University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Queen and Nottingham,
Nott.
Madam! may I presume t'enquire why thus
Unknown, disguis'd, you seek this awful Place?
This House of Sorrow and of Guilt? Can you
Descend from all the shining Pomp of Courts
To breathe a Prison's Air, and deign to hear
The Malefactor's Chain, nor dread the Blast
Of Censure, and the Curse of evil Tongues?

Queen.
Are we alone?—Can no intruding Eye
Discern us? no betraying Ear attend
To our Discourse? Let's hearken if no Noise,
No Foostep follows—What a Groan was there!
How long! how loud! 'tis Essex sure, and hark!
Again—'tis he! 'tis he! he thinks o'er all
His Woes, in Pain, in Agony of Soul
And mourns the galling Load—

Nott.
—'Tis Essex then
That Charms you thus ingloriously astray
From Majesty, from Empire, and from Fame.
You come, no doubt, a mourning Queen! to weep
A Pris'ner's Doom, to soften his Distress
With Royal Pity, and asswage his Woes
With the long Series of your own.—

Queen.
—Forbear
Good Nottingham! forbear th'unkind upbraiding—
For tho' fond Passion with its treach'rous Train
Of sly Deceivers cling about my Heart, I scorn
T'expose my Weakness, or indulge his Pride
With such a flatt'ring Tale—'Tis true I long
To save him from th'impending Stroke of Death
And offer all the Mercy of a Throne;
But you must save the Blushes of a Queen,
And Woo him to intreat the Grace I wish
So fondly to bestow.

Nott.
—Yes, that his proud,
His swelling Heart may slight the proffer'd Boon,
And glory to have made th'Endeavour vain.
When Justice doom'd him and th'assembled Peers
Ev'n courted him to kneel before the Throne,
And supplicate for Life, he sternly said
Dishonour deeper stung than Death, and, if
'Twas just to die, 'twas Infamy to live.

Queen.
But now perhaps the near Approach of Fate
Has aw'd his stubborn Mind, and Life appears
More amiable than ever—

Nott.
—True, his fond,
His doating Rutland may have sooth'd him down
To Life, and Shame at once; and he'll accept
Your Grace, on any Terms, to make her happy—

Queen.
To make her happy!—miserable Thought!
The Mercy I desire to give, denies
Its Aid to me—at all Events a Wretch
Indeed! Why am I stil'd a Queen? for Pain
For Misery alone? it cannot be—
Fly quick and urge him to be-friend himself,
That I may have a Plea to speak his Pardon,
And some Hope to live in Quietness again—

[Exeunt severally.
Back Scene Draws. Essex solus.
'Tis not the Fear of Death, the Consequence
Of Guilt, or the dire Horrors of a State
Unknown, that cloud my Senses, and disturb
The settled Temper of my Mind: No sure
My Innocence must waft my fleeting Soul
To the bless'd Regions of eternal Day.
—But 'tis for Rutland, for Southampton's Fate
I grieve, my Wife! my Friend! the dearest Names!
The noblest Passions Nature owns!—to lead
So brave a Man to an untimely Grave,
To hurl him into Ruin all at once,
Without a Pause to think on such a Doom,
'Tis horrible! 'tis horrible!—O! that
My Soul could lose all Memory of Things,
From the first Moment of my Birth, and plunge
Into Oblivion's darkest Tide.—My Wife!
O Misery of Thought! my Wife's expos'd
To all the Vengeance that a wrathful Queen
Can pour upon her tender Head; in Grief,
In Wretchedness, in Horror, she'll consume
Her blooming Days, and wither in her Prime:
Must hear her Essex bled his Soul away
With Infamy; must herd with Poverty,
With Sorrow, and Despair; must linger out
A tedious Life, oppress'd with Trouble, stung
With Pain, and ever wishing for her last,
Her dying Hour: O what a Scene is this!
Must this be Rutland's Fate? Confusion! Death!
Amazement! ah my Brain turns round! and all
My Senses die—

[sinks down.
Enter Nottingham.
Essex.
—Good Heav'n! the Guardian Pow'r!
The Genius of my Life! bless'd Angel! pure
Intelligence! Art thou descended from
Above to ease a wretched Mortal's Care,
And warn him from the World?

