University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Enter Burleigh and Nottingham.
Nott.
Joy to us both my Lord; Essex, our Hate,
Our Envy, and our Dread, is fall'n at last;
By his own Pride and Folly fall'n, and we
Shall dance upon his Grave—“But was such mad,
“Ungovernable Passion ever seen? such haste
“To Ruin, such Disdain of Life?” 'Tis strange
The Queen should bear his Insolence so long,
Nor send him to the Tow'r, the fittest Den
For such a Monster's Rage!

Bur.
—Had you, or I,
Or England's greatest Lord, but half so much
Provok'd her Wrath, this Doom had been our Lot
Without Reprieve; for, tho' the Queen's discreet
In Management, she's void of all Disguise;
And, when her Power's withstood, like a fierce Stream,
Confin'd to narrow Bounds, she swells on high,
And ruins all before her.

Nott.
—Right, my Lord,
Nor had ev'n proud, imperious Essex scap'd,
But that her Anger's soften'd by her Love,
And her Heart bleeds with Pity to his Fate:
But neither Pity, Love, nor Pow'r shall screen
Him from Revenge.

Bur.
Our Foe himself will furnish out the Means,
For he's too haughty to forgive Affronts,
And sullen meditates on every Deed
That speaks him Famous, Noble, Great, or Good:
“These he opposes to a Crown, and thinks
“Himself Superiour; his own Bosom holds
“A Mine of Passion, which immediate fires,
“And scatters every Virtue to the Wind.”
—Ev'n now the quickest Sense of injur'd Worth
Has urg'd him on to Madness; at his House
Assembled all his Friends with Troops, and Arms,
Preparing to assert his Cause, oblige
The Queen to re-enstate him in her Grace,
And ruin us for his Security.—

Nott.
—But vain their Hope, and their Attempts were vain:
Submission I had fear'd, but open Arms
Confirm'd his Curse, and ratify'd his Fate.
—By Heav'n it joy'd me to the Soul to see
This vaunted Minion humbled in the Dust;
To see him vanish, as a falling Star,
Extinct and lost, who Comet-like had aw'd
The World; to see him stript of Honours, Pow'r,
And Titles, who had grasp'd at all; his Eye
Sparkling with Rage, his Spirit vex'd with Pain,
No Homage, no Submission paid him as
He mov'd along; no Welcome from the Wars,
No Murmurs of Applause, but shun'd, abhor'd,
And curs'd by all the World.—

Bur.
—But one Scene more
Remains.—

Nott.
—But one indeed, fly swift ye Hours
To hasten my Revenge, and rise ye Fiends!
Ye Furies of the fiercest Rage, arise!
And pour your utmost Horrors in my Heart,
That Pity, Love, and every softer Thought
May vanish, and give place to Cruelty,
The Thirst of Vengeance, and Desire of Blood;
“That, when his Soul is tortur'd with the Dread
“Of Death, I may reproach him with my Wrongs,
“Increase the Anguish of his Soul, and make
“Ev'n his Destruction double all his Woes.”

Enter the Queen, &c.
Queen.
—That ever Essex shou'd
Presume t'attack the Throne, or hope to force
His Sovereign to his Will, he'll dearly pay
For such unequal'd Insolence, too late
Deplore the Rashness of his Deeds: Is he
Secur'd, my Lord?

Bur.
—He is, most Gracious Queen,
And all th'Associates of his Crime.

Queen.
How! could the Traytor insolently hope
The Nation would espouse his Rebel Cause?
Or fight to save him?

Bur.
—So he vainly thought;
For, in contemptible Attire, he toil'd
Thro' every Street, and with his Followers begg'd
The Pity of his Countrymen; infus'd
Sedition in their easy Hearts, and arm'd
The Subject 'gainst his Prince; his Head was bare,
And Sweat and Dust obscur'd his Manly Face;
His Form drew Pity, and ev'n Thousands wept
The Misery they cou'd not cure: Sometimes
With Heat and Passion he alarm'd their Fears,
And made them jealous of their Sovereign's Power;
And sometimes su'd in humble Wise, produc'd
His Wounds received in Battle, and rehears'd
A long Account of Wonders he'd atchiev'd.

