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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. BROTHERTON, in Cornhill. M.DCC.XLVI. (Price is 6d.)PREFACETHE following Piece was design'd as a Kind of Mirror to the present Rebellion; and the imagined: Advantage of having it acted before that unnatural 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 Remission 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,Spoken by Mr. MACKLIN.BReathes there a Briton longs for Popish Chains,While Smithfield Fire our English Annals Stains;When Popish Rage and Persecution blaz'dWith 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,Spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON.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 findSuperior 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 Legate, 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.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 HeirOf England's King—audaciously assumed.This stagger'd many of the Court, who warmlyOpposed his Audience; I at length stood up,And in full Council strait produced our LettersFrom 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,So warmly active in this pious Cause,Will ever make you dear to France and Rome.Sevez.Frion, with religious Joy we will revengeThe irreverent Contempts, lately offer'dTo our holy Church, by unholy England,My Functions, secular and religious,Shall to their utmost, stretch, to fix this PerkinOn England's Throne. Henry hath refusedOur King, by my Contrivance, his DaughterMargaret; which affront hath sown the SeedsOf Hate too deep within his youthful MindEver to be weeded out. His Soul's on fire,And burns with Eagerness to pour InvasionInto their haughty Land; to loose at onceHis unremitting Grudge, on a proud Neighbour,And a dreaded Rival. But, Frion, tho' weAbound in Scottish Blood, ready to be drain'dAgainst England's Peace, yet Treasure is War'sStrongest 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 makingIn England, Spain, and ever-helping France;These Sums for the present are lodged with me;But now a special Order from his HolinessDivests me of the Charge, and to your CareCommits the Trust.Sevez.Our unerring Father's ConfidenceDoes Honour to my Zeal; I will bestowThe Treasure as his Holiness directsAnd the religious Cause demands. But howStands Ireland? What Hopes from thence?Trion.None.Th' Apostate Slaves are fallen off from Rome,And firmly fixt in the Usurper's Cause;Kildare, Clanrikard, with many othersOn 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 ManNearest his Heart, cross'd in ambitious Views,Has secretly vow'd Revenge, and is oursBy Oath and Heart; so that England's MeasuresAre 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 againstEnquiry? Can he stand the Shock of gazingNumbers? 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 ArtHave stamp'd him perfect; a majestic Mein,A Countenance, where Sweetness and CommandSmile awfully together; a Deportment,Courtly, but not effeminate; a Skill,That calls him Master of most Languages;But chiefly English; with a soothing CarriageWhich beggars the Persuasion of his Tongue.His suppos'd Aunt, Margaret of Burgundy,Has form'd his Education; she has made himA 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 himWith 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 SorrowAnd take and keep what Form his Art bestows.Frion.Doubt not his Art, my Lord, he is compleat;And often has rehears'd his kingly PartIn 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 contriv'dTo fling Division's Fire-brands 'mongst the English,For should they join their Hearts and Resolutions,The united Pow'r of Europe, nay, the WorldCould not prevail against them.Frion.Care is taken.On every Side, our Emissaries ply,And blacken the Usurper; Gold and PrayerAlternately 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 'TerrorOf Bulls, Anathemas, and Hell eternalTo 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 ManifestosBe sure you promise free Power of Worship,To the Lollards, and all Separatists.Men fight by Halves, with a kind of bastardCourage on Rebellion's Side, without Religion.But when that's hook'd in, why then, Biggotry,Flaming Biggotry, tunes Rebellion's DiscordInto pious Loyalty; and makes Men fightWith hot, enthusiastic Vigour,And forget the Name of Rebel. For thenThe Cause and Quarrel are no longer earthlyBut derived of Heaven!
Exeunt.SCENE II.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, beholdA 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 BloodThat 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 numberlessHave rooted in my Heart,Ev'n from our princely Cradle, to our landingOn your hospitable Shore, Fortune, adverseAnd 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 AssassinOf blood-thirsty Usurpation.K. Scot.Rise, royal Cousin, most unhappy Youth!
(Sevez takes him up)Perkin.My Uncle first, unnatural, crooked Richard,—Savage and bloody—by my dying FatherAppointed Guardian of the infant LivesOf princely Edward, and myself, subborn'dTwo 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 BrotherAll weltring in his Gore; Murder's butcher'd Prey!The grim Assassins,—Their Hands yet reeking with the royal BloodSeized 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;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 TempestsIs in the living Volume register'dOf all Mens Tongues.K. Scot.Cousin of England, so I now proclaim 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 RealmHe be acknowledged England's rightful King,With such Appointments, and due ObservanceAs 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 LordsOf 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 foundIn Scotland's Court we wish thee to partake;We'll after march to England, and taste their's;Where we'll exchange the hospitable WordWhich now you wear, and in my Turn I'll beYour royal Guest; and e'er 'tis longWe hope to dance a Measure in your Court.Exeunt all but Sevez and Frion.Sevez.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 inveighAgainst the Church; as having usurp'd of lateToo much Authority in temporal Sway.Loud are their Complaints that by Priests and FrenchmenThey 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 Council;But late a special Summons from the KingHas order'd their Attendance here to Day,On Pain of Banishment and Confiscation.Fri.But, holy Sir, I doubt these headstrong LordsWill 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 RomeShould e're let Kings or Rulers think for themselves;Th' unerring See should ever be their Guide.As to those heretic Lords, their AssentFor Perkin is our least Concern. We haveMore important Views upon them.—Death, Death.Frion, Huntley must not live, he stalks and roarsBut 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 bellowWithout 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 makeThe 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 resolvedThis Day, by my Advice, to silence Huntley'sFree speaking, or his Head answer th' Default.Frion.Omniscient Wisdom still directs your MindAnd points your Purpose to some holy End.But, my right reverend Sir, one thing remainsUnsettled 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 breakThis fatal Knot, or England's blazing CrownWill 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 dangerousHuntley in our Cause, or with enraged MadnessBreak his proud stubborn Heart: For his DaughterNext to Liberty is his earthly Idol.But I must leave you;—for the Council sitsTo 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 handyAnd 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 FlamesDevote their black, their superstitious Souls,Till Penitence and Gold buy out their Pardon.
