University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Countess of Nottingham, Burleigh.
Nott.
O Cecil! Statesman! Friend! thy timely Aid
Has justify'd my Cause, and giv'n my Soul
Her darling Prospect of Revenge: No more
His Scorn envenoms all my Joys, his Death,
His Death, my Cecil, sets my Brains at Ease,
And his last Groan compleats my Cure.

Bur.
—Why dwells
My Charmer on such gloomy Thoughts! Why brood
You o'er your cancell'd Wrongs? Let Essex' Name,
His Scorn, his Memory be lost, his Fate
Indifferent, and his Love despised: New Scenes
Of Joy attend you, and a Length of Bliss:
You speak the Word, and Essex dies, his Pow'r,
His Friends, his Vertue, vain; still on the Watch
I hunt him, like a wounded Deer, through all
His Wiles, and hail the Prospect of his Fate.

Nott.
—Excuse
The Anguish of a jealous Mind, that fears,
And doubts, and loves, still, curs'd with fond Desires,
I doat upon his Charms; yet, torn with Rage,
With fell Disdain, and racking Jealousy,
I wish, I long for his Destruction; yet he lives,
And yet may reign, may revel with the Queen.
And Rutland; dreadful Thought! this fires my Soul,
This breaks my Rest, this arms my Heart against
Another Flame, and makes me rave when I
Should love. But now the Queen appear'd in Tears,
Anxious, and gloomy, all her Form disturb'd,
Irresolute, distracted with her Doubts,
Yet prone to Pity, and dissolv'd in Grief.
'Tis certain Essex was the Cause.

Bur.
—What chang'd
Again! What new Contrivance has his Friend,
The proud Southampton, found to mitigate
Her Wrath, and calm her stormy Soul?

Nott.
—Why, sad,
And mournful for the Traytor's Fate; he came
To plead his Cause, and, on his bended Knee,
With all his Eloquence, and Subtilty,
Renew'd her Flame; and, while her willing Ear,
Hung on the Tale, and her relenting Eye
Proclaim'd her injur'd Majesty appeas'd,
Propos'd an Interview, that he himself
Might justify his Deeds, and humbly sue
For her accustom'd Grace.

Bur.
—Then we are lost,
Again; for, should he once descend to sooth
Her Pride, and yield submission to her Will,
Her Anger cools, and he'll once more resume
His Empire o'er her Heart.

Nott.

[Exit Bur.
Enter the Queen.
Qu.
When will this Hurry of my Thoughts be o'er?
This Pageantry of Life have End? How vain
Are Royalty and State to calm the Mind!
And mitigate our Woes! O could my Soul
But stifle this unruly Flame, and bid
My palpitating Heart be still, I should
Again be Queen, and make the publick Good
The real Object of my Care: But now,
Mad Passion's all my Guide, and right, and wrong,
Reverse their Nature, mingle and are lost,
Just as the Tyrant wills—Assist me, Heaven,
Or all the Glories of my former Reign
Will End in Sorrow, Infamy, and Death.
—O my dear Nottingham, hast thou beheld
My Torture, yet forborn to give me Ease?

Nott.
Forgive me, Madam, if respectful Awe,
And cautious Duty, taught me to avoid
Your troubled Hours, and dread th'Intrusion on
Your private Thoughts: Princes, like Gods, retire
From human Ken, and guard their secret Woes
From common Gaze.

Queen.
—O Nottingham! my Friend,
My Comforter, how little dost thou know
What Horrors rack my Soul; how little Ease
Vain Pomp, and Kingly Grandeur, can afford?
How much I long to be dismiss'd from Form,
From Ceremony, State, and Pow'r, to herd
With Industry, and Happiness; to be
The Queen, the Mistress of my own Desires,
Beneath the Rage of Envy or the Thirst
Of Fame! O Fame! what Sorrows are thy Guard!
How difficult thy Laws! to thee, to thee,
We sacrifice the dearest Joys of Life,
Yet, when thy Brow assumes its gloomy Frown,
Th'united Toil of Time and Care are lost.

Nott.
“If Fame, and its fantastick Joys, can shed
“Such Poison on our Days, if Danger, Toil,
“And Hardship, lead to its Ascent, let Pow'r,
“Let Majesty o'er-awe its noxious Might,
“And clip the Phantom's Wings; indulge your Soul,
“And make your Reign as happy as 'tis great.