Queen.
A long Account indeed! for Essex oft
Has serv'd his Country with his dearest Blood—
What Pity 'tis such Merit should be lost!
—But I break in upon thy Tale—

Bur.
—Fatigu'd
With Toil of Body, and Disease of Mind,
Unable to seduce your People from
Their Loyalty to such a Queen, at last
He to his House retir'd again; almost
Alone, forsaken of his Rebel Crew, and left
A Victim to the Fury of your Guards,
Who seiz'd him with his Friends disdaining Fate,
And haughty in the midst of Woe; no Arm
Attempting to defend him, nor no Eye
Bewailing his Disgrace.

Queen.
—Alas! the Change!
How mournful is his Fate! How can thy Tongue
Deliver such a Tale, and thy hard Heart
Not melt at such Misfortunes! all my Soul's
Disolv'd with Tenderness, and I could weep
For ever, that so brave a Man should know
Such Misery—Where is the Earl?

Bur.
—Amidst
Your Guards, till you command him to the Tow'r.

Queen.
The Tow'r! How can'st thou mention that dire Place!
That Scene of Horror! that detested House
Of Sorrow and Despair!

Bur.
—'Tis there alone
He will be safe, and such a Deed as this
Demands a publick Justice; Mercy sues
In vain where Treason is the Crime.

Queen.
—Is't not enough that I
Dismiss him from the Court, from Offices
Of Trust, and all the Honours of his Name,
But I must grow a Monster; and destroy
The noblest Hero all my Realm can boast?

Bur.
I don't insist upon his Death; but sure
He ought to be confin'd till Passion cools,
And he repent of his enormous Crimes;
Submission may succeed, and you receive
Him into Favour with a Grace again.

Queen.
[Exeunt Bur. &c.

Nott.
—Your Majesty's too Wise to need
The small Experience I can boast, too much
The Mistress of your own Desires to act
Amiss; besides, my honest simple Heart
Speaks Truth too freely for your Royal Ear,
And renders me obnoxious to your Hate.

Queen.
Good Nottingham, reproach me not
With Injuries that were th'Effects of Rage,
Concern, and Love; but open all thy Heart,
And talk me to a Calm.

Nott.
—Madam you've heard
That Cecil urges, Cecil is your Friend,
And skill'd in all the Statesman's Art; and shall
I venture to advise where he has fail'd?

Queen.
What then art thou the dreadful Echo to
His Voice? Wilt thou distract me with the Talk
Of Prisons, and of Death? for surely Death
And Prisons are a-kin; can Female Hearts
Indulge such a black Scene of Cruelty,
And stifle all the Pity of their Souls?

Nott.
'Tis not the Want of Pity, or a Thirst
Of Blood, no Hatred to the Earl, no Wish
For his Destruction, that excite, or him,
Or me to hasten such a Doom; but true
Concern, and Passion for our Sov'reign's Fame:
Already Rumour whispers it abroad
That the Queen languishes in Love—
And doats on Essex' Name; should you remit
Your Vengeance, all Mankind, with easy Heart,
Would credit the ungrateful Tale, and make
Your Flame the Subject of their Songs.

Queen.
—Good Heav'n
Relieve my troubled Heart, or I shall dye
In Torment! sure no Comfort dwells below;
In vain I plead to hide a Fav'rite's Guilt,
Or save a Hero from his Fate; no Friend
Appears to sue in his behalf, or give
The least Excuse for Mercy. Round me swarm
His Enemies, and with importunate
Severity demand his Life; if Death
Should be his Doom, what Joy, what Happiness
Can Being give? in vain would Royalty
Amuse my Cares; in vain would Grandeur spread
Its Charms to sooth, or quiet my eternal Grief.

Nott.
“—Shou'd Essex 'scape
“The Punishment his Crimes demand, shou'd he
“Again deserve your Favour, and again
“Possess the Honours he has worn so long,
“Would he presume to court your Royal Bed?
“Or would you deign to kindle such a Hope
“And make him Partner of your Throne? But grant
“You should enoble him so far, How would
“The Rival Princes, who have vainly su'd
“Your High Alliance, how would they resent
“An Union so inferior to their State?
“Would not Revenge impell them to invade
“Your Realms, and Blood and Slaughter wait
“Th'unhappy Vow?

Queen.
“—Suppose they shou'd, my Fleets
“My Armies shall support my Love, and all
“Their Malice, like the Pride of Spain, bring on
“The Ruin of themselves—

Nott.
“—Then shou'd the Queen
“Be happy in one single Wish; her State,
“Her People, Reputation, Virtue, all
“Are left to the rude Side of Chance; and Woe
“And Death may triumph boundless, and at large.

