University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

In the Tower.
Enter Sir Walter Raleigh, and Howard.
Sir W. Ra.
Welcome, my Friend, thou bravely honest Man,
In ev'ry turn of Fortune still the same!

How.
Indeed I have been so—

Sir W. Ra.
Why, art thou chang'd?

How.
No; but it grieves me to my inmost Soul,
To think there lives such Baseness unchastiz'd,
That could conceive me—

Sir W. Ra.
What?

How.
A Villain!
A Villain to my Friend; to thee, my Raleigh!

Sir W. Ra.
Vice in a flat'ring Mirrour views Mankind,
Judging of others from its own Similitude
The Good are few, and known to fewer still:
And Rogues believe us not, Temptation-proof
Till they have try'd us—

How.
But canst thou yet suppose
England's Imperial Flag, the Naval Sign,
To which all Nations of the World pay Homage,
The proffer'd Price of Treach'ry to my Friend?
Proffer'd by that vile Statesman Gundamor
I need not tell thee how I scorn'd the Bribe,
For which this Prison, and thy Presence, are,
I thank him, Favours, which he meant Affronts.

Sir W. Ra.
Thank Heav'n, that in the Nakedness of Woe,
Has left me still one gen'rous virtuous Friend,
A Comfort haughty Cecil cannot know.
Blush not, good Howard, if I swear I think
That thou and Honour were Twin-Brothers born,
And when thou diest, that must sicken too—
How many, who prophane that sacred Name
With outward Show, and Countenance of Worth,
Would sell their Birth-right, sacrifice their Faith,
Bring Wives and Daughters to Pollution's Bed,
For half the Price thy Honesty despis'd!

How.
What I have done, thy own Example taught.
You knew the strong Conspiracy at home,
Resolv'd to pluck declining Fortune down.
Yet we, to keep your promis'd Faith, return'd,
To meet Oppression, and embrace ill Fate.

Sir W. Ra.
The Gage of Honour was in England thrown,
And had we stretch'd beyond the crooked Year
And Solar way, yet at our Country's Call,
We must have plung'd thro' Darkness and Despair,
To vindicate the Pledge we left behind.

How.
Why are we punish'd then, or why reproach'd?
Or whence does Gundamor's presaging Voice
Pronounce thy Doom, and mark the bloody Day,
Soon as the Queen recovers, or expires?

Sir W. Ra.
Let it come when it will, I stand prepar'd.
The little Intervals of Time, and Form
May make it more expected, not more fear'd.

How.
Yet Reason, Sense, and Nature's eldest Law,
Join'd with the Charities of Social Love,
The tender Names of Daughter, Son, and Wife,
All warn us to decline approaching Death.

Sir W. Ra.
Think not I hold that vain Philosophy
Of proud Indifference, that pretends to look
On Pain and Pleasure with an equal Eye.
To Be, is better far than Not to Be,
Else Nature cheated us in our Formation.
And when we are, the sweet Delusion wears
Such various Charms and Prospects of Delight,
That what we could not Will, we make our Choice,
Desirous to prolong the Life she gave.
Mad-men, and Fools may hurry o'er the Scene,
The wise Man walks an easy, sober Pace;
And tho' he sees one Precipice for all,
Declines the fatal Brink, oft looking back
On what he leaves, and thinking where he falls.

How.
From thy own Words convinc'd, look back again.
One Bar already lies in Cecil's way,
Which yet must be a Secret in my Breast
Till ripe enough for thee—You'll trust it there?

Sir W. Ra.
Trust thee! Thou richest Mine of Faith and Truth,
Trust thee with ev'ry Thought my Soul conceives:
You said that Gundamor had mark'd the Time.
I know the cunning Politician well,
His dark Designs, and Subtilty of Thought;
Yet there the Spaniard has o'er-shot his Mark,
And in his fond Extravagance of Wit,
Perhaps undone the Knot he has been winding.

How.
How! Speak, Raleigh.

Sir W. Ra.
I wish thy Freedom now,
Then I should hope my Sovereign Queen might know
The Midnight Toils and Travels of this Brain,
That oft has robb'd the flow'ry Plant of Life,
And gave its Colour to the fading Cheek.
Health lurks in Mines, distils from spicy Trees,
Flows in the Waves, and glitters on the Rock:
Why then, since Nature spreads her Stores to all,
May we not make some secret Share our own?

How.
This Minute Liberty is worth a Crime,
I will be free—

Sir W. Ra.
Forbear; the Keeper comes—

How.
Curse on his now unseasonable Visit.

Enter Wade.
Wade.
Sir Walter, tho' your Heart suspects my Love,
You know the Duty of my Charge and Trust.
This brings me, an unwilling Messenger,
(Heav'n knows!) to tell you, you must die to Day.

Sir W. Ra.
To Day!—then I shall live more free to Night.

How.
Confusion! now I dare not tell the Snare
I laid for Salisbury, by his Gallant Son.
[Aside.
Ill-boding Raven, croaking Bird of Prey,
Are the Notes spent, are all the Dirges sung?
Dost not thou Scent my Blood and Carnage too?

Wade.
I have no more to say—

Sir W. Ra.
Howard, be calm,
Lose not thy Virtue for his Master's Faults:
Must thou grow mad on ev'ry moody Day,
That Gundamor works Cecil's Soul to Mischief?

How.
My Tongue is mute,—but O my Heart Bleeds inward!

Sir W. Ra.
O, Death! I've sought thee in the listed Feild,
'Midst shouting Squadrons, and embattell'd Hosts
Pursu'd thee in the Noon-day Sweat of War,
And listen'd for thee on the Midnight Watch.
In frozen Regions, and in Sun-burnt Climes;
In Winds, in Tempests, and in troubl'd Seas,
In ev'ry Element I sought—But thou
Hast shunn'd the Searcher in each dangerous Path,
Spar'd him in Seas, in Battles, and in Storms,
To seize the weary Wanderer at his Rest,
And sink him in the Coward Arms of Peace.
Who, Providence, shall mark thy secret Ways,
Measure thy Wisdom, or dispute thy Pow'r?

Wade.
I hope, Sir Walter—

How.
Peace, saucy Babler.

Sir W. Ra.
Hear him; his Look a careful Kindness bears.
Speak soon, for I have things of high import,
That ask for Solitude, and private Thought.

Wade.
As you have liv'd renown'd, so die renown'd,
And after Death be still distinguish'd more.
Your Grave secreted from the Vulgar Urns,
Your Ashes honour'd, that succeeding Times
May mark the Place with Reverence.

Sir W. Ra.
Idle Care,
Posthumous Vanity of foolish Man!
Can Pomp and Pride make difference in our Dust?
Go, cast a curious Look on Helen's Tomb;
Do Roses flourish there, or Myrtles bloom?
The mighty Alexander's Grave survey;
See, is there ought uncommon in the Clay?
Shines the Earth brighter round it, to declare
The Glorious Robber of the World there lyes?—
What, Egypt, do thy Pyramids comprize?
What Greatness in the high-rais'd Folly lies?
The Line of Ninus this poor Comfort brings,
We sell their Dust, and traffick for their Kings.

[Exeunt.