University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE An Apartment in the Tower.
Sir Walter Raleigh,
solus.
Not yet the Shadows of retreating Night
Disperse, nor dawns the Day-spring from on high;
And yet I thank thee, Heav'n, I bless thy Pow'r,
That has unseal'd my Eyes, and wak'd my Soul
To Life, to Action, and to think on thee.
There is no Instant in the Tide of Time,
But Man may seize, and fill the vacant Space
With useful Searches of improving Thought.
The Light attracts him with ten thousand Views,
Offering her Objects to the Sense unsought,
That ask, and court, and press him to be known.
Then soon as Night succeeds, the darken'd Air
Warns him to sweet Retreat, and silent Musings,
That trace the past Ideas thro' the Brain,
Now mix, and now divide the various Heap,
Then form a-new the separated Kinds,
Trying all ways to feed the greedy Soul.
Thus even here I'm happy, thus disjoin'd
From Pomps and Thrones from Camps and noisy War,
The boasted Scenes and Glory of my Youth.
Well—they are past; this Prison now is all,
And this I will enjoy—there's something here,
I never tasted in the Courts of Kings.

Enter Wade.
Wade.
Health to my noble Guest, for such a Name
Alone becomes the valiant Raleigh's Worth:
The plainer Name of Prisoner should be chang'd,
When he who wears it, merits not the Shame.

Sir W. Ra.
How sayst thou? Flattery in a Prison too!
Why then I may be Envy's Object still:
But hear me, where has thy unlucky Tongue
Learnt this vile Lesson, this unmanly Art?
Hast been at Court, and seen a fawning Lord
Watching the Motion of a Favourite's Eye,
With such an earnest Care as holy Men
Express in Picture to some darling Saint?

Wade.
[Aside.
The best Denial is to flatter on.
Thou knowest me not; my honest Heart
Disdains to give, as much as thine to take,
Such servile Incense, as unjust Applause:
But when I see the Man, whose long-try'd Faith,
Whose Virtue, Courage, and superior Merit,
Have rais'd his Country's Glory to the Sky;
This Man in spite of Fortune I will praise,
Yes, I will bless him, tho' a Monarch frown,
Adore him in the Minute of Disgrace,
And think his Wrongs his Country's just Reproach.

Sir W. Ra.
Take heed of this; thy too officious Zeal,
Or thy Integrity, may cost thee dear.
I find that I mistook, and now confess
Thou art indeed unread in Politicks;
And much a Stranger to the Arts of Courts.
But know, that Virtue may be Criminal:
And he who dares to doubt so fair a Truth,
Sets himself up obnoxious to that Pow'r
Which makes it so. Again, I say, take heed.

Wade.
Ill have I learnt the Lessons of the Wise,
If this false Science must debauch my Mind;
If all the fair Impressions on my Soul,
By moral Sages taught, must be eras'd,
And damn'd Hypocrisy usurp the Place.

Sir W. Ra.
Thou must unlearn the Maxims of thy Youth,
They are no Guides in this corrupted Age.
Go, blot these idle Fancies from thy Brain;
If e'er thou hop'st to merit a Reward,
Or rise above the Level of the Crowd.
But if thou canst possess thy Soul in Peace,
And, bearing Wrongs, complain to Heav'n alone,
A Cloyster may become thee, not the World.

Wade.
'Tis true, the Court, the City, and the Camp
Smell rank of Vice; Buffoons, and Parasites
Make Virtue sick, shaming the modest Ear
To Deafness: Ev'ry good Man's Fame
Is wounded, while destroying Calumny
Feeds, and looks fair, upon the Prey of Honour.
How often have I heard their saucy Tongues
Arraign thee in their Mirth, and call thee Traitor?

Sir W. Ra.
O Reputation! dearer far than Life,
Thou precious Balsam, lovely, sweet of Smell,
Whose Cordial Drops once spilt by some rash Hand,
Not all thy Owner's Care, nor the repenting Toil
Of the rude Spiller, ever can collect
To its first Purity and native Sweetness.