Queen.
O Misery! I'd forgot my Character,
“My People, and my Fame; was lost in Love,
“In Sorrow, in Desire, and all the soft,
“The tender Languishings a wounded Heart
“Can know—But will they ever dare, these Kings!
“These bold Invaders! will they ever dare
“To force my Husband from my Arms, or make
“A Sovereign's Will depend on theirs?

Nott.
“—If not,
“Your People will themselves disdain to pay
“Injurious Homage at a Subject's Feet,
“Or bow at his Command: An hundred Lords
“As great as Essex, of as noble Blood,
“Adorn your Court; and would they bend the Knee,
“To Essex, or obey his Laws? Ah no!
“Britannia's Sons have elevated Souls
“Sublime, and daring; scorn such servile Awe,
“And, to secure their Rights, will float this Land,
“Their native Land, with Blood—

Queen.
“—Support me Heav'n!
“Aid me my Guardian Angel! Reason fails,
“My Senses are the Slaves of Love, and round
“My beating Heart unusual Horror reigns
“—What must my Essex die, my Essex die?
“Distracting Sound! he dies the Sacrifice
“Of Honour, and the State; unhappy Man!
“I follow thee, down to the Grave I go,
“And mingle with thy Dust: My pensive Shade
“Shall wait on thine, shall vindicate its Flame,
“And curse alike the Fate that hurry'd thee
“Away untimely, while thy Glass had long
“To run, and Youth, and Pleasure, Hand in Hand,
“Ev'n courted thee to live.

Nott.
—He yet may live,
Live long, and happy, but when Justice calls,
A Sov'reign should obey; at least a Shew
Of Justice shou'd be made, that Kings may hold
A Title to their Thrones; and, should the Pow'r
A while detain this Fav'rite from the Court,
From Liberty, and common Gaze, his Life
At once may be secure, and you preserve
Your Fame.—

Queen.
—I yield, dear Nottingham! I yield;
Do what you will, but save his Life: Yet hold!
I'll hear him ere he goes, perhaps he'll bend
His stubborn Soul t'implore my Grace, excuse
His fancy'd Guilt, and prove his Innocence:
Oh! that he may, and I shall be at peace;
For all my Rage is ebb'd away, I long
To save him, Mercy softens ev'ry Thought,
And Love will be obey'd—Let him approach—
Without his Guards—For we will be alone.

[Exit Nott.
Queen.
Soft, soft my Heart! be quiet, gentle, calm
My Bosom, and let all my Soul be still.
Alas how vain the Wish! A thousand Thoughts
All dark, confus'd and gloomy, cloud my Brain;
My Blood runs riot through my Veins, each Pulse
Beats quick th'Alarms of Passion, and of Love;
And Pain and Pleasure flutter round my Heart.
—He comes! he comes! greatly majestick still,
Tho' misery has stung his Soul, and Death
With all his Terrors hover'd in his View.

Enter Essex.
Amid this wild Distraction of my Thoughts,
This Hurry of the Mind, your Majesty
Will Pardon what a Pris'ner speaks, will spare
To aggravate his Woes with cruel Scorn,
Or new enkindled Rage: A thousand Foes
Have waited for my Soul, have urg'd me on
To Ruin, with unmanly Wrongs: You, you
Alone have been my Refuge, my Defence,
And all the Guard my Innocence can trust:
To you I bend in lowest Gratitude,
And bless your timely Grace.

Queen.
—Rise, Essex rise,
I'm now grown cool, desire to save thee from
Thine Enemies, and give thee Time to plead
In thy Defence—

Essex.
You're wondrous good, and breathe
Compassion ev'n to guilty Men; at least
Such heavenly Kindness lulls my stormy Soul,
And I grow calm again: My Life is now
Submitted to your Will, and, when you give
Command, patient I mingle with the Dead,
Nor breathe a single Murmur at my Doom.

