University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE: HAMPTON COURT.
[View of the Thames; musical instrument, book, cloak on the grass in the shade.]
Enter Lady Eleanor.
“I'faith! his majesty is very near,
“Here be his gentle traces, plain as track
“Of leveret on the snow. Troth here were games!
“The zittern—sad old airs, I wis, for children.
“A book—‘Right Merry Tales for Foolish Folk,’
“Read with quaint utterance and rueful brow,
“And with such awful liftings of the finger,
“As hold a babe betwixt a laugh and shudder.
“Faith! there are bogies now in London streets,
“That well might fright grey hairs. The world's gone mad!
“And where's the king but junketing with bairns!
“Slander and treason swagger through the streets.
“And where's the king? alack! calm as the moon
“Seen through a panic of storm-driven clouds,
“In perfect peace among her wistful stars.
“I rede a sorry waking from such slumber;
“And, in good troth, it needs but little gift
“Of prophecy when on the fickle sunshine
“Is sharply outlined the advancing shadow.”

Enter Lord Huntley.
Huntley.
Methinks I've strayed into the maze of Rosamond.
I fairly am at fault. Ah, here's the river!
They told me, by the river.

Eleanor.
Good-morrow, my Lord Huntley.

Huntley.
Give you good-morrow, Lady Eleanor.
We are well met. Stead me to find the king.

Eleanor.
What is this hurrying to and fro? this bustle?
My lord, to my poor thinking, ere the night,
This Master Hampden and his following
Will broach our wine-casks.
The king arrives, without or state or envoy,
But yesterday. The queen comes with dispatch,
As ruffled as a bird 'scaped from the fowler,
In quest of his most truant majesty.
Then comes Lord Moray, all his holiday smiles,
Quite blank and drawn. Now you arrive, post haste;
Good my Lord Huntley, what's to do in London?

Huntley.
Not much. Canst thou not tell by soothsaying?
A few heads broke; much good October ale
Wasted on sots. “I prithee, canst thou tell,
“Is my Lord Moray very high in favour?

Eleanor.
“Good sooth, as close as e'er was Buckingham.
“Hast thou not heard that the young Prince of Wales
“Hath left the court in dudgeon, when he learned
“That Moray was invited? Come, good, now,
“There's a sweet crumb of gossip for thy craving.
“Say, what's this sudden news?

Huntley.
“Moray's career will not be long, methinks.
“'Fore George! he's safer here than in the town.
“To-day he left it timely, for his life.

Eleanor.
“Truly, her Majesty cannot abide him.
“He is not long for court.

Huntley.
“Ah, very like.
“The devil gives short lease to a king's favourite.
“His father was dear gossip to King Jamie;
“And this gay lord, his godson, as I heard,
“He was commended to his present Majesty
“By the King on his deathbed—some such tale.
“My Lady Eleanor, I've somewhat strayed,
“And have some urgent business with the King.
“Do me the favour—

Eleanor.
“Nay,
“I will not budge a step without a bribe.
“Now, prithee, leave this pestilent air of mystery,
“'Tis neither courtierwise nor statesmanwise.”
In sooth, I warrant thee, here's some stale news,
Which takes so long in coaxing.
I'll wager thee a yard of point de Venise,
There's nought to tell, malgré these airs of mystery.

Huntley.
Oh, nothing, less than nothing, my good lady.
London grows large apace; bread is come down;
They say the plague is gone away to Cairo.
Well, I'll e'en try to find the King myself [going].


Eleanor.
Nay, you will lose yourself, and catch some mischief.
Marry, now, I can tell thy news already,
By my divining art. Lady Carlisle
Hath blabbed too much to Master Pym. My lord,
Have I thee there?

Huntley.
In very troth, my lady,
Thou art a soothsayer—chartered court Sibyl!
What need hadst thou for picking my old brains?
Now, by mine honour, if King Jamie lived,
It had gone hard with thee, but thou hadst fared
As badly as a warlock [laughs].


Eleanor.
Sayest thou?
And dost thou dare mock at my gifts, my lord?

Huntley.
Not I, in faith! Bell, book, and candle, madam,
Are serious matters.