Exit.SCENE III.The Council-Chamber.The King, SEVEZ, Sir DAVID BRUCE, Council and Attendants.King.How! not attend!—Angus and Daliel ill.Sev.So their Oracle, Lord Huntley, reports,And farther, that he's emproxied to expressTheir 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 WallsOf Holy-rood! and well we wish you neverHad estranged them. It would have joy'd us muchTo'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 uncourtly.I have been bred a Soldier, a Scotch Soldier,Not an Italian Flatterer. My old BodyIs dry'd and chill'd with toilsome Marches, thro'Numbing Frost, and scorching Heat, to grapple withMy Country's Foe.I have not been used to silken Coverli Is,And Solon Beds,—but to the friendly Plaid,And swampy Earth; and my best Lodging oftHath been the dryest Turf, the blooming Hether,The wholesome Fern. Our unletter'd Bards thenFlatter'd not the Living but prais'd the Dead.Their Songs were not who steep'd deepest in ItalianLuxury, or deck'd gayest in foreign Frippery,But who had most Wounds in Battle, or foughtHardiest in their Country's Cause. This CourtWas not then the Rendezvous of Italian Minstrels,Priests and Legates,—but the hospitable HomeOf Scotch Nobility, whose AncestorsThis Realm coeval'd; and when grown strengthlessBy fighting Scotland's Battles, grew venerably greyIn her faithful Councils.—Where are they now?Here are none such. Your Nobles are StrangersTo your Court, your Courtiers Strangers to your Nobles.K. Scot.Huntley, to taunt and to revileWas not the Purport of our Summons; butTo counsel and assist.Huntley.Sir, Counsel, void of Freedom,May flatter and mislead, but never can assist.Freedom is the Guide, the unerring GuideTo 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 noStranger. Rabble Kerns too, we hear, copy yourLicentious Knowledge; and in rude saucyLanguage, dare revile our sacred Person;Libellously branding our Wisdom, withFrench and Priest-rid Weakness.Huntley.My Leige, when the Yoke galls,Nature will wince. Arrests, Imprisonments,And Confiscations compose your Subjects Dreams,And break their restless Sleep. We lie downWith Anguish at our State,—and rise despairingEver to see it mend; and the Heart-stingingProspect that opens to our View, is,Posterity scourged, by French and RomishTyranny.K. Scot.O Sir, your distemper'd Fancy framesSprites and Goblins, Men of sounder Judgments never see.Huntley.Pray Heaven it may be Fancy.—My Liege, I have fought my Country's BattlesIn Sweat and Blood; when every ObjectTo Eye, and Ear, and Thought, brought certain DeathInto the Mind; the whole a moving SceneOf busy Fate. And after Battle, I haveSeen the hard-fought, conquer'd Field, strew'd with DeathAnd Slaughter. There I've beheld our gallant,Helpless Nobles, breathing out final Groans;Their active Blood baked and clottedBy scorching Heat, or swallow'd by the greedySun-crack'd Earth. There I beheld Brothers andKinsmen stript, and piled on mangled HeapsOf Slaughter;—Kerns and Thanes promiscuous.There searching for my dear, my darling, only Son,I found his well-known, headless Trunk, all gash'dAnd mangled,—with his Brains dash'd and scatter'd'Gainst a blood-stain'd Oak.—Yet these were Sights of JoyTo what I now behold.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, andBe the Father, not the Tyrant of your People.Ferret from your Court these Rats, who'll undermineThe Roof that shelters them, and leave your FameAnd Country to perish in the Ruins.Sevez.Lord Huntley, your ill-manner'd Heat of TemperMakes you forget the Presence you are in.The Homage and Respect due to MajestyYou wilfully and audaciously omit.Hunt.The Homage and Respect! the envenom'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 RecipeThat discharges the black Stains from your ConscienceWill cleanse my Manners.Sevez.Stains from my Conscience, Lord!Hunt.Ay Priest, 'twas my Phrase.Sevez.My Leige, this Treatment,In your royal Presence too, is beyondThe Sufferance of wholesome Policy,And human Nature;—it demands instantChastisement.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 PriestDares hold a Rod of menaced ChastisementOver the Minds of free-born Peers.K. Scot.Huntley, you grow seditious.Hunt.My Liege, Truth will ever be SeditionWhile France and Italy direct your Council.K. Scot.Sir, my Allies of France and holy RomeMust not be revil'd by you, or anySlander-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 GrievancesIn 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.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 prostituteBulls 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 ClanOf vile Mackgreger. He with religious GuileAnd 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 LandTo a perfidious War, in supportOf an Impostor's Title, against ourTrue Allies, the Faith-observing English.Sevez.Dread Sir, this Insult to distress'd RoyaltyIs not to be borneKing. Scot.Let him proceed;'Tis the last Time he speaks in Scotish Council.Hunt.Be it so, my Liege. Then 'tis the last ServiceI shall do my Country. But to your Council,Since it is my last. Right against your PriestAn English Minstrel stands, who tho' at HomeA Vagrant, now gives Vote in Council here;And, for Scotland's Honour, keeps a Court AuctionFor royal Boons, where the highest BidderRises to Preferment.There are many more of the like NatureAbout your Palace; and tho' excellentIn their various Talents, yet there is oneThey 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 portraidA most lively, speaking Picture, of our self,Our Council, our Religion, and our Laws;And 'tis but meet such high-colour'd PatriotismShou'd be rewarded. ThereforeWe here solemnly engage our royal WordBefore 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.For a Traitor's Name stabs deeper in aLoyal Heart than all the Tortures TyrannyCan invent.K. Scot.Sir, for your Time, you may find better Use;'Tis not of long Duration; employ itTo Advantage. Sir David Bruce, he is your Prisoner;Convey him to the Castle.Hunt.My kind Liege,—To the virtuous Man, Extent of LifeIs but of small Concern; to me 'tis none.But how Life is spent ought to be a King'sFirst Care. For as the Welfare of MillionsDepends on him, his Life demands the strictestCircumspection. Kingship, is not an OfficeOf 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'nYour Council were all such! 'tis the TreasonFor which I wish to live; and if it be the TreasonFor 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 thatWhich 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 toAdvise, 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 full'd Caverns,Make them burst forth and blaze with treble Fierceness.Besides, my Leige,The Confiscation of their Lands will beA double Prop to your royal Power.First, 'will punish, and deter foul TraitorsWho wou'd lessen, or subvert your royal Sway.Next, 'twill be a rich Exchequer, to pushThe 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 Alliance,And refused their Daughter; but we'll repayTheir gibing Taunts.Greedy Ravage shall havock thro' their Land,Till they atone their Insolence, and accordPlantagenet'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 OrderDaliel and Angus suffer with Lord Huntley.Sevez.I shall, my Liege,K. Scot.We'll now prepare for Richard's Coronation,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.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 ArmamentsT' 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 abetAn Impostor's Claim against your native Right;Back'd and supported by your Subjects Voice,Their Hands and Hearts; the best, the surest, RightTo England's Crown.K. Hen.That Right be ever mine.My firmest Bulwark, against foreign Threats,Shall ever be my Subjects Love; secureIn that, England's King, and this Sea-girt Isle,May defy the warring World. But, Stanley,Are our Fleets in Readiness to scowerThe dastard French? to sink and burn their hostileTransports, 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,(Th' Remains of Bosworth's memorable Field,Who fought so bravely 'gainst the Tyrant Richard)Headed by gallant Buckingham, are march'dWith eager Hearts to Kent and Suffex; and vowTo 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 SceneOf bloody Agincourt; when Gallic PrisonersTrebled English Conquerors, and their mangledDead out-number'd both. Such again shall beTheir Lot;—Imprisonment or Death. Such theirReward, 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 CryOf save your Liberty!