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.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- PREFACE

- PROLOGUE,

- EPILOGUE,

- Dramatis Personae.

- ACT .I.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- ACT II. The English Court.

- 1

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III. The King's Apartment in the Tower. A Table, Chair, and Candles.

- ACT III.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III. Scotland.

- SCENE IV.

- ACT IV. Holy-rood Palace.

- 1

- SCENE II. An Apartment in the Castle of Edinburgh.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- ACT V.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

King HENRY the VII. OR The POPISH IMPOSTOR.

FINIS.

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.)

PREFACE

THE 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'd

With British Blood on Altars Rome had raised;

When Matrons saw their Sons in Flames expire,

Their Husbands crackling in religious Fire.

Then Rome gave Laws, our Kings and Council sway'd,

While Albion mourn'd her Liberties betray'd.

But now she smiles; our Laws are all our own,

Which rule alike the Cottage and the Throne.

No Tools of Power our Properties invade,

No Heads are chopt for Plots the Court hath made.

By such base Arts her Empire Rome maintains,

Axes her Arguments, her Logic Chains;

To these a Martyr gallant Russel fell,

And Sidney bled, whose Crime was writing well.

But under George such Practice is unknown,

For free-born Subjects guard and grace his Throne.

A Prince like him our Author shews to Night,

Who fought for Freedom and his regal Right.

The temporary Piece in Haste was writ,

The six Weeks Labour of a puny Wit;

With melting Measure, Critic Rules unfraught,

Artless he writes,—just as rude Nature taught:

No golden Lines, no polish'd Verse hath he,

But all like British Courage, rough and free.

For once then—

Judge not by Critic, but by patriot Laws;

Where Genius fails, support your fav'rite Cause.

EPILOGUE,

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 find

Superior Spirit and a Roman Mind,

Know, from the Life her Principles he drew,

And hopes the Piece shall live which copies you.

Dramatis Personae.

- King HENRY, Mr. Delane.

- OXFORD, Mr. Berry.

- DAWBNEY, Mr. Woodburn.

- Bishop of YORK, Mr. Havard,

- STANLEY, Mr. Winstone.

- Sir Robert CLIFFORD, Mr. Marshal.

- Lord Mayor, Mr. Taswell.

- 1st Lord,

- 2d Lord,

- Soldier, Mr. Barrington.

- King of SCOTLAND, Mr. Stevens.

- PERKIN WARBEC, Mr. Goodfellow.

- HUNTLEY, Mr. Macklin.

- SEVEZ, the Pope's Legate, Mr. Bridges.

- Sir David BRUCE, Mr. Blakes.

- FRION, Mr. Sparkes.

- Lord.

- Officer.

- Lady Cath. GORDON, Mrs. Woffington.

- JANE, Miss Minors.

Guards, Attendants, &c.

ACT .I.

SCENE I.

SCENE Holy-rood Palace.

SEVEZ and FRION.

Sevez.

FRION, we all were on the Brink of Fate;

A Nobleman who knew him, when a Child,

Avow'd him an Impostor, born at Tournay;

The Son of one John Osbec;—not the Heir

Of England's King—audaciously assumed.

This stagger'd many of the Court, who warmly

Opposed his Audience; I at length stood up,

And in full Council strait produced our Letters

From Charles of France, his Holiness the Pope,

And Maximilian of Bohemia;

And as they all recognize his royal Birth,

The Objection vanish'd; and the King resolved,

To give him instant Audience and support,

Befitting regal State, oppress'd and wrong'd.

Frion.

Most reverend Sir, your Industry and Zeal,

So warmly active in this pious Cause,

Will ever make you dear to France and Rome.

Sevez.

Frion, with religious Joy we will revenge

The irreverent Contempts, lately offer'd

To our holy Church, by unholy England,

My Functions, secular and religious,

Shall to their utmost, stretch, to fix this Perkin

On England's Throne. Henry hath refused

Our King, by my Contrivance, his Daughter

Margaret; which affront hath sown the Seeds

Of Hate too deep within his youthful Mind

Ever to be weeded out. His Soul's on fire,

And burns with Eagerness to pour Invasion

Into their haughty Land; to loose at once

His unremitting Grudge, on a proud Neighbour,

And a dreaded Rival. But, Frion, tho' we

Abound in Scottish Blood, ready to be drain'd

Against England's Peace, yet Treasure is War's

Strongest Sinew; and without that quick'ning Aid,

The devouring Body wastes to needy Peace.

That must be had.

Frion.

Holy, Sir, 'tis ready.

For Years large Collections have been making

In England, Spain, and ever-helping France;

These Sums for the present are lodged with me;

But now a special Order from his Holiness

Divests me of the Charge, and to your Care

Commits the Trust.

Sevez.

Our unerring Father's Confidence

Does Honour to my Zeal; I will bestow

The Treasure as his Holiness directs

And the religious Cause demands. But how

Stands Ireland? What Hopes from thence?

Trion.

None.

Th' Apostate Slaves are fallen off from Rome,

And firmly fixt in the Usurper's Cause;

Kildare, Clanrikard, with many others

On whom we built absolute Assurance,

Have, at their own Charge, arm'd their Friends 'and Followers,

And join'd the English General, Poinings;

For which may divine Vengeance taint their Air,

And visit them to late Posterity.

Sevez.

How are the English affected towards us?

Frion.

As our Hearts could wish;

Sir Robert Clifford, and many others,

All of high Rank, and eminent Esteem,

In Discontent, at present, with their King,

By Gold and Promises have I firmly fixt.

Yet more, the Usurper's Bosom-Friend, the Man

Nearest his Heart, cross'd in ambitious Views,

Has secretly vow'd Revenge, and is ours

By Oath and Heart; so that England's Measures

Are betray'd as soon as form'd.

Sevez.

So far then Probability attends us,

And gives almost Assurance of Success.

But one Thing more.—Is Perkin well prepar'd?

Can he affect the Blush of Innocence?

Hath he the steadfast Eye that looks against

Enquiry? Can he stand the Shock of gazing

Numbers? And tell his Tale without Confusion?

Is he Master of the false Tear and feigned Sigh?

For to a crowded Presence he must speak.

Frion.

He is not to be taught his Lesson now:

The blended Care of Nature and of Art

Have stamp'd him perfect; a majestic Mein,

A Countenance, where Sweetness and Command

Smile awfully together; a Deportment,

Courtly, but not effeminate; a Skill,

That calls him Master of most Languages;

But chiefly English; with a soothing Carriage

Which beggars the Persuasion of his Tongue.

His suppos'd Aunt, Margaret of Burgundy,

Has form'd his Education; she has made him

A living History of England's Factions;

The various Interests, Battles, Revolutions,

The Friends, the Enemies of either House,

This of Plantagenet, or that of Lancaster.

He is Master of many Languages;

But chiefly English; to ingratiate him

With the People, and stamp him native.

Sevez.

The King is soft and warm, susceptible of Pity,

Prompt to receive th' Impression of Humanity;

If Perkin do but tell his Tale with Skill,

Th' unwary Youth will sympathize in Sorrow

And take and keep what Form his Art bestows.

Frion.

Doubt not his Art, my Lord, he is compleat;

And often has rehears'd his kingly Part

In France, in Flanders, and in Italy;

Where admiring Crowds have wonder'd forth his Praise.

And given natural Marks of Majesty;

In Look, Tone, Gesture, Gate, and Voice:

And credulous tale-believing Women,

To whom Appearances are sacred Truths,

Have, at his well-told Tale dissolved in Tears.

Thus, my Lord, like a graceful, well-skill'd Actor,

He steals, where e'er he plays his princely Part,

Or popular Applause, or melting Pity.

Sevez.

Frion, some subtle Means must be contriv'd

To fling Division's Fire-brands 'mongst the English,

For should they join their Hearts and Resolutions,

The united Pow'r of Europe, nay, the World

Could not prevail against them.

Frion.

Care is taken.

On every Side, our Emissaries ply,

And blacken the Usurper; Gold and Prayer

Alternately are us'd, and with Success,

To bribe his Council and to win his Subjects.

Richard's divine, hereditary Right,

A Right Infallibility confirms,

And which that Power makes indefeasible,

Is preach'd amongst them; strengthen'd by the 'Terror

Of Bulls, Anathemas, and Hell eternal

To those who disbelieve, or disobey.

Sevez.

'Tis well. But we must haste; the King expects us.

I'll conduct the Youth. Is he ready?

Frion.

He is, my Lord.

Sevez.

Frion, in your publick Manifestos

Be sure you promise free Power of Worship,

To the Lollards, and all Separatists.

Men fight by Halves, with a kind of bastard

Courage on Rebellion's Side, without Religion.

But when that's hook'd in, why then, Biggotry,

Flaming Biggotry, tunes Rebellion's Discord

Into pious Loyalty; and makes Men fight

With hot, enthusiastic Vigour,

And forget the Name of Rebel. For then

The Cause and Quarrel are no longer earthly

But derived of Heaven! Exeunt.

SCENE II.

King of SCOTLAND, PERKIN, Courtiers, &c.

K. Scot.

Cousin of York, England's undoubted Prince,

To our Court welcome! Welcome to our Heart!

Welcome to Scotland's dearest Blood and Treasure!

Which, in Support of thy undoubted Right,

We promise to pour forth.

Perkin.

Gracious King!

Godlike, puissant, and benificent,—

And still a Title far more glorious,

Friend to Distress and Father to the Wretched;

Prostrate before your royal Feet, behold

A Prince, whose Woes, nor Time, nor weeping Pity,

With all the Store of Wretchedness they've seen,

Can match; a Prince, sprung from the noblest Blood

That ever rul'd fair Albion's Sea-wash'd Isle;

The high, the regal once;—but now the out-cast,

Miserable, forlorn Plantagenet.

O royal Sir, Afflictions numberless

Have rooted in my Heart,

Ev'n from our princely Cradle, to our landing

On your hospitable Shore, Fortune, adverse

And cruel, with her Whip of Thorns hath scourg'd us.

Where e'er we went, we've been pursued and dog'd,

By wither'd Murder; the pale Assassin

Of blood-thirsty Usurpation.

K. Scot.

Rise, royal Cousin, most unhappy Youth! (Sevez takes him up)

Perkin.

My Uncle first, unnatural, crooked Richard,—

Savage and bloody—by my dying Father

Appointed Guardian of the infant Lives

Of princely Edward, and myself, subborn'd

Two hellish Murderers, at dead of Night,

To plunge their Poignards in our guiltless Hearts,

As we lay sleeping in our royal Tower.—

Edward's rich Blood the Butchers soon let forth.—

His Skriek of Death awak'd me;—when Horror!

Stiffening Horror! seiz'd my frighted Soul!

Close by my Side I saw my dying Brother

All weltring in his Gore; Murder's butcher'd Prey!

The grim Assassins,—

Their Hands yet reeking with the royal Blood

Seized me▪—shuddering,—I kneel'd and beg'd for Mercy!

Instantly!

As if great Providence had interposed,

The Murderers,—Soul-struck,—stood ghast and flank!

At length soft Mercy, and relenting Nature,

Warm'd about their Hearts; and the up-rais'd Hand,

Unnerv'd by Pity, the fatal Dagger dropt.

Sevez.

O heav'nly Care of injur'd Royalty!

K. Scot.

We must be Marble not to melt at this.

Perkin.

The repenting Men,

With Tears assur'd me of my Life and Safety;

And straight returning to my cruel Uncle,

Deceiv'd him with th' Account that both were dead.

To Tournay thence with Speed I was convey'd,

And there, for some Time, obscurely foster'd;

Till at length, Margaret of Burgundy,

My loving Aunt, declar'd me Edward's Son.

How I have since been toss'd by Fortune's Tempests

Is in the living Volume register'd

Of all Mens Tongues.

K. Scot.

Cousin of England, so I now 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 Realm

He be acknowledged England's rightful King,

With such Appointments, and due Observance

As appertain to unquestion'd Majesty;

And to stamp his Person still more sacred,

Here in our Court shall be his Coronation,—

Sevez, set Preparation forward.

Sevez.

My Leige, I will.

K. Scot.

Say, is our Council summon'd; are they ready.

Sevez.

They are my gracious Prince.

K. Scot.

And are the Lords

Of Huntley, Angus, and Daliel summon'd?

Sevez.

They are.

K. Scot.

'Tis well:—My welcome Cozin, be chearful;

For some few Days, what Pleasures can be found

In Scotland's Court we wish thee to partake;

We'll after march to England, and taste their's;

Where we'll exchange the hospitable Word

Which now you wear, and in my Turn I'll be

Your royal Guest; and e'er 'tis long

We hope to dance a Measure in your Court.

Exeunt all but Sevez and Frion.

Sevez.

Thus far the Gale blows right, and all goes well,—

But, Frion, we must leap another Bound;

Another Danger still must be encounter'd;

I must apprize thee that our Scotch Nobility,

Proud, and tenacious of their antient Rights,

Vent daily murmurs and form close Cabals;

Forsake the Court, and bitterly inveigh

Against the Church; as having usurp'd of late

Too much Authority in temporal Sway.

Loud are their Complaints that by Priests and Frenchmen

They are precluded from the Royal Ear.

Some of these factious Spirits have been quell'd,

Some of them banish'd, and their Lands confiscate;

Others imprison'd, nay and some cut off:

Yet still their dreaded Leaders do remain;

Alexander Gordon, Earl of Huntley,

The young Lord Daliel,

And Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus.

Still they erect their Crests, and with Impunity,

Vent their black Malice 'gainst the Church and us.

Frion.

How have they scap'd?

Sevez.

Thro' Fear, not Lenity.

Their Friends are numerous, their Possessions large;

Their Deaths wou'd be Forerunners of our Ruin.

Else, let me speak it like a true Romish Church-Man,

Their irksome Beings had not now perplex'd us.

They have absented long from Court and Council;

But late a special Summons from the King

Has order'd their Attendance here to Day,

On Pain of Banishment and Confiscation.

Fri.

But, holy Sir, I doubt these headstrong Lords

Will not assent to aid our Perkin's Claim.

Sevez.

No Matter, Frion, we can do without them;

For me, I'm determin'd; and for the King,

He acts by my controuling Will, not his own.

It is not prudent that the Church of Rome

Should e're let Kings or Rulers think for themselves;

Th' unerring See should ever be their Guide.

As to those heretic Lords, their Assent

For Perkin is our least Concern. We have

More important Views upon them.—Death, Death.

