[]
King HENRY the VII. OR The POPISH IMPOSTOR.
A TRAGEDY.
As it is acted By his MAJESTY's Servants, AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, IN DRURY-LANE.
LONDON. Printed for R. FRANCKLIN, in Covent-Garden; R. DODSLEY, in Pall-Mall ▪ and J. BROTHER⯑TON, in Cornhill. M.DCC.XLVI. (Price is 6d.)
PREFACE
[]THE following Piece was deſign'd as a Kind of Mirror to the preſent Rebellion; and the ima⯑gined: Advantage of having it acted before that unnatu⯑ral Flame could be extinguiſh'd, was the Reaſon why it was ſo hurry'd in the writing; being begun and finiſh'd in leſs Time than is neceſſary tor the forming the Fable only of a correct Play. It was the ſix Weeks Labour of an Actor, who, even in that ſhort Space, was often call'd from it by his Profeſſion. The Players, for the Sake of Diſpatch, had it to ſtudy, Act by Act, juſt as it was blotted; and the only Reviſals it received, from the Brouillon to the Preſs, were at the Rehearſals of it. So that we muſt beſpeak the Reader's Indulgence for numberleſs Incorrections thro' the Whole; but more particularly for the Meaſure and Diction; the Author having neglected them ſo much, that he cannot call the Manner, in which it is written, either Proſe or Verſe, but accidentally both. It is certain, Apologies for bad writing ſeldom procure Re⯑miſſion from the Rigid; yet the moſt flagrant Crimes when ingenuouſly confeſs'd, and follow'd by Repentance, admit of Extenuation from the Benevolent.
N. B. The Lines mark'd with Commas were omitted after the firſt Night's acting, the Play being too long in the Performance.
PROLOGUE,
[]BReathes there a Briton longs for Popiſh Chains,
While Smithfield Fire our Engliſh Annals Stains;
When Popiſh Rage and Perſecution blaz'd
With Britiſh Blood on Altars Rome had raiſed;
When Matrons ſaw their Sons in Flames expire,
Their Husbands crackling in religious Fire.
Then Rome gave Laws, our Kings and Council ſway'd,
While Albion mourn'd her Liberties betray'd.
But now ſhe ſmiles; our Laws are all our own,
Which rule alike the Cottage and the Throne.
No Tools of Power our Properties invade,
No Heads are chopt for Plots the Court hath made.
By ſuch baſe Arts her Empire Rome maintains,
Axes her Arguments, her Logic Chains;
To theſe a Martyr gallant Ruſſel fell,
And Sidney bled, whoſe Crime was writing well.
But under George ſuch Practice is unknown,
For free-born Subjects guard and grace his Throne.
A Prince like him our Author ſhews to Night,
Who fought for Freedom and his regal Right.
The temporary Piece in Haſte was writ,
The ſix Weeks Labour of a puny Wit;
With melting Meaſure, Critic Rules unfraught,
Artleſs he writes,—juſt as rude Nature taught:
No golden Lines, no poliſh'd Verſe hath he,
But all like Britiſh Courage, rough and free.
For once then—
Judge not by Critic, but by patriot Laws;
Where Genius fails, ſupport your fav'rite Cauſe.
EPILOGUE,
[]BY Hal deliver'd from my marriage Vows,
Catherine again is free to chuſe a Spouſe.
The Man, who offers faireſt, ſhall ſucceed,
If Britiſh born, or of old Huntley's Breed.
Of Rome-nurſed Husbands I have had enough,
O Ladies, they are all ſuch daſtard Stuff,
That I my ſelf, equip'd in Cap and Jerkin,
Am every whit as good a Prince as Perkin.
'Tis true the Boy was loving, ſoft and tender,
But in the Main an arrant poor Pretender.
Jeſting a-part,—now Ladies, what do you ſay?
What is your Judgment of this haſty Play?
For your Deciſion here the Author ſtands;
Let the poor Rogue have Mercy at your Hands.
In ſooth we're much beholden to his Art;
For in a female Form he hath placed a manly Heart;
And if in her bright Character you find
Superior Spirit and a Roman Mind,
Know, from the Life her Principles he drew,
And hopes the Piece ſhall live which copies you.
Dramatis Perſonae.
[]- King HENRY, Mr. Delane.
- OXFORD, Mr. Berry.
- DAWBNEY, Mr. Woodburn.
- Biſhop of YORK, Mr. Havard,
- STANLEY, Mr. Winſtone.
- Sir Robert CLIFFORD, Mr. Marſhal.
- Lord Mayor, Mr. Taſwell.
- 1ſt Lord,
- 2d Lord,
- Soldier, Mr. Barrington.
- King of SCOTLAND, Mr. Stevens.
- PERKIN WARBEC, Mr. Goodfellow.
- HUNTLEY, Mr. Macklin.
- SEVEZ, the Pope's Le⯑gate, Mr. Bridges.
- Sir David BRUCE, Mr. Blakes.
- FRION, Mr. Sparkes.
- Lord.
- Officer.
- Lady Cath. GORDON, Mrs. Woffington.
- JANE, Miſs Minors.
Guards, Attendants, &c.
King HENRY the VII. OR The POPISH IMPOSTOR.
[1]ACT .I.
SCENE I.
SCENE Holy-rood Palace.
SEVEZ and FRION.
Sevez.
FRION, we all were on the Brink of Fate;
A Nobleman who knew him, when a Child,
Avow'd him an Impoſtor, born at Tournay;
The Son of one John Oſbec;—not the Heir
Of England's King—audaciouſly aſſumed.
This ſtagger'd many of the Court, who warmly
Oppoſed his Audience; I at length ſtood up,
And in full Council ſtrait produced our Letters
From Charles of France, his Holineſs the Pope,
And Maximilian of Bohemia;
And as they all recognize his royal Birth,
The Objection vaniſh'd; and the King reſolved,
To give him inſtant Audience and ſupport,
Befitting regal State, oppreſs'd and wrong'd.
Frion.
Moſt reverend Sir, your Induſtry and Zeal,
[2]So warmly active in this pious Cauſe,
Will ever make you dear to France and Rome.
Sevez.
Frion, with religious Joy we will revenge
The irreverent Contempts, lately offer'd
To our holy Church, by unholy England,
My Functions, ſecular and religious,
Shall to their utmoſt, ſtretch, to fix this Perkin
On England's Throne. Henry hath refuſed
Our King, by my Contrivance, his Daughter
Margaret; which affront hath ſown the Seeds
Of Hate too deep within his youthful Mind
Ever to be weeded out. His Soul's on fire,
And burns with Eagerneſs to pour Invaſion
Into their haughty Land; to looſe at once
His unremitting Grudge, on a proud Neighbour,
And a dreaded Rival. But, Frion, tho' we
Abound in Scottiſh Blood, ready to be drain'd
Againſt England's Peace, yet Treaſure is War's
Strongeſt Sinew; and without that quick'ning Aid,
The devouring Body waſtes to needy Peace.
That muſt be had.
Frion.
Holy, Sir, 'tis ready.
For Years large Collections have been making
In England, Spain, and ever-helping France;
Theſe Sums for the preſent are lodged with me;
But now a ſpecial Order from his Holineſs
Diveſts me of the Charge, and to your Care
Commits the Truſt.
Sevez.
Our unerring Father's Confidence
Does Honour to my Zeal; I will beſtow
The Treaſure as his Holineſs directs
And the religious Cauſe demands. But how
Stands Ireland? What Hopes from thence?
Trion.
None.
[3]
Th' Apoſtate Slaves are fallen off from Rome,
And firmly fixt in the Uſurper's Cauſe;
Kildare, Clanrikard, with many others
On whom we built abſolute Aſſurance,
Have, at their own Charge, arm'd their Friends 'and Followers,
And join'd the Engliſh General, Poinings;
For which may divine Vengeance taint their Air,
And viſit them to late Poſterity.
Sevez.
How are the Engliſh affected towards us?
Frion.
As our Hearts could wiſh;
Sir Robert Clifford, and many others,
All of high Rank, and eminent Eſteem,
In Diſcontent, at preſent, with their King,
By Gold and Promiſes have I firmly fixt.
Yet more, the Uſurper's Boſom-Friend, the Man
Neareſt his Heart, croſs'd in ambitious Views,
Has ſecretly vow'd Revenge, and is ours
By Oath and Heart; ſo that England's Meaſures
Are betray'd as ſoon as form'd.
Sevez.
So far then Probability attends us,
And gives almoſt Aſſurance of Succeſs.
But one Thing more.—Is Perkin well prepar'd?
Can he affect the Bluſh of Innocence?
Hath he the ſteadfaſt Eye that looks againſt
Enquiry? Can he ſtand the Shock of gazing
Numbers? And tell his Tale without Confuſion?
Is he Maſter of the falſe Tear and feigned Sigh?
For to a crowded Preſence he muſt ſpeak.
Frion.
He is not to be taught his Leſſon now:
The blended Care of Nature and of Art
Have ſtamp'd him perfect; a majeſtic Mein,
A Countenance, where Sweetneſs and Command
Smile awfully together; a Deportment,
[4]Courtly, but not effeminate; a Skill,
That calls him Maſter of moſt Languages;
But chiefly Engliſh; with a ſoothing Carriage
Which beggars the Perſuaſion of his Tongue.
His ſuppos'd Aunt, Margaret of Burgundy,
Has form'd his Education; ſhe has made him
A living Hiſtory of England's Factions;
The various Intereſts, Battles, Revolutions,
The Friends, the Enemies of either Houſe,
This of Plantagenet, or that of Lancaſter.
He is Maſter of many Languages;
But chiefly Engliſh; to ingratiate him
With the People, and ſtamp him native.
Sevez.
The King is ſoft and warm, ſuſceptible of Pity,
Prompt to receive th' Impreſſion of Humanity;
If Perkin do but tell his Tale with Skill,
Th' unwary Youth will ſympathize in Sorrow
And take and keep what Form his Art beſtows.
Frion.
Doubt not his Art, my Lord, he is com⯑pleat;
And often has rehears'd his kingly Part
In France, in Flanders, and in Italy;
Where admiring Crowds have wonder'd forth his Praiſe.
And given natural Marks of Majeſty;
In Look, Tone, Geſture, Gate, and Voice:
And credulous tale-believing Women,
To whom Appearances are ſacred Truths,
Have, at his well-told Tale diſſolved in Tears.
Thus, my Lord, like a graceful, well-ſkill'd Actor,
He ſteals, where e'er he plays his princely Part,
Or popular Applauſe, or melting Pity.
Sevez.
Frion, ſome ſubtle Means muſt be con⯑triv'd
[5]To fling Diviſion's Fire-brands 'mongſt the Engliſh,
For ſhould they join their Hearts and Reſolutions,
The united Pow'r of Europe, nay, the World
Could not prevail againſt them.
Frion.
Care is taken.
On every Side, our Emiſſaries ply,
And blacken the Uſurper; Gold and Prayer
Alternately are us'd, and with Succeſs,
To bribe his Council and to win his Subjects.
Richard's divine, hereditary Right,
A Right Infallibility confirms,
And which that Power makes indefeaſible,
Is preach'd amongſt them; ſtrengthen'd by the 'Terror
Of Bulls, Anathemas, and Hell eternal
To thoſe who diſbelieve, or diſobey.
Sevez.
'Tis well. But we muſt haſte; the King expects us.
I'll conduct the Youth. Is he ready?
Frion.
He is, my Lord.
Sevez.
Frion, in your publick Manifeſtos
Be ſure you promiſe free Power of Worſhip,
To the Lollards, and all Separatiſts.
Men fight by Halves, with a kind of baſtard
Courage on Rebellion's Side, without Religion.
But when that's hook'd in, why then, Biggotry,
Flaming Biggotry, tunes Rebellion's Diſcord
Into pious Loyalty; and makes Men fight
With hot, enthuſiaſtic Vigour,
And forget the Name of Rebel. For then
The Cauſe and Quarrel are no longer earthly
But derived of Heaven!
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
[6]King of SCOTLAND, PERKIN, Courtiers, &c.
K. Scot.
Couſin of York, England's undoubted Prince,
To our Court welcome! Welcome to our Heart!
Welcome to Scotland's deareſt Blood and Treaſure!
Which, in Support of thy undoubted Right,
We promiſe to pour forth.
Perkin.
Gracious King!
Godlike, puiſſant, and benificent,—
And ſtill a Title far more glorious,
Friend to Diſtreſs and Father to the Wretched;
Proſtrate before your royal Feet, behold
A Prince, whoſe Woes, nor Time, nor weeping Pity,
With all the Store of Wretchedneſs they've ſeen,
Can match; a Prince, ſprung from the nobleſt Blood
That ever rul'd fair Albion's Sea-waſh'd Iſle;
The high, the regal once;—but now the out-caſt,
Miſerable, forlorn Plantagenet.
O royal Sir, Afflictions numberleſs
Have rooted in my Heart,
Ev'n from our princely Cradle, to our landing
On your hoſpitable Shore, Fortune, adverſe
And cruel, with her Whip of Thorns hath ſcourg'd us.
Where e'er we went, we've been purſued and dog'd,
By wither'd Murder; the pale Aſſaſſin
Of blood-thirſty Uſurpation.
K. Scot.
Riſe, royal Couſin, moſt unhappy Youth!
(Sevez takes him up)
Perkin.
[7]My Uncle firſt, unnatural, crooked Richard,—
Savage and bloody—by my dying Father
Appointed Guardian of the infant Lives
Of princely Edward, and myſelf, ſubborn'd
Two helliſh Murderers, at dead of Night,
To plunge their Poignards in our guiltleſs Hearts,
As we lay ſleeping in our royal Tower.—
Edward's rich Blood the Butchers ſoon let forth.—
His Skriek of Death awak'd me;—when Horror!
Stiffening Horror! ſeiz'd my frighted Soul!
Cloſe by my Side I ſaw my dying Brother
All weltring in his Gore; Murder's butcher'd Prey!
The grim Aſſaſſins,—
Their Hands yet reeking with the royal Blood
Seized me▪—ſhuddering,—I kneel'd and beg'd for Mercy!
Inſtantly!
As if great Providence had interpoſed,
The Murderers,—Soul-ſtruck,—ſtood ghaſt and flank!
At length ſoft Mercy, and relenting Nature,
Warm'd about their Hearts; and the up-rais'd Hand,
Unnerv'd by Pity, the fatal Dagger dropt.
Sevez.
O heav'nly Care of injur'd Royalty!
K. Scot.
We muſt be Marble not to melt at this.
Perkin.
The repenting Men,
With Tears aſſur'd me of my Life and Safety;
And ſtraight returning to my cruel Uncle,
Deceiv'd him with th' Account that both were dead.
To Tournay thence with Speed I was convey'd,
And there, for ſome Time, obſcurely foſter'd;
[8]Till at length, Margaret of Burgundy,
My loving Aunt, declar'd me Edward's Son.
How I have ſince been toſs'd by Fortune's Tempeſts
Is in the living Volume regiſter'd
Of all Mens Tongues.
K. Scot.
Couſin of England, ſo I now pro⯑claim you,
In the full Preſence of our Nobles here,
Once more, of Aid, and Faith-ty'd Amity,
We give thee royal, and ſincere Aſſurance.
Sevez, give Order that throughout our Realm
He be acknowledged England's rightful King,
With ſuch Appointments, and due Obſervance
As appertain to unqueſtion'd Majeſty;
And to ſtamp his Perſon ſtill more ſacred,
Here in our Court ſhall be his Coronation,—
Sevez, ſet Preparation forward.
Sevez.
My Leige, I will.
K. Scot.
Say, is our Council ſummon'd; are they ready.
Sevez.
They are my gracious Prince.
K. Scot.
And are the Lords
Of Huntley, Angus, and Daliel ſummon'd?
Sevez.
They are.
K. Scot.
'Tis well:—My welcome Cozin, be chearful;
For ſome few Days, what Pleaſures can be found
In Scotland's Court we wiſh thee to partake;
We'll after march to England, and taſte their's;
Where we'll exchange the hoſpitable Word
Which now you wear, and in my Turn I'll be
Your royal Gueſt; and e'er 'tis long
We hope to dance a Meaſure in your Court.
Exeunt all but Sevez and Frion.
Sevez.
[9]Thus far the Gale blows right, and all goes well,—
But, Frion, we muſt leap another Bound;
Another Danger ſtill muſt be encounter'd;
I muſt apprize thee that our Scotch Nobility,
Proud, and tenacious of their antient Rights,
Vent daily murmurs and form cloſe Cabals;
Forſake the Court, and bitterly inveigh
Againſt the Church; as having uſurp'd of late
Too much Authority in temporal Sway.
Loud are their Complaints that by Prieſts and Frenchmen
They are precluded from the Royal Ear.
Some of theſe factious Spirits have been quell'd,
Some of them baniſh'd, and their Lands confiſcate;
Others impriſon'd, nay and ſome cut off:
Yet ſtill their dreaded Leaders do remain;
Alexander Gordon, Earl of Huntley,
The young Lord Daliel,
And Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus.
Still they erect their Creſts, and with Impunity,
Vent their black Malice 'gainſt the Church and us.
Frion.
How have they ſcap'd?
Sevez.
Thro' Fear, not Lenity.
Their Friends are numerous, their Poſſeſſions large;
Their Deaths wou'd be Forerunners of our Ruin.
Elſe, let me ſpeak it like a true Romiſh Church-Man,
Their irkſome Beings had not now perplex'd us.
They have abſented long from Court and Coun⯑cil;
But late a ſpecial Summons from the King
Has order'd their Attendance here to Day,
[10]On Pain of Baniſhment and Confiſcation.
Fri.
But, holy Sir, I doubt theſe headſtrong Lords
Will not aſſent to aid our Perkin's Claim.