Wade.
Oh, the Corruption reaches higher still,
For now the very Pulpits learn to flatter;
The grave Divines but look asquint to Heav'n,
Then level all their Rhetorick at the King;
While he—

Sir W. Ra.
Restrain thy mad licentious Tongue.
Wouldst thou traduce thy Sov'reign in thy Folly;
And think my Ears can suffer the Reproach?
Rash Man—I see the Purpose of thy Heart,
And read Betrayer thro' the thin Disguise.
Thus Gundamor and Cecil fight their Foes.
Heav'ns! that the trifling Life of one poor Man
Should be the Cause of so much Guilt in others!
Let them plot on—I have a Part within,
Their Malice cannot reach—Yes, yes, my Soul,
Thou shalt be feasted with a rich Repast;
The grave Historian, and the moral Sage,
The searching Minds that scorn to be confin'd
On this dim Spot, but travel to the Seats
Of nobler Beings, and more finish'd Worlds,
All call and wait on thee. The Muses Song
Breaths near, to temper the Fatigue of Thought.
Hail blest Companions of my lonely Hours!
Better converse whole Ages with the Dead,
Pore on a broken Marble, to retrieve
A single Letter of a brave Man's Name,
Who dy'd at Marathon, or Agencourt;
Than spend one Moment with Deceit and Vice.

[Exit.
Wade.
Curse on his Artifice! when I had rais'd
His heavy Phlegm, and warm'd it into Motion,
When Treason trembl'd on my longing Lips,
And my Soul listen'd for an eager Answer,
Then to start back, and leave me in the Maze
Of my own Folly—O, but I will try
New Stratagems. Before it was Reward,
Now 'tis Revenge, that pushes me to Guilt.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Another Apartment in the Tower.
Enter Cobham, Carew, and Sir Julius Cæsar.
Cob.
Nay, good Sir Julius Cæsar, urge me not,
I spoke of no Conspiracies, or Plots;
We only said the State was dangerous ill,
Sick of a wanton Feaver in her Blood,
That wanted cooling—This was all we said.

J. C.
You speak of many, Cobham. Who said so?

Cob.
A Lord, a mighty Lord; but he is dead.

Car.
And was that all the Purport of your Meeting?
Such distant Talk is ev'ry Subject's Theme:
When his ill Humour works, and wants a Vent,
His Tongue runs riot, and arraigns his Masters.

J. C.
Plain Words are best. Consider, Sir, again,
That you have sign'd a Paper with your Name,
Accusing Raleigh of a horrid Plot.

Cob.
Heav'n! have I? when? where? to whom? Ha! Death!
Death is an ugly Monster, full of Terror.
Oh! how I shrink and shudder at the Sight.
See, it comes arm'd along; Sin walks before,
Clad in a hideous Robe of various Dyes,
And Furies follow with ten thousand Whips.
Hide me, good Cæsar—

Car.
These are Stings of Guilt—
Fear not, your Pardon has been long obtain'd.

Cob.
Am I then pardon'd? Yes, the Fiend retires;
Bid its Companion go, that stays behind,
And in a Mirror shews a hundred Shapes,
All Spectacles of Woe. But why to me,
Thou angry Demon? Hence, from these cold Walls,
Visit the Golden Gates, and fretted Roofs,
Sit heavy on the wicked Statesman's Down,
Dislodge the God of Slumber from his Eyes,
And tear the rotten Heart of Salisbury.

Car.
These are all Symptoms of a giddy Brain.
But Salisbury's your Friend, he gave you Life.

Cob.
He did, you say? then welcome Life again.
Could he but season it with proper Joys,
With Health, with Innocence, and Peace of Soul,
Then Salisbury were a mighty God indeed,
And Cobham would fall down, and worship him.

Enter Wade.
Wade.
These Visits, Sirs, may be of dangerous Weight.
It is the King's Command that you retire,
And leave my Pris'ner to my Charge—

Both.
We obey.

