University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.

—A House near Whitehall. Hampden, Hollis, the younger Vane, Rudyard, Fiennes and many of the Presbyterian Party: Loudon and other Scots Commissioners.
Vane.
I say, if he be here—

Rudyard.
(And he is here!)—

Hollis.
For England's sake let every man be still
Nor speak of him, so much as say his name,
Till Pym rejoin us! Rudyard! Henry Vane!
One rash conclusion may decide our course
And with it England's fate—think—England's fate!
Hampden, for England's sake they should be still!

Vane.
You say so, Hollis? Well, I must be still
I is indeed too bitter that one man,
Any one man's mere presence, should suspend
England's combined endeavour: little need
To name him!

Rudyard.
For you are his brother, Hollis!

Hampden.
Shame on you, Rudyard! time to tell him that,
When he forgets the Mother of us all.

Rudyard.
Do I forget her?

Hampden.
You talk idle hate
Against her foe: is that so strange a thing?
Is hating Wentworth all the help she needs?

A Puritan.
The Philistine strode, cursing as he went:
But David—five smooth pebbles from the brook
Within his scrip . . .

Rudyard.
Be you as still as David!

Fiennes.
Here's Rudyard not ashamed to wag a tongue
Stiff with ten years' disuse of Parliaments;
Why, when the last sat, Wentworth sat with us!

Rudyard.
Let's hope for news of them now he returns—
He that was safe in Ireland, as we thought!
—But I'll bide Pym's coming.

Vane.
Now, by Heaven
Then may be cool who can, silent who will—
Some have a gift that way! Wentworth is here,
Here, and the King 's safe closeted with him
Ere this. And when I think on all that's past
Since that man left us, how his single arm
Rolled the advancing good of England back
And set the woeful past up in its place,
Exalting Dagon where the Ark should be,—
How that man has made firm the fickle King
(Hampden, I will speak out!)—in aught he feared
To venture on before; taught tyranny
Her dismal trade, the use of all her tools,
To ply the scourge yet screw the gag so close
That strangled agony bleeds mute to death—
How he turns Ireland to a private stage
For training infant villanies, new ways
Of wringing treasure out of tears and blood,
Unheard oppressions nourished in the dark
To try how much man's nature can endure
—If he dies under it, what harm? if not,
Why, one more trick is added to the rest
Worth a king's knowing, and what Ireland bears
England may learn to bear:—how all this while
That man has set himself to one dear task,
The bringing Charles to relish more and more
Power, power without law, power and blood too
—Can I be still?

Hampden.
For that you should be still.

Vane.
Oh Hampden, then and now! The year he left us,
The People in full Parliament could wrest
The Bill of Rights from the reluctant King;
And now, he'll find in an obscure small room
A stealthy gathering of great-hearted men
That take up England's cause: England is here!

Hampden.
And who despairs of England?

Rudyard.
That do I,
If Wentworth comes to rule her. I am sick
To think her wretched masters, Hamilton,
The muckworm Cottington, the maniac Laud,
May yet be longed-for back again. I say,
I do despair.

Vane.
And, Rudyard, I'll say this—
Which all true men say after me, not loud
But solemnly and as you'd say a prayer!
This King, who treads our England underfoot,
Has just so much . . . it may be fear or craft,
As bids him pause at each fresh outrage; friends,
He needs some sterner hand to grasp his own,
Some voice to ask, “Why shrink? Am I not by?”
Now, one whom England loved for serving her,
Found in his heart to say, “I know where best
“The iron heel shall bruise her, for she leans
“Upon me when you trample.” Witness, you!
So Wentworth heartened Charles, so England fell.
But inasmuch as life is hard to take
From England . . .

Many Voices.
Go on, Vane! 'T is well said, Vane!

Vane.
—Who has not so forgotten Runnymead!—

Voices.
'T is well and bravely spoken, Vane! Go on!