Queen.
“Alas! this sweet Persuasion must not take
“Possession of my Heart; Virtue still holds
“Its Empire o'er my Wishes, and Desires,
“And binds me down, with obstinate controul,
“To hear its Dictates, and obey its Lore.
“When Princes give a Loose to Folly, or
“To Vice, like Comets burning thro' the Skies
“Hideous, and huge, they shed down Misery,
“And light the Nations to their Woe.

Nott.
“If Virtue then prevails, and Pleasure courts,
“In vain, with all her soft Enchantments spread
“Before your View; resume your nobler Mind,”
And drive each tempting Passion far away;
Let Justice take its Course, assert your Throne,
And shew the World that Resolution still
Is yours.

Queen.
—And dares the World to scan my Deeds,
Or question my Resolves?

Nott.
—Most sure it does,
And with free Speech upbraids your slow Revenge,
For such accumulated Wrongs.

Queen.
—What Wrongs?
Who is't deserves such hasty Vengeance? Sure
'Tis I'm the Judge, and, when 'tis just to speak,
A Traytor's Doom, 'tis done, and half Mankind
Shall tremble at a Woman's Name.

Nott.
—With all
Submission to my Sovereign's Will, might I
But whisper out the Man?—

Queen.
Ah Nottingham, thine honest Zeal awakes
My sleeping Rage, and all my Soul's a Flame,
At the disgraceful Tale: Yes, Essex, proud,
Imperious, frantick, Essex is the Man; 'tis he
That has disdain'd my Pow'r, despis'd my Will,
Resisted my Commands, and thrown a Cloud
O'er all my future Reign.

Nott.
If this be true, for Truth, for Honour's Sake,
Assert your Character, and be no more
A Slave to Passion, or a Friend to Vice.
Down with this inmate Foe, and let the World
Confess your Courage equal to your Fame.

Queen.
Will not my People murmur at his Fall,
And with joint Fury, study to revenge
Th'imaginary Wrong?

Nott.
Fear not, the People, they resent his Pride,
His Avarice, his sly Hypocrisy,
His wild Ambition, his affected Pomp,
And all the Vices of his Soul: No more
With Joy they thunder out his Name, repeat
His Victories, or mourn for his Disgrace.
Odious as Hell he seems to ev'ry Eye,
And ev'ry Heart; speak but his Fate, and, like
The Ocean in a Storm, they'll rage along,
And sweep him from the World.

Queen.
—Ha! is it so,
Thou Traitress! Poison on thy Name, is this
Thy Virtue? this thy Tenderness for me?
For Essex? poor unhappy Lord! to rail
Till Breath and Speech are lost in Agony
And Rage. How couldst thou dare, with impious Tongue,
To breath such Scandal in thy Sovereign's Face?
Or glean the Malice of the World, to rack
My tortur'd Heart, and double all my Woe?

Nott.
'Twas by your Majesty's Command—

Queen.
—What then,
Did I inflame your Cheek, or heave your Breast
With all the Malice of a Fiend? Did I
With furious Action spirit ev'ry Limb,
Or flash such vengeful Glances from your Eyes?

Nott.
Forgive, dread Queen, th'unhappy Warmth.

Queen.
—Be dumb,
I'll hear no more. Dear, miserable Man!
How dreadful is thy Fate! begirt with Foes!
And destitute of Friends! Despair scarce wrung
The hasty Passion from my troubled Brain,
Ere a new Fury rose t'augment thy Ills,
And hasten on thy Fate! speak, Syren, speak,
What has my Essex done to thee, that thou
Shouldst labour his Destruction? But be gone,
Infection's in thy Look, and Death like thee
Looks horrible.
[Exit Nott.
—She's gone, and I'm alone;
Alone, how dreadful is the Sound! let loose
To all the Pangs of disappointed Love,
And Rage, that knows no Bound; my shuddring Soul
Stands frighted at her self: O Nottingham!
Thy ill-tim'd Justice, indiscreet Concern,
Have wak'd a thousand Woes, I'm all Confusion—
A Maze of Torment hurries thro' my Brain,
And in Succession bars th'Approach of Peace.
—“But shall a Queen,
“A Sovereign, like a pining Girl, complain
“Of broken Vows, and Injuries in Love?
“Forbid it Heav'n! no, rather let him die,
“With all his Charms, like a vile Traytor die,
“And, in his latest Hours, lament the Pride
“That hurl'd him headlong from a Throne.”
Enter Count. of Essex.
Ah, my good Rutland, art thou come to ease
My Cares, and share the Trouble of my Heart?

