The tragedy of Sir Thomas Overbury: as it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, ... Written by Richard Savage, ...

Table of contents

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- TO HERBERT TRYST Esq OF THE City of Hereford.

- ADVERTISEMENT.

- PROLOGUE,

- EPILOGUE,

- Dramatis Personae.

- The Reader is desired to correct the following Errors.

- ACT I. SCENE I.

- ACT II. SCENE I. continues.

- ACT III.

- ACT IV.

- ACT V.

- Just Publish'd,

THE TRAGEDY OF Sir THOMAS OVERBURY.

FINIS.

THE TRAGEDY OF Sir THOMAS OVERBURY.

(Price 1s. 6d.)

THE TRAGEDY OF Sir Thomas Overbury: As it is Acted at the THEATRE-ROYAL in Drury-Lane, BY HIS Majesty's Company of Comedians.

Written by RICHARD SAVAGE, Son of the Late Earl Rivers.

Obsequium Amicos, Veritas Odium, parit!

Terent.

O faelix Hominum genus!

Si vestros Animos Amor,

Quo Coelum regitur, regat.

LONDON; Printed for SAMUEL CHAPMAN, at the Angel in Pallmall. M.DCC.XXIV.

TO HERBERT TRYST Esq OF THE City of Hereford.

SIR,

I Have been told, 'tis a Custom to ask Permission for such kind of Addresses; but, there is something so very mean in this Civility, to ask your Pardon for neglecting it, were to deserve your Indignation.

If Merit ought to be prefer'd, to what the World calls Greatness; if, a Sense of past Favours should be consider'd, before future Views; You, Sir, have the justest Title to this Dedication from me, were the Play a Performance more worthy Your Acceptance.

Had other Authors the Knowledge and Experience of your Virtues that I have, I should find many Rivals, when I beg leave to subscribe myself,

SIR,
Your Devoted, Humble Servant, Richard Savage.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE Importunity of the Publisher being very pressing, I omit the Preface which I intended, wherein I propos'd (by way of Essay) a Discourse on TRAGEDY: The Subject being too copious to treat of, in this short Time, I defer it, either to publish it single, or to join it with some other Work.

But, my Gratitude prompts me to declare the Obligations I have to my Best and Dearest Friend Mr. Aaron Hill, for his many judicious Corrections in this Tragedy. On that worthy Gentleman (whose Mind is enrich'd with every noble Science, and in whose Breast all the Virtues of Humanity are comprised) it will be my Pride, to offer my Sentiments, in a more distinguishing Manner hereafter.

I think it my Duty also, to return Thanks to the Town, for their favourable Reception of this Play; and for the Applause their Indulgence bestow'd on the Performance of the Young Actors: Particularly for my own Success, in a double Capacity, as Actor, and Author; I shall ever publickly confess their Generosity, as it will ever prove my secret Satisfaction.

Notwithstanding the Disadvantage this Play may have received, in the Representation, I cannot omit acknowledging a Debt of Gratitude to Mr. Theophilus Cibber, who was very careful in the Management of the Rehearsals, and endeavour'd to instruct every one concern'd in the Play; a Mechanism, which my Inexperience, as an Actor, made me incapable of.

Tho' an Author knows the Meaning of his Scenes, he may be unacquainted with a Theatrical Method, of setting 'em in the most advantageous Appearance. Example enforces Precept: and therefore Mr. Cibber junior, took the noblest Method, to improve others, by doing Justice to his own Character; and, tho' he labours under the present Disadvantage of small Stature, I can't help concurring with the Opinion of many others, that, in Action, and Elocution, he is certainly a Prodigy.

PROLOGUE,

Written by AARON HILL Esq

Spoken by Mr. CIBBER Jun.

NEW to the Stage—By no past Praises fir'd,

Young, and unfam'd, and, but, by Hope, inspir'd:

Raise us to reach that Hope's ambitious Call,

Or, with soft Pity; break our threaten'd Fall.

Small, tho' our Merit be, your Minds are Great,

And undeserv'd Applause may Worth create.

Sweetness sits, smiling, where the Heart beats true,

And they praise most, to whom most Praise is due.

Low let me court ye, to befriend our Cause!

If Justice pleads not, gen'rous Pity draws.

In a full World, our Author lives, Alone!

Unhappy—and, of Consequence, unknown;

Yet, amidst Sorrow, he disdains Complaint:

Nor, languid, in the Race of Life, grows faint.

He swims, unyielding, against Fortune's Stream,

Nor, to his private Suff'rings, stoops his Theme:

Adopts the Pains, which others undergo;

And, for your Pleasure, feels not his own Woe.

They shou'd, themselves, be pleas'd, who love to please;

And he, who fears not Mis'ry, merits Ease.

Oh!—save unfriended Virtue from Distress—

'Tis the Divine Prerogative—to bless!

Sad, for the Tragic Scene, your Hearts prepare,

Where Love kills Friendship, and awakes Despair;

Where cherish'd Mischiefs tow'r above Controul,

And warring Passions rend the tortur'd Soul!

Taught by the pictur'd Woes, which weep, to-night,

Let long-weigh'd Caution guide your Wishes right;

Slow, thro' your Eyes, give smiling Ruin Way;

Love, by That Pass, but enters to betray!

Beauty fades fast—nor will its transient Grace

Sooth the sick Bosom, when the Thought takes Place.

But, when Twin Souls each other's Transport claim,

And pant, and burn, and twist their struggling Flame,

Safe, let 'em meet, by no false Fears oppress'd;

Form'd to be one, and, till rejoin'd, unbless'd!

EPILOGUE,

Written by AARON HILL, Esq

Spoken by Mrs. BRET, in the Character of Isabella.

WELL!—'tis a shameful Breach, in Honour's Laws,

To court the Credit, and betray the Cause!

But, faithful to my Sex,—Pray, Ladies! hear me—

And, if the Poet murmurs, smile, and clear me.

He bids me say, Sir Tom was Just—Brave—Witty!

Troth! he was e'en too good for Woman's Pity—

I find, by Hist'ries of the Poor Soul's Life,

He wrote that frightful Poem, call'd—The Wife.

There, with Cold Rules, he damps the Glow of Beauty:

And fetters free-born Will, by sneaking Duty!

His Husbands are mere Tyrants—(and no Wonder!—)

They've Natural Right, he says, to keep us under.

Pleas'd—or not pleas'd—we must, it seems, lie quiet:

And rather starve to Death than mend our Diet!

Prompt, in Obedience, wait the Sovereign's Motion,

And do, or suffer, with resign'd Devotion!

'Tis a fine Lesson, truly!—Blast Sir Thomas—

Or—Keep the galling Yoke of Wedlock from us!

Cou'd Wives but once such Passive Grace inherit,

Bless us!—what Active Husbands wou'd they merit!

This the fine Overbury! whose just Fate

You've seen, to Night, dress'd out, in Tragic State!

He make a Hero!—He attract Compassion!

Heaven keep these witty Husbands out of Fashion!

Had he been mine, I'd paid him for his Poem:

And made him feel, what Thanks we Women owe him!

Though Lovers please—and mine is a stark New one,

My feign'd Sir Thomas suffers, for the True one:

Bless'd be the Dose, by which our Match miscarry'd;

Heavens!—how I'd hated him, had we been marry'd!

As to my Errand,—E'er your Smiles I pray,

Thus, make him mend the Moral of his Play:

Trust not repenting Somerset's Opinion,

Nor strive to shake our Sex's fix'd Dominion.

Woman does, ev'n in yielding, Conquest gain,

And Man, howe'er contending, toils in vain!

Learn, ye lost Things! for Disobedience, hated,

To what sure Suff'rings rash Mens Lives are fated!

Wisely, be rul'd:—move on, the Way we draw ye—

And let due Sense of Power superior awe ye!

Else, will your Ev'ry Woe be still kept waking,

And your proud Hearts, waste half an Age in breaking:

Care shall corrode your Thoughts—Despair invade ye!

Dangers rise round!—And Horns want Power to shade ye!

Dramatis Personae.

- MEN.

Earl of Northampton,

Mr. Bridgwater.

Earl of Somerset,

Mr. Cibber, Jun.

Sir Thomas Overbury,

Mr. Savage, the Author.

Sir Gervas Elloways,

Mr. Keith.

- WOMEN.

Lady Frances Howard Niece to the Earl of Northampton, formerly Wife of the Earl of Essex, divorced from him, and afterwards married to the Earl of Somerset,

Mrs. Campbell.

Isabella, An Orphan, under the Guardianship of the Earl of Somerset, in Love with Sir Thomas Overbury,

Mrs. Bret.

Cleora, Confident to the Countess of Somerset, secretly a Friend to Isabella,

Mrs. Davison.

- Officer, Guards, and Attendants.

SCENE LONDON.

The Reader is desired to correct the following Errors.

PAG. 3. lin. 23. for short, r. soft, P. 8. l. 27. for Shade, r. Stalk. P. 9. l. 9. for Sky, r. Sun. P. 12. l. 14. for Lightning, r. Lightnings. P. 13. l. 12. for part, r. pant. P. 15. l 24. for the smiling, r. her smoking. P. 16. l. 27. for Men, r. They. The last three Lines of that Speech should be omitted, being printed before in the first Scene. P. 24. l. 16. for Followers, r. Follower. Ibid. l. 17. for haunt, r. trace. P. 41. l. 8. after me, add to.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Earl of Northampton and Sir J. Elloways,

Nor.

HOW chearfully hath this Day's Light broke forth!

The new-risen Sun, drest rich in Orient Beams,

Beholds, with Triumph, the late Wife of Essex

Transplant her Beauties, from his barren Shade,

To flourish by the Heat of Love and Somerset.

Ell.

Never shall I forget the tempting Bride!

Such dazling Lustre sparkled from her Eyes,

That the proud Gems she wore shone dim beneath 'em;

Inviting Warmth glow'd lovely on her Cheeks,

And from her Tongue flow'd such melodious Sounds,

That list'ning Rage grew gentle as her Accents,

And Age was Youth again by looking on her.

Nor.

Yet, tho' her Features are as soft as Air,

Strong Passions urge her Mind to manly Daring!

Work'd up by Nature with unusual Strength,

Vengeance, Ambition, and the Warmth of Greatness

Swell in her Soul, and lift her above Woman.

Ell.

That Overbury who oppos'd this Marriage,

Will frown on its Conclusion—He's your Enemy!

When corresponding with the Court of Rome,

'Twas he who intercepted dangerous Letters.

Nor.

He did, nor think that I forget he did it:

My Genius, baleful as a Comet's Blaze,

Hangs o'er his Head, and burns with red Revenge!