Vane.
—There are some little signs of late she knows
The ground no place for her. She glances round,
Wentworth has dropped the hand, is gone his way
On other service: what if she arise?
No! the King beckons, and beside him stands
The same bad man once more, with the same smile
And the same gesture. Now shall England crouch.
Or catch at us and rise?

Voices.
The Renegade!
Haman! Ahithophel!

Hampden.
Gentlemen of the North,
It was not thus the night your claims were urged,
And we pronounced the League and Covenant,
The cause of Scotland, England's cause as well:
Vane there, sat motionless the whole night through.

Vane.
Hampden!

Fiennes.
Stay, Vane!

Loudon.
Be just and patient, Vane!

Vane.
Mind how you counsel patience, Loudon! you
Have still a Parliament, and this your League
To back it; you are free in Scotland still:
While we are brothers, hope's for England yet.
But know you wherefore Wentworth comes? to quench
This last of hopes? that he brings war with him?
Know you the man's self? what he dares?

Loudon.
We know,
All know—'t is nothing new.

Vane.
And what 's new, then,
In calling for his life? Why, Pym himself—
You must have heard—ere Wentworth dropped our cause
He would see Pym first; there were many more
Strong on the people's side and friends of his,
Eliot that's dead, Rudyard and Hampden here,
But for these Wentworth cared not; only, Pym
He would see—Pym and he were sworn, 't is said,
To live and die together; so, they met
At Greenwich. Wentworth, you are sure, was long,
Specious enough, the devil's argument
Lost nothing on his lips; he'd have Pym own
A patriot could not play a purer part
Than follow in his track; they two combined
Might put down England. Well, Pym heard him out;
One glance—you know Pym's eye—one word was all:
“You leave us, Wentworth! while your head is on,
“I'll not leave you.”

Hampden.
Has he left Wentworth, then?
Has England lost him? Will you let him speak,
Or put your crude surmises in his mouth?
Away with this! Will you have Pym or Vane?

Voices.
Wait Pym's arrival! Pym shall speak.

Hampden.
Meanwhile
Let Loudon read the Parliament's report
From Edinburgh: our last hope, as Vane says,
Is in the stand it makes. Loudon!

Vane.
No, no!
Silent I can be: not indifferent!

Hampden.
Then each keep silence, praying God to spare
His anger, cast not England quite away
In this her visitation!

A Puritan.
Seven years long
The Midianite drove Israel into dens
And caves. Till God sent forth a mighty man,
Pym enters.
Even Gideon!

Pym.
Wentworth's come: nor sickness, care,
The ravaged body nor the ruined soul,
More than the winds and waves that beat his ship,
Could keep him from the King. He has not reached
Whitehall: they've hurried up a Council there
To lose no time and find him work enough.
Where's Loudon? your Scots' Parliament . . .

Loudon.
Holds firm:
We were about to read reports.

Pym.
The King
Has just dissolved your Parliament.

Loudon and other Scots.
Great God!
An oath-breaker! Stand by us, England, then!

Pym.
The King's too sanguine; doubtless Wentworth's here;
But still some little form might be kept up.

Hampden.
Now speak, Vane! Rudyard, you had much to say!

Hollis.
The rumour 's false, then . . .

Pym.
Ay, the Court gives out
His own concerns have brought him back: I know
'T is the King calls him. Wentworth supersedes
The tribe of Cottingtons and Hamiltons
Whose part is played; there's talk enough, by this,—
Merciful talk, the King thinks: time is now
To turn the record's last and bloody leaf
Which, chronicling a nation's great despair,
Tells they were long rebellious, and their lord
Indulgent, till, all kind expedients tried,
He drew the sword on them and reigned in peace.
Laud's laying his religion on the Scots
Was the last gentle entry: the new page
Shall run, the King thinks, “Wentworth thrust it down
“At the sword's point.”

A Puritan.
I'll do your bidding, Pym,
England's and God's—one blow!