Queen.
Are then your reasonable Thoughts return'd?
And dare I trust you with your Life? If so,
Make haste to use the present Hour, and urge
The utmost in your own Excuse, that I,
When Time shall serve, may plead in your behalf,
And make that Justice which your Foes would stile
A Partial Lenity, and Favour ill—
Deserv'd.—

Essex.
Madam! the Dread of Death alone
Gives me so little Pain, that I should scarce
Exchange a Sentence to prevent my Fate;
No not the keenest Torments shou'd extort
A single Groan; but, if I speak, I speak
To clear my injur'd Name; to tell Mankind,
That Honour, Virtue, were the End of all
My Deeds; that all the Errors of my Life
Were human Frailty, not Design to wrong
My Sov'reign, or transgress the Laws; that Pride
Ambition, Malice have inflam'd my Foes,
And pav'd the Way to my Disgrace.

Queen.
—My Lord!
Beware of Passion; 'tis your only Crime,
I fear 'twill hasten on your Ruin, tho'
Ev'n I shou'd stand in your Defence; the Laws
Are rigid, and your Enemies severe:
Then lay restraint upon your fiery Soul,
And learn to bear with Patience all the Ills
That now hang heavy on your Heart; lest you
Forget how dearly I regard your Life,
How soon I have forgiv'n your Faults.

Essex.
—Hard is
The Task your Grace enjoins, for who can bear
The Injuries of wicked Men, and not
Give Fire to all the Passion of his Soul?
Yet at my Queen's Command I drop my Rage,
Grow tame and manageable, and, for once,
Bow down submissive to th'Oppressor's Rod.
—Yet ere I die
I beg this Favour on my Knees, and hope
Your Goodness will confirm my Pray'r.

Queen.
—My Lord,
I grant whate'er you ask, and shall rejoice
T'alleviate all your Woes; wou'd gladly chase
This Gloom away that overclouds your Soul,
And open to your View an happier Scene
Replete with Happiness, and Fame, and Joy.

Essex.
Alas! I dream no more of Happiness;
The World is full of Misery, and Life
A Round of Wretchedness and Pain; if Joy
And Pleasure were in Fate to give, no Hand
But yours cou'd make the transient Bounty mine;
'Tis o'er, 'tis past, and all I now implore
Is this; That good Southampton may escape
His threatned Doom, for Truth, for Friendship's Sake;
Nor e'er have Cause to curse that Virtue, which
Procur'd his Bane. That, when I die, the Stroke
May not be giv'n amid a Nation's Gaze,
Nor my last Moments be disturb'd by their
Insulting Breath: No, I have liv'd in Fame,
And let me die in Peace. To crown the Whole,
Let me intreat your Majesty to speak
Of Essex, as a Man forgiv'n, to say
His Pride, his Follies are forgot, and grave
His Pardon on his Tomb.

Queen.
—Southampton's Life
Shall be my Care, and, if ev'n Essex die,
His Death shall be as secret as his Thoughts,
And all his Frailties slumber with his Dust.

Essex.
Low on my Knees let me express my Thanks,
My Gratitude of Soul, and all the soft,
The tender Sentiments such Grace inspires.
—Now I shall think on Death as a Retreat
From Cares, and Woes; a rigid Friend that frowns
Out Benefits, and threats a Cure: May Life
And Happiness be yours, your Reign be long,
Your Actions Glorious, and your End Serene;
May Fame forever sound your Praise, the World
Admire your Deeds: And now, Great Queen, from your
Lov'd Presence I retire, and patient leave
The Hopes of Life, and all its Joys behind.

Queen.
That Sound, my Lord, rings doleful in my Ears;
Perhaps we ne'er shall meet again, and you
Divine aright—Then sure there's something due
To Services receiv'd, to Years of Toil,
Of Danger, in the tented Field—My Lord,
I long to save you from so hard a Fate,
And justify your Fame: an Hero claims
The utmost Favour from his Prince, deserves
The last Indulgence that the Laws can give.
—Then take this Jewel, wear it for my Sake,
And for your own; return it when your Wants
Require my Aid, and, by th'Immortal Pow'rs
I Swear, to grant whatever you demand.

Essex.
Amazing Goodness! how shall I express
My Thankfulness! Oh how shall I atone
Th'Affronts I've offer'd to your Rule? O let
Your Mercy blot them from your Heart, and think
Repentant Essex, as a dying Man,
Sincerely mourns his Folly, and his Crimes.