Eleanor.
I am beholden to you, my good lord.
Mock on, mock on; but all the court could tell thee
The words of Lady Eleanor come true.
'Twas I foretold, my lord, the first-born prince
Should find in the same day birth, christening, burial;
'Twas I foretold, though mocked at then as now,
The fatal hour when Felton stabbed the Duke.
Good my Lord Huntley, I will meet thee now;
I'll cast thy horoscope, and read for thee
The manner of thy death!

Huntley.
“Now, Heaven forbid!
“Thou'rt very good. And dost thou live at court
“To menace with the grisly dart of death
“Poor trembling souls? 'Fore George! methinks I see
“The corpse-lights in thine eye: thy very coif
“Doth look like death-gear.
“Oh! thou art most discomfortable company
“For a poor sinner with distempered spleen!

Eleanor
(angrily).
“My lord!”

Huntley.
Nay, be not angry. In good soberness,
If you predict for me, when Thomas Huntley
May do some comely action, strike some honest blow,
With blood or coin aid his unhappy country,
I'll list to that and note it. For my death,
When, in God's time, it comes, the secret is
With Him and not with thee!

Eleanor.
Hush! hush! my lord. The Queen!

Enter Henrietta.
Queen.
Marquis,
I'm always glad to see you at the court.
You come to see his Majesty?

Huntley.
My business,
Your Majesty, is somewhat pressing, or—

Queen.
Make no excuse. You will be welcome, sir.
I go to seek the King, and I will tell him.

Huntley.
I thank your Majesty.

Queen.
I wish you do like better England, Marquis,
Than your cold country, Scotland?

Huntley.
Please your Majesty,
But my cold country is too hot for me.
It went hard with me to escape with life.

Queen.
And I shall not forget the noble cause:
Your toleration to the suffering Catholics.
Here and in France command my services.
I shall not lose the occasion.

Huntley.
I humbly thank your Majesty.

[Exit.
Queen.
Eleanor,
Hast seen the King?

Eleanor.
The King was here but now, your Majesty.
This ruffled grass is the sweet chronicle
Of some right merry game. Here have the pixies danced.

Queen.
Oh! I do thank you, Eleanor; I'll find them
Along the banks, upon the pollard walk [going].


Eleanor.
A moment I would crave your gracious pardon,
'Tis haply best your Majesty should know—

Queen.
What?

Eleanor.
That your Majesty should be prepared
Before you meet his Majesty—

Queen
(impatiently).
Of what—what—what?

Eleanor.
Should be prepared to see a sudden change
In retinue and household.

Queen.
My retinue!

Eleanor.
For some good reason, which his Majesty
Best knoweth, all your Majesty's French servants
Have been discharged.

Queen.
Bon Dieu!

Eleanor.
Discharged with liberal quittance, and commanded
To part for France to-day.

Queen.
My servants all discharged! impossible!
It is not true!

Eleanor.
I feared 'twould move your Majesty to anger.

Queen.
Anger with whom? Yes, Eleanor, with you!
How do you dare to question what it pleases
The King to do?
How could the King's good pleasure anger me?

Eleanor.
I humbly crave your Majesty's forgiveness.
In good sooth, as a loyal, loving servant,
I would be fain your Majesty were angry;
Yea very angry, e'en to quitting England.

Queen.
Quitting England! What do you mean to say?

Eleanor.
So please your Majesty, I have had a vision,
Foreshadowing trouble great and notable;
And like the petrel hanging o'er the wave
With warning cry, I will make bold to urge
With humble suit, your Majesty should—should—

Queen.
Why hesitate you?

Eleanor.
Should fly from England till the sky be clear.

Queen.
Eleanor!
I do believe thou'rt in the pay o'the Commons
To banish me to France.

Eleanor.
Your Majesty doth very deeply wrong me.

Queen.
I do not think so. What then are those hints—
Those tales—those—Now I am sure 'tis but a tale:
His Majesty hath not discharged my suite.

Eleanor.
Please you, who waited on your Majesty
On your arrival here? Methinks the men
In livery were English, and the maids
Were—

Queen.
Let me hear no more! (aside)
C'est une infamie!
I shall return to France, and never more
Set foot in England.

Eleanor.
Would your Majesty
Be pleased to hear the vision?

