University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE—The Thames.
Enter Bonvise and Heron.
BONVISE.
Here we take water, but must wait awhile,
The boatman is not come.

HERON.
A lucky pause.
Let us resume the story we had dropp'd,
And More be all the subject of discourse.

BONVISE.
Ay More alone, with now and then a glance
Toward his youngest daughter—her I mean
Whose sprightly wit has almost won the heart
Of a young Oxford scholar, just return'd
From schools and tutors with his first degree,
To steal a smile from sweet Cecilia's brow
And dine with Bonvise.

HERON.
Meaning me, I think.

BONVISE.
Yes Sir, and much commending your discernment.

HERON.
Why, to be honest, in my secret heart
I long have lock'd a more than due regard
To sweet Cecilia.

BONVISE.
Sir, not more than due.
Were it unbounded, it were all deserved.
There is in that sweet maid such easy mirth,
Such sensible good-humour, such an eye,
For ever laughing, and a heart so good,
That could I from these shoulders, with a wish,
Shake off some thirty years, I should become
Once more a wooer, and to win her love,
Be my friend Heron's rival. But since Time
Is such a sharp and cautious creditor,
He steals a grace for ev'ry year he gives,
I must have other thoughts, and leave the task
Of siege and conquest to the nerves of youth.
Pursue her then. If Bonvise can assist
And help you to her love, command my service.

HERON.
I thank you Sir; but we have far digress'd.
More was the theme.

BONVISE.
I knew him from a child,
A merry, generous, and active boy,
Courted by all his mates, and made the judge
Of ev'ry difference. I knew him too,
When, by the int'rest of his worthy father,
He was appointed to a place of trust,
Under the eye and in the house itself
Of Card'nal Morton. Highly pleas'd was he
With his new office, and as pleas'd with him
The gracious Card'nal. Often would he say,
Who liv'd to see it, More would one day shine
The ornament and honour of his country.
And so he lov'd him for his ready parts,
That shortly after, from his private purse,
He enter'd him at Oxford.

HERON.
I have drunk
Many a glass upon that very floor
Where More imbib'd his learning.

BONVISE.
He who drank
One glass of wine within his chamber door,
Drank more than he did all the years he dwelt there.
For he was ever sparing, and so strict
In his refusal of the grape's pure blood,
That he was styl'd the sober Rechabite
And wine-abhorring mussulman. He ate
Not much, and car'd not what. And so intent
Was his whole mind upon the books he read,
That he was always plain, and little art
Appear'd without to grace the man within.
Harris his servant bought him all he wore,
His total suit, and he approv'd in all
What colour and what fashion Harris pleas'd.

HERON.
You make me smile—but do not pause—proceed.

BONVISE.
I hasten to the time, when, terms expir'd,
He laid aside the boy, and 'gan perform
The able barrister, and worthy man.
Soon as he rose fame took him by the hand,
And trumpeted his praise, that all might hear
In ev'ry nook of this sea-compass'd isle.
So on he went, mounted from step to step,
And gather'd greatness like a ball of snow
Roll'd from the mountains. He was wise and just,
Ready and eloquent. He spared no pains
To win his cause, and if the cause was good,
Upheld it like a lion. For the fee
He little car'd, and where the man was poor
Labour'd for nothing. To relieve distress,
And humble arrogance, was all his wish;
Not to grow rich upon the spoils of both.

HERON.
A noble disposition.

BONVISE.
'Twas for this;
All who had suits pursued him. To his house
Resorted great and little, rich and poor.
The city chose him for their sheriff's court,
The still-yard merchants made him twice their agent,
And he was all-victorious. Hence it was
Wealth flow'd into his coffers, like the tide
Push'd by the wind into the mouth of Thames.
He was return'd to serve in parliament,
And shortly after that usurious king,
Our late exacting sovereign, made demand
Of a large subsidy and three fifteenths,
To dow'r his daughter to the king of Scots.
The sullen commons wish'd to shun the grant,
But hardly dar'd; and they had surely pass'd
An act to yield it, but that More arose
And dealt about such manly argument
As rous'd them to withstand the king's request,
And grant him nothing. When the house dispers'd,
'Twas told his majesty, a beardless boy
Had thwarted all his purpose. In great wrath
He vow'd revenge, and to the Tower sent,
For some fictitious fault, the good old judge,
His innocent father.