[Exeunt.
Cob.
Why should you keep me thus in Solitude?
Discourse, and sweet Converse with Friends,
Is all the Balm my sickly Heart desires.
Beside, I mention'd nothing of the Plot,
Nothing of Brook, or Raleigh: How shou'd I?
Were I a subtle Sprite that sucks the Air,
And lives on Dew-drops of the misty Morn,
That whispers Love to Maidens in their Dreams,
That stands at Statesmens Elbows in their Closet,
And dictates Blood and Treason to their Hearts,
Then I might tell of Plots, Intrigues, and Death,
Of falling Kingdoms, and of Worlds on Fire.

Wade.
Peace, idle Mad-man—know, a strict Command,
This Day is giv'n, that you restrain your Tongue.
On this Condition you may still enjoy
Whate'er the Limits of these Walls afford.
When Fools, like Cobham, Traitors will commence,
They should turn Mad-men in their own Defence.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Salisbury's House.
Enter Salisbury, Olympia, and Florella.
Sal.
So, my Olympia, thou art now resolv'd
To tear this idle Passion from thy Bosom,
Nor shock thy Father's Fondness by thy Folly
Believe me, Child, were not my Heart and Life
Wrapp'd up in thine, and ev'ry Thought of thee
Breath'd an uncommon Tenderness of Love;
Thy first Offence had cancell'd Nature's Ties,
Drove thee an Outcast from my Race and Blood,
And left thee to the Curse of Want and Shame.

Olym.
[Aside.
Why was I made that wretched Thing I am?

Sal.
What means that Sigh that trembl'd on thy Lips?
If e'er thou think'st of Raleigh's cursed Race,
Let Indignation swell thy Cheek to Rage,
Scorn arm thy Brow, and lighten in thy Eyes.
Reflect on him, as thy great Father does,
As of a Worm of Yesterday, the Child
Of angry Fortune, whom she chose in Sport,
Toss'd round the World, to make him more her Scorn,
And spread his Infamy in ev'ry Clime.

Olym.
Forgive me, Sir, if I have heard from Fame
That once a Friendship, stronger than the Love
Of Woman, fasten'd your united Hearts.
Can Hatred flourish from so sweet a Root?

Sal.
'Tis true, I nurs'd his Infancy of Greatness,
'Till he grew warm in Confidence of Pow'r,
And dar'd to climb alone; then I stood forth,
And crush'd the Folly of my own Formation.

Olym.
I know not how, but sure methinks I took
The first Impressions of a kind Regard,
To this unhappy House, from Cecil's Blood.
Allow me time to wear away the Taint,
Which, as my Birth-right, I receiv'd from you.
Think but what Intervals must lie between
Extremes of Hatred, and Extremes of Love,
Nor fancy that the sweet and salted Wave
Are ever parted by a single Line.

Sal.
Thou hast prevail'd; this Day shall be thy own;
But I do grant it with a Miser's Heart,
And in the Act of giving wish it back.

[Exit.
Olym.
A Day, a single Day! O poor Olympia!
Can a Sun's Journey measure thy Account
Of endless Love! O Niggard, cruel Father!
All other Things have stated Space of time,
To work their Periods, and attain their Ends:
Business is lost, or finish'd, in a Day;
Wealth, Honour, Wisdom are the Growth of Time,
But Love is only at one Instant born,
And knows no Limit to confine its Life:
Ev'n at the Gate of Death, the seeming Date
Of our Duration, Love looks forward still,
And promises ten thousand Years to come.

Flor.
Complain not, Madam; for Almighty Love
Works Miracles; at once begins and ends.
Rather improve the Minutes which are left,
And, while your Father's Absence gives you leave,
Prepare to meet the long-expected Youth.

Olym.
Alas, Florella, tell me so no more;
Four Moons already have I sigh'd alone,
And with repeated Prayers invok'd his Name;
But he, or deaf, or fearful of our Fates,
Shuns the sad Triumph of his conquering Eyes.