Queen
(aside).
In the face of all the Court
Who do not love me, to insult me thus.
I shall not pardon it, non!

Eleanor.
Be pleased, your Majesty, to hear my vision?

Queen
(angrily).
No! nothing. You can retire.

[Eleanor bows and withdraws.
Queen
(relenting).
Eleanor!

Eleanor
(stops and turns).
Please your Majesty?

Queen.
What is thy vision? Why dost thou torment me?

Eleanor.
I only waited for your gracious leave,
And yet I fear me 'tis an idle warning.

Queen.
And why?

Eleanor.
Unless your Majesty depart from England.

Queen.
I do suspect thee sorely of complicity
With this same jealous Commons.

Eleanor.
Nay, your Majesty.

Queen.
Nay; give me thy parole.

Eleanor.
May evil seize me, if your Majesty
Should prove me false.

Queen.
What then is this—this vision?

Eleanor.
For all this latter week, in sooth, I have been
In a strange fantasy about his Majesty—
Until this morn, when, as I sat me down
At my tambour-frame, lo! I had a vision.

Queen.
Well—well—well?

Eleanor
(solemnly).
Methought in England was a mighty Fairing:
A Fair such as there never was nor shall be
Under the sun. The nation gathered busily
To buy and sell. And in the midst of them
Methought there was a spacious sable booth
All hung with fair black crape. And, as I looked
And marvelled what it meant, lo! at the opening
A sad and courtly figure stood alone,
In deepest mourning; torn and soiled his cloak;
His eyes exceeding sorrowful, yea, till tears
Came to the eyes of all; and as I gazed
Methought I knew the face.

Queen
(eagerly).
It was—

Eleanor.
The King's!

Queen.
Ciel! How didst thou interpret it?

Eleanor.
As danger to the House of Stuart.

Queen.
You say the King looked sad?

Eleanor.
Yes.

Queen.
And alone?

Eleanor.
Quite alone.

Queen.
I don't believe it!
If thou didst see aright, I, his true wife,
Was at his side.

Eleanor.
I tell your Majesty but what I saw.
Some trouble draweth near the King; and truly
I would your Majesty were pleased to seek
Some place of safety.

Queen.
Of safety—no, of honour!
The place of love and duty by his side.
You have no husband.

Eleanor.
Marry! then I might have, and I well wot
A good one too—once and again I might.
Your Majesty desired me say my dream.

Queen
(going L. U. E.).
Say thy prayers, Eleanor. I do believe
Thou playest on my fears. Say thy prayers, Eleanor,
Thou'lt get more good than spying upon Providence.

[Exit.
Eleanor
(watching her off).
Yea, and your Majesty shall have my prayers,
Whilst knee can bend, and hands can hold together.
A dearer, kinder, truer little Queen
Ne'er brightened palace hall. I'd rather smart
Under her pretty broken English tongue
Than cloy on flatteries Queens are fed withal.
[Children laugh outside.
Here's music, sirs, I warrant! Here are nightingales!
Truly, I hope the Queen won't miss his Majesty.
Now, my Lord Huntley. Where's my upright lord?

[Looks out.
Queen.
Oh! my lord! my lord! my lord!

[Exit.
Enter Charles, carrying the Prince James on his shoulder, and leading the Princess Elizabeth.
King.
This is the place where cavaliers dismount
And bait their horses. Why, my good man Jamie,
You grow apace, and overweight your horse.

Elizabeth.
Father, a story.

King.
Or a ballad, or a song,
Or else a merry talk! Which shall it be?

Elizabeth.
The ballad of King Lear.

James.
Yes, say King Lear.

King.
“King Lear once ruled in this land.”
Sit thou upon the stone, my Goodman Hodge:
This is thy Mistress mounted on her palfrey.

[Places the boy down on the grass, retaining Elizabeth on his knee.]
Elizabeth.
Now father—“King Lear once—”

King.
“King Lear once ruled in this land
With princely power and peace,
And had all things with heart's content
That might his joys increase.”

Queen
(having entered hastily).
At last I find thee! I have much to tell.
Didst thou forget me, love?

King.
Welcome, dear heart! Beshrew thy tarrying,
I had but half a welcome from the bairns:
I missed the sweetest greeting of them all.

Queen.
Yes—I was left behind in London.