Nay, he's my Rival too!—That fiery Thought

Glows in my Breast; and as I weigh my Wrongs,

I swell like Aetna, when her sulph'rous Rage

Bursts o'er the Earth, and rolls in Floods of Fire.

Ell.

Your Isabella, Somerset's fair Charge,

Is sure an Abstract of divine Perfection!

While Overbury's Love, like a black Cloud,

Cuts off, and intercepts the glittering Prospect.

Nor.

Oh! name it not—It must not, shall not be!

Old as I am, I'll snatch the Pleasure from him;

And Love and Policy shall join to crush him.

Ell.

You know her Charms are Somerset's Disposal.

Warm in the Lustre of our late Queen's Graces,

'Tis strange to mark the Power of Time to change us,

Her Father shone the Favourite of the Court;

But when his Day of Hope at length declin'd,

Drove by his Enemies, he fled to Scotland,

Pine'd there, and chill'd with Sorrows, died an Exile.

Nor.

'Tis well—But I have News more worth relating!

Wade the Lieutenant of the Tower's displac'd.

Ell.

May I remind your Lordship of a Promise?

Nor.

Thou need'st not, Ell'ways, I so truly prize thee,

That were my Mind big with my Country's Fate,

With Plots, which, known, would blast my Life and Honour,

I shou'd, I think, unfold 'em to thy Friendship—

Of that hereafter—See the Bride approaches!

[Ex. Ell.

Enter the Countess of Somerset.

Nor.

Hail to those Charms that smile upon the Morn,

And sweetly gild it, like a milder Sun!

May Joys, in Circles, dance away your Days!

And Length of Years sustain your Bridal Pleasures!

Fair Somerset! now happy too, and great!

Blest with Perfection to the height of Thought!

The Worth that could deserve Beauty like your's,

Insures soft Bliss, and heaps long Life with Pleasure.

Count.

Thus—while a Lover, talk'd my Somerset,

His Words fell short like hov'ring Flakes of Snow,

And in cold Tremblings melted on my Bosom!

But now alas—.

Nor.

You cannot, sure, suspect him.

Count.

He has alarm'd

A Pride that catches the first Spark, and kindles!

To be forsaken, is a Thought of Horror!

Oh! it wou'd grate the Woman in my Soul,

To have my Pride subdu'd, and make me mad!

Tho' but last Night our Nuptials fix'd him mine!

Starting this Morning from my slighted Arms,

Thought seem'd to press his Mind! Sighs heav'd his Bosom!

And, as repenting of his Wish possess'd,

Full in the blushing Dawn, he rose and left me.

Nor.

There is a Damp, I know, that clouds his Joys,

A Vapour which your Warmth might soon disperse.

Count.

What points my Uncle at?

Nor.

I'll speak it plainly—

Overbury!—

That restless Foe of ours—your Husband's Friend!

This Morning is expected.

Count.

Overbury!

Then aid me, Indignation—Rage—and Vengeance!

Nor.

Wisely you call on Rage for its Assistance,

Justice would be too slow for your Revenge,

And Conscience bids us give it up for ever!

But what is Conscience?—a thin empty Name,

That terrifies, like Ghosts, by Fancy rais'd.

Ev'n the most Brave use Stratagems in War,

And what are Plots against a private Foe,

But Self-Defence!—the first great Rule of Nature!

Count.

My Lord, I see to what your Counsel leads me!

I am a Woman! nay, a Woman wrong'd!

And when our Sex, from Injuries take Fire,

Our Softness turns to Fury!—And our Thoughts

Breathe Vengeance and Destruction.

Nor.

Spoke like yourself!

Count.

Oh! I'm transported with inspiring Heat!

You know I never lov'd the Earl of Somerset,

'Twas Interest, 'twas Ambition won me to him;

And there's one Thought, I own, has rack'd my Peace,

The only one I e'er conceal'd from you.

Nor.

Instruct me—It may serve us as a Plan,

From which I'll raise a Pile of tow'ring Mischief,

Shall nod with watchful Horror o'er his Head,

Till, tumbling, it shall crush him into Ruin.

Count.

Know then, with shame I speak it, I have lov'd him!

Nor.

Lov'd whom?—not Overbury?

Count.

Yes! lov'd him more than I detest him now!

Each Thought, Look, Gesture has confest the Folly!

Nay, I have wrote—Oh Heav'n! I know not what!

Reason was fled!—and every Thought was Madness!

And now he may betray me!

Nor.

May! he will—

These Letters must be artfully won from him:

Succeeding, we stir Somerset against him;

Revenge, with Transport then, would sweeten all,

The Rage of slighted Love—urge that discreetly,

I know the Temper of your Lord—'twill fire him—

Touch but that Point, and Jealousy pleads for you—

But mark! he comes, and seems amus'd and pensive,

'Tis fit we part—anon we'll fix our Scheme.

[Exit Count.

Enter Earl of Somerset.

Som.

A kind good-morrow to my honour'd Uncle!

Now Fortune seems to smile in earnest on me;

This last Night's Blessing crown'd my warmest Wish,

And kindling Fancy from the Thought takes Fire!

Oh! my good Lord! Language gives way beneath it,

The Painter's Colours, and the Poet's Art

Cou'd touch but a faint Image of my Joys.

Nor.

And yet, if I mistook you not, at Entrance,

Your Looks were low'ring, and your Bosom labour'd!

Thro' the gay Smile of your dissembled Joy,

I saw th' obscuring Shade which wrap'd your Soul.

Som.

Sure you mistook!—I think I was all Rapture!

How I adore your Niece—be witness, Heaven!

Witness ye soft Desires! that swell my Veins,

And beat but to the Music of her Love—

Dearly I love her! to Distraction love her!

Nor Words can speak—nor Thought can feel my Passion!

But—Oh! Northampton!

Nor.

Speak.

Som.

I have a Friend

Dearer than Life! and, as my Honour, precious!

Our Wishes and our Interests are the same!

Friendship has join'd us in so strict a Band,

As if one parcel'd Soul inform'd us both!

Yet he—

Nor.

Let not his partial Hate of her perplex you!

A Wise becomes the truest, tend'rest Friend,

The Balm of Comfort, and the Source of Joy!

Thro' every various Turn of Life the same.

For Men, they are not as they were of old—

Oft their Professions are the Arts of Interest!

You'll find the Friendship of the World is Show,

Mere outward Show! 'Tis like the Harlot's Tears,

The Statesman's Promise, or false Patriot's Zeal,

Full of fair Seeming, but Delusion all.

Som.

Not so—then might I think you not my Friend!

Shall I, because I live in faithless Times,

Distrust a vertuous Man, or shou'd I slight

A faithful Fair-One, 'cause her Sex are false?

If these are Maxims, Ties can bind no more!

All that is humane is for ever lost,

And Brutes are ev'n as we are.

Nor.

Come, my Lord!

This Overbury! he's the Thorn that gauls you!

Trust me, I know him well—He has a Soul

Too harshly form'd for such endearing Friendship.

Som.

Greatly you wrong him! I have found him tender

As first-made Mothers to their erring Infants,

Firm to his Prince, and faithful to his Country;

A braver Subject England never boasted,

Nor Man a nobler Friend than Overbury.

Nor.

Can he be justly call'd your noblest Friend,

Yet sacrifice your Bliss to private Malice?

Let not a Show of Friendship make you wretched,

Nor break the Bands which Heaven and Love have made.

Som.

Know you, my Lord, so little then of Somerset,

That you can wrong him with so poor a Thought?

My Wife! to tell you but how much I love her!

'Twou'd, like Eternity, admit no End.

Nor.

I've done—your safe Discretion be your Guide.

[Exit.

Som.

A Wife! a Friend! Oh! they include all Joys!

And Love and Friendship are so near a-kin,

They shou'd, like Poetry and Music, join!

Each form'd to grace the other—Why, then, in me,

Why, in my Breast, shou'd Friendship jar with Love?

Enter Sir Thomas Overbury.

Som.

Fly to my Arms—Welcome as Ease to Pain,

As Health to Nature, or Relief to Want!

Over.

O Somerset! engraft me on thy Bosom!

Each Day of Absence seem'd a ling'ring Age!

But I have hasted ev'n to outstrip Time!

Left the dull Hours behind me as I flew,

And reach'd the Goal of all my Wishes here.

Som.

Friends, who thus meet, possess so soft a Bliss,

That none, but those, who taste, can guess our Joy.

Over.

May ours live to the last Verge of Being!

Nay, ev'n in Death! for then, if Thought remains,

Shou'd mine but meet a Soul in Worlds to come,

Whose generous Flame sublim'd it from the rest,

I shou'd be apt to call it—Somerset!

But tell me—for my Mind has dwelt upon thee,

Has thy fond Heart regain'd its Liberty?

Does the late Essex yet appear herself?

Or art thou still bewitch'd with her Inchantment?

Som.

Alas! thou know'st not what a Lover feels.

Over.

Have I a Soul for Friendship, not for Love?

There's one who knows my Softness but too well!

Knows how her Beauty fires! her Vertue charms me!—

Essex, I see, still hangs her Witchcraft round thee.

Som.

Wou'dst thou but view her with impartial Eyes!

Over.

Why, I confess she's fair, and, when she talks,

Inchanting Softness melts upon her Tongue,

And flows in Seas of Mischief!—She has Beauty,

Which spreads and blooms like a fresh-opening Flow'r!

But poisonous Adders lurk beneath its Shade;

And from such Briars shoots this lovely Rose,

It wounds the Touch which it invites to crop it.

Som.

But, let me beg thee, if thou lov'st thy Somerset,

If Friendship makes my Peace of Mind thy Care,

No more to shock me on this tender Point

Over.

'Twere Flattery all, not Friendship to comply!

The Wound can ne'er be cur'd that shuns the probing!

Kind is the Hand that wipes the Dust from Virtue,

And Counsel is a Friend's peculiar Office.

Som.

Trust me, my Friend, that Counsel comes too late.

Over.

Hear me!—for, as I love thee, I will speak!

What tho' her outward Charms attract the Eye,

Vertue, the Gem within, is long since faded!

Her Fame, like Flesh, that blackens in the Sky,

Is blown and bloated by the Breath of Thousands.

Now, as a Man, weigh well e'er you resolve,

For when a Woman's Reputation's gone,

All that repenting Virtue can inspire,

Can never fix it in its State again.

Som.

Cruel Report, I know, has wrong'd her Worth!

Envy still feeds upon the fairest Fruit,

And spreads its Poison on the Wings of Vertue;

It blinds ev'n Overbury to accuse her.

Over.

My Lord, my Lord, I am no Stranger to her!

Her Tryal with her late wrong'd Husband Essex!

Her loose Pretensions for that wish'd Divorce!