Nott.
—Alas! my Lord,
Your Sorrows seem to have disturb'd your Brain:
Know you not me? that Nottingham whose Love
You scorn'd, whose Person you despis'd—

Essex.
Forgive me, Madam, if my troubled Thoughts
Were roving wide from Sense; a thousand Ills
Beset me round, a thousand Enemies
Have waited for my Life; the Hour's at Hand
When I shall be no more, my Pangs came thick
Upon me, no Relief was near, and all
My Soul was hurried thro' a Wild of Woe.

Nott.
But, grant a Friend, a very faithful Friend,
Should study to preserve you, should again
Restore you to your Prince's Love, and rear
Your Fame, and Virtue to their former Height.

Essex.
—Alas! the luckless Soul
Has no such Friend; the flatt'ring Train, that sooth'd
His happier Days, vanish in Haste away,
When Sorrow, and Adversity come on:
Show me one Courtier that would waste a Thought
To save a falling Patron, or relieve
Greatness in Ruin! “No, like Insects in
“A Summers Sun they revel in his Beams,
“Till Winter sheds his Snow, and stormy Days
“Approach, but then they hide their tim'rous Heads,
“Or seek a warmer Clime.

Nott.
—You're too severe,
My Lord, yo've still a Friend that ever toils
To set you free, and makes your valu'd Life
The utmost of her Care.

Essex.
—The Queen! What can
The Queen still smile upon her Essex? still
Shed down Compassion on his Woes?

Nott.
—'Tis not
The Queen, but one who int'rests all her Soul
In your behalf.—Suppose 'twas Nottingham—
Would you accept the Favour from her Hands?
Would you be grateful to me?—spare my Shame;
And image out the rest.

Essex.
—O why would you
Recal my Soul to Life? why tempt me thus
With gay Delusions and fallacious Charms?
You are too good to cheat a dying Man,
And I'm too Poor to cancel such a Debt.
My charming Rutland has engross'd me all,
Lives in my Soul, and pants in ev'ry Vein;
Or else, With real Thankfulness, I'd court
The proffer'd Joy, nor throw a Thought away
On all the Sex besides.

Nott.
—Speak on, my Lord,
Your Voice still charms me, tho' it speaks my Bane:
'Tis vain to plead, while Rutland has your Heart:
'Tis vain to flatter my deluded Thought
With distant Views of airy Happiness,
I never, never must enjoy.—
—Yet if there's ought you would
Intreat the Queen to grant, a secret Trust,
Which scarce a Whisper should reveal, let me
Convey it to her Ear, and be the Means
Of serving, in his last Distress, so dear,
So brave a Man.

Essex.
—O you have rowz'd my Soul,
And waken'd all its Pow'rs; there is but one—
My Life depends on the Success—This Ring
The Queen once gave me for my Guard against
All Danger, and Distress, and, when restor'd,
She vow'd to grant me all my Heart's Desire:
Lo! on my Knees, I give it to your Charge,
Imploring Mercy for my Friend, and (if
Her Goodness can bestow so large a Boon)
For me,—But, above all, let Rutland be
Restor'd to Grace, let Royal Pity calm
Her anxious Bosom, and relieve her Woes.

Nott.
With Joy, my Lord, I'll execute my Charge,
And in the Confidence of all your Wish,
Give up your Anguish, and forget your Woe.
[Exit Nott.

Scene closes.
Enter the Queen and Nottingham.
Queen.
What says the Earl, my Nottingham? tell me,
This Moment, all he hopes, and all he fears;
Talks he of me, of Mercy? does he mourn
His past Offences, and intreat my Grace?
I must know all, my Friend, my Soul's alarm'd,
And ev'ry Passion longs for Utterance.

Nott.
Alas! your Majesty but little thinks
How stubborn is your Fav'rite's Heart, how much
He broods on his imagin'd Wrongs, How much,
How fond he muses on his Rutland's Charms;
Sullen, and sad he sits in mournful Mood,
His down-cast Eye fix'd gloomy on the Ground,
And all his Passions struggling for Command.
He heard my Message with disdainful Mien,
Then question'd if the Queen had sent t'insult
His Woes, and triumph in his Misery:

Queen.
Ungrateful Wretch!

Nott.
—If she demands my Blood,
From ev'ry Vein it shall be pour'd to slake
Her savage Thirst; tell her I dare to die
Without a Groan, and scorn, to kneel, and sue,
And tremble for a Life so full of Woe,
So little worthy of a single Pray'r.

Queen.
And was this all? sent he no Ring, no Claim
Of promis'd Pardon, or his Sovereign's Grace?