Sevez.
No Matter, Frion, we can do without them;
For me, I'm determin'd; and for the King,
He acts by my controuling Will, not his own.
It is not prudent that the Church of Rome
Should e're let Kings or Rulers think for them⯑ſelves;
Th' unerring See ſhould ever be their Guide.
As to thoſe heretic Lords, their Aſſent
For Perkin is our leaſt Concern. We have
More important Views upon them.—Death, Death.
Frion, Huntley muſt not live, he ſtalks and roars
But one Day more in Freedom's ſpacious Foreſt.
The Toil is ſet for th' unwily Lion;
And his own boundleſs Spirit drives him in.
He thinks the King miſlead, and will bellow
Without Guile or Guard; for the Fool is brave,
Ev'n to romantick Madneſs. 'Scotland's Good
'So ſtrongly burns within him, it appears
'His only Paſſion. Freedom is his God;
Which he ſo idolizes, he would make
The World his Proſelytes, did they but hear him.
Frion.
Lord Sevez, 'tis not fit ſuch Men exiſt.
Sevez.
O they are dangerous in a Court like ours,
Where the King's Intereſt wanders from the Peoples.
But his Majeſty's prepar'd,—and reſolved
This Day, by my Advice, to ſilence Huntley's
Free ſpeaking, or his Head anſwer th' Default.
Frion.
Omniſcient Wiſdom ſtill directs your Mind
And points your Purpoſe to ſome holy End.
But, my right reverend Sir, one thing remains
[11]Unſettled yet, which only you can finiſh:—
You know this Perkin burns for Huntley's Daughter,
Scotland's gay Ornament, and Nature's Pride;
This Angel-looking Maid, this Katherine Gordon,
To young Lord Daliel has been late betroth'd,
The Follower and fervent Friend of Huntley;
Your Wonder-working Wiſdom now muſt break
This fatal Knot, or England's blazing Crown
Will ſit like Death upon his princely Head.
Sevez.
This Buſineſs in the Council has been weigh'd;
The King reſolves to gratify his Wiſh,
And give the lovely Katherine to young Perkin.
Which Match will either fix this dangerous
Huntley in our Cauſe, or with enraged Madneſs
Break his proud ſtubborn Heart: For his Daughter
Next to Liberty is his earthly Idol.
But I muſt leave you;—for the Council ſits
To found thoſe factious Lords.—I muſt attend.
Exit.
Frion.
My Brother Prieſt is zealous in our Cauſe;
His Pride and Avarice muſt be the Tools,
With which we work.—They are ſharp and handy
And in a Prieſt, who ſways the royal Mind,
Will rid much Buſineſs: Gordon's lovely Daughter,
(Who is of royal Blood) to Perkin join'd,
Will knit the Scots to us, indiſſolubly.
For after Marriage, ſhould they find the Cheat,
'Twill then become their Intereſt to conceal it;
Nay to eſpouſe it too.—Which if they do refuſe,
The Magazines of Rome's affrighting Vengeance,
In damning Bulls, and terrible Anathemas,
Shall to the liquid Gulph of penal Flames
Devote their black, their ſuperſtitious Souls,
Till Penitence and Gold buy out their Pardon.
Exit.
SCENE III.
[12]The Council-Chamber.
The King, SEVEZ, Sir DAVID BRUCE, Coun⯑cil and Attendants.
King.
How! not attend!—Angus and Daliel ill.
Sev.
So their Oracle, Lord Huntley, reports,
And farther, that he's emproxied to expreſs
Their Thoughts in aught that may concern the public Weal.
King.
Their Sickneſs is all Pretence!—but admit him.
Exit Sir David Bruce, and returns with Huntley.
Lord Huntley, welcome to the royal Walls
Of Holy-rood! and well we wiſh you never
Had eſtranged them. It would have joy'd us much
To've ſeen the Lords Daliel and Angus here.
As you are Subjects, Nobles and Kinſmen,
We with your Love; and we intreat, all Lets,
That may impede our Concord, be remov'd:
Your Preſence will be Gladneſs to our Heart,
Therefore, be oftener in our Eye.
Huntley.
My Leige, I am unfaſhion'd for your Court.
My Speech, like my Manners, are plain and un⯑courtly.
I have been bred a Soldier, a Scotch Soldier,
Not an Italian Flatterer. My old Body
Is dry'd and chill'd with toilſome Marches, thro'
Numbing Froſt, and ſcorching Heat, to grapple with
My Country's Foe.
I have not been uſed to ſilken Coverli Is,
And Solon Beds,—but to the friendly Plaid,
[13]And ſwampy Earth; and my beſt Lodging oft
Hath been the dryeſt Turf, the blooming Hether,
The wholeſome Fern. Our unletter'd Bards then
Flatter'd not the Living but prais'd the Dead.
Their Songs were not who ſteep'd deepeſt in Italian
Luxury, or deck'd gayeſt in foreign Frippery,
But who had moſt Wounds in Battle, or fought
Hardieſt in their Country's Cauſe. This Court
Was not then the Rendezvous of Italian Minſtrels,
Prieſts and Legates,—but the hoſpitable Home
Of Scotch Nobility, whoſe Anceſtors
This Realm coeval'd; and when grown ſtrengthleſs
By fighting Scotland's Battles, grew venerably grey
In her faithful Councils.—Where are they now?
Here are none ſuch. Your Nobles are Strangers
To your Court, your Courtiers Strangers to your Nobles.
K. Scot.
Huntley, to taunt and to revile
Was not the Purport of our Summons; but
To counſel and aſſiſt.
Huntley.
Sir, Counſel, void of Freedom,
May flatter and miſlead, but never can aſſiſt.
Freedom is the Guide, the unerring Guide
To ſacred Truth, in a Nation's Council.
The free-born Subject's indiſputable Right;
And never ſuffer'd Prohibition yet,
But from Prieſts and Tyrants.
K. Scot.
—Sir, to your vaſt,
High-taught Notions of Freedom we are no
Stranger. Rabble Kerns too, we hear, copy your
Licentious Knowledge; and in rude ſaucy
Language, dare revile our ſacred Perſon;
Libellouſly branding our Wiſdom, with
French and Prieſt-rid Weakneſs.
Huntley.
[14]My Leige, when the Yoke galls,
Nature will wince. Arreſts, Impriſonments,
And Confiſcations compoſe your Subjects Dreams,
And break their reſtleſs Sleep. We lie down
With Anguiſh at our State,—and riſe deſpairing
Ever to ſee it mend; and the Heart-ſtinging
Proſpect that opens to our View, is,
Poſterity ſcourged, by French and Romiſh
Tyranny.
K. Scot.
O Sir, your diſtemper'd Fancy frames
Sprites and Goblins, Men of ſounder Judgments never ſee.
Huntley.
Pray Heaven it may be Fancy.—
My Liege, I have fought my Country's Battles
In Sweat and Blood; when every Object
To Eye, and Ear, and Thought, brought certain Death
Into the Mind; the whole a moving Scene
Of buſy Fate. And after Battle, I have
Seen the hard-fought, conquer'd Field, ſtrew'd with Death
And Slaughter. There I've beheld our gallant,
Helpleſs Nobles, breathing out final Groans;
Their active Blood baked and clotted
By ſcorching Heat, or ſwallow'd by the greedy
Sun-crack'd Earth. There I beheld Brothers and
Kinſmen ſtript, and piled on mangled Heaps
Of Slaughter;—Kerns and Thanes promiſcuous.
There ſearching for my dear, my darling, only Son,
I found his well-known, headleſs Trunk, all gaſh'd
And mangled,—with his Brains daſh'd and ſcatter'd
'Gainſt a blood-ſtain'd Oak.—Yet theſe were Sights of Joy
To what I now behold.
[15]I ſee my Country bleeding in her vital Vein;
I ſee her Nobles baniſh'd, impriſon'd, and aſſaſſin'd;
I ſee Scotland's Dregs compoſe her Councils;
All Concerns, ſacred, civil, and military,
Sold and huckſter'd as in a publick Mart.
I ſee Majeſty—deluded Majeſty,
Hem'd in by a Band of crawling Paraſites,
Who taint his royal Mind with a King's blueſt Plague,
Seditious Jealouſie of his beſt Subjects.
O awake, awake, anointed Sir, and
Be the Father, not the Tyrant of your People.
Ferret from your Court theſe Rats, who'll undermine
The Roof that ſhelters them, and leave your Fame
And Country to periſh in the Ruins.
Sevez.
Lord Huntley, your ill-manner'd Heat of Temper
Makes you forget the Preſence you are in.
The Homage and Reſpect due to Majeſty
You wilfully and audaciouſly omit.
Hunt.
The Homage and Reſpect! the enve⯑nom'd ſlander,
And the tell-tale Pick-thanks, you mean, my Lord;
Which taint the pureſt Loyalty to blackeſt Treaſon.
Sevez.
My Lord, your Manners grow foul, and beneath your Rank.
Hunt.
My Prieſt, your Pride grows inſolent,
And above your Rank; and the ſame Recipe
That diſcharges the black Stains from your Con⯑ſcience
Will cleanſe my Manners.
Sevez.
Stains from my Conſcience, Lord!
Hunt.
Ay Prieſt, 'twas my Phraſe.
Sevez.
My Leige, this Treatment,
[16]In your royal Preſence too, is beyond
The Sufferance of wholeſome Policy,
And human Nature;—it demands inſtant
Chaſtiſement.
Hunt.
Chaſtiſement, Prieſt!
Sevez.
Ay Chaſtiſement, Lord.
K. Scot.
—Huntley,—be calm. Why, how now, Sir,
Have you forgot our Preſence?
Hunt.
—No, my Lord—
Rows to to the King, then with a ſtifled Rage turns to Sevez.
—You are a Prieſt—in Council,—but no matter—
—'Tis well:—
O Scotland, Scotland, how is thy Spirit broke!
When that a Kern-bred, upſtart, Rome-taught Prieſt
Dares hold a Rod of menaced Chaſtiſement
Over the Minds of free-born Peers.
K. Scot.
Huntley, you grow ſeditious.
Hunt.
My Liege, Truth will ever be Sedition
While France and Italy direct your Council.
K. Scot.
Sir, my Allies of France and holy Rome
Muſt not be revil'd by you, or any
Slander-ſpreading Subject within my Realm.
Sevez.
Pray, my good Lord, if Heart will give you Leave,
Will you inform his Majeſty and Council,
In what this out-ſtretch'd Power of Rome conſiſts.
K. Scot.
Ay, Huntley, let us cooly hear at once,
Theſe arbitrary and oppreſſive Grievances
In Church and State, and if they appear ſuch,
Our royal Word is 'gaged for the Redreſs.
Hunt.
Ay, Sir, now you ſpeak like a King,
Whoſe nobleſt Office is to hear and to redreſs.
K. Scot.
Proceed, Sir, in your Grievances, you have free Leave.
Hunt.
[17]Moſt heartily I thank your Majeſty.
Your gracious Boon I will accept.
And in my homely Plainneſs dreadleſs uſe it,
Tho' I were ſure this Freedom were my laſt.
To begin then.—
Free-ſpeaking Parliaments are thrown aſide,
As ſuperfluous in our State; and proſtitute
Bulls from marketing Rome ſupply their Place.
The regal Council of the Realm conſiſts—
Firſt of William Sevez, now the Pope's Legate;
A Man, iſſued from the baſe perfidious Clan
Of vile Mackgreger. He with religious Guile
And Gallic Craft, infacinates the royal Mind.
The Subject's Lives, their Rights, and Properties,
He grinds and arbitrates with tyrant Will;
And, to pleaſure ſubtle France, miſguides our Land
To a perfidious War, in ſupport
Of an Impoſtor's Title, againſt our
True Allies, the Faith-obſerving Engliſh.
Sevez.
Dread Sir, this Inſult to diſtreſs'd Royalty
Is not to be borne
King. Scot.
Let him proceed;
'Tis the laſt Time he ſpeaks in Scotiſh Council.
Hunt.
Be it ſo, my Liege. Then 'tis the laſt Ser⯑vice
I ſhall do my Country. But to your Council,
Since it is my laſt. Right againſt your Prieſt
An Engliſh Minſtrel ſtands, who tho' at Home
A Vagrant, now gives Vote in Council here;
And, for Scotland's Honour, keeps a Court Auction
For royal Boons, where the higheſt Bidder
Riſes to Preferment.
There are many more of the like Nature
About your Palace; and tho' excellent
[18]In their various Talents, yet there is one
They all unite in, which is—a ſervile,
Thorough-paced Obedience in Court Meaſures,
To gall your Subjects, and oppreſs the Land.
King Scot.
Lord Huntley, 'Freedom of Speech was your Requeſt;—
'You had it; and, by my Troth, full freely
'Haſt thou uſed it. We know to gloſs Matters
'Is not your Uſe; Plain-dealing, however rude,
'Is the Mark you aim at:' You have portraid
A moſt lively, ſpeaking Picture, of our ſelf,
Our Council, our Religion, and our Laws;
And 'tis but meet ſuch high-colour'd Patriotiſm
Shou'd be rewarded. Therefore
We here ſolemnly engage our royal Word
Before our upſtart, Rome-directed Council,
To reward your Treaſons with immediate Death.
Hunt.
Treaſon, my Liege!
King Scot.
Ay Treaſon, frontleſs Traytor.
Hunt.
My miſguided King,—as you love fair Truth,—
For my ſacred Maſter, your dead Father's ſake,
Who, in Horrors of the raging Battle,
Proved my Loyalty, do not call me Traytor.
'The Traitor's Blood is cold, and treacherous;
'Mine, tho old and dearth, is hot, and loyal.
'Now indeed it cannot guſh as 'twas wont,
'When laviſh'd daringly, in your Defence,
'And your Houſe's Cauſe; yet in Scotland's Right
'It ſtill can trickle, a Sacrifice to your
'Miſguided Vengeance'. Be kind then, ſacred Sir,
Take,—Take my old Life, but murder not my Fame.
[19]For a Traitor's Name ſtabs deeper in a
Loyal Heart than all the Tortures Tyranny
Can invent.
K. Scot.
Sir, for your Time, you may find bet⯑ter Uſe;
'Tis not of long Duration; employ it
To Advantage. Sir David Bruce, he is your Priſoner;
Convey him to the Caſtle.
Hunt.
My kind Liege,—
To the virtuous Man, Extent of Life
Is but of ſmall Concern; to me 'tis none.
But how Life is ſpent ought to be a King's
Firſt Care. For as the Welfare of Millions
Depends on him, his Life demands the ſtricteſt
Circumſpection. Kingſhip, is not an Office
Of Rapine, Riot, Tyranny, and Will,
But of Care, Affection, Duty, and Circumſcription,
Inviolable to the Subject's Right.
If to remind a Monarch of this Duty,
Be deem'd a Traitor's Office—would to Heav'n
Your Council were all ſuch! 'tis the Treaſon
For which I wiſh to live; and if it be the Treaſon
For which I die, next to the Field of Battle,
In our dear Country's Cauſe, it is the beſt,
The nobleſt Death a free-born Soul can meet.
And now, farewell, whom I honour as my King,
Obey as my Maſter, rev'rence as my Father,
Love as my Friend, and laſtly, to that
Which contains, and is dearer than them all,
A long, long Farewell,—my ruin'd Country.
Huntley led off as to the Caſtle of Edinburgh.
Sevez.
If your faithful Sevez,
My honour'd King, may preſume farther to
[20]Adviſe, Angus and Daliel both ſhould die.
For Lord Huntley's Death, ſhould they ſurvive it,
Inſtead of quenching their enkindled Spirits,
Would, like Flames pent up in fu [...]ll'd Caverns,
Make them burſt forth and blaze with treble Fierce⯑neſs.
Beſides, my Leige,
The Confiſcation of their Lands will be
A double Prop to your royal Power.
Firſt, 'will puniſh, and deter foul Traitors
Who wou'd leſſen, or ſubvert your royal Sway.
Next, 'twill be a rich Exchequer, to puſh
The War 'gainſt ſcoffing England; who with Eye,
Contemptful, views Scotland's King as poor and needy.
K. Scot.
And with ſarcaſtic Jeſt ſcorn'd our Al⯑liance,
And refuſed their Daughter; but we'll repay
Their gibing Taunts.
Greedy Ravage ſhall havock thro' their Land,
Till they atone their Inſolence, and accord
Plantagenet's Right!
'Sevez.
Your Reign, great Sir, to future Kings 'will be
'A Document of wiſeſt Policy
'How to direct a State.
King.
Sevez, give Order
Daliel and Angus ſuffer with Lord Huntley.
Sevez.
I ſhall, my Liege,
K. Scot.
We'll now prepare for Richard's Co⯑ronation,
Then to England; where we'll affix his Right,
Or in that hoſtile Land reſign our Breath.
End of the firſt ACT.
ACT II. The Engliſh Court.
[21]King HENRY, STANLEY, YORK.
K. Hen.
MY Lords, no longer let us doubt the Truth.
'Tis certain th' Impoſtor is in Scotland;
Conceal'd and cheriſh'd by thoſe needy Kerns;
While envious France prepares her Armaments
T' invade our Land, and aid the Vagrant's Claim.
Stan.
I truſt, great Sir, that th' Alarm is falſe;
I cannot think that Scotland's King would e'er abet
An Impoſtor's Claim againſt your native Right;
Back'd and ſupported by your Subjects Voice,
Their Hands and Hearts; the beſt, the ſureſt, Right
To England's Crown.
K. Hen.
That Right be ever mine.
My firmeſt Bulwark, againſt foreign Threats,
Shall ever be my Subjects Love; ſecure
In that, England's King, and this Sea-girt Iſle,
May defy the warring World. But, Stanley,
Are our Fleets in Readineſs to ſcower
The daſtard French? to ſink and burn their hoſtile
Tranſports, ſhould they dare look forth?