—When first I wakedThe Mayor, and told him the French and ScotsWere making a Descent in Perkin's Cause,Th' abrupt Relation drove the warm ColourFrom his manly Cheek; but the rich Stream soonRush'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 heardBut 'to arms.—Death or Liberty.—and long'Live the King.K. Hen.'Tis well; I will deserve their kind Affection,And ever be the Guardian of their Rights.Dawbney, take care there be Dispatches sentThis Night, to the Lieutenants of our several Counties;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 unitedAs 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 theFrench, I've often heard my Grandsire say,That, in fifth Harry's Days, the beating themWas 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 makingKings,—let them make Courantos, and followTheir dancing skipping Avocations.K. Hen.Well said, my valiant Oxford. We'll make 'em feel in usAn Edward and Fifth Harry joyn'd. Ha! Stanley,We once again shall have our Bodies clasp'dIn burnish'd blazing Steel, and together fightAgainst audacious Usurpation.York.May the Almighty's providential HandDirect your Sword, and guard your sacred Life;May Victory, with her triumphant Aspect,Attend your righteous Cause; and bless once moreOur panting Land with cheerful welcome Peace.Ox.My Lord of York fights like a true Churchman,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 hisMirthful 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 amendsFor the Tartness of his Wit. Come, come, weAll 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 MayorAnd Citizens attend your Pleasure.K. Hen.Stanley, admit 'em.Exit. Stanley.Their Readiness to shew their LoyaltyIs an added Worth to their Affection.Ox.Those Sons of Traffick know too wellThe Sweets of golden Commerce, self-earn'd Property,And English Freedom, to lose them lightly.They are too wise to change such Blessings forWooden Shoes and Popish Anathema's.Enter Stanley, Mayor and Aldermen, who kneel.Mayor.Permit us, gracious Sovereign, with warm AffectionAnd united Loyalty, to approach your sacredPerson. Indulge our heart-felt Zeal the PrivilegeTo express the indispensible Duty of EnglishSubjects. Subjects, who think their Happiness andLiberty inseparably blended with your sacredRight; and bound by Duty and AffectionTo feel all Insults offer'd to your Majesty, in aSense, as sharp and touching, as to our individualLives, our Trade, or Liberties. Too well,My Liege, we know the Schemes of ambitiousFrance, which grasps at universal Sway, to beDeceived by Threats or Machinations. HerCabinet is an exhaustless Mine of blackestPolicy; Jealousy, Corruption, Discord and Sediion,Are the Agents she sends forth toPlague Mankind; but e'er her Jesuit Arts shallTaint 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?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'sRemotest Climes, to enrich Old England's Hive,With Natures choicest Stores. Such ever beHer 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 eachRepair to his respective Charge. You, my Lord,o our faithful Citizens; bid them acceptA Monarch's greatful Thanks; tell them their Love,And Loyalty, so amply shewn, at thisImportant Crisis, ever claim myWarmest, best Affection. The PreservationOf their Peace and Rights, and the CultivationOf our darling Commerce, shall ever beMy 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 LiegeKing.'Tis well; follow me, Daubney.Exit Daubney.York.Something of Moment is in this abruptDeparture, pray Heaven all our Hearts be whole.Ox.Lord Bishop, if there is a rotten HeartAmongst 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 CommandYou order his Apartment, in the Tower;They must be instantly prepar'd, for 'tisHis 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 fullEmployment for the Headsman, and the Priest.For, if I mistake not, many wise HeadsMust be knock'd off, and many black ConsciencesAbsolv'd, before it ends.
Exit.Daw.My Lords, the King expects you.York.We'll attend.
Exeunt.SCENE II.An Apartment in the Tower.CLIFFORDalone.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 seekDarkness, eternal Darkness and Oblivion.O Man, Man, weak, unsteady, insatiate Man!My Conscience, ever faithful to its Trust,With heav'nly Admonition, kindly warn'dAnd 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 inThe Villain's mangled Mind.Enter DAWBNEY.Daw.Sir Robert Clifford, I've inform'd the KingOf 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 TreacheryGoad thro' my Heart, and canker all within.Daw.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 KingExpects 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 RemorseHath seized your Mein and Aspect;Guilt and Self-Reproach, the Traitor's native Marks, sculk inYour down-cast Eye.Cliff.My Eye! my Heart!—I am all over Villain!
[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 itWith the Greediness of a penitent Heart,Who pants for heavenly Mercy. O Sir,You are a just, a righteous Master; IThe blackest Traitor, that e'er betray'd his Friend,His King, or Country.King.Tell me, is every Circumstance set downWithin this Paper true? Is it a sureIntelligence of all the ProgressOf 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 madeWith their Impostor King, for this fair Isle,The Queen of Europe's Liberties.York.Reads.First, a full Surrender of England's TradeAnd all her foreign Acquisitions—next,Obedience implicit to his HolinessThe Pope and the Decrees of France, in allDisputable Points—lastly, a Tribute everlastingOf whatever Sum their Moderation shall demand.King.Clifford, those are the Terms, you say, made withEngland's pretended King?Cliff.Gracious Sovereign, they are.King.Well, my Lord of York, what says your Grace? ShallWe put on our Chains in Peace, ha! will theySit easy, think you?York.As the Shirt of Hercules, my Liege.The Englishman, who signs to these, must sureBe bloodless.—And bloodless may each Briton beE'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! purchasedFor Ages, with her best, her choicest Blood,Must we be subject to audacious France.Our foreign Acquisitions too must beHumbly 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 PerditionIs your Doom.'—Hard Sentence,—lastly, Tribute,Everlasting, of whatever Sums theirModeration 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 LibertyBe 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.Three solemn Councils at Paris have been held;And their Result was this; Sussex and KentAre to be visited with twenty thousandOf the choicest Troops of France; while proud SpainInto 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 seduceYour Subjects Minds, in Favour of th' Impostor.King.I cannot observe in this Scheme of yours,That Spain or Scotland's Kings are in TreatyFor any Part or Share of this gallant Spoil.Cliff.Royal Sir, to that Part of their CouncilsI 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!
risesBut if we must be Slaves, my Lord of York,Let us put on our Chains like EnglishmenReeking 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—
sitsHa! 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,As Peace or Innocence, would, in England's Cause,Unsheath the frightful Sword, andStain their snow-white Arms, with hostile Gore.King.Of what Friends and FollowersIs 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 Cardinal, 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 Emissaries,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,William Dawbney, Thomas Cressenor, ThomasAstwood!King.Come, Sir, the rest.Cliff.The rest are all religious Persons. William RochfordAnd 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 influencedBy the Power of Rome, with Orders to absolveWhatever Blood may be shed in the righteousCause.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 yourChamberlain, Sir William Stanley, tho' lastNamed, 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.Patience; Royal Sir.King.Patience! why, my Lord, Stanley's a Traitor.
