 | Adelaide |  |
ACT IV.
Scene a Court before the Palace.Prince John alone.
PRINCE JOHN.
Thus far my schemes have prosper'd: Adelaide
I know will never be induc'd to join
The hasty flight of Richard—that refusal
Renews his jealousy, and turns his love
To deadly hatred.—Soft—is that so certain?
The earnest suit of Richard, and those doubts
Of Henry's purpose which my art suggested,
May work upon her fears. She must be stopp'd.
And see where Clifford comes—his honest zeal
Shall be the engine of my purpose.
Enter Clifford.
Clifford!
In happy hour you come; your friendly counsel
And generous aid are wanted.—O I grieve
To see the promis'd harvest of our hopes
Blasted so soon.—The demon of dissention
Now stalks again at large.
CLIFFORD.
The legate's pride,
And Henry's blind compliance with his wishes,
Have rais'd a tempest that will pour its fury
On our distracted country.
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Yes, my friend,
I am bewilder'd in the maze of dangers
That lie on every side: but most I fear
My brother's violence—I know he meditates
A new revolt.
CLIFFORD.
Cannot your words prevent him?
You have his confidence.
PRINCE JOHN.
You might as well
Counsel the waves to silence when the tempest
Sweeps o'er the boiling ocean, as persuade
His bosom to be calm when the fierce gust
Of sudden passion heaves it.—Much I fear
He will not quit alone his father's court.
He means to bear the lovely Adelaide
To Philip's camp, companion of his flight.
But this must be prevented.—She an hostage,
We may make terms with her impetuous brother,
Who else, by Richard aided, threatens ruin
To our o'er-number'd force.—Be it your care
To watch the abbey walls that she escapes not.
[Exit.
CLIFFORD.
Yes, artful Prince—and I will watch thee too;
For much I doubt that thy insidious wiles
Have caus'd this fatal change. The breast of Richard,
You say, is torn by passion!—but whose breath,
By false insinuation, rais'd the tempest,
And blew it into madness? O'er our heads
Destruction hangs; and those whose timely care
Might stay the impending storm, sway'd by interest
Or blind revenge, precipitate its fall.
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To undeceive the King, whose easy breast
Perfidious John has poison'd.—If his fix'd,
His partial fondness for him, makes him scorn
My honest counsel, I discharge my duty
To my misguided Prince and injur'd country.
[Exit.
Scene the Abbey.
ADELAIDE
alone.
Each ray of hope is lost—I find the Legate
Refuses to release my gallant Richard
From his rash vow.—Our nuptials are postpon'd—
Perhaps for ever!—The events of battle
Who can foresee!—Besides, imperious Henry
May force me from the cloisters.—No—there is
One path that leads to safety—If I see
Aught that appears like violence, the altar
Shall be my refuge—I'll devote myself
By vows irrevocable, and assume
The holy veil.—O heavens, the prince!
Enter Prince Richard.
PRINCE RICHARD.
My life, my lovely Adelaide!
We are undone, inevitably ruin'd.—
My father has prevailed—Corrupted Rome
Abets his schemes—it is resolv'd to part us.
ADELAIDE.
Alas! I am not to learn the fatal tidings,
I am inform'd of all.
PRINCE RICHARD.
And must we part?
ADELAIDE.
The thought is death—yet what alternative?
PRINCE RICHARD.
To fly.
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Impossible!
PRINCE RICHARD.
What! shall I sit
The pointed mark for injury and insult
To shoot their arrows at?—tamely behold
The best, the dearest rights of human nature
By sacrilegious insolence invaded,
And, with the patient meekness of a hermit,
Bow to the stroke, and kiss the hand that wrongs me?
Not such my temper.—No—I have resolv'd
Instant to fly from these ungrateful walls,
And join your brother's arms—he will receive
The injur'd friend that Henry has abandon'd,
Espouse my cruel wrongs, and give me vengeance;
And from his hand I shall receive those charms
My father's shameless perfidy denies me.—
Why droops my love?
ADELAIDE.
Your rash resolve alarms me—
Have you consider'd well, maturely weighed
Each consequence of this wild enterprise?
PRINCE RICHARD.
I have.—The Norman troops are all to me
Firmly devoted; and the English warriors,
In numbers weak, and more than half, my friends.
Fear not, my love, this arm even from the shadow
Of danger shall protect you.
ADELAIDE.
Ah, my Richard!
Your sanguine hopes deceive you—there are dangers
From which no force, no numbers can protect us.
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These are the coinage of your timid fancy—
Phantoms of fear.
ADELAIDE.
Phantoms of fear! O Richard,
Are all the sacred duties of our life,
The charities of love, the claims of virtue,
But merely phantoms? Say, are all the precepts
With care imprinted on our infant bosoms,
Which mark alone, or which should mark alone,
The pride of birth, the dignity of station,
Are these delusions all—the mere inventions
Of human art, of prejudice and error?