Nott.
No, none at all.

Queen.
—Sure thou art false as Hell,
And hast betray'd thy Trust: He could not die
So obstinate, with such Contempt of Life.

Nott.
'Tis Truth it self; he sent no Ring, no Claim
Of Mercy, as I hope in Heav'n; indeed
He begg'd Southampton might be spar'd, and that
You'd pardon Rutland, mitigate her Woes,
And make her Life as happy as your own.

Queen.

[Exeunt.
Enter Burleigh, Officers, Guards, &c.
Bur.
Order the Pris'ner here—Let Essex now
Attend on me, and bow his haughty Soul
To mine: Time was when Hundreds made their Court
To him, and, waiting all the live-long Day,
With Rev'rence, and Submission, breath'd his Name;
Stil'd him their Lord, courted his Smiles, and liv'd
Upon his Favour; nay ev'n I was forc'd
To worship at this Idol's Shrine, and own
The Influence of his Pow'r:—But now 'tis o'er,
His Scale descends, and mine flies up to Heav'n;
He first shall know the Change, shall know I speak
His Doom, and, with obsequious Cringe, bend down
In Homage to my State as I have done
To his—But hold they come—

Enter Essex and Southampton Guarded.
Burleigh Walks up and down disdainfully, not seeming to observe them.
Essex.
—What Farce is this?
What Tool of Pow'r is he who proudly stalks
In mimick Majesty along? Who scorns
A Pris'ner's Voice, nor deigns a single Glance
To one whom yester Sun beheld the Pride
Of Fortune, and the Joy of Crowns?

Bur.
—Forbear
Your idle Vaunts, 'tis Time for other Thoughts;
This Place, these Guards, your Crimes should warn your Soul
To think on Death, on Death my Lord; How sounds
The Name of Death to such an Ear as yours?

Essex.
The Name of Death! thou Dotard! canst thou think
That Death will frighten me? No, in thine own
Dark Bosom, read the Fears that nightly shake
Thy Coward Frame at such an empty Sound:
I tell thee, Statesman! that in Death I seek
Repose from Labour, a Relief from Pain,
A Guard from Malice, Villany, and all
The execrable Wiles of wicked Men.

Bur.
The Madman! How he raves! yet hear my Lord,
I pity your Distress, but am oblig'd
To lead you to the Block; this very Hour
You die; the Headsman waits to give the Blow:
—Within there,—see! the fatal Scene prepar'd
And every dreadful Circumstance of Death
With so much Justice yours.

Back Scene drawing discovers the Executioner, the Scaffold hung with Black, &c.
South.
—Insulting Wretch,
To load the Dying with a double Weight
Of Pain and Woe!—Inhuman Treatment! curs'd
Revenge! unhappy Man!—

Essex.
—Forbear, my Friend!
Forbear, be calm, the Pomp of Death dismays
Not me, my Soul disdains the View; let Slaves,
Like Burleigh, tremble to resign their Clay,
And launch into Eternity:
—We'll shame Mankind
From such fantastick Fears: Thy Courage shall
Support my Soul; my Constancy confirm
And strengthen thine; in Unity, in Love,
In Friendship we have liv'd, nor shall ev'n Death
Divide us.—

Bur.
—Hold, my Lord, the Queen reprieves
Southampton, and you die alone.

South.
—I scorn
Her Mercy, 'tis too late, unworthy her,
Unworthy me; no, let me die, as I
Have liv'd, with Honour, let my Soul depart
With Company it loves, not linger here
Repining at her Doom, abhorring Life,
Lamenting thee, my Friend, expos'd to Cares,
To Ills, to Sorrows, which my Death would cure.

Essex.
No, my Southampton, no, you must not die,
You must not leave my Rutland all forlorn,
O'erwhelm'd with Grief, and dying on my Hearse;
For her lov'd sake, for mine, accept of Life,
Defend her from her Foes, be you her Guard,
Her Brother, Husband, Friend; the Time will come
When the dear Fruit of all our Joys will want
A Father, want a Friend; be you its Friend,
Be you its Father, bless its tender Age,
And if rough Manhood be its noble Lot,
Form him for Glory, and his Country's Good;
Let him avoid a vicious Court, despise its Charms,
Be fond of Virtue, Liberty, and Fame:
And—if he mentions me, defend my Cause,
Nor let him think his Sire the Scandal of
His Race.

