University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

A Grove.
Enter Moore.
Moore.
It is not true.—My mind does not get mazed
Whene'er I talk of women.—I can talk,
And think, and reason, well as heretofore,
And more to th'point, which now I state for trial,
And will maintain it—Female Purity!—
No—the position's false.—Men are flagitious,
And every libertine lets go the rein,
Arms him with lures and guilt insatiate,
And spurs the steed to havock.—Down amain
What numbers mark his course!—
Make then the estimate, and where remains
The sacred spot where female purity
Grows uncontaminate?—O misery!
Is this most fair and goodly heritage,—
This garden which the hand of God hath planted
With flowers of life, one half of them so lovely
That but for them beauty had never been,
Nor term to know it by,—Oh, are they all
What I now deem them!—There was one that bloom'd
So pure, that on its opening breast I ween'd
I saw the dyes of heaven; that I watch'd,
And, ere full blown, with tenderest guidance cropp'd
And took it for my all.—But then I loved it!—
O God! how I did love it!
But in its folding buds I found enclosed—
Ay I found that, will blur the world's fair face,
And turn it to a hell to me for ever!

Enter Collier.
Col.
Give up these toilsome thoughts, my lord, for they
But madden and distract you.

Moore.
'Tis false; I am not mad whene'er I talk
Of women and their ways. I love the sex
Well as I ought—I'll wed the Lady Ellen
Whene'er you list, because I love the sex
Just as I ought.—But O, that purple flower
That grew upon the wall, the eastern tower—
Did you not say it was the eastern turret?
Ah, that can never be replaced again!
The wounded stem will never heal, but bleed,
And bleed, and bleed! and then the brain will burn!
Should I not therefore love her?—I but said,
That in her mould there was a flame would spread
And scorch the soul to films, or to a vapour.
But that's no cause I should not love her, Collier;
For when the thunder breaks, thou wot'st—

Col.
What then, my lord?

Moore.
Why then, 'tis Heaven that thunders;
For I have seen't myself work such deray,
And pour forth liquid fire to sear and waste;
And should we not love Heaven?—Oh fie!—Go to!
Thy reasons will not hold.

Col.
(Aside.)
Wretch that I am,
Thus to connive in grossest calumny,
And see two precious minds uprooted quite,
And their possessors doom'd to misery.
I'll give the truth to light, for I set not
My life or my possessions at a pin
In such heart-breaking case.—Cheer thee, my lord,
For the foul tale thou heard'st of Caroline
Is false as hell.—

Moore.
Hush! thou know'st nought of hell.
If thou had'st stood thus on its brink as I do,
A thousand, thousand years, breathing thin flame—
The tale's equivocal, and fits thee not.

(During the following speech Moore listens with eager and unstable attention.)
Col.
My lord, give heed to what I say to thee:
It thee befits thy broken heart to heal;
Dispel that gloom and be thyself again;
For all the shameful charges thou hast heard
Against thy blooming bride, fair Caroline,
Are framed and impious lies.—I do not ween
That in the list of living dames there is
One so unstain'd and pure as Caroline Cecil.

Enter Faucet behind, who hears part of the speech.
Fau.
(Aside to Collier.)
Thou baby-hearted fool! what hast thou said?

Col.
I'll say more yet, Sir Barnard.

Fau.
My lord, the fiery Douglas is advancing,
Before him terror spreads with withering breath,
And ruin sleeps behind—we must begone.

Moore.
Douglas advancing?—It is well remember'd.
To-morrow Pembroke warriors will arrive,
Then forthwith hie we to the north to meet
That restless Douglas.—Ha?—What said'st thou, Collier?

Fau.
(Aside to Collier.)
If not for thy own sake, for mine refrain.

Moore.
What did you say, Sir Richard?

Col.
Nought, my good lord.

Moore.
Then what said I?—For something sure was said,
Or was to say, I would not for an empire
That I had lost.

Fau.
We talk'd of Douglas, captain,
And of the havock that his army makes
Among our friends and countrymen.

Moore.
Douglas?—'tis true—No, this was not of Douglas.
Can none of you remind me what we talk'd of?
Was it not of a blossom'd stem?—A wall-flower?
Or something that took flame?—I have it here,
Yet it lies folded in my soul so deep
That memory cannot reach it.—Ah, is it gone?
Then I would travel to the utmost verge
Of the green world to regain that thought,
Or word, or tale, or whatsoe'er it was.

Fau.
My lord, these thoughts that in a moment fly
Leave shadow of importance on the mind,
And set it hunting after them intense;
But if by chance, or by associate word,
The anxiously regretted thing is caught,
It is so trivial we're ashamed to own it,
Or give it utterance—pray let it pass,
The search is unavailing.

Moore.
Well, well, 'tis lost—I would it were not so.
But it is lost, and haply it avails not.
I'm somewhat feverish—let us mount our steeds
And view our warriors' rendezvous—lead on.

(Exeunt.)