Frion, Huntley must not live, he stalks and roars

But one Day more in Freedom's spacious Forest.

The Toil is set for th' unwily Lion;

And his own boundless Spirit drives him in.

He thinks the King mislead, and will bellow

Without Guile or Guard; for the Fool is brave,

Ev'n to romantick Madness. 'Scotland's Good

'So strongly burns within him, it appears

'His only Passion. Freedom is his God;

Which he so idolizes, he would make

The World his Proselytes, did they but hear him.

Frion.

Lord Sevez, 'tis not fit such Men exist.

Sevez.

O they are dangerous in a Court like ours,

Where the King's Interest wanders from the Peoples.

But his Majesty's prepar'd,—and resolved

This Day, by my Advice, to silence Huntley's

Free speaking, or his Head answer th' Default.

Frion.

Omniscient Wisdom still directs your Mind

And points your Purpose to some holy End.

But, my right reverend Sir, one thing remains

Unsettled yet, which only you can finish:—

You know this Perkin burns for Huntley's Daughter,

Scotland's gay Ornament, and Nature's Pride;

This Angel-looking Maid, this Katherine Gordon,

To young Lord Daliel has been late betroth'd,

The Follower and fervent Friend of Huntley;

Your Wonder-working Wisdom now must break

This fatal Knot, or England's blazing Crown

Will sit like Death upon his princely Head.

Sevez.

This Business in the Council has been weigh'd;

The King resolves to gratify his Wish,

And give the lovely Katherine to young Perkin.

Which Match will either fix this dangerous

Huntley in our Cause, or with enraged Madness

Break his proud stubborn Heart: For his Daughter

Next to Liberty is his earthly Idol.

But I must leave you;—for the Council sits

To found those factious Lords.—I must attend. Exit.

Frion.

My Brother Priest is zealous in our Cause;

His Pride and Avarice must be the Tools,

With which we work.—They are sharp and handy

And in a Priest, who sways the royal Mind,

Will rid much Business: Gordon's lovely Daughter,

(Who is of royal Blood) to Perkin join'd,

Will knit the Scots to us, indissolubly.

For after Marriage, should they find the Cheat,

'Twill then become their Interest to conceal it;

Nay to espouse it too.—Which if they do refuse,

The Magazines of Rome's affrighting Vengeance,

In damning Bulls, and terrible Anathemas,

Shall to the liquid Gulph of penal Flames

Devote their black, their superstitious Souls,

Till Penitence and Gold buy out their Pardon. Exit.

SCENE III.

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 express

Their Thoughts in aught that may concern the public Weal.

King.

Their Sickness is all Pretence!—but admit him.

Exit Sir David Bruce, and returns with Huntley.

Lord Huntley, welcome to the royal Walls

Of Holy-rood! and well we wish you never

Had estranged them. It would have joy'd us much

To've seen the Lords Daliel and Angus here.

As you are Subjects, Nobles and Kinsmen,

We with your Love; and we intreat, all Lets,

That may impede our Concord, be remov'd:

Your Presence will be Gladness to our Heart,

Therefore, be oftener in our Eye.

Huntley.

My Leige, I am unfashion'd for your Court.

My Speech, like my Manners, are plain and uncourtly.

I have been bred a Soldier, a Scotch Soldier,

Not an Italian Flatterer. My old Body

Is dry'd and chill'd with toilsome Marches, thro'

Numbing Frost, and scorching Heat, to grapple with

My Country's Foe.

I have not been used to silken Coverli Is,

And Solon Beds,—but to the friendly Plaid,

And swampy Earth; and my best Lodging oft

Hath been the dryest Turf, the blooming Hether,

The wholesome Fern. Our unletter'd Bards then

Flatter'd not the Living but prais'd the Dead.

Their Songs were not who steep'd deepest in Italian

Luxury, or deck'd gayest in foreign Frippery,

But who had most Wounds in Battle, or fought

Hardiest in their Country's Cause. This Court

Was not then the Rendezvous of Italian Minstrels,

Priests and Legates,—but the hospitable Home

Of Scotch Nobility, whose Ancestors

This Realm coeval'd; and when grown strengthless

By fighting Scotland's Battles, grew venerably grey

In her faithful Councils.—Where are they now?

Here are none such. Your Nobles are Strangers

To your Court, your Courtiers Strangers to your Nobles.

K. Scot.

Huntley, to taunt and to revile

Was not the Purport of our Summons; but

To counsel and assist.

Huntley.

Sir, Counsel, void of Freedom,

May flatter and mislead, but never can assist.

Freedom is the Guide, the unerring Guide

To sacred Truth, in a Nation's Council.

The free-born Subject's indisputable Right;

And never suffer'd Prohibition yet,

But from Priests and Tyrants.

K. Scot.

—Sir, to your vast,

High-taught Notions of Freedom we are no

Stranger. Rabble Kerns too, we hear, copy your

Licentious Knowledge; and in rude saucy

Language, dare revile our sacred Person;

Libellously branding our Wisdom, with

French and Priest-rid Weakness.

Huntley.

My Leige, when the Yoke galls,

Nature will wince. Arrests, Imprisonments,

And Confiscations compose your Subjects Dreams,

And break their restless Sleep. We lie down

With Anguish at our State,—and rise despairing

Ever to see it mend; and the Heart-stinging

Prospect that opens to our View, is,

Posterity scourged, by French and Romish

Tyranny.

K. Scot.

O Sir, your distemper'd Fancy frames

Sprites and Goblins, Men of sounder Judgments never see.

Huntley.

Pray Heaven it may be Fancy.—

My Liege, I have fought my Country's Battles

In Sweat and Blood; when every Object

To Eye, and Ear, and Thought, brought certain Death

Into the Mind; the whole a moving Scene

Of busy Fate. And after Battle, I have

Seen the hard-fought, conquer'd Field, strew'd with Death

And Slaughter. There I've beheld our gallant,

Helpless Nobles, breathing out final Groans;

Their active Blood baked and clotted

By scorching Heat, or swallow'd by the greedy

Sun-crack'd Earth. There I beheld Brothers and

Kinsmen stript, and piled on mangled Heaps

Of Slaughter;—Kerns and Thanes promiscuous.

There searching for my dear, my darling, only Son,

I found his well-known, headless Trunk, all gash'd

And mangled,—with his Brains dash'd and scatter'd

'Gainst a blood-stain'd Oak.—Yet these were Sights of Joy

To what I now behold.

I see my Country bleeding in her vital Vein;

I see her Nobles banish'd, imprison'd, and assassin'd;

I see Scotland's Dregs compose her Councils;

All Concerns, sacred, civil, and military,

Sold and huckster'd as in a publick Mart.

I see Majesty—deluded Majesty,

Hem'd in by a Band of crawling Parasites,

Who taint his royal Mind with a King's bluest Plague,

Seditious Jealousie of his best Subjects.

O awake, awake, anointed Sir, and

Be the Father, not the Tyrant of your People.

Ferret from your Court these Rats, who'll undermine

The Roof that shelters them, and leave your Fame

And Country to perish in the Ruins.

Sevez.

Lord Huntley, your ill-manner'd Heat of Temper

Makes you forget the Presence you are in.

The Homage and Respect due to Majesty

You wilfully and audaciously omit.

Hunt.

The Homage and Respect! the 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 Recipe

That discharges the black Stains from your Conscience

Will 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 beyond

The Sufferance of wholesome Policy,

And human Nature;—it demands instant

Chastisement.

Hunt.

Chastisement, Priest!

Sevez.

Ay Chastisement, Lord.

K. Scot.

—Huntley,—be calm. Why, how now, Sir,

Have you forgot our Presence?

Hunt.

—No, my Lord— Rows to to the King, then with a stifled Rage turns to Sevez.

—You are a Priest—in Council,—but no matter—

—'Tis well:—

O Scotland, Scotland, how is thy Spirit broke!

When that a Kern-bred, upstart, Rome-taught Priest

Dares hold a Rod of menaced Chastisement

Over the Minds of free-born Peers.

K. Scot.

Huntley, you grow seditious.

Hunt.

My Liege, Truth will ever be Sedition

While France and Italy direct your Council.

K. Scot.

Sir, my Allies of France and holy Rome

Must not be revil'd by you, or any

Slander-spreading Subject within my Realm.

Sevez.

Pray, my good Lord, if Heart will give you Leave,

Will you inform his Majesty and Council,

In what this out-stretch'd Power of Rome consists.

K. Scot.

Ay, Huntley, let us cooly hear at once,

These arbitrary and oppressive Grievances

In Church and State, and if they appear such,

Our royal Word is 'gaged for the Redress.

Hunt.

Ay, Sir, now you speak like a King,

Whose noblest Office is to hear and to redress.

K. Scot.

Proceed, Sir, in your Grievances, you have free Leave.

Hunt.

Most heartily I thank your Majesty.

Your gracious Boon I will accept.

And in my homely Plainness dreadless use it,

Tho' I were sure this Freedom were my last.

To begin then.—

Free-speaking Parliaments are thrown aside,

As superfluous in our State; and prostitute

Bulls from marketing Rome supply their Place.

The regal Council of the Realm consists—

First of William Sevez, now the Pope's Legate;

A Man, issued from the base perfidious Clan

Of vile Mackgreger. He with religious Guile

And Gallic Craft, infacinates the royal Mind.

The Subject's Lives, their Rights, and Properties,

He grinds and arbitrates with tyrant Will;

And, to pleasure subtle France, misguides our Land

To a perfidious War, in support

Of an Impostor's Title, against our

True Allies, the Faith-observing English.

Sevez.

Dread Sir, this Insult to distress'd Royalty

Is not to be borne

King. Scot.

Let him proceed;

'Tis the last Time he speaks in Scotish Council.

Hunt.

Be it so, my Liege. Then 'tis the last Service

I shall do my Country. But to your Council,

Since it is my last. Right against your Priest

An English Minstrel stands, who tho' at Home

A Vagrant, now gives Vote in Council here;

And, for Scotland's Honour, keeps a Court Auction

For royal Boons, where the highest Bidder

Rises to Preferment.

There are many more of the like Nature

About your Palace; and tho' excellent

In their various Talents, yet there is one

They all unite in, which is—a servile,

Thorough-paced Obedience in Court Measures,

To gall your Subjects, and oppress the Land.

King Scot.

Lord Huntley, 'Freedom of Speech was your Request;—

'You had it; and, by my Troth, full freely

'Hast thou used it. We know to gloss Matters

'Is not your Use; Plain-dealing, however rude,

'Is the Mark you aim at:' You have portraid

A most lively, speaking Picture, of our self,

Our Council, our Religion, and our Laws;

And 'tis but meet such high-colour'd Patriotism

Shou'd be rewarded. Therefore

We here solemnly engage our royal Word

Before our upstart, Rome-directed Council,

To reward your Treasons with immediate Death.

Hunt.

Treason, my Liege!

King Scot.

Ay Treason, frontless Traytor.

Hunt.

My misguided King,—as you love fair Truth,—

For my sacred Master, your dead Father's sake,

Who, in Horrors of the raging Battle,

Proved my Loyalty, do not call me Traytor.

'The Traitor's Blood is cold, and treacherous;

'Mine, tho old and dearth, is hot, and loyal.

'Now indeed it cannot gush as 'twas wont,

'When lavish'd daringly, in your Defence,

'And your House's Cause; yet in Scotland's Right

'It still can trickle, a Sacrifice to your

'Misguided Vengeance'. Be kind then, sacred Sir,

Take,—Take my old Life, but murder not my Fame.

For a Traitor's Name stabs deeper in a

Loyal Heart than all the Tortures Tyranny

Can invent.

K. Scot.

Sir, for your Time, you may find better Use;

'Tis not of long Duration; employ it

To Advantage. Sir David Bruce, he is your Prisoner;

Convey him to the Castle.

Hunt.

My kind Liege,—

To the virtuous Man, Extent of Life

Is but of small Concern; to me 'tis none.

But how Life is spent ought to be a King's

First Care. For as the Welfare of Millions

Depends on him, his Life demands the strictest

Circumspection. Kingship, is not an Office

Of Rapine, Riot, Tyranny, and Will,

But of Care, Affection, Duty, and Circumscription,

Inviolable to the Subject's Right.

If to remind a Monarch of this Duty,

Be deem'd a Traitor's Office—would to Heav'n

Your Council were all such! 'tis the Treason

For which I wish to live; and if it be the Treason

For which I die, next to the Field of Battle,

In our dear Country's Cause, it is the best,

The noblest Death a free-born Soul can meet.

And now, farewell, whom I honour as my King,

Obey as my Master, rev'rence as my Father,

Love as my Friend, and lastly, to that

Which contains, and is dearer than them all,

A long, long Farewell,—my ruin'd Country.

Huntley led off as to the Castle of Edinburgh.

Sevez.

If your faithful Sevez,

My honour'd King, may presume farther to

Advise, Angus and Daliel both should die.

For Lord Huntley's Death, should they survive it,

Instead of quenching their enkindled Spirits,

Would, like Flames pent up in fu•ll'd Caverns,

Make them burst forth and blaze with treble Fierceness.

Besides, my Leige,

The Confiscation of their Lands will be

A double Prop to your royal Power.

First, 'will punish, and deter foul Traitors

Who wou'd lessen, or subvert your royal Sway.

Next, 'twill be a rich Exchequer, to push

The War 'gainst scoffing England; who with Eye,

Contemptful, views Scotland's King as poor and needy.

K. Scot.

And with sarcastic Jest scorn'd our Alliance,

And refused their Daughter; but we'll repay

Their gibing Taunts.

Greedy Ravage shall havock thro' their Land,

Till they atone their Insolence, and accord

Plantagenet's Right!

'Sevez.

Your Reign, great Sir, to future Kings 'will be

'A Document of wisest Policy

'How to direct a State.

King.

Sevez, give Order

Daliel and Angus suffer with Lord Huntley.

Sevez.

I shall, my Liege,

K. Scot.

We'll now prepare for Richard's 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 Armaments

T' invade our Land, and aid the Vagrant's Claim.

Stan.

I trust, great Sir, that th' Alarm is false;

I cannot think that Scotland's King would e'er abet

An Impostor's Claim against your native Right;

Back'd and supported by your Subjects Voice,

Their Hands and Hearts; the best, the surest, Right

To England's Crown.

K. Hen.

That Right be ever mine.

My firmest Bulwark, against foreign Threats,

Shall ever be my Subjects Love; secure

In that, England's King, and this Sea-girt Isle,

May defy the warring World. But, Stanley,

Are our Fleets in Readiness to scower

The dastard French? to sink and burn their hostile

Transports, should they dare look forth?