Stan.
They are, my Leige.
Proudly they ride, and plow the angry Main,
As if they rul'd that boiſt'rous Element,
And gave old Neptune Laws in his own Dominions.
While your faithful Troops,
[22](Th' Remains of Boſworth's memorable Field,
Who fought ſo bravely 'gainſt the Tyrant Richard)
Headed by gallant Buckingham, are march'd
With eager Hearts to Kent and Suffex; and vow
To ſhed their warmeſt Blood 'gainſt th' invading Foe,
Who treads a Step on England's Ground.
K. Hen.
Why, ay, 'tis like an Engliſh Soldier's Vow;
It breathes forth Mettle, and native Courage,
Such, as fifth Harry felt, at th' deathful Scene
Of bloody Agincourt; when Gallic Priſoners
Trebled Engliſh Conquerors, and their mangled
Dead out-number'd both. Such again ſhall be
Their Lot;—Impriſonment or Death. Such their
Reward, who wound fair England's Peace.
Enter OXFORD.
Now, Lord Oxford, what ſays my loyal City?
Are the Londoners aſſembled?
Ox.
They are, my Leige:
Their kindled Chiefs are gather'd in Guild-Hall;
With each a Spirit like the firſt Romans,
When rowz'd at midnight by th' inſpiring Cry
Of ſave your Liberty!—When firſt I waked
The Mayor, and told him the French and Scots
Were making a Deſcent in Perkin's Cauſe,
Th' abrupt Relation drove the warm Colour
From his manly Cheek; but the rich Stream ſoon
Ruſh'd back with treble Force—Engliſh Courage,
Rage, and fiery Indignation; which now,
Like ſpreading Flames, catch,—quick—from Man to Man,
And through your loyal City nought is heard
But 'to arms.—Death or Liberty.—and long
'Live the King.
K. Hen.
[23]'Tis well; I will deſerve their kind Af⯑fection,
And ever be the Guardian of their Rights.
Dawbney, take care there be Diſpatches ſent
This Night, to the Lieutenants of our ſeveral Coun⯑ties;
Bid them, without Delay, prepare their People;
Diſtribute Arms, and animate their Zeal;
Our ſelf will lead them on to happy Victory,
Or hard fought Death, in England's glorious cauſe.
Ox.
Doubt not, my Liege; your Subjects all united
As now with Hand and Heart they firmly are,
Can never fail of joyful Victory.
The needy, reſtleſs Scots, ſo oft chaſtis'd,
Again ſhall feel the Vengeance of our Arms,
And ever rue this raſh Attempt. As for the
French, I've often heard my Grandſire ſay,
That, in fifth Harry's Days, the beating them
Was but an Engliſhman's Recreation:
It ſhall be ſo again, my gracious Leige,
We'll drive the gaudy Rogues back to Paris Gates;
There, like beaten Curs, let them lick their bruiſed Wounds,
Mend their broken Limbs; and inſtead of making
Kings,—let them make Courantos, and follow
Their dancing ſkipping Avocations.
K. Hen.
Well ſaid, my valiant Oxford. We'll make 'em feel in us
An Edward and Fifth Harry joyn'd. Ha! Stanley,
We once again ſhall have our Bodies claſp'd
In burniſh'd blazing Steel, and together fight
Againſt audacious Uſurpation.
York.
May the Almighty's providential Hand
Direct your Sword, and guard your ſacred Life;
[24]May Victory, with her triumphant Aſpect,
Attend your righteous Cauſe; and bleſs once more
Our panting Land with cheerful welcome Peace.
Ox.
My Lord of York fights like a true Church⯑man,
With Zeal and Prayer, inſtead of Sword and Bullet;
York.
Your Taunt, my Lord, might have been better timed,
And mark'd a fitter Object for its Mirth.
For know, Sir, tho' a Prieſt, I'm Engliſh born,
And (in my Country's Cauſe) can weild a Sword,
And ſhed my warmeſt Blood in its Defence.
As daringly as any Layman of you all.
K. Hen.
Couſin of York, none doubts your Loyalty,
Or Courage; we have oft approv'd them both.
My Lord of Oxford means you well; and his
Mirthful Jeſts the Church muſt not take ill,
Since Majeſty itſelf is ſometimes made their Butt.
'Tis true, his Humour's ſingular and blun [...];
But his Heart is honeſt, which makes large amends
For the Tartneſs of his Wit. Come, come, we
All are Friends, nor have we Time for Jibe,
Or Anger now, but 'gainſt our common Foes,
The French and Scot; there let your Pray'rs, and Jeſts,
And Blows, be levell'd.
Enter a Lord, and whiſpers Stanley.
Stan.
May it pleaſe your Majeſty, the Mayor
And Citizens attend your Pleaſure.
K. Hen.
Stanley, admit 'em.
Exit. Stanley.
[25]Their Readineſs to ſhew their Loyalty
Is an added Worth to their Affection.
Ox.
Thoſe Sons of Traffick know too well
The Sweets of golden Commerce, ſelf-earn'd Property,
And Engliſh Freedom, to loſe them lightly.
They are too wiſe to change ſuch Bleſſings for
Wooden Shoes and Popiſh Anathema's.
Enter Stanley, Mayor and Aldermen, who kneel.
Mayor.
Permit us, gracious Sovereign, with warm Affection
And united Loyalty, to approach your ſacred
Perſon. Indulge our heart-felt Zeal the Privilege
To expreſs the indiſpenſible Duty of Engliſh
Subjects. Subjects, who think their Happineſs and
Liberty inſeparably blended with your ſacred
Right; and bound by Duty and Affection
To feel all Inſults offer'd to your Majeſty, in a
Senſe, as ſharp and touching, as to our individual
Lives, our Trade, or Liberties. Too well,
My Liege, we know the Schemes of ambitious
France, which graſps at univerſal Sway, to be
Deceived by Threats or Machinations. Her
Cabinet is an exhauſtleſs Mine of blackeſt
Policy; Jealouſy, Corruption, Diſcord and Sedi [...]ion,
Are the Agents ſhe ſends forth to
Plague Mankind; but e'er her Jeſuit Arts ſhall
Taint our Loyalty, or pervert our free-born State,
To Gallic Servitude, we here devote!
The laſt Remains of Engliſh Blood and Treaſure.
K. Hen.
For ſuch voluntary, loyal, Engliſh Love,
Who would not change deſpotick, Callic Sway?
[26]You kneel my Subjects, but you riſe my Friends;
Your King and Country's Pride and Treaſure;
The induſtrious Bees, who gather Sweets from Earth's
Remoteſt Climes, to enrich Old England's Hive,
With Natures choiceſt Stores. Such ever be
Her Sons; induſtrious, loyal, ſtout, opulent,
And free.
Mayor.
‘And ſuch her Kings—the Scourge of France and Rome, and Guardian of their People's Liberties.’K. Hen.
Nobles, Citizens and Friends, let each
Repair to his reſpective Charge. You, my Lord,
[...]o our faithful Citizens; bid them accept
A Monarch's greatful Thanks; tell them their Love,
And Loyalty, ſo amply ſhewn, at this
Important Criſis, ever claim my
Warmeſt, beſt Affection. The Preſervation
Of their Peace and Rights, and the Cultivation
Of our darling Commerce, ſhall ever be
My firſt and chiefeſt Care; ſo aſſure them,
Ex. Citizens.
Enter Dawbney, (who whiſpers the King and gives him a Paper.)
K. Hen.
Where haſt thou lodged him, my faithful Daubney.
Daub.
Safe in the Tower, my Liege.
King.
Enough; follow me
(going off—but turns ſhort)
this Liſt you ſay's authentic.Daw.
So he declares, my Liege
King.
'Tis well; follow me, Daubney.
Exit Daubney.
York.
[27]Something of Moment is in this abrupt
Departure, pray Heaven all our Hearts be whole.
Ox.
Lord Biſhop, if there is a rotten Heart
Amongſt us, why his Head muſt anſwer for it.
York.
Sure if there was no other abler Reaſon,
The Blaſt of Nobles in the late Rebellion,
Is Warning ſufficient to all the Land,
How they again abet an Impoſtor's Claim.
The high-born Lincoln, Son to Delapoole,
The Earls of Kildair, Lovel, and Geraldine,
With the German Baron, bold Martin Swart,
Who all bled their laſt in th' Impoſtor Simnel's Cauſe,
On the crimſon Plain of memorable Stoke.
Enter DAWBNEY.
Daw.
Lord Chamberlain, it is the King's Com⯑mand
You order his Apartment, in the Tower;
They muſt be inſtantly prepar'd, for 'tis
His Royal Pleaſure to lodge there this Night.
Stan.
In the Tower?
Daw.
It was his ſpecial Command: And farther, Lords,
It is his Will you all attend him there.
Ox.
So, ſo—I knew ſome of us would be a Head ſhorter.
This Tower Work ſeldom ends otherwiſe.
This ſame Treaſon, I find, will furniſh full
Employment for the Headſman, and the Prieſt.
For, if I miſtake not, many wiſe Heads
Muſt be knock'd off, and many black Conſciences
Abſolv'd, before it ends.
Exit.
Daw.
My Lords, the King expects you.
York.
We'll attend.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
[28]An Apartment in the Tower.
CLIFFORD
alone.
O Clifford! Clifford, thou haſt loſt all Peace!
The Traitor's guilty Sting is in thy Heart;
And his deep-dy'd Shame dwells on thy Cheek.
My Eye deteſts the Light; and I fain would ſeek
Darkneſs, eternal Darkneſs and Oblivion.
O Man, Man, weak, unſteady, inſatiate Man!
My Conſcience, ever faithful to its Truſt,
With heav'nly Admonition, kindly warn'd
And forbad my Baſeneſs; but Thirſt of Greatneſs,
Infuſed by helliſh Prieſt-craft, wrought my Fall,
And damn'd me to the loweſt Pit of Shame.
For now, to ſave an ignominious Life,
Again I have broke the Band of Fellowſhip,
And, like a Traitor doubly ſteep'd in Guilt,
Have ſacrificed my vile Aſſociates.
O Shame, Shame! Hell! Hell! for ever in
The Villain's mangled Mind.
Enter DAWBNEY.
Daw.
Sir Robert Clifford, I've inform'd the King
Of what you gave Permiſſion;
He has given Command I lead you to his Cloſet—
Be open and ſincere in your Confeſſion;
Truſt to his Royal Goodneſs for Pardon.
Cliff.
O Dawbney, I have my Reward already.
The bearded Shafts of Guilt and Treachery
Goad thro' my Heart, and canker all within.
Daw.
[29]Deſpair not, Sir; the King is merciful.
But do not dally, for his Soul's on Fire;
The Quickneſs of his Temper well you know.
But come, the King
Expects us in his Cloſet.
Exeunt.
SCENE III. The King's Apartment in the Tower. A Table, Chair, and Candles.
Enter the KING and DAWBNEY meeting.
Daw.
May it pleaſe your Majeſty, Sir Robert Clifford.
King.
Admit him, Dawbney—and let Oxford and York attend.
While the King ſeats himſelf Dawbney goes to the Door, and returns with Clifford, York, and Oxford.
King.
Clifford, draw near; 'tis needleſs to upbraid you,
For already I ſee Treaſon's ſharp Remorſe
Hath ſeized your Mein and Aſpect;
Guilt and Self-Reproach, the Traitor's native Marks, ſculk in
Your down-caſt Eye.
Cliff.
My Eye! my Heart!—I am all over Vil⯑lain!
[kneels]
An irreſolute, ungrateful Villain!
I fear beyond the Reach of Penitence!
King.
Clifford, ſtand up; for Inſtance of thy Safety,
We offer thee our Hand.
Cliff.
I kiſs it
With the Greedineſs of a penitent Heart,
[30]Who pants for heavenly Mercy. O Sir,
You are a juſt, a righteous Maſter; I
The blackeſt Traitor, that e'er betray'd his Friend,
His King, or Country.
King.
Tell me, is every Circumſtance ſet down
Within this Paper true? Is it a ſure
Intelligence of all the Progreſs
Of our Enemies Intents?
Cliff.
True, my Liege,
As I wiſh Forgiveneſs of offended Heaven!
King.
Look here, my reverend Lord, the Scheme of France;
[gives him a Paper.]
The baſe, the mean, the ſhackled Terms they've made
With their Impoſtor King, for this fair Iſle,
The Queen of Europe's Liberties.
York.
Reads.
Firſt, a full Surrender of England's Trade
And all her foreign Acquiſitions—next,
Obedience implicit to his Holineſs
The Pope and the Decrees of France, in all
Diſputable Points—laſtly, a Tribute everlaſting
Of whatever Sum their Moderation ſhall demand.
King.
Clifford, thoſe are the Terms, you ſay, made with
England's pretended King?
Cliff.
Gracious Sovereign, they are.
King.
Well, my Lord of York, what ſays your Grace? Shall
We put on our Chains in Peace, ha! will they
Sit eaſy, think you?
York.
As the Shirt of Hercules, my Liege.
The Engliſhman, who ſigns to theſe, muſt ſure
Be bloodleſs.—And bloodleſs may each Briton be
[31]E're that Day come. O ſooner may our deep,
Our watery Bulwark become our Grave,
And Land and Liberty together bravely periſh.
(King riſes, peruſing the Paper.)
King.
Our Right of Commerce! Sovereignty at Sea!
England's darling, rightful Treaſure! purchaſed
For Ages, with her beſt, her choiceſt Blood,
Muſt we be ſubject to audacious France.
Our foreign Acquiſitions too muſt be
Humbly laid at our Gallic Maſter's Feet.
Even the Freedom of religious Thoughts,
They are not pleaſed to leave us.
Infallibility ſteps in and dictates,
Britons, thus you muſt think—or Perdition
Is your Doom.'—Hard Sentence,—laſtly, Tribute,
Everlaſting, of whatever Sums their
Moderation ſhall demand!—Moderation!
Gallic Moderation!—What,—ſhall Engliſhmen!
Freedom's favourite Sons! ſhall we, my Lord,
Like Slave-born Wretches bow our Necks,
For France to tread on? Shall we, like Daſtards,
Crouch to Cravens we ſo oft have beat? No—
E're a Hair's Weight of Engliſh Liberty
Be yielded up,—e're the loweſt Briton,
Be Subject to the haughtieſt Peer in France,
We'll dye our dear, our native Land with Royal Blood.
(ſits down.)
But come, Sir, on with your Diſcovery.
What Pow'r hath France ſent with our Brother King?
Cliff.
But ſmall, my gracious Liege, as yet, if any.
But moſt mighty Promiſes are made him,
In Conjunction with Spain's Embaſſador.
[32]Three ſolemn Councils at Paris have been held;
And their Reſult was this; Suſſex and Kent
Are to be viſited with twenty thouſand
Of the choiceſt Troops of France; while proud Spain
Into Ireland pours an equal Number;
And Rome, ever active to wound England's Peace,
Has ſecretly diſperſed, throughout your Realm,
Her ſubtleſt Prieſts to poiſon and ſeduce
Your Subjects Minds, in Favour of th' Impoſtor.
King.
I cannot obſerve in this Scheme of yours,
That Spain or Scotland's Kings are in Treaty
For any Part or Share of this gallant Spoil.
Cliff.
Royal Sir, to that Part of their Councils
I muſt declare myſelf a Stranger.
King.
Um—it may be ſo.
I find then, my kingly Rival, the Pope,
Scotland, and Spain, are all the Tools of France.
The Wind-mill-pated Spaniard dreams of Glory;
The Scot of his uſual Trade of Plunder;
His Holineſs of Peter's obſolete Pence;
And Couſin Perkin of filling England's Throne!
And thus the Wreck of Engliſh Liberty,
Is parcel'd out by thoſe deſpotick Spoilers!
riſes
But if we muſt be Slaves, my Lord of York,
Let us put on our Chains like Engliſhmen
Reeking with Frenchmens Blood.—
Let's have one Tug for our Sea-waſh'd Iſle,
Our Laws, our Commerce, and our Liberties;—
They're worth diſputing—
ſits
Ha! are they not, York?
York.
As Life,—or Suſtenance,—when raging Famine clings us.
Th' coldeſt Coward would fight for ſuch Bleſſings.
Even our Women, by Nature ſoft and gentle,
[33]As Peace or Innocence, would, in England's Cauſe,
Unſheath the frightful Sword, and
Stain their ſnow-white Arms, with hoſtile Gore.
King.
Of what Friends and Followers
Is this itinerant Monarch's Court compoſed?
Cliff.
Of all kinds that are baſe, and infamous;
Of all Nations, and of all mean Conditions;
Bankrupts, Sanctuary Men, Thieves, Robbers,
Vagabonds, and Scotch Banditti:
Who under Maſk of Juſtice, and Religion,
Commit unheard-of Outrages.—Spoil, Rape,
Rapine and Murder, are their daily Practice;
And all are ſanctified by the Prieſts of Rome.
King.
O wicked Uſe of Heavens chiefeſt Bleſſings!
O Rome! Rome! this is thy infallible Truth!
And, civilized France, thy moſt Chriſtian Policy!
Ox.
‘Why, my Liege, the French have a Factory on Purpoſe for Politics, where the Devil, the Car⯑dinal, and the Pope weave State Miſchief for all the Courts of Europe; but we will let 'em know, that neither their Politics nor their Bulls will ſell in an Engliſh Mart,—whatever they may do in other Countries.’King.
I think, Sir, you named Prieſts and Emiſ⯑ſaries,
Diſperſed about the Realm to poiſon Minds,
And diffuſe Sedition 'mongſt our Subjects.
Know you any of them by Name, or Perſon?