South.
—O my dear Friend forbear this Talk,
It softens all the Man within me, how
Can I endure to breathe when you are fall'n,
When you are dead?—Assist me Heav'n! lest I
Grow mad with Sorrow, and blaspheme your Laws.
—But I'll approve my self a Friend indeed,
I'll live in Pain, in Torment to secure
A lasting Quiet to your Shade, nor heed
The Voice of Scorn, th'inhuman Taunt that will
Arraign my Soul of Cowardice, and Fear,
In deigning to accept of Life, when you,
My Lord, when you are hurried from the World.

Essex.
Oh! my Southampton, such a Faith as yours
Is rarely to be found; sure you were form'd
To be my Guardian Genius, to endear
Me to the World, and make me wish to live.
Alas! I leave you, with Reluctance, leave
You to the World, amid the Vices of
A barb'rous Age, and hasten to the Grave;
Where dark Oblivion shall, with silent Hand,
O'er-shade my Woes, and cancel all my Wrongs.

Bur.
My Lord, you are remanded back; so take
[to South.
Your last Adieu at once, nor trifle Time
Away.

South.
—What must we part so soon?

Essex.
—So soon!
Ere yet the Breath of Life is fled, while Thought,
And Memory remain, while ev'ry Tye
Of strong Affection, Friendship's pleasing Charms,
And firmest Gratitude inflames my Soul,
Make ev'ry Moment dearer than the last,
And urge my Passions to abhor that Fate
Which separates us for ever.

South.
—No my Lord,
We shall not part for ever, Heav'n shall see
Our Souls united, and our Friendship burn
Anew; thro' all Eternity our Joys
Shall last, and double as it rolls—You first
Ascend the unknown Path, quick I persue
Your Footsteps to the Realm of Day; look down
With Pity on my Toils below, and, when
The icy Hand of Death shall set me free,
Be you the first to gratulate my Change,
And speak me Welcome to your Arms again.

Essex.
Till then, farewell.

[Embrace.
South.
—Till then, farewell.

[Exit.
Enter Countess of Essex, and Attendants.
Essex.
—My Wife!
Support me Heav'n, or I shall sink beneath
The Burthen of my Woes. Why art thou come,
[Embrace.
My Angel, to this hideous Place, this Den
Of Mourning, where sweet Comfort never dwells,
Nor Pleasure deigns a Smile? Is it to view
Thy dearest Essex struggling with his Pangs,
And groaning on the Verge of Life, in all
The Anguish that the Heart can feel? Or are
Thy Charms to sooth my melancholy Thoughts?
And sweeten ev'n the Agonies of Death?

C. Essex.
The Queen, my Lord, has been so wond'rous Good
So Kind, so mercifully Kind, t'indulge
My love-sick Soul in list'ning to your Voice,
In sharing all your Woes, and studying to
Relieve the irksome Load: Perhaps this Grace
Forebodes your Pardon, and our Lives shall yet
Be bless'd with Love, with Happiness, and Joy.

Essex.
Alas! seest thou not Burleigh there? These Guards!
Yon pale, and meagre Wretch! that dreadful Steel!
Yon Scene of Horror and of Death!—Now talk
Of Life, of Happiness, and Joy.—Oh Heav'ns!
She faints, she dies, the living Crimson leaves
Her fading Cheek, and Death, all cold, has seiz'd
Upon her Heart: This is too much, too much
For Man to bear. Lead on, my Friends, lead on,
Death will be Comfort now.—But see! she breathes,
She lives, look up, my Fair, 'tis Essex speaks,
Look up, my Fair, awake to Life, and bless
My last, sad Moments with thy Charms.

C. Essex.
—Ah me!
I live again, again must feel the Pangs
Of Sorrow, Wretchedness, Despair, and all
The Miseries they bring.—But now kind Death,
In pleasing Slumbers, gently lull'd my Woes,
And, like an Angel, bless'd my Dreams: Methought
His Voice was sweet like yours, his Form as fair;
I grew enamour'd of the Phantom, strain'd him close,
And, in his icy Arms, forgot the World,
And all I left behind.

