 | The Fall of the Earl of Essex |  |
1
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Nottinghamsola reading a Letter.
Confusion! am I then despis'd? are all
My Charms rejected, and my Love refus'd?
Perdition on his Soul! Oh! I could rave,
Like howling Phrensy, and out-curse Revenge:
I'm now the Scandal of my Sex; my Name
Will be no more ador'd, my Beauty prais'd,
My Virtue honour'd, or my Form desir'd.—
Enter Burleigh
O Cecil help me to unload my Soul,
And give a Loose to Rage; or, mad with Pain,
I shall forego the Light of Heav'n, avoid
Mankind, and curse my self, and them for ever.
Bur.
What means my Charmer? whence proceeds the Rage
That fires your Cheek, and rufles all your Form?
—But, whatso'er's the Cause, if Burleigh's Head,
Or Heart, or Hand, can serve you, they're your own.
Nott.
Then think of Ruin, Blood, and all the Plagues
That heighten ev'n the Agonies of Death,
2
And spirit my Revenge; and, if he falls
Thro' your assisting Wiles, I'll turn my Heart
To you, and Love shall lead me to your Arms.
Bur.
And will you bless me with a Lover's Warmth?
Shall I at last be happy in your Arms?
Delightful Prospect! who must be destroy'd
To merit such a Grace? No dread of Guilt
Shall fright me from the Deed, no Thought, no Sense
Of foolish Pity frustrate my Resolves.
Nott.
There spoke my better Angel; now my Heart
Lie quiet in my Breast, and ach no more
With doubting thy Revenge: 'Tis sure, 'tis seal'd;
Fortune's the Slave that waits on your Command:
Give me Revenge, and I am yours forever.
Bur.
Oh Heaven! what sounds of Happiness are these!
Why this is Life indeed; my Bloom of Youth
Could never boast so strong a Rapture, such
A Blaze of Joy!
Nott.
—But swear, this Instant, swear
By Heav'n's all-ruling Majesty that Hope
Or Fear shall vainly tempt you to disclose
The Secrets I reveal; nor Fate, nor Time
Efface the racking Mem'ry of my Wrongs,
'Till weighty Vengeance seize the guilty Cause,
And hurl him to Damnation unprepar'd,
And thoughtless of his End.
Bur.
—By all the Pow'rs
Of Heav'n I swear devoutly to revenge
The Wrongs you suffer, and with truest Heart,
Conceal the Secrets you disclose.—Yet more,
There's not a Lord so great in England's Realm
Who dares to injure you, but dies; he dies
Immediate, without Ransom dies, tho' ev'n
Proud Essex were the Man.—
Nott.
—Perish his Name,
'Tis he, 'tis he's the Torment of my Life,
The Curse of ev'ry plaintive Hour! Good Heaven!
Have I been only flatter'd in the Thought
Of Beauty, and of Charms? Or are they grown,
3
In wintry Gales?—Look Cecil, has my Cheek
Lost all its Bloom, my Eyes forgot to Shine?
Sit Age and Time in Triumph on my Brow
Destroying ev'ry Grace; that this proud Man
Should dare to scorn my Love, and with Disdain
Reject my profer'd Vows!—
Bur.
How long my jealous Soul has trac'd the Marks
Of this unlucky Flame? How long bewail'd
My disappointed Vows, and in the Rage,
Of luckless Passion, murmur'd at my Fate!
Nott.
Enough good Cecil! Spare my farther Shame,
Nor let the Air be burthen'd with the Sound
Of my Reproach.—O may the busy World
Ne'er feast its Malice with th'ungrateful Tale.
—But you must hear the Series of my Wrongs,
And, since your wiser Heart is touch'd like mine,
Pity my Sorrows, and excuse my Rage.
Prompted by Love, and threaten'd with Despair,
O let my Blushes be for ever hid!
With moving Lines I su'd this haughty Man,
Discharg'd the Mournings of my love-sick Soul,
And told him all my Pain.
Bur.
—Curs'd, cruel Fate!
Oh, had such Blessings been my happier Lot,
With what a Joy I'd hasted to your Arms,
And in a Moment, lov'd my Soul away.
—Forgive, my Charmer! the impatient Zeal,
That rages in my Breast, and interrupts
With fruitless Mournings the unfinish'd Tale.
Nott.
O that my Soul had utter'd all her Woes!
And that no future Sound could urge its Way
To my Disgrace!—But hear—Th'ungrateful Wretch,
Grown Cold and Lifeless to the Call of Love,
Return'd; I can no more—Here read my Shame.
[Offering him the Letter.