Cliff.
Many, my Liege.
King.
Name them quick;—be brief, Sir.
Cliff.
The chief are Sir John Ratcliff, Lord Fitzwalter,
Sir Simon Mountford, Sir Thomas Thwaits,
[34] William Dawbney, Thomas Creſſenor, Thomas
Aſtwood!
King.
Come, Sir, the reſt.
Cliff.
The reſt are all religious Perſons. William Rochford
And Thomas Poins, Dominican Friars;
Doctor William Sutton, William Worſely,
Dean of St. Paul's; Robert Laiborn, Richard 'Leſſley;
With divers others of inferior Rank, all influenced
By the Power of Rome, with Orders to abſolve
Whatever Blood may be ſhed in the righteous
Cauſe.
King.
Have you named all, Sir Robert?
Cliff.
All but one, my Liege, and when I name him,
I fear my Truth will loſe all Credit; yet your
Chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, tho' laſt
Named, is firſt againſt you.
King.
My Chamberlain!
Cliff.
He, Sir.
King.
Clifford, beware how you accuſe a Man,
Whoſe Love and Loyalty we've experienced.
We know the Tricks of Guilt and Treachery;
Arts to diſcharge their own detected Crimes,
By tainting others nobler than themſelves.
Cliff.
My Liege, again I ſay your Chamberlain,
Sir William Stanley, is a vile Traitor,
Both in Purſe and Council,
To this pretended Heir his chief Aſſiſtant;—
This I can prove.
King.
What! Stanley! my Friend! my retired, inmoſt Friend!
My Heart's Partner! my other ſelf!
York.
[35]Patience; Royal Sir.
King.
Patience! why, my Lord, Stanley's a Trai⯑tor.
(riſes.)
A dear, a friendly, ſecret, boſom Traitor!
Hear that, Lord Biſhop, and then preach Patience.
York.
I confeſs, my Liege, 'tis dreadful.
King.
Dreadful!—O dear York! you cannot know my
State of Mind.—None but a King, diſtruſtful
Of his Friends, when wild Rebellion threatens,
Can feel what I feel now. Adverſity,
And Exile I have known, with ſome Degree
Of Comfort,—nay, tho' driven by this Impoſtor
From my Crown and People, confin'd in Cells,
Or doom'd to die on the Traitor's Scaffold;
Yet ſtill I ſhould have found ſome Conſolation;
But Treachery of Friends is comfortleſs:—
It is a poiſon'd Wound which drives to Madneſs,
Or Deſpair.
O York! what have I done to loſe my Stanley's
Heart—or he his own, 'He, who in Boſworth Field
Reſcued me from Richard's death-dealing Sword;
And from his cloven Head firſt ſnatch'd the Crown,
And like Lightning flew to encircle mine.
But let him from my Thoughts.—Dawbney, to Night
Within the ſquare Tower let him be impriſon'd;
Set a ſtrong Guard on him.—Clifford, you Sir, muſt
Lodge there too; we'll talk more with you to Mor⯑row.
York.
My Liege, the Night is far advanced; it is
Almoſt Morn, and your troubled Mind demands
Repoſe and balmy Sleep.
King.
O Lord Biſhop, in my Apartment now,
Whom ſhall I truſt? I muſt have Doors and Walls
[36]Of Braſs; I muſt lie down,—for Sleep I cannot,
In honeſt friendly Armour; 'tis now the
Only Safety I have left. I muſt wear it
Amidſt my Council and my Friends, as in
The Day of Battle, leſt the Poniard, dark,
And traiterous, reach my Heart.
York.
Good Sir, baniſh ſuch Thoughts.
Ox.
Ay Sir, drive them from your Breaſt 'and 'let me.
'Be your Door, your Wall of Braſs, your Armour,
'And I'll engage your Safety—tho' the Devil,
'The Pope, the Pretender, France, and Stanley,
'Should all conſpire to corrupt me.
King.
O my honeſt Oxford, fair Confidence,
Who with her coral Lip, her roſy Cheek,
And cherub Aſpect, uſed to ſport about
My peaceful Heart, is baniſh'd now; Stanley
Hath murder'd her; and planted in her room
A livid, trembling, pale ſquint-eyed Friend, gnaw|'ing
Suſpicion.
Ox.
Dear Sir, get rid of her as ſoon as you can,
For ſhe is a little inſinuating Imp,
Who, under Maſk of Friendſhip, ſteals into
A Monarch's Breaſt, and never parts
'Till the ferret-ey'd Fiend hath eaten Repoſe,
And ſtung the contented Mind to Madneſs.
Baniſh her, baniſh her, my Liege.
King.
You, my Lords, we believe pure,
And uncorrupt, as Light, or Truth itſelf,
And this Night, will commit
Ourſelf to your loyal Care; you ſhall watch
In our Apartment, while we court coy Sleep,
To our weary Lids,
[37]And try to ſooth our State-vex'd anxious Breaſt,
With reſtor'd Confidence, and balmy Reſt.
Exeunt.
End of the Second ACT.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
An Apartment in the Tower.
Enter YORK, OXFORD, and ſeveral other Lords, all as from STANLEY's Tryal.
(York to one of the Lords.)
PLEASE to inform the King we wait his Plea⯑ſure.
[Ex. Lord.]
I fear, my Lords, his Majeſty, from his
Tenderneſs innate, and extream Affection,
To this unhappy Stanley, will extend
His royal Mercy beyond its prudent Bounds,
And grant him Pardon of all his Treaſons.
Ox.
Will he? Why then 'tis Pity he
Shou'd ever be without a Traitor in
His Boſom; for a blacker, or one ſo
Unprovok'd, Hiſtory cannot produce.
Enter KING attended.
King.
Well, Lords, what ſays our apoſtate Minion;
Have you condemn'd him?
York.
His Treaſons have, Sir;
Which were as manifeſt, as foul and dangerous.
[38]The conſcious Guilt of his Conſpiracy
Preſs'd him ſo cloſe, it forc'd Confeſſion from him,
Unimportun'd.
King.
O Lord Biſhop, that argued Shame and Sor⯑row
For his Folly; and tho' in letter'd Law
It ſtands againſt him, yet in our Mercy,
And the Softneſs of our friendly Nature,
It pleads ſtrongly for him.
Extremity of Law is ſometimes too ſharp
Even for our traiterous Subjects; on whom,
Eſpecially when penitent, Chaſtiſement
Shou'd fall not with a rigorous Cruelty,
But paternal Sorrow; as the fond Father
Corrects his truant Child. Let me then, Lords,
For this unhappy Man, I once call'd Friend,
Wear a grateful Pity in my Breaſt.
He gave me Life and Crown in Boſworth Field;
Let me repay the Debt, and give him Life,
Too juſtly forfeited by foul Rebellion.
Ox.
My Lord, from my Heart I wiſh the Treaſon
Cou'd be puniſh'd, and th' unhappy Traitor
Spar'd. But I believe your Subjects, at this Juncture,
Expect Examples of publick Juſtice.
It gives me Grief to ſay it, but Clamour
Is ſo violent againſt him, 'mongſt all
Degrees of People, that I fear Mercy,
At this Time, wou'd be an Act dangerous
To yourſelf and State.
York.
Lord Oxford councils well.
Th' Inſolence of this Rebellion muſt be
Cruſh'd with ſpeedy War and Laws utmoſt Rigour.
'Mongſt the great Ones more particularly,
[39]In whom, when Traitors, moſt Power of Miſchief's lodged;
And tho' Mercy in Seaſon is a King's
Heav'nly Attribute, yet to uſe it now
Wou'd, I fear, be deem'd a dangerous Weakneſs.
King.
Then be it ſo—ſince England's Weal de⯑mands it.
That we ſhall ever make the ſole Guidance
Of our Laws and Will.—Did he aſſign no
Cauſe for his flagitious Crimes?
York.
None, Sir; when urg'd, his humble Requeſt was,
To ſee his Royal Maſter e're he dy'd;
That then, the Motives of his Diſcontent
Shou'd have free and ample Declaration.
King.
O York! I'll ſee him! but 'tis a hard Tryal
Of tender Nature, to ſee the Man we've lov'd,
Surrounded by Guilt and Death. The King indeed
At ſuch a Sight may ſtand unmov'd, but the Friend,
In Spite of Juſtice, will relent,
And ſoften into womaniſh Pity.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
An Apartment in the Tower.
Enter STANLEY, in black, Guards, &c.
(Stanley.)
What awful Pomp attends the Traitor's Death!
What Preparations to affright his Soul!
Yet all are ſlight! the Guilt he feels within
Out-ſhocks them all.
[40] Enter KING, YORK, OXFORD, DAWBNEY, Lords Yeomen of the Guard.
Ha! the King—once my Joy—
My Ambition! my greateſt Happineſs!
But now my Reproach! my Terror!
King.
See, Lord Biſhop, the unhappy Man is cover'd
With Confuſion, and cannot turn this Way.
He looks as Death wou'd be a more welcome Gueſt
To his afflicted Mind, than our reproachful
Preſence.—
The King approaches him.
O Stanley! how different is this Interview
From that in Richard's Tent,
When Boſworth's ſlaughter'd Scene was o'er.
When the Tyrant Richard lay extended in our View,
My firſt Thought was, how to reward
Your Love and Loyalty; I made you Maſter
Of the Tyrant's Wealth.—The Spoil was mighty;—
And had it been immence as Columbus'
Late diſcover'd Mines, my o'er-flowing Heart
Wou'd have thought it poor—poor as Beggar's Alms,
For my Stanley's Friendſhip.—My Mind—My Treaſure—
My Will hath ſince been yours.—My all, at your
Direction. What then cou'd provoke your black,
Your atrocious Perfidy?
Stan.
Ambition.
Miſguided, reſtleſs, inſatiate Ambition!
King.
O thou unhappy Mark of human Frailty!
From Patriot Honour fallen to traiterous Shame.
Sure the utmoſt Height of human Glory
Is Steadineſs in our Country's Good!
Myriads of Bleſſings
Are pour'd on the Patriot's Head; all are anxious
[41]For his Health and Welfare, and the People,
From their abundant, their o'erflowing Hearts,
Shout out their Acclamations as he paſſes.
By his Example Millions are made virtuous;
Even Parricides, who for trait'rous Gold
Wou'd ſtab the Vitals of their maternal Land,
Are forc'd to ſculk behind a patriot Maſk,
Leſt the good Man's ſpirit-ſtirring Virtue
Hurl popular Vengeance on th' Villain's Head.
This is the Patriot.—Now ſee the Reverſe;
See in yourſelf the Traitor whom all Men curſe.
Not his noble Titles, nor all the Honours
Treacherous Wealth can heap, can ſcreen him
From popular Shame, nor eaſe from Self-reproach
His guilt-ſtab'd Heart.
Here you both ſtand, the Patriot this, the Traitor that;
Pointing to the Biſhop and Stanley.
The one England's invaluable Bleſſing;
The other, her deepeſt, blackeſt, vileſt, Curſe.
Stan.
O Sir, I feel the ſad Condition.
It hath thrown Guilt intenſe into my Breaſt,
And tells me I deſerve the worſt of Deaths my
Country's Laws, or your juſt Vengeance can inflict.
King.
Why ſay—ſhou'd we grant you Life! ſhou'd Mercy
Be ſo abus'd! ſo proſtituted! where!
Where cou'd you reſide? With whom aſſociate?
None.—Patriots wou'd ſhun you out of Virtue,
Traitors out of Policy,
Then the greateſt Bleſſing our Power can give,
Or your ſad State admit,—is inſtant Death.
Stan.
It is, my Liege—and my Requeſt to ſee you
Was not to protract, or ſue for Life.—
But to atone, in ſome Degree, my Guilt,
[42]By full Confeſſion of the groundleſs Cauſe,
Which hath for ever damn'd my Fame,
Then know, Sir, your Goodneſs has undone me;
—Your Royal Kindneſs
Heap'd ſuch abundant Favours on me, that
My ambitious Soul was loſt, in Proſpect
Of boundleſs Power. Your Father-in-law,
My Brother, you rais'd to th' Earldom of Darby,
Envy and exorbitant Ambition
Made me requeſt the Earldom of Cheſter;
Which, without Injury manifeſt, you
Cou'd not alienate, being ever annex'd
To England's Heir. But I, with Love of Pow'r
Intoxicated, unus'd to meet Repulſe,
From that Moment, like a poiſonous Serpent,
Whom you had nouriſh'd in your kindly Boſom,
Loſt Sight and Memory of all Gratitude;
Former Favours, by this Refuſal, I
Chang'd to Injuries, and my wild Ambition
To inflam'd Revenge; which I ſought to
Gratify by ſtabbing my dear Country
Thro' my Friend and royal Maſter's Side.
This, Sir, was my dark, my helliſh State of Mind.
Which is a glaring, but faithful Picture
Of ambitious, diſappointed Courtiers;
Who ne'er know Peace of Mind, 'till they deſtroy
The State, or, in their Treaſon, meet their Death:
And if my Example may ſtand a Beacon
To the laviſh Fondneſs of future Kings,
And to the Pride of inſatiate Minions,
My Crime will be of Service to my Country.
So, farewell the beſt of Kings,—the warmeſt Friend,
The kindeſt Maſter.—And oh for ever
[43]Farewel Guilt and Shame—and welcome deſerved Death.
Ex. guarded.
King,
Unhappy Victim of incens'd Ambition!
Stain to thy noble Blood, and Engliſh Truth!
Enter DAWBNEY.
Daw.
My Liege, I bring unwelcome News.
King.
Out with it, Dawbney.
Daw.
The Corniſh Rebels, ſo late defeated
On Blackheath, by gallant Oxford, and who
So amply felt your Royal Mercy,
Again are up in Arms, in the Pretender
Perkin's Favour. Rome's Emiſſaries have
Once more rous'd th' ungrateful Herd, while James
Of Scotland is raiſing a powerful Army to ſupport
His Claim.
Gives him the Chamberlain's Staff.
King.
Dawbney, accept this Staff,—wear it with Truth
Equal to my Confidence.—Give Order
Clifford be confin'd within the Limits
Of his own Houſe and Park at Newbury,
'Till Rebellion's Flame is quench'd.—Lord Biſhop,
To you and faithful Surry we commit
The important Buſineſs of the North;
With ample Power to act as Need ſhall chance.
Ourſelf, and my old, my valiant Oxford,
Will to the Weſt to chaſtiſe thoſe
Unnatural Rebels.—
Ox.
I warrant you, my Liege, we'll ſoon chaſtiſe them.—Theſe Traitors have had Royal Mercy once.—But they are like the ungrateful ditch⯑ſprung Nettle, which handled tenderly ſtings with greater Violence, but with Vigour graſp'd, and cruſh'd at once, loſes all its Energie.
King.
[44]Come, my Lords, your Country's Wrongs demand your Swords.
The gaudy Garb of ſilken Peace muſt now
Be doff'd, and the mail'd Coat of Mars put on.
Tottering ſtorm-drench'd Tents muſt be our Palaces,
And our rich-wrought Carpets the aguiſh Earth;
Our Muſic muſt be the leaden Meſſengers of Death,
Whoſe whizzing Notes omen to each Man's Ear
Irrevocable Doom.
Ox.
And glorious th' Doom when gain'd in Free⯑dom's Cauſe;
The nobleſt Fate an Engliſhman can meet.
The Hatchment of ſuch a Death will be preſerv'd
The patriot Mark to late Poſterity;
The free-born Son will kindle at the Sight,
'Till in his King and Country's Cauſe, he burns
To emulate his Father's deathleſs Virtue.
York.
For my Part, my Liege, tho' Coward Cuſtom,
And my ſacred Function, might exempt me
From the Task; yet, with Engliſh Pride, I boaſt
To change th' holy Croſier
For the defenſive Sword.—My Dependants
Brethren, Followers, and Friends I will convene,
And by the Aſſiſtance of the Almighty,
Protect our Laws, Religion, and our Rights
Or bravely periſh in their Defence.
Ox.
I defy the Pope in his whole Conclave to
Shew me ſuch a Prelate as this—
My Lord, for your Sake I ſhall
Love an Engliſh Prieſt as long as I live.
King.
My Lord,
E're we part let us once embrace.
They all embrace.
Now each Man to his Charge, and when we fight,
[45]Let us remember this, we fight 'gainſt Gallic Chains
For Engliſh Liberty.
Exeunt York one Way, King and Oxford t'other.
SCENE III. Scotland.
(In Holy-rood Palace.)
Enter King of Scotland and Sevez.
K. Scot.
Have our Council ſat upon thoſe Trai⯑tors?
Sevez.
They have, my Liege;
Each Man refus'd to plead, and Lord Huntley,
With his uſual Boldneſs, deny'd your Power,
And the Legality of private Tryals.
Call'd 'em Inquiſitions—Us,—pack'd Paraſites;
And with his wonted Roughneſs call'd for Juſtice,
And demanded his Peers.
But all were over-rul'd, and their Silence
We made the clear Evidence of their Guilt;
Upon which they were quickly attainted,
And Judgment of Death directly follow'd.
But the Time, Place, and Manner, wait on your
Royal Will.
K. Scot.
The Place ſhall be the Caſtle,—'Tis not
Meet that Huntley harangue the Populace;
There may be Danger in't.—The giddy Herd
Affect him much.
Are their Lands ſeized?
Sevez.
They are, my Liege.
K. Scot.
'Tis well—
[46]Are all Things ready for Richard's
Coronation?
Sevez.
All, my Liege.
K. Scot.
Quickly then,
Let the royal Ceremony be perform'd,
With due Magnificence and regal Pomp.
To morrow we reſolve for England, there
Again to crown the young Plantagenet.
Sevez.
Do you prepare his Highneſs.
