRINCE RICHARD.
O! you wound
My heart with piercing anguish!—Will you leave me?
Leave me for ever? Not one parting look
To chear my dark despair?—Am I your scorn?

ADELAIDE.
No! though we part for ever—false and faithless
As your misguiding frenzy deems me, yet
I'll not conceal my thoughts. Heaven is my witness,
My vows to you have ever been inviolate
As vestal purity;—and rash, and cruel,
As you have been, the weakness of my bosom
(O! that I now must call by such a name
A passion that was once it's fondest pride)
Is still to you devoted; nor can ever
Another image fill the aching void.

PRINCE RICHARD.
O, agony of grief! what angel softness
My cruel doubts have injur'd.—Adelaide!
You cannot leave me thus.

ADELAIDE.
What! can you ask me
Again to come a voluntary victim
To your unjust suspicions? Not alone
The feelings of my heart—my fame, my honor
Demand the sacrifice! But time, nor change,
Shall ever win me to another's arms.—
Let that suffice—'tis all that I can promise.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Behold me at your feet!—My faltering voice
Can scarcely breathe the prayer my soul suggests—
The imperfect accents die upon my tongue.
Turn not away your eyes; nor, cruel, hide
The sweet effusion of repentant mercy
That swells their moisten'd lids. For pity's sake
Tear not my bosom thus! Let not a few,
A few unguarded words by madness utter'd,
Plunge me in endless misery.—If ever
You really lov'd!

ADELAIDE.
Alas! that I have lov'd.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Have lov'd! distracting retrospect of bliss
Which my misguided violence has blasted.—
And is it past? Am I belov'd no more?
Can you pronounce that cruel doom?

ADELAIDE.
I cannot—
Yes—Spite of all the injuries I suffer,
The fatal weakness lingers in my breast.

PRINCE RICHARD.
O call not mercy by so harsh a name!
And will you quit me then?

ADELAIDE.
Ought I to stay?

PRINCE RICHARD.
Compel me not thus to condemn myself.

ADELAIDE.
Say what wild start of frenzy could induce you
To charge me with a crime of such a dye?—
To think that I could listen to the vows
Of one, if he were base enough to breathe them,
Whom solemn ties of sanctimonious awe
Precluded from the thought—of Richard's father.

PRINCE RICHARD.
A love like mine—flaming almost to madness,
So often cross'd by danger and delay,
Shrunk at the shade of fear.—My father too—
The fury of his passions, his rash power
Eager to violence.—

ADELAIDE.
What was his power,
His passion, Sir, to me?—If he could harbour
So dire a thought—Say what had I to fear?
Was I expos'd to danger?—England's monarch
Is not an Asian despot, nor the sister
Of royal Philip, tho' the pledge of peace
Between two hostile realms, an eastern slave.—
Whose dark suspicion could suggest the thought?

PRINCE RICHARD.
My brother.—

ADELAIDE.
O beware his artful wiles.—
I would not harshly speak of one who shares
Your confidence, or entertain suspicion
But on the strongest grounds—Yet I must own
There is a lowering gloom hangs o'er his brow,
A sullenness of aspect, that repels
All generous intercourse.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Yet recollect
That Henry still has sought each vain pretence
How to elude these nuptials—that he only
Has yielded to the dread of Philip's power;
That even now he is employing arts
To bring the Roman Legate to defer
Our long expected union.—Weighing this,
And knowing how much interest and ambition
Should prompt him even to urge our speedy nuptials,
Were he not sway'd by some more powerful motive;
My long experience of his headstrong passions
Which age has yet not weaken'd—never check'd
By aught in it's pursuit—all these combin'd
Confirm my brother's doubts.

ADELAIDE.
Awful heaven!
If this be so—if those by thee entrusted
To guard the rights of others, are the first
To violate the nearest ties of nature—
Ah! where shall persecuted innocence
Be shielded from oppression?

PRINCE RICHARD.
Can you pardon
The frantic ravings of outrageous passion,
That with blaspheming voice presum'd to sully
Your spotless innocence?

