University of Virginia Library

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.