University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

SCENE A Hall in Salisbury's House.
Salisbury
solus.
Curse on the Statesman's Grave who married first,
Debauching the pure Stream of Politicks,
With the base mixture of Connubial Love.
O Rome, wise Rome, thy nobler Genius scorns
These little ties of fond Humanity.
Fearing that Nature might o'er-rule thy Sons,
You check that Fear, and o'er-rule Nature first.
Hence no Affection, no Remorse controuls
Thy Statesmen's Hands, no tender look of Love
Disarms thy holy Butchers in their Wrath.
Had I not wedded—I had had no Children,
No lawfully endearing Name of Daughter,
To tear my Heart-strings, and disgrace my Age.

Enter Gundamor.
Gun.
You seem disturb'd, my Lord, now when our Joys
Should rise at highest, like encount'ring Tides,
Meeting each other with a strong Embrace,
And murmuring o'er the Wreck our Anger made.

Sal.
[not minding.]
Sure Nature form'd all Women for our shame,
Perverse of Will, and obstinate in Wrong.
Where Law and Custom give 'em no Pretence,
Their curious Tempers and their Passions drive
The weakest Sex to do the greatest Ills,
And mar and spoil all Mischief but their own.

Gun.
He talks of Women, Wrongs, and Mischief,
The English Topicks of neglected Love.
How much Mens Passions vary with their Climes!
The Spaniard cloaks his Injuries in Smiles,
Till fair Occasion prompts him to Revenge,
And Life or Honour pay the Debt of Scorn.
[Aside.
Cecil, unlock thy Bosom to thy Friend;
I know the Windings of the subtle Sex,
And have a Clue to every Maze they tread.

Sal.
Can'st thou mould Nature new, or change
The pre-determin'd Qualities of Things,
Bid sweet taste bitter, and the bitter sweet;
Turn Hatred into Love, and Love to Hate,
And make me curse my Daughter, my Daughter?

Gun.
What Cause, my Lord—

Sal.
Raleigh's Life is sav'd,
The Warrant is revok'd, by her revok'd,
To please her sickly Appetite, that chose
(Damn'd fatal Choice!) his Issue for a Lover.

Gun.
Shame on the Father's Age, that gave Consent,
Suff'ring the Fruit of sixteen Winters Growth,
Just at the Point of ripening time, to fall
Faded and blasted by a Woman's Breath.
Were there not Baits enough, to lure her Eye
From one poor Object? where were all the Snares
Of Splendor, Title, Vanity and Show,
That catch their Eyes, and blind the Sex to Dotage?
Should wayward Children thus be pleas'd in Spain,
None but old Matrons, Shadows of the Sex,
Were left to walk the sacred Cloyster round,
Frighting each other o'er the Midnight Lamps.
And half the Saints that Tyrant Fathers made,
Were blotted from the List of Holy Church.

Sal.
All is not lost my Lord; my lab'ring Thought
Teems with a Project of more certain Ruin,
That saves our Fame, while it defeats his Friends,
And mocks e'en Pity in the Traitor's Fall.

Gun.
The dying Queen—that Thought has long been mine,
But Judgment check'd it at a second View,
As doubtful of Event. When Pow'r can kill,
Who would trust Fortune with the wav'ring Bait
Of accidental Honour, or Disgrace?

Sal.
E'en now the learned Consultation broke,
The Leeches gave the customary Sign
Of Death, and shook their careful Heads,
In Pity to the Frame they could not mend.
And yet his well-known Vanity will try
His Chymick Skill, where Art and Science fail.
By this he perishes, and gives the Means
To stir the People, and incense the King,
While the Queen's Murder is the general Cry.

Gund.
'Tis plausible; and if he should prevail,
Yet many Doors are open to his Fate;
Transfer the Honour to another's Hand,
Or swear 'twas Magick, and condemn him so.

Sal.
Here comes Sir Julius Cæsar, he shall go
The Messenger of Mischief to his Friend.

Enter Sir Julius Cæsar.
Sal.
You come, Sir Julius, in a happy Hour,
To cure the Fears of a distracted State.
The good desponding Queen asks Raleigh's Aid;
All other Arts are try'd; but he, you know,
Boasts Secrets, that cut short the Wings of Fate,
Arrest the flying Spirit in its Course,
And reconcile it to its House of Clay.

J. C.
I came to move the Question to your Ear,
And hear with Joy your Wishes run with mine.

Gun.
Who knows where Nature hides her various Gifts?
Not all who search her, find her wond'rous Ways.
Tell him, good Cæsar, that my friendly Voice
Has added to the Weight of Cecil's Love.