(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 myState of Mind.—None but a King, distrustfulOf his Friends, when wild Rebellion threatens,Can feel what I feel now. Adversity,And Exile I have known, with some DegreeOf Comfort,—nay, tho' driven by this ImpostorFrom 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'sHeart—or he his own, 'He, who in Bosworth FieldRescued 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 NightWithin the square Tower let him be imprison'd;Set a strong Guard on him.—Clifford, you Sir, mustLodge there too; we'll talk more with you to Morrow.York.My Liege, the Night is far advanced; it isAlmost Morn, and your troubled Mind demandsRepose and balmy Sleep.King.O Lord Bishop, in my Apartment now,Whom shall I trust? I must have Doors and WallsOf Brass; I must lie down,—for Sleep I cannot,In honest friendly Armour; 'tis now theOnly Safety I have left. I must wear itAmidst my Council and my Friends, as inThe 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 aboutMy peaceful Heart, is banish'd now; StanleyHath murder'd her; and planted in her roomA livid, trembling, pale squint-eyed Friend, gnaw|'ingSuspicion.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 intoA 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 commitOurself to your loyal Care; you shall watchIn our Apartment, while we court coy Sleep,To our weary Lids,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 Pleasure.
[Ex. Lord.]I fear, my Lords, his Majesty, from hisTenderness innate, and extream Affection,To this unhappy Stanley, will extendHis royal Mercy beyond its prudent Bounds,And grant him Pardon of all his Treasons.Ox.Will he? Why then 'tis Pity heShou'd ever be without a Traitor inHis Bosom; for a blacker, or one soUnprovok'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.The conscious Guilt of his ConspiracyPress'd him so close, it forc'd Confession from him,Unimportun'd.King.O Lord Bishop, that argued Shame and SorrowFor his Folly; and tho' in letter'd LawIt 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 sharpEven for our traiterous Subjects; on whom,Especially when penitent, ChastisementShou'd fall not with a rigorous Cruelty,But paternal Sorrow; as the fond FatherCorrects 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 TreasonCou'd be punish'd, and th' unhappy TraitorSpar'd. But I believe your Subjects, at this Juncture,Expect Examples of publick Justice.It gives me Grief to say it, but ClamourIs so violent against him, 'mongst allDegrees of People, that I fear Mercy,At this Time, wou'd be an Act dangerousTo yourself and State.York.Lord Oxford councils well.Th' Insolence of this Rebellion must beCrush'd with speedy War and Laws utmost Rigour.'Mongst the great Ones more particularly,In whom, when Traitors, most Power of Mischief's lodged;And tho' Mercy in Season is a King'sHeav'nly Attribute, yet to use it nowWou'd, I fear, be deem'd a dangerous Weakness.King.Then be it so—since England's Weal demands it.That we shall ever make the sole GuidanceOf our Laws and Will.—Did he assign noCause 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 DiscontentShou'd have free and ample Declaration.King.O York! I'll see him! but 'tis a hard TryalOf tender Nature, to see the Man we've lov'd,Surrounded by Guilt and Death. The King indeedAt 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 withinOut-shocks them all.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'dWith Confusion, and cannot turn this Way.He looks as Death wou'd be a more welcome GuestTo his afflicted Mind, than our reproachfulPresence.—
The King approaches him.O Stanley! how different is this InterviewFrom 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 rewardYour Love and Loyalty; I made you MasterOf the Tyrant's Wealth.—The Spoil was mighty;—And had it been immence as Columbus'Late discover'd Mines, my o'er-flowing HeartWou'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 yourDirection. 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 GloryIs Steadiness in our Country's Good!Myriads of BlessingsAre pour'd on the Patriot's Head; all are anxiousFor 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 GoldWou'd stab the Vitals of their maternal Land,Are forc'd to sculk behind a patriot Mask,Lest the good Man's spirit-stirring VirtueHurl 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 HonoursTreacherous Wealth can heap, can screen himFrom popular Shame, nor ease from Self-reproachHis 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 myCountry's Laws, or your just Vengeance can inflict.King.Why say—shou'd we grant you Life! shou'd MercyBe 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 youWas not to protract, or sue for Life.—But to atone, in some Degree, my Guilt,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 KindnessHeap'd such abundant Favours on me, thatMy ambitious Soul was lost, in ProspectOf boundless Power. Your Father-in-law,My Brother, you rais'd to th' Earldom of Darby,Envy and exorbitant AmbitionMade me request the Earldom of Chester;Which, without Injury manifest, youCou'd not alienate, being ever annex'dTo England's Heir. But I, with Love of Pow'rIntoxicated, 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, IChang'd to Injuries, and my wild AmbitionTo inflam'd Revenge; which I sought toGratify by stabbing my dear CountryThro' my Friend and royal Master's Side.This, Sir, was my dark, my hellish State of Mind.Which is a glaring, but faithful PictureOf ambitious, disappointed Courtiers;Who ne'er know Peace of Mind, 'till they destroyThe State, or, in their Treason, meet their Death:And if my Example may stand a BeaconTo 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 everFarewel 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 defeatedOn Blackheath, by gallant Oxford, and whoSo amply felt your Royal Mercy,Again are up in Arms, in the PretenderPerkin's Favour. Rome's Emissaries haveOnce more rous'd th' ungrateful Herd, while JamesOf Scotland is raising a powerful Army to supportHis Claim.