Essex.
—Kind Vision! soft
Relief from Misery, and Pain! Oh that like Peace
May ever be your Lot; like Easiness
Of Soul indulge your future Hours, and, with
Gay Footstep lead you to the Grave.—

C. Essex.
Talk not of Joy, and Pleasure, they're no more;
With you they die for ever: All my Joys
Were fix'd on you, and you—I dare not think,
—I cannot speak—Explore your own fond Heart,
The Pangs of parting—and for ever—Oh!
How shocking is the Pain! how keen the Smart!—
I die with Horror at the View.—But I'll
Conceal my Sorrows, smother all my Grief;
My Plaints will melt your tender Soul, unman
Your dying Thoughts, my Brain shall burst before
I'll heave a Groan if it should torture you;
Stern Resolution seal my Eye-lids down,
And not a Tear betray my hidden Woe.

Essex.
No, give them vent my Love, we'll mingle Tears,
As we have mingled Joys;—'tis the last time,
And Grief shall be indulg'd: Should your weak Breast
Once stifle its Complaints, or sadly brood
In Silence o'er your Woes, Life would take wing,
And fly away disdainful of the Load.

C. Essex.
O that it would! I wish to die; my Life
Has been a Scene of Pain, a Length of Woe;
I long to lay it down, the Hour's at Hand,
My Sorrows hang a Weight upon my Heart,
The Grave lies open, and the Way is wide;
Our Ashes there, my Lord, will rest, nor the
Rude Hand of Pow'r disturb them.

Essex.
—Now, 'tis now
I feel the worst I can endure, the whole
Amount of Misery and Pain: Will you
Then die the Sacrifice of Grief? Must this
Fair Frame resign its Beauties; and so soon
Adorn a Grave? O miserable Thought!
Yet you must live, my Fair, that the dear Fruit
Of such a mutual, such a faithful Love,
May breathe the vital Air, may prove the Joy
Of your declining Life, and justify
His Father's Fame to future Years.—And hark—

[They seem to talk apart.
Bur.
Curse on this long Delay, this foolish Prate,
This whining Grief: That ever Woman should
Acquire so strong a Rule: Again we're lost,
If the Queen's wanton Will should change, nor could
Ev'n Nottingham retrieve our ruin'd Cause.
[aside.
—My Lord, my Lord, you talk a tedious While,
You think not that the Time draws near, that Pow'r
Must be obey'd.

Essex.
—Yes, Monster! I expect
That Pow'r will be obey'd—Away—'tis Time it should.
—Farewell thou Miracle of Truth,
Of Virtue, Love, and ev'ry Charm,—farewell.
O my sick Heart! again she faints! again
She dies! grasps, like a sinking Wretch, the Wave
That disappoints his Hold. Her Lips are chill'd,
Her Cheek grows pale, and ev'ry Sense is numb'd
With Agony.

Bur.
—Her Senses will return,
My Lord—then take this Moment to depart,
Lest waking she renew her Plaints, and run
Thro' all the Circuit of her Woes again.

Ess.
Yet one Pang more, and then—and then—'tis past—
[kisses her.
Now, fond of Death, I quit this troubled Shore,
Scorn the gay World, and court its Charms no more.
By curs'd Ambition fir'd, I made my Claim
To Wealth, to Honour, Flattery, and Fame;
But, wise too late, lament with fruitless Moan
My Consort widow'd, and my Friend undone:
Distracting Thought! Ambition was my Bane,
My Pangs are real, but my Joys were vain.

[Exit as to Execution, Burleigh following, Scene closes.
C. Essex.
“Alas! what have you done? Why am I wak'd
“To Misery again? I should have slept
“For ever, nor have dream'd of Sorrow more.
“Essex, my Love, my Soul, my Life, is dead;
“I saw him die, and a bright heav'nly Guard
“Of Angels with a swift Ascent, convey'd
“His smiling Ghost to Heav'n; to me he wav'd
“His Hand, I follow'd on the Wings of Love,
“And thro' a Length of Happiness and Joy,
“We rov'd secure from Envy, free from Pain.
“—See there! on yonder golden Cloud his Form
“Majestick as in Life appears—Again
“He waves his Hand—I come, my Love, I come,
“I fly to your Embrace—I have him here,
“And we shall die no more.”—

Enter Queen, Nottingham, &c.
Queen.
—Look! there she lies,
My Fair, my hated Rival lies ev'n lost
In Grief, and buried in Despair—Alas!
How guilty am I grown, to rack so kind,
So true, so innocent an Heart!—What Crime
Was hers? She knew no Treason—All her Fault
Was Love—Was Love, and that's my own—Good Heav'n,
What Horror gathers on my Soul! How much
I tremble at my own Disgrace!—Assist
Her there—recall her fleeting Sense, and rouze
Her from her Trance—She wakes, she moves, she lives,
—Thou luckless fair One! Beauty in Distress!
Thou lovely Innocence! forgive thy Queen;
Behold she takes Thee to her Arms, and woos
Thee to her Love.