ADELAIDE.
Of that no more—
For we have other cares—Alas! my Richard,
Your tidings have alarm'd me.—If your father
Can entertain the purpose you have hinted,
Which yet I hardly think, one only way
Can shield me from his power—the cloister's shelter.

PRINCE RICHARD.
And are the hopes you gave me sunk already?—
Have I but dream'd of bliss? Condemn'd to wake
To cruel certainty of lasting woe?—

ADELAIDE.
I do not mean seclusion from the world
By vows irrevocable—Ah, I feel
My soften'd heart too much to you devoted
For heaven to claim it solely—I will take
Protection of the altar for a time,
Till kinder stars, and happier hours awaits us.—
Oppose me not in this—

PRINCE RICHARD.
Your saintlike virtue
Is form'd to soften my too stubborn temper—
You must—you shall be mine—the guardian powers
Who watch propitious o'er my country's welfare
Will sanctify the union, and my people,
When England's throne is to my care entrusted,
Shall bless the milder charities that soothe
My fiery spirit, and with grateful prayers
Pursue the gentler virtues of their Queen.

ADELAIDE.
Farewell, my Richard—and remember, Adelaide,
True to your love, and constant to her vows,
Will neither act, or suffer aught unworthy
Of Philip's sister, and your destin'd bride.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Farewell my soul's best treasure, and may angels,
Bright as your form, and spotless as your virtue,
Watch o'er your steps.

[Exit Adelaide.
Enter Prince John.
PRINCE JOHN.
The prelate sent from Rome
Is just arriv'd.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Well, then—We now shall see
If Rome will obstinately still insist
On my rash vow, or be content awhile
To wait, 'till first my nuptials are fulfill'd.

PRINCE JOHN.
The court of Rome will hardly be persuaded
Even to postpone this promis'd expedition.
When all the Christian world, elate in arms,
Are eager to protect the holy towers
From Syria's conquering host.

PRINCE RICHARD.
She must postpone it,
Or else the war will want the aid of England.

PRINCE JOHN.
How will that sound in the astonish'd ear
Of all assembled Europe, when around
Her, panting warriors croud, and martial rage
Beams from each eye, and glows in every breast;
While every tongue shall ask, but ask in vain
For English Richard?—He, whose radiant arms
Still glitter'd in the dreadful front of battle,
And, like a flaming meteor, led his squadrons
To victory and fame?

PRINCE RICHARD.
Spare that reproach—
I am not now to learn a soldier's duty,
Or catch the flame of martial emulation
From bosoms cold as thine. My ardor yet
Has ne'er been faint, when glory bade it blaze.
The unwarlike mind, to ease and sloth a slave,
May in the silken lap of luxury
Slumber away it's honor—but the heart
Fir'd by the generous flame of virtuous love
Acquires new courage from the godlike passion,
And beauty leads to glory, and to conquest.
Yes, Adelaide! from thee my kindling soul
Shall catch congenial virtue. Loving thee,
I love the abstract of all truth and goodness;
And to deserve thee, I must learn to merit
True fame's unblemish'd wreath.—Not the extreme
Even of punctilious honor, e'er can censure
The few short hours I snatch from war and tumult,
To seal my nuptial vows. Then, from thy arms,
The purest temple of connubial faith,
Forth to the field of danger will I rush,
A truer champion in the cause of heaven,
And proud by deeds of manly hardihood,
To prove myself thy knight.

PRINCE JOHN.
I did not mean
To hint suspicion of your well-tried courage,
But still the bravest are not safe from slander,
Whose poisonous breath will blast the fairest fame,
Even on the slightest ground.

PRINCE RICHARD.
Then let the coward
Who wears the semblance of a worth he has not,
Shrink at her touch.—For he whose fame is built
On vain opinion only, and but reads
His claim to honor in the million's praise,
Falls with the baseless pedestal that rais'd him—
But he whose pride is founded on the basis
Of conscious worth and self-approving virtue,
Despises all the empty sneers of scorn,
If by the voice of inborn worth acquitted.
Come then, my brother, let us seek this prelate,
And try if Rome has insolence to place
Her haughty foot on his aspiring head,
Who vows to lead her holy force to conquest.