Pym.
A goodly thing—
We all say, friends, it is a goodly thing
To right that England. Heaven grows dark above:
Let's snatch one moment ere the thunder fall,
To say how well the English spirit comes out
Beneath it! All have done their best, indeed,
From lion Eliot, that grand Englishman,
To the least here: and who, the least one here,
When she is saved (for her redemption dawns
Dimly, most dimly, but it dawns—it dawns)
Who'd give at any price his hope away
Of being named along with the Great Men?
We would not—no, we would not give that up!

Hampden.
And one name shall be dearer than all names.
When children, yet unborn, are taught that name
After their fathers',—taught what matchless man . . .

Pym.
. . . Saved England? What if Wentworth's should be still
That name?

Rudyard and others.
We have just said it, Pym! His death
Saves her! We said it—there's no way beside!
I'll do God's bidding, Pym! They struck down Joab
And purged the land.

Vane.
No villanous striking-down!

Rudyard.
No, a calm vengeance: let the whole land rise
And shout for it. No Feltons!

Pym.
Rudyard, no!
England rejects all Feltons; most of all
Since Wentworth . . . Hampden, say the trust again
Of England in her servants—but I'll think
You know me, all of you. Then, I believe,
Spite of the past, Wentworth rejoins you, friends!

Vane and others.
Wentworth? Apostate! Judas! Double-dyed
A traitor! Is it Pym, indeed . . .

Pym.
. . . Who says
Vane never knew that Wentworth, loved that man,
Was used to stroll with him, arm locked in arm,
Along the streets to see the people pass,
And read in every island-countenance
Fresh argument for God against the King,—
Never sat down, say, in the very house
Where Eliot's brow grew broad with noble thoughts,
(You've joined us, Hampden—Hollis, you as well,)
And then left talking over Gracchus' death . . .

Vane.
To frame, we know it well, the choicest clause
In the Petition of Right: he framed such clause
One month before he took at the King's hand
His Northern Presidency, which that Bill
Denounced.

Pym.
Too true! Never more, never more
Walked we together! Most alone I went.
I have had friends—all here are fast my friends—
But I shall never quite forget that friend.
And yet it could not but be real in him!
You, Vane,—you, Rudyard, have no right to trust
To Wentworth: but can no one hope with me?
Hampden, will Wentworth dare shed English blood
Like water?

Hampden.
Ireland is Aceldama.

Pym.
Will he turn Scotland to a hunting-ground
To please the King, now that he knows the King?
The People or the King? and that King, Charles!

Hampden.
Pym, all here know you: you'll not set your heart
On any baseless dream. But say one deed
Of Wentworth's since he left us . . . [Shouting without.


Vane
There! he comes,
And they shout for him! Wentworth's at Whitehall,
The King embracing him, now, as we speak,
And he, to be his match in courtesies,
Taking the whole war's risk upon himself,
Now, while you tell us here how changed he is!
Hear you?

Pym.
And yet if 't is a dream, no more,
That Wentworth chose their side, and brought the King
To love it as though Laud had loved it first,
And the Queen after;—that he led their cause
Calm to success, and kept it spotless through,
So that our very eyes could look upon
The travail of our souls, and close content
That violence, which something mars even right
Which sanctions it, had taken off no grace
From its serene regard. Only a dream!

Hampden.
We meet here to accomplish certain good
By obvious means, and keep tradition up
Of free assemblages, else obsolete,
In this poor chamber: nor without effect
Has friend met friend to counsel and confirm,
As, listening to the beats of England's heart,
We spoke its wants to Scotland's prompt reply
By these her delegates. Remains alone
That word grow deed, as with God's help it shall—
But with the devil's hindrance, who doubts too?
Looked we or no that tyranny should turn
Her engines of oppression to their use?
Whereof, suppose the worst be Wentworth here—
Shall we break off the tactics which succeed
In drawing out our formidablest foe,
Let bickering and disunion take their place?
Or count his presence as our conquest's proof,
And keep the old arms at their steady play?
Proceed to England's work! Fiennes, read the list!