C. Essex.
If ere my Sovereign's Heart was rack'd with Cares,
That my whole Life, and all my Pow'r could ease,
With Joy, with Transport, I'd begin the Toil,
And think it Happiness supream.

Queen.
—Alas!
My Sorrow's deeply rooted in my Heart,
And grows and widens ev'ry Hour; I mourn
The Guilt of Essex, and would gladly save
Him from his Fate; but ev'ry Tongue's employ'd
To hasten on his Ruin; and his Woes
Have lost him ev'ry Friend; ev'n Nottingham,
My bosom Fav'rite, urges on his Doom,
And calls it Justice to an injur'd Realm.

C. Ess.
Yes, when the Great, the Wise, the Brave become
The Dread of vicious Statesmen, or the Hate
Of vengeful Courtiers, Justice is invok'd
To be the Tool of Malice, and Revenge.

Queen.
—But the whole Nation claims
His Life, and loads him with Reproach; no Soul,
But good Southampton, speaks in his Behalf,
The Charge is heinous, the Defence but weak,
And, if I save him, what a long Disgrace
Will shade my future Name! lend me thy Arm
I long t'unburthen all my Soul, a strange
Unusual Weight hangs heavy at my Heart,
And I grow sick of Life.

C. Essex.
—O that kind Heav'n
Would furnish me with Words, so softly sweet,
As might relieve your Woes, and give you Cause
To bless your Rutland's Name!

Queen.
—Speak on, thy Voice
Is Musick, and thy Words steal gently on
My Soul; of Essex speak, on him my Thought
For ever dwells, his Name delights my Ear
With melancholy Pleasure; sure he's brave,
And noble as the first of Men; Ye Pow'rs!
Forgive this Fondness for a virtuous, tho'
Unhappy Man: Sure 'tis no Crime to mourn
His Fate, or wish to save him.

C. Essex.
—No 'tis Great,
'Tis Godlike to forgive, but Essex sure
Was never Guilty, never could offend
So kind, so good a Queen; 'tis Malice all,
'Tis Calumny that taints his manly Deeds,
And labours to subvert his Fame.

Queen.
—Speak on
My Rutland, I delight to hear thee, sure
Thy Soul must sympathize with mine, and both
Indulge a Tenderness alike.

C. Essex.
—With Joy
I plead for this unhappy Lord, with true,
With genuine Pleasure, undertake his Cause,
Since I'm convinc'd he's innocent; how oft
Have I attended, while, to all the Court,
He dwelt upon your Praise! remark'd your Shape,
Your Beauty, Wit, and all the various Charms
That are a Nation's Gaze; with Raptures talk'd
Of your Perfections, till the fleeting Hours
Were wasted in the Tale, and ev'ry Ear
Enchanted hung with Pleasure, on the Sound.

Queen.
—But this
Was only Talk, and Words oft prostitute
The Speaker's Soul.

C. Essex.
—But then his Actions prove
His Praises all sincere, and ratify
His Truth inviolable firm. Look back
On all the various Wonders of his Life,
His Years of Danger, and a Length of Toil;
Examine all the Hero as he stands,
The Boast of Europe, and the Theme of Fame;
And he'll appear, as such a brave Man should,
Like a bright Sun of Glory, that adorns,
And lights, and comforts all the World below.

Queen.
Ah! you grow warm, my Rutland; but it suits
My Thoughts, and he is all you say, and more;
For in his Person—

C. Essex.
—True his Person boasts
The utmost Graces of the humane Frame,
The Pride, the Honour, of all humane Kind!
All sweet, all lovely; yet severely stern,
And nobly bold, when gen'rous Passion warms
His manly Heart, and sets his Soul on Fire;
Love wantons in his Eye, and in his Smile
The Graces revel; Angels look like him,
With Innocence and Beauty crown'd; all Hearts
Are his: The Matron gazes with Delight
O'er all his Form, and maiden Modesty,
In secret, blushes at his Name.

Queen,
—She's lost!
Far gone in Passion! all her Soul's alarm'd,
And ev'ry Faculty beats Time to her
Applause: Good Rutland are thy Thoughts thine own?
Flows all this Rapture from thy Heart? or feigns
It such a gen'rous Zeal in Essex' Cause,
That he may live, and I preserve my Peace?
—Alas she loves him! to Distraction loves him!
And a new Fury haunts me, hideous, black,
And gloomy; Jealousy, with secret Sting,
Sits preying on my Heart, and all within,
Is Horror, and Distraction; here he comes,
Oh now my Soul! be calm, and, like thy self,
Majesticaly Great; attend his Plea,
With Courage, like a Hero's, or a Saint's
In Flames.