HERON.
With his hoary locks
The mild Sir John, who at his son's still lives,
And, circled by his beauteous progeny,
Towards his exit like the ev'ning sun
Sinks smiling.

BONVISE.
Yes, that venerable man.
And tho' no crime was ever urg'd against him,
He gave him not release till he had rais'd
A heavy fine upon him. Griev'd at heart
Was More, to see the old and waspish king
Pillage the father for the son's offence;
And well he knew, soon as occasion serv'd,
His harpy talons would be fix'd on him.
So to the continent he purpos'd flight.
But, ere his steed was ready, news arriv'd
The king was dead and all the land at rest.
He was not sorry to be so reliev'd,
And once more with his wife and little ones
Sat down in peace.

HERON.
What did the present king.

BONVISE.
The fame of More soon reach'd him, and he sent
Cardinal Wolsey, then an humble priest,
To give him invitation to his court.
He modestly excus'd his want of parts,
And hop'd his majesty would seek advice
From those that more deserv'd. The king forbore
To urge him farther; so he liv'd retir'd,
Tho' warm in his profession, and his hours
Fill'd all with labour of the pen and head.

HERON.
Then came the weighty cause which call'd him forth
To public service.

BONVISE.
Yes, the forfeiture
Of the pope's ship, for which he was retain'd
To plead in the star-chamber, and so shone
Before the chancellor and all the bench,
That the king press'd him for his eloquence,
And made him of his council 'gainst his will.
But this you know, and my tale, too minute,
Vexes your ear.

HERON.
Not so. I hear with pleasure.
What follow'd as Sir Thomas rose at court?

BONVISE.
For many years he was so much belov'd,
Both by the king and his unhappy queen
From whom he now solicits a divorce,
That they detain'd him days and weeks, yea months,
To feed upon the music of his tongue.
And when with difficulty he obtain'd
Leave to be gone, to kiss his little ones,
And spend an interval of speedy love
With the deserving partner of his cares,
The king would often to his house repair,
Where he now lives, upon the river's brink,
At Chelsea—walk into his garden—talk
Of learning, politics and news of state—
Lean on his shoulder in familiar chat—
And sometimes at his table, poorly spread,
Dine uninvited.

HERON.
I have heard as much.

BONVISE.
Then was he chosen speaker to the commons,
And shortly after the bold Cardinal
Came to the house with a few other lords,
Preceded by his polaxes and cross,
His pillars, maces, his great seal and hat,
To countenance a bill depending then,
And little relish'd, to allow the king
Upon demand, an ample subsidy.
He came, and out of season made a speech,
To tell the commons what the monarch ask'd
'Twas theirs, as duteous subjects, to bestow.
But this was doctrine that no ear approv'd.
So when he finish'd, and with threat'ning eye
Look'd round for their consent, seeming to say,
‘Deny me if you dare,’ the house was still,
And not a single member op'd his lips.
Stung with vexation he could ill conceal,
He call'd on one, another, and a third,
To make reply or second his demand.
But none obey'd him, for 'twas predetermin'd
The house would answer by their speaker More.
The speaker rose, and in an able speech
Excus'd their silence; said, the house abash'd
At sight of one so learned and so wise,
So great and noble, deigning to appear
Within their doors, could not collect their pow'rs
To make him due reply. Then with warm words,
That made his heart's blood mount into his face,
Bold but respectful, pointed but polite,
He told him that his coming to that house
Was inexpedient, contrary to form,
And not agreeable to ancient right.
Then Wolsey rose, and with his face on fire
Departed muttering.

HERON.
Hence sprang it seems
That jealousy his looks so oft betray
Toward Sir Thomas.

BONVISE.
From this very cause.
For in his heart he hid a world of spite,
And has attempted oft to ruin More
In the kings estimation, but in vain.
The king still loves him—may he love him long.
He was his orator on Ardres plain,
At Cambridge and at Oxford. Here I pause.
For why should I relate what all must know,
That More and Tunstal are but now return'd
From treating at Cambray, and bring us home
The welcome olive and long-wish'd-for peace.
I hear the king is above measure pleas'd
At the good terms on which we sheathe the sword.
If so, the Cardinal may strive in vain,
More will not fall thro' him.