Fiennes.
Ship-money is refused or fiercely paid
In every county, save the northern parts
Where Wentworth's influence . . .

[Shouting.
Vane.
I, in England's name,
Declare her work, this way, at end! Till now,
Up to this moment, peaceful strife was best.
We English had free leave to think; till now,
We had a shadow of a Parliament
In Scotland. But all's changed: they change the first,
They try brute-force for law, they, first of all . . .

Voices.
Good! Talk enough! The old true hearts with Vane!

Vane.
Till we crush Wentworth for her, there's no act
Serves England!

Voices.
Vane for England!

Pym.
Pym should be
Something to England. I seek Wentworth, friends.

Scene II.

—Whitehall.
Lady Carlisle and Wentworth.
Wentworth.
And the King?

Lady Carlisle.
Wentworth, lean on me! Sit then!
I'll tell you all; this horrible fatigue
Will kill you.

Wentworth.
No;—or, Lucy, just your arm;
I'll not sit till I've cleared this up with him:
After that, rest. The King?

Lady Carlisle.
Confides in you.

Wentworth.
Why? or, why now?—They have kind throats, the knaves!
Shout for me—they!

Lady Carlisle.
You come so strangely soon:
Yet we took measures to keep off the crowd—
Did they shout for you?

Wentworth.
Wherefore should they not?
Does the King take such measures for himself?
Beside, there's such a dearth of malcontents,
You say!

Lady Carlisle.
I said but few dared carp at you.

Wentworth.
At me? at us, I hope! The King and I
He's surely not disposed to let me bear
The fame away from him of these late deeds
In Ireland? I am yet his instrument
Be it for well or ill? He trusts me, too!

Lady Carlisle.
The King, dear Wentworth, purposes, I said,
To grant you, in the face of all the Court . . .

Wentworth.
All the Court! Evermore the Court about us!
Savile and Holland, Hamilton and Vane
About us,—then the King will grant me—what?
That he for once put these aside and say—
“Tell me your whole mind, Wentworth!”

Lady Carlisle.
You professed
You would be calm.

Wentworth.
Lucy, and I am calm!
How else shall I do all I come to do,
Broken, as you may see, body and mind,
How shall I serve the King? Time wastes meanwhile,
You have not told me half. His footstep! No.
Quick, then, before I meet him,—I am calm—
Why does the King distrust me?

Lady Carlisle.
He does not
Distrust you.

Wentworth.
Lucy, you can help me; you
Have even seemed to care for me: one word!
Is it the Queen?

Lady Carlisle.
No, not the Queen: the party
That poisons the Queen's ear, Savile and Holland.

Wentworth.
I know, I know: old Vane, too, he's one too?
Go on—and he's made Secretary. Well?
Or leave them out and go straight to the charge
The charge!

Lady Carlisle.
Oh, there's no charge, no precise charge;
Only they sneer, make light of—one may say,
Nibble at what you do.

Wentworth.
I know! but Lucy,
I reckoned on you from the first!—Go on!
—Was sure could I once see this gentle friend
When I arrived, she'd throw an hour away
To help her . . . what am I?

Lady Carlisle.
You thought of me,
Dear Wentworth?

Wentworth.
But go on! The party here!

Lady Carlisle.
They do not think your Irish government
Of that surpassing value . . .

Wentworth.
The one thing
Of value! The one service that the crown
May count on! All that keeps these very Vanes
In power, to vex me—not that they do vex,
Only it might vex some to hear that service
Decried, the sole support that's left the King!

Lady Carlisle.
So the Archbishop says.

Wentworth.
Ah? well, perhaps
The only hand held up in my defence
May be old Laud's! These Hollands then, these Saviles
Nibble? They nibble?—that's the very word!

Lady Carlisle.
Your profit in the Customs, Bristol says,
Exceeds the due proportion: while the tax . . .