Ex. Sevez.
Enter a Scot. Lord.
Scot. Lord.
May it pleaſe your Majeſty, Lord Huntley's
Daughter, the Lady Katharine Gordon,
Is come to Court; and with diſtracted Aſpect,
And grief-ſwoln Eyes, prays Admittance
To your Royal Preſence.
K. of Scot.
Conduct her in—belike ſhe comes to move us
For her Father's Life—but it muſt not be
But on one Condition.
Enter Katherine.
Kat.
O Royal James! if the Houſe of Gordon
E're deſerv'd your Love, if the many Lives
They have loſt in your Defence, if the Blood
Of Generations, ſpilt in Scotland's Cauſe,
From earlieſt Time,
Down to my grey-hair'd Sire, if theſe, I ſay,
Deſerve your Love, or Pity, then ſpare, ſpare,
For Love of Mercy, ſpare my poor old Father.
O, do not ſtop his Ebb of Life, with the
Traitor's Ax, a Death unknown to Gordon's Sons,
Who all have periſh'd in the loyal Field.
K. Scot.
Riſe, Katherine,
[47]The Houſe of Gordon we have ever deem'd
The faireſt, brighteſt Jewel in our Crown.
Your Father hath ever been dear to us, dear as Love,
Or the Tyes of kindred Blood could make him.
'Till his o'erbearing Temper leap'd all Bounds;
Till he compell'd us
To ſhake off his iron Yoke; which hath provok'd him
To Cabals, Jibes, Murmurs, and diſloyal Threats.
Kath.
O believe it not, Sir, they abuſe your Ear
Who ſay ſo. Truth it ſelf
Is not fairer than his Loyalty;
Which is incapable of Stain or Blemiſh.
O, Royal Sir, if you think him falſe,
You do not know him. Perchance his Temper,
Warm in his Country's Cauſe, may urge him be⯑yond
The Bounds of Prudence; but this Heart is ſound;—
Sound, as the Genius of our Land could wiſh.
K. Scot.
Katherine, I commend your filial Warmth,
And wiſh you had not Cauſe to ſorrow;
But be aſſur'd from me, Huntley's a Traitor.
Kath.
Royal Sir,
Do not call him Traitor; for well I know,
That Name is ſharper to his Soul, than death's
Keeneſt Dart.—My Liege, he is no Traitor.
K. Scot.
I find, Lady, your Father's daring Spirit,
In ſome Sort, breathes in your ſoft Form.
Kath.
It does, my Liege!
From Time, beyond the reach of Record,
It hath been our Race's Pride to cheriſh
[48]Loyalty and our Country's Weal above
Our Lives. It hath
Been Huntley's firſt Precept to his Children,
Night, Morn, Hourly. No wonder then ſome Part
Remains with me. O had you heard him
Tell the warlike Deeds of Gordon's Anceſtors,
For their King and Country; you then, I'm ſure,
Wou'd have believ'd him Loyal.
K. Scot.
Katherine, we did believe him faithful,
'Till we found him riſing above our Power,
And ſtriving to awe, with ſubject Inſolence,
Our ſacred Majeſty.
Kath.
Gracious Sir,
If his free Spirit hath outſtept Diſcretion,—
Impute it not to traiterous Inſolence,
But to a biaſs'd Mind in Scotland's Cauſe.
Merciful Sir, give me his precious Life,
He never, never, ſhall offend again.
He ſhall retire to our antient Caſtle,
The Nurſery of Gordon's Anceſtors;
Till weary'd Life ſteals from his feeble Frame,
Gently and unperceived as the ſetting Sun.
K. Scot.
Well, Katherine, on Condition he reſide
For Life's Remains, within the Confines
Of Gordon's fertile Barony, we grant
Him full Pardon.—Provided, my fair Cuz,
That you accord our Sollicitation
In Favour of a royal Suit of ours.
Kath.
Command it, my Liege,
kneels.
Be it Baniſhment, or Death, or lingring Famine,
Save but his Life, and conclude it done.
'K. Scot.
[49]No, my lovely Cuz; nor Death nor Baniſhment,
Nor aught ungentle, or unkind, will reach
This lovely Form, while we have Sway to hinder;
Nature deſign'd it for her nobleſt Uſe,
For a Monarch's Bliſs, and Partner of his Crown,
For Joy in Youth, Content and Happineſs in Age.
A youthful Prince muſt fill thoſe ſnowy Arms;
And from this ſoft Image Albion's King muſt riſe.
Kath.
Sir!
K. Scot.
Know, Katherine, our Couſin, young Plantagenet,
Burns with a Lover's Flame,
And longs to make you the happy Partner
Of his Bed and Throne.
Kath.
Me, Sir!
K. Scot.
Ay, fair Katherine!
Grant his Suit, and Huntley's Life is ſafe.
If not—You deny him Mercy, not I.
For the ſharp Ax muſt fall where Law directs,
Unleſs by you prevented.
Kath.
O, royal Sir.—
(kneels,)
how ſhall I ſpeak it!—O ſomeHeavenly Power guide my diſtracted Mind!
O Sir!—My Heart is not my own;—'tis already given,
Betroth'd, and ty'd by Love, Honour, and all
The ſweet, the witching Charms of blended Hearts.
Daliel! the blooming Daliel! ſweeteſt Bloſſom
Of Scotland's Peers, has got my Heart, and to Morrow
By full Conſent, and Joy of both our Parents,
The holy Prieſt was to unite us.
K. Scot.
Riſe Couſin;—we will not controvert your Love,
[50]Nor ſtrive with Argument to ſway Affection;
Your own free Will ſhall be your Guide,—therefore,
We offer this Alternative,—and chuſe
You muſt this Night—That's our utmoſt Limit.
Prepare or to be crown'd as England's Queen,
Or to be whelm'd in Grief as Huntley's Orphan.
Exit.
Kath.
Now, Horror, thou art at Work, and I defy
Thy madning Power to out-terrify
My diſtracted Mind. Scaffolds—Axes—Daliel,
And Huntley, pierce through my diſtemper'd Brain,
And Madneſs muſt guide me thro' the Chaos.
My Father—no, they ſhall not murder you.
I will wed ſharpeſt Miſery and triumph
In Wretchedneſs to ſave a Father's Life.
Exit.
SCENE IV.
An Apartment in Edinborough Caſtle.
Enter Huntley and Sir David Bruce, meeting.
Sir David.
Good Day, my Lord.
Huntley.
Wou'd it were, Sir David!
But Italian Policy and good Days
Never ſhine together.
Sir David.
I was in Hopes
E're this, my Lord, that the King's Reſentment
Wou'd have 'bated. Lord Huntley, my Heart bleeds,
To ſee you ſtill within theſe hated Walls.
Huntley.
Bleed for me, Sir David? O Bruce, let it
Bleed for your poor Country.
Sir David.
My Lord!
[51]That Ruin o'er ſpreads our Land, is obvious!
Wou'd to Heav'n the Remedy were as plain;
Did I but know it, at hazard of my Life I wou'd apply it.
Huntley.
Why how dare you declare that Scot⯑land's ruin'd,
While an Italian Legate holds the Helm?
Why I avow'd no more.
But where are my Brother Traitors,
Angus, and Daliel? Mayn't we embrace
E're we ſhake of our Treaſon, and ſet out
Upon our final Journey?
Sir David.
My Lord, I have ſtrict Command
Againſt your ſeeing each other, or admitting
Any Perſon to or from you without
Special Order from the King or Sevez.
Report is, you're all to ſuffer privately
To morrow, in different Parts of the Caſtle.
Huntley.
O rare Tyranny! Rome's Chriſtian Policy,
Her Holy Inquiſition.
Enter an Officer.
Off.
Sir, your Daughter Lady Catherine is below,
She hath brought a ſpecial Order from the King,
For her Admittance.
Huntley.
My Daughter! my Child!
Sr. David.
Pray Sir, conduct the Lady up.
Exit Officer.
I hope, my Lord, ſhe brings an Order for
Your Enlargement.
Huntley.
Juſt as King Sevez pleaſes.
Sir David.
Your Daughter may have ſome pri⯑vate Converſe,
I'll leave you, my Lord.
Huntley,
[52]Sir, your Confidence ſhall not be abuſed.
Exit. Sir David
Enter Officer and Katherine, Officer goes out again.
Huntley.
So, my Katherine! my Child!
(em⯑braces her)
My all that's left,Of Gordon's antient Stock. The long Deſcent
Muſt end to Morrow by the Traitor's Axe.
Kate, what wilt thou do when I am gone?
How wilt employ thy ſelf?
You'll have no feeble Father to ſooth now;
Death will rid you of that endearing Care,
And me, of all my doating Fondneſs.—Nay, nay.
Do not weep.
The Sight of thee hath ever brought
Joy and Comfort to my old Heart; prithee
Do not vex it now. Let me die like Huntley,
You bear it like his Daughter.
Kath.
O Sir!
'Tis Nature's hardeſt Task to look on Death,
For that fell Tyrant is her utmoſt Shock.
And in a Father—
Huntley.
Hold, Katherine, miſtake not, it is not Death,
But Guilt, Guilt, my Child, is Nature's utmoſt Shock.
To the Innocent, Death is a Guide to Life eternal.
But to the Guilty, a ghaſtly Summoner,
Which frights, and goads, and ſtings to endleſs Tortures
Death! 'tis Nature's Companion!
He attends every Action of our Lives!
I have ſeen the bare-rib'd Tyrant in as
Many Forms, as there were armed Soldiers
[53]In the Field; ſometimes darting from Man to Man,
Levelling Ranks, and ſweeping down armed Files;
While brazen Engines his iron Meſſengers
Sent forth, and with a Loudneſs that deafen'd
Nature, proclaim'd his Triumph! and can I
After this, fear his Block and Ax! no Child,
Only the Traitor ſtarts at thoſe; th' Patriot
Beholds them with a Fortitude that ſmiles
And triumphs, like the holy Martyr; who,
Before his Fall, ſees his Reward regiſter'd
In Heaven.
Kath.
Sure, Sir, you cannot be in love
With Death!
Hunt.
No, Katherine; he, who ſays he is,
Deceives himſelf; but my declining Life
Is not worth much Concern; the Oyl is almoſt ſpent;
And like a dying Flame on an exhauſted Lamp
Wou'd of itſelf have ſoon expir'd, without
My cruel Maſter's haſty Breath.
Kath.
By me, Sir, he ſends you offer of Life.
Hunt.
Does he!
He cou'd not have choſen, in Mercy's ſmiling Train
A lovelier Meſſenger—Thou art her roſy
Cherub—and Life from thee will come with
Double Reliſh—but, hear you, Katherine, have you
Brought Life's Bleſſing with it? It's cordial Drop?
It's balmy Sweet?
Kath.
What mean you, Sir?
Hunt.
Liberty, my Child! heav'n-born Liberty!
Without which, Life is a Curſe, and he, who
Rids me of the Plague, is my beſt-lov'd Friend.
Kath.
O, ſay not ſo, but accept his Promiſe;
Accept of precious Life at any Rate.
Hunt.
[54]Ha! Katherine! what upon baſe ignoble Terms!
To be a Court Creature; to do filthy Jobs,
As Prieſts and Rome direct; to bow, defame,
And fawn, and cringe; and beg to be employ'd
In ſome brave Man's Deſtruction? To flatter
A pride-ſwoln Prieſt; and pamper up
His Avarice and Revenge, with my Country's Ruin.
Is this a Life for Huntley? No.
I know you will not council it—
Well, upon what Terms will our royal Maſter
Give us Leave to breathe?
Kath.
Know then—O Heav'ns! how ſhall I ſpeak them!
[apart.]
Hunt.
Nay, if you heſitate, I'm ſure they are baſe.
Your Conſcience is a faithful Monitor,
A Dial ſet by an unerring Hand,
And heavenly Truth is the Light it goes by;
Obey it now, and be ſilent.
Kath.
No, Sir, I muſt name it,
Tho' you look me dead, which wou'd be the cruell'ſt
Death, Fate has in Store. Know then, that the King
Hath promis'd Life, and Liberty, to you, and
The other Lords—on Condition—
Hunt.
Out with it—
Quick—for the Approach of Infamy is
Dreadful.—And I ſee ſomething in my Katherine's
Eye, was never there before. Shame, conſcious Shame!
But come,—the Conditions!
Kath.
The Conditions are,
Firſt, that I marry his ſuppos'd Couſin,
[55]The Impoſtor Perkin—
Hunt.
Katherine,
We have convers'd enough upon this Subject;
Our Life is ſhort, therefore we muſt prepare
To give in our Account as perfect as
We can; not on the Eve of Death to add
To the inadvertent Sallies of Youth
Premeditated Infamy.
I truſt I ſhall employ my ſhort Space to more Advantage.
Kath.
O my foreboding Heart! 'twas what I fear'd!
To herſelf.
Hunt.
But, Katherine, leſt you ſhou'd miſtake and
Err into Infamy, know that your mangled
Body in Death wou'd give me Joy,
When your lovely blooming Perſon in ſuch
A proſtituted Marriage, wou'd bring cureleſs
Sorrow;—it wou'd rive my old Heart in twain.
My Child, farewel
(embraces her)
when youHave better Thoughts
Bring them to comfort me. Theſe vex me ſorely;
Farewel,—I am going to my Cell, to
Think of Heaven and you.
Exit.
Kath.
And what ſhall I think of!
Death! Death! fell horrid Death! turn where I will
I ſee the Skeleton dogging
My Father's Steps—and ſoftly ſtealing with
His ſhadowy Arm uprais'd, ready to aim
His final Dart.
O ſome unerring Power direct me!
If I wander into Error; the Crime
Is not in my Will, but my Ignorance;
[56]For I find filial Gratitude and partial
Nature ſtruggling at my Heart, and prompting
That I muſt not let Him dye, who gave me Life.
I find Love too pleading for my Daliel;
Sure all this muſt be right, or Heaven would not
Permit it?—No, they ſhall not dye;
My Father is cruel to himſelf and me,
And Nature, ſympathizing Nature,
Will be obey'd, and they muſt live.
For on their Lives alone depends my Fate,
As does the Peace of our diſtracted State.
Exit.
ACT IV. Holy-rood Palace.
Enter KING and SEVEZ.
Sevez.
AGAIN, I ſay, that on the Traitors Death
Depends the loyal Subject's Safety; Mercy
To one is Cruelty to the other.
K. Scot.
Sevez, I know Lord Huntley's Maxims well;
But ſtill I think he loves us.
He muſt not die.
Sevez.
Sir, a King's Word is of religious Nature;
An Obligation ſacred, which cannot
Be diſſolved, by any earthly Power;
None but our Mother, the holy, holy
Infallible Church,—Heaven's Vice-gerent!
Before her, indeed, Laws, Oaths, Obligations,
Of what Kind ſoever, loſe their Being.
You, Sir, in Council
[57]Gave religious Word, Lord Huntley ſhould die.
K. Scot.
'Twas by your Influence I revok'd my Word.
You urged 'twou'd be gracious in die Eye of Rome
To ally Duke Richard to our Blood,
By Marriage with Gordon's lovely Daughter.
All Means of Succeſs were barr'd, except
My Promiſe of her Father's Life; which ſhe,
Cover'd with Rage and Sorrow, from Love and
Nature's extream Reluctance, at laſt accepted.
Then how, my Sevez, how can I anſwer
My Breach of Word to her, or to myſelf?
Sevez.
Sacred Sir, your religious Scruple gives me Joy.
But ſhould conſcientious Fears diſturb you,
A Bull of Pardon from his Holineſs of Rome
Will ſoon eaſe your religious Mind.
K. Scot.
Wou'd I cou'd ſave his Life!
Sevez.
Sacred Sir, I know, your royal Tenderneſs.
But if Huntley lives, your Authority
Will be too feeble to ſtand againſt him.
He is grown too popular for kingly Power
To cope with. The factious Lords, his Friends,—
And the diſtemper'd Rabble are at his Beck.
Already they bellow out for Juſtice,
Redreſs, Freedom, no Perkin, no Legates,
No French Council, no Italian Stateſmen;
This is their Cry thro' Edinburgh Streets,
Nay, round your Palace Walls.
K. Scot.
Ha! Traitors!
Sevez.
Sir, tho' you, out of your native Goodneſs,
Were inclin'd to pardon thoſe wicked Lords,
Yet our holy Church wou'd have inſiſted
On their Deaths; or on your Head have denounc'd
[58]Her hotteſt Vengeance. For they're Hereticks
Of the new-ſprung Sect; call'd in England Lollards;
And have been moſt active in ſhaking off
The Power of Rome, which nothing but their Blood
Can expiate. 'Your Allies of France too
'Wou'd have ſtopt their Aid and Loans, and have 'left you
'A Sacrifice to your rebellious Subjects
'And to your old, your natural Enemies
'The Purſe-proud, haughty, heretic Engliſh.
K. Scot.
Sevez, they ſhall die.
Are all Things in Readineſs for our Expedition?
Sevez.
They are, Sir; this Night Richard and his Queen
Sojourn at Berwick; and the Clans and Vaſſals
Of the Grants, Kenedys, Macgregers, and Macdo⯑nalds,
With thoſe of Hamilton and Macpherſon,
Are all ſet forward; and their Rendevouz
Is Norham Caſtle, which they'll reach this Night,
And there wait your royal Preſence.
K. Scot.
Sevez, prepare, we will ſet out this this Day.
Sevez.
My Liege, all Aptneſs and Conveniency
Attend your royal Will and Pleaſure.
Exeunt.
SCENE II. An Apartment in the Caſtle of Edinburgh.
Enter Huntley, follow'd by an Officer of the Caſtle.
Hunt.
Marry'd! crown'd! pardon'd! Say,
Who pardon'd me?