C. Essex.
—Forbear, forbear to sooth
Me with such Sounds, for they have lost their Charms;
With Essex vanish'd all my Sense of Joy;
I only hope to die upon his Urn:
Yet ere I mingle my Remains with his,
I must obey his last Command, and give
That Pleasure to his Shade.—With dying Words
He breath'd a Blessing on your Name, laid down
His Life submissive to your Will; yet wail'd
A broken Promise, and a Ring restor'd
In vain:—To Nottingham upon his Knees
Twas giv'n, imploring Mercy for his Friend,
And for himself—but you, with cruel Heart,
Forgot your Vow,—my Essex dy'd—and I
Am left to mourn

Queen.
—And is this true? O Heav'n!
What mischief Treachery has done! Fly swift
To save him, fly with Angel's Wings, arrest
The Blow, and countermand his Doom.
[Exeunt Officers.
—And now,
Thou dearest Part'ner of the bravest Man,
Assist me to revenge thy Wrongs, and mine,
To curse this base, this barb'rous Wretch, whose vile,
Insinuating Arts have lur'd us on
To Ruin: Go thou monstrous Wickedness:
Begone, nor herd with Humane Kind; thy Breath's
Infection, and a thousand Plagues are glanc'd
From either Eye.

Nott.
—Madam!—

Queen.
—Confusion on
Thy Voice! 'tis Death, 'tis Madness to my Ears;
Go howl with Wolves; and make the Serpent's Den
Thy Haunt: Thy Rage, thy Subtlety are worse
Than either; go, and may the greatest Curse,
The Soul can know, attend thee to the Verge
Of Life.—

Nott.
—Since I must go, I go content
To Wilds, and Woods, an endless Banishment.
To my torn Heart a fierce Revenge was due,
The Joy was mine, I leave the Plague to you;
To you whose Souls an equal Flame could prove,
Tho' one was bless'd with Pow'r, and one with Love.

[Exit.
Enter Burleigh and Attendants bearing in a Coffin the Corpse of Essex.
Queen.
What Scene of Woe is this? What funeral Rites?
Where is the Earl?—I sent to save him, sure
He lives at my Command, and my pure Fame
Will not be sullied with so foul a Deed.

Bur.
Alas! Your Orders came to late, the Blow
Was giv'n, and He no more—His last Remains
Are here.—

Queen.
Curse on thy Raven Voice—Is then
My Essex dead? my Order broke? my Will
Despis'd?—O Rutland! Love and Pow'r are vain—

C. Essex
, Kneeling by the Coffin, and removing the Lid.
This is thy Mansion, Death, and here my Lord's
Deliver'd from his Woes—How could you part
Our tender Souls, ye Ministers of Fate?
How could you sting me with such bitter Pangs,
Yet force me still to live, to love, and mourn?
—Perhaps he hears me, hovers o'er his Hearse,
And on the Breeze, still whispers out his Flame:
Delightful Thought! He hears me, Essex hears
And pities my Distress: Ah! I feel him,
And his Touch is cold, he chills my Heart,
And freezes all my Frame.—

[sinks down.
Queen.
—Bear her away
From this distracting Scene: How could'st thou rack
Her melancholy Soul with such a Sight?
A Sight that startles Nature, and distracts
The Mind with Horror.

Bur.
—'Twas by your Command
'Twas done, or Nottingham abus'd my Zeal.

Queen.
Revengeful Wretch! outrageous Fiend! and Thou,
Could'st Thou submit to such a cruel Deed?
—But ye are both alike, both join'd your Pow'rs
To hasten on his Fate, and both will share
The Vengeance due to such a Crime.—Let him
Be buried as a Soldier should, with Fame,
With Honour; let his Actions be engrav'd
Upon his Tomb, and let his Reliques sleep
In Peace—Had Pride ne'er fir'd his haughty Soul,
Disdaining Empire, and above Controul,
He still had liv'd, secure from hostile Rage,
The Care of Heav'n, the Glory of his Age.
Had my fond Heart no soft Delusions known,
I'd still been happy tho' my Fav'rite's gone:
For Virtuous Kings should doom no single Cause
By Passion's Dictates, but by Reason's Laws.

[Exeunt Omnes.