HERON.
When comes he home?

BONVISE.
I met Cecilia in my morning's walk.
She shew'd me then a letter, where he said,
If nothing hindered he should sleep to night
In his own house at Chelsea. Lo! the boat.
Come and I'll shew you all the wealth he owns.
Blooming Eliza shall delight your ear
With her soft flowing song, and you shall see
The humble Margaret, her father's pride,
The pattern of a mother gone to heaven.
But look and love not, for the maid is won,
And wedded. Happy Roper! Neither hope
Charming Eliza shall be ever thine.
Her heart is Dancy's, and his heart is her's.
Cecilia yet loves none, reserv'd perhaps
For my friend Heron. And believe me, Sir,
Heron is surely happy if he wins her.
Nature has made them all to be admir'd,
To be belov'd. And each subduing grace
Which nature gave the Father has improv'd,
Gently conducting their obedient minds
Into the paths of virtue, truth, and knowledge.
Come let's away, we make the boat-man wait.

Exeunt.
SCENE changes to Sir Thomas More's Library. Margaret is discovered reading, Eliza at work, Cecilia looking on.
CECILIA.
Better and better. Sure we shall at last
Paint nature as she is. That rosebud there
Tempts me to smell to it. That snow-drop smiles
Like Christmas bounty—and that jasmine sprig
I long to pluck it—with the bunch of pinks
'Twould make a nosegay worthy of the queen.
Indeed Eliza we shall soon excel.
Practice has won us half the painter's art.
I think within a day or two at most,
To paint my father's picture with my needle
As well as Holbein with his brush and pallet.
Heav'ns how you frown! Since Dancy left the room
I have not seen one smile upon your cheek,
Nor heard one syllable escape your lips.
Be not so grave and serious. One would think
There was as much devotion in your work
As Marg'rets book, and half her page, I'll swear,
Is not observed. Her thoughts are all abroad
Dancing attendance at her husband's heels.
Pray what's the subject Marg'ret. See she's dead.
She's fast asleep and all her dream is Roper.
Well, if you will be grave, I'll walk alone,
And get a sweet-heart to be dull as you.
Dear Ladies, fare ye well. How strong is love
To bind in fetters e'en a woman's tongue!
I wish my father may come home to night.
So, so, my Lady Alice, are you there?
Ladies, I leave you to your step-mamma.

(Exit.)
Enter Lady More.
LADY MORE.
What, reading still my daughters, still at work?
So much confinement will impair your health.
I was all action when as young as you.
What will your father think, if he returns
And finds us all so idle, and our house
So ill prepar'd. Come, lay aside your book,
And meet me in the hall without delay.

(Exit.)
ELIZA,
rising.
O my dear Marg'ret, how tormenting 'tis
Thus to forsake the happy thoughts we feed,
And wander by compulsion. All your mind
Has been employ'd on Roper and my father,
All mine—

MARGARET.
On Dancy.

ELIZA.
Yes, and I desire,
Ere we are sunder'd, and my father comes,
To ask you one short question.

MARGARET.
Let me hear it.

ELIZA.
Answer me truly, and if ought be done
That needs correction, let thy gentle tongue
Spare not to censure me.

MARGARET.
Why fears thy heart?
Disburthen all thy soul. Its secret hopes
Shall be as safely lock'd in Marg'ret's breast
As Marg'rets once in thine. We were as twins
E'en from the cradle, and Eliza's tongue
Never till now was backward to reveal
The secret passion of her longing heart
To my attentive ear.

ELIZA.
Nor will she now,
Tho' willing to conceal what all perceive,
Her love for Dancy. Will my father, think you,
Will he approve?

MARGARET.
Thy love for Dancy? Yes.
There is in Dancy such a lib'ral mind,
Such knowledge and such virtue, such regard
To outward decency and inward worth,
How can he but approve? I've heard him speak
In terms of extacy of that good youth,
And tell our brother John to copy him.
There is but one thing can prevent thy wish.
He is a younger son, and fortune's hand
Bestow'd no ample means upon his father.