Stan.

They are, my Leige.

Proudly they ride, and plow the angry Main,

As if they rul'd that boist'rous Element,

And gave old Neptune Laws in his own Dominions.

While your faithful Troops,

(Th' Remains of Bosworth's memorable Field,

Who fought so bravely 'gainst the Tyrant Richard)

Headed by gallant Buckingham, are march'd

With eager Hearts to Kent and Suffex; and vow

To shed their warmest Blood 'gainst th' invading Foe,

Who treads a Step on England's Ground.

K. Hen.

Why, ay, 'tis like an English Soldier's Vow;

It breathes forth Mettle, and native Courage,

Such, as fifth Harry felt, at th' deathful Scene

Of bloody Agincourt; when Gallic Prisoners

Trebled English Conquerors, and their mangled

Dead out-number'd both. Such again shall be

Their Lot;—Imprisonment or Death. Such their

Reward, who wound fair England's Peace.

Enter OXFORD.

Now, Lord Oxford, what says my loyal City?

Are the Londoners assembled?

Ox.

They are, my Leige:

Their kindled Chiefs are gather'd in Guild-Hall;

With each a Spirit like the first Romans,

When rowz'd at midnight by th' inspiring Cry

Of save your Liberty!—When first I waked

The Mayor, and told him the French and Scots

Were making a Descent in Perkin's Cause,

Th' abrupt Relation drove the warm Colour

From his manly Cheek; but the rich Stream soon

Rush'd back with treble Force—English Courage,

Rage, and fiery Indignation; which now,

Like spreading Flames, catch,—quick—from Man to Man,

And through your loyal City nought is heard

But 'to arms.—Death or Liberty.—and long

'Live the King.

K. Hen.

'Tis well; I will deserve their kind Affection,

And ever be the Guardian of their Rights.

Dawbney, take care there be Dispatches sent

This 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 united

As now with Hand and Heart they firmly are,

Can never fail of joyful Victory.

The needy, restless Scots, so oft chastis'd,

Again shall feel the Vengeance of our Arms,

And ever rue this rash Attempt. As for the

French, I've often heard my Grandsire say,

That, in fifth Harry's Days, the beating them

Was but an Englishman's Recreation:

It shall be so again, my gracious Leige,

We'll drive the gaudy Rogues back to Paris Gates;

There, like beaten Curs, let them lick their bruised Wounds,

Mend their broken Limbs; and instead of making

Kings,—let them make Courantos, and follow

Their dancing skipping Avocations.

K. Hen.

Well said, my valiant Oxford. We'll make 'em feel in us

An Edward and Fifth Harry joyn'd. Ha! Stanley,

We once again shall have our Bodies clasp'd

In burnish'd blazing Steel, and together fight

Against audacious Usurpation.

York.

May the Almighty's providential Hand

Direct your Sword, and guard your sacred Life;

May Victory, with her triumphant Aspect,

Attend your righteous Cause; and bless once more

Our panting Land with cheerful welcome Peace.

Ox.

My Lord of York fights like a true 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 his

Mirthful Jests the Church must not take ill,

Since Majesty itself is sometimes made their Butt.

'Tis true, his Humour's singular and blun•;

But his Heart is honest, which makes large amends

For the Tartness of his Wit. Come, come, we

All are Friends, nor have we Time for Jibe,

Or Anger now, but 'gainst our common Foes,

The French and Scot; there let your Pray'rs, and Jests,

And Blows, be levell'd.

Enter a Lord, and whispers Stanley.

Stan.

May it please your Majesty, the Mayor

And Citizens attend your Pleasure.

K. Hen.

Stanley, admit 'em.

Exit. Stanley.

Their Readiness to shew their Loyalty

Is an added Worth to their Affection.

Ox.

Those Sons of Traffick know too well

The Sweets of golden Commerce, self-earn'd Property,

And English Freedom, to lose them lightly.

They are too wise to change such Blessings for

Wooden Shoes and Popish Anathema's.

Enter Stanley, Mayor and Aldermen, who kneel.

Mayor.

Permit us, gracious Sovereign, with warm Affection

And united Loyalty, to approach your sacred

Person. Indulge our heart-felt Zeal the Privilege

To express the indispensible Duty of English

Subjects. Subjects, who think their Happiness and

Liberty inseparably blended with your sacred

Right; and bound by Duty and Affection

To feel all Insults offer'd to your Majesty, in a

Sense, as sharp and touching, as to our individual

Lives, our Trade, or Liberties. Too well,

My Liege, we know the Schemes of ambitious

France, which grasps at universal Sway, to be

Deceived by Threats or Machinations. Her

Cabinet is an exhaustless Mine of blackest

Policy; Jealousy, Corruption, Discord and Sedi•ion,

Are the Agents she sends forth to

Plague Mankind; but e'er her Jesuit Arts shall

Taint our Loyalty, or pervert our free-born State,

To Gallic Servitude, we here devote!

The last Remains of English Blood and Treasure.

K. Hen.

For such voluntary, loyal, English Love,

Who would not change despotick, Callic Sway?

You kneel my Subjects, but you rise my Friends;

Your King and Country's Pride and Treasure;

The industrious Bees, who gather Sweets from Earth's

Remotest Climes, to enrich Old England's Hive,

With Natures choicest Stores. Such ever be

Her Sons; industrious, loyal, stout, opulent,

And free.

Mayor. ‘And such her Kings—the Scourge of France and Rome, and Guardian of their People's Liberties.’

K. Hen.

Nobles, Citizens and Friends, let each

Repair to his respective Charge. You, my Lord,

•o our faithful Citizens; bid them accept

A Monarch's greatful Thanks; tell them their Love,

And Loyalty, so amply shewn, at this

Important Crisis, ever claim my

Warmest, best Affection. The Preservation

Of their Peace and Rights, and the Cultivation

Of our darling Commerce, shall ever be

My first and chiefest Care; so assure them,

Ex. Citizens.

Enter Dawbney, (who whispers the King and gives him a Paper.)

K. Hen.

Where hast thou lodged him, my faithful Daubney.

Daub.

Safe in the Tower, my Liege.

King.

Enough; follow me (going off—but turns short) this List you say's authentic.

Daw.

So he declares, my Liege

King.

'Tis well; follow me, Daubney.

Exit Daubney.

York.

Something of Moment is in this abrupt

Departure, pray Heaven all our Hearts be whole.

Ox.

Lord Bishop, if there is a rotten Heart

Amongst us, why his Head must answer for it.

York.

Sure if there was no other abler Reason,

The Blast of Nobles in the late Rebellion,

Is Warning sufficient to all the Land,

How they again abet an Impostor's Claim.

The high-born Lincoln, Son to Delapoole,

The Earls of Kildair, Lovel, and Geraldine,

With the German Baron, bold Martin Swart,

Who all bled their last in th' Impostor Simnel's Cause,

On the crimson Plain of memorable Stoke.

Enter DAWBNEY.

Daw.

Lord Chamberlain, it is the King's Command

You order his Apartment, in the Tower;

They must be instantly prepar'd, for 'tis

His Royal Pleasure to lodge there this Night.

Stan.

In the Tower?

Daw.

It was his special Command: And farther, Lords,

It is his Will you all attend him there.

Ox.

So, so—I knew some of us would be a Head shorter.

This Tower Work seldom ends otherwise.

This same Treason, I find, will furnish full

Employment for the Headsman, and the Priest.

For, if I mistake not, many wise Heads

Must be knock'd off, and many black Consciences

Absolv'd, before it ends. Exit.

Daw.

My Lords, the King expects you.

York.

We'll attend. Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in the Tower.

CLIFFORD alone.

O Clifford! Clifford, thou hast lost all Peace!

The Traitor's guilty Sting is in thy Heart;

And his deep-dy'd Shame dwells on thy Cheek.

My Eye detests the Light; and I fain would seek

Darkness, eternal Darkness and Oblivion.

O Man, Man, weak, unsteady, insatiate Man!

My Conscience, ever faithful to its Trust,

With heav'nly Admonition, kindly warn'd

And forbad my Baseness; but Thirst of Greatness,

Infused by hellish Priest-craft, wrought my Fall,

And damn'd me to the lowest Pit of Shame.

For now, to save an ignominious Life,

Again I have broke the Band of Fellowship,

And, like a Traitor doubly steep'd in Guilt,

Have sacrificed my vile Associates.

O Shame, Shame! Hell! Hell! for ever in

The Villain's mangled Mind.

Enter DAWBNEY.

Daw.

Sir Robert Clifford, I've inform'd the King

Of what you gave Permission;

He has given Command I lead you to his Closet—

Be open and sincere in your Confession;

Trust to his Royal Goodness for Pardon.

Cliff.

O Dawbney, I have my Reward already.

The bearded Shafts of Guilt and Treachery

Goad thro' my Heart, and canker all within.

Daw.

Despair not, Sir; the King is merciful.

But do not dally, for his Soul's on Fire;

The Quickness of his Temper well you know.

But come, the King

Expects us in his Closet. Exeunt.

SCENE III. The King's Apartment in the Tower. A Table, Chair, and Candles.

Enter the KING and DAWBNEY meeting.

Daw.

May it please your Majesty, Sir Robert Clifford.

King.

Admit him, Dawbney—and let Oxford and York attend.

While the King seats himself Dawbney goes to the Door, and returns with Clifford, York, and Oxford.

King.

Clifford, draw near; 'tis needless to upbraid you,

For already I see Treason's sharp Remorse

Hath seized your Mein and Aspect;

Guilt and Self-Reproach, the Traitor's native Marks, sculk in

Your down-cast Eye.

Cliff.

My Eye! my Heart!—I am all over 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 it

With the Greediness of a penitent Heart,

Who pants for heavenly Mercy. O Sir,

You are a just, a righteous Master; I

The blackest Traitor, that e'er betray'd his Friend,

His King, or Country.

King.

Tell me, is every Circumstance set down

Within this Paper true? Is it a sure

Intelligence of all the Progress

Of our Enemies Intents?

Cliff.

True, my Liege,

As I wish Forgiveness of offended Heaven!

King.

Look here, my reverend Lord, the Scheme of France; [gives him a Paper.]

The base, the mean, the shackled Terms they've made

With their Impostor King, for this fair Isle,

The Queen of Europe's Liberties.

York. Reads.

First, a full Surrender of England's Trade

And all her foreign Acquisitions—next,

Obedience implicit to his Holiness

The Pope and the Decrees of France, in all

Disputable Points—lastly, a Tribute everlasting

Of whatever Sum their Moderation shall demand.

King.

Clifford, those are the Terms, you say, made with

England's pretended King?

Cliff.

Gracious Sovereign, they are.

King.

Well, my Lord of York, what says your Grace? Shall

We put on our Chains in Peace, ha! will they

Sit easy, think you?

York.

As the Shirt of Hercules, my Liege.

The Englishman, who signs to these, must sure

Be bloodless.—And bloodless may each Briton be

E're that Day come. O sooner may our deep,

Our watery Bulwark become our Grave,

And Land and Liberty together bravely perish.

(King rises, perusing the Paper.)

King.

Our Right of Commerce! Sovereignty at Sea!

England's darling, rightful Treasure! purchased

For Ages, with her best, her choicest Blood,

Must we be subject to audacious France.

Our foreign Acquisitions too must be

Humbly laid at our Gallic Master's Feet.

Even the Freedom of religious Thoughts,

They are not pleased to leave us.

Infallibility steps in and dictates,

Britons, thus you must think—or Perdition

Is your Doom.'—Hard Sentence,—lastly, Tribute,

Everlasting, of whatever Sums their

Moderation shall demand!—Moderation!

Gallic Moderation!—What,—shall Englishmen!

Freedom's favourite Sons! shall we, my Lord,

Like Slave-born Wretches bow our Necks,

For France to tread on? Shall we, like Dastards,

Crouch to Cravens we so oft have beat? No—

E're a Hair's Weight of English Liberty

Be yielded up,—e're the lowest Briton,

Be Subject to the haughtiest Peer in France,

We'll dye our dear, our native Land with Royal Blood. (sits down.)

But come, Sir, on with your Discovery.

What Pow'r hath France sent with our Brother King?

Cliff.

But small, my gracious Liege, as yet, if any.

But most mighty Promises are made him,

In Conjunction with Spain's Embassador.

Three solemn Councils at Paris have been held;

And their Result was this; Sussex and Kent

Are to be visited with twenty thousand

Of the choicest Troops of France; while proud Spain

Into Ireland pours an equal Number;

And Rome, ever active to wound England's Peace,

Has secretly dispersed, throughout your Realm,

Her subtlest Priests to poison and seduce

Your Subjects Minds, in Favour of th' Impostor.

King.

I cannot observe in this Scheme of yours,

That Spain or Scotland's Kings are in Treaty

For any Part or Share of this gallant Spoil.

Cliff.

Royal Sir, to that Part of their Councils

I must declare myself a Stranger.

King.

Um—it may be so.

I find then, my kingly Rival, the Pope,

Scotland, and Spain, are all the Tools of France.

The Wind-mill-pated Spaniard dreams of Glory;

The Scot of his usual Trade of Plunder;

His Holiness of Peter's obsolete Pence;

And Cousin Perkin of filling England's Throne!

And thus the Wreck of English Liberty,

Is parcel'd out by those despotick Spoilers! rises

But if we must be Slaves, my Lord of York,

Let us put on our Chains like Englishmen

Reeking with Frenchmens Blood.—

Let's have one Tug for our Sea-wash'd Isle,

Our Laws, our Commerce, and our Liberties;—

They're worth disputing— sits

Ha! are they not, York?

York.

As Life,—or Sustenance,—when raging Famine clings us.

Th' coldest Coward would fight for such Blessings.

Even our Women, by Nature soft and gentle,

As Peace or Innocence, would, in England's Cause,

Unsheath the frightful Sword, and

Stain their snow-white Arms, with hostile Gore.

King.

Of what Friends and Followers

Is this itinerant Monarch's Court composed?

Cliff.

Of all kinds that are base, and infamous;

Of all Nations, and of all mean Conditions;

Bankrupts, Sanctuary Men, Thieves, Robbers,

Vagabonds, and Scotch Banditti:

Who under Mask of Justice, and Religion,

Commit unheard-of Outrages.—Spoil, Rape,

Rapine and Murder, are their daily Practice;

And all are sanctified by the Priests of Rome.

