University of Virginia Library

SCENE the Outside of the Archbishop of Canterbury's Palace.
Enter Canterbury disguised as a Monk.
Canterbury.
An exile!—banish'd! my astonish'd soul
Dwells on the sound, as if it held a depth
Of horror still unknown! Banish'd! it strikes
Most forcibly.—O Goodwin, thou hast lash'd
Thy steeds of glory, till thou hast o'er-reach'd me;
And now I fall more helpless than the babe.
Revenge, where art thou? on the pow'rful arm
Thou own'st success, while I am driv'n forth
Thro' woods and dreary deserts to lament
My fate without thee! Could my dagger's point
But meet the throat of Goodwin ere I go,
My soul would still retain her pride. O Heav'n!
Add a few hours unto my bounded time
Of tarrying here, and welcome may'st thou cut
Double the number off my brittle life,
And this world's reck'ning! Time thou art the steed
On which fools ever sleep laden with schemes,
Dull fears, and lazy wishes.—To the wise,
Thou art the light'ning of o'ertaken-thought,
Embodying and throwing into act
The mind's more cool and latent meaning.—I
Have giv'n a loose far on, yet might I hold
One chance; upon it would I darkly force
Such circumstance as would avenge my wrongs.
[Enter Lodowicke passing hastily].
Hoa! Lodowicke!

Lodowicke.
That voice I sure have heard.
What would'st thou stranger?

Canterbury.
Quarrel with disguise
That hides lost Canterbury from thy view.
But time suits not, I must be brief: thou'rt come
To take a long farewel.

Lodowicke.
Of whom, my lord?

Canterbury.
Of me; thou hast not fail'd in secret furth'rance.
But we've a foe.

Lodowicke.
What foe?

Canterbury.
Earl Goodwin.

Lodowicke.
There
We've ever felt a curb: but why disguis'd?

Canterbury.
Goodwin's opinions flash on Edward's mind.
Teach him to doubt; while doubting, lead him on
To seek the grand original of things.
Rome's powerful legate seals my deep disgrace,
While for eternal banishment I yield
To this proud Earl my honours.

Lodowicke.
Banishment!
Thou dost confound my sense—How may I prove.
My friendship for thee?

Canterbury.
Friendship knows no law,
No bound in nature; 'tis the soul's fierce flame,
That in itself absorbs a deed, and turns,
By its dissolvent principle, the essence
Of vice to mildest virtue.

Lodowicke.
Why so cool?
Hast thou a doubt?

Canterbury.
I have.—Granting I had not,
What would'st thou do to prove thy boasted friendship?

Lodowicke.
Occasion is a loit'rer to my will,
Nor can my knowledge serve: instruct me—

Canterbury.
Swear!

Lodowicke.
Ye pow'rs of justice! if—

Canterbury
(hastily interrupting.)
Hah! saving clause
Of mungrel villany! What simple wretch
Would meekly bear pride's wounding insult, if
He dar'd avenge himself? What lovely maid
Would virtue fix on self-denial, if
She dar'd be less severe? What hungry knave
Would thriveless spread the snare of cunning, if
He boldly dar'd to give a master-stroke,
And foil by craft, rogues richer than himself?
—Go, thou art timid to a fault.

Lodowicke.
Thou'rt wrong;
I yet would serve thee.

Canterbury.
Swear thou wilt obey
My deep instruction, should'st thou be absolv'd
From guilt.

Lodowicke.
What may I swear by?

Canterbury.
By that pow'r
Thou hast most cause to fear.

Lodowicke.
By that sole cause
Who sits decisive as the judge of man.

Canterbury.
Goodwin must die!

Lodowicke.
Hah! murder?

Canterbury.
Wilt thou start
At one convenient act?—Remember, Monk,
The blooming Arthur, rich in ev'ry claim
Of interceding youth, did'st thou not wrest
His spirit from her mansion? Did'st thou not
(I privy to the guilt) accuse this Earl,
And poison his fair character, full charg'd
With the young prince's murder? Why did we
Dare thus the troubled sea of damning pride,
If not resolv'd to reach the glitt'ring shore?
What's life without pre-eminence? What slave,
Doom'd to throw pebbles at the changeful moon
(For such is man's great farce) would ceaseless drudge,
Could he lure fool-created Edward on,
And scourge him to the office? I am hurl'd
From heights on which my firmest virtues broke:
But with me thou shalt perish—Farewel priest.

[Exit Canterbury.
Lodowicke.
O guilt! till now I never felt thy snares.
Retreat is death—He's gone!—Where may we pause,
When once launch'd forth in evil? Should the king
Have knowledge of our crimes, his doom is seal'd,
Mine yet to come with full exposure. Shame!
Thou limping substitute of the soul's worth,
Thou com'st not but in secret to our aid,
Nor aid'st us till we're lost!—I must obey.

[Exit after Canterbury.
Enter Alwine and Attendants.
Alwine.
Here stands the unhappy Canterbury's palace,
Within whose walls sat purple-vested Guile,
Planning her persecutions. All is still:
No more the doors turn swiftly to receive
The might minister of England's ruin;
No more shall Wisdom's unsupported son
Here seek preferment with an honest blush,
That spake his soul invaluable, and sham'd
The haughty donor. See, my friends, how soon
Fade life's external beauties.

Attendant.
We are late:
I fear, my lord, the roads to Winchester
Are filled with riotous troops.

Alwine.
Lead thro' the woods;
Confusion roars but round the city. Blest
Is the poor villager, now toiling far
In the deep bosom of some flow'ry vale;
His brow wears sweet content, his guileless heart
Beats true to nature's transport; while his hearth,
Surrounded by his happy offspring, shines
More enviable than Edward's throne. Haste on,
For I am out of humour with the day,
That yields no vict'ry but to horrid guilt.

[Exeunt.