Gives him the Chamberlain's Staff.King.Dawbney, accept this Staff,—wear it with TruthEqual to my Confidence.—Give OrderClifford be confin'd within the LimitsOf his own House and Park at Newbury,'Till Rebellion's Flame is quench'd.—Lord Bishop,To you and faithful Surry we commitThe 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 thoseUnnatural 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 ditchsprung Nettle, which handled tenderly stings with greater Violence, but with Vigour grasp'd, and crush'd at once, loses all its Energie.King.Come, my Lords, your Country's Wrongs demand your Swords.The gaudy Garb of silken Peace must nowBe 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 EarIrrevocable Doom.Ox.And glorious th' Doom when gain'd in Freedom's Cause;The noblest Fate an Englishman can meet.The Hatchment of such a Death will be preserv'dThe patriot Mark to late Posterity;The free-born Son will kindle at the Sight,'Till in his King and Country's Cause, he burnsTo emulate his Father's deathless Virtue.York.For my Part, my Liege, tho' Coward Custom,And my sacred Function, might exempt meFrom the Task; yet, with English Pride, I boastTo change th' holy CrosierFor the defensive Sword.—My DependantsBrethren, Followers, and Friends I will convene,And by the Assistance of the Almighty,Protect our Laws, Religion, and our RightsOr bravely perish in their Defence.Ox.I defy the Pope in his whole Conclave toShew me such a Prelate as this—My Lord, for your Sake I shallLove 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,Let us remember this, we fight 'gainst Gallic ChainsFor 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 Traitors?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 SilenceWe 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 yourRoyal Will.K. Scot.The Place shall be the Castle,—'Tis notMeet that Huntley harangue the Populace;There may be Danger in't.—The giddy HerdAffect him much.Are their Lands seized?Sevez.They are, my Liege.K. Scot.'Tis well—Are all Things ready for Richard'sCoronation?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, thereAgain 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'sDaughter, the Lady Katharine Gordon,Is come to Court; and with distracted Aspect,And grief-swoln Eyes, prays AdmittanceTo your Royal Presence.K. of Scot.Conduct her in—belike she comes to move usFor her Father's Life—but it must not beBut on one Condition.Enter Katherine.Kat.O Royal James! if the House of GordonE're deserv'd your Love, if the many LivesThey have lost in your Defence, if the BloodOf 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 theTraitor's Ax, a Death unknown to Gordon's Sons,Who all have perish'd in the loyal Field.K. Scot.Rise, Katherine,The House of Gordon we have ever deem'dThe 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 usTo shake off his iron Yoke; which hath provok'd himTo Cabals, Jibes, Murmurs, and disloyal Threats.Kath.O believe it not, Sir, they abuse your EarWho say so. Truth it selfIs 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 beyondThe 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'sKeenest 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 cherishLoyalty and our Country's Weal aboveOur Lives. It hathBeen Huntley's first Precept to his Children,Night, Morn, Hourly. No wonder then some PartRemains with me. O had you heard himTell 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 resideFor Life's Remains, within the ConfinesOf Gordon's fertile Barony, we grantHim full Pardon.—Provided, my fair Cuz,That you accord our SollicitationIn 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.No, my lovely Cuz; nor Death nor Banishment,Nor aught ungentle, or unkind, will reachThis 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 PartnerOf 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 allThe sweet, the witching Charms of blended Hearts.Daliel! the blooming Daliel! sweetest BlossomOf Scotland's Peers, has got my Heart, and to MorrowBy 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,Nor strive with Argument to sway Affection;Your own free Will shall be your Guide,—therefore,We offer this Alternative,—and chuseYou 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 defyThy madning Power to out-terrifyMy 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 triumphIn 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 DaysNever shine together.Sir David.I was in HopesE're this, my Lord, that the King's ResentmentWou'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 itBleed for your poor Country.Sir David.My Lord!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 Scotland'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 embraceE're we shake of our Treason, and set outUpon our final Journey?Sir David.My Lord, I have strict CommandAgainst your seeing each other, or admittingAny Person to or from you withoutSpecial Order from the King or Sevez.Report is, you're all to suffer privatelyTo 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 forYour Enlargement.Huntley.Just as King Sevez pleases.Sir David.Your Daughter may have some private Converse,I'll leave you, my Lord.Huntley,Sir, your Confidence shall not be abused.Exit. Sir DavidEnter Officer and Katherine, Officer goes out again.Huntley.So, my Katherine! my Child!
(embraces her)
My all that's left,Of Gordon's antient Stock. The long DescentMust 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 broughtJoy and Comfort to my old Heart; pritheeDo 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 TorturesDeath! 'tis Nature's Companion!He attends every Action of our Lives!I have seen the bare-rib'd Tyrant in asMany Forms, as there were armed SoldiersIn the Field; sometimes darting from Man to Man,Levelling Ranks, and sweeping down armed Files;While brazen Engines his iron MessengersSent forth, and with a Loudness that deafen'dNature, proclaim'd his Triumph! and can IAfter this, fear his Block and Ax! no Child,Only the Traitor starts at those; th' PatriotBeholds them with a Fortitude that smilesAnd triumphs, like the holy Martyr; who,Before his Fall, sees his Reward register'dIn Heaven.Kath.Sure, Sir, you cannot be in loveWith Death!Hunt.No, Katherine; he, who says he is,Deceives himself; but my declining LifeIs not worth much Concern; the Oyl is almost spent;And like a dying Flame on an exhausted LampWou'd of itself have soon expir'd, withoutMy 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 TrainA lovelier Messenger—Thou art her rosyCherub—and Life from thee will come withDouble Relish—but, hear you, Katherine, have youBrought 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, whoRids 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.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'dIn some brave Man's Destruction? To flatterA pride-swoln Priest; and pamper upHis 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 MasterGive 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'stDeath, Fate has in Store. Know then, that the KingHath promis'd Life, and Liberty, to you, andThe other Lords—on Condition—Hunt.Out with it—Quick—for the Approach of Infamy isDreadful.—And I see something in my Katherine'sEye, was never there before. Shame, conscious Shame!But come,—the Conditions!Kath.The Conditions are,First, that I marry his suppos'd Cousin,The Impostor Perkin—Hunt.Katherine,We have convers'd enough upon this Subject;Our Life is short, therefore we must prepareTo give in our Account as perfect asWe can; not on the Eve of Death to addTo the inadvertent Sallies of YouthPremeditated 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 andErr into Infamy, know that your mangledBody in Death wou'd give me Joy,When your lovely blooming Person in suchA prostituted Marriage, wou'd bring curelessSorrow;—it wou'd rive my old Heart in twain.My Child, farewel
(embraces her)
when youHave better ThoughtsBring them to comfort me. These vex me sorely;Farewel,—I am going to my Cell, toThink of Heaven and you.