Off.
The King.—
Hunt.
I ſay you are deceived, it cannot be.
Off.
[59]My Lord, 'tis certain ſhe is marry'd and crown'd; the
Legate himſelf join'd their Hands.
(And your Pardon is the Conſequence of the Mar⯑riage.)
And now with
Regal State, and pompous Train ſhe journeys towards England.
Hunt.
O Katherine! Katherine, is this thy Re⯑ward
For all my anxious Care to form thy Mind!
Was it for this you came to offer Life?
Ambitious Syren.—Yes, I will accept it.
I will, Kate, but it ſhall be to glut my Vengeance.
Crown'd! pardon'd! regal State! vain, ambitious,
Proud, infamous Woman! O Happineſs,
Happineſs, Fancy's deluſive Child,
Which every Fool creates, and no ſooner
imag'd into Form, but th' airy Being
Vaniſhes to Sorrow!
Mine was compos'd
Of Scotland's Weal, and my Katherine's Virtue;
But Rome hath ruin'd one, and Woman's Pride
The other.
Enter Sir David Bruce. [loud knocking without]
Sir David.
See who knocks, but be ſure let none enter.
[to the Officer.]
My Lord, I grieve to be the Meſſenger,
But by a ſpecial Order, juſt received,
The ſhort Space of a fleeting Hour
Is your Life's utmoſt Limit.
Hunt.
An Hour, Sir!
[60]Why Bruce, I thought my Daughter's Infamy
Had pleaded to the King for royal Mercy.
Sir David.
'Tis true, my Lord, the King did promiſe Life
To you, Angus, and Daliel; but e're he
Set forth for England, he ſign'd this Warrant
For your Deaths.
Hunt,
Then, Queen Kate, thou wilt eſcape my Vengeance;
Fate, I find, hath reſerv'd thee for his own Wrath.
Enter Officer with a Letter.
Off.
Sir, a Poſt from Court hath brought this Letter
For Lord Huntley.
Sir David takes it from him and gives it Huntley
Hunt.
For me Sir?—'tis Katherine's Character!
Once as welcome to my Eyes, as riſing Sun
To new-recover'd Sight; now irkſome as Perfidy.
What a Comfort, amidſt Calamity,
Wou'd this have been, had ſhe not fall'n to Guilt
Inexpiable!
O ſhe was once as fair, and innocent
As was her Parent Eve, when firſt
She waken'd from Creation—but Satan's
Towering Crime, Thirſt of imperial Sway,
Hath wrought her fall, and blackn'd all her Virtue.
Sir Dav.
My Lord,
I cannot think your Daughter's Crime—
Hunt.
Dear Bruce, Pity me.
For Sorrow's Dart ne'er reach'd my Heart till now!
The fooliſh Father hath quite unmann'd me,
[61]And hath brought out all the ſtifled Weakneſs
Of buſy fondling Nature, which will have Vent,
In Spite of Art; and what I thought had quite
Engroſs'd me, Scotland's Love.—But Im deceiv'd—
For the Father's Folly, I find, is uppermoſt,
And Rage and Sorrow rend my Heart, and my
Weak Eyesburn with ſcalding Rheum. O Katherine,
Did I e're think thou'dſt make old Huntley weep!
Thou haſt done what Death and ſlaughter ne'er cou'd do.
But, ſhe's gone—fallen, and unworthy another Tear.
But come, now let us ſee her regal Stile,
Her royal Apology for accepting
Sovereign Sway,—and breaking a Father's Heart.
SIR,
Opens the Letter, and after having read the Addreſs, his Griefreturns, which interrupts his Power to read.
Dear Bruce, pity, pity an old Man's Weakneſs!
Nay, I know you will, you muſt—for you are
Your ſelf a Father, and know what fond Fools
Nature makes of us—prithee Bruce, read it.
Gives him the Letter.
For my Eyes have full Employment—unman'd,—
Quite, quite unman'd!
Bruce reads.
SIR,
I Have broke the Bond of Duty with the beſt of Fathers, of Honour and Affection with the moſt deſerving of Lovers. This I have done to give you and your noble Friends Life and Liberty, [62] in Hopes you will reſcue your King and Country from thoſe who have adviſed your Deaths, my Marriage, and the innumerable Woes Scotland groans under.
Conſider, Sir, my Crime is the Effect of your Precepts; which always taught me to prefer my Country's Weal to Life, Fame or Family. I will not ſue for Pardon, but Pity, tho' you condemn me, I know your tender Nature will grant to your once loved—now broken-hearted,
Katherine.
Sir Dav.
Brave noble Lady! exalted as Virtue
Or patriot Love can boaſt. She has indeed,
Acted like Huntley's Daughter! parted with
More than Life for her King and Country's Weal.
Hunt.
O juſt Heav'ns! what Machines thou haſt made us!
Scarce a Moment ſince, and I ſhou'd have joy'd
T'have ſeen my Katherine hears'd deep in the Womb
Of Death's clayie Manſion. And now, Life, Fame,
And Scotland's Fate are not ſo dear to me
As my Katherine's unparalell'd Virtue.
Sir Dav.
Unparalell'd indeed, my Lord! poor Lady!
She is wedded to Miſery without End.
Hunt.
O my Child! my Child!
Cou'd I but ſee you once! cou'd my dim Eyes
But gaze once more on that dear ſoft Image!
Cou'd I but live to eaſe my Katherine's Heart,
And tell her how I land her manly Spirit,
I wou'd then forgive Fate—Death—every Thing—
But Sevez—that curſt Prieſt—who hath undone us all.
[63]But you ſay, Governor, I muſt not live
To ſee my Katherine; for that within this Hour
The Tyrant's Ax muſt ſever Life from Woe.
Sir Dav.
That was my laſt Order from the Legate.
Hunt.
E're this the Thought of Death ne'er hurt my Mind;
But now 'tis irkſome! I fain,—fain wou'd live
To ſee my Child again—but that cannot be—
O Scotland's Majeſty, how art thou ſunk!
When your royal Word is as far from Truth
As Heaven from Hell!
To deceive even my poor Katherine!
To betray her into Proſtitution!
Sure Perfidy in Kings is the blackeſt Crime
Callous'd Infamy hath in all her Store!
But when Rome's mental Craft ſurrounds a Throne,
It is no Wonder Falſhood and Tyranny,
Shove by Truth and Juſtice.—
But come, Governor, ſince we are to die,
Let's cloſe the Scene, and end Life's Farce at once.
Sir Dav.
No, Lord Huntley,
Our bleeding Country hath fitter Service for you.
By me her Genius ſays, you muſt not dye.
My Lord, with jealous Eyes, and ſore-griev'd Heart,
I've ſeen your Wrongs, and Scotland's unmatch'd Woes.
Affection to your Houſe, which rais'd me firſt,
And to my dear, my native bleeding Land
Has made me watchful to preſerve you both.
Hunt.
What mean you, Bruce!
Sir Dav.
This my injur'd Lord—
Many of the ancient Blood of Scotland
With heart-ſore Feeling behold th' mighty Wrongs
Like to be entail'd upon Poſterity,
[64]Which they reſolve moſt bravely to foreſend,
Or elſe to bleed their laſt in the Attempt.
Hunt.
Ay, Bruce!—what! are there ſuch Men in Scotland!
Sir Dav.
There are, my Lord; and ſince your Confinement
Have oft aſſembled in private Parley, how
To give you and Scotland Life and Freedom.
They laſt Night reſolv'd, as they were commanded,
To attend the King in this Impoſtor's
Expedition. But not a Step farther
Than they ſee fit Time to ſhake off the Yoke.—
Their faithful Clans and Vaſſals they have rais'd,
Who are well martial'd both in Mind and Body,
And ready to revolt upon the Word.
Near Norham Caſtle they are aſſembled,
Whither the King's encamp'd—thither muſt you poſt
This Night—where you will meet ſuch warm greet⯑ing
As Courage feels when rous'd by Tyranny and Op⯑preſſion.
Hunt.
Scotland's guardian Genius—let me em⯑brace thee.
Embraces him.
Sir Dav.
This Caſtle, my Lord, I have well provided
As is that of Sterling, by Sir Archibald Grant,
And we will hold them out to Life's Extremity.
My Lord, you muſt away, Scotland's bleeding.
Hunt.
Away?—why, Bruce, I will outſtrip the Winds,
And leave them Laggards in the haſty Courſe;
I'll go, like Brutus, at the Head of Rome's
Determin'd Son's, and reſtore poor, baniſh'd
[65]Freedom to her Throne.
There ſhall ſhe ſit incorp'rate with our King,
'Till Time ſhall be no more.
Exeunt.
SCENE III.
Norham Caſtle.
A March at a Diſtance, enter the Biſhop of York and many Free-holders, Gentlemen, &c.
York.
‘Friend's! Britons! and Free-men! in Conjunction with the valiant Earl of Surrey, I'm ſent amongſt you to defend England's Frontiers, And Norham's antient Caſtle 'gainſt the avow'd Enemies of our Land. Conſider, Britons, who thoſe are! a Set of rapacious Scots! Deſperadoes! Out-laws! and a few daſtard French! who do not fight for Fame or Liberty,—but theeviſh Booty; your Property; and ſhall we give up our King, our Liberties; our Laws, Religion, and our Fa⯑milies to Rome's greedy Prieſts, and frenchified hungry Scots? No, there is a robuſt Vigour in Freedom unknown to Slaves. Let but your Minds be obſtinate, your Bodies never can be conquer'd. Tyranny is a Weed that never did, nor can grow in Engliſh Soil; the Breath of Freedom is it's Bane, which blaſts it ſudden as Lightning does the Moun⯑tain Heath.’Freeh.
[66]‘Ay, and may it forever blaſt it; and every Tyrant, who comes to plant it amongſt us.’York.
‘Then, Engliſhmen and Friends, let us but follow the brave Examples of our Anceſtors, and we ſhall never be Slaves to a tyrant Deputy of France and Rome. They know our native Plenty—they long for it; they know our golden Com⯑merce,—they grieve at it; they know our Free⯑dom,—they fear and hate it; and well they know our Courage,—now then let them feel it.’Freeh.
‘And ſo they ſhall.—Looky', Lord Bi⯑ſhop, in Behalf of my Neighbours, Countrymen, and Friends, now preſent, I ſpeak; and in plain down-right Engliſh, will let you know our Thoughts—which are theſe. We love our King,—we'll fight for him; we love our Coun⯑try, we'll fight for that; and we love our Religion, our Liberty, and our Laws, and we'll fight for them too. We were born free, we have lived free, and we'll die free. We have reſolved not to be plunder'd, nor directed by Rome, France, Scot⯑land, nor a Pretender. So Lord Biſhop, let ſome true Briton lead us on, and I'll engage we will beat the Beggars back to their Mountains;—where we will pen them up 'till they devour one another; ſo that's all we have to ſay.’York.
‘All! 'tis all that a Brion can ſay. There is an Eloquence more prevalent in homely Britiſh Freedom, than in all the Jeſuit Rhetoric of France and Rome. It paſſes to the Heart, there inſpirits and kindles up an active Vigour unknown to all Mankind but Britain's Sons.’[67] Enter a Gentleman.
Gent.
‘A Gentleman diſguiſed, and muffled in Scotch Garb is at the Caſtle Gate, and prays Ad⯑mittance, and inſtant Converſe with your Lord⯑ſhip, and if I miſtake not it is the gallant Earl of Huntley;—but from the Battlements your Grace may deſcry him plainly.’York.
‘If it be Huntley, we may admit him; for cold Treachery and he are Strangers? Were Scot⯑land's Subjects all of his Temper, intermeddling France would never dare to offer Laws or Kings to Britain. But let us to the Battlements! if it be he, perhaps his Buſineſs may bring general Good.’Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
An open Country. A March near Norham Caſtle.
The Scotiſh Army.
Perkin and Frion enter apart from the main Body.
Frion.
The King's gone to his Tent and expects you.
Why, Sir, do you retire ſo gloomily?
As if black Melancholly had ſeiz'd your Mind?
What is't hangs ſo heavily on your Spirits?
Perkin.
O Frion, my Catherine, my Wife is loſt.
Sorrow hath ſunk ſo deep into her Heart,
That Death,—or ſilent Madneſs muſt enſue.
Since we left Holy-rood, not an Accent
[68]Hath eſcap'd her faded Lips.—Motionleſs
She ſits; with Eyes fixt as if rivited
To Earth; while Tears inſenſibly ſteal down
Her penſive Cheeks, which look like weeping Dew
Fallen on the Statue of Deſpair.
Frion.
Do, droop; convince the King, his Court and Army,
That your cold, your watery Veins are Bankrupt
Of royal Blood. Convince them you are Impoſtor,
Who wou'd not fight for ſuch a fertile Iſle
As envied Britain.
'Then do not droop, nor reſt till that you die
'The milky Roſe you wear in the luke-warm Blood
'Of Henry's Heart;' and the ſtiff-neck'd ſturdy Knaves,
Who now oppoſe your Claim, be tame and humble
As the dulleſt Boor that ever trampt in Wood.
Gall them with Yokes till that their ſtubborn Necks
Bow to the loweſt Slave in France, and own
Them for their Maſters.
Perkin.
Were I but once upon the Throne I wou'd.
Their free-born Inſolence ſhould be forever check'd.
But my dear Katherine makes me inactive;
She hangs about my Heart.
Frion.
Haſte, Sir, be gone, the King expects you in his
Tent. Drop, drop the Lover, ſhake it
From your Heart; and put on th' enkindled Warrior.
Shew the Soldiers you are going to fight
For a Crown; not to die for a Puppet,
A melancholy whining Girl.
Exit Perkin.
Frion.
This it is to have Concern with Wretches
Born to be Tools. Well! to change Nature's Bent
I ſee is not in the Power of Art;
[69]If it had,—this Perkin might have been e're this
As valiant as Caeſar, and as courtly
As ſportful Anthony. The united Skill
Of France and Rome have joyn'd to form his Mind;
The Clergy indeed have diſcharg'd their Part
Effectually; for he tells his Tale
With as ſpecious and ſmooth Hypocriſy
As our Church can boaſt. But for his Courage
He is as great a Stranger to it as he
Is to Royalty.
But I muſt not be abſent leſt he betray
The Milkineſs of his coward Liver.
Exit.
SCENE V.
A Field near Norham Caſtle.
Enter HUNTLEY, and all the SCOTCH Nobility.
Hunt.
Nobles, Freemen, and Scots; I've tranſ⯑greſs'd the Laws
Of our King and Council, and 'gainſt their Sen⯑tence,
From Death, have borrow'd a few Hours to live
Amongſt you. Then as my Time is ſhort,
I cannot waſte it in golden Speech or
Rounded Phraſe; for if my Subject will not
Move you, my Eloquence cannot. Then to th' Purpoſe.
Many I ſee here whoſe Sires, and Grandſires,
Have fought with me for Liberty, in the
Very Field where now we ſtand. You Matthew Steward,
Earl of Lenox, Alexander Lord Forbes,
[70]And Duncan Dundaſs, Lion King of Arms,
To you I ſpeak particularly—your
Fathers I well remember to've fought with.
And many more no doubt are here, which
My Eye cannot now take in. I have ſeen
Their free, their willing Swords plow thro' Ty⯑ranny,
And their ſmoaking Blood ſluic'd to manure this Field.
From whence reviv'd the ſweeteſt faireſt Flower
That e're adorn'd Scotland's Soil.
Liberty, my Friends! Prieſt-ſtab'd Liberty!
This Flower,
Countrymen, your Fathers have tranſmitted
To your Care. Then take Heed on't, preſerve it
As you wou'd Exiſtence; ſet it in the Centre
Of your Hearts; that's it's native Soil, there,
Only there 'twill flouriſh,—Truſt it to Rome,
Prieſts, or Prieſt-rid Monarchs, 'twill ſurely periſh.
Lord.
My Lord, ſorely
We feel our Country's Wrongs, and wiſh to cure them.
Hunt.
I've had ſecret Conference, in Norham Caſtle,
With his Grace of York; and have ſettled ſuch
Terms as will, I hope, reſtore Peace and Freedom
To our harraſs'd Land; and befit the Honour
Of our King to ratify.
O C [...]untrymen, I have not Time nor Memory
To ſum up our Evils; they are beyond
Arithmetic's enumerating Power:
'Tis your own feeling that can convey
The Number of your Stings, and your own Deeds
That muſt redreſs 'em.
[...]o all thoſe, who are in love
[71]With Rome, Prieſtcraft, and Slavery,
Let them remain behind—thoſe who love their King,
Scotland and Liberty, follow me.
Omnes.
Liberty, Liberty, Scotland, huzza!
Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
A Royal Tent near Norham Caſtle.
Enter King of Scotland, Perkin, Sevez, Frion, and all the King's Attendants.
K. Scot.
Couſin, after long Abſence from our na⯑tive Land
Nature at our Return feels eager ſympathizing Joy;
How happens the Reverſe in you?
Perkin.
I own Sadneſs ſits round my Heart,
To think, I muſt depopulate, and waſte
My Native Land; to wade thro' Cruelty,
Blood and Slaughter! to have the Infant ſlain!
The Aged murder'd! to have Sword, Fire,
And total Devaſtation overſpread the Land,
E're I can purchaſe my juſt Inheritance!—
This, in extream Grief, my Soul deplores.
O, Sir, my Heart grieves for my poor People!
K. Scot.
Your People, methinks, deſerve your Anger
More than your Sorrow; for not a Man as yet
Hath rais'd Hand or Voice in your Defence.
But, on the contrary, all ſeem reſolute againſt you,
Why come not Sir Robert Clifford and Stanley,
As they promis'd?
Frion.
Sir, be aſſur'd they are not inactive.