Flor.
Suppose he came, suppose Florella knew
He hastens to thee with a Lover's Pace.

Olym.
Suppose! thou dearest Child of flattering Hope,
Big with Delight, and prodigal of Bliss;
Shall I embrace thee with a Mother's Fondness?
No, Thou art set at Distance from my Eyes,
And it were Madness but to wish thee near.

Flor.
Forgive the Cruelty that check'd thy Joys;
And see the promis'd Blessing is at Hand.

Enter young Raleigh.
Olym.
'Tis he indeed—Support me, dear Florella.

Y. Ra.
When Beauty languishes, the Taint becomes
A general Evil, and the sinking Fair
Has Power to sadden ev'ry Object nigh.

Olym.
No, Raleigh! poor Olympia has no Charms;
What once there was (if any once there were)
Are lost in pining Grief, and hapless Love.

[Sighs.
Flor.
I am too near a Witness of the Truth,
The sad Accomptant of the joyless Days,
The wakeful Nights, the sudden bursting Sighs,
The trembling Nerves, and endless Floods of Tears;
And thou the Cause of all, proud cruel Raleigh.
[Unveils her.
Behold the precious Spoils of thy Disdain.

Y. Ra.
What a rich Feast the canker Grief has made!
[Looking at her.
How has it suck'd the Roses of thy Cheeks,
And drank the liquid Chrystal of thy Eyes!
Love sure will once a cruel Reck'ning make
With that rash Heart, that scorn'd his noblest Prize.

Olym.
The Debt is thine,—but much may he forgive,
On a relentless rigid Father's Score.

Y. Ra.
Indeed we're both unhappy in our Fathers.

Olym.
Thine is beyond the reach of Fortune's Pow'r,
And mine, I fear, abuses it too much.

Y. Ra.
If still to persecute the Sons of Woe,
And hunt lodg'd Sorrow from its last Retreat,
A poor base Prison, to a bloody Death,
If this be lawless Pow'r—this Cecil does,
Does to his Blood his Daughter says she loves.

Olym.
[Aside.
'Tis a hard Tryal—but it must be made—
Scatter the Shades that hang upon thy Brow,
Look kindly, Youth, and kindle up my Soul,
To prove that Love is stronger than Revenge.

Y. Ra.
What canst thou do against the Streams of Wrath,
The Plots of Gundamor, and Wealth of Spain?

Olym.
I know the Fondness of my Father's Heart,
And I will try and pierce it to the quick;
Yes, he shall feel the Force of Woman's Tears;
These Hands shall hold him, on these wretched Knees,
Dragg'd, wounded, torn, I will pursue him still;
No Sound shall reach him, but repeated Cries
Of Mercy, Mercy, till his Soul relents,
In kind Compliance with his Daughter's Voice.

Y. Ra.
The Breath of soft Persuasion warm thy Lips!

Oly.
But wilt thou then be wond'rous kind, and love?

Y. Ra.
O my Soul longs and sickens for the Hour,
Till Fate and Honour give it leave to love;
Till thy blest Tongue has charm'd thy Father's Wrath;
Then I would fly with Eagerness of Joy,
Kneel at thy Feet, and print the sacred Truth
With untold Kisses on thy saving Hand.

Olym.
Heav'n whispers me the Minute comes apace.
Then, in remembrance of Olympia's Vow,
Go, wipe away the dew of Grief, that hangs
On the sad Relatives of Raleigh's Blood.
And now, ye faithful Lovers Shades of old,
Whose Spirits once inform'd the Female Mould;
Who, for the Charms of some successful Youth,
Have prov'd blest Miracles of Love and Truth;
Descend, and give, ye Fair Celestial Throng,
Fire to my Heart, and Musick to my Tongue:
So be it said, since Greece and Rome decay'd,
Their Deeds are equal'd by an English Maid.

[Exeunt.