ELIZA.
Ay, there's my fear. The want of wealth alone
May prove a barrier to Eliza's love,
And make her ask in vain her father's leave.
Ah! she will not obtain it.

MARGARET.
Be not sad.
Ask it at least. Our father is most kind,
And often has remov'd the thing we fear'd,
To help us to our wish. So will he now.

ELIZA.
I wish 'twere possible. But, such a rock
Is want of money, in the way of love,
I fear to ask it. It would grieve his heart
Not to remove the obstacle we dread.

MARGARET.
Then let me ask it; for my own success
Was due to intercession made by thee,
When I was lov'd as thou art. I will ask,
And may my prayer earn the meed we wish.

ELIZA.
Thanks, my dear friend. I ow'd you much before.
Do this, and I shall owe you all. Succeed,
And how shall I requite you?

MARGARET.
Say no more.

(Exeunt.)
SCENE changes to Sir Thomas More's Garden. Sir John More is discovered sitting on a Garden-seat. To him enters Cecilia.
SIR JOHN.
Who's there? Cecilia?

CECILIA.
Yes, Sir.

SIR JOHN.
Where's your tongue?
It is not us'd to make such short replies.

CECILIA.
No, Sir, but I am busy.

SIR JOHN.
What d'ye look at?

CECILIA.
A little animal, that round my glove,
And up and down to ev'ry finger's tip,
Has travell'd merrily, and travels still,
Tho' it has wings to fly. What its name is
With learned men I know not. Simple folks
Call it the Lady-bird.

SIR JOHN.
Poor harmless thing,
Save it.

CECILIA.
I would not hurt it for the world.
Its prettiness says, spare me, and it bears
Armour so beautiful upon its back,
I could not injure it to be a queen.
Look, Sir, its coat is scarlet dropp'd with jet,
Its eyes pure ivory.

SIR JOHN.
Child, I am blind
To objects so minute. I know it well.
'Tis the companion of the waning year,
And lives among the blossoms of the hop.
It has fine silken wings enfolded close
Under that coat of mail.

CECILIA.
I see them, Sir,
For it unfurls them now. 'Tis up and gone.
But here, Sir, in my left hand I have lock'd
A pris'ner still more beauteous. 'Tis a moth.
I found it on a rose-leaf. It has wings
Dappled with grey and jet, and underneath
Sleeps in a suit of scarlet. No, it wakes.
I feel it move. 'Tis eager to be gone.
Shall I dismiss it?

SIR JOHN.
By all means.

CECILIA.
'Tis gone,
And has left half the beauties of its wing
In dust upon my glove.

SIR JOHN.
Ay, beauty's wreck
Is soon accomplish'd. Of created things
Nothing was finish'd with a tool so nice
As the moth's wing. 'Tis cover'd with fine art.
'Tis cloath'd in feathers to the quickest eye
Hardly perceptible. Yet one slight touch
Defaces all. So woman's beauty flies,
Brush'd by the hand of sorrow or mischance.
Escapes it these? Age will not let it pass.
It falls a victim to the thefts of time;
And there is nothing permanent on earth
But goodness. I have liv'd, Cecilia, long.
'Tis almost ten years since I saw fourscore.
Experience tells me beauty is a shade,
And all the pride of youth a morning cloud.
Will you be taught to be for ever fair,
Spite of old age and wrinkles? then be good.

CECILIA.
Dear Sir, I will, if you'll instruct me how.
For nature made me with a sloven's hand,
And sent me to the world so ill-endowed
The eye of man o'erlooks me. None I win,
Because I want Eliza's lively bloom
And Marg'ret's modesty. Will goodness, Sir,
Atone the loss of these?

SIR JOHN.
Ay, three times these.

CECILIA.
Then, Sir, if I live longest, leave me your's.

SIR JOHN.
Thou wilt not want it, were it more than 'tis.
Besides our virtues are not our's to give.
Estates and chattels may from sire to son
Descend by will, but goodness none inherits.
'Tis the peculiar beauty of the soul
And with it flies to heav'n. It must be won,
Or never worn. Thy own industrious hand
Must earn it with much labour. 'Tis the meed
And golden wages of habitual merit,
Which rises early to an endless task,
And leaves it late at night.

CECILIA.
What task, dear Sir,
Tell me, and I'll begin it.

