 | Earl Goodwin |  |
SCENE London, after the Flight of Tostie.
Enter Goodwin and Harold.
Goodwin.
Harold, thy brother's treachery deeply strikes
My wounded heart, chilling its strongest force.
Unnatural boy! how hast thou soil'd my fame,
My age of hard-earn'd virtue! but for thee,
Had Goodwin's name to after ages borne
Sweet music to the ear.
Harold.
Forget his fault;
Tostie may yet subdue himself, and bless
The evening of thy life with peace.
Goodwin.
O Harold!
I am not used to mourn o'er sudden ills,
Or give a loose to private sorrow. Tears,
When unavailing, shame the eye.—Yet think
How we have struggl'd, triumph'd, sav'd our country,
Pluck'd off the galling chain of proud oppression,
And bade the bending wretch look up to freedom;
While glory, sitting in the nearest heav'n,
Smil'd on our labours. Now our foes will hold
The fault of Tostie to the eye of Fame,
When she would wrest our actions from oblivion.
Harold.
'Twill keep our foes from idleness, my lord.
Things grow by opposites. If future ages,
Thro' narrow ignorance, zeal, or party rage,
Convert the glorious deed to shame, while truth
Scorns the black record, shall we tremble now,
And shrink from virtue's standard? I confess
We do not hold th'advantage. Our good swords
Were never meant, like monkish pens, to cut
Deep channels for a lie.
Goodwin.
It must be so,
Within our bosoms must we find reward,
Nor dream of future commendation. Priests
Will damn Earl Goodwin, while they saint, King Edward;
And the weak million yield their reason.
Harold.
Where
Can be th'essential odds, my lord?—In title?
Why let them saint King Edward, swear he sprang,
Like Romulus, in a light mood, to heav'n;
No matter, we may take a better road.
Goodwin.
Thy wit is lively; but we'll to the king.
My heavy heart forebodes some unknown ill:
I'll not indulge it; 'tis the spirit's doubt,
Oft too creative when her bliss or woe
Suspended lingers for the future hour.
Exeunt.
Enter Goodwin and Harold.
Goodwin.
Harold, thy brother's treachery deeply strikes
My wounded heart, chilling its strongest force.
Unnatural boy! how hast thou soil'd my fame,
My age of hard-earn'd virtue! but for thee,
Had Goodwin's name to after ages borne
Sweet music to the ear.
Harold.
Forget his fault;
Tostie may yet subdue himself, and bless
The evening of thy life with peace.
Goodwin.
O Harold!
I am not used to mourn o'er sudden ills,
Or give a loose to private sorrow. Tears,
When unavailing, shame the eye.—Yet think
How we have struggl'd, triumph'd, sav'd our country,
Pluck'd off the galling chain of proud oppression,
And bade the bending wretch look up to freedom;
While glory, sitting in the nearest heav'n,
70
The fault of Tostie to the eye of Fame,
When she would wrest our actions from oblivion.
Harold.
'Twill keep our foes from idleness, my lord.
Things grow by opposites. If future ages,
Thro' narrow ignorance, zeal, or party rage,
Convert the glorious deed to shame, while truth
Scorns the black record, shall we tremble now,
And shrink from virtue's standard? I confess
We do not hold th'advantage. Our good swords
Were never meant, like monkish pens, to cut
Deep channels for a lie.
Goodwin.
It must be so,
Within our bosoms must we find reward,
Nor dream of future commendation. Priests
Will damn Earl Goodwin, while they saint, King Edward;
And the weak million yield their reason.
Harold.
Where
Can be th'essential odds, my lord?—In title?
Why let them saint King Edward, swear he sprang,
Like Romulus, in a light mood, to heav'n;
No matter, we may take a better road.
Goodwin.
Thy wit is lively; but we'll to the king.
My heavy heart forebodes some unknown ill:
I'll not indulge it; 'tis the spirit's doubt,
Oft too creative when her bliss or woe
Suspended lingers for the future hour.
Exeunt.
| Earl Goodwin | |