Yet hold—no Mortal ever shall survey
The dire Affront or Glory in my Pain;
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And deaf the Ear of Fame—Let Scandal thus
Be cheated of her Tale,—thus Vengeance seize
Tearing it furiously.
The curs'd Occasion of such Rage as mine.
Bur.
Forbear your Rage, and study for Revenge.
Nott.
My Rage! no Burleigh, 'tis the Wing of Rage
Shall Mount me to Revenge. In vain the Wretch
Shall cour beneath the Throne, and court the Shield
Of Sovereign Pow'r in vain.
Bur.
—While Majesty
Descends in humble State to be his Guard,
What subtle Scheme of Vengeance can succeed?
Let but kind Fortune force him from her Arms,
And like a Cloud he vanishes to Air;
For Treason claims his Life, and England's Laws
Shall give a Legal Doom.
Nott.
—A Legal Doom!
And Treason claims his Life! name it again
Good Cecil! and my Heart, charm'd with the Sound,
Shall echoe to thy Voice, Justly my Hopes,
Were founded on your Aid, your Word is Pow'r,
Your Will Success, and Wisdom all your Schemes.
Bur.
O hold—you torture me with Praise, my Heart
Beats high with too intense Delight, you charm
My troubled Senses with a Wild of Joy,
And heighten Pleasure into Pain.—But say,
Thou dear Enchantress of my Thoughts, say how
The doating Queen may be induc'd to leave
Her vaunted Minion to the Frown of Fate:
Speak thou the Means, for thou canst wind her Soul
And work her to thy Will: In thee she trusts,
Pours out the inmost Weakness of her Mind
To thee, and Dreams the babling World deceiv'd.
Nott.
Then to your Wish attend—Young Rutland doats
On this Seducer's Charms, and is, I fear
The secret Cause of his Disdain to me.
—But Death shall wait upon the nuptial Bed,
And Rutland mourn like me her blasted Joy.
5
I'd fire her Soul with Jealousy and Rage
Like mine, and then the guilty Traytor dies.
Bur.
Wisely resolv'd; Success shall crown the Cause,
But see! Southampton comes, whose stubborn Love
For haughty Essex will retard the Deed,
Unless Destruction wait upon them both—
Retire my Fair, and, certain of Revenge,
Indulge your Soul, and give a Loose to Joy.
[Exit. Nottingham.
Enter Southampton.
South.
My Lord, 'tis rumour'd in the Breath of Fame,
That you, like Falshood in a Saint's Disguise,
Have brib'd some factious Commons to conspire
The Fall of Essex, and disgrace the Man
That England honours as her chosen Son.
Bur.
'Tis true, my Lord, the Commons have design'd
To charge your Friend with treasonable Deeds,
But if you hear that they're inflam'd by me,
'Tis false. Alas! my Business in the State,
Employs my Thoughts alone, nor find I Time,
To cavil with the Faults of other Men.
—Yet they're the Friends of their dear Country's Cause
Who dare accuse this Heroe to the World.
South.
Accuse him to the World! of what? what Crimes
Have soil'd his Honour with the least Reproach?
—But publick Good must ever be the Plea
For Villains to betray their Country's Cause,
And force its Champions to an early Grave.
Bur.
My Lord, you throw a Scandal on the Queen,
And wrong her Council with the Breath of Falshood;
For Ireland suffers deeply by his Crimes,
And groans incessant for Revenge.
South.
—'Tis all
The hellish Fiction of a Statesman's Brain:
Cecil's the Fiend that conjures up this Storm,
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He falls, but falls not unreveng'd.
Bur.
—My Lord,
Your Zeal is Madness now—not unreveng'd
He falls—whose Shade must follow to attend
The gloomy Heroe to the Realms of Night?
Will brave Southampton die upon his Hearse?
Or must old Burleigh follow for Revenge?
Come, come, my Lord, forbear this fruitless Rage,
Lest swift-wing'd Justice, with a single Blow,
Dismiss you both as guilty from the World.—
South.
O hold my Heart! what shall the Villain brave
Me to my Face, and stigmatize my Friend,
Yet pass with Triumph unchastis'd away?
Thou Foe to Virtue! Traytor to Mankind!
Dar'st thou then threaten to extend thy Snares,
And glory in thy Guilt! now, by the Hopes
Of my Eternal Soul, did Majesty
[half drawing his Sword.
Not give a Sanction to this Place, thy Life
Should pay th'immediate Forfeit of thy Crimes.
—But 'twould ingrave Dishonour on my Sword,
And lift thee up to Fame; thy Baseness guard
Thee from thy Fate.
Bur.
—Thank you my noble Lord,
See I can bear with Patience your Affronts,
And Smile to see you Rage.
South.