Wentworth.
Enough! 'tis too unworthy,—I am not
So patient as I thought. What's Pym about?

Lady Carlisle.
Pym?

Wentworth.
Pym and the People.

Lady Carlisle.
Oh, the Faction!
Extinct—of no account: there'll never be
Another Parliament.

Wentworth.
Tell Savile that!
You may know—(ay, you do—the creatures here
Never forget!) that in my earliest life
I was not . . . much that I am now! The King
May take my word on points concerning Pym
Before Lord Savile's, Lucy, or if not,
I bid them ruin their wise selves, not me,
These Vanes and Hollands! I'll not be their tool
Who might be Pym's friend yet.
But there's the King
Where is he?

Lady Carlisle.
Just apprised that you arrive.

Wentworth.
And why not here to meet me? I was told
He sent for me, nay, longed for me.

Lady Carlisle.
Because,—
He is now . . . I think a Council's sitting now
About this Scots affair.

Wentworth.
A Council sits?
They have not taken a decided course
Without me in the matter?

Lady Carlisle.
I should say . . .

Wentworth.
The war? They cannot have agreed to that?
Not the Scots' war?—without consulting me—
Me, that am here to show how rash it is,
How easy to dispense with?—Ah, you too
Against me! well,—the King may take his time.
—Forget it, Lucy! Cares make peevish: mine
Weigh me (but't is a secret) to my grave.

Lady Carlisle.
For life or death I am your own, dear friend!

[Goes out.
Wentworth.
Heartless! but all are heartless here. Go now,
Forsake the People!
I did not forsake
The People: they shall know it, when the King
Will trust me!—who trusts all beside at once,
While I have not spoke Vane and Savile fair,
And am not trusted: have but saved the throne:
Have not picked up the Queen's glove prettily,
And am not trusted. But he'll see me now.
Weston is dead: the Queen's half English now—
More English: one decisive word will brush
These insects from . . . the step I know so well!
The King! But now, to tell him . . . no—to ask
What's in me he distrusts:—or, best begin
By proving that this frightful Scots affair
Is just what I foretold. So much to say,
And the flesh fails, now, and the time is come,
And one false step no way to be repaired.
You were avenged, Pym, could you look on me.

Pym enters.
Wentworth.
I little thought of you just then.

Pym.
No? I
Think always of you, Wentworth.

Wentworth.
The old voice!
I wait the King, sir.

Pym.
True—you look so pale!
A Council sits within; when that breaks up
He'll see you.

Wentworth.
Sir, I thank you.

Pym.
Oh, thank Laud!
You know when Laud once gets on Church affairs
The case is desperate: he'll not be long
To-day: he only means to prove, to-day,
We English all are mad to have a hand
In butchering the Scots for serving God
After their fathers' fashion: only that!

Wentworth.
Sir, keep your jests for those who relish them!
(Does he enjoy their confidence?) 'T is kind
To tell me what the Council does.

Pym.
You grudge
That I should know it had resolved on war
Before you came? no need: you shall have all
The credit, trust me!

Wentworth.
Have the Council dared—
They have not dared . . . that is—I know you not.
Farewell, sir: times are changed.

Pym.
—Since we two met
At Greenwich? Yes: poor patriots though we be,
You cut a figure, makes some slight return
For your exploits in Ireland! Changed indeed,
Could our friend Eliot look from out his grave!
Ah Wentworth, one thing for acquaintance' sake,
Just to decide a question; have you, now,
Felt your old self since you forsook us?

Wentworth.
Sir!

Pym.
Spare me the gesture! you misapprehend.
Think not I mean the advantage is with me.
I was about to say that, for my part,
I never quite held up my head since then—
Was quite myself since then: for first, you see
I lost all credit after that event
With those who recollect how sure I was
Wentworth would outdo Eliot on our side.
Forgive me: Savile, old Vane, Holland here,
Eschew plain-speaking: 't is a trick I keep.