Is there no fear but what endangers life?—
Is to preserve a miserable being,
Debas'd by servile infamy, degraded
By self-condemning conscience, all our care?
PRINCE RICHARD.
What action of my life has given you cause
To deem my heart could entertain a thought
Of such unworthy meanness?
ADELAIDE.
No—my soul
Acquits you of the charge.—I know your heart
Is truly noble, and when clear reflection
Dispels the mists that cloud your better reason,
Will still pursue the shining track of virtue.
Look to the fields of glory, where your arm
Has turn'd the scale of many a bloody day,
And ask if conquest came without a conflict.
Who gains a trophy from a foe unarm'd?
Nor lie in camps alone the lists of honor.
O there are combats harder than the field's,
Where the insidious foe betrays within;
And he whose coward virtue only triumphs
When not assail'd by trial and temptation,
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While from the shadow of disgrace you fly,
You run to meet the substance.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Meet I not
The substance here—does not her horrid form
Glare in my starting eyes where'er I turn?—
Here is her dire abode, and to avoid
The baleful object, I must fly these walls.
ADELAIDE.
Let not the enfuriate demons of revenge
Impose upon your senses, and assume
The specious form of honor.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Just revenge
Is sanctified by honor, which without it
Becomes a lifeless mass.
ADELAIDE.
But who shall judge
When our revenge is just?—Not the swoll'n bosom
Inflam'd by recent injury.—Revenge
Alone is just when in impartial hands;
But there are situations which disarm
Even justice of her sword—No private wrong
Should cancel duties that we owe our country;
No insult arm a son against a father.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Such injuries as mine, nature revolts at,
And feels in such a strife her laws suspended—
My country will espouse my cause.
ADELAIDE.
For which,
In friendly gratitude, you'll rashly plunge her
In all the miseries of civil war.
But for a moment place the dreadful scene
Before your eyes.—Think only—
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I can think
Of nothing but of thee, and the dread horrors
To which I leave thee—That shall never be!
The thought is madness—Let us fly together.
ADELAIDE.
No—if my prayers, my reasoning are too weak,
To turn you from your purpose, lead you back
To the deserted paths of fame and duty,
I will be true to what I owe myself.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Heavens! do I hear you right?—Do you refuse
To share my sinking fortune?—Were your vows
Of endless faith, unshaken constancy,
Breath'd to the winds?
ADELAIDE.
O do not wrong me thus—
The powers of earth and heaven can witness for me,
There's no extreme of wretchedness and want,
I would not share with you—On the bare earth,
Expos'd to all the warring elements,
Sure of your love, and proud of conscious innocence,
I were supremely blest—
But ah! to feel myself the vile associate
Of infamy and vice—nay, more, the cause—
It is a price too great to purchase all
This world can give—to purchase even your love.
PRINCE RICHARD.
And add, my happiness, my life.—Alas!
What do I say? they are no longer dear
To Adelaide—I am belov'd no more.
ADELAIDE.
Belov'd no more!—And do my weeping eyes,
My agitated bosom, speak indifference?
But, ah! what love can last that is not founded
On virtue and esteem?—Your own cool judgment,
The raging storm of passion once subsided,
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That, like a wandering meteor, led your steps
From honor's path,
And hate the partner of your infamy.
PRINCE RICHARD.
Hate thee!—By heaven, tho' now my laboring fancy
Forms such dire images as almost lead me
To doubts of horror, you engross my soul—
Thought cannot paint the ardor of my passion—
I love you even to torture.—Can it be—
Can such a perfect form inherit falsehood?
ADELAIDE.
That mean insinuation would offend me,
Did not my soul partake the bitter anguish
That wrings your bosom.
PRINCE RICHARD.
And you pity me.—
Ah! what, alas! is unavailing pity
To a distracted wretch you will not save!—
You talk of love and fondness, yet you see me
'Whelm'd in a deep abyss of misery,
And will not stretch a friendly arm to save me.
ADELAIDE.
Yes, I would save you—save your peace, your honor.
PRINCE RICHARD.
What! by the ruin of my fondest hopes,
The shipwreck of my love?—For, in my absence,
Henry perhaps—
ADELAIDE.
Am I so mean an object,
So sunk in men's opinions, that he dare
To offer violence to Philip's sister?
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By passion urg'd, and sure of present power,
The feeble image of a distant danger
Will vanish from his thought—What shall defend
Your innocence from violence?—
ADELAIDE.
Myself—
My own determin'd will.
PRINCE RICHARD.
We easily
Despise a danger which we do not fear.