King.

O wicked Use of Heavens chiefest Blessings!

O Rome! Rome! this is thy infallible Truth!

And, civilized France, thy most Christian Policy!

Ox. ‘Why, my Liege, the French have a Factory on Purpose for Politics, where the Devil, the 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, Thomas

Astwood!

King.

Come, Sir, the rest.

Cliff.

The rest are all religious Persons. William Rochford

And Thomas Poins, Dominican Friars;

Doctor William Sutton, William Worsely,

Dean of St. Paul's; Robert Laiborn, Richard 'Lessley;

With divers others of inferior Rank, all influenced

By the Power of Rome, with Orders to absolve

Whatever Blood may be shed in the righteous

Cause.

King.

Have you named all, Sir Robert?

Cliff.

All but one, my Liege, and when I name him,

I fear my Truth will lose all Credit; yet your

Chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, tho' last

Named, is first against you.

King.

My Chamberlain!

Cliff.

He, Sir.

King.

Clifford, beware how you accuse a Man,

Whose Love and Loyalty we've experienced.

We know the Tricks of Guilt and Treachery;

Arts to discharge their own detected Crimes,

By tainting others nobler than themselves.

Cliff.

My Liege, again I say your Chamberlain,

Sir William Stanley, is a vile Traitor,

Both in Purse and Council,

To this pretended Heir his chief Assistant;—

This I can prove.

King.

What! Stanley! my Friend! my retired, inmost Friend!

My Heart's Partner! my other self!

York.

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 my

State of Mind.—None but a King, distrustful

Of his Friends, when wild Rebellion threatens,

Can feel what I feel now. Adversity,

And Exile I have known, with some Degree

Of Comfort,—nay, tho' driven by this Impostor

From my Crown and People, confin'd in Cells,

Or doom'd to die on the Traitor's Scaffold;

Yet still I should have found some Consolation;

But Treachery of Friends is comfortless:—

It is a poison'd Wound which drives to Madness,

Or Despair.

O York! what have I done to lose my Stanley's

Heart—or he his own, 'He, who in Bosworth Field

Rescued me from Richard's death-dealing Sword;

And from his cloven Head first snatch'd the Crown,

And like Lightning flew to encircle mine.

But let him from my Thoughts.—Dawbney, to Night

Within the square Tower let him be imprison'd;

Set a strong Guard on him.—Clifford, you Sir, must

Lodge there too; we'll talk more with you to Morrow.

York.

My Liege, the Night is far advanced; it is

Almost Morn, and your troubled Mind demands

Repose and balmy Sleep.

King.

O Lord Bishop, in my Apartment now,

Whom shall I trust? I must have Doors and Walls

Of Brass; I must lie down,—for Sleep I cannot,

In honest friendly Armour; 'tis now the

Only Safety I have left. I must wear it

Amidst my Council and my Friends, as in

The Day of Battle, lest the Poniard, dark,

And traiterous, reach my Heart.

York.

Good Sir, banish such Thoughts.

Ox.

Ay Sir, drive them from your Breast 'and 'let me.

'Be your Door, your Wall of Brass, your Armour,

'And I'll engage your Safety—tho' the Devil,

'The Pope, the Pretender, France, and Stanley,

'Should all conspire to corrupt me.

King.

O my honest Oxford, fair Confidence,

Who with her coral Lip, her rosy Cheek,

And cherub Aspect, used to sport about

My peaceful Heart, is banish'd now; Stanley

Hath murder'd her; and planted in her room

A livid, trembling, pale squint-eyed Friend, gnaw|'ing

Suspicion.

Ox.

Dear Sir, get rid of her as soon as you can,

For she is a little insinuating Imp,

Who, under Mask of Friendship, steals into

A Monarch's Breast, and never parts

'Till the ferret-ey'd Fiend hath eaten Repose,

And stung the contented Mind to Madness.

Banish her, banish her, my Liege.

King.

You, my Lords, we believe pure,

And uncorrupt, as Light, or Truth itself,

And this Night, will commit

Ourself to your loyal Care; you shall watch

In our Apartment, while we court coy Sleep,

To our weary Lids,

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 his

Tenderness innate, and extream Affection,

To this unhappy Stanley, will extend

His royal Mercy beyond its prudent Bounds,

And grant him Pardon of all his Treasons.

Ox.

Will he? Why then 'tis Pity he

Shou'd ever be without a Traitor in

His Bosom; for a blacker, or one so

Unprovok'd, History cannot produce.

Enter KING attended.

King.

Well, Lords, what says our apostate Minion;

Have you condemn'd him?

York.

His Treasons have, Sir;

Which were as manifest, as foul and dangerous.

The conscious Guilt of his Conspiracy

Press'd him so close, it forc'd Confession from him,

Unimportun'd.

King.

O Lord Bishop, that argued Shame and Sorrow

For his Folly; and tho' in letter'd Law

It stands against him, yet in our Mercy,

And the Softness of our friendly Nature,

It pleads strongly for him.

Extremity of Law is sometimes too sharp

Even for our traiterous Subjects; on whom,

Especially when penitent, Chastisement

Shou'd fall not with a rigorous Cruelty,

But paternal Sorrow; as the fond Father

Corrects his truant Child. Let me then, Lords,

For this unhappy Man, I once call'd Friend,

Wear a grateful Pity in my Breast.

He gave me Life and Crown in Bosworth Field;

Let me repay the Debt, and give him Life,

Too justly forfeited by foul Rebellion.

Ox.

My Lord, from my Heart I wish the Treason

Cou'd be punish'd, and th' unhappy Traitor

Spar'd. But I believe your Subjects, at this Juncture,

Expect Examples of publick Justice.

It gives me Grief to say it, but Clamour

Is so violent against him, 'mongst all

Degrees of People, that I fear Mercy,

At this Time, wou'd be an Act dangerous

To yourself and State.

York.

Lord Oxford councils well.

Th' Insolence of this Rebellion must be

Crush'd with speedy War and Laws utmost Rigour.

'Mongst the great Ones more particularly,

In whom, when Traitors, most Power of Mischief's lodged;

And tho' Mercy in Season is a King's

Heav'nly Attribute, yet to use it now

Wou'd, I fear, be deem'd a dangerous Weakness.

King.

Then be it so—since England's Weal demands it.

That we shall ever make the sole Guidance

Of our Laws and Will.—Did he assign no

Cause for his flagitious Crimes?

York.

None, Sir; when urg'd, his humble Request was,

To see his Royal Master e're he dy'd;

That then, the Motives of his Discontent

Shou'd have free and ample Declaration.

King.

O York! I'll see him! but 'tis a hard Tryal

Of tender Nature, to see the Man we've lov'd,

Surrounded by Guilt and Death. The King indeed

At such a Sight may stand unmov'd, but the Friend,

In Spite of Justice, will relent,

And soften into womanish Pity. Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in the Tower.

Enter STANLEY, in black, Guards, &c.

(Stanley.)

What awful Pomp attends the Traitor's Death!

What Preparations to affright his Soul!

Yet all are slight! the Guilt he feels within

Out-shocks them all.

Enter KING, YORK, OXFORD, DAWBNEY, Lords Yeomen of the Guard.

Ha! the King—once my Joy—

My Ambition! my greatest Happiness!

But now my Reproach! my Terror!

King.

See, Lord Bishop, the unhappy Man is cover'd

With Confusion, and cannot turn this Way.

He looks as Death wou'd be a more welcome Guest

To his afflicted Mind, than our reproachful

Presence.— The King approaches him.

O Stanley! how different is this Interview

From that in Richard's Tent,

When Bosworth's slaughter'd Scene was o'er.

When the Tyrant Richard lay extended in our View,

My first Thought was, how to reward

Your Love and Loyalty; I made you Master

Of the Tyrant's Wealth.—The Spoil was mighty;—

And had it been immence as Columbus'

Late discover'd Mines, my o'er-flowing Heart

Wou'd have thought it poor—poor as Beggar's Alms,

For my Stanley's Friendship.—My Mind—My Treasure—

My Will hath since been yours.—My all, at your

Direction. What then cou'd provoke your black,

Your atrocious Perfidy?

Stan.

Ambition.

Misguided, restless, insatiate Ambition!

King.

O thou unhappy Mark of human Frailty!

From Patriot Honour fallen to traiterous Shame.

Sure the utmost Height of human Glory

Is Steadiness in our Country's Good!

Myriads of Blessings

Are pour'd on the Patriot's Head; all are anxious

For his Health and Welfare, and the People,

From their abundant, their o'erflowing Hearts,

Shout out their Acclamations as he passes.

By his Example Millions are made virtuous;

Even Parricides, who for trait'rous Gold

Wou'd stab the Vitals of their maternal Land,

Are forc'd to sculk behind a patriot Mask,

Lest the good Man's spirit-stirring Virtue

Hurl popular Vengeance on th' Villain's Head.

This is the Patriot.—Now see the Reverse;

See in yourself the Traitor whom all Men curse.

Not his noble Titles, nor all the Honours

Treacherous Wealth can heap, can screen him

From popular Shame, nor ease from Self-reproach

His guilt-stab'd Heart.

Here you both stand, the Patriot this, the Traitor that; Pointing to the Bishop and Stanley.

The one England's invaluable Blessing;

The other, her deepest, blackest, vilest, Curse.

Stan.

O Sir, I feel the sad Condition.

It hath thrown Guilt intense into my Breast,

And tells me I deserve the worst of Deaths my

Country's Laws, or your just Vengeance can inflict.

King.

Why say—shou'd we grant you Life! shou'd Mercy

Be so abus'd! so prostituted! where!

Where cou'd you reside? With whom associate?

None.—Patriots wou'd shun you out of Virtue,

Traitors out of Policy,

Then the greatest Blessing our Power can give,

Or your sad State admit,—is instant Death.

Stan.

It is, my Liege—and my Request to see you

Was not to protract, or sue for Life.—

But to atone, in some Degree, my Guilt,

By full Confession of the groundless Cause,

Which hath for ever damn'd my Fame,

Then know, Sir, your Goodness has undone me;

—Your Royal Kindness

Heap'd such abundant Favours on me, that

My ambitious Soul was lost, in Prospect

Of boundless Power. Your Father-in-law,

My Brother, you rais'd to th' Earldom of Darby,

Envy and exorbitant Ambition

Made me request the Earldom of Chester;

Which, without Injury manifest, you

Cou'd not alienate, being ever annex'd

To England's Heir. But I, with Love of Pow'r

Intoxicated, unus'd to meet Repulse,

From that Moment, like a poisonous Serpent,

Whom you had nourish'd in your kindly Bosom,

Lost Sight and Memory of all Gratitude;

Former Favours, by this Refusal, I

Chang'd to Injuries, and my wild Ambition

To inflam'd Revenge; which I sought to

Gratify by stabbing my dear Country

Thro' my Friend and royal Master's Side.

This, Sir, was my dark, my hellish State of Mind.

Which is a glaring, but faithful Picture

Of ambitious, disappointed Courtiers;

Who ne'er know Peace of Mind, 'till they destroy

The State, or, in their Treason, meet their Death:

And if my Example may stand a Beacon

To the lavish Fondness of future Kings,

And to the Pride of insatiate Minions,

My Crime will be of Service to my Country.

So, farewell the best of Kings,—the warmest Friend,

The kindest Master.—And oh for ever

Farewel Guilt and Shame—and welcome deserved Death. Ex. guarded.

King,

Unhappy Victim of incens'd Ambition!

Stain to thy noble Blood, and English Truth!

Enter DAWBNEY.

Daw.

My Liege, I bring unwelcome News.

King.

Out with it, Dawbney.

Daw.

The Cornish Rebels, so late defeated

On Blackheath, by gallant Oxford, and who

So amply felt your Royal Mercy,

Again are up in Arms, in the Pretender

Perkin's Favour. Rome's Emissaries have

Once more rous'd th' ungrateful Herd, while James

Of Scotland is raising a powerful Army to support

His Claim. Gives him the Chamberlain's Staff.

King.

Dawbney, accept this Staff,—wear it with Truth

Equal to my Confidence.—Give Order

Clifford be confin'd within the Limits

Of his own House and Park at Newbury,

'Till Rebellion's Flame is quench'd.—Lord Bishop,

To you and faithful Surry we commit

The important Business of the North;

With ample Power to act as Need shall chance.

Ourself, and my old, my valiant Oxford,

Will to the West to chastise those

Unnatural Rebels.—

Ox.

I warrant you, my Liege, we'll soon chastise them.—These Traitors have had Royal Mercy once.—But they are like the ungrateful 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 now

Be doff'd, and the mail'd Coat of Mars put on.

Tottering storm-drench'd Tents must be our Palaces,

And our rich-wrought Carpets the aguish Earth;

Our Music must be the leaden Messengers of Death,

Whose whizzing Notes omen to each Man's Ear

Irrevocable Doom.

Ox.

And glorious th' Doom when gain'd in Freedom's Cause;

The noblest Fate an Englishman can meet.

The Hatchment of such a Death will be preserv'd

The patriot Mark to late Posterity;

The free-born Son will kindle at the Sight,

'Till in his King and Country's Cause, he burns

To emulate his Father's deathless Virtue.

York.

For my Part, my Liege, tho' Coward Custom,

And my sacred Function, might exempt me

From the Task; yet, with English Pride, I boast

To change th' holy Crosier

For the defensive Sword.—My Dependants

Brethren, Followers, and Friends I will convene,

And by the Assistance of the Almighty,

Protect our Laws, Religion, and our Rights

Or bravely perish in their Defence.

Ox.

I defy the Pope in his whole Conclave to

Shew me such a Prelate as this—

My Lord, for your Sake I shall

Love an English Priest as long as I live.

King.

My Lord,

E're we part let us once embrace. They all embrace.

Now each Man to his Charge, and when we fight,

Let us remember this, we fight 'gainst Gallic Chains

For English Liberty.

Exeunt York one Way, King and Oxford t'other.

SCENE III. Scotland.

(In Holy-rood Palace.)

Enter King of Scotland and Sevez.

K. Scot.

Have our Council sat upon those 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 Silence

We made the clear Evidence of their Guilt;

Upon which they were quickly attainted,

And Judgment of Death directly follow'd.

But the Time, Place, and Manner, wait on your

Royal Will.

K. Scot.

The Place shall be the Castle,—'Tis not

Meet that Huntley harangue the Populace;

There may be Danger in't.—The giddy Herd

Affect him much.

Are their Lands seized?