Enter Essex, Bur. Nott. South. Guards, &c.
Essex.
Once more, my Royal Mistress, I approach
Your awful Presence, and, with bended Knee,
Acknowledge your Indulgence, thus renew'd.
To see your Face again, array'd in Smiles;
To breath your Grace, and justify my Deeds
In open Day, and to my Sovereign's Ear,
Was all I ask'd of Heaven, the utmost Joy
My luckless Fate could know! by you the Bliss
Was giv'n, to you be all my Gratitude
Confess'd, to you, my Guardian Pow'r in War!
My gentle Saint in Peace!

Queen.
—My Lord! my Lord!
Your Time's too precious for the idle Breath
Of subtle Flatt'ry, and the Courtier's Art;
Your Life depends upon your Innocence,
And not the studied Musick of your Tongue.

Essex.
Madam, you seem to scorn your Soldier's Plea,
And trifle with his Fate; a Heart, like mine,
Disdains to whisper out unjust Applause,
Or sooth the Pow'r it hates; no not a Life,
Should bribe me to such Baseness. Nature gives
As noble Minds to some of low Degree
As Kings themselves can boast; and when Contempt
Inflames the Wretches Woe, he'll rouze his Soul
T'assert her Dignity, and, in the Scale
Of Virtue, ballance the proud Weight of Pow'r.

Queen.
Already you begin to rave, and boast
Equality with Kings: Such Talk will scarce
Excuse your doubtful Deeds, or make the World
Think favourably of your Crimes.

Essex.
—My Crimes!
The World! Equality with Kings! the Queen's
Resolv'd to kindle Sorrow into Rage,
And punish Rage with Death, or sure she'd touch
My Wounds with gentler Hand, nor aggravate
My Pain; you gave me Pow'r, Command, and sent
Me out your Delegate to War; advanc'd
So high, endow'd with such a large Controul;
I thought my Prudence was my Law, myself
Accountable to none, but you; and, thus,
Believing, gave a Loose to Arms, and Death;
Or, by soft Leagues, and peaceful Methods, strove
To make sure Conquest, and conclude the War.

Queen.
If then your Pow'r was so profusely great
Your Actions should be like, and, ere you left
The hostile Field, your Fame shou'd have been fix'd
For ever sure, by Victory and Peace.

Essex.
Begone to Heav'n Desert! Success henceforth
Must crown the Hero's Toil, or else his Fame
Decays untimely, like a Woman's Love.
You ask for Conquest, yet deny'd me Troops;
You ask for Peace, and yet condemn my Right
Of treating for that End; too weak for War,
I labour'd for a Peace, and that's my Crime,
My only Crime, the utmost of my Charge:
Yet, would your Burleigh once have dar'd to march
An harrass'd Army, thin'd with frequent Fights,
Tir'd, hungry, fainting with Disease, would he
But once have dar'd to march with such a Force,
So weak, and Spiritless, t'attack an Host
Of Rebels, eager, haughty, bold; enclos'd
With Woods, and moted round with steaming Lakes,
Would he have dar'd the mighty Toil? No, struck
With Horror, this Tongue-valiant Lord had fled
Affrighted at the hideous Scene, and all
This Silken Train, that court their Sovereign's Smile
With Blandishments, and ev'ry sordid Art,
All, all had fled for Shelter to their Queen,
And trembled underneath her Robe.

Queen.
Take care rash Man! nor tempt my Grace [too far,
Thy Fate hangs trembling on thy Lips, and yet
Thou ragest on, nor wilt regard the Voice
That warns thee to beware; long have I strove
To whisper Caution to thy Soul, in vain.
Thy haughty Heart still struggles with its Pride
And, by excusing, doubles all thy Guilt.
Wast not ev'n thou the Cause of all these Woes?
Was not thy Indolence, thy Fear, perhaps
Thy Treachery, the Cause? if thou wast Brave,
Or Faithful, early, as the Spring, thy Troops
Had took the Field, and, while the Summer Sun
Shone high, thou hadst attack'd their hostile Lines,
And forc'd a Conquest in the Front of Death,
And all the Dangers of the War; not shun'd
A Battle, or withheld thy Soldiers Warmth,
Till sickly Vapours, and depressing Want,
Weigh'd down their sprightly Hearts—I see thy Rage
Boils upward; but be silent, lest thy rude,
And insolent Deportment rouse that Pow'r
In all its Wrath, thou hast so oft despis'd.