—'Tis then because
Thy guilty Soul is shaken with its Fears,
And is too much a Coward to affect
The generous Fury it can never know.
Bur.
No 'tis not Fear, but Innocence that cools
My temperate Blood; yet let Southampton's Rage
Secure his Essex' Safety and his own.
South.
My own's submitted to the Will of Fate;
But if the Great, the Godlike Essex must expire
As Treason councils, and as Fraud betrays,
May Heav'n assert its Title to Revenge,
And make thee wretched as thy Crimes deserve.
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Queen.
What now my Lords! what Insolence is this!
To let your noisy Quarrels reach our Ears,
And interrupt the Councils of the State:
What must we wait the Issue of your Broils
Before the Nation's Business can proceed?
Bur.
Pardon, most Gracious Queen! Southampton's Fault
Occasion'd mine—
Queen.
—Silence, my Lord, I'm deaf
To such Complaints; be reconcil'd a-new
And jointly bear the Burthen of the State,
In Peace and Love—Now speak what News from Spain.
Bur.
None, glorious Princess, none that can alarm
Our Fears afresh, or make your Subjects dread
A new Descent; for haughty Spain yet mourns
The Ruin of her Fleets, nor dares again
Attempt the Rage of War.—
Queen.
—Enough; my Heart
Exults in the Remembrance of that Day,
When, big with Pride, they brav'd the frighted Shores,
And thunder'd Death and Ruin o'er the Land;
Till Heav'n declar'd for us, and valiant Drake
Dispers'd their broken Squadrons o'er the Main:
Whence England rests secure from foreign Lords,
And Peace and Plenty are again our own.
Oh that late Times might celebrate the Day,
And all its smiling Hours devote to Joy!
South.
Let future Ages celebrate the Day,
And all its smiling Hours devote to Joy.—
But let not Drake alone, most gracious Queen,
Engross your Praise, when Essex claims his Share,
And pleads an equal Title to the Grace:
Essex the foremost Hero of the Globe!
Essex who rais'd such Trophies to your Fame,
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Th'eternal Monument.
Queen.
—'Tis true, my Lord,
That Essex has deserv'd the noblest Praise;
But his late Actions, with an envious Cloud,
Have veil'd his former Fame:—Yet he is brave
And haply e're this Time has earn'd anew
The wonted Glories that adorn'd his Name.
—What News, Lord Cecil, from the Irish Coast?
Bur.
None good—Expresses every Hour arrive
Confirming ev'n the worst we could have fear'd.
Queen.
What is't you mean?—
Bur.
—How soon your Grace o'erlooks
A Fav'rite's Guilt!
Queen.
—A Fav'rite's Guilt!
Bur.
—Yes He,
Your Essex who betray'd his Charge,—forgot
The use of Arms, commens'd a Truce against
Your absolute Command; who parley'd oft,
In secret, with the Rebel Chief, ev'n like
A Monarch exercis'd his Pow'r in Peace,
But like a beaten Coward in the Field—
Queen.
Cecil forbear! you grow malicious now;
'Tis time to curb the Freedom of your Speech;
What must an Age of Service be forgot
For one imprudent Deed? if so there's none
Could long escape, no not ev'n Burleigh's self
Tho' eager to condemn a nobler Man.
—Yet I've reprov'd him for his Faults, and sent
The strictest Orders that he keep the Field,
Till he has conquer'd the Remains of War.
And Fury slumber on the Breast of Peace.
South.
A nobler Man by Heaven! and when he falls
His loss shall long be mourn'd, when Statesmen, fill'd
With Craft and Pride, by Hundreds in the Grave
Shall rot unheeded to their native Dust.
Bur.
Madam I urge no more,—for Rawleigh comes,
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Your Royal Goodness to confirm their Laws.
Enter Sir Walter Raleigh, and others of the House of Commons.
Queen.
Welcome my People, welcome to your Queen,
Who begs of Heav'n to be dismiss'd from Rule,
When once she ceases to espouse your Cause,
And study your Content: Welcome again,
And let me boast there's not a Prince on Earth
Who loves his Subjects with a greater Love;
Nor can I think that Subjects e'er deserv'd
More favour from their Prince than you: Be quick
To tell me your Demands, for all your Wants
I suffer as my own.
Raleigh.
—Long live the Queen
To bless her Subjects, and adorn the World:
And may her Subjects long revere her sway,
And learn to know the Happiness she gives.
—Your Parliament, most gracious Queen, concern'd
To lengthen out the Blessings of your Reign,
Most humbly beg that, what these Instruments
Contain, your Royal Goodness may confirm
As Laws, which late Posterity will bless.
Queen.
Read their Contents, My Lord, and they shall pass,
If plainly needful for the Publick good.