I know it all!—and, by my Soul, I think,

Dear as I love thee, could'st thou stoop so low

As to receive that Wanton to thy Arms,

'T wou'd shake my Friendship so—I cou'd not scorn thee—

But e'er I'd see thy Shame—I'd range the World,

And leave thee to the Ruin thou'rt so fond of!

Should'st thou! alas!—what mean those starting Tears?

Big Drops of Sweat—dead Paleness—trembling Limbs!

Signs of some strong Confusion!

Som.

O my Friend!

I must not—cannot hide a Thought from thee!

She, from whose Charms your Friendship wou'd dissuade me,

Is now my Wife.

Over.

Your Wife!

Som.

My much lov'd Wife.

Over.

Oh! what are Men who love!—My Lord, I've done!

One Sigh to Friendship only—and no more!

All those convulsive Starts that shock thy Frame,

Were the prophetic Warners of my Fall.

Som.

Said'st thou! thy Fall! fall first a thousand Somersets.

Over.

That I still love thee—witness this Embrace!

Witness these Tears!—but from this fatal Hour,

Join'd, as you are, to her—we part for ever.

Som.

O stop—repent—recall those hasty Words!

What! part for ever!

Over.

For ever our Alliance, not our Love.

Som.

I fear I have no Friend—but Overbury.

Over.

You have a Wife, and Friendship is her Office!

It stings my Soul to see thee thus betray'd,

And my foreboding Heart e'en bleeds with Pity!

All that is left me now is to avoid thee,

And not to see, what, but to hear, will kill me.

Farewell, my Lord—may ceaseless Blessings wait you.

[Exit.

Somerset alone.

Som.

Sorrow, eternal Sorrow claims me now!

All happy Fortune flies for ever from me!

Whate'er's worth wishing for on Earth, I've lost,

Life is a Dream, disturb'd by constant Cares,

And he, who is not lov'd, finds Death a Blessing.

Friendship's dear Ties for generous Souls were made,

When they relax, black Woes our Peace invade!

Friendship from every Ill can Life defend,

Our Guardian Angel's but a faithful Friend.

[Exit.

ACT II. SCENE I. continues.

Isabella, Cleora.

Cleo.

WHY, Isabella, are these Sighs of Sorrow,

While crouding Joys invite your blooming Youth?

Love rears a thousand little tender Fears,

Fate, with a Smile auspicious, bids you hope;

To fear is to distrust a Power Supreme,

The watchful Guard of Vertue in Distress.

Isa.

Have I not cause to fear a thousand Ills?

Cleo.

No! your lov'd Overbury comes to chear you,

Then let weak Malice work up threatning Mischief,

Soon shall the Fairy Structure melt away:

Tho' Somerset's new Bride tries every Wile

That slighted Love (to Hatred turn'd) can practise,

Her Soul's chief Secrets she unfolds to me,

As I to you disclose 'em.

Isa.

Kind Cleora!

Our Friendship grew and ripen'd with our Years!

When forc'd to lose thee at my Father's Death,

How mournful was our Parting? I bless'd the Chance,

When I beheld thee, with my Guardian's Bride,

Companion of her Hours.

Cleo.

Of me no more;

Now let your Overbury fill your Thoughts,

And every Accent swell with Sounds of Love.

Isa.

Oh! my Cleora! he will ne'er be mine,

A dreadful Dream last Night has warn'd my Soul:

Love had (methought) ordain'd our Nuptial Rites,

But sudden, while before the Priest we stood,

A low'ring Cloud hung o'er the Temple's Roof,

And, with slow Horror, spread a fleecy Darkness.

From its black Center burst a rattling Shower,

The lab'ring Air groan'd, big with rolling Thunder.

Red, thro' the gather'd Gloom, flash'd Lightning broke,

And the rent Veil-let in a dreadful Glare,

Which, with portentous Quiverings, gleam'd upon us!

The Altar totter'd—and the Lights grew dim—

A hollow Wind sigh'd cold—and from their Graves

Pale Ghosts stalk'd shadowy, and scream'd hideous round me.

But Oh!—around my Love fierce Brightness glitter'd,

A Fire, triumphant, curl'd about his Form,

And, winding upward, snatch'd him from my Sight.

Cleo.

Yet he's not lost—See! where he smiling comes!

Let me not stay to interrupt your Joys.

[Exit.

Enter Overbury.

Over.

O take me, take me, to thy Heav'nly Bosom!

Here let me pour out all my hoarded Thoughts!

Here tower my Joys! my Cares be here dispers'd!

Isa.

I have a thousand tender things to say!

A thousand Doubts at once to be resolv'd!

Three tedious Months have heavily roll'd on,

And not one Thought, perhaps, has chid thy Stay:

But while thy Voice so sweetly strikes my Ear,

My Joys revive, and melt away my Sadness.

Over.

Let my Soul bless the Music of those Words!

My Heart breaks rapt'rous at the softning Sound!

I feast my famish'd Eyes upon thy Smiles!

I touch thee—and am lost in Extasy!

A Tide of thrilling Joy flows thro' my Veins,

I part with Pleasure, and I burn with Love.

Isa.

I cannot, if I wou'd, disguise my Thoughts,

Tho 'tis, perhaps a Fault to look thus kindly:

But, Oh! beware!—for thou hast dangerous Foes!

Beware Northampton, who pretends to love me!

Beware the Woman who deludes thy Friend!

Watchful I strive to counterplot their Mischief,

And guard thy Vertue from impending Danger!

Over.

Oh! thou rich Source of everlasting Pleasure!

Virtues rise mix'd, and sparkle in thy Soul:

One glittering Charm pursues another's Shine,

As, while I cut those Seas which brought me near thee,

Sweet Sun-reflecting Waves roll'd glassy on;

And this no sooner kiss'd the Shore, and dy'd,

But a new Follower 'rose, and swell'd as lovely.

Enter Northampton.

Nor.

Why start you, Madam?—at a Lover's Presence,

Unveil your clouded Beauty—since, this Morning,

A smiling Sun looks gay on our Friend's Nuptials.

Isa.

My Lord, I want the Courtier.

Nor.

Not the Woman!

I see a too successful Rival near you—

Sir, I shou'd speak you welcome—You are happy—

But, Madam, since your Charms may be neglected,

For Boys, unskill'd, find Gems, whose Worth they know not!

When such your Fortune proves, think of Northampton,

And smile, tho late, on one who lives to love you.

Over.

My Lord, this Injury but provokes my Scorn,

The next may move my Anger.

Nor.

Am I threaten'd?

A way—thou buzzing Insect of the Court!

Over.

Reproaches are too mean for brave Mens Anger,

Or I could sting thy Arrogance with talking!

Be wise! nor urge my Sword against thy Meanness,

Worn for a nobler Quarrel.

Nor.

Sir, 'tis well!

When we meet next, what now remains to say,

May be debated.

Over.

At your speediest Leisure.

[Leads off Isab.

Northampton solus.

Nor.

Well, Overbury!—thou dost right to spurn me!

If Plots have Power, if Oaths have force to crush thee,

If there's a Magic Spell beneath the Moon,

Or Poison can be drawn from baneful Plants,

Then Horror, from my Fury, light upon thee!

Enter Countess of Somerset.

Count.

My Lord, I know not if I'm yet betray'd!

My Foe shot by me with a gloomy Brow,

Nor bow'd his Head in passing.

Nor.

Saw you your Lord?

Count.

I did; and strangely mov'd!

The usual Sweetness of his Nature's lost,

With folded Arms he traverses the Room,

Now red!—now pale! big on his watry Eyes

Prompt Tears stand trembling—speak to him, and he sighs!

Or shakes his Head—and groans an hollow Answer!

Then, on a sudden, starts!—and flies Observance!

Nor.

Now is the Time to fire him to our Purpose!

Their Friendship broke, I have a further Plot—

E'er Night this Overbury sees the Tower.

Count.

Woolsey nor Burleigh e'er projected better.

Nor.

Haste we to execute Resolves of Weight.

An active Fire shou'd quicken vast Conceptions!

For, when Delay's cold Influence chills our Schemes,

Some adverse Fate comes, like a furious Blast,

And kills 'em e'er they ripen into Action.

Count.

O! I can match thee with an equal Flame,

Not e'en the Soldier's Fury, rais'd in War!

The Rage of Tyrants, when Defiance stings 'em!

The Pride of Priests, so bloody when in Power!

Are half so dreadful as a Woman's Vengeance.

Nor.

'Tis a warm Thought, and fires the mounting Soul!

Revenge dares strike at every thing—

Rivers of Blood mark out the smiling Way!

And Kingdoms flame to give her Triumphs Lustre!

Welcome, dread Vengeance! as I weigh my Wrongs,

I swell like Aetna, when her sulph'rous Rage

Bursts o'er the Earth, and rolls in Floods of Fire.

Count.

Let the Priest-ridden Vulgar worship Vertue!

Thou virtuous Overbury, sleep, and dream!

Dream of Philosophy, and puzzling Honour!

Of heavenly Visions, and immortal Shadows!

Till slow Revenge leaps suddenly upon thee,

Then start!—behold who strikes! and so expire!

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Nor.

Soft! the Earl comes!—be on the nicest Guard!

Prove thy Success but vast as are thy Wishes,

Thy Name shall swell on Fame's immortal Voice,

A Wonder among Women—

[Ex.

Count.

He comes!—now aid me, all my Sex's Falshood!

Enter Somerset musing.

Som.

Men say, our Thoughts distinguish us from Brutes!

Wou'd I had never thought!—I had then been happy!

Reflection rivets Woe upon the Wretched!

Thought teaches me to feel a Friend's lost Worth!

When we have Friends, to them we trust our Griefs,

Our Care lies lighten'd, and the Mind sleeps calm:

To me, that Comfort 's lost!—I have no Friend!

Oh! I cou'd pine away this wretched Life!

Lean, like a Willow, trembling o'er a Brook!

Sigh with the Winds! and murmur with the Stream!

Count.

His Heart seems press'd with Care. [Aside.] My gentle Lord,

Why leave you thus the Gaiety of Friends?

And why has grinding Grief usurp'd your Soul?

Som.

I found myself disorder'd, and I left you—

Oft am I thus—Leave me, I'll soon return.

Count.

Oh! my dear Lord, I am not soon deceiv'd,

Those care-bent Brows suit not a Bridegroom's Face!

Are folded Arms the Gestures of Delight?

Or these sad Groans the Voice of inward Joy?

No, no—consider, I am now your Wife!

'Tis mine to ease your Cares, and bring you Comfort!

If you have Sorrows, I must claim my Part;

I sink not soon beneath a Weight of Woe—

If you deny me this, you love me not.

Som.