Essex.
Silent! must I be tortur'd on the Rack,
And not be suffer'd to discharge a Groan?
By Heav'n, no Pow'r, no Hope of Life, no Fear
Of Death, shall rob me of my Liberty,
Or seal my Lips when I am wrong'd; Here stands
The cursed Cause of my Disgrace; 'tis he
That dares to threaten in his Sovereign's Voice,
And work out all the Passions of his Soul.

Queen.
Madman! thy Pride, thy Folly, and thy Rage
Like a fierce Storm, will drive thee on thy Fate,
Tho', at thine Ear, an Angel breath'd his Care,
And warn'd thee to a Calm; once more reflect
On thy endanger'd State, and that 'tis I
Alone have labour'd to secure thy Life,
And lengthen out thy Days: Go and be safe,
Be thankful for the Boon; but lest thy Soul
Shou'd vaunt its Guilt, thine Honours thine Employ.—

Essex.
Are yours, again, with Ease I can resign them,
Nor mourn the trifling Loss; the Air I breathe
Is more than my Desert it seems, tho' Fame
Herself has vainly toil'd to sound my Deeds,
For Albion's Int'rest, and her Sovereign's Fame.
My Honours, my Employ, were dearly earn'd;
While these curs'd Flatt'rers sleep'd at ease
Beneath my potent Guard, and fatten'd on
My Blood; but let the silken, fawning Tribe
Enjoy them, now I care not; far from hence
I'll seek the Lybian Lion's Den, and die,
Beneath an honourable Foe.

South.
—My Lord—

Queen.
Audacious Traytor! what despise my Grace!

Essex.
Traytor! strike me with Thunder, Heav'n!

South.
—My Lord,
Once more be calm.

Essex.
—For I have liv'd too long.
Traytor! show me a Man, Southampton, great
In Arms, and glorious in the Field, who dares
But think me Traytor, that, with Justice, Strength,
And Energy of Rage, I may defend
My Name, and grave Revenge upon his Heart:
A Traytor! Yes, for the Services beyond
Compare, for Years of Hardship midst the Din
Of War, for Cares at Home, for Toils Abroad,
For Wounds receiv'd, for Treaties made, and All,
All, All the Woes that such a Life can know;
But I depart; a Traytor should not breathe
Where Pow'r, and Justice make Abode.

Queen.
Let the rude Monster rave; his Soul, and all
His Faculties shall mourn my Favour lost,
And all the Blessings in my Pow'r to grant:
Like Cain thou'lt wander thro' the World alone,
Thy Pow'r, thy Friends, thy Reputation gone;
The Sword, and open Arms disdain to give
Thy Woes an End: Thy Curse shall be to live!

[Exeunt Queen, &c. Manent Essex, Southampton.
South.
My Lord, what have you done? alas! this Warmth,
However noble, and however just,
Will be our Bane; Burleigh, and Nottingham
With cruel Smiles have listen'd to your Rage,
And ev'n with Certainty foresee your Doom.

Essex.
My Doom is welcome, and I'd rather die
A thousand Deaths, than tamely bear such Wrongs.

South.
My Lord! I plead not with your Rage; away,
Let's leave this barb'rous Place, that gentler Thoughts
May mitigate these Tempests of the Soul,
And teach us how to remedy our Woes.

Essex.
—Ah, there you're right; let's leave all Courts, and Men,
Their fawning, false, revengeful Habitants.
Let's herd with milder Monsters, and abide
In Desarts waste, wild, hideous,—
There Peace and Justice dwell, no secret Foes
Will envy our Retreat, or wish to drive
Us to the World again—Oh my dear Friend!
Would you seek Quiet thro' the Maze of Life,
Avoid Ambition; 'tis a dangerous Thing!
Nor fondly court the Favours of a King.
The Road to Grandeur is a Mountain's Brow,
And Ruin roars a threat'ning Gulph below;
While firmly thro' the rugged Path you tread
A thousand Flatt'rers lend their useless Aid:
But when Misfortune leads your Steps astray,
Death ends the Toil, and Grandeur soars away.