SIR JOHN.
'Tis begun.
Do as thy father bids thee, 'twill proceed.

CECILIA.
I wish he was at home. Sir, will you walk,
And look out for him at the garden gate?
I think he'll come by water.

SIR JOHN.
Go before.
I'll follow after with what speed I can.

CECILIA.
No, Sir, we'll go together. Here's your staff.
The other hand shall rest upon my arm.

(Exeunt.)
SCENE changes to a rural Prospect. Enter Lady More, Margaret, and Eliza.
LADY MORE.
Where did you leave Cecilia?

MARGARET.
She left us,
And may no doubt be in the garden found
Conversing with Sir John. She loves to talk,
And he her ready judgment loves to hear.

LADY MORE.
Well, stay awhile, and there we will go seek her.
I must a moment leave you.

(Exit.)
ELIZA.
Many thanks
I owe thee Margaret, for thy kind concern
And friendly consolation.

MARGARET.
Name it not.
Some one approaches. Is not this the road
Most usual with our father?

ELIZA.
So I think,
And, if my eyes are good, I see him now.

MARGARET.
Surely 'tis he—let's meet him—yes, 'tis he.
Lo! he has spied us, and dismounts to meet us.

(They go out and return again immediately with Sir Thomas.)
SIR THOMAS.
What! still together? Ere I went from home
I gave this hand to Roper, yet it hangs
Still on its old support, Eliza's arm.
How does my Marg'ret? Child, thy fruitful eye
Wept much at my departure; weeps it now?
Sorrow alone should with the Naiads dwell,
Joy should be far away. I need not ask
If health be thine Eliza, for thy cheek
Speaks warm assurance that no latent ill
Lurks in the life within. The plenteous shower
That water'd these gay roses as I went
Has made them fresh as morning, sweet as May.
And yet methinks, the remnant of a cloud
Hangs on thy brow, and that reluctant smile
Is summer scarce return'd, an April sun
That shines in tears, and in a moment fades.
Cecilia's well? your brother, and Sir John?

ELIZA.
All well, Sir.

SIR THOMAS.
And my Lady Alice well?
And Roper? all my house, and all my friends?

MARGARET.
All well, Sir.

SIR THOMAS.
Why then let's be merry, girls,
For all the land rejoices. Where's my Lady?
And where Sir John, Cecilia, and my son?

MARGARET.
Your son and Mr. Roper are from home.
Sir John is with Cecilia in the garden.
My Lady Alice is this moment gone
Into the house before us.

SIR THOMAS.
Softly then.
We'll first salute my lady by the way,
Then steal a silent entrance to the garden.

(Exeunt.)
SCENE changes to the Garden Gate looking out upon the Thames. Cecilia and Sir John standing in expectation.
CECILIA.
Indeed I think he's coming, Sir. The boat
Is with her head this way. The boatman too
Seems to row faster at the sight of us.
Can you not hear his oars?

SIR JOHN.
But there are two.
Who should the second be?

CECILIA.
Harris perhaps.
(Enter Sir Thomas, Lady More, Margaret, and Eliza unperceived.)
I'm certain 'tis my father. See his hand,
He waves it to us. Sir, I know 'tis he.

SIR THOMAS.
Your spectacles deceive you, Madam.

CECILIA.
Ah!
A ghost! Look, Sir, my father.

SIR JOHN.
'Tis indeed.

SIR THOMAS.
It is good, Sir, and it delights me much
To find you able still. Cecilia's eyes
As yet less quick than yours. She doubts me still.
An honest kiss may serve to undeceive her.
Now tell me, Madam, am I but a ghost,
Or flesh and blood, as thou art.

CECILIA.
Flesh and blood
I think Sir, and you're truly welcome home.

SIR JOHN.
Yes, she has daily pray'd for your return,
And greets it heartily as well as I,
Glad to receive you ever, never more
Than when the blessed messenger of peace.

SIR THOMAS.
In truth, good sir, I feel it is an office
An angel might be proud of. What a show'r
Of hearty welcomes has pursued my steps
E'en to my door at Chelsea! Ever thus
Smile peace upon us, and the weary sword
Rust in the scabbard.

SIR JOHN.
I rejoice to hear
Your female counsellors were both for peace.