Clifford, I know, is true as Heart can wiſh;
[72]And for Stanley, his Reſentment is too deep
Within his Heart ever to be eras'd.
The Clergy, to a Man, are warm and zealous;
And, already, under Pretence of not
Paying a Subſidy, have privately
Stirr'd up twenty thouſand hardy Britons
Now in Arms in Cornwal.—Many Friends too
Lurk ſlily in the great Metropolis,
And thro'out the Realm, who artfully joyn
The common Cry againſt Invaſion, France,
Scotland, and the Pretender.—But when Time
Serves, are ready, one and all, to uſe and
Maſſacre the Heretics, and all whom
They ſuſpect as Enemies to our Church,
Or young Plantagenet's Claim.
K. Scot.
But, Frion, France and Spain are tardy;
Where are thoſe Troops were to be pour'd
Into Ireland? And the South and Weſt of England?
Frion.
Moſt royal James, France and Spain
Are prompt as Revenge and Hatred can inſpire;
But as yet they cannot ſtir—the Engliſh
With their Fleets will not let them
Look forth; or e're this, Devaſtation wou'd
Have o'er-run their Land, ſwift as Contagion,
Or epidemic Plagues.
K. Scot.
Unleſs your Friends are numerous and powerful
In England, or France ſend ſome ſpeedy Aid,
I fear, young Prince, Adverſity will ſtill attend you.
Enter a Lord.
Lord.
So pleaſe your Highneſs, a Gentleman juſt arriv'd from Cornwall, who calls himſelf Flamock, humbly craves Audience of Princely Richard, Eng⯑land's lawful Heir.
Frion.
[73]I know him well, ſo pleaſe your Majeſty;
A warm and active Friend he is, and of much
Power in the Weſt.
K. Scot.
'Tis like he brings Diſpatches of Impor⯑tance!
Give him inſtant Audience.
Exit Perkin and Frion.
Sevez, this Buſineſs wears not an Aſpect
So fair as we cou'd wiſh—
Sevez.
Dread Sir, I truſt this Gentleman from Cornwall
Brings ſome Intelligence of good Complexion.
K. Scot.
Is Advice arriv'd yet of Huntley's Death?
Sevez.
Not yet, my Liege. But every Moment
I expect it. Sir David Bruce is not
Wont to be remiſs. He is ſure and truſty,
And will the Inſtant it is over ſend Diſpatch.
Three Shouts, each approaching gradually.
Enter Huntley, and all the Lords, with ſeveral of the Soldiers all arm'd, their Swords drawn.
The King ſtarts up, Sevez, and the reſt run behind him.
King.
Huntley!
Hunt.
Ay, my Liege!
King.
Where are my Friends?
Hunt.
Here, Sir!
All theſe are Friends.
King.
Am I to be aſſaſſin'd?
Hunt.
No Sir—;
We all kneel, Sir,
All kneel.
Your natural, loving, Subjects; dutiful—
But free—free as the Glory of our King—
The Welfare of our bleeding Land,—and our
[74]Infringed, conſtitutional Rights demand.
K. Scot.
Why how now, Sir; who dare controul our Will?
Hunt.
Juſtice dare—gracious Sir, let Reaſon ſchool
Your youthful diſtemper'd Heat, and ſound Judgment
Soon will follow; with ſincere Allegiance
And Affection we're come to cloſe this Breach,
'Twixt a haſty
Miſtaken King, and his much-wrong'd
Baniſh'd Subjects. Let not the latent Poiſon
Of ſubtle France and Rome inſinuate and work
Againſt our Love and Loyalty.
K. Scot.
Well, Sir, let us
See an Inſtance of your Love and Loyalty.
Hunt.
You ſhall Sir,—firſt, you Prieſt, who Coward like
Puts Majeſty in Front when Danger threats,
You, Sir, to your Sphere—the Altar—a Throne
Pulls him from behind the King, and throws him to the Guard.
Of Freedom never was deſign'd for Rome's Prieſts.
Now, Sir,
[To the King.]
You are, as you ſhou'd be, King of Scotland;
Before, the Pope was.
K. Scot.
Hear me, raſh Man—do not preſume—
Hunt.
My Liege,
Rome's Legates have no Buſineſs round our Throne;
The Church is their Capitol,—there let them thunder out
Their Threats, Pennance, Bulls, and Abſolutions;
And if they can, why, let 'em ſave our Souls;—
But for our Property, and our Freedom,
[75]We can preſerve them ourſelves without troubling
Their Infallibility.
K. Scot
Lord Huntley,
This Inſolence is beyond Sufferance.
Hunt.
Sir, 'tis not Inſolence but Loyalty;
Built on Nature's firſt Law—and the firſt Compact
That made a King. The People's Intereſt,
In a free Nation, is blended, and co-equal
With the King's; and he who ſeparates, or
Over-values either, is the Traitor;
Not we, who want to unite and poiſe them.
K. Scot.
Sir, this is a Language, I'm unus'd to.
Hunt.
I know it is, young King; therefore I ſpeak it.
For when Tyrant Folly ſurrounds the Throne,
The Truth to our King is the Nation's beſt
Loyalty. Look into our honeſt Neighbour's,
The Engliſh Annals; ſee their Inſolence
In Defence of Liberty encroach'd by
Rome-directed Kings. See their determin'd
Honeſt Souls, wading thro' mercenary
Slaviſh Blood, to ſhake off France and Rome's uſurp'd
Authority. See each Man, active as
The firſt Brutus, driving out the Tarquins
Of their Land—and ſacrificing themſelves
And Sons to Liberty.—Copy them, them
My Liege—not France and Rome.
K. Scot.
Theſe Sounds are harſh
They grate and diſcord in the Ears of Kings.
Hunt.
Sir, none reverence Majeſty more than I.
'Tis the People's ſacred Repoſitory
Of Freedom, Juſtice, Mercy, and all their
Social Happineſs; and as ſuch, when pure,
[76]I kneel, and I adore it—but when defil'd
By Tyranny and Prieſtcraft, it becomes
A Magazine of Vengeance, and all our
Veneration turns to Contempt and Wrath.
K. Scot.
Huntley, if you love us ceaſe this Doc⯑trine.
Bows to the King—then turns to the Lords.
Hunt.
I have done—my Lords, this reverend Prieſt,
Our Paramount, ſent us from meddling Rome;
See he has ſafe Conduct to Edinburgh;
My traiterous Apartments in the Caſtle,
I believe will ſuit his Reverence; they are
Retir'd and fit for Meditation.
K. Scot.
I charge you, let not his Life be touch'd!
Hunt.
Why Sir—the foremoſt Man of all the World,
Great Caeſar, bled for wounding Liberty;
And ſhall a paltry Prieſt of Rome eſcape?
Is there not one—one Brutus to be found
Within wide Scotland's Realm, dares ſtab the Villain
Who wou'd baſely enſlave his native Land?
Be yourſelf that Brutus,
And let your Dagger be th' unbiaſs'd Cenſure
Of a Scotiſh Parliament.
K. Scot.
Sir, we are
In your Power; and your Will muſt be our Dictator.
Hunt.
No, Sir—your Glory—and Scotland's Wel⯑fare
Shall dictate. Diſpatch them to the Caſtle.
Exit Guards with Sevez.
Enter a Lord.
K. Scot.
The News!
Lord.
[77]So pleaſe your Majeſty a Herald from
Norham Caſtle is arrived, Harbinger
To the warlike Prelate York, who in his
Maſter's Name demands Audience of Scotland's King.
Hunt.
I pray your Majeſty will give him Preſence.
He may be charged with Power of Treaty,
Such as your Glory and Scotland's Diſtreſs
May wiſh.
King.
Give him Conduct.
Exit Lord.
Well, Sir, what are the Dictates we muſt attend to?
Hunt.
Sir, we are not in plight for waſteful War.
Inteſtine Feuds, and Rome's black Exactions,
Have drain'd us below the Might of coping
With induſtrious England; who from thriving
Commerce, and domeſtic Union, are ſtout
And finewey. Therefore, we pray this War,
Stirr'd and fomented by ſubtle-working France,
In favour of an Impoſtor, may be dropt.
Enter York.
Now my Liege you may behold the Difference
'Twixt an Engliſh and a Scotiſh Prelate.
The one rouſed and ſpirited by Freedom's Voice
Is fighting for the Franchiſement of his Land;
The other, ſway'd by the Craft of France and Rome,
Is praying to enſlave it.
York.
From England's awful King I come; not to
Cringe or beg for Peace; but for mutual Good
Of both the Realms to ſtop ruinous War's
Bloody Effuſion. And that on ſuch Terms
As befits Scotland's Honour to accept,
England's to offer.
K. Scot.
Lord Prelate, England
Cannot be more in love with Amity
Than Scotland is. But the Inſults offer'd
[78]To our Scotiſh Youth, here on Norham Plain,
At their mirthful annual Feſtival,
In cold Blood, and in Time of Peace too, hath
Long gone unaton'd, tho' oft remonſtrated.
York.
Thoſe, whoſe Policy it is to create Diſſention,
No wonder they have miſtold that Buſineſs.
King.
Sir, Henry's Scorn of our Alliance with
His Daughter Margaret hath not been miſtold.
That we ourſelf experienced and can't forget.
York.
Sir, I come with Power, I hope, to end all Feuds,
Groundleſs or otherwiſe. With Henry's Voice
In this Preſence I offer new Alliance
To Scotland; and to make the Bond of ſtricteſt
Union now, let there be Affinity with
Royal James, and Princeſs Margaret; England's
Unparalell'd Beauty; whoſe Proxy here I ſtand
Ready to conclude inſtant Affiance.
And farther, the annual Loan receiv'd
Of France, we promiſe to make good to Scotland
By way of Portion; which on Survival
Muſt be ſettled, as Dower, on Scotland's Queen;—
Provided Connexion be broke with thoſe
Breed-bate French, and their Tool th' Impoſtor Perkin
Be render'd up.
King.
How! York! break our royal Faith!
No; our ſacred Word was his Sanctuary:
Nor will we defile it by Treachery.
Our Tutor,
The rigid Huntley, I believe will not
Preſcribe us that.
Hunt.
My Liege, your royal Word was given, as you thought,
[79]To England's Heir; this is an Impoſtor,
As can be proved; hatch'd and foſter'd by the vile,
The helliſh Juncto of France, Spain, and Rome;
On Purpoſe to enſlave this Iſland's Realms.
For when once their Deputy rules in England,
Scotland muſt bid farewel to Peace and Freedom.
K. Scot.
Let him be proved an Impoſtor, and we
Shall think ourſelves in Juſtice and in Honour bound
Not only to yield him up, but with Contempt
And Ignominy. But 'till that is done
We muſt not break our Faith.
Hunt.
My Liege, you ſhall
Have ample Proof; ſo full, that not the Shadow
Of a Doubt ſhall diſturb your Mind.
K. Scot.
The other Terms we do accept, and if
Approv'd by Henry, will ſend Lord Huntley
To ratify them—ſo inform your Maſter.
York.
I ſhall.
Exit.
K. Scot.
Huntley, we ſhall trouble you with the Truſt.
Attend us for our farther Inſtructions.
Hunt.
With moſt willing Duty and Diligence.
Exit King.
You ſee, my Lords, that by the King's Commands
[To the Scotch Lords]
I muſt ſtrait to England to ratify
This haſty Peace. His Sincerity, as yet,
I cannot judge of. But leſt Rome's wicked,
Temporizing Craft ſhould be his Policy,
I beſeech you, let not a Fort, or Caſtle,
Be ſurrender'd, till the Legate hath ſtood
A free, a candid Enquiry of his Peers;
And the Juſtice they doom, be fairly dealt him:
Saving the Power of royal Mercy,
[80]If it ſhall think proper to interpoſe.
Conſider, Countrymen, how this Struggle
For native Liberty will ſhine, when read
To a free Poſterity.
The Youth will glow to emulate this Deed,
The Sire will bleſs us for his Country freed;
And from your Loins a patriot Race proceed.
End of the Fourth ACT.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
King Henry's Tent near Taunton.
Enter King, York, Oxford, Lords and Gentlemen.
K. Hen.
MY rev'rend York, let me embrace thee.
York kneels, the King embraces him.
Riſe,—come to my Heart,—and there let my Love
Enſhrine your Truth, your Loyalty, and Friend⯑ſhip.
This is indeed a Monarch's Happineſs,
In Day of Battle, and wild Rebellion,
To be enpal'd with ſuch Ranks of Loyalty,
Fences, nor War, nor Treachery can ſhake.
But what of our Brother Scotland? Does he
Still perſiſt in Conjunction with his Allies
Of Rome, France and Spain, to ſend England Laws and Kings?
Or will he ſheath his redoubted Anger?
And let us rule in Peace our Nook of Freedom.
York.
[81]Grievance and Diſunion o'erſpread their Land;
This brought Huntley diſguis'd to Norham Caſtle;
Where, in the Name of all free-born Scots,
He demanded Friendſhip with England's King;
I readily embrac'd the mutual Bleſſing,
When Preliminaries ſtrait by us were ſettled,
Which the aggriev'd People pray'd their King to ſign.
He did—and this contains their full Matter.
kneels and gives him a Paper.
Which Lord Huntley, with other Scotiſh Peers,
Fraught with ample Power, are ready to conclude
And ratify, provided the Subſtance
Shall pleaſe your Majeſty.
K. Hen.
Lord Prelate, of your
Wiſdom in making Terms for our Glory,
And England's Intereſt, we will not doubt.
Lord Oxford, Huntley is your antient Friend,
I know your honeſt Heart longs to ſee him;
Conduct him hither.
Exit Oxford.
But, my Lord,
What of the Impoſtor? is he deliver'd up?
York.
So pleaſe your Grace, Scotland's King con⯑ſented
To yield him up—but, ſuddenly, the Impoſtor,
His Wife,
(the miſerable Katherine Gordon)
The Traitor Frion, and others of his Train,
Diſappear'd beyond the Reach of labour'd Intelli⯑gence.
Enter Oxford and Huntley, and ſeveral Scotiſh Lords.
Ox.
Here he is, my Liege; as tough a Piece as ever
[82]War or Winter foſter'd. Many and many a Day have
We harraſs'd each other; and many a bitter Night have
Watch'd for the grey Dawn, to ſteal the Advantage
Of the firſt Blow—which we old Soldiers think no
Contemptible Part of a Battle.
K. Hen.
Lord Huntley, welcome to our tented Court;
Dignity of Forms, proper to your high Place,
And exalted Worth, confus'd Rebellion
Will not allow. But if ſincere Reception
Can compenſate Lack of Ceremony,
Scotland's Ambaſſador, and the Lord Huntley
Are moſt welcome.
Hunt.
In Scotland's Name I here greet England's Love,
And ſtand a faithful Hoſtage of Return.
As for myſelf, next my royal Maſter's,
Henry's Eſteem is my greateſt Honour.
K. Hen.
Lord Huntley, for ſome Hours
Peaceful Treaty muſt give Way to Civil War.
When mad Rebellion's lawleſs Crew have
Awak'd his Wrath, the chaſtiſing Vengeance
Of fire-ey'd Mars muſt keep Pace
With Lightning's Rage. When that precarious Scene
Is over, as the Juſtneſs of our Cauſe
Deſerves, your high Buſineſs we then will ratify;
Mean Time, my Lord,
Such Accommodation, and ſuch Safety—
Hunt.
As Courage needs in Honour's Cauſe, ler me have;
Or ſuch as Lord Oxford here ſhall have, I requeſt;
No other, I beſeech your Majeſty.
[83]Haggiſh Age hath not yet ſo thin'd my Blood,
But I can toil one Day more in Honour's Field
With my honeſt old Competitor. As Foes
We oft have try'd each other's Soldierſhip;
To Day let it be try'd as Friends.
K. Hen.
Spoke like a Soldier zealous in our Cauſe,
We will accept your honeſt Sword. You ſhall be
Oxford's, your old Antagoniſt's Volunteer
Ox.
And a ſtancher never ſtood by Caeſar.
Come you veteran Volunteer, come to my Heart.
(embrace)
‘How oft when we have been each other's Priſoners, for retreating was not in Faſhion with us, have we wiſh'd for a Cauſe to joyn our Hearts in?—At length, Thanks to her Caprici⯑ouſneſs, the blind Lady hath given us the Oppor⯑tunity; and in faith we'll make uſe on't.’ We'll try what Mettle there is in French-rais'd Rebels. Side by Side we'll march thro' their disjoynted Ranks, like Death and Time. The Rogues ſhall ſicken at our Sight. Pale Pannic ſhall catch from Eye to Eye, 'till the trembling Phantom beat at their rebel Hearts Death's laſt Alarm.
Enter Dawbney.
K. Hen.
Now—Lord Dawbney—the News!
Dawb.
My Liege, by a truſty Spy, juſt eſcap'd,
I've learn'd that th' Impoſtor arriv'd laſt Night
In the Rebel's Camp; with ſome ſtraggling French
And Highlanders, a few Prieſts and Iriſh;
And a Lady, whoſe Beauty and Sorrow
Fill'd the whole Camp with Pity and Amazement.
Hunt.
Ha! it is my Child! my brokenh-earted Katherine!
K. Hen.
Heaven be prais'd! now we ſhall ſee our bold
[84]Invider. Dawbney, let ſtrict Obſervance
Be kept at all our Ports, leſt he eſcape.
And a Reward thro' out our Realm proclaim'd
Of one thouſand Marks to him who brings his Head.
Dawb.
Our Spy brought farther News—he ſay'd 'twas rumour'd in the Rebels Camp that the Earl of Devonſhire and his Friends, the Mayor of Exeter, and many of the Citizens, were march'd to joyn your Majeſty, and that the Rebels had reſolv'd to advance and give us Battle e're the Junction cou'd be effected—and by a Gentleman juſt arriv'd, the Earl is now within an Hour's March.