Elizabeth.
Go on, father, go on.

King.
In troth I have forgot what's next.

Queen.
Nay, Charles.

King.
Plait-il, ma femme?

Elizabeth.
Nay, we are busy here.

King.
What's the next verse?

Elizabeth.
“So on a time”—

King.
“So, on a time, it pleased the king”—

Queen.
My Charles, my dearest love; I cannot think
I have been treated with thy wonted care.

King.
Say'st thou? Then thou shalt teach me to atone.
[Rises; puts down Elizabeth.
What is this plaintive note? All's merry here
Till mother comes to chide us.

Queen.
At noon you parted with me at Whitehall,
Nor word nor sign have come since then to say
How thou hast fared at Westminster. Fi donc!
I had your pledge to hear within an hour.

King.
Ill news, my love, doth post so fast itself,
Doth like infection run from street to street,
There was no need of special messenger.

Queen.
Ill news! I have heard nothing—simply nothing.
There was I waiting, ever waiting—waiting,
All sleepless, cheerless; listening, until hearing,
Like the poor hares grew to the pitch of pain.
My eyes so strained with watching, till each shadow
That flitted on the wall did flit at last
Across my heart; a hope—and then—a pang.

King.
Dear heart! Now all is over and at rest.

Queen.
At rest! Non, non! Some dreadful thing has happened.
This morning, as my coach passed Westminster,
The people—those who only yester-week
Did greet me with the hearty English cheers,
Now, as I passed, cried “Papist! Jesuit!”
Ah! I had less of terror than of grief.
What have I done? All London is in riot!

King.
Nay, look around. There is no riot here.
“The mack'rel clouds that float above us, wage
“Their mute and mimic battles on the blue;
“No fever in the pulses of old Thames;
“Wholesome and sweet the breezes, like wise councils,”
A wondrous peace walks through the leafy chasms
Of Hampton groves. Nature and we alike
Keep peaceful holiday.

Elizabeth.
Now father! Go on, go on.

King.
“So, on a time, it pleased the king
A question thus to move,
Which of his daughters to his grace
Could show the dearest love;”

Elizabeth.
Ah! I know which—Cordelia!

King.
Listen! listen!

Queen
(interrupting).
How canst thou sit and tell old foolish tales
When it behoves thee to be up and doing?
Some letters have arrived of worthiest note.

King.
A moment, Mary, pray:

Queen.
Nay, come with me and I will read the letters.

King.
“The worst of all extremities
I'll gladly undertake.”

Queen.
Listen, and I will read them. O! il me fache!

King.
Letters from where?

Queen.
From Paris—Florence—Rome!

King.
Mary, our English land is Protestant!
These Jesuit whisperings from beyond the sea,
Let the wind carry them to whence they came;
The guiding star of thy true love for me
Is good to steer by; these intriguing priests
Must find some other agent than my queen.

Elizabeth.
Go on, dear father. Prithee, mother, listen!

King.
“In doing so you glad my soul,
The aged king replied;
But what say'st thou, my youngest girl,
In whom I most confide?”

Elizabeth.
I'll be Cordelia!

James.
No, no; that will I.

King.
“‘My love,’ quoth young Cordelia, ‘then,
Which to your grace I owe,
Shall be the duty of a child,
And that is all I'll show.’”

Elizabeth.
Now the old foolish king; go on, go on.

King.
“‘And wilt thou show no more?’ quoth he,
‘Than doth’”—

Queen.
Lord Moray is arrived. If he consulted
My good contentment, he had stayed away.

King.
“‘And wilt thou show no more?’ quoth he”—

Queen.
What does Lord Moray here?

King.
To-day we rest,
The wind is fair, and we will float to Richmond,
Returning with the tide. Moray will join us,
And, if we may prevail, thou and thy dame—

Queen.
A la bonne heure! When Catherine comes back
To curl my hair, and when Mathilde returns
To make my toilette. When Picot is here,
And Jullien to attend upon the Queen—

King.
Children, go watch the barge, 'twill be in sight;
Nay, sweethearts, tarry not. The tale will keep.

