 | The Father's Tragedy |  |
Scene III.
—A Room. Enter Ramorgny.Ramorgny.
Still doth he use me, but with doubtful eyes,
A voice of friendship with its strings untuned,
And hands that shrink from juncture with my flesh.
I never shall regain my ancient place
In his frank bosom. That he uses me
Without the grace of liking is his doom.
[Enter Albany at a distance.]
Albany
[aside].
There is a rude fidelity about
44
But were Ramorgny flattered! Ah, he droops
As if his brains lack'd opportunity.—
You are not for the revel?
Ramorgny.
It lacks zest.
Albany.
You are not for such mates. It flatters you
To serve the prince; his uncle holds the realm.
When you are tavern-prison'd or in camp,
Would it not give a purpose should you note
Actions of int'rest to the chronicler,
Shameful to the accomplice? Bring but word
How leaks the ship; I'll put it out to sea.
I know no other man for this intrigue,
And counsel you as you would rise in place
But as historian to attend the prince;
And then concert with me how you may take
His birthplace in my favour; he is wreck'd;
My son a slothful bookworm, Robert's child,
Methinks, in disposition. There is none
In whom I can detect the faculty
To sway the eddying people to the flow
Of his will's current, save yourself, Sir John.
Ramorgny.
Your grace, I hate the prince, for injuries
My tongue would bleed to tell.
Albany.
We first must turn
With plaints and tales the father's idle mind
Against his son.
Ramorgny.
I'm popular, your grace,
And can be daring. With the prince none else
Can take my place; his temper and his loves,
His pleasure and his study—all are built
Upon my service.
Albany.
Good, divide it, friend!
Ramorgny.
I will.
Albany.
Your hand in parting. David, now
I've set your evil genius to work!
[Exit Ramorgny.
All is in train for ruin. I'll to arms,
And if he need my help, I will not march.
[Exit.
| The Father's Tragedy | |