Wentworth.
How, when, where, Savile, Vane, and Holland speak,
Plainly or otherwise, would have my scorn,
All of my scorn, sir . . .

Pym.
. . . Did not my poor thoughts
Claim somewhat?

Wentworth.
Keep your thoughts! believe the King
Mistrusts me for their prattle, all these Vanes
And Saviles! make your mind up, o' God's love,
That I am discontented with the King!

Pym.
Why, you may be: I should be, that I know,
Were I like you.

Wentworth.
Like me?

Pym.
I care not much
For titles: our friend Eliot died no lord,
Hampden's no lord, and Savile is a lord;
But you care, since you sold your soul for one.
I can't think, therefore, your soul's purchaser
Did well to laugh you to such utter scorn
When you twice prayed so humbly for its price,
The thirty silver pieces . . . I should say,
The Earldom you expected, still expect,
And may. Your letters were the movingest!
Console yourself: I've borne him prayers just now
From Scotland not to be oppressed by Laud,
Words moving in their way: he'll pay, be sure,
As much attention as to those you sent.

Wentworth.
False, sir! Who showed them you? Suppose it so,
The King did very well . . . nay, I was glad
When it was shown me: I refused, the first!
John Pym, you were my friend—forbear me once!

Pym.
Oh, Wentworth, ancient brother of my soul,
That all should come to this!

Wentworth.
Leave me!

Pym.
My friend,
Why should I leave you?

Wentworth.
To tell Rudyard this,
And Hampden this!

Pym.
Whose faces once were bright
At my approach, now sad with doubt and fear,
Because I hope in you—yes, Wentworth, you
Who never mean to ruin England—you
Who shake off, with God's help, an obscene dream
In this Ezekiel chamber, where it crept
Upon you first, and wake, yourself, your true
And proper self, our Leader, England's Chief,
And Hampden's friend!
This is the proudest day!
Come, Wentworth! Do not even see the King!
The rough old room will seem itself again!
We'll both go in together: you've not seen
Hampden so long: come: and there's Fiennes: you'll have
To know young Vane. This is the proudest day!

[The King enters. Wentworth lets fall Pym's hand.
Charles.
Arrived, my lord?—This gentleman, we know
Was your old friend.
The Scots shall be informed
What we determine for their happiness.
[Pym goes out.
You have made haste, my lord.

Wentworth.
Sir, I am come . . .

Charles.
To see an old familiar—nay, 't is well;
Aid us with his experience: this Scots' League
And Covenant spreads too far, and we have proofs
That they intrigue with France: the Faction too,
Whereof your friend there is the head and front,
Abets them,—as he boasted, very like.

Wentworth.
Sir, trust me! but for this once, trust me, sir!

Charles.
What can you mean?

Wentworth.
That you should trust me, sir!
Oh—not for my sake! but't is sad, so sad
That for distrusting me, you suffer—you
Whom I would die to serve: sir, do you think
That I would die to serve you?

Charles.
But rise, Wentworth!

Wentworth.
What shall convince you? What does Savile do
To prove him . . . Ah, one can't tear out one's heart
And show it, how sincere a thing it is!

Charles.
Have I not trusted you?

Wentworth.
Say aught but that!
There is my comfort, mark you: all will be
So different when you trust me—as you shall!
It has not been your fault,—I was away,
Mistook, maligned, how was the King to know?
I am here, now—he means to trust me, now—
All will go on so well!

Charles.
Be sure I do—
I've heard that I should trust you: as you came,
Your friend, the Countess, told me . . .

Wentworth.
No,—hear nothing—
Be told nothing about me!—you're not told
Your right-hand serves you, or your children love you!

Charles.
You love me, Wentworth: rise!

Wentworth.
I can speak now.
I have no right to hide the truth. 'T is I
Can save you: only I. Sir, what must be?

Charles.
Since Laud's assured (the minutes are within)
—Loath as I am to spill my subjects' blood . . .