Not love thee! say'st thou? Oh! thou Soul of Somerset,

Cou'd those bright Eyes be turn'd into my Breast,

There wou'd you see how your Suspicion wrongs me!

Let me look nigh!—let me gaze here with Wonder!

Where's Friendship now? Why, Reason yields to Beauty!

What tho' the Crimes, of which her Foes accuse her,

Glar'd, broad as Daylight, on my startled Soul,

Angels play smiling in her wanton Eyes,

And lend an Awe to Lightness—Love reigns round her,

And when she speaks—the softest, sweetest Music

Melts in her Voice, and charms away my Grief.

Count.

Oh! with what Art you sooth my fainting Spirits!

Then I am still your dear, your much-lov'd Wife—

Why do I ask? those Eyes confess I am!

But tell me—for you shou'd impart your Cares!

Why are you thus?

Som.

Oh!

Count.

Nay, again you're cruel!

Still when I strive to search the Cause, your Voice

Sinks from the Point, and answers with a Groan.

Som.

What Cause?—I told thee I had been disorder'd—

Thy Fears are the wild Coinage of thy Fancy,

A subtle Self-Tormentor!

Count.

'Tis well, my Lord!

I guess to whom I owe my Loss of Power;

You have a Friend can tell you Tales of Honour,

And teach you how to triumph o'er a Wife,

Who has, indeed, had Faults—but whose chief Crime

Is loving you, perhaps, with too much Fondness.

Som.

What dost thou mean?—what Friend?

Count.

Why Overbury!

I know your Tutor chides your faulty Conduct!

Go then, and make your Peace—be meekly penitent,

Promise to err no more—and he'll forgive you.

Som.

Hear me, sweet Tyrant!—By my Life, I swear

Thou'rt dear to me, as Crowns to the Ambitious!

Dear as these Eyes, which tremble on thy Charms,

Or, as this Heart, which akes with Joy and Anguish.

Count.

Then I must tell you, Sir, your Friend's a Villain!

Som.

Have a care!

Let not thy Rage transport thee to Detraction.

Count.

Oh! were I but to speak his base Attempt!

Som.

What base Attempt?

Count.

No matter what it is!

I, sure, may be allow'd some Secrets too!

Som.

Nay, this is wrong!—to brand him first with Villain!

Then, in a dusky Phrase, elude the Charge!

Truth seldom lies conceal'd in Mystery,

Clearly to Reason, she reveals her Light,

And Errors vanish, like a Mist, before her.

Count.

Why—what if he design'd against my Honour?

Som.

Your Honour! 'tis impossible!—

Count.

Form all, that treacherous Guilt wou'd dare to act,

And sum it up in this pretended Friend.

Som.

I prithee do not make me mad!—speak plainly!

Count.

Knowing your Passion, he durst urge his own—

He told me you were false!—designing!—jealous!—

Try'd every Art of Treachery to supplant you;

And when he found his Wiles were unsuccessful,

Attempted Force, and threaten'd me with Slander.

Som.

Force!—Slander!—thou hast warm'd me!—think once more!

He cou'd not be so base!

Count.

He was.

Som.

Impossible!—

E'er yet my Fury mounts into a Blaze,

E'er I upbraid him with these black Designs,

I charge thee do not tax him wrongfully;

For thou may'st open such a Scene of Horror,

'Twill shake thee to behold it!

Dare you confirm it with an Oath?

Count.

I will.

Som.

Nay, but weigh well what you presume to swear!

Oaths are of dreadful Weight—and, if they're false,

Draw down Damnation—those who murder Fame,

Kill more than Life-Destroyers—Think again!

For, at that Day, when each must stand arraign'd,

Their Lots will fall in the severest Fires.

Count.

By all my Hopes,

What I have said—

Som.

No more—I must believe you—

Believe you, said I?—what must I believe?

If you prove false!—if you traduce my Friend!

And wrong my Faith! may Sorrow blast thy Beauties!

May Conscience rise in all her dreadful Triumph!

Scare every Sense! and strike thee with Distraction!

Yet, sure thou'rt true! those Eyes which shine so sweetly,

Can wear no dusky Stain of barbarous Falshood!—

What then must Overbury be? Reflection

Sickens with Doubt, and dies in dark Confusion.

Count.

My Lord—

Som.

Thou need'st not speak—I said I would believe thee;

Thou art my Life, the Fountain of my Joy!

Yet, let me think!—Force!—Slander!—yes, 'tis so!

He's false! he's false!—Curse on all treacherous Friends!

Count.

Nay, but I meant not, thus to fire your Anger!

Forget a Friend's first Falshood.

Som.

Never! never!

No—tho this Day was vow'd to Peace and Love,

Tho' Crouds of noble Guests have grac'd my Joys,

Nay, tho' our King shou'd add his sacred Presence,

My Fury brooks no Stay—my Fame! my Honour!

Both are concern'd, and rouze my Soul to Vengeance.

Enter Northampton.

Nor.

Why are the Bride and Bridegroom thus retir'd?

Crouds of all Ranks press in to join your Pleasures!

And every Instrument of Music vies

To sound sweet Notes, and swell the Hours of Love.

Som.

Alas, my Lord! even Harmony grows harsh!

Thought 's out o' tune, Discord has struck my Ear,

And my Soul jars within me.

Nor.

What's the Cause?

Som.

'Tis a vile World, Northampton!

The Oaths of Friendship, like those made to Girls,

Are meant but to betray, and broke o' course.

Nor.

This I knew well before—but who has wrong'd you?

Som.

The darkest of all Villains—a false Friend!

But as I am a Man, I will revenge it!—

Oh! what a Change has my poor Heart sustain'd!

But a few Moments since, this Man's lov'd Memory

Sat soft, as brooding Halcyons, on my Soul;

Now my rouz'd Rage cou'd hunt him in full Scent,

Till his last Dust were scatter'd in the Air,

And driven, like Chaff, before the angry Wind.

Nor.

My Lord, this seems th' Extravagance of Passion!

When Anger rushes, unrestrain'd, to Action,

Like a hot Steed, it stumbles in its way!

The Man of Thought wounds deepest, and strikes safely;

Premeditation makes his Vengeance sure,

And levels it directly to the Mark.

Som.

I cannot, like a Courtier, kill with Smiles!

My Fury scorns to glow, conceal'd in Embers:

No; it shall blaze abroad with flaming Lustre!

If I must fall, why I was born to die,

And fall as a Man shou'd—If I revenge me,

I right my injur'd Honour, as I ought.

Nor.

My Lord, this Stream must have another Course:

This Overbury—

Som.

Said'st thou Overbury?

Now, by my Soul, there's Magic in the Name,

And my charm'd Rage grows still as Midnight Silence!

Why wou'dst thou speak it?—Let me not dwell upon him!

Talk of false Friendship! of abandon'd Honour!

Of Hate! Revenge!—Distraction!—

But spare that Name—at which my Fury melts,

Or Guilt will smile, like sweet-ey'd Innocence.

Count.

My Lord, I wish you cou'd surmount your Anger.

'Tis nobler to forgive, than to revenge.

Som.

Dost thou plead too—why—he has wrong'd thy Fame!

E'en to my Ear has wrong'd it!—generous Charmer!

Nor.

Your Frowns will blast what sprung but by your Smiles.

Som.

I'll think a while—your Counsel shall direct me.

Thou injur'd Friendship, my griev'd Soul inspire

With awful Justice, and vindictive Fire!

Let my Revenge, to match th' ungen'rous Wrong,

Be swift, as Eagles; and, as Lions, strong!

Dreadful, as Flames, by furious Whirlwinds driven,

Or, Thunder, bursting from offended Heaven.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

Northampton and Countess of Somerset.

Nor.

THE King come here in private!—then all's right,

And, in good time, we've stirr'd your Husband's Anger.

Count.

The Courtiers are in Overbury's Interest.

Nor.

No matter—they'll desert him in his Fall;

Like Persians they adore the Rising Sun,

But, when the Great Man's Glories shrink away,

Shrubs, which grew under him, shoot up ungrateful,

And brave him in Declension—none assist him,

No kind Hand lifts him from engulphing Ruin,

But all join Strength to press him lower still—

You have not heard, perhaps, that Overbury

Courts Friendship with your Essex.

Count.

How! with Essex!

Nor.

What if he should betray your Letters to him?

Count.

The Villain dares not—

Nor.

If he does, you're lost—

What! know you of his Love to Isabella?

Count.

Oh! name it not—

It cannot be—I've fear'd, but would not find it.

Nor.

Wou'd 'twere a Secret then—but see this Pacquet,

These are his Letters to that Isabella!

Their Superscriptions wanting—happy that!

To tell how I acquir'd 'em, would be tedious!

Let it suffice, these undirected Papers

Shall bear the Force of Proofs to Somerset,

Most fatal to his Friend. Sir Gervas Ell'ways,

Who bears a weighty Part in this Design,

Is coming tow'rds us—Please to leave him with me.

I am an Exile from the Royal Presence,

But you, the King expects, should bless his Eyes.

[Exit Countess of Somerset.

That he sees Essex I am well inform'd,

And blew that Spark to raise her to a Flame.

Enter Sir G. Elloways.

Let me congratulate my faithful Elloways!

The Tower-Lieutenancy will now be yours,

For Somerset has said it.

Ell.

My kind Lord!

Nor.

Nay, I have News

That more will please you, if you love Northampton!

The Man I hate will soon be in my Power!

All the proud Steps, by which he climb'd to Greatness,

Sink from his Feet, and let him fall to Ruin.

Ell.

Can Somerset forsake him?

Nor.

He detests him—

Ell.

Prodigious Change!—this News indeed surprizes!

Nor.

To gain the Unbeliever to my Wishes,

I stirr'd his Temper with such cautious Art,

That, e'er his Judgment cou'd exert its Phlegm,

His Blood took Ferment from a Warmth of Passion:

Then, while his fiery Spirit flam'd with Rage,

In its full Heat, I stamp'd it with Revenge.

Ell.

The Depth of Wisdom flows, in all your Actions,

Like a strong Current, which, oppos'd by Piles,

Works gently thro', and saps the Mound unseen,

Till, gathering Force, it pours resistless in,

And the Bank floats before it—End you there?

Nor.

No—Overbury's Death must crown my Conduct!

Ell.

There's Danger there!—

Nor.

Not so—I've weigh'd it well!

Th'assassinating Spanish Way's unsafe.,

Suspicion were its Followers—and Suspicion

Wou'd, like a Bloodhound, haunt our Steps too near!

What think you of the close Italian's Means?

Sure, silent Poison?—Dare you be a Friend?

Ell.

I dare the worst.

Nor.