SIR THOMAS.
The French King's mother and the Emp'rors aunt
Our sister plenipo's? yes, both for peace,
And 'twas a message that gave second youth
To their time-faded cheeks. A woman's tongue
Sings sweetly, when the burden of her song
Is lovely peace. The angry sounds of war
Denounc'd by her, deprive her of all grace.
Her weapon is the curt'sy of obedience.
She conquers like the Parthian by retreat,
Wounds as she flies, and as she yields subdues.
Ha! who comes here?

CECILIA.
'Tis Mr. Bonvise, Sir,
The person we mistook for you I think,
And with him Mr. Heron.

SIR THOMAS.
Welcome Sir.

Enter Bonvise and Heron.
BONVISE.
Sir Thomas welcome—welcome to your own
And welcome to your country. To myself
Welcome as plenty with a crowded lap
Diffusing general good. I owe to you,
That my adventures once more plough the deep
Without a foe in man. The lurking rock
The fatal quicksand war, at your command
No more annoys me, but my prosp'rous sails
Brave the wild ocean in what course they please.

SIR THOMAS.
Let me have room to thank you, worthy Sir,
And welcome this your friend.

BONVISE.
Young Mr. Heron.
Had my overflowing heart been loaded less
With thanks for my own welfare, I had said
Much in his commendation. Sir he's young
But graces youth with merit.

HERON.
Spare me Sir;
Much recommending injures the good name,
And he who seems an angel in report
Is often found deficient in the trial.

SIR THOMAS.
Modest at least, good Sir; and modesty
Makes us applaud the moon with borrow'd beams,
While from the real glories of the sun,
Proudly display'd, we turn our eyes away.

HERON.
If, Sir, to wish that excellence we want,
Be to deserve a little, then that little
In its full measure is the worth I own.

SIR THOMAS.
Modest again.—

LADY MORE.
Sir Thomas, by your leave,
You make your worthy father stand too long.

SIR THOMAS.
I think so, Lady More; therefore proceed
And shew the way to chairs.

(Exeunt all but Sir Thomas and Bonvise.)
SIR THOMAS.
A pleasant youth.
I like him much, for his ingenious mind
Is like a beauty veil'd, that hides her face,
Not like the gen'ral world to be thought fair,
But that she deems it plain, and ill perceives
Her own perfection. Did you mark Cecilia?
Methought her eye shew'd singular regard
To our young friend. If he approves her tongue
As much as she his person, I may vouch
They'll soon approach me with the lover's prayer
Sigh'd from an aching bosom, Sir your leave.
I am not certain I should disapprove.

BONVISE.
Sir Thomas, to be bold, his heart's desire
Is to obtain her; and my sedulous eye
Was much delighted at the gracious looks
Cecilia gave him. When he saw her first,
There was in her discourse a cheerful power
That won his ear, and with his ear his heart.
He own'd he lov'd. And should he chance to win
The honest heart of your most worthy daughter,
I dare affirm his father will be pleas'd,
And crown th' abundant honour he pursues
With hearty approbation. And perhaps,
When I have told you how that youth deserves,
And what he may expect hereafter—

SIR THOMAS.
Stay.
I do not wish to fix my daughter's price
At more than maintenance. All else I ask
Is the good heart and cultivated mind.
Young men who these possess, shall have approach,
And all success their virtues can obtain them.
Be it still provided, merit what they will,
They win my daughters with their own consent,
Free from all bias. Therefore seal thy lips,
And never let this secret thence escape,
That I approve of Heron. Her good heart
Is pliant and complying, and 'twould yield,
Spite of her judgment, to her father's wish.
In choice of husbands they shall please themselves.
Enter Roper and Dancy.
Son Roper, I rejoice to see your looks,
And your's friend Dancy, of a hue so healthy.
Learning and solitude have seldom brows
That look so fresh.

ROPER.
Except at Chelsea, Sir,
Under your mild protection. Study here
Impairs not beauty. Nature has her friend,
As well as wit and knowledge. Hand in hand
Dance the sweet graces of the polish'd mind
And healthy constitution.

SIR THOMAS.
Sir, no more.
I know you'll ring us changes in that key
Till we forget our supper. Lead the way.

(Exeunt.)