Queen.
No more my Lord, you soften me too much,
Perhaps I have done wrong, and Sense of Fame
May urge me to recall the forfeit Grace.
Here Guards! convey your Pris'ner to the Tow'r,
And treat him as becomes his Character.
[Exeunt Essex, &c.
[Enter Countess of Essex. She kneels by the Queen weeping. After a Pause the Queen.
What ails thee Rutland? What can be the Cause
That roots thee to the Earth, and binds thy Tongue
In silence? Speak from whence proceed these Tears?
Why beats thy Heart so rudely, and what means
This Violence of Grief?

C. Essex.
—Oh Essex, Essex!

Queen.
What's Essex or his Fate to thee? Suppose
He dies to morrow, hast thou cause to grieve?

C. Essex.
Alas too much: O do not mention Death,
My Royal Mistress, for when Essex dies,
Your Rutland follows to the Grave, and rests
Her cold Remains with his—

Queen.
—Thy cold Remains
Must rest with his! Amazement! sure thy Brain
Is hurt, and Phrensy with its monstrous Brood
Has banish'd Reason from her Throne.

C. Essex.
—Ah me!
Distraction wou'd be Happiness to what
I feel, to what I suffer; Pangs like mine
Eat their own Way thro' ev'ry Vein, and sting
My very Soul; Madness wou'd heal my Wounds,
And sooth the Anguish that torments my Heart.

Qu.
See how her Eye-balls roll! how her Nerves work!
She raves! and talks she knows not what! let's leave
The melancholy Sight. O Heav'ns she hangs
Upon my Robe, she grasps my Knees, she's all
Convuls'd, and Nature feels fresh Agonies
Distorting ev'ry Limb. Good Rutland let
Me leave thee till a gentler Hour shall bate
This Fury of the dire Disease, and lull
Thee into Calms.

C. Essex.
—Oh never, never shall
I know one comfortable Moment more,
If you forsake me in this terrible Distress;
I am not Mad, but Sorrow and Despair
Have ty'd my Tongue, and pierc'd me to the Heart;
Yet I will speak, will sue my Sovereign's Grace;
Nor ever leave the Ground, till she relieve
My Woes, and save my Husband's Life: He is,
He is my Husband, and a single Blow
Destroys us both.

Queen.
—Perdition ever blast thee!
Thy Husband! Essex thine!

C. Essex.
—Yes, Essex, He
Whom Burleigh hates, and studies to destroy,
Who now is hurry'd to the Tow'r, whose Fate's
Determin'd, and who guiltless dies; Oh he
Is mine, our Hearts, our Hands are join'd, and Heav'n
Has ratify'd the Union—

Queen.
—But in vain,
For I'll destroy you both; thy Husband! arm
Me good Heaven with Patience, lest, all enrag'd,
I shou'd forget my State, and give my self
The fatal Blow—Thy Husband! fly, be gone,
Nor let me view that Syren Face, or I'll
Grow mad as thou, and blot out all thy Charms.
Thy Charms! But thou hast none, 'tis Flatt'ry, Paint,
Delusion all; the Emblem of thy Soul!

C. Essex.
'Tis Flatt'ry, Paint, Delusion all, 'tis worse,
Ev'n worse than you can think; I grant it all,
And will endure the utmost of your Rage;
But let my Essex 'scape! O he is true,
And constant, amiable, brave, and kind;
He's all Perfection; O let him escape
And I shall die in Peace. At his lov'd Name
My Heart beats strong, and, for his Sake, I dare
The greatest Ills of Life.—

Queen.
—The greatest Ills
Of Life for ever be thy Lot! as sure
They shall, fated to see thy Essex die,
To hear the Wailing of his Soul, to share
The Pangs of his Remorse, his Pride, and all
The Anguish of his Heart.

C. Essex.

Queen.
—What must I bear
This Burthen to my Grave? Will no one loose
Th'ungrateful Load, and force her Arms away?

C. Essex.
Will you not hear me first? Will you not spare
My Essex? Pity my Complaints?—Alas!
[She is forced away.
I am too weak for the rude Hand of Pow'r,
Too weak for such a Passion, impotent
To save so great a Man—Then farewell Peace
And meek Submission; welcome Fury, Rage,
And all the Train of disappointed Love.
On you just Heav'n may pour its Curses down,
And rack your Heart tho' seated on a Throne;
May, lost in Winds, disperse your slighted Pray'r,
And gloom your Soul, like mine, with black Despair;
With all its Terrors load your parting Breath,
And blast your Hopes of Happiness in Death.

[Exeunt.