Know, then, that Somerset

Has noted Overbury as most intimate

With some, whose Zeal is mark'd against the State:

Now to inflame the King with Jealousy,

An Embassy to Russia will be offer'd him:

This Love and Policy forbid him taking,

And if he not accept it, all's confirm'd;

It speaks him plainly loth to leave his Faction,

And so he comes committed to your Care.

Ell.

The rest may be compleated easily,

'Tis but to change the doubted Officers,

And place such round him as will suit our Purpose.

Nor.

No more—be secret.

Enter Somerset.

Som.

Good Sir Gervas Elloways!

I greet you, gladly, with your new-giv'n Honour,

Which the King's Pleasure, thus, confirms, by me.

[Delivers a Commission.

Ell.

My Lord, you bind me ever to your Service.

Som.

Oh—my Northampton!

Nor.

Why that Sigh, my Lord?

Som.

I have been thinking, when we lose a Friend,

'Tis like an Eye pluck'd from its bleeding Orb.

No more the other holds the Joy of Sight,

But, ceaseless, weeps till it grows blind with Anguish—

So mourns my widow'd Soul for Overbury!

Nor.

Why do you name him still thus tenderly?

Methinks your Wrongs shou'd rise against your Weakness,

And sting you with Reflection.

Som.

Ay, mention those, and I relapse to Fury!

My restless Thoughts drive round like veering Winds,

Forgetful of their Center—yet the Soul,

Like a soft Babe, inur'd to foolish Fondness,

Is hard to wean from wailing—Oh! forgive me!

'Tis the last Struggle of expiring Friendship!

Nor.

Your Passions late were wing'd, like vengeful Whirlwinds,

Now they sink, sighing, to a Gale of Sorrow!

Shame on your Softness—where's the Soul of Somerset?

Where's that fierce Fire which us'd to kindle in you,

And sparkle, from your Eyes, in fierce Resentment?

What! all extinguish'd?

Som.

No; I am still the same!

I've the King's Orders for this Embassy,

And Overbury's sent for.

Nor.

If he refuses,

We place him on the Pinacle of Fate!

There shall big-gathering Winds sing round his Head,

And whirl him to Destruction—Ell'ways be ready.

[Exit Elloways.

Som.

But, my good Lord, this Treachery startles me,

'Tis an unmanly Vengeance.

Nor.

Fye, my Lord!

Som.

Why, rather, not accuse him Face to Face?

And, with an open Anger, prove the Charge?

Nor.

There may be Guilt, you wou'd not wish to prove—

Look on these Letters! sent without Direction!

Artful, and safe, that Caution—Know you the Hand?—

How soft are the Contents?

Som.

Wou'd I were blind!

Nor.

Wou'd not he wrong his King who wrongs his Friend!

Come, come, my Lord—you must be won to Wisdom!

Tho' the soft Dove brood, gall-less, o'er your Breast,

Yet let the wary Serpent arm your Mind.

Som.

O Heaven! he comes!—he shocks me with his Presence!

Nor.

See!—Essex leaves him—had he been your Friend,

He wou'd not thus be seen. My Lord—farewell.

[Exit.

Som.

'Tis Death to meet him!—yet I cannot stir.

Enter Overbury.

Over.

My Lord, I come, obedient to your Summons,

The Force of Friendship oversways my Griefs,

And I must love you still.

Som.

Dissembling Villain!

[Aside.

I have a Message from the King, this Morning,

That will, I doubt, surprize you—'tis his Pleasure,

That you prepare yourself, without Delay,

For a short Embassy to Russia.

Over.

The Warning's sudden!

Som.

The Design is deep!

Perhaps too, not propos'd by your best Friends.

Over.

Now, my lov'd Lord, I'll try your Friendship's Faith!

When sick'ning Reason labours in the Mind,

Advice is the Soul's Cordial—how shall I act?

Som.

If Honesty's your Guide, you cannot stray.

Over.

If to be blest, and honest, were the same,

I shou'd not be unhappy.

Som.

He seems innocent.

[Aside.

'Tis a hard Struggle to dissemble thus!

Over.

If your Looks wrong you not, you are disorder'd!

Som.

Have you resolv'd? I wait for your Reply.

Over.

So cool in your Advice!—nay, now I read you!

Northampton and your Wife!—Serpent and Woman!

Have turn'd you 'gainst your Friend!

And your plain Mind, unfashion'd for Deceit,

Knows not to veil its Frailty.

Som.

Have a care—

Over.

What! am I threaten'd too?—ungrateful Somerset!

Have I advis'd you with a Brother's Tenderness,

Pin'd for your Peace, and made your Cares my own,

To be rewarded thus?—here end our Friendship!

And, for my Answer, I desire a Pause.

Som.

Then I must tell the King, you're not resolv'd?

Over.

That as you please—I'll serve him till I die,

Till the Reward of Loyalty o'ertakes me;

For Patriots still must fall for Statesmen's Safety,

And perish by the Country they preserve.

Som.

'Tis dangerous, thus, to tax the Royal Gratitude!—

I see you're rash, and wou'd advise you better—

If, when you touch'd me in too weak a Part,

I shrunk—'twas from quick Sense of aking Pain.

I was to blame—I knew not what I said!—

Excuse it as a Friend.

Over.

Said you, you were to blame?—if you're sincere,

My Fit of Rage, like Lightning on a Desart,

But flashes—and is lost.

Som.

Can he be false?

And yet I must not doubt—

[Aside.

Over.

What! still uneasy?

Som.

You know, I'm rais'd on Fortune's fav'rite Spoke!

If I grow giddy, I shall move away,

And roll, at once, to Ruin.

Over.

Let me guard you—

And, to be near you, not accept this Embassy—

Form some fair Cause, and urge it as my Answer.

Som.

I'll to the King this Instant, and attempt it.

[Exit.

Over.

This Message, from the King, bears some Design,

But I'm more touch'd with Somerset's Disorder!

Let me still mark him—As he passes on,

He starts!—stops short!—and ponders in suspence!—

Now he proceeds!—all this shou'd bode some Mischief!

Enter Countess of Somerset.

Count.

Now, now, support me, Pride, or I am lost!

Over.

Ha! she here!

Count.

Why start you, calm, insulting Man?

Is Love a Crime too great to be forgiven?

But thy cold Soul admits no Warmth of Passion:

I, like the Sun, darted too fierce a Blaze,

Yet, thy chill Wishes

Dawn'd some sick Hope, when Isabella's Eyes,

Like a pale Moon, gleam'd her faint Beams upon thee.

Over.

How! knows she that? [Aside.] When Honour lights up Love,

Th' illumin'd Soul burns lambent with a Flame,

Pure as the hallow'd Altars—such my Hope!

Such were the Wishes, mov'd by Isabella.

Count.

How I disdain thee!—yes, I scorn thee!—hate thee!

Thou, who cou'dst stoop to expose a Woman's Weakness,

To taint her Fame, and blast her to the World!—

All my fierce Passions rise with that Reflection,

Inward they rage—a winding Train takes fire,

The flashy Blaze runs swift thro' every Vein,

And my Brain splits with Agony.

Over.

You wrong me, Madam—I, with humblest Gratitude,

Thank'd, and conceal'd your Passion—If your Fame

Is tainted—your Divorce has caus'd it—Modesty

Must guard a Woman's Seemings—

Oh! that my Words, like the Sun's powerful Rays,

Were with Attraction arm'd—till, from your Breast,

This Flood of Frailty rose, exhal'd in Sighs,

Or flow'd away in Streams of soft Repentance.

Count.

Upbraider!

Over.

I not upbraid your Love, but your wild Passions,

Which wou'd, like envious Shades, eclipse those Beauties,

That else, with Justice, sure, must charm Mankind!

But, Madam, think—there's not a homely Peasant,

If grac'd with Innocence, tho nurs'd in Toil,

But boasts more Glory than a tainted Grandeur.

Count.

Preaching Statue!

Where are my Letters?—thou detain'st 'em poorly,

With Aim, to awe my Anger.

Over.

E'er you ask'd 'em,

Mov'd by a conscious Hope, to ease your Fears,

Honour induc'd me, thus to give 'em up.

Now, they are yours again—But their Effect

Will still live in me, and whene'er your Image

Enriches my Remembrance—the humblest Gratitude

Will teach my Heart new Tenderness.

[Gives Letters.

Count.

This generous Act has waken'd Love again,

And Pity pleads against me—What shall I do?

If I continue here, and he thus charms me,

My Scheme, at once, is Air—Like jarring Elements

My Passions war—and Thought opposing Thought,

Shakes my whole Frame, 'till I am mad with doubting.

Over.

Why are you thus disturb'd?

Count.

Can I so ill reward his generous Heart,

As to apply these Letters to his Ruin,

Which might have ruin'd me, had he with-held 'em?

And yet I must—Fate's slippery Ice has caught me,

And, if I not slide on, I sink for ever.

Let me not stay—O Wretch! Death hovers o'er thee!

He grasps a Dart, and, in pale Fury, shakes it

High o'er thy Head!—Now, now it falls, and strikes thee!

I cannot bear to see what I have caus'd.

[Ex. in Confusion.

Over.

Or I'm ensnar'd—or Madness seiz'd the Countess.

Enter Isabella.

My Isabella!

Isa.

Oh! let us join as Friends, who meet in Sorrow,

To weep!—and sigh!—and mingle mutual Woes!

Over.

What wou'd my Love's soft Fears divine of Ill,

That merits this sweet Sadness?

Isa.

Oh! I am wild! and say I know not what!—

This will explain.

Enter Sir G. Elloways, and Guards.

Ell.

Sir Thomas Overbury,

I come to bring you an unwelcome Message;

'Tis the King's Pleasure, that you stand confin'd,

Close in the Tower, a Prisoner to the State.

Over.

What have I done, that I should be a Prisoner?

Ell.

Has not the Earl of Somerset inform'd you?

Over.

The Earl of Somerset!—What dost thou mean?

The Polar Star shall be no longer fix'd,

But turn delusive to the Sailor's Eye,

Sooner than Somerset prove false to me—

May I not see my Friend?

Ell.

I dare not grant it.

Over.

No!—that's hard, indeed!

I thought I cou'd have met the worst, unmov'd;

[Turns to Isabella.

But to see thee, thus press'd with Griefs, not thine,

I cannot bear the Pangs which rend my Soul!—

Teach me some Art, but to assuage thy Sorrows,

And mine are Griefs to smile at.

Isa.

The Voice of Music can compose Distraction;

Oh! then, let thine but sooth me into Comfort;

Say something soft and kind—But whither fly you?

Perhaps to Death!

Over.

What's Death, but losing thee?

Life is a Trifle, where no Love enriches it;

And when the Guiltless die the Death of Traitors,

The Scaffold Steps, but, like the Patriarch's Ladder,

Form an Ascent to Heaven.