Sevez.

They are, my Liege.

K. Scot.

'Tis well—

Are all Things ready for Richard's

Coronation?

Sevez.

All, my Liege.

K. Scot.

Quickly then,

Let the royal Ceremony be perform'd,

With due Magnificence and regal Pomp.

To morrow we resolve for England, there

Again to crown the young Plantagenet.

Sevez.

Do you prepare his Highness.

Ex. Sevez.

Enter a Scot. Lord.

Scot. Lord.

May it please your Majesty, Lord Huntley's

Daughter, the Lady Katharine Gordon,

Is come to Court; and with distracted Aspect,

And grief-swoln Eyes, prays Admittance

To your Royal Presence.

K. of Scot.

Conduct her in—belike she comes to move us

For her Father's Life—but it must not be

But on one Condition.

Enter Katherine.

Kat.

O Royal James! if the House of Gordon

E're deserv'd your Love, if the many Lives

They have lost in your Defence, if the Blood

Of Generations, spilt in Scotland's Cause,

From earliest Time,

Down to my grey-hair'd Sire, if these, I say,

Deserve your Love, or Pity, then spare, spare,

For Love of Mercy, spare my poor old Father.

O, do not stop his Ebb of Life, with the

Traitor's Ax, a Death unknown to Gordon's Sons,

Who all have perish'd in the loyal Field.

K. Scot.

Rise, Katherine,

The House of Gordon we have ever deem'd

The fairest, brightest Jewel in our Crown.

Your Father hath ever been dear to us, dear as Love,

Or the Tyes of kindred Blood could make him.

'Till his o'erbearing Temper leap'd all Bounds;

Till he compell'd us

To shake off his iron Yoke; which hath provok'd him

To Cabals, Jibes, Murmurs, and disloyal Threats.

Kath.

O believe it not, Sir, they abuse your Ear

Who say so. Truth it self

Is not fairer than his Loyalty;

Which is incapable of Stain or Blemish.

O, Royal Sir, if you think him false,

You do not know him. Perchance his Temper,

Warm in his Country's Cause, may urge him beyond

The Bounds of Prudence; but this Heart is sound;—

Sound, as the Genius of our Land could wish.

K. Scot.

Katherine, I commend your filial Warmth,

And wish you had not Cause to sorrow;

But be assur'd from me, Huntley's a Traitor.

Kath.

Royal Sir,

Do not call him Traitor; for well I know,

That Name is sharper to his Soul, than death's

Keenest Dart.—My Liege, he is no Traitor.

K. Scot.

I find, Lady, your Father's daring Spirit,

In some Sort, breathes in your soft Form.

Kath.

It does, my Liege!

From Time, beyond the reach of Record,

It hath been our Race's Pride to cherish

Loyalty and our Country's Weal above

Our Lives. It hath

Been Huntley's first Precept to his Children,

Night, Morn, Hourly. No wonder then some Part

Remains with me. O had you heard him

Tell the warlike Deeds of Gordon's Ancestors,

For their King and Country; you then, I'm sure,

Wou'd have believ'd him Loyal.

K. Scot.

Katherine, we did believe him faithful,

'Till we found him rising above our Power,

And striving to awe, with subject Insolence,

Our sacred Majesty.

Kath.

Gracious Sir,

If his free Spirit hath outstept Discretion,—

Impute it not to traiterous Insolence,

But to a biass'd Mind in Scotland's Cause.

Merciful Sir, give me his precious Life,

He never, never, shall offend again.

He shall retire to our antient Castle,

The Nursery of Gordon's Ancestors;

Till weary'd Life steals from his feeble Frame,

Gently and unperceived as the setting Sun.

K. Scot.

Well, Katherine, on Condition he reside

For Life's Remains, within the Confines

Of Gordon's fertile Barony, we grant

Him full Pardon.—Provided, my fair Cuz,

That you accord our Sollicitation

In Favour of a royal Suit of ours.

Kath.

Command it, my Liege, kneels.

Be it Banishment, or Death, or lingring Famine,

Save but his Life, and conclude it done.

'K. Scot.

No, my lovely Cuz; nor Death nor Banishment,

Nor aught ungentle, or unkind, will reach

This lovely Form, while we have Sway to hinder;

Nature design'd it for her noblest Use,

For a Monarch's Bliss, and Partner of his Crown,

For Joy in Youth, Content and Happiness in Age.

A youthful Prince must fill those snowy Arms;

And from this soft Image Albion's King must rise.

Kath.

Sir!

K. Scot.

Know, Katherine, our Cousin, young Plantagenet,

Burns with a Lover's Flame,

And longs to make you the happy Partner

Of his Bed and Throne.

Kath.

Me, Sir!

K. Scot.

Ay, fair Katherine!

Grant his Suit, and Huntley's Life is safe.

If not—You deny him Mercy, not I.

For the sharp Ax must fall where Law directs,

Unless by you prevented.

Kath.

O, royal Sir.— (kneels,) how shall I speak it!—O some

Heavenly Power guide my distracted Mind!

O Sir!—My Heart is not my own;—'tis already given,

Betroth'd, and ty'd by Love, Honour, and all

The sweet, the witching Charms of blended Hearts.

Daliel! the blooming Daliel! sweetest Blossom

Of Scotland's Peers, has got my Heart, and to Morrow

By full Consent, and Joy of both our Parents,

The holy Priest was to unite us.

K. Scot.

Rise Cousin;—we will not controvert your Love,

Nor strive with Argument to sway Affection;

Your own free Will shall be your Guide,—therefore,

We offer this Alternative,—and chuse

You must this Night—That's our utmost Limit.

Prepare or to be crown'd as England's Queen,

Or to be whelm'd in Grief as Huntley's Orphan. Exit.

Kath.

Now, Horror, thou art at Work, and I defy

Thy madning Power to out-terrify

My distracted Mind. Scaffolds—Axes—Daliel,

And Huntley, pierce through my distemper'd Brain,

And Madness must guide me thro' the Chaos.

My Father—no, they shall not murder you.

I will wed sharpest Misery and triumph

In Wretchedness to save a Father's Life.

Exit.

SCENE IV.

An Apartment in Edinborough Castle.

Enter Huntley and Sir David Bruce, meeting.

Sir David.

Good Day, my Lord.

Huntley.

Wou'd it were, Sir David!

But Italian Policy and good Days

Never shine together.

Sir David.

I was in Hopes

E're this, my Lord, that the King's Resentment

Wou'd have 'bated. Lord Huntley, my Heart bleeds,

To see you still within these hated Walls.

Huntley.

Bleed for me, Sir David? O Bruce, let it

Bleed for your poor Country.

Sir David.

My Lord!

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 embrace

E're we shake of our Treason, and set out

Upon our final Journey?

Sir David.

My Lord, I have strict Command

Against your seeing each other, or admitting

Any Person to or from you without

Special Order from the King or Sevez.

Report is, you're all to suffer privately

To morrow, in different Parts of the Castle.

Huntley.

O rare Tyranny! Rome's Christian Policy,

Her Holy Inquisition.

Enter an Officer.

Off.

Sir, your Daughter Lady Catherine is below,

She hath brought a special Order from the King,

For her Admittance.

Huntley.

My Daughter! my Child!

Sr. David.

Pray Sir, conduct the Lady up.

Exit Officer.

I hope, my Lord, she brings an Order for

Your Enlargement.

Huntley.

Just as King Sevez pleases.

Sir David.

Your Daughter may have some private Converse,

I'll leave you, my Lord.

Huntley,

Sir, your Confidence shall not be abused.

Exit. Sir David

Enter 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 Descent

Must end to Morrow by the Traitor's Axe.

Kate, what wilt thou do when I am gone?

How wilt employ thy self?

You'll have no feeble Father to sooth now;

Death will rid you of that endearing Care,

And me, of all my doating Fondness.—Nay, nay.

Do not weep.

The Sight of thee hath ever brought

Joy and Comfort to my old Heart; prithee

Do not vex it now. Let me die like Huntley,

You bear it like his Daughter.

Kath.

O Sir!

'Tis Nature's hardest Task to look on Death,

For that fell Tyrant is her utmost Shock.

And in a Father—

Huntley.

Hold, Katherine, mistake not, it is not Death,

But Guilt, Guilt, my Child, is Nature's utmost Shock.

To the Innocent, Death is a Guide to Life eternal.

But to the Guilty, a ghastly Summoner,

Which frights, and goads, and stings to endless Tortures

Death! 'tis Nature's Companion!

He attends every Action of our Lives!

I have seen the bare-rib'd Tyrant in as

Many Forms, as there were armed Soldiers

In the Field; sometimes darting from Man to Man,

Levelling Ranks, and sweeping down armed Files;

While brazen Engines his iron Messengers

Sent forth, and with a Loudness that deafen'd

Nature, proclaim'd his Triumph! and can I

After this, fear his Block and Ax! no Child,

Only the Traitor starts at those; th' Patriot

Beholds them with a Fortitude that smiles

And triumphs, like the holy Martyr; who,

Before his Fall, sees his Reward register'd

In Heaven.

Kath.

Sure, Sir, you cannot be in love

With Death!

Hunt.

No, Katherine; he, who says he is,

Deceives himself; but my declining Life

Is not worth much Concern; the Oyl is almost spent;

And like a dying Flame on an exhausted Lamp

Wou'd of itself have soon expir'd, without

My cruel Master's hasty Breath.

Kath.

By me, Sir, he sends you offer of Life.

Hunt.

Does he!

He cou'd not have chosen, in Mercy's smiling Train

A lovelier Messenger—Thou art her rosy

Cherub—and Life from thee will come with

Double Relish—but, hear you, Katherine, have you

Brought Life's Blessing with it? It's cordial Drop?

It's balmy Sweet?

Kath.

What mean you, Sir?

Hunt.

Liberty, my Child! heav'n-born Liberty!

Without which, Life is a Curse, and he, who

Rids me of the Plague, is my best-lov'd Friend.

Kath.

O, say not so, but accept his Promise;

Accept of precious Life at any Rate.

Hunt.

Ha! Katherine! what upon base ignoble Terms!

To be a Court Creature; to do filthy Jobs,

As Priests and Rome direct; to bow, defame,

And fawn, and cringe; and beg to be employ'd

In some brave Man's Destruction? To flatter

A pride-swoln Priest; and pamper up

His Avarice and Revenge, with my Country's Ruin.

Is this a Life for Huntley? No.

I know you will not council it—

Well, upon what Terms will our royal Master

Give us Leave to breathe?

Kath.

Know then—O Heav'ns! how shall I speak them! [apart.]

Hunt.

Nay, if you hesitate, I'm sure they are base.

Your Conscience is a faithful Monitor,

A Dial set by an unerring Hand,

And heavenly Truth is the Light it goes by;

Obey it now, and be silent.

Kath.

No, Sir, I must name it,

Tho' you look me dead, which wou'd be the cruell'st

Death, Fate has in Store. Know then, that the King

Hath promis'd Life, and Liberty, to you, and

The other Lords—on Condition—

Hunt.

Out with it—

Quick—for the Approach of Infamy is

Dreadful.—And I see something in my Katherine's

Eye, was never there before. Shame, conscious Shame!

But come,—the Conditions!

Kath.

The Conditions are,

First, that I marry his suppos'd Cousin,

The Impostor Perkin—

Hunt.

Katherine,

We have convers'd enough upon this Subject;

Our Life is short, therefore we must prepare

To give in our Account as perfect as

We can; not on the Eve of Death to add

To the inadvertent Sallies of Youth

Premeditated Infamy.

I trust I shall employ my short Space to more Advantage.

Kath.

O my foreboding Heart! 'twas what I fear'd! To herself.

Hunt.

But, Katherine, lest you shou'd mistake and

Err into Infamy, know that your mangled

Body in Death wou'd give me Joy,

When your lovely blooming Person in such

A prostituted Marriage, wou'd bring cureless

Sorrow;—it wou'd rive my old Heart in twain.

My Child, farewel (embraces her) when you

Have better Thoughts

Bring them to comfort me. These vex me sorely;

Farewel,—I am going to my Cell, to

Think of Heaven and you. Exit.

Kath.

And what shall I think of!

Death! Death! fell horrid Death! turn where I will

I see the Skeleton dogging

My Father's Steps—and softly stealing with

His shadowy Arm uprais'd, ready to aim

His final Dart.

O some unerring Power direct me!

If I wander into Error; the Crime

Is not in my Will, but my Ignorance;

For I find filial Gratitude and partial

Nature struggling at my Heart, and prompting

That I must not let Him dye, who gave me Life.

I find Love too pleading for my Daliel;

Sure all this must be right, or Heaven would not

Permit it?—No, they shall not dye;

My Father is cruel to himself and me,

And Nature, sympathizing Nature,

Will be obey'd, and they must live.

For on their Lives alone depends my Fate,

As does the Peace of our distracted State. Exit.

ACT IV. Holy-rood Palace.

Enter KING and SEVEZ.

Sevez.

AGAIN, I say, that on the Traitors Death

Depends the loyal Subject's Safety; Mercy

To one is Cruelty to the other.

K. Scot.

Sevez, I know Lord Huntley's Maxims well;

But still I think he loves us.

He must not die.

Sevez.

Sir, a King's Word is of religious Nature;

An Obligation sacred, which cannot

Be dissolved, by any earthly Power;

None but our Mother, the holy, holy

Infallible Church,—Heaven's Vice-gerent!

Before her, indeed, Laws, Oaths, Obligations,

Of what Kind soever, lose their Being.

You, Sir, in Council

Gave religious Word, Lord Huntley should die.

K. Scot.

'Twas by your Influence I revok'd my Word.

You urged 'twou'd be gracious in die Eye of Rome

To ally Duke Richard to our Blood,

By Marriage with Gordon's lovely Daughter.

All Means of Success were barr'd, except

My Promise of her Father's Life; which she,

Cover'd with Rage and Sorrow, from Love and

Nature's extream Reluctance, at last accepted.

Then how, my Sevez, how can I answer

My Breach of Word to her, or to myself?

Sevez.

Sacred Sir, your religious Scruple gives me Joy.

But should conscientious Fears disturb you,

A Bull of Pardon from his Holiness of Rome

Will soon ease your religious Mind.

K. Scot.

Wou'd I cou'd save his Life!

Sevez.

Sacred Sir, I know, your royal Tenderness.

But if Huntley lives, your Authority

Will be too feeble to stand against him.

He is grown too popular for kingly Power

To cope with. The factious Lords, his Friends,—

And the distemper'd Rabble are at his Beck.