Exit.Kath.And what shall I think of!Death! Death! fell horrid Death! turn where I willI see the Skeleton doggingMy Father's Steps—and softly stealing withHis shadowy Arm uprais'd, ready to aimHis final Dart.O some unerring Power direct me!If I wander into Error; the CrimeIs not in my Will, but my Ignorance;For I find filial Gratitude and partialNature struggling at my Heart, and promptingThat 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 notPermit 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 DeathDepends the loyal Subject's Safety; MercyTo 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 cannotBe dissolved, by any earthly Power;None but our Mother, the holy, holyInfallible Church,—Heaven's Vice-gerent!Before her, indeed, Laws, Oaths, Obligations,Of what Kind soever, lose their Being.You, Sir, in CouncilGave 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 RomeTo ally Duke Richard to our Blood,By Marriage with Gordon's lovely Daughter.All Means of Success were barr'd, exceptMy Promise of her Father's Life; which she,Cover'd with Rage and Sorrow, from Love andNature's extream Reluctance, at last accepted.Then how, my Sevez, how can I answerMy 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 RomeWill 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 AuthorityWill be too feeble to stand against him.He is grown too popular for kingly PowerTo 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 insistedOn their Deaths; or on your Head have denounc'dHer hottest Vengeance. For they're HereticksOf the new-sprung Sect; call'd in England Lollards;And have been most active in shaking offThe Power of Rome, which nothing but their BloodCan 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 QueenSojourn at Berwick; and the Clans and VassalsOf the Grants, Kenedys, Macgregers, and Macdonalds,With those of Hamilton and Macpherson,Are all set forward; and their RendevouzIs 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 ConveniencyAttend 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.My Lord, 'tis certain she is marry'd and crown'd; theLegate himself join'd their Hands.(And your Pardon is the Consequence of the Marriage.)And now withRegal State, and pompous Train she journeys towards England.Hunt.O Katherine! Katherine, is this thy RewardFor 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 soonerimag'd into Form, but th' airy BeingVanishes to Sorrow!Mine was compos'dOf Scotland's Weal, and my Katherine's Virtue;But Rome hath ruin'd one, and Woman's PrideThe 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 HourIs your Life's utmost Limit.Hunt.An Hour, Sir!Why Bruce, I thought my Daughter's InfamyHad pleaded to the King for royal Mercy.Sir David.'Tis true, my Lord, the King did promise LifeTo you, Angus, and Daliel; but e're heSet forth for England, he sign'd this WarrantFor 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 LetterFor Lord Huntley.Sir David takes it from him and gives it HuntleyHunt.For me Sir?—'tis Katherine's Character!Once as welcome to my Eyes, as rising SunTo new-recover'd Sight; now irksome as Perfidy.What a Comfort, amidst Calamity,Wou'd this have been, had she not fall'n to GuiltInexpiable!O she was once as fair, and innocentAs was her Parent Eve, when firstShe waken'd from Creation—but Satan'sTowering 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,And hath brought out all the stifled WeaknessOf busy fondling Nature, which will have Vent,In Spite of Art; and what I thought had quiteEngross'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 myWeak 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 acceptingSovereign 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 areYour self a Father, and know what fond FoolsNature 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,

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 VirtueOr patriot Love can boast. She has indeed,Acted like Huntley's Daughter! parted withMore 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'dT'have seen my Katherine hears'd deep in the WombOf Death's clayie Mansion. And now, Life, Fame,And Scotland's Fate are not so dear to meAs 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 EyesBut 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.But you say, Governor, I must not liveTo see my Katherine; for that within this HourThe 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 liveTo see my Child again—but that cannot be—O Scotland's Majesty, how art thou sunk!When your royal Word is as far from TruthAs Heaven from Hell!To deceive even my poor Katherine!To betray her into Prostitution!Sure Perfidy in Kings is the blackest CrimeCallous'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 LandHas 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 ScotlandWith heart-sore Feeling behold th' mighty WrongsLike to be entail'd upon Posterity,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 ConfinementHave oft assembled in private Parley, howTo give you and Scotland Life and Freedom.They last Night resolv'd, as they were commanded,To attend the King in this Impostor'sExpedition. But not a Step fartherThan 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 postThis Night—where you will meet such warm greetingAs Courage feels when rous'd by Tyranny and Oppression.Hunt.Scotland's guardian Genius—let me embrace thee.Embraces him.Sir Dav.This Castle, my Lord, I have well providedAs 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'sDetermin'd Son's, and restore poor, banish'dFreedom 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 Families 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 Mountain Heath.Freeh.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 Commerce,—they grieve at it; they know our Freedom,—they fear and hate it; and well they know our Courage,—now then let them feel it.Freeh.And so they shall.—Looky', Lord Bishop, 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 Country, 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, Scotland, 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.Enter a Gentleman.Gent.A Gentleman disguised, and muffled in Scotch Garb is at the Castle Gate, and prays Admittance, and instant Converse with your Lordship, 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 Scotland'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 AccentHath escap'd her faded Lips.—MotionlessShe sits; with Eyes fixt as if rivitedTo Earth; while Tears insensibly steal downHer pensive Cheeks, which look like weeping DewFallen on the Statue of Despair.Frion.Do, droop; convince the King, his Court and Army,That your cold, your watery Veins are BankruptOf royal Blood. Convince them you are Impostor,Who wou'd not fight for such a fertile IsleAs 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 humbleAs the dullest Boor that ever trampt in Wood.Gall them with Yokes till that their stubborn NecksBow to the lowest Slave in France, and ownThem 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 hisTent. Drop, drop the Lover, shake itFrom your Heart; and put on th' enkindled Warrior.Shew the Soldiers you are going to fightFor a Crown; not to die for a Puppet,A melancholy whining Girl.
Exit Perkin.Frion.This it is to have Concern with WretchesBorn to be Tools. Well! to change Nature's BentI see is not in the Power of Art;If it had,—this Perkin might have been e're thisAs valiant as Caesar, and as courtlyAs sportful Anthony. The united SkillOf France and Rome have joyn'd to form his Mind;The Clergy indeed have discharg'd their PartEffectually; for he tells his TaleWith as specious and smooth HypocrisyAs our Church can boast. But for his CourageHe is as great a Stranger to it as heIs to Royalty.But I must not be absent lest he betrayThe 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 transgress'd the LawsOf our King and Council, and 'gainst their Sentence,From Death, have borrow'd a few Hours to liveAmongst you. Then as my Time is short,I cannot waste it in golden Speech orRounded Phrase; for if my Subject will notMove you, my Eloquence cannot. Then to th' Purpose.Many I see here whose Sires, and Grandsires,Have fought with me for Liberty, in theVery Field where now we stand. You Matthew Steward,Earl of Lenox, Alexander Lord Forbes,And Duncan Dundass, Lion King of Arms,To you I speak particularly—yourFathers I well remember to've fought with.And many more no doubt are here, whichMy Eye cannot now take in. I have seenTheir free, their willing Swords plow thro' Tyranny,And their smoaking Blood sluic'd to manure this Field.From whence reviv'd the sweetest fairest FlowerThat e're adorn'd Scotland's Soil.Liberty, my Friends! Priest-stab'd Liberty!This Flower,Countrymen, your Fathers have transmittedTo your Care. Then take Heed on't, preserve itAs you wou'd Existence; set it in the CentreOf 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, sorelyWe 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 suchTerms as will, I hope, restore Peace and FreedomTo our harrass'd Land; and befit the HonourOf our King to ratify.O Cuntrymen, I have not Time nor MemoryTo sum up our Evils; they are beyondArithmetic's enumerating Power:'Tis your own feeling that can conveyThe Number of your Stings, and your own DeedsThat must redress 'em.o all those, who are in loveWith 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 native LandNature 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 wasteMy 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 AngerMore than your Sorrow; for not a Man as yetHath 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;And for Stanley, his Resentment is too deepWithin his Heart ever to be eras'd.The Clergy, to a Man, are warm and zealous;And, already, under Pretence of notPaying a Subsidy, have privatelyStirr'd up twenty thousand hardy BritonsNow in Arms in Cornwal.—Many Friends tooLurk slily in the great Metropolis,And thro'out the Realm, who artfully joynThe common Cry against Invasion, France,Scotland, and the Pretender.—But when TimeServes, are ready, one and all, to use andMassacre the Heretics, and all whomThey 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'dInto Ireland? And the South and West of England?Frion.Most royal James, France and SpainAre prompt as Revenge and Hatred can inspire;But as yet they cannot stir—the EnglishWith their Fleets will not let themLook forth; or e're this, Devastation wou'dHave o'er-run their Land, swift as Contagion,Or epidemic Plagues.K. Scot.Unless your Friends are numerous and powerfulIn 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, England's lawful Heir.Frion.I know him well, so please your Majesty;A warm and active Friend he is, and of muchPower in the West.K. Scot.'Tis like he brings Dispatches of Importance!Give him instant Audience.