Isa.

Oh! talk not thus!

There's Madness in that Thought.

Over.

Nay, do not weep!

Thy Grief attracts with such a melting Force,

That my lost Soul evaporates to Air,

Glides in each Breath, and mingles with thy Sighs—

Help, Manhood, or I'm lost!—lead to the Tower.

Isa.

That Place bodes Ruin—there, the good Sixth Henry,

Clarence, and Royal Edward's Infants fell—

Such secret Death, perhaps, may prove thy Fate.

Over.

Why dost thou fright thyself at fancy'd Ills?

Isa.

I have a thousand, thousand anxious Fears!

No chearing Hope dawns thro' the cloudy Woe,

'Tis Darkness all—What will not Malice dare?

But if I must—

Over.

Oh! I cou'd gaze for ever!

Thus, when high Seas swell foaming o'er the Coast,

The Wretch, who treads the dangerous Beach, is lost;

Plung'd in his Fate, like me, he strives to rise,

And seeks the swallow'd Land with wistful Eyes!

But, as his Arms extend to reach the Shore,

The Waves o'erwhelm him, and he's seen no more.

[Exeunt severally.

ACT IV.

SCENE The Tower.

Northampton and Elloways meet.

Nor.

ELLW'AYS, be swift, for Somerset 's unsettled!

The Countess too, who, lately, urg'd his Death,

Melts in a Fit of Softness, from her Purpose;

Besure the Stream of Ruin, then, rolls rapid,

To bear him down the Tide—For, if it turns,

'Twill overwhelm us all.

Ell.

Now, by my Soul,

The youthful Warrior, flush'd with his first Hopes,

Burns not with half that Heat for Fame, and Conquest,

Which fires my Wishes to compleat your Will.

Nor.

Weston, and Franklin—are they both resolv'd?

Ell.

They are.

Nor.

Have they the Wine the Countess has prepar'd?

Ell.

They have,

And bring it, as a Present, from Earl Somerset.

Nor.

Then he, who, late, by Royal Favour shone,

That Favour veil'd, shall, straight, be dark again.

So Waters, at hot Noon, aspire in Steams,

And, thin'd by Heat, float, gay, aloft in Air!

But when the Sun's exhaling Power withdraws,

Chill'd, by the Cold of Night, they fall in Dews,

And mix with humble Dust, like Overbury.

Ell.

See, my good Lord, where Isabella comes,

To visit, in the Tower, her prison'd Lover!

Nor.

My faithful Ell'ways, watch my Rival well;

And, if your Ear catch a suspicious Sound,

Bring me immediate Notice.

Enter Isabella.

So, Madam, your proud Hero falls his Plume!

Isa.

Is that a Noble's Voice? The Brave, I thought,

Scorn'd all Advantage o'er a fallen Foe,

And rais'd him to be worthy their Revenge.

Nor.

Since there's a Storm upon your angry Brow,

I am not arm'd to meet, I must retire.

[Exit.

Isa.

So, Villains, when they gain th' Ascent of Power,

Like Ravens, pois'd before the glorious Sun,

Spread a black Cloud, and darken all beneath.

Enter Overbury, follow'd by Ell'ways listning.

Over.

Are you thus kind? blest with your lovely Presence,

A Prison is a Paradise—Sweet Mourner!

Matchless in Joy—But in thy Grief all heavenly!

In thee, as in a Dew-drop on a Flower,

A thousand mingled Beauties, glittering, play,

Which rise, as the Eye turns, in still new Prospects,

And, in each different Light, refract new Lustre.

Isa.

Why wilt thou charm me thus?—thy tuneful Voice

Floats soft, like Music, melting in the Winds!

A flutt'ring Rapture fills my trembling Breast,

Swells in each Vein, and pants with every Thought!

Yet do I view thee, with such Dangers round thee,

That ev'n thy Sight is painful!

Over.

Wer't not for thee, my Soul wou'd wing her Flight,

To rest in Realms of Everlasting Bliss!

Isa.

How know'st thou that?—Weigh first, what is the Soul!

'Tis not a Shade, that will dissolve in Air,

Nor Matter, which, by Time, can be consum'd!

Oh! then, be cautious, for the Best are frail!

Venture not rashly, on an unknown Being—

Ev'n the most perfect shun the Brink of Death,

And shudder at the Prospect of Futurity.

Over.

What means my Soul?

Isa.

A Thousand Deaths are hov'ring round thy Head!

If I have e'er deserv'd thy Love—Oh! think

Thy Guardian Angel now inspires my Tongue,

And warns thee, if thou canst, to 'scape disguis'd.

Ell.

I've heard enough.

[Exit unseen.

Over.

No; safe in Innocence, I'll dare their Malice.

To fly, wou'd be, to leave my Fame unclear'd,

My Fame, much dearer to me than my Life!

Isa.

Forgive me, if I err;

'Tis but a Fault that springs from too much Love!

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Should'st thou be lost—Oh! think upon my Griefs,

See me distracted, without Hope of Comfort,

Prophaning Heaven, rending the Air with Shrieks,

Bursting with Groans, and raving with Despair!

Over.

Why was I born to make thee thus Unhappy?

But see, where one observes!

'Tis dangerous, here, to talk—To-night farewel,

And if to-morrow blesses me again,

I shall have News to tell you.

[Exit.

Isa.

'Till then, farewel.

Enter Cleora in Haste.

Cleo.

My Friend, forgive me, if officious Zeal

Forc'd me to seek you here—your Foe, the Countess—

Isa.

What of the Countess?

Cleo.

Flies about, disorder'd:

So stung with Guilt, no Place can give her Ease:

Wild 'twixt the Sallies of Remorse and Love,

She wrote these Lines, and trusted 'em with me;

I think it not a Treachery to betray 'em.

Isa.

'Tis pious Treachery that reveals a Mischief;

'Tis Justice to yourself, and to the World.

[Looks on the Letter.

To Overbury!—How my Heart beats at it!

Cleo.

She, there, repeats, and urges an old Flame,

Proffers him Freedom, wou'd partake his Flight,

And owns the Wiles that have seduc'd her Lord.

Nay, more—The Guards are, by her Agents, brib'd,

And your Name's us'd to cover the Deceit,

That, should they fail, she might be still secure.

Isa.

Here too, she urges him to feign some Illness,

That, so retir'd to Rest, and none left near him,

She, in the silent Darkness introduc'd,

May find him in his Chamber, and instruct him,

What Means may bring him Safety—

Fate sent this Clue to unravel all her Falshood—

Flatter her artfully with his Compliance,

And, if she comes—But see, the Earl of Somerset!

Night steals upon us fast—Be sure you bring her.

[Exit Cleora.

Enter Somerset.

Som.

My Isabella!—why that mournful Brow?

Why do those Eyes, that sparkled Gladness round 'em,

Lose their keen Lustre now, and look so languid?

Isa.

Shou'd I forget, my Lord, that fatal Day,

When my dear Father's trembling Hand prest yours,

His dying Eyes, wet with paternal Tears,

While agonizing Sweats bedew'd his Face,

To you, my Lord, he rais'd his falt'ring Voice,

And gave me to your Care? Kind was the Thought,

And, pleas'd, he bade farewel—and breath'd his last.

Som.

Have I not us'd thee with the tend'rest Care,

And chear'd thy Vertue with the Smiles of Fortune?

Isa.

Oh! my good Lord, you've been a Father to me,

And 'tis for you these swelling Sighs rise sad,

And my Tears flow for Gratitude.

Som.

What mean'st thou?

Isa.

If Overbury wrong'd—

Som.

No more of Overbury!

My Child, avoid him, as thou wou'dst thy Ruin.

Isa.

You are misled—

Som.

The Subject's harsh—farewell.

Isa.

You must not go—thus, on my Knees, I beg you,

For your own sake, but hear me—you'te betray'd.

Oh! think how dear this Man was to your Soul!

By Friendship join'd, you comforted each other;

Joy crown'd your Days, your Minds were then serene,

Your Thoughts had Harmony, and you were blest.

Som.

Indeed, I thought so.

Isa.

Oh! reflect again!

Why have you cast him thus unkindly from you,

And open'd your dear Breast to vile Northampton?

Som.

Why dost thou injure, thus, my Lord Northampton?

Isa.

One, who wou'd undermine an Orphan's Vertue,

Is, sure, unworthy of her Guardian's Friendship.

Som.

And cou'd Northampton that?

Isa.

I blush t' affirm it.

Yet more your Vertue wanders in the dark!

The Countess—

Som.

Who?—I charge thee, name not her!

Shou'd I but hear a Word to taint my Wife,

'Twou'd urge me so, I might forget my Nature,

And use thee harshly.

Isa.

'Tis Death to undeceive you!

But, in the Cause of Vertue, I am arm'd

To meet all Dangers boldly—be prepar'd,

For I must wound you with such piercing Accents,

That you poor Heart, I fear, will bleed with Anguish!

Som.

Suspence is the worst Rack—speak what thou know'st.

Isa.

Read this—'twill speak all for me.

[Gives a Letter.

Som.

'Tis my Wife's Hand—ha! to Sir Thomas Overbury!

A strange Direction that! where had it you?

Isa.

From one, she trusted as her Messenger.

Som.

Sure 'tis some Mist, which Hell has rais'd to blind me!

My Eyes belye her—Let me again peruse it!

Isa.

'Tis as I thought.

[Aside.

Som.

'Tis all black Forgery!—

False Isabella!

Isa.

Who is false, my Lord?

Som.

Why thou art false—I prithee, own thou art,

For should an Angel charge her with these Crimes,

I fear, I shou'd misname that Angel, Fiend!

Isa.

'Tis but to wait her Presence, if you doubt it;

Night is already round us, and, e'er long,

She comes, conceal'd, to find him—Be you Witness,

And, then, who's false, discover—

Som.

If thou art so, fly where I ne'er may see thee!

But if thou'rt true, then I'm a Wretch indeed!

Isa.

My Lord, retire—I think, she comes already.

[Exeunt.

Enter Countess of Somerset and Cleora.

Count.

O my Cleora, whither am I going?

But thou art faithful, nor wilt chide my Frailties!

I go t'attone my Overbury's Wrongs,

To meet my Love—my Love!—What's then my Husband?

Hold Brain—resist that rushing Rack of Thought—

The Night, now brooding o'er her gloomy Shades,

Owns not a Spectre, half so foul, as I am.

Oh State of Horror! Oh Despair! O Shame!

Cleo.

Yet think—

Count.

Fain wou'd I—but all Thought forsakes me!

My Flame revives!—each Fit comes stronger on me!

Varying Convulsions torture every Nerve!

I love! I rage!—hate—fear—and love again!

And burn, and die with a whole War of Passions!