J. C.
I go, my Lords. Impatience wings my Way.
No Minutes must be lost, when Monarch's stay.

[Exit.
Sal.
Blind, blind Effects of fond Credulity,
That measures Things by the deceiving Line
Of its own Wishes!—Be it ever so
With all our Foes.

Gun.
I add another Pray'r!
Now Death be busy in the Pois'ner's Hand,
Exalt each liquid Drop with subtle Flame,
To rack and torture the despairing Frame;
Till dying Groans shall eccho round the Bed;
And the last Sound be heard,—The Traitor's Head.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter Olympia and Florella.
Olym.
Indulgent Heav'n has answer'd all my Pray'rs,
In Raleigh's Freedom; now the promis'd Vows
Of the dear Youth their own Completion bring.
O Love! what Miracles by thee are wrought;
How dost thou mix thy Causes, in one Day
Crowding the Woes and Happiness of Years!
All Passions that divide the Humane Breast,
Sink it in Sorrow, or exalt with Joy,
Hope, Anguish, Transport, Anger, Fear,
All have reign'd here within that scanty Space.
Let this suffice, imperious Deity
Be all my future View one bright Serene,
One lengthen'd Sunshine of unspotted Bliss,
Where Fear no Damps, where Sorrow casts no Shade.

Flor.
Bless 'em, ye Pow'rs, who guard the Virtuous Flames,
With gentle Concord and harmonious Love.
Spring new Delights with ever-flowing Sweets,
And, gather'd, grow with multiply'd Encrease.

Olym.
Kind, kind Florella,—but why stay we here,
Wasting the precious Hours in empty Wishes;
Wishes, the last remotest Line of Love?
Those are faint Blessings, swallow'd up and lost
In the wide Bosom of approaching Joys.
Come, let us seek the Presence of the Youth,
There count our Wonders and renew our Faith.
Tell how, as sinking Resolution fail'd,
The Father's o'er the Statesman's Heart prevail'd;
The Tale will please him from the Teller more,
And Love for Love return'd, shall quit the Score.

[Exeunt.
Enter Howard, and Sir Julius Cæsar.
J. C.
By Heav'n, 'tis wonderful! the Cordial Drops
No sooner reach'd the nobler Seats of Life
But the chill Blood renew'd its Purple Way,
The Pulse beat Vigour, and the waken'd Sense
Look'd forth, and darted Lustre from her Eye.

How.
I met the joyful News, it swell'd my Heart
To such uncommon Rapture, that I fear'd
Excess of Pleasure would undo it self.
Then thrice I drew the Goblet to my Lips,
And thrice I dry'd it to my Raleigh's Health.
Now, now, if any Sight could check my Haste
To meet my Friend's Embrace, 'twere Gundamor.

J. C.
See there your Wish—

How.
How crest-fall'n they look,
Like baffl'd Dæmons, when some friendly Spirit
Allays the Tempest that their Malice rais'd,
And wafts the threatned Vessel safe to Land.
It were a Loss my Soul cou'd not forgive,
If I forbore the Triumph of my Joy.

J. C.
'Tis better lost than made; a silent Scorn
Works artfully unseen, provoking none.

How.
Did they act so with me? was it a Mark
Of inward Spleen, to be confin'd, expos'd,
Worried, and baited, by their Blood-hound Guard?
Come Cæsar then, be wise another Day;
A chearful Madness best agrees with this.

[Exeunt.
Enter Salisbury, and Gundamor.
Sal.
Shining again at Court, my mortal Foe!
Whose Life, but Yesterday, I held so lost,
As if unworthy of Oppression's Heel
To sink it lower—he makes haste to Glory,
Like Light he shoots, that the Beholder's Eye
Scarce marks the rapid Stages of his Progress;
And while he says, From yonder Point it flew,
The Light is past him—

Gun.
Curse on the Description!
I saw him circl'd by a servile Crowd,
The Minions all ambitious of his View:
Whilst he as stifly disregardless stood,
As Greatness were his old, familiar Friend,
Tho' he and Infamy shook Hands this Morning.

Sal.
Ay, that he calls his best Philosophy;
That inward Pride that to it self pays Homage.
Believe me, no poor Madman, in his Cell,
Whom his own giddy Fancy makes a King,
So much admires the Phantoms of his Brain
As these Philosophers of Raleigh's Sect.
See how they cringe, and bow, and flatter there.
By Heaven I cannot bear it.

[Ex.
Gun.
'Tis he: My Nerves take Warning at his sight;
I feel him by Antipathy of Hate,
And all my Master's Empire shakes in me.
Help me, Dissimulation, smooth my Brow,
And teach my Tongue to differ from my Heart.
Enter Raleigh, attended.
Pardon, good Raleigh, these enfeebl'd Limbs
That drew their willing Master slowly on,
To welcome thee to Liberty and Joy.
Infirmities attend us all, and Age,
Old Age, oft makes us seem unmannerly,
When our Affections burn as high as Youth.