Exit Perkin and Frion.Sevez, this Business wears not an AspectSo fair as we cou'd wish—Sevez.Dread Sir, I trust this Gentleman from CornwallBrings some Intelligence of good Complexion.K. Scot.Is Advice arriv'd yet of Huntley's Death?Sevez.Not yet, my Liege. But every MomentI expect it. Sir David Bruce is notWont 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 ourInfringed, constitutional Rights demand.K. Scot.Why how now, Sir; who dare controul our Will?Hunt.Justice dare—gracious Sir, let Reason schoolYour youthful distemper'd Heat, and sound JudgmentSoon will follow; with sincere AllegianceAnd Affection we're come to close this Breach,'Twixt a hastyMistaken King, and his much-wrong'dBanish'd Subjects. Let not the latent PoisonOf subtle France and Rome insinuate and workAgainst our Love and Loyalty.K. Scot.Well, Sir, let usSee an Instance of your Love and Loyalty.Hunt.You shall Sir,—first, you Priest, who Coward likePuts Majesty in Front when Danger threats,You, Sir, to your Sphere—the Altar—a ThronePulls 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 outTheir Threats, Pennance, Bulls, and Absolutions;And if they can, why, let 'em save our Souls;—But for our Property, and our Freedom,We can preserve them ourselves without troublingTheir Infallibility.K. ScotLord Huntley,This Insolence is beyond Sufferance.Hunt.Sir, 'tis not Insolence but Loyalty;Built on Nature's first Law—and the first CompactThat made a King. The People's Interest,In a free Nation, is blended, and co-equalWith the King's; and he who separates, orOver-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 bestLoyalty. Look into our honest Neighbour's,The English Annals; see their InsolenceIn Defence of Liberty encroach'd byRome-directed Kings. See their determin'dHonest Souls, wading thro' mercenarySlavish Blood, to shake off France and Rome's usurp'dAuthority. See each Man, active asThe first Brutus, driving out the TarquinsOf their Land—and sacrificing themselvesAnd Sons to Liberty.—Copy them, themMy Liege—not France and Rome.K. Scot.These Sounds are harshThey grate and discord in the Ears of Kings.Hunt.Sir, none reverence Majesty more than I.'Tis the People's sacred RepositoryOf Freedom, Justice, Mercy, and all theirSocial Happiness; and as such, when pure,I kneel, and I adore it—but when defil'dBy Tyranny and Priestcraft, it becomesA Magazine of Vengeance, and all ourVeneration turns to Contempt and Wrath.K. Scot.Huntley, if you love us cease this Doctrine.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 areRetir'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 foundWithin wide Scotland's Realm, dares stab the VillainWho wou'd basely enslave his native Land?Be yourself that Brutus,And let your Dagger be th' unbiass'd CensureOf a Scotish Parliament.K. Scot.Sir, we areIn your Power; and your Will must be our Dictator.Hunt.No, Sir—your Glory—and Scotland's WelfareShall dictate. Dispatch them to the Castle.Exit Guards with Sevez.Enter a Lord.K. Scot.The News!Lord.So please your Majesty a Herald fromNorham Castle is arrived, HarbingerTo the warlike Prelate York, who in hisMaster'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 DistressMay 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 copingWith industrious England; who from thrivingCommerce, and domestic Union, are stoutAnd 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 VoiceIs 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 toCringe or beg for Peace; but for mutual GoodOf both the Realms to stop ruinous War'sBloody Effusion. And that on such TermsAs befits Scotland's Honour to accept,England's to offer.K. Scot.Lord Prelate, EnglandCannot be more in love with AmityThan Scotland is. But the Insults offer'dTo our Scotish Youth, here on Norham Plain,At their mirthful annual Festival,In cold Blood, and in Time of Peace too, hathLong 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 withHis 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 VoiceIn this Presence I offer new AllianceTo Scotland; and to make the Bond of strictestUnion now, let there be Affinity withRoyal James, and Princess Margaret; England'sUnparalell'd Beauty; whose Proxy here I standReady to conclude instant Affiance.And farther, the annual Loan receiv'dOf France, we promise to make good to ScotlandBy way of Portion; which on SurvivalMust be settled, as Dower, on Scotland's Queen;—Provided Connexion be broke with thoseBreed-bate French, and their Tool th' Impostor PerkinBe 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 notPrescribe us that.Hunt.My Liege, your royal Word was given, as you thought,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 weShall think ourselves in Justice and in Honour boundNot only to yield him up, but with ContemptAnd Ignominy. But 'till that is doneWe must not break our Faith.Hunt.My Liege, you shallHave ample Proof; so full, that not the ShadowOf a Doubt shall disturb your Mind.K. Scot.The other Terms we do accept, and ifApprov'd by Henry, will send Lord HuntleyTo 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 ratifyThis 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 stoodA free, a candid Enquiry of his Peers;And the Justice they doom, be fairly dealt him:Saving the Power of royal Mercy,If it shall think proper to interpose.Consider, Countrymen, how this StruggleFor native Liberty will shine, when readTo 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 LoveEnshrine your Truth, your Loyalty, and Friendship.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 heStill persist in Conjunction with his AlliesOf 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.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 concludeAnd ratify, provided the SubstanceShall please your Majesty.K. Hen.Lord Prelate, of yourWisdom 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 consentedTo 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 Intelligence.Enter Oxford and Huntley, and several Scotish Lords.Ox.Here he is, my Liege; as tough a Piece as everWar or Winter foster'd. Many and many a Day haveWe harrass'd each other; and many a bitter Night haveWatch'd for the grey Dawn, to steal the AdvantageOf the first Blow—which we old Soldiers think noContemptible 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 RebellionWill not allow. But if sincere ReceptionCan compensate Lack of Ceremony,Scotland's Ambassador, and the Lord HuntleyAre 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 HoursPeaceful Treaty must give Way to Civil War.When mad Rebellion's lawless Crew haveAwak'd his Wrath, the chastising VengeanceOf fire-ey'd Mars must keep PaceWith Lightning's Rage. When that precarious SceneIs over, as the Justness of our CauseDeserves, 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.Haggish Age hath not yet so thin'd my Blood,But I can toil one Day more in Honour's FieldWith my honest old Competitor. As FoesWe 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 beOxford's, your old Antagonist's VolunteerOx.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 Capriciousness, the blind Lady hath given us the Opportunity; 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 NightIn the Rebel's Camp; with some straggling FrenchAnd Highlanders, a few Priests and Irish;And a Lady, whose Beauty and SorrowFill'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 boldInvider. Dawbney, let strict ObservanceBe kept at all our Ports, lest he escape.And a Reward thro' out our Realm proclaim'dOf 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 Commissioner, for daring to expostulate concerning the Revenue, 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 ForceAmount 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