[The Children exeunt.
Queen.
Is this fit treatment for King Henri's child?
I've not forgotten my first welcome here,
As a young bride, new to the English court,
Was mark'd by insult: all my goodly suite
At instance of the Duke, were chassé forth.
Now all my faithful menials thou hast banish'd,
'Tis like I'll hear no more my native tongue.

King.
Come hither, little wife, and bring thy grievance,
Or if thine heart be full, still vent thine anger;
A word will presently explain it all.

Queen.
There is a thing thy Commons do not love,
And I, ma foi, I also love it not.

King.
What is this monster? Have the prating pack
Of mounseers left the plague behind them?

Queen.
The royal favourite is the worst of plagues.
You do not like my French. Bien! they are gone.
I do not like your Scotch. Let Moray go.

King.
This is the same old jealousy revived
Which troubled thee with our dear Buckingham.
Put it away from thee!

Queen.
Compare them not.
The Duke was faithful, if incapable;
This man is both incapable and faithless.

King.
I would that all were as discreet and loyal.

Queen.
I'll tell thee when thy Moray will be loyal,
And I can tell thee when he'll prove a traitor.
When thou dost flourish and the sun is shining,
Then Moray's loyalty, worn like his feather,
Insults the very air with flaunting challenge.
But should rebellion thrive, and danger-clouds
Rise in the sky, then Moray will be false.

King.
And my wife, Mary—is she wholly faithful?

Queen
(tenderly).
Dear love! When all goes well I may be froward;
But in thy trouble, rest thou on my heart,
And thou shalt hear the trusty tune it plays.

King
(embracing her).
I know 'tis so; I hear its music now.
Ah! Mary, little dost thou know the harm
A careless word hath done me. Thou art not
As close of council as the wife of Brutus.

Queen.
Bon Dieu! What have I said—what have I done?

King.
Thy tongue hath given the King his first defeat.
When to the Commons yesterday I went
To banish from the House, and to impeach
Those rebel Members for their Scottish plots,
The hope of my success lay in surprise.
One hint, and, like a flock of piping curlews,
They had been up and flown: and so it happen'd.
Thou didst not keep my secret.

Queen.
I do protest!
C'est impossible! No, I could not tell it.

King.
Reflect!

Queen.
I might have hinted it to Eleanor.

King.
Ay, Eleanor! Maid Catherine was by,
She gives it to the greedy ears of Jullien;
Jullien skips off and tells thy courier Picot—
So runs the genealogy of mischief—
And pick-thank Picot tells it to the town.
No more French monkeys here, or prating parrots!

Queen.
Ah! Charles; I fear thou wilt not trust me more.

King.
In faith, with no more secrets.
Mary, a secret in a woman's breast
Is like a thistle on a windy day,
Which wafts off many couriers of down,
Till all the flower, in hints, is filch'd away.
I knew a woman once who kept a secret,
One told it her about the fall of noon:
And still she kept it until supper bell,
And, wondrous woman, till she went to bed!
Her gossip was to come hot-foot i'the morn:
I do not say she would have told it then.
Poor soul! she never told it—that night she died.

Queen.
And must I never share thy counsels more?

King.
Think freely, Mary: thought will not betray:
Thought is a stag that scours the far blue hills,—
The tongue, a poor train'd cob that jogs along
And keeps his side of the way. Oh, guard thy tongue.
Enter Lord Huntley.
Good-morrow, countryman. What! booted haste?

Huntley.
My liege, I have to crave your gracious pardon
For this intrusion on your privacy.

King
(to Queen).
One moment, sweetheart; prithee join the children.
[Exit Queen.
What mischief's in the wind?

Huntley.
My liege, 'tis briefly told. I fear me much
Your Majesty by one bold act has added
Five martyrs to the blessed muster roll.

King.
Thou meanest those five Members who escaped me?

Huntley.
Those truant Members who remain'd at home,
Advisèd of your Majesty's intentions,
Do now return to Westminster like victors,
Escorted by a host of swarthy seamen
And broad-beam'd citizens, irate and blown,
“Who yoke them to the bowing victims' coaches,
“And cheer and toss their steeple hats aloft.”
My coach was forced to stop till they had pass'd,
So choked was every street. I have some drops
Of angry Scottish blood, and I stood up
And cried “God save the King!”
By our Lady! on the panels of the coach
A hundred cudgels rang. But that they saw
My sword was bare and ready (though indeed
Hot Master Hampden bade them keep the peace),
I might—

King.
I might have lost a very trusty servant,
But be briefer, pray.