Already they bellow out for Justice,

Redress, Freedom, no Perkin, no Legates,

No French Council, no Italian Statesmen;

This is their Cry thro' Edinburgh Streets,

Nay, round your Palace Walls.

K. Scot.

Ha! Traitors!

Sevez.

Sir, tho' you, out of your native Goodness,

Were inclin'd to pardon those wicked Lords,

Yet our holy Church wou'd have insisted

On their Deaths; or on your Head have denounc'd

Her hottest Vengeance. For they're Hereticks

Of the new-sprung Sect; call'd in England Lollards;

And have been most active in shaking off

The Power of Rome, which nothing but their Blood

Can expiate. 'Your Allies of France too

'Wou'd have stopt their Aid and Loans, and have 'left you

'A Sacrifice to your rebellious Subjects

'And to your old, your natural Enemies

'The Purse-proud, haughty, heretic English.

K. Scot.

Sevez, they shall die.

Are all Things in Readiness for our Expedition?

Sevez.

They are, Sir; this Night Richard and his Queen

Sojourn at Berwick; and the Clans and Vassals

Of the Grants, Kenedys, Macgregers, and Macdonalds,

With those of Hamilton and Macpherson,

Are all set forward; and their Rendevouz

Is Norham Castle, which they'll reach this Night,

And there wait your royal Presence.

K. Scot.

Sevez, prepare, we will set out this this Day.

Sevez.

My Liege, all Aptness and Conveniency

Attend your royal Will and Pleasure. Exeunt.

SCENE II. An Apartment in the Castle of Edinburgh.

Enter Huntley, follow'd by an Officer of the Castle.

Hunt.

Marry'd! crown'd! pardon'd! Say,

Who pardon'd me?

Off.

The King.—

Hunt.

I say you are deceived, it cannot be.

Off.

My Lord, 'tis certain she is marry'd and crown'd; the

Legate himself join'd their Hands.

(And your Pardon is the Consequence of the Marriage.)

And now with

Regal State, and pompous Train she journeys towards England.

Hunt.

O Katherine! Katherine, is this thy Reward

For all my anxious Care to form thy Mind!

Was it for this you came to offer Life?

Ambitious Syren.—Yes, I will accept it.

I will, Kate, but it shall be to glut my Vengeance.

Crown'd! pardon'd! regal State! vain, ambitious,

Proud, infamous Woman! O Happiness,

Happiness, Fancy's delusive Child,

Which every Fool creates, and no sooner

imag'd into Form, but th' airy Being

Vanishes to Sorrow!

Mine was compos'd

Of Scotland's Weal, and my Katherine's Virtue;

But Rome hath ruin'd one, and Woman's Pride

The other.

Enter Sir David Bruce. [loud knocking without]

Sir David.

See who knocks, but be sure let none enter. [to the Officer.]

My Lord, I grieve to be the Messenger,

But by a special Order, just received,

The short Space of a fleeting Hour

Is your Life's utmost Limit.

Hunt.

An Hour, Sir!

Why Bruce, I thought my Daughter's Infamy

Had pleaded to the King for royal Mercy.

Sir David.

'Tis true, my Lord, the King did promise Life

To you, Angus, and Daliel; but e're he

Set forth for England, he sign'd this Warrant

For your Deaths.

Hunt,

Then, Queen Kate, thou wilt escape my Vengeance;

Fate, I find, hath reserv'd thee for his own Wrath.

Enter Officer with a Letter.

Off.

Sir, a Post from Court hath brought this Letter

For Lord Huntley.

Sir David takes it from him and gives it Huntley

Hunt.

For me Sir?—'tis Katherine's Character!

Once as welcome to my Eyes, as rising Sun

To new-recover'd Sight; now irksome as Perfidy.

What a Comfort, amidst Calamity,

Wou'd this have been, had she not fall'n to Guilt

Inexpiable!

O she was once as fair, and innocent

As was her Parent Eve, when first

She waken'd from Creation—but Satan's

Towering Crime, Thirst of imperial Sway,

Hath wrought her fall, and blackn'd all her Virtue.

Sir Dav.

My Lord,

I cannot think your Daughter's Crime—

Hunt.

Dear Bruce, Pity me.

For Sorrow's Dart ne'er reach'd my Heart till now!

The foolish Father hath quite unmann'd me,

And hath brought out all the stifled Weakness

Of busy fondling Nature, which will have Vent,

In Spite of Art; and what I thought had quite

Engross'd me, Scotland's Love.—But Im deceiv'd—

For the Father's Folly, I find, is uppermost,

And Rage and Sorrow rend my Heart, and my

Weak Eyesburn with scalding Rheum. O Katherine,

Did I e're think thou'dst make old Huntley weep!

Thou hast done what Death and slaughter ne'er cou'd do.

But, she's gone—fallen, and unworthy another Tear.

But come, now let us see her regal Stile,

Her royal Apology for accepting

Sovereign Sway,—and breaking a Father's Heart.

SIR,

Opens the Letter, and after having read the Address, his Griefreturns, which interrupts his Power to read.

Dear Bruce, pity, pity an old Man's Weakness!

Nay, I know you will, you must—for you are

Your self a Father, and know what fond Fools

Nature makes of us—prithee Bruce, read it.

Gives him the Letter.

For my Eyes have full Employment—unman'd,—

Quite, quite unman'd!

Bruce reads.

SIR,

I Have broke the Bond of Duty with the best of Fathers, of Honour and Affection with the most deserving of Lovers. This I have done to give you and your noble Friends Life and Liberty, in Hopes you will rescue your King and Country from those who have advised your Deaths, my Marriage, and the innumerable Woes Scotland groans under.

Consider, Sir, my Crime is the Effect of your Precepts; which always taught me to prefer my Country's Weal to Life, Fame or Family. I will not sue for Pardon, but Pity, tho' you condemn me, I know your tender Nature will grant to your once loved—now broken-hearted,

Katherine.

Sir Dav.

Brave noble Lady! exalted as Virtue

Or patriot Love can boast. She has indeed,

Acted like Huntley's Daughter! parted with

More than Life for her King and Country's Weal.

Hunt.

O just Heav'ns! what Machines thou hast made us!

Scarce a Moment since, and I shou'd have joy'd

T'have seen my Katherine hears'd deep in the Womb

Of Death's clayie Mansion. And now, Life, Fame,

And Scotland's Fate are not so dear to me

As my Katherine's unparalell'd Virtue.

Sir Dav.

Unparalell'd indeed, my Lord! poor Lady!

She is wedded to Misery without End.

Hunt.

O my Child! my Child!

Cou'd I but see you once! cou'd my dim Eyes

But gaze once more on that dear soft Image!

Cou'd I but live to ease my Katherine's Heart,

And tell her how I land her manly Spirit,

I wou'd then forgive Fate—Death—every Thing—

But Sevez—that curst Priest—who hath undone us all.

But you say, Governor, I must not live

To see my Katherine; for that within this Hour

The Tyrant's Ax must sever Life from Woe.

Sir Dav.

That was my last Order from the Legate.

Hunt.

E're this the Thought of Death ne'er hurt my Mind;

But now 'tis irksome! I fain,—fain wou'd live

To see my Child again—but that cannot be—

O Scotland's Majesty, how art thou sunk!

When your royal Word is as far from Truth

As Heaven from Hell!

To deceive even my poor Katherine!

To betray her into Prostitution!

Sure Perfidy in Kings is the blackest Crime

Callous'd Infamy hath in all her Store!

But when Rome's mental Craft surrounds a Throne,

It is no Wonder Falshood and Tyranny,

Shove by Truth and Justice.—

But come, Governor, since we are to die,

Let's close the Scene, and end Life's Farce at once.

Sir Dav.

No, Lord Huntley,

Our bleeding Country hath fitter Service for you.

By me her Genius says, you must not dye.

My Lord, with jealous Eyes, and sore-griev'd Heart,

I've seen your Wrongs, and Scotland's unmatch'd Woes.

Affection to your House, which rais'd me first,

And to my dear, my native bleeding Land

Has made me watchful to preserve you both.

Hunt.

What mean you, Bruce!

Sir Dav.

This my injur'd Lord—

Many of the ancient Blood of Scotland

With heart-sore Feeling behold th' mighty Wrongs

Like to be entail'd upon Posterity,

Which they resolve most bravely to foresend,

Or else to bleed their last in the Attempt.

Hunt.

Ay, Bruce!—what! are there such Men in Scotland!

Sir Dav.

There are, my Lord; and since your Confinement

Have oft assembled in private Parley, how

To give you and Scotland Life and Freedom.

They last Night resolv'd, as they were commanded,

To attend the King in this Impostor's

Expedition. But not a Step farther

Than they see fit Time to shake off the Yoke.—

Their faithful Clans and Vassals they have rais'd,

Who are well martial'd both in Mind and Body,

And ready to revolt upon the Word.

Near Norham Castle they are assembled,

Whither the King's encamp'd—thither must you post

This Night—where you will meet such warm greeting

As 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 provided

As is that of Sterling, by Sir Archibald Grant,

And we will hold them out to Life's Extremity.

My Lord, you must away, Scotland's bleeding.

Hunt.

Away?—why, Bruce, I will outstrip the Winds,

And leave them Laggards in the hasty Course;

I'll go, like Brutus, at the Head of Rome's

Determin'd Son's, and restore poor, banish'd

Freedom to her Throne.

There shall she sit incorp'rate with our King,

'Till Time shall be no more.

Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Norham Castle.

A March at a Distance, enter the Bishop of York and many Free-holders, Gentlemen, &c.

York. ‘Friend's! Britons! and Free-men! in Conjunction with the valiant Earl of Surrey, I'm sent amongst you to defend England's Frontiers, And Norham's antient Castle 'gainst the avow'd Enemies of our Land. Consider, Britons, who those are! a Set of rapacious Scots! Desperadoes! Out-laws! and a few dastard French! who do not fight for Fame or Liberty,—but theevish Booty; your Property; and shall we give up our King, our Liberties; our Laws, Religion, and our 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 Accent

Hath escap'd her faded Lips.—Motionless

She sits; with Eyes fixt as if rivited

To Earth; while Tears insensibly steal down

Her pensive Cheeks, which look like weeping Dew

Fallen on the Statue of Despair.

Frion.

Do, droop; convince the King, his Court and Army,

That your cold, your watery Veins are Bankrupt

Of royal Blood. Convince them you are Impostor,

Who wou'd not fight for such a fertile Isle

As envied Britain.

'Then do not droop, nor rest till that you die

'The milky Rose you wear in the luke-warm Blood

'Of Henry's Heart;' and the stiff-neck'd sturdy Knaves,

Who now oppose your Claim, be tame and humble

As the dullest Boor that ever trampt in Wood.

Gall them with Yokes till that their stubborn Necks

Bow to the lowest Slave in France, and own

Them for their Masters.

Perkin.

Were I but once upon the Throne I wou'd.

Their free-born Insolence should be forever check'd.

But my dear Katherine makes me inactive;

She hangs about my Heart.

Frion.

Haste, Sir, be gone, the King expects you in his

Tent. Drop, drop the Lover, shake it

From your Heart; and put on th' enkindled Warrior.

Shew the Soldiers you are going to fight

For a Crown; not to die for a Puppet,

A melancholy whining Girl. Exit Perkin.

Frion.

This it is to have Concern with Wretches

Born to be Tools. Well! to change Nature's Bent

I see is not in the Power of Art;

If it had,—this Perkin might have been e're this

As valiant as Caesar, and as courtly

As sportful Anthony. The united Skill

Of France and Rome have joyn'd to form his Mind;

The Clergy indeed have discharg'd their Part

Effectually; for he tells his Tale

With as specious and smooth Hypocrisy

As our Church can boast. But for his Courage

He is as great a Stranger to it as he

Is to Royalty.

But I must not be absent lest he betray

The Milkiness of his coward Liver. Exit.

SCENE V.

A Field near Norham Castle.

Enter HUNTLEY, and all the SCOTCH Nobility.

Hunt.

Nobles, Freemen, and Scots; I've transgress'd the Laws

Of our King and Council, and 'gainst their Sentence,

From Death, have borrow'd a few Hours to live

Amongst you. Then as my Time is short,

I cannot waste it in golden Speech or

Rounded Phrase; for if my Subject will not

Move you, my Eloquence cannot. Then to th' Purpose.

Many I see here whose Sires, and Grandsires,

Have fought with me for Liberty, in the

Very Field where now we stand. You Matthew Steward,

Earl of Lenox, Alexander Lord Forbes,

And Duncan Dundass, Lion King of Arms,

To you I speak particularly—your

Fathers I well remember to've fought with.

And many more no doubt are here, which

My Eye cannot now take in. I have seen

Their free, their willing Swords plow thro' Tyranny,

And their smoaking Blood sluic'd to manure this Field.

From whence reviv'd the sweetest fairest Flower

That e're adorn'd Scotland's Soil.

Liberty, my Friends! Priest-stab'd Liberty!

This Flower,

Countrymen, your Fathers have transmitted

To your Care. Then take Heed on't, preserve it

As you wou'd Existence; set it in the Centre

Of your Hearts; that's it's native Soil, there,

Only there 'twill flourish,—Trust it to Rome,

Priests, or Priest-rid Monarchs, 'twill surely perish.

Lord.

My Lord, sorely

We feel our Country's Wrongs, and wish to cure them.

Hunt.

I've had secret Conference, in Norham Castle,

With his Grace of York; and have settled such

Terms as will, I hope, restore Peace and Freedom

To our harrass'd Land; and befit the Honour

Of our King to ratify.

O C•untrymen, I have not Time nor Memory

To sum up our Evils; they are beyond

Arithmetic's enumerating Power:

'Tis your own feeling that can convey

The Number of your Stings, and your own Deeds

That must redress 'em.

•o all those, who are in love

With Rome, Priestcraft, and Slavery,

Let them remain behind—those who love their King,

Scotland and Liberty, follow me.

Omnes.

Liberty, Liberty, Scotland, huzza!

Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

A Royal Tent near Norham Castle.

Enter King of Scotland, Perkin, Sevez, Frion, and all the King's Attendants.

K. Scot.

Cousin, after long Absence from our native Land

Nature at our Return feels eager sympathizing Joy;

How happens the Reverse in you?

Perkin.

I own Sadness sits round my Heart,

To think, I must depopulate, and waste

My Native Land; to wade thro' Cruelty,

Blood and Slaughter! to have the Infant slain!