every now and then will break out into the Murrain 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 beenThe 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 areFormidable, 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 EarlAnd 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 AffectionFollow me no farther; enquire no moreInto my Design.Jane.Madam, I will not.Let me but attend you in any Shape.—I will purchase manly Garments, and travelWith you. For my Patroness,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 notUtterance, or Advertisement, escape you,By any Means of this my unseemlyImmodest Garb.Jane, this strange Request, give it not ComplyanceAs my Servant who obeys, but as my FriendWho loves.Jan.It never shall escape me. But, dear Madam,From the earliest Time, my MemoryCan 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, butA tender Equal. Sorrow and ServitudeWere unknown in Gordon's hospitable House;Menial Content was the lordly Owner'sBenevolent Joy; and the Servant's PainAnguish'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 TearsAre masterless.—I cannot stop them—theyWill gush, in spite of all my Labour to prevent 'em.Cath.Jane, do not wound me thus.There is a Cruelty in this SorrowMy Nature cannot bear. The grateful TearsYou'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 easeMy throbing Heart, yet e're they grieve my Mistress,They shall turn to liquid Flames, and Etna like,Destroy their own Mansion—Madam, my FearsInform me I shall never see you more.That in this strange, this English Land, I shallFor 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 leaveTo follow, and watch at Distance, lest someOf 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 offThis galing Prison.Now Scotland, Huntley, Daliel, Life, and Woe,Farewell for ever. You dauntless English,This Day, let th' aking Sighs, the mournful TearsOf your Parents, Wives, and Children,—let yourRavag'd Country, your Love of Liberty,And whatever else your tenacious SoulsHold dear,—rouse, and quicken in your honest Hearts,This Day, that intrepid Courage, my dear FatherSo oft hath prais'd in you. O let this Garb,This Impostor Garb, allure your VengeanceOn me your supposed Invader; so shallMy Husband be the Cause of endingThe 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 againstA single Life! Or a first Victim inThy raging Onset, O then, for Pity's Sake,Let me be the cull'd Sacrifice of thisDreadful 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 Knowledge,To shed a Tear o're the mangled Catherine.Trumpets at a Distance.Again I am summond! and now,—DespairAnd Danger be my Guides.Exit.SCENE III.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 SubjectsI am unworthy wearing it? NoForward,—Charge,—Victory,—or Death!Exeunt, Charge, Excursions.Charge, &c. Enter Huntley.Hunt.Thro' War's crimson Chaos I have fought the ImpostorBut cannot reach him! if Death is not Death,Him by my Hand—
Going off meets Catherine, 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
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 CatherineE'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 herThe 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 assure 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 JoyPress all at once upon my longing Heart.I wou'd askHw oor Scotland fares? How Daliel? How myFather escap'd the Snares of wicked Sevez?And if he hath yet forgiven the DisobedienceOf his Catherine?Hunt.Forgiven! Why thou art thy Country's Glory!And your mourn'd Absence is the only GrievanceScotland now bewails. Me thou hast madeJocund as lusty Youth. My May of Life'sReturn'd; and my Child again is born to meIn 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 ensnare me into a Crime my Nature starts to think of, the Murderer of my Child?Cath.Quite worn down with Sorrow, my hopelorn Soul flew to War's Rage, and this detested Garb as to the surest Means to compass Death; frail Nature's last Cure for comfortless Despair; but this Soldier 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, Courage, and Success attend him to his Death's Hour.—If you have Children, may the Father's Joy, the Extasy 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.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 HerbageWith English Blood, and bruise it with hostile Paces!Ungrateful Vipers! who with Rebellion'sIntestine 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'dBy these hell-bred Agents, accept the MercyOf your Country, whose tender NatureOut of War's Rage, cannot bear the cool SlaughterOf her Sons! the Wounds you have given her, she weepsIn Tears of Blood! your intended Parricide,She grieves and pities! and her relentingNature punishes it with Mercy's mildestChastisement, Forgiveness and Repentance!Hence, to your forlorn Families! comfortTheir disconsolate Hearts with domestic Peace;And your injur'd Country with future Loyalty.Exeunt Rebels.Lord Oxford, there isA Soldier of your Regiment, whose Face we oftHave 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, whitherThe 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 DayOf Battle; Oxford, will have his Jest upon the Church.York.My Liege, it hurts not me. I am the Church'sAdvocate, but as it befriend's Religion,And the Happiness, and Freedom of our Land!But when with Tyranny and PersecutionIt perverts those BlessingsAs a Priest, I disownThat Church; and as an Englishman will fightAgainst it.Enter Dawbney, and Perkin.Dawb.My Liege, we have secured the Impostor; for so he now stands self-confessed. He acknowledges 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 PeriodAt 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 Whinyeard 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 outragingThe Cure of Patience, flew to War, and thisImpostor Garment, as to the swiftestMeans of Death. In the Midst of Battle sheWas 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 JoyYour Deliverance brings to Huntley's Heart,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 LustreTo the Soldier,—Dignity to human Nature.This is her Deliverer; fated byProvidence this Day to stand between my ChildAnd Death.King.Or Memory plays me false,Or thou art the Man, who this Day sav'd meFrom 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 SoldierConstantly be near our Person. Let himCommand 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 NuptialsOf royal James, and our Daughter Margaret.Joy shall revel thro' both our Realms, and everySubject'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 ArtAnd tutor'd Discipline of War—like RomeCou'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 CourageMust 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.