I see my folly now, that strove to wake
A sense of terror in a faithless woman
Of what she wishes, and who now despises
The wretched object of her former love,
When plac'd in competition with a crown.
ADELAIDE.
Eternal powers! have I deserv'd this usage—
This cruel imputation?
PRINCE RICHARD.
Your own heart
Must answer, yes—Even now your looks betray
The secret of your heart.—Perfidious maid
Tho' now to quit you rends my tortur'd heart strings—
Degenerate weakness down, nor let a tear
Bedew my burning cheek—I tear myself
For ever from your presence—but, beware
My unexpected vengeance does not come
To interrupt your joys.
[Exit.
Enter Emma.
EMMA.
I met the Prince
In cruel agitation.—Dearest Madam,
What dire event?—Alas! you seem disorder'd.
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Emma, I am undone, for ever wretched,
Beyond imagination wretched!—doom'd
To misery and woe.—This dreadful struggle
Is too severe, I feel myself unequal
To bear the dreadful conflict.
EMMA.
Let me share
Your grief, and lighten, by the voice of friendship,
This weighty load of sorrow.
ADELAIDE.
While my tongue
Pleaded the cause of duty, that idea
Aroused my firmness—now 'tis past, and nought
Appears around me but a night of horror,
Scorn'd and deserted by the man I love—
O! Richard, must I never see thee more?
Is there no hope, no prospect?—Where's the Legate?—
Perhaps my tears, my sufferings, may induce him
To change the rigor of the Roman edict—
Where is he?—Say—
EMMA.
Alas! your hopes from him,
I fear, are groundless.—He is with the king,
Who, as Prince John inform'd me, now solicits
A dispensation from the rites that bound him
To Eleanor his consort, with intent
To marry you himself.
ADELAIDE.
O! monstrous effort
Of passion unrestrain'd!—Then all the hopes
With which I fondly propp'd my drooping mind
Are vanish'd to the winds—my dreams of happiness
In this vain world are over, and I fall
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The pureness of my heart, accept my vows!
For to the sad protection of the altar
I fly, from Henry's power—I fly!—alas!
That such a flight must be—from love and Richard.
For to my bosom, to my beating bosom,
In spite of all his rash injurious doubts,
His dear idea clings and makes this struggle
Worse than the stroke of death!—I will not think!
Richard! I now devote me to the altar,
Rather a victim of thy groundless jealousy
Than fear of Henry!—Come, my gentle Emma,
And hear me breathe the irrevocable vow!
[Exeunt.
Scene, Apartment in the Palace.
KING HENRY
alone.
I have been ill advis'd—once more, I fear
The fatal flames of discord will be kindled.
I feel the hand of time, by trouble strengthen'd,
Bear hard upon me—I have not the powers
That firmer years, and brighter scenes, once gave me,
To crush the pride of a rebellious son,
And an unsteady people.
Enter Prince John.
PRINCE JOHN.
Sir, I grieve
To wound your ear with the unhappy tale—
But my intemperate brother—
KING HENRY.
What new stroke
Of fate awaits me?—speak!
PRINCE JOHN.
To madness stung
By the decision of the Legate, Richard
Has left this city, and is fled towards Paris.
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Where were my troops?—What! did they idle stand,
And let the traitor pass?
PRINCE JOHN.
I grieve to say
That you have been betray'd!—The Norman horse
Revolted with him;—all the rest hung down
Their heads in sullen silence, nor would act
Against a hero who so oft had led them.
KING HENRY.
Base and degenerate cowards!—But my vengeance
Shall overtake your treachery.—Bid my band,
My faithful band of England's gallant knights,
Arm and to horse!—Myself will lead them on
To scourge these renegades.—It will not be—
Alas! my fainting spirits sink beneath
The weight of grief and age; my feeble arm
Shrinks from it's purpose—O! my son, my son,
Lend me thy aid.
PRINCE JOHN.
Have courage, sir, revive,
Entrust to me your vengeance; let me lead
Your warriors to the field.
KING HENRY.
It shall be so.—
Go to my faithful English, rouse their rage
Against these recreant traitors.
PRINCE JOHN.
Sir, perhaps
They may dispute my orders.
KING HENRY.
Take this signet,
They will obey that token.—Haste, my son,
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These base deserters of their Prince and country.
[Exit Prince John.
KING HENRY
, alone.
I feel the heavy load of fate press on me,
And bend me to the earth.—These starts of passion
O'erpower my waining strength—my failing years
Are to my will unequal.—Where are now
My friends, my children, who with lenient care
Should soothe the lapse of age!—O, Richard! Richard!