The Aged murder'd! to have Sword, Fire,

And total Devastation overspread the Land,

E're I can purchase my just Inheritance!—

This, in extream Grief, my Soul deplores.

O, Sir, my Heart grieves for my poor People!

K. Scot.

Your People, methinks, deserve your Anger

More than your Sorrow; for not a Man as yet

Hath rais'd Hand or Voice in your Defence.

But, on the contrary, all seem resolute against you,

Why come not Sir Robert Clifford and Stanley,

As they promis'd?

Frion.

Sir, be assur'd they are not inactive.

Clifford, I know, is true as Heart can wish;

And for Stanley, his Resentment is too deep

Within his Heart ever to be eras'd.

The Clergy, to a Man, are warm and zealous;

And, already, under Pretence of not

Paying a Subsidy, have privately

Stirr'd up twenty thousand hardy Britons

Now in Arms in Cornwal.—Many Friends too

Lurk slily in the great Metropolis,

And thro'out the Realm, who artfully joyn

The common Cry against Invasion, France,

Scotland, and the Pretender.—But when Time

Serves, are ready, one and all, to use and

Massacre the Heretics, and all whom

They suspect as Enemies to our Church,

Or young Plantagenet's Claim.

K. Scot.

But, Frion, France and Spain are tardy;

Where are those Troops were to be pour'd

Into Ireland? And the South and West of England?

Frion.

Most royal James, France and Spain

Are prompt as Revenge and Hatred can inspire;

But as yet they cannot stir—the English

With their Fleets will not let them

Look forth; or e're this, Devastation wou'd

Have o'er-run their Land, swift as Contagion,

Or epidemic Plagues.

K. Scot.

Unless your Friends are numerous and powerful

In England, or France send some speedy Aid,

I fear, young Prince, Adversity will still attend you.

Enter a Lord.

Lord.

So please your Highness, a Gentleman just arriv'd from Cornwall, who calls himself Flamock, humbly craves Audience of Princely Richard, England's lawful Heir.

Frion.

I know him well, so please your Majesty;

A warm and active Friend he is, and of much

Power in the West.

K. Scot.

'Tis like he brings Dispatches of Importance!

Give him instant Audience. Exit Perkin and Frion.

Sevez, this Business wears not an Aspect

So fair as we cou'd wish—

Sevez.

Dread Sir, I trust this Gentleman from Cornwall

Brings some Intelligence of good Complexion.

K. Scot.

Is Advice arriv'd yet of Huntley's Death?

Sevez.

Not yet, my Liege. But every Moment

I expect it. Sir David Bruce is not

Wont to be remiss. He is sure and trusty,

And will the Instant it is over send Dispatch.

Three Shouts, each approaching gradually.

Enter Huntley, and all the Lords, with several of the Soldiers all arm'd, their Swords drawn.

The King starts up, Sevez, and the rest run behind him.

King.

Huntley!

Hunt.

Ay, my Liege!

King.

Where are my Friends?

Hunt.

Here, Sir!

All these are Friends.

King.

Am I to be assassin'd?

Hunt.

No Sir—;

We all kneel, Sir, All kneel.

Your natural, loving, Subjects; dutiful—

But free—free as the Glory of our King—

The Welfare of our bleeding Land,—and our

Infringed, constitutional Rights demand.

K. Scot.

Why how now, Sir; who dare controul our Will?

Hunt.

Justice dare—gracious Sir, let Reason school

Your youthful distemper'd Heat, and sound Judgment

Soon will follow; with sincere Allegiance

And Affection we're come to close this Breach,

'Twixt a hasty

Mistaken King, and his much-wrong'd

Banish'd Subjects. Let not the latent Poison

Of subtle France and Rome insinuate and work

Against our Love and Loyalty.

K. Scot.

Well, Sir, let us

See an Instance of your Love and Loyalty.

Hunt.

You shall Sir,—first, you Priest, who Coward like

Puts Majesty in Front when Danger threats,

You, Sir, to your Sphere—the Altar—a Throne

Pulls him from behind the King, and throws him to the Guard.

Of Freedom never was design'd for Rome's Priests.

Now, Sir, [To the King.]

You are, as you shou'd be, King of Scotland;

Before, the Pope was.

K. Scot.

Hear me, rash Man—do not presume—

Hunt.

My Liege,

Rome's Legates have no Business round our Throne;

The Church is their Capitol,—there let them thunder out

Their Threats, Pennance, Bulls, and Absolutions;

And if they can, why, let 'em save our Souls;—

But for our Property, and our Freedom,

We can preserve them ourselves without troubling

Their Infallibility.

K. Scot

Lord Huntley,

This Insolence is beyond Sufferance.

Hunt.

Sir, 'tis not Insolence but Loyalty;

Built on Nature's first Law—and the first Compact

That made a King. The People's Interest,

In a free Nation, is blended, and co-equal

With the King's; and he who separates, or

Over-values either, is the Traitor;

Not we, who want to unite and poise them.

K. Scot.

Sir, this is a Language, I'm unus'd to.

Hunt.

I know it is, young King; therefore I speak it.

For when Tyrant Folly surrounds the Throne,

The Truth to our King is the Nation's best

Loyalty. Look into our honest Neighbour's,

The English Annals; see their Insolence

In Defence of Liberty encroach'd by

Rome-directed Kings. See their determin'd

Honest Souls, wading thro' mercenary

Slavish Blood, to shake off France and Rome's usurp'd

Authority. See each Man, active as

The first Brutus, driving out the Tarquins

Of their Land—and sacrificing themselves

And Sons to Liberty.—Copy them, them

My Liege—not France and Rome.

K. Scot.

These Sounds are harsh

They grate and discord in the Ears of Kings.

Hunt.

Sir, none reverence Majesty more than I.

'Tis the People's sacred Repository

Of Freedom, Justice, Mercy, and all their

Social Happiness; and as such, when pure,

I kneel, and I adore it—but when defil'd

By Tyranny and Priestcraft, it becomes

A Magazine of Vengeance, and all our

Veneration turns to Contempt and Wrath.

K. Scot.

Huntley, if you love us cease this 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 are

Retir'd and fit for Meditation.

K. Scot.

I charge you, let not his Life be touch'd!

Hunt.

Why Sir—the foremost Man of all the World,

Great Caesar, bled for wounding Liberty;

And shall a paltry Priest of Rome escape?

Is there not one—one Brutus to be found

Within wide Scotland's Realm, dares stab the Villain

Who wou'd basely enslave his native Land?

Be yourself that Brutus,

And let your Dagger be th' unbiass'd Censure

Of a Scotish Parliament.

K. Scot.

Sir, we are

In your Power; and your Will must be our Dictator.

Hunt.

No, Sir—your Glory—and Scotland's Welfare

Shall dictate. Dispatch them to the Castle.

Exit Guards with Sevez.

Enter a Lord.

K. Scot.

The News!

Lord.

So please your Majesty a Herald from

Norham Castle is arrived, Harbinger

To the warlike Prelate York, who in his

Master's Name demands Audience of Scotland's King.

Hunt.

I pray your Majesty will give him Presence.

He may be charged with Power of Treaty,

Such as your Glory and Scotland's Distress

May wish.

King.

Give him Conduct. Exit Lord.

Well, Sir, what are the Dictates we must attend to?

Hunt.

Sir, we are not in plight for wasteful War.

Intestine Feuds, and Rome's black Exactions,

Have drain'd us below the Might of coping

With industrious England; who from thriving

Commerce, and domestic Union, are stout

And finewey. Therefore, we pray this War,

Stirr'd and fomented by subtle-working France,

In favour of an Impostor, may be dropt.

Enter York.

Now my Liege you may behold the Difference

'Twixt an English and a Scotish Prelate.

The one roused and spirited by Freedom's Voice

Is fighting for the Franchisement of his Land;

The other, sway'd by the Craft of France and Rome,

Is praying to enslave it.

York.

From England's awful King I come; not to

Cringe or beg for Peace; but for mutual Good

Of both the Realms to stop ruinous War's

Bloody Effusion. And that on such Terms

As befits Scotland's Honour to accept,

England's to offer.

K. Scot.

Lord Prelate, England

Cannot be more in love with Amity

Than Scotland is. But the Insults offer'd

To our Scotish Youth, here on Norham Plain,

At their mirthful annual Festival,

In cold Blood, and in Time of Peace too, hath

Long gone unaton'd, tho' oft remonstrated.

York.

Those, whose Policy it is to create Dissention,

No wonder they have mistold that Business.

King.

Sir, Henry's Scorn of our Alliance with

His Daughter Margaret hath not been mistold.

That we ourself experienced and can't forget.

York.

Sir, I come with Power, I hope, to end all Feuds,

Groundless or otherwise. With Henry's Voice

In this Presence I offer new Alliance

To Scotland; and to make the Bond of strictest

Union now, let there be Affinity with

Royal James, and Princess Margaret; England's

Unparalell'd Beauty; whose Proxy here I stand

Ready to conclude instant Affiance.

And farther, the annual Loan receiv'd

Of France, we promise to make good to Scotland

By way of Portion; which on Survival

Must be settled, as Dower, on Scotland's Queen;—

Provided Connexion be broke with those

Breed-bate French, and their Tool th' Impostor Perkin

Be render'd up.

King.

How! York! break our royal Faith!

No; our sacred Word was his Sanctuary:

Nor will we defile it by Treachery.

Our Tutor,

The rigid Huntley, I believe will not

Prescribe us that.

Hunt.

My Liege, your royal Word was given, as you thought,

To England's Heir; this is an Impostor,

As can be proved; hatch'd and foster'd by the vile,

The hellish Juncto of France, Spain, and Rome;

On Purpose to enslave this Island's Realms.

For when once their Deputy rules in England,

Scotland must bid farewel to Peace and Freedom.

K. Scot.

Let him be proved an Impostor, and we

Shall think ourselves in Justice and in Honour bound

Not only to yield him up, but with Contempt

And Ignominy. But 'till that is done

We must not break our Faith.

Hunt.

My Liege, you shall

Have ample Proof; so full, that not the Shadow

Of a Doubt shall disturb your Mind.

K. Scot.

The other Terms we do accept, and if

Approv'd by Henry, will send Lord Huntley

To ratify them—so inform your Master.

York.

I shall. Exit.

K. Scot.

Huntley, we shall trouble you with the Trust.

Attend us for our farther Instructions.

Hunt.

With most willing Duty and Diligence.

Exit King.

You see, my Lords, that by the King's Commands

[To the Scotch Lords]

I must strait to England to ratify

This hasty Peace. His Sincerity, as yet,

I cannot judge of. But lest Rome's wicked,

Temporizing Craft should be his Policy,

I beseech you, let not a Fort, or Castle,

Be surrender'd, till the Legate hath stood

A free, a candid Enquiry of his Peers;

And the Justice they doom, be fairly dealt him:

Saving the Power of royal Mercy,

If it shall think proper to interpose.

Consider, Countrymen, how this Struggle

For native Liberty will shine, when read

To a free Posterity.

The Youth will glow to emulate this Deed,

The Sire will bless us for his Country freed;

And from your Loins a patriot Race proceed.

End of the Fourth ACT.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

King Henry's Tent near Taunton.

Enter King, York, Oxford, Lords and Gentlemen.

K. Hen.

MY rev'rend York, let me embrace thee.

York kneels, the King embraces him.

Rise,—come to my Heart,—and there let my Love

Enshrine your Truth, your Loyalty, and 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 he

Still persist in Conjunction with his Allies

Of Rome, France and Spain, to send England Laws and Kings?

Or will he sheath his redoubted Anger?

And let us rule in Peace our Nook of Freedom.

York.

Grievance and Disunion o'erspread their Land;

This brought Huntley disguis'd to Norham Castle;

Where, in the Name of all free-born Scots,

He demanded Friendship with England's King;

I readily embrac'd the mutual Blessing,

When Preliminaries strait by us were settled,

Which the aggriev'd People pray'd their King to sign.

He did—and this contains their full Matter.

kneels and gives him a Paper.

Which Lord Huntley, with other Scotish Peers,

Fraught with ample Power, are ready to conclude

And ratify, provided the Substance

Shall please your Majesty.

K. Hen.

Lord Prelate, of your

Wisdom in making Terms for our Glory,

And England's Interest, we will not doubt.

Lord Oxford, Huntley is your antient Friend,

I know your honest Heart longs to see him;

Conduct him hither. Exit Oxford.

But, my Lord,

What of the Impostor? is he deliver'd up?

York.

So please your Grace, Scotland's King consented

To yield him up—but, suddenly, the Impostor,

His Wife, (the miserable Katherine Gordon)

The Traitor Frion, and others of his Train,

Disappear'd beyond the Reach of labour'd Intelligence.

Enter Oxford and Huntley, and several Scotish Lords.

Ox.

Here he is, my Liege; as tough a Piece as ever

War or Winter foster'd. Many and many a Day have

We harrass'd each other; and many a bitter Night have

Watch'd for the grey Dawn, to steal the Advantage

Of the first Blow—which we old Soldiers think no

Contemptible Part of a Battle.

K. Hen.

Lord Huntley, welcome to our tented Court;

Dignity of Forms, proper to your high Place,

And exalted Worth, confus'd Rebellion

Will not allow. But if sincere Reception

Can compensate Lack of Ceremony,

Scotland's Ambassador, and the Lord Huntley

Are most welcome.

Hunt.

In Scotland's Name I here greet England's Love,

And stand a faithful Hostage of Return.

As for myself, next my royal Master's,

Henry's Esteem is my greatest Honour.

K. Hen.

Lord Huntley, for some Hours

Peaceful Treaty must give Way to Civil War.

When mad Rebellion's lawless Crew have

Awak'd his Wrath, the chastising Vengeance

Of fire-ey'd Mars must keep Pace

With Lightning's Rage. When that precarious Scene

Is over, as the Justness of our Cause

Deserves, your high Business we then will ratify;

Mean Time, my Lord,

Such Accommodation, and such Safety—

Hunt.

As Courage needs in Honour's Cause, ler me have;

Or such as Lord Oxford here shall have, I request;

No other, I beseech your Majesty.

Haggish Age hath not yet so thin'd my Blood,

But I can toil one Day more in Honour's Field

With my honest old Competitor. As Foes

We oft have try'd each other's Soldiership;

To Day let it be try'd as Friends.

K. Hen.

Spoke like a Soldier zealous in our Cause,

We will accept your honest Sword. You shall be

Oxford's, your old Antagonist's Volunteer

Ox.