Huntley.
“I crave your gracious pardon. I profess
“It was a sight to make the loyal grieve;—
“The houses either side, all noisy pageant,
“Of banners, braveries of guilds and companies,
“Triumphal arches, and a glut of flags!

King.
“Oh! be not bellman to their fooleries.”
What does it mean?

Huntley.
A triumph to the Commons.
These Members, late but factious malcontents,
Are now the laurell'd heroes of the hour.
But it will pass. The people are possess'd
Of a new-fangled grievance, “Breach of Privilege!”
And all the hive is in a buzzing frenzy.
The barber ties his kerchief on his pole
Hies forth, and bellows “Breach of Privilege!”
The city wench catches the learned words:
And the young children standing on tiptoe,
Babble and squeak out, “Breach of Privilege!”

King.
Ay, Huntley, thus a party cry is born.
That airy captain of all mischiefs!
That fiend that rides the air before a mob,
And becks them on to burn, and slay, and pillage.
It serves for lack of brains—it fills all voids
Of conscience, reason, pity, loyalty!
This bitter leaven of all dormant treason,
This evil charm to conjure up the devil!
Woe to the demagogues who send it forth!
Dost thou see danger?

Huntley.
My liege, had I the honour of your counsel,
Before you met your Commons with defiance
I would have prayed upon my bended knee—

King.
I know not what is in the air of Westminster
That treason cannot enter and be seated,
Ay, on the Speaker's chair!
The Commons are but men, some knaves, some honest.
If then I find upon a bright escutcheon
A speck of foulness; if, amongst my Commons,
I find some traitors, where's the privilege
Should shelter them from their offended King?

Huntley.
Under your favour, good my liege, themselves
Most willingly, if formally address'd,
Would cite these members to a full account.
But there are privileges—

King.
Huntley, yes—
Which swell from day to day. Where is their limit?
I see them, like the Netherlandish sea,
Rise grey and sullen, level with the sea-moles,
Stealing the soil by their insidious wash,
Eating through iron clamp, till by new fissures,
They enter with a silent fatal leakage
To flood the land; yea, sweep away the throne.

Huntley.
Nay, nay, your Majesty, your faithful Commons,
“Though throwing forth a late luxuriant growth
“Which might be better for the pruning-knife,”
Know well their roots are in the Constitution,
Of which the King is head. If an old servant
May venture—

King.
Freely speak.

Huntley.
Some royal acts,
Too premature, savouring of elder reigns,
Before the birth of English liberty—
The ship-money, forced loans, and subsidies—

King.
Within Blay harbour rode our merchant ships;
The French in time of peace seize on our goods:
Methinks this thing doth touch the English honour.
The King, the guardian of the English honour,
Would raise a fleet to fright encroaching neighbours,
Would levy taxes to maintain an army,
If only to protect our trade and homesteads.
And never to forget our nation's history,
Where is no record of unpunish'd insult!
Under such challenge and just cause of war,
Methinks the humblest ploughman in my realm
Would clench his fist and clap me down his groat,
For king, for country, for our cherish'd homes!

Huntley.
I long have hoped to be an humble instrument
Of aid and comfort to your Majesty.
To show you something more than blind devotion.
To this end I have compass'd the acquaintance
And conversation of one Master Cromwell,
A leader in the Commons, and yet liberal.

King.
I know him by report: a shrewd, strong gentleman,
Whose shrewdness and whose strength, methinks, are venal.

Huntley.
In that your Majesty may do him wrong.
But be that as it may. I do profess
I come not, an officious go-between,
But as an indirect and easy medium.

King.
I cannot say thy visit is more welcome.
What then?

Huntley.
Shall I bear back to Master Cromwell
The spirit of your Majesty's reply?

King.
Saint George, forbid! Henry, of lusty memory,
Thy reign was set in happier days than mine!
Sooth, when thine anger flash'd, thy thunderous voice
Announced it roundly. Huntley, we must temporize—
Thou hast not come as an official here,
And so thy message back commits us not.
Stay! Prithee tell them—nay, let's see—let's see.