Burleigh
Reads.
Madam, the First proposes to enlist
Three Thousand Men to be your Royal Guard,
Lest, by Surprize, a Foreign Pow'r,
Or homebred Faction should attempt your Life,
And this sad Realm too late bewail the Deed.
The next impow'rs your Majesty to raise
The proper Sums to pay the Charge of War,
And with a due Support maintain the Throne.
Queen.
My Subjects give me with a liberal Hand—
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The Third intreats your Majesty's Consent
T'Impeach Lord Essex of High-Treason, and
In full explains the Reasons of the Charge.
The Queen appears in Confusion.
Queen.
Speak Nottingham, good Rutland quickly speak!
Unless 'tis all a Dream, and Fancy draws
This horrid Scene of Things—am I awake
And on the Throne?—alas 'tis all too true.
For Sleep's a Stranger to surpize like mine—
I ne'er cou'd think Ingratitude had Place
Rising in a Rage.
In upright Minds; and when Injustice courts
The Hand of Pow'r, 'tis Wisdom to withhold
The Blow.
South.
Madam, 'tis Virtue pleads in Essex' Cause
And twill be Glory to attempt to save him:
His Fault is to discern a Statesman's Guile,
And scorn the Arts his Soul could never practise,
His utmost Pride to serve his native Land,
And plume eternal Conquest on her Arms.
Already he has humbled in the Dust
The Pride of Spain, and seiz'd upon their Fleets
When fraught with half the Riches of its Mines.
—But this is all forgot, and should your Grace
Desert him now, he's lost, he's gone for ever.
Queen.
Ungrateful People, hear Southampton's Plea,
For Innocence and Honour, such is he
Whose Life and Fame you labour to destroy:
But when dire Envy plots the Fall of Virtue,
Princes themselves should die with Joy to save it.
Petitioners Kneel.
Ral.
Most gracious Queen! forgive our forward Zeal
And we offend no more—
Bur.
—May't please your Grace
To spare Reproach, and with a patient Ear
Attend the Reasons that confirm his Guilt.
Queen.
What then are you a Partner of their Crimes?
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—But 'twas agreed, and you contriv'd the Scheme.
—'Tis plainly so; the Shade of Essex check'd
Your rising Growth, so down he falls to make
More room for you: I'll hear no more—be gone
And leave me to my self. Stay Nottingham,
[Exeunt Burleigh, Raleigh, and Petitioners, one way, Southampton and Rutland, another.]
And with thy Friendship give me some Relief.
—O that wild Frenzy would posess my Soul
And put an End to Thought! or that my Rage
Could vent the Tortures I endure; in vain
I wish, in vain I rave, my Heart still heaves
With stubborn Sorrow, and my Eyes o'erflow
With Female Tears—thus long deny'd in vain.
Nott.
What shall a Queen; the Idol of the World,
Bewail the Sting of Sorrow? Shall Distress
Presume t'eclipse the Lustre of a Crown
While Nations only live for your Repose?
Queen.
Ah! Nottingham, there's one I'd die to serve,
And think him worthy of the Sacrifice;
—But him these Sons of Cruelty and Guile
Have jointly studied to destroy, and I,
Such is the Fate of Princes, must withhold
My guardian Aid, least impious Tongues profane
My Virgin Truth, and Majesty should stalk
With sullen State away.
Nott.
—Alas my Queen!
Are you so firm in this heroick Thought?
So much the Mistress of your own Desires
As to neglect his Fate, tho' on his Knees,
He plead for Pardon in the softest Strains;
And Woe and Pity silently exert
Their pow'rful Influence on your yielding Heart?
Queen.
O let me hear that moving Thought no more!
Nor ever may I view so sad a Scene!
—But 'tis my Hope t'invalidate his Charge,
While yet in Ireland he remains in Arms,
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Else when he comes I know his haughty Soul
Will urge him on to such audacious Deeds,
As will by Force oblige me to withdraw
My friendly Aid, and give him up to Fate.
Nott.
How can your Grace withdraw your Aid, or give
Him up to Fate, when ev'ry Woe he feels
Will torture you, and you'll oft wish to die
In vain to lengthen out his Days?
Queen.
—O Heaven!
Thy Words are Daggers to my Heart, and Life
Already seems too burthensome to bear;
Yet should these Torments ev'ry Hour increase,
Till friendly Death my pensive Soul release,
I'd dare to leave this Heroe to his Doom,
Nay die my self with Sorrow on his Tomb,
Ere black Reproach obscure my shining Sway,
And all my Glories roll in Clouds away.
Exeunt.
The End of the First Act.
| The Fall of the Earl of Essex | |