Hast thou forgot the tears of penitence
That flow'd from Henry's eyes, what time he warn'd thee,
With dying accents warn'd thee, to avoid
The crime of filial disodebience, which
His latest hours embitter'd.—John alone,
Of all the issue of proud Eleanor,
Retains his duty.—But here comes my Clifford,
The blooming offspring of a gentler race,
Sprung from my lov'd, my murder'd Rosamond!
Whose tried fidelity and gentle manners,
Endear him to my heart.
Enter Clifford.
KING HENRY.
O! come, my Clifford,
And let me pour the sorrows of my soul
Into your gentle bosom!—You, perhaps,
You too will join with Richard, and forsake me.—
Ingratitude's the age's vice!
CLIFFORD.
O! sir,
Endear'd to me by every hallow'd tie—
My king, my master—Shall my voice presume
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My ever lov'd, my ever honor'd father,
If e'er this heart—
KING HENRY.
My Clifford, say no more,
I cannot doubt thy truth—The gentle candor,
The ingenuous softness of thy beauteous mother,
Beam in thine eyes.—Forgive my wayward fancy,
For, Clifford, I am press'd by many cares,
And need thy friendly counsel.
CLIFFORD.
Will your ear
Endure the honest voice of serious truth?
KING HENRY.
O freely speak the dictates of thy heart,
I now can bear advice—can bear even censure—
The days of pride and insolence are gone,
Fled with my youth and my prosperity—
My lofty spirit vails it's towering pride
Beneath the iron hand of hard affliction.
CLIFFORD.
I will not cloath my free opinion, sir,
In terms of insolence, nor harshly urge
Memory of errors past—But, might my counsel
Be heard with favor, Richard should be sought
With gentle words and terms of reconcilement.
KING HENRY.
What!—bow myself to my rebellious son!—
CLIFFORD.
I do not wish to cloath my thoughts with aught
That sounds even like upbraiding—Yet, forgive me,
When I request you but to ask yourself
If he has not been injur'd.
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O! you probe
My bosom to the quick—I hardly dare
Even ask myself that question.—Yet, what's that
To his high crimes?—Say I have been to blame—
Is that a cause for treason and rebellion?—
I must, I will have vengeance.
CLIFFORD.
Ah! how can you?
The troops that fled with Richard, when united
With Philip's numerous host, and bearing with them
The fame in arms of their brave leader, leave you
No prospect of success. Remember, sir,
You are not now on England's sea-girt shore,
Fenc'd from all danger by the guardian Ocean,
O'er which she reigns supreme. Nought but a weak,
And ill-defended frontier, here protects you
From the fierce inroad of a faithless people,
And an indignant monarch.
KING HENRY.
You're deceiv'd—
Long ere my rebel son can join with Philip,
He'll learn to fear my vengeance.—Warlike John,
Now leads my English horse in close pursuit:
He will o'ertake the treacherous fugitives,
And bring them back in triumph.
CLIFFORD.
Have you given
Prince John the power to lead the valiant troop
Of English knights that I commanded?
KING HENRY.
Yes—
He has my signet to enforce obedience.
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O! sir, recall that trust—
KING HENRY.
It is too late—
They are already on the march—You look
With sorrow and amazement.
CLIFFORD.
Royal sir,
If I have still been faithful—if this arm
Has ever done you true and loyal service,
If now you prize your honor and your safety,
Let me this instant follow him, and try
What mild and lenient measures will effect,
Ere it be yet too late. My troubled mind
Forebodes some fatal issue.
KING HENRY.
Why this quick
This strange alarm?—John is of cooler temper,
Not rash and hasty, like his fiery brother.
CLIFFORD.
Ask me not what I fear, or what I know—
I would not wish to plant another thorn
Within a breast already too much wounded—
But trust me once, and let me fly, if possible,
To close this dreadful breach.
KING HENRY.
What can you do?
What terms propose, that shall not shake at once
My honor and my power?—
CLIFFORD.
By all that's sacred
On earth and heaven, let me conjure you, quit
Your ill-plac'd jealousy—Persuade the Legate
To let the holy rites proceed, and give
Fair Adelaide to Richard's eager wishes.
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You are not yet aware of half the dangers
That wait those nuptials—My revolted son
With Philip leagued—
CLIFFORD.
O! sir, you have a foe
Nearer than Philip, who with serpent tooth
Preys on the parent breast that fosters him.
Detain me not a moment—On my knees
Let me entreat your confidence—trust me now,
And let me save you, tho' I perish.
KING HENRY.
There is a mystery in all you say—
Explain yourself more clearly.
CLIFFORD.
All, in time
Will fully be explain'd—the present moment
Admits not of delay.
KING HENRY.
Then go, my Clifford—
To your discretion and fidelity
I trust the event.
CLIFFORD.
And may I prosper only
As I am true to you. My lord, farewell;
And may I meet you soon with happier prospects.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
| Adelaide | |