Wentworth.
That is, he'll have a war: what's done is done!

Charles.
They have intrigued with France; that's clear to Laud.

Wentworth.
Has Laud suggested any way to meet
The war's expense?

Charles.
He'd not decide so far
Until you joined us.

Wentworth.
Most considerate!
He's certain they intrigue with France, these Scots?
The People would be with us.

Charles.
Pym should know.

Wentworth.
The People for us—were the People for us!
Sir, a great thought comes to reward your trust:
Summon a Parliament! in Ireland first,
Then, here.

Charles.
In truth?

Wentworth.
That saves us! that puts off
The war, gives time to right their grievances—
To talk with Pym. I know the Faction, as
Laud styles it, tutors Scotland: all their plans
Suppose no Parliament: in calling one
You take them by surprise. Produce the proofs
Of Scotland's treason; then bid England help:
Even Pym will not refuse.

Charles.
You would begin
With Ireland?

Wentworth.
Take no care for that: that's sure
To prosper.

Charles.
You shall rule me. You were best
Return at once: but take this ere you go!
Now, do I trust you? You're an Earl: my Friend
Of Friends: yes, while . . . You hear me not!

Wentworth.
Say it all o'er again—but once again:
The first was for the music: once again!

Charles.
Strafford, my friend, there may have been reports,
Vain rumours. Henceforth touching Strafford is
To touch the apple of my sight: why gaze
So earnestly?

Wentworth.
I am grown young again,
And foolish. What was it we spoke of?

Charles.
Ireland,
The Parliament,—

Wentworth.
I may go when I will?
—Now?

Charles.
Are you tired so soon of us?

Wentworth.
My King!
But you will not so utterly abhor
A Parliament? I'd serve you any way.

Charles.
You said just now this was the only way.

Wentworth.
Sir, I will serve you.

Charles.
Strafford, spare yourself:
You are so sick, they tell me.

Wentworth.
'T is my soul
That's well and prospers now.
This Parliament—
We'll summon it, the English one—I'll care
For everything. You shall not need them much.

Charles.
If they prove restive . . .

Wentworth.
I shall be with you.

Charles.
Ere they assemble?

Wentworth.
I will come, or else
Deposit this infirm humanity
I' the dust. My whole heart stays with you, my King!

[As Wentworth goes out, the Queen enters.
Charles.
That man must love me.

Queen.
Is it over then?
Why, he looks yellower than ever! Well,
At least we shall not hear eternally
Of service—services: he's paid at least.

Charles.
Not done with: he engages to surpass
All yet performed in Ireland.

Queen.
I had thought
Nothing beyond was ever to be done.
The war, Charles—will he raise supplies enough?

Charles.
We've hit on an expedient; he . . . that is,
I have advised . . . we have decided on
The calling—in Ireland—of a Parliament.

Queen.
O truly! You agree to that? Is that
The first fruit of his counsel? But I guessed
As much.

Charles.
This is too idle, Henriette!
I should know best. He will strain every nerve,
And once a precedent established . . .

Queen.
Notice
How sure he is of a long term of favour!
He'll see the next, and the next after that;
No end to Parliaments!

Charles.
Well, it is done.
He talks it smoothly, doubtless. If, indeed,
The Commons here . . .

Queen.
Here! you will summon them
Here? Would I were in France again to see
A King!

Charles.
But, Henriette . . .

Queen.
Oh, the Scots see clear!
Why should they bear your rule?

Charles.
But listen, sweet!

Queen.
Let Wentworth listen—you confide in him!

Charles.
I do not, love,—I do not so confide!
The Parliament shall never trouble us
. . . Nay, hear me! I have schemes, such schemes: we'll buy
The leaders off: without that, Wentworth's counsel
Had ne'er prevailed on me. Perhaps I call it
To have excuse for breaking it for ever,
And whose will then the blame be? See you not?
Come, dearest!—look, the little fairy, now,
That cannot reach my shoulder! Dearest, come!