K. Hen.
The Earl is moſt valiant, as are all his Friends!
Dawb.
In their March from Exeter, the Villains have been guilty of moſt unheard of Outrages; as if Waſte, Ruin, Havock, and Deſolation were their only Purport. At Perrin, my Liege, they have committed a ſavage Cruelty. The Commiſ⯑ſioner, for daring to expoſtulate concerning the Re⯑venue, was cruelly murder'd! while his Wife, and two virgin Daughters, before his dying Eyes, were ſacrificed to their brutal Luſt!
K. Hen.
Barbarous Villains! Shame to human Kind!
But ſpeedy Vengeance ſhall o'ertake them.
What may the Number of their ſavage Force
Amount to?
Dawb.
Rumour calls 'em thirty Thouſand,
But the ſtricteſt Intelligence, my Liege,
Cannot muſter them to above Five and Twenty.
Ox.
Ay, Men, ſo pleaſe your Majeſty, meer Men; not a Soldier amongſt them; all Rabble, the rank hot-blooded Sores of the Commonwealth, which [85] every now and then will break out into the Mur⯑rain of Rebellion. Then, my Liege, let us not waſte Time in waiting farther Aid; already we are enow to beat their diſordered Numbers thrice told.
King.
Lord Oxford, Security oft hath been
The teeming Mother of blind Deſtruction.
Let not our Safety then beget our Ruin;
But let us fight with that Caution and Courage,
As if each rude Rebel was a Caeſar.
Let our Judgment be cool, our Battle warm,
The Blow will then be ſure. Their Numbers are
Formidable, what e'er their Diſcipline,
Or Courage may be. Then, e'er we charge 'em, Lords,
Let us into Council, and debate the Means;
Whether it ſhall be as we now ſtand muſter'd,
Or to wait the Junction of the Earl
And his Friends.
Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Field near the Rebels Camp.
Enter Katherine dreſs'd like her Husband Perkin, followed by her Maid Jane.
Cath.
I charge you by your Duty and Affection
Follow me no farther; enquire no more
Into my Deſign.
Jane.
Madam, I will not.
Let me but attend you in any Shape.—
I will purchaſe manly Garments, and travel
With you. For my Patroneſs,
[86]Your dead Mother's Sake, let me ſhare the Fate;
Be it Toil, or War, or Famine or Death,
It will be welcome, much more welcome,
Than cruel Baniſhment, from my dear Miſtreſs.
Cath.
Jane, preſs me no farther—I muſt be obey'd,
Return to my Husband's, King Richard's Tent;
There wait my Preſence, or my Meſſenger's.
And as you wiſh my Happineſs, let not
Utterance, or Advertiſement, eſcape you,
By any Means of this my unſeemly
Immodeſt Garb.
Jane, this ſtrange Requeſt, give it not Complyance
As my Servant who obeys, but as my Friend
Who loves.
Jan.
It never ſhall eſcape me. But, dear Madam,
From the earlieſt Time, my Memory
Can trace, my Life hath been employ'd with you;
I've been bred up with you, not under you.
You have not been a Miſtreſs to me, but
A tender Equal. Sorrow and Servitude
Were unknown in Gordon's hoſpitable Houſe;
Menial Content was the lordly Owner's
Benevolent Joy; and the Servant's Pain
Anguiſh'd in the kind Maſter's humane Heart:
Then, Madam, be not angry,
My grateful Heart, burſts to think I never,—
Never ſhall again behold, from this Moment,
One of Gordon's Race—my impetuous Tears
Are maſterleſs.—I cannot ſtop them—they
Will guſh, in ſpite of all my Labour to prevent 'em.
Cath.
Jane, do not wound me thus.
There is a Cruelty in this Sorrow
My Nature cannot bear. The grateful Tears
[87]You've ſhed upon my Hand, melt in my Heart:
Pity's tender Anguiſh is in each Drop.
Jane.
They ſhall offend no more; for tho' they eaſe
My throbing Heart, yet e're they grieve my Miſtreſs,
They ſhall turn to liquid Flames, and Etna like,
Deſtroy their own Manſion—Madam, my Fears
Inform me I ſhall never ſee you more.
That in this ſtrange, this Engliſh Land, I ſhall
For ever loſe my Patroneſs.
Again I will not importune to attend,
Or bear you Company in this ſtrange Deſign.
But ſhou'd you command me—or give me leave
To follow, and watch at Diſtance, leſt ſome
Of thoſe hot-blooded Engliſh—
Cath.
Fear not, Jane.
Virtue knows no Danger, it is it's own Shield;
It may be aſſaulted, but never can be hurt:
Therefore as you regard my Peace, or Love,
Expoſtulate no more; but ſtraight leave me.
Jane.
My Patroneſs, farewel.
And may the watchful Eye of Providence guard and direct you!
Kath.
Farewel, my tender, honeſt-hearted Jane.
They embrace, Exit Jane.
Poor Maid! ſhe was ever gentle and loving;
And her tender Heart will grieve ſorely,
When ſhe ſhall hear that my Soul hath ſhook off
This galing Priſon.
Now Scotland, Huntley, Daliel, Life, and Woe,
Farewell for ever. You dauntleſs Engliſh,
This Day, let th' aking Sighs, the mournful Tears
Of your Parents, Wives, and Children,—let your
Ravag'd Country, your Love of Liberty,
[88]And whatever elſe your tenacious Souls
Hold dear,—rouſe, and quicken in your honeſt Hearts,
This Day, that intrepid Courage, my dear Father
So oft hath prais'd in you. O let this Garb,
This Impoſtor Garb, allure your Vengeance
On me your ſuppoſed Invader; ſo ſhall
My Husband be the Cauſe of ending
The cureleſs Sorrow his deteſted Love begun.
(Trumpet)
Heark I am ſummon'd,—Joyful Sound! O War! Death's fav'rite Harbinger,
If ever thou had'ſt partial Wrath againſt
A ſingle Life! Or a firſt Victim in
Thy raging Onſet, O then, for Pity's Sake,
Let me be the cull'd Sacrifice of this
Dreadful Day! let your remorſeleſs Agents,
Sword, Pike, Dart, Javelin, and all your fell Crew,
Swarm, and cover me with diſtinguiſhing Wounds,
That when my disfigur'd Body is found,
Memory of Friend may find no Trace of Know⯑ledge,
To ſhed a Tear o're the mangled Catherine.
Trumpets at a Diſtance.
Again I am ſummond! and now,—Deſpair
And Danger be my Guides.
Exit.
SCENE III.
[89]Field of Battle, Charge, &c.
Enter King, Oxford, York.
King.
Where is this Impoſtor, who wants a Crown?
This ſpurious, this Rome-hatch'd Plantagenet?
If he hath royal Blood within his Veins,
Or one Spark of Engliſh Flame about his Heart,
Now, now, while War rages, and the Blood boils,
Let him ſtand forth and prove himſelf a King.
York.
My Liege, have better Guard upon your Perſon,
Do not expoſe it thus in Danger's Front.
King.
How, York! when I am fighting for a Crown,
Wou'd you have me ſhew my loyal Subjects
I am unworthy wearing it? No
Forward,—Charge,—Victory,—or Death!
Exeunt, Charge, Excurſions.
Charge, &c. Enter Huntley.
Hunt.
Thro' War's crimſon Chaos I have fought the Impoſtor
But cannot reach him! if Death is not Death,
Him by my Hand—
Going off meets Cathe⯑rine, who is taken Priſoner by a Soldier.
Sold.
A Villain, offer to kill my Priſoner in cold Blood.
Hunt.
Ha! 'tis he! now Scotland and England's [90] guardian Genius be ready to accept this Sacrifice. Inſpire my Rage with one Blow—
Going to aſſault Catherine ſhe falls on her Knees.
Cath.
My Father! O behold and bleſs your Catherine
E'er you give the fatal Blow—
Hunt.
Angels bleſs and guard my Child!—Fate, what art thou doing! ha! 'tis ſhe herſelf—I feel her at my Heart, nature ſoftens at her Touch.—
embraces her
The faithful Centinel ſtarts at the Alarm,
And wakens all the Father in my Soul!
My Child! O my Child.
Sold.
Your Child!
Hunt.
Ay, my Child! Lord Huntley's Child, if thou knoweſt that Name.
Sold.
As well as I do my General, Lord Oxford's.
Hunt.
Then I am he,—and this my Daughter!
Sold.
Then, Sir, I am glad I have ſaved her Life with all my Heart. I took her for the Pretender, and thought I had had a good Prize,—but as I know my General loves and honours you, and you him, I aſ⯑ſure you, Sir, I am better pleaſed with my having ſav [...] [...] young Lady and your Daughter, than I ſhould have been with the Reward for Perkin.
Hunt.
Let me embrace thee for that generous Thought. Thou haſt ſaved my Child from Death, and me from endleſs Woe.
embraces the Soldier.
Cath.
Fear Shame, and Joy
Preſs all at once upon my longing Heart.
I [...] [...] wou'd aſk
H [...]w [...]oor Scotland fares? How Daliel? How my
Father eſcap'd the Snares of wicked Sevez?
[91]And if he hath yet forgiven the Diſobedience
Of his Catherine?
Hunt.
Forgiven! Why thou art thy Country's Glory!
And your mourn'd Abſence is the only Grievance
Scotland now bewails. Me thou haſt made
Jocund as luſty Youth. My May of Life's
Return'd; and my Child again is born to me
In Nature's full Perfection. And Daliel,
The ſolitary, hapleſs Daliel, ſtill lives,
And languiſhes for his betroth'd Catherine.
Hunt.
O, I have a thouſand Queſtions to aſk you. But firſt, what brings you to this dreadful Place, where Death and Slaughter reign? And why this vile, this impoſtor Garb, which had like to en⯑ſnare me into a Crime my Nature ſtarts to think of, the Murderer of my Child?
Cath.
Quite worn down with Sorrow, my hope⯑lorn Soul flew to War's Rage, and this deteſted Garb as to the ſureſt Means to compaſs Death; frail Na⯑ture's laſt Cure for comfortleſs Deſpair; but this Sol⯑dier ſeized and ſnatch'd me from the raging Conflict, and would have brought me Priſoner to the King; when another Soldier follow'd, and claim'd Part in the Reward; and to make his Claim the ſurer the cruel Villain would inſtantly have kill'd me, which this honeſt Soul prevented,—diſdaining in cold Blood to kill an Enemy.
Hunt.
The Soldier's Bleſſings, Humanity, Cou⯑rage, and Succeſs attend him to his Death's Hour.—If you have Children, may the Father's Joy, the Ex⯑taſy I now feel, for ever flow about your humane Heart. Come, my Mars, in Triumph lead your fair Priſoner, and thou ſhalt have Reward, not ſuch as Monarchs, but doating Fathers give.
Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
[92]A Field, a Retreat ſounded.
Enter Henry, York, Oxford, Priſoners guarded.
Ox.
Here they are, my Leige, the Ringleaders of theſe Rebels.
King.
O, you baſe! you degenerate Britons!
Are you not aſham'd to fight for Slavery!
For France and Rome your ſworn natural Foes!
Do you not bluſh to ſtain your native Herbage
With Engliſh Blood, and bruiſe it with hoſtile Paces!
Ungrateful Vipers! who with Rebellion's
Inteſtine Sting, have wounded the Bowels
To the three Leaders.
Of this foſt'ring Land! the tendereſt Mother,
And the kindeſt Nurſe this World can boaſt.
Hence you Parricides! you unfilial Wretches!
Exeunt three Leaders.
To Execution with them ſtrait!—for you,
To the Rebels in general.
Blind, miſtaken Men, who have been enſnar'd
By theſe hell-bred Agents, accept the Mercy
Of your Country, whoſe tender Nature
Out of War's Rage, cannot bear the cool Slaughter
Of her Sons! the Wounds you have given her, ſhe weeps
In Tears of Blood! your intended Parricide,
She grieves and pities! and her relenting
Nature puniſhes it with Mercy's mildeſt
Chaſtiſement, Forgiveneſs and Repentance!
Hence, to your forlorn Families! comfort
Their diſconſolate Hearts with domeſtic Peace;
And your injur'd Country with future Loyalty.
Exeunt Rebels.
[93]Lord Oxford, there is
A Soldier of your Regiment, whoſe Face we oft
Have notic'd, to whom we are much indebted.
To his ſingle Arm, this Day, we owe our Life.
He muſt be found, my Lord, and rewarded,
As becomes the Affection of a fellow Soldier;
The Gratitude and Honour of a King.
Ox.
He ſhall be ſought, my Liege,
With utmoſt Diligence.
King.
Hath any Diſcovery yet been made, whither
The Impoſtor Fled?
Ox.
O, to the old Place, my Liege, the Church; the Villains accuſtom'd Sanctuary. The gallant Hero never appear'd in Battle; but like a politic Prince in Time of Danger, kept a loof; and at laſt, thought proper to make a religious Retreat to Bewley Monaſtery. But Lord Dawbney, hath made bold to beat it about the Abbot's Ears, and hath dragg'd thence our French-made Monarch.
King.
You ſee, Lord Biſhop, even in the Day
Of Battle; Oxford, will have his Jeſt upon the Church.
York.
My Liege, it hurts not me. I am the Church's
Advocate, but as it befriend's Religion,
And the Happineſs, and Freedom of our Land!
But when with Tyranny and Perſecution
It perverts thoſe Bleſſings
As a Prieſt, I diſown
That Church; and as an Engliſhman will fight
Againſt it.
[94] Enter Dawbney, and Perkin.
Dawb.
My Liege, we have ſecured the Impoſtor; for ſo he now ſtands ſelf-confeſſed. He acknow⯑ledges himſelf the Son of a reform'd Jew, one John Osbeck of Tournay; but nurs'd and cheriſh'd by France and Rome, and the evil-hearted Dutcheſs of Burgundy, on purpoſe to plague this Land with Wars fell Contention.
King.
Bear the Wretch to inſtant Execution.
Let an ignominious Death put a Period
At once to his Woe, and his Ambition.
Ox.
See, my Liege, where Scotland's Honour comes; feebly he drags the Remains of Life, which waſting War and Time have left him. Yet my Veterian was not unactive to Day; his biting Whin⯑yeard made ſome of the Rogues skip.
Enter Hunt. Cath. and Soldier.
Ox.
Welcome my Volunteer, how now, what have we here another Pretender!
Hunt.
Ay, my Lord, a Pretender ſhe is indeed;
But one who ne'er meant ill to England.
It is my dear Katherine; whoſe Woes outraging
The Cure of Patience, flew to War, and this
Impoſtor Garment, as to the ſwifteſt
Means of Death. In the Midſt of Battle ſhe
Was taken; and now kneels England's Pris'ner.
King.
Riſe, fair Katherine; your Woes we oft have pity'd,
But we hope they now are ended. The Joy
Your Deliverance brings to Huntley's Heart,
[95]We ſhare in; and that Joy ſhall be your Ranſom.
Hunt.
Thanks to your Majeſty!—but here is the Man,
takes the Soldier by the Hand.
Whoſe Humanity and Courage add Luſtre
To the Soldier,—Dignity to human Nature.
This is her Deliverer; fated by
Providence this Day to ſtand between my Child
And Death.
King.
Or Memory plays me falſe,
Or thou art the Man, who this Day ſav'd me
From the Highland Pole-Ax.
Sold.
So pleaſe your Majeſty, I did ſee you ſorely ſmote in the Battle, and down, and bleeding, that I muſt confeſs. And had a common Fellow-Soldier been in that Condition, I would have cover'd him from farther Harm if I could. But, when I ſaw my King in Danger, I would have loſt a thouſand Lives, but I would have brought him off.
King.
Honeſt Soul—Lord Oxford, let this Soldier
Conſtantly be near our Perſon. Let him
Command our Body-Guards,—our Battle-Axes,
As Earneſt of what we farther intend him.
Hunt.
Thou dear Deliverer of my Child, let me add my Acknowledgment to thy Worth. Receive this Ring, the bright Inheritance which hath deſcended thro' the Houſe of Gordon for many Generations. Wear the precious Pledge, not as a Reward, but a Mark of endleſs Gratitude, from a tender Father, and a loving Friend.
King.
Lord Huntley, we now will haſte towards Scotland's Frontiers,
Where we will celebrate the happy Nuptials
Of royal James, and our Daughter Margaret.
Joy ſhall revel thro' both our Realms, and every
[96]Subject's Heart ſhall abound with Happineſs.
York, Oxford, Huntley, and all my Fellow Soldiers,
Shall be crown'd with Wreaths of ſmiling Victory;
For they have fought this Day, like true Britons;
Such as great Caeſar had to cope withal;
Whoſe unpoliſh'd Courage, not all the Art
And tutor'd Diſcipline of War—like Rome
Cou'd conquer.
Ox.
Ay, ay, my Liege, let but the Kings of this little Nook, all act their Parts as you do yours, and I'll engage the People will never fail in theirs; let them but give us our conſtitutional Freedom, and we in Return will give them our Hearts and Purſes; and then my Life for it, they never fail of Victory, let who will attack them.
King.
My Lord, your Remark is juſt; Engliſh Courage
Muſt be foſter'd with Engliſh Liberty;
And the King's Power ſupported by the Peoples Hearts.
United thus, let King and Subject ſtand,
Shields to each other, Guardians of the Land;
Let Faction ceaſe, Commerce and Freedom ſmile,
The World can't conquer then, this War-Proof Iſle.
FINIS.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 3362 King Henry the VII Or the popish impostor A tragedy As it is acted by His Majesty s servants at the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. University of Oxford Text Archive. University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-D14B-B