Huntley.
Under your favour—

King.
Nay, under yours,—I do bethink me now;—
Thou shouldst have told me earlier in our talk.—
Say that the King repents his hasty act;
So we avoid that first rash burst of blame,
Which sudden measures, howsoever wholesome,
Provoke in England.
Let the five Members sit as heretofore—
(Our charges shall be laid most formally)—
And let them bide the verdict of their peers.
As for their late remonstrance—tell my Commons
It is before us, and shall be consider'd
Most anxiously, and, point by point, discuss'd.
Some we shall cede at once, in other some
We shall require their counsel and review.
We must be crafty for an honest end.
The path seems crooked while we toil along it,
But left in distance, all the petty curves
Melt from the vision, it looks straight and fair.
Then let old Justice Time assoilzie us;
Time is the tardy advocate of kings.

Enter Lord Moray.
King.
Ah! Moray, welcome. Come to join our holiday?

Huntley
(going—returns).
My liege, I should not be a faithful watchman,
Should I reserve what is not sweet to speak.

[Moray retires.
King.
Say'st thou? I bid thee to speak candidly.

Huntley.
A pretty victory in vulgar minds
Breeds such a world of arrogance. Thy Commons
Now vaguely rate at evil counsellors;
And have drawn up an humble supplication
That—my Lord Moray be dismiss'd from court!

King.
Now, 'fore Saint George! I know not a king's place,
If this be not the line to make a stand.
Not satisfied with crippling my prerogatives,
They would encroach upon the dearest rights
Which every private gentleman enjoys!—
They would dictate with whom to wed my children;
What friends I may select, and what discard!
In this, be blunt with them—I will not do it.
[Going to Moray.
My lord, the Queen and children wait us on the bank;
A moment—I am with you.
[Exit Moray.
I would be call'd the King of Liberty!
I say strike every chain from off my people;
Let liberty, like crystal daylight, enter
And fill each home—illume each road and highway;
Till the King's body-guard, when he rides forth,
On either hand be Love and Loyalty!
But for these Commons—well, some silken fetters,
Or, on my life, they'll manacle their King.
Farewell, my lord.

Huntley.
My liege, I take my leave.
[Exit Huntley.

Enter the Queen, Children, and Moray.
King
(to Moray).
Knowest thou, my lord, what is the new demand
Of our submissive Commons?

Moray.
I am not, please your Majesty, so deep
In their designs.

King.
Ah! Moray, thou hast many enemies.

Moray
(bowing to the Queen).
But one whose enmity can give me pain.

Queen.
When thou hast proved thy loyalty, Lord Moray,
Thou shalt not find an enemy in me.

Moray.
Nay, put me to the proof.

King.
Thy foes in parliament
Demand from me that thou shouldst be dismiss'd
From court and favour.

Moray
(kneeling).
So please your Majesty:
If the rich favours you have shower'd on me
Inflame a whit your subjects' jealousy,
Let it suffice I have so long been happy.
To-day dismiss me from your court and presence.
Rebellion, like the gulf which yawn'd for Rome,
Demands a victim.—Let me be your Curtius,
And leaping in the depths which threaten you,
Die for your Majesty!

Eliza
(aside to Queen).
“Mother,
“My lord doth talk like King Lear's eldest daughter!”

King
(raising Moray).
Rise, friend; I will not give thee to the ravening pack;
I have cast many precious things to them
To stay their fatal speed! and one (much moved)
whose name was Strafford.

Queen.
You promised me, dear love, you would forget.

King.
Forget! Yes; so I must,
With such all-priceless blessings still my own.
True friend, dear wife and babes are left me still.
And I should laugh at Care, so hedged around.
Come, for our holiday!

[The King's barge appears.
Queen.
There is the barge.

King.
After long care and moil, I thirst for peace.
Yea, as the Psalmist long'd for wings t'escape;
Yea, for dove's wings to fly and be at rest.
So now the gentle sail shall be our wing;
The air we rise upon shall be sweet music;
Breathe music softly till the waves shall seem
To move in silent glamour, and the banks
Be rimm'd with rainbow, and the great sky cope
Seem like the haven we are sailing for.

[They enter the barge, and as it moves slowly off, the curtain falls to soft music.]