Cleo.

But, will you see him?

Count.

See him?—Oh! I must—

My Soul will have it so—the Wrongs, I meant him,

Require Atonement, more than Love can give him!

Come—guide me, my Cleora!

[Exeunt.

Enter Northampton and Elloways.

Nor.

Escaping, say'st thou?

Ell.

What I then heard, was little.

But now a trusted Yeoman of the Guard

Betray'd their whole Design of present Flight;

But why have you, thus, led me thro' the Darkness?

Nor.

The Darkness best befits my purpos'd Vengeance.

Ell.

What means my Lord by Vengeance?

Nor.

The Poison not yet given—my Sword shall end him.

Secure the Passage—bar the outward Doors,

While I resolve, within, where Weston left us.

[Exeunt.

Enter Somerset and the Countess, meeting in the Dark.

Count.

'Tis wond'rous dark! and Night wears double Horror!

Each Step, methinks, I hear my Husband's Voice!

The Creep of distant Whispers damps my Soul!

Hark! how the Thunder rolls! the Wind, too, roars!

Who's that? my Overbury?

Som.

Yet, hold my Heart!

[Aside.

Count.

You had my Letter, then?

Som.

I had—Oh Heaven!

Count.

Reach me your Hand, and lead me your Chamber!

For I have much to say—but stay—Cleora

Waits me hard by—I'll caution her a Moment,

And find you here again.

[Exit.

Som.

Why do I live?

Let me turn wild!—Or tear out my fond Heart,

That cou'd be thus far wrong'd, and not discern it!

O thou false Woman! O my injur'd Friend!

Mad, rash, deluded Somerset!

Enter Northampton from a private Door in the Back Scene; a Light within.

Nor.

Now, Overbury, die!

[Draws.

Som.

Villain!—Northampton!

[Draws.

Nor.

Save me, some Angel, from this strange Illusion!

Som.

View my Eyes well!—do they not flash with Fury?

And tell thee, that 'tis Somerset thou look'st on?

Nor.

Northampton was not born to look with Fear,

Tho' Hell blaz'd, angry, in the Eyes of Somerset.

My Honour's equal!—my Descent more noble!

Come, we mistake each other—as a Friend,

I'd moderate this Rage.

Som.

Thou Sycophant!

Thou wouldst, again, betray me to thy Friendship,

To ruin, with more Ease, my Isabella.

Nor.

Ha!

Som.

But she is Proof against thy base Assaults,

My Wife was easy, and Success there met thee,

And Overbury was to fall your Victim.

Nor.

No more—I can no longer brook this Railing;

Whate'er I do, I always dare to answer!

Let this defend it all—

[Fight, Northampton disarmed.

Som.

Why art thou living in the Power of Somerset?

I wish thee dead, but dare not kill thee basely;

Give me the Chance once more—

[Offers his Sword.

Nor.

No; take my Life;

'Tis, now, not worth defending.

Som.

Live, and repent!—and be as curs'd as I am!

Go—save me from the Pain thy Presence gives me!

Now, whither shall I wander?

[Exit Northampton. Going, meets the Countess entring.

Death and Confusion!

Count.

I heard, or I'm deceiv'd, the Clash of Weapons,

Yet was the Passage barr'd—yon Gleam of Light

Shews a drawn Sword bent hither.

Som.

Tremble at it—'tis the Sword of Justice!

Count.

Ha! let me not betray myself—'tis Somerset.

[Aside.

What mean you, Sir? methinks, your Words sound angry—

Som.

Traitress! false! foul! fickle—damn'd—lovely Traitress!

Know'st thou this Letter?—thou ungrateful Woman!

Count.

Now, I am lost, indeed!

Som.

What can thy Guilt expect?

Count.

You will not kill me.

Som.

Not kill thee, sayst thou! yes, Deceiver! hear me!

Hadst thou as many Lives, as thou hast Crimes,

My Fury wou'd reach all—wrong'd Love and Friendship,

With double Cry, demand thy Death in Vengeance.

Count.

Oh! do but hear me!

Som.

Not one Syren Word!

Count.

Oh! by the endearing Softness of that Bosom,

Look but on her you lov'd so much! so lately!

See how she pants for Life! and begs for Mercy!

Let me die, slow, some ling'ring Death of Sorrow,

But send me not to the eternal Bar,

With all my Crimes about me!

Som.

Do, Crocodile, weep on—thy Tears become thee!

Think what I suffer! think how thou hast wrong'd me!

Oh! I will stab thee!—tho' my Heart-strings burst.

Count.

Yet, but a Moment, hear me!

Som.

No—I will not;

Be dumb for ever—for whene'er you speak,

You bring a base Infection o'er my Anger,

And I, at once, grow sick with Pity—Off!

Why cling'st thou to me?

Count.

O spurn me!—drag me—

Yet my poor Limbs shall grasp thee to the last,

And ev'n my dying Groans plead soft for Pardon.

Som.

Wherefore just Heav'n, has Guilt such Power to charm?

Oh!—rise, and take those mournful Eyes away!

Thy Beauty, and my Love combine to save thee!

And my Sword turns its Point against my Purpose.

I cannot see thee bleed!—Oh! my torn Heart!

Ungrateful! go—

Fly from my Rage!—far hence, on some lone Isle,

Safe in thy Frauds, and pleas'd with Ruin, smile;

But shun these shameful Eyes, which thus deplore

Thy Loss—yet never must behold thee more.

ACT V.

Somerset solus.

HOW have I wandred thro' a Maze of Errors,

And labour'd for Destruction!—Of Mankind,

I had but one true Friend, and him, alone,

Of all Mankind have wrong'd—Reproachful Thought!

Oh! Peace of Mind! thou Bosom Balm of Nature!

Thou, that canst make the Labourer's Misery sweet,

And cause, ev'n, Smiles, amidst the Pangs of Death,

Where shall I find thee?

Enter Isabella.

Come not near me!

Let me not hear thee speak, lest I betray thee,

But fly me as a desp'rate, dangerous Villain.

Isa.

I come, my Lord, to reconcile your Soul

To the sweet Joys of Peace—

Som.

Talk not of Peace!—'tis gone! 'tis fled with Honour!

Honour once lost, can never be retriev'd!

My Thoughts are Furies all!—and turn upon me!

I feel their Whips!—They lash me with Remorse!

My Brain grows hot!—Hell glows in my mad Bosom!

Isa.

Your Friend yet knows not, how you were misled.

Som.

But there's a Sense of Shame that knows it all!

Tho' Mountains shadow'd me, they cou'd not hide it!

My red'ning Cheeks, and my moist Eyes wou'd speak it!

Let me fly, far, as the vast Ocean rolls,

Rather than see the Friend I've basely injur'd.

Isa.

Fly but to Overbury—tell him all!

And, once more met in the strict Band of Friendship,

United, rise the Pillars of your Country.

Som.

How must he scorn me, when he knows my Treachery!

I cannot bear that Thought!

Isa.

Yet the mild King—

Som.

For thy poor Father's Sufferings in his Cause,

The Royal Ear will listen to thy Pleadings:

Oh! fly, and swiftly save my Friend from Ruin!

Isa.

But, look, my Lord!—See, where the Countess comes!

Som.

What say'st thou? Ha!—I cannot bear their Presence!

Oh! for a Whirlwind's Rage, to snatch her from me!

A Hell of Mischief kindles in her Eyes,

And Horrors blaze around her!—Let's avoid her!

[Exeunt.

Enter Northampton and Countess of Somerset.

Nor.

Now, haughty Somerset, I'm well reveng'd!

My sullen Genius tow'rs, with Scorn, above thee,

And smiles at Disappointment.

Count.

My Lord Northampton,

Tho' strongly urg'd, I feel a Woman's Softness!

Revenge, Remorse, and Love divide my Soul,

Like three wild Streams, that rush against each other!

Nor.

Yet, still, be resolute,

Summon your Reason to your Passion's Aid!

Think how you're treated by your angry Lord,

Menac'd, cast off, and but Revenge can save you.

Count.

Now, you have urg'd the Flint again to sparkle,

And flash'd up all the latent Fire within me!

Die, Overbury!—Somerset!—die all!

Let the World burn to be my Funeral Pile,

And Nature groan as I do!

Enter Elloways.

Nor.

What News, Elloways?

Ell.

The Deed is done!

So deadly is the Poison he has swallow'd,

There's not a Nerve but has receiv'd its Death:

Horror, and Madness shall infect his Brain,

Till ev'ry struggling Vital, torn with Pangs,

Must burst at once, and tortur'd Life forsake him.

Count.

Mean'st thou all this of Overbury?

Ell.

Of him—We brought the Wine which you prepar'd,

As a sent Pledge of Friendship from your Lord;

Straight, with an eager Haste, he snatch'd the Cup!—

Give me the Draught, said he!—then swell'd the Brim,

And, thro' his Lips, he drain'd it to the last.

And now there's not a Health-restoring Herb,

Which the Sun smiles on, can expel th' Infection.

Count.

Was it the Wine I sent?

Ell.

Madam, it was.

Count.

Then shall I never know a Moment's Peace!

Villain, be curst!—What have we done, Northampton?

Nor.

A Deed, which is not, now, to be recall'd.

Count.

And dost thou think, Heav'n will conceal this Murder?

No!—we shall be pursu'd with hourly Vengeance!

Dreams will disclose it; or, if Night wants Eyes,

Lightning will flash, and point us out to Justice.

Nor.

Will you be mad?

Coun.

I will—you have undone me!

Plung'd me for ever in the Depth of Misery!

Hark!—there's a tell-tale Wind groans hollow under us,

And the Earth heaves with Wonder!

Nor.

Her Grief distracts her!

Coun.

'Tis false! Thy Tongue shall never more delude me!

Ha!—Murder's shriek'd already in my Ears!

Hark! Heaven rings with Murder!—the red Clouds

Rain a whole Sea of smoaking Blood upon us!

Oh! I am stain'd all over!—Murder!—Murder!

[Runs off.

Ell.

My Lord, this Fit may prove a dangerous Frenzy.

Nor.

Our Lives are set upon this single Cast.

Retire we to some safe Retreat a while,

Where we may watch th' Event.

[Exit.

Ell.

What shall I do?

Fly from my Post I cannot,—that pleads guilty!

Poor Overbury comes!

Enter Sir Tho. Overbury.

How fares my noble Prisoner?

Over.

Why just as noble Prisoners ever fare,

Like Lambs, encompass'd by devouring Wolves,

Or, harmless Birds, with Kites and Ravens round 'em.

Ell.

I cannot hear him speak—his Presence pains me.

[Exit.

Over.

I know not why, but I am shock'd of late!

My Dreams are dreadful—Be it as it may:

While Virtue arms me, what have I to fear?