Sir W. Ra.
Your good Affections are well known, my Lord,
As is your Wisdom, and your Court-Address.

Gun.
Surely old Gundamor has liv'd too long,
If he must grow suspected by his Friends.
Trust me, I labour'd thy Release so long,
Rung thy dear Name so often in his Ears,
That thy good Master call'd me English-Man.

Sir W. Ra.
Did he? Why then he honour'd you indeed.

Gun.
Since then all Feuds are buried and forgot,
Tell me, good Raleigh, why thy generous Breast
Nurs'd such a fatal Hatred to our Spain?

Sir W. Ra.
To say I hate it, that belies my Heart,
And wrongs my native Land, whom Heav'n design'd,
By her Plantation in the watry Deep,
To mix with every Nation of the Earth.

Gun.
Then must you fear it, since you wrong'd us so.

Sir W. Ra.
Heav'n! that the Fears of all my Country-Men
Were such as mine, who know thy Master's Power
Too well to fear it; and regard my Fame
Too much, to wrong a Peasant of his Right!

Gun.
Whence then these Plunders on our Indian Shore?

Sir W. Ra.
The Peace extended not beyond the Line.
Nor launch'd we privately, with sordid Views:
The World beheld us, and approv'd our Deeds
As fair and equal in bright Honour's Eye,
And squaring with the common Rights of Men.
But would'st thou reckon well the Tale of Wrongs,
Look backward, and behold an Age's Toil,
Unnumber'd Armies, and confederate Fleets,
Half the leagu'd World, conspiring England's Fall.
I saw their Pride, and, thank all-gracious Heav'n,
Had no ignoble share in their Defeat;
When thy proud Master humbl'd all his Sails,
Implor'd the Water, Tempests, and the Rocks,
To hide his Shame, and save him from the Hand
Of Britons fighting in their Country's Cause.

Gun.
You rage, Sir Walter.

Sir W. Ra.
'Tis an honest Rage.

Gun.
Those Days are past; I praise 'em not, nor blame:
You then were quick and active in Exploits;
But you are slacken'd since; Your English March
Beats mighty slowly now.

Sir W. Ra.
Slow as it beats,
It once has beat thro' France, and may thro' Spain.

Gun.
You threaten, Sir; while I would speak of Things,
And know by Virtue of what Right you claim
Part of our Indian World, the Gift of Heav'n.

Sir W. Ra.
That Heav'n you mean, which gave you England too.
But had your Purple-mitred Tyrant Power
To give the Portions of the Earth away,
The largest, fairest Lot would be his Own.
He, in his Bounty, gave you India's Mines:
But could he give it for a Spoil and Prey?
Give Streams to thicken with the Native's Blood,
And Groves to labour with the Planter's Weight?
O Priest-begotten Tyranny! what Waste
Thy cruel Hands make in this fair Creation!
Treating Heav'n's Image in thy Fellow-Creature
Worse than the Savage Beast and grazing Herd.

Enter Salisbury.
Sal.
They have been warm—How my Tongue hates
[Aside.
The cursed Burthen it must now deliver.
My Message is to you, Sir Walter—The good Queen,
In just Return for Life and Health restor'd,
Bids you demand your self your own Reward;
Place, Title, Dignity, or Wealth.

Gun.
O she's a gracious Mistress!—But these Ears
Shall not be grated with his bold Request.

[Exit.
Sir W. Ra.
Bless her, thou mighty Being, ever raise,
As thou hast me, some Instrument of thine
To guard and save her in the Hour of Grief!

Sal.
I wait your Answer.

Sir W. Ra.
Thus then, my noble Lord:
My Sense is dull to all the Baits of Pleasure,
To gathering Riches, and the Pride of Titles;
Yet one Infirmity of honest Minds
Cleaves to my Heart; and tho' my Conscience speaks
My Innocence within, my wounded Fame,
In publick wounded, asks a publick Cure.

Sal.
Propose the Method.

Sir W. Ra.
Cobham still lives.
He once accus'd me: Let him now make good,
In Presence of some honourable Lords,
His former Charge, or else retract the Wrong.
This let him do, and sign it with his Name.

Sal.
A small Request, and will be granted soon.

Sir W. Ra.
My Fame thus safe, I fly from Care and Strife,
And gently tread the downward Path of Life.
No more expose my self to Fortune's Sport,
The Noise of War, or Whispers of a Court:
In letter'd Solitude unenvied reign:
Admire the Hills, but live upon the Plain.

[Exeunt.