University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Lady and Baudron.
LADY.
Set down the lamp and wait without the door,
To give me notice when the king returns.
Have you heard, Baudron, what this wizzard is,
Whom they have brought again to vex his highness?

BAUDRON.
A solemn knave, that tampers with men's fears.
It grieves me much, that thus his majesty
Should lose the bent of his great character
In a mysterious passion to unfold
The seeds and secrets of the time unknown.

LADY.
This mournful lapse in my dear lord's brave nature,
While 'round the encompassing and trait'rous foes,
Deepen their files, awakes in me such fears,
That I could die for ease. Though I have felt
The pangs of birth, a mother's sleepless cares,
And watch'd my infant's couch with throbbing heart;
Sweet was that watching, and those cares were gentle,
And slight the pains to these I suffer now.
Thou art, I think, a good man; old and wise,
And much hast noted in this mazy world.
Oh! can'st thou not instruct me to redeem
Thy royal master from his cheerless bias,
And to untwine the gnawing serpent here?

BAUDRON.
In camp, and council, and the earnest strife,
Lie the true med'cine for the king's disease:
But solitude and sights of human woe,
And shelterless probation of distress,
Only, can minister to your relief.

LADY.
I have a tower lav'd by the salt-sea waves,
In whose horizon, never sail is seen,
Save the lone ferry-boat in summer calms,
Or stranded vessel in a winter's morn,
With her dead crew all frozen to the masts.
For such a place, so desolate and dread,
I would forsake these gorgeous rooms, and barter
The pomp and servitude around my throne,
If I might taste the Lethé of repose.

BAUDRON.
Alas! great lady.

LADY.
Wherefore so do you pause,
And sighing, wear a look so full of woe?
Why kneel you thus so pale? Rise, Baudron! speak!

BAUDRON.
To gain that sweet oblivious bliss of sleep,
Th'incumber'd spirit must unrobe itself
Of all the garniture of royal pride,
And pray Heav'ns mercy, as an alm, to grant
The nightly down that eases daily toil.
For the proud throne, in ashes you must sit;
Change the rich crimson for a sack-cloth wrap;
Cast from your brow its unblest ornament,
The golden round, and radient type of power;
Yea, on the cold and parent earth degraded,
Confess the dismal secrets of your breast.

LADY.
Begone, old man: intruding prater, hence!