And a stancher never stood by Caesar.

Come you veteran Volunteer, come to my Heart. (embrace) ‘How oft when we have been each other's Prisoners, for retreating was not in Fashion with us, have we wish'd for a Cause to joyn our Hearts in?—At length, Thanks to her 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 Night

In the Rebel's Camp; with some straggling French

And Highlanders, a few Priests and Irish;

And a Lady, whose Beauty and Sorrow

Fill'd the whole Camp with Pity and Amazement.

Hunt.

Ha! it is my Child! my brokenh-earted Katherine!

K. Hen.

Heaven be prais'd! now we shall see our bold

Invider. Dawbney, let strict Observance

Be kept at all our Ports, lest he escape.

And a Reward thro' out our Realm proclaim'd

Of one thousand Marks to him who brings his Head.

Dawb.

Our Spy brought farther News—he say'd 'twas rumour'd in the Rebels Camp that the Earl of Devonshire and his Friends, the Mayor of Exeter, and many of the Citizens, were march'd to joyn your Majesty, and that the Rebels had resolv'd to advance and give us Battle e're the Junction cou'd be effected—and by a Gentleman just arriv'd, the Earl is now within an Hour's March.

K. Hen.

The Earl is most valiant, as are all his Friends!

Dawb.

In their March from Exeter, the Villains have been guilty of most unheard of Outrages; as if Waste, Ruin, Havock, and Desolation were their only Purport. At Perrin, my Liege, they have committed a savage Cruelty. The 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 Force

Amount to?

Dawb.

Rumour calls 'em thirty Thousand,

But the strictest Intelligence, my Liege,

Cannot muster them to above Five and Twenty.

Ox.

Ay, Men, so please your Majesty, meer Men; not a Soldier amongst them; all Rabble, the rank hot-blooded Sores of the Commonwealth, which 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 been

The teeming Mother of blind Destruction.

Let not our Safety then beget our Ruin;

But let us fight with that Caution and Courage,

As if each rude Rebel was a Caesar.

Let our Judgment be cool, our Battle warm,

The Blow will then be sure. Their Numbers are

Formidable, what e'er their Discipline,

Or Courage may be. Then, e'er we charge 'em, Lords,

Let us into Council, and debate the Means;

Whether it shall be as we now stand muster'd,

Or to wait the Junction of the Earl

And his Friends.

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Field near the Rebels Camp.

Enter Katherine dress'd like her Husband Perkin, followed by her Maid Jane.

Cath.

I charge you by your Duty and Affection

Follow me no farther; enquire no more

Into my Design.

Jane.

Madam, I will not.

Let me but attend you in any Shape.—

I will purchase manly Garments, and travel

With you. For my Patroness,

Your dead Mother's Sake, let me share the Fate;

Be it Toil, or War, or Famine or Death,

It will be welcome, much more welcome,

Than cruel Banishment, from my dear Mistress.

Cath.

Jane, press me no farther—I must be obey'd,

Return to my Husband's, King Richard's Tent;

There wait my Presence, or my Messenger's.

And as you wish my Happiness, let not

Utterance, or Advertisement, escape you,

By any Means of this my unseemly

Immodest Garb.

Jane, this strange Request, give it not Complyance

As my Servant who obeys, but as my Friend

Who loves.

Jan.

It never shall escape me. But, dear Madam,

From the earliest Time, my Memory

Can trace, my Life hath been employ'd with you;

I've been bred up with you, not under you.

You have not been a Mistress to me, but

A tender Equal. Sorrow and Servitude

Were unknown in Gordon's hospitable House;

Menial Content was the lordly Owner's

Benevolent Joy; and the Servant's Pain

Anguish'd in the kind Master's humane Heart:

Then, Madam, be not angry,

My grateful Heart, bursts to think I never,—

Never shall again behold, from this Moment,

One of Gordon's Race—my impetuous Tears

Are masterless.—I cannot stop them—they

Will gush, in spite of all my Labour to prevent 'em.

Cath.

Jane, do not wound me thus.

There is a Cruelty in this Sorrow

My Nature cannot bear. The grateful Tears

You've shed upon my Hand, melt in my Heart:

Pity's tender Anguish is in each Drop.

Jane.

They shall offend no more; for tho' they ease

My throbing Heart, yet e're they grieve my Mistress,

They shall turn to liquid Flames, and Etna like,

Destroy their own Mansion—Madam, my Fears

Inform me I shall never see you more.

That in this strange, this English Land, I shall

For ever lose my Patroness.

Again I will not importune to attend,

Or bear you Company in this strange Design.

But shou'd you command me—or give me leave

To follow, and watch at Distance, lest some

Of those hot-blooded English—

Cath.

Fear not, Jane.

Virtue knows no Danger, it is it's own Shield;

It may be assaulted, but never can be hurt:

Therefore as you regard my Peace, or Love,

Expostulate no more; but straight leave me.

Jane.

My Patroness, farewel.

And may the watchful Eye of Providence guard and direct you!

Kath.

Farewel, my tender, honest-hearted Jane.

They embrace, Exit Jane.

Poor Maid! she was ever gentle and loving;

And her tender Heart will grieve sorely,

When she shall hear that my Soul hath shook off

This galing Prison.

Now Scotland, Huntley, Daliel, Life, and Woe,

Farewell for ever. You dauntless English,

This Day, let th' aking Sighs, the mournful Tears

Of your Parents, Wives, and Children,—let your

Ravag'd Country, your Love of Liberty,

And whatever else your tenacious Souls

Hold dear,—rouse, and quicken in your honest Hearts,

This Day, that intrepid Courage, my dear Father

So oft hath prais'd in you. O let this Garb,

This Impostor Garb, allure your Vengeance

On me your supposed Invader; so shall

My Husband be the Cause of ending

The cureless Sorrow his detested Love begun.

(Trumpet) Heark I am summon'd,—

Joyful Sound! O War! Death's fav'rite Harbinger,

If ever thou had'st partial Wrath against

A single Life! Or a first Victim in

Thy raging Onset, O then, for Pity's Sake,

Let me be the cull'd Sacrifice of this

Dreadful Day! let your remorseless Agents,

Sword, Pike, Dart, Javelin, and all your fell Crew,

Swarm, and cover me with distinguishing Wounds,

That when my disfigur'd Body is found,

Memory of Friend may find no Trace of Knowledge,

To shed a Tear o're the mangled Catherine.

Trumpets at a Distance.

Again I am summond! and now,—Despair

And Danger be my Guides.

Exit.

SCENE III.

Field of Battle, Charge, &c.

Enter King, Oxford, York.

King.

Where is this Impostor, who wants a Crown?

This spurious, this Rome-hatch'd Plantagenet?

If he hath royal Blood within his Veins,

Or one Spark of English Flame about his Heart,

Now, now, while War rages, and the Blood boils,

Let him stand forth and prove himself a King.

York.

My Liege, have better Guard upon your Person,

Do not expose it thus in Danger's Front.

King.

How, York! when I am fighting for a Crown,

Wou'd you have me shew my loyal Subjects

I am unworthy wearing it? No

Forward,—Charge,—Victory,—or Death!

Exeunt, Charge, Excursions.

Charge, &c. Enter Huntley.

Hunt.

Thro' War's crimson Chaos I have fought the Impostor

But cannot reach him! if Death is not Death,

Him by my Hand— Going off meets 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 Catherine

E'er you give the fatal Blow—

Hunt.

Angels bless and guard my Child!—Fate, what art thou doing! ha! 'tis she herself—I feel her at my Heart, nature softens at her Touch.—

embraces her

The faithful Centinel starts at the Alarm,

And wakens all the Father in my Soul!

My Child! O my Child.

Sold.

Your Child!

Hunt.

Ay, my Child! Lord Huntley's Child, if thou knowest that Name.

Sold.

As well as I do my General, Lord Oxford's.

Hunt.

Then I am he,—and this my Daughter!

Sold.

Then, Sir, I am glad I have saved her Life with all my Heart. I took her for the Pretender, and thought I had had a good Prize,—but as I know my General loves and honours you, and you him, I 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 Joy

Press all at once upon my longing Heart.

I• 〈◊〉 wou'd ask

H•w •oor Scotland fares? How Daliel? How my

Father escap'd the Snares of wicked Sevez?

And if he hath yet forgiven the Disobedience

Of his Catherine?

Hunt.

Forgiven! Why thou art thy Country's Glory!

And your mourn'd Absence is the only Grievance

Scotland now bewails. Me thou hast made

Jocund as lusty Youth. My May of Life's

Return'd; and my Child again is born to me

In Nature's full Perfection. And Daliel,

The solitary, hapless Daliel, still lives,

And languishes for his betroth'd Catherine.

Hunt.

O, I have a thousand Questions to ask you. But first, what brings you to this dreadful Place, where Death and Slaughter reign? And why this vile, this impostor Garb, which had like to 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 Herbage

With English Blood, and bruise it with hostile Paces!

Ungrateful Vipers! who with Rebellion's

Intestine Sting, have wounded the Bowels To the three Leaders.

Of this fost'ring Land! the tenderest Mother,

And the kindest Nurse this World can boast.

Hence you Parricides! you unfilial Wretches!

Exeunt three Leaders.

To Execution with them strait!—for you,

To the Rebels in general.

Blind, mistaken Men, who have been ensnar'd

By these hell-bred Agents, accept the Mercy

Of your Country, whose tender Nature

Out of War's Rage, cannot bear the cool Slaughter

Of her Sons! the Wounds you have given her, she weeps

In Tears of Blood! your intended Parricide,

She grieves and pities! and her relenting

Nature punishes it with Mercy's mildest

Chastisement, Forgiveness and Repentance!

Hence, to your forlorn Families! comfort

Their disconsolate Hearts with domestic Peace;

And your injur'd Country with future Loyalty.

Exeunt Rebels.

Lord Oxford, there is

A Soldier of your Regiment, whose Face we oft

Have notic'd, to whom we are much indebted.

To his single Arm, this Day, we owe our Life.

He must be found, my Lord, and rewarded,

As becomes the Affection of a fellow Soldier;

The Gratitude and Honour of a King.

Ox.

He shall be sought, my Liege,

With utmost Diligence.

King.

Hath any Discovery yet been made, whither

The Impostor Fled?

Ox.

O, to the old Place, my Liege, the Church; the Villains accustom'd Sanctuary. The gallant Hero never appear'd in Battle; but like a politic Prince in Time of Danger, kept a loof; and at last, thought proper to make a religious Retreat to Bewley Monastery. But Lord Dawbney, hath made bold to beat it about the Abbot's Ears, and hath dragg'd thence our French-made Monarch.

King.

You see, Lord Bishop, even in the Day

Of Battle; Oxford, will have his Jest upon the Church.

York.

My Liege, it hurts not me. I am the Church's

Advocate, but as it befriend's Religion,

And the Happiness, and Freedom of our Land!

But when with Tyranny and Persecution

It perverts those Blessings

As a Priest, I disown

That Church; and as an Englishman will fight

Against it.

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 Period

At once to his Woe, and his Ambition.

Ox.

See, my Liege, where Scotland's Honour comes; feebly he drags the Remains of Life, which wasting War and Time have left him. Yet my Veterian was not unactive to Day; his biting 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 outraging

The Cure of Patience, flew to War, and this

Impostor Garment, as to the swiftest

Means of Death. In the Midst of Battle she

Was taken; and now kneels England's Pris'ner.

King.

Rise, fair Katherine; your Woes we oft have pity'd,

But we hope they now are ended. The Joy

Your Deliverance brings to Huntley's Heart,

We share in; and that Joy shall be your Ransom.

Hunt.

Thanks to your Majesty!—but here is the Man, takes the Soldier by the Hand.

Whose Humanity and Courage add Lustre

To the Soldier,—Dignity to human Nature.

This is her Deliverer; fated by

Providence this Day to stand between my Child

And Death.

King.

Or Memory plays me false,

Or thou art the Man, who this Day sav'd me

From the Highland Pole-Ax.

Sold.

So please your Majesty, I did see you sorely smote in the Battle, and down, and bleeding, that I must confess. And had a common Fellow-Soldier been in that Condition, I would have cover'd him from farther Harm if I could. But, when I saw my King in Danger, I would have lost a thousand Lives, but I would have brought him off.

King.

Honest Soul—Lord Oxford, let this Soldier

Constantly be near our Person. Let him

Command our Body-Guards,—our Battle-Axes,

As Earnest of what we farther intend him.

Hunt.

Thou dear Deliverer of my Child, let me add my Acknowledgment to thy Worth. Receive this Ring, the bright Inheritance which hath descended thro' the House of Gordon for many Generations. Wear the precious Pledge, not as a Reward, but a Mark of endless Gratitude, from a tender Father, and a loving Friend.

King.

Lord Huntley, we now will haste towards Scotland's Frontiers,

Where we will celebrate the happy Nuptials

Of royal James, and our Daughter Margaret.

Joy shall revel thro' both our Realms, and every

Subject's Heart shall abound with Happiness.

York, Oxford, Huntley, and all my Fellow Soldiers,

Shall be crown'd with Wreaths of smiling Victory;

For they have fought this Day, like true Britons;

Such as great Caesar had to cope withal;

Whose unpolish'd Courage, not all the Art

And tutor'd Discipline of War—like Rome

Cou'd conquer.

Ox.

Ay, ay, my Liege, let but the Kings of this little Nook, all act their Parts as you do yours, and I'll engage the People will never fail in theirs; let them but give us our constitutional Freedom, and we in Return will give them our Hearts and Purses; and then my Life for it, they never fail of Victory, let who will attack them.

King.

My Lord, your Remark is just; English Courage

Must be foster'd with English Liberty;

And the King's Power supported by the Peoples Hearts.

United thus, let King and Subject stand,

Shields to each other, Guardians of the Land;

Let Faction cease, Commerce and Freedom smile,

The World can't conquer then, this War-Proof Isle.

Information about this book

Title statement

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.

Macklin, Charles, 1697?-1797.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
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ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3362

ID [isbn10]

1106003616

ID [isbn13]

9781106003614

ID [TCP]

K002991.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3309539766

ID [ECLL]

0100902100

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— 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., Macklin, Charles, 1697?-1797.. [8],96p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for R. Francklin; R. Dodsley; and J. Brotherton,. 1746.. [Anonymous. By Charles Macklin.] [On Perkin Warbeck.] [Reproduction of original from the Harvard University Houghton Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN4667.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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