This cold Clay Cottage, is but the Soul's Prison,

And Death, at worst, is but a surly Friend,

Who conquers to give Liberty.

Enter Somerset.

'Tis well, my Lord, you can at last remember me,

But had my Somerset been thus confin'd,

I had not learnt to shun him.

Som.

Oh, my Friend!

I'm not the Somerset, whom once you knew,

I'm alter'd much, of late.

Over.

Ay, thou art marry'd!

Som.

That was the fatal Rock we both have split on!

You, like a skilful Mariner, discern'd it—

But I, bewitch'd by the curst Syren's Voice,

Sail'd on, regardless, 'till we struck on Ruin.

Over.

Why—dost thou repent it?

Som.

Repent it, said you?—

Oh! I cou'd rave!—but, 'tis too late a Penitence,

For I have wrong'd thy Friendship, and undone thee!

Over.

Nay, that, I still believe, thou cou'dst not do!

Som.

Thou dost not know, how base thy Friend has been!—

Oh! that fair Devil has ensnar'd my Soul,

And stain'd it o'er with Falshood—I, led by her,

Accus'd thee to the King.

Over.

Forbid it, Heav'n!

Lest I grow sick of Life—and curse Mankind.

Som.

Oh!—'tis too true! wrought by my faithless Wife,

And curst Northampton—I contriv'd thy Ruin!

Over.

Why look'st thou, then, like Man, who art a Monster?

Som.

Yet by the Memory of our dear Friendship!

Over.

How dares thy Tonguge profane the Name of Friendship?

Haste to the King!—clear up my sully'd Fame,

Or, may'st thou always bear some Mark of Traytor,

That every one may know, despise, and shun thee.

Som.

Hear me but speak—

Over.

Why should'st thou grate my Ear?

The Bird of Death's shrill Scream—the Hiss of Serpents,

Are Music to thy Voice!—my sick'ning Soul

Faints at thy Presence—and thy Stay wou'd kill me!

Som.

Yet I must stay—'till you forgive, or pity me.

Over.

Name not Forgiveness—nor expect my Pity.

Be gone!—there's Treachery couch'd in this Delay!

Mean'st thou to bear more Mischief to the King?

Som.

Rather than pierce me with such Words as these,

Strike through my Heart, that bleeds to've done you Wrong,

Here—take my Sword—kill me—but, as I fall,

Reach me thy Hand—say, but thou hast forgiv'n me!

And I shall die in Peace.

Over.

Take back thy Sword—I wou'd not use it basely,

Thou know'st, I wou'd not—go, for ever from me!

And when I hear of an ungrateful Wretch,

A fawning Slave, who smiles, while he betrays—

Then will I think of Somerset.

Som.

Distraction!

Canst thou? but, peace—I have deserv'd it all!

Life's a Disease, which I want Strength to bear,

And wish for Death to cure me—what was I born to?

Shame on the Guilt, that bids me bear these Scorns,

And not dare think 'em Injuries.

Over.

(After a long Pause)—Oh! Somerset!

[Both stand silent: Overbury observes the Posture of Somerset.

Can all this Grief be real?

Som.

What shall I say?

Over.

Had any other thus contriv'd my Ruin,

I cou'd have borne it with a Manly Patience!

But from thy Hand! my Friend! my very Self!—

Such unexpected Wrongs have shook my Soul!

But—I forgive thee all—

Som.

Oh! Joy! Oh, Friend—

Forgive my Softness too! my Tears will flow,

While I rejoin thee, thus, to my glad Breast.

Over.

I feel my Heart bound high with throbbing Transport!

And wou'd speak more, but the slow-rising Words

Die in big, unborn Accents on my Tongue!

I feel, ev'n now, a faintish Damp all o'er me,

And I am sick at Heart—But here comes one,

Whose Heav'nly Brightness, can disperse all Clouds!

My Life! my Isabella!

Enter Isabella, running into his Arms.

Isa.

Live—live, my Overbury!

Scarce can I speak my Transport!—but the King!

The gracious King—

Over.

What of the King, my Love?

Isa.

Has yielded to my Suit in thy Behalf,

And giv'n thee Liberty!

Over.

I thank thy Goodness!

And Blessings croud about his Royal Head,

Who heard my Isabella's Prayer with Pity.

How my Soul swells with Ecstasy!—my Friend!

My Isabella!—Why do you not rejoice?

Rejoice in Love! in Friendship! Liberty!

Som.

Live long thus bless'd.

Over.

Here, in soft Sighs, I'll pour my Pleasures forth—

Gaze!—'till I ev'n grow giddy with Delight!

Now, Heav'n, thou art too kind.

Isa.

Oh happy Day!

So sweet a Calm, as my late Cares are hush'd in,

Ne'er yet succeeded such a threatning Tempest?—

But you, methinks, look pale!

Over.

No—say not so;

My Heart is but oppress'd, and sick, with Transport!—

Another Start!—that Rapture was so strong,

It shot quite thro', and trembled to my Soul!

Another yet!—nay, now I scarce support it—

My Spirits sink, exhausted with Delight,

And Nature reels beneath it.

Isa.

Oh! help! he faints!

Som.

Heav'n! a cold Dew,

Like that of Death, o'erspreads his Icy Temples.

Help! who waits there?

[Enter Attendants.

Isa.

My Love! my Overbury!

Return to Life—'tis Isabella calls!

Over.

Where, where are now my Joys?

All fled at once—Oh! Somerset! I'm poison'd!

Som.

Good Heaven forbid!

Over.

The Wine!—the Wine you sent!

Som.

Sayst, thou, I sent?

Alas! you are impos'd on!

Over.

Then 'twas thy Wife,

And she disguis'd it with thy powerful Name.

Som.

Ten thousand Plagues o'ertake her for the Deed!

Oh! if she acted this unnatural Guilt,

May all the Woes of Vengeance be her Portion!

Haunt her, pale Ghosts! eternal Anguish grind her!

Lash her, ye Furies! Adders, twist around her!

And let Despair and endless Torment seize her!

Over.

Ha!—what a Shoot was there!—my Blood boils in me!

Flames wind about my Breast—my Brain burns red,

And my Eyes swim in a blue Sea of Sulphur!

Stand off!—and let me breathe!—what's that grim Form,

That stalks along! and creeps so pale upon me!

I know the meagre Phantom now!—'tis Death!

He's gone!—and now the Heav'ns all open to me!

A Flight of Angels swoop upon my Head,

And clap their Wings about me!

Som.

What a Slave is Man, when Passion masters him?

My Want of Reason is the cursed Source

Of all their Miseries: But I'm trebly curs'd!

I feel for him, for her, and for myself.

What Place in Hell is there reserv'd for me?

Sure that which holds the greatest Share of Pain!

Over.

There's Death again!

What unmov'd! beamless! hollow! limy Eyes

The Bone-built Monster stares with!—there he struck me!

'Tis done!—I mount!—I rise above the Clouds!

My Brain grows giddy!—now 'tis wond'rous hot!

The Rays scorch strong—the Stars spout streaming Fire!

I'll shade me in the Moon's dark Body!—Hold!

The Sun's Reflection's there—Oh! help!—defend me!

Som.

What can I do to ease thee?

Over.

Who touch'd me?—'twas a cold, and deadly Hand!

It makes me shrink!—save me! where am I now?

I'm chain'd in the chill Region of the North!

My Blood's all Frost!—and, passing my hot Veins,

It hizzes in its Motion!—The bleak Winds

Dip their broad Wings in Seas of melted Snow,

And sweep whole Winter o'er me!—I shiver at it!

My Teeth are turn'd to Ice, and, as they chatter,

Break in their Striking—Where's Friendship now to warm me?

Som.

My Friend!—my Overbury!

Over.

Oh, Somerset!

Where have I been?—my Life is at a Period!

Poor Isabella!—she's o'erwhelm'd with Grief!

Let me conjure thee, by my dying Friendship,

To comfort all her Sorrows!

Som.

Wherefore do I not rave? But Heav'n is just!

To lose my Senses, is to lose my Pain.

Oh! I resign me to th' impartial Hand

Of Justice, nor dare murmur at my Fate.

Over.

Hark! the Wind roars!—the Seas begin to swell!

The Billows roll!—now! now they drive upon me!

Oh! save me, or I'm lost!—what! must I perish!

Is there no Hold?—not one kind, friendly, Plank!

Helpless indeed!—thus, in the Gulph, I sink—

Never to rise again.

[Dies.

Isa.

Hover a-while, dear Shade, and I'll o'ertake thee,

Oh! for a Dagger now!—Death, give me Ease!

He comes!—I feel him at my Heart already!

He brings me all I wish!

Som.

Alas! she swoons!

Be quick, and bear her gently from the Body

But, be sure, guard her with the tenderest Care,

Lest her Distraction shou'd commit Self-Violence.

[Led off.

Now, dear, departed Friend—'twere just, that I,

The Wretch, whose Crimes have been the Cause of all,

Shou'd, on these Clay-cold Lips, breathe out my last.

Enter Officer of the Guards.

Off.

My Lord, your Pardon, but you're here a Prisoner:

Your Wife, has, in a Fit of raving Frenzy,

Confess'd the Murder on Sir Thomas Overbury.

Sir Gervas Ell'ways, and the rest impeach'd,

Are seiz'd, and say, the Wine was sent from you.

Som.

Oh! the vile Traitress!—guard her from my Sight,

But leave me here—and let me, slow, expire

Close by the truest Friend, and best of Men!

Oh!—wou'd the World be warn'd by my Example!

Fly, ye fond Youth, the guilty Fair-One's Arms,

Nor judge their Excellence by outward Charms;

They, who, for faithless Love, true Friends betray,

Chuse glitt'ring Toys, and throw rich Pearls away.

Just Publish'd,

- A Wife to be Lett. A Comedy. As it is acted at the Theatre-Royal, in Drury-Lane, by his Majesty's Servants. Written by Mrs. Eliza Haywood. Price 1s. 6d.

- Sophonisba, or Hannibal's Overthrow. By Mr. Lee. Price 1s.

- Siege of Damascus, a Tragedy. By John Hughes Esq deceased. Price 1s.

- The Fair Circassian, with some Occasional Poems. Price 1s.

- The Country Wit, or Sir Mannerly Shallow, a Comedy. By Mr. Crown.

- The Revenge, a Tragedy. By Mr. Young.

- The Spartan Dame, a Tragedy. By Mr. Southerne.

- Sir Walter Raleigh, a Tragedy. By Mr. Sewell.

- The Pastoral Amours of Daphnis and Chloe, a Novel, with nine curious Cuts. Price 1s. 6d.

All printed for Samuel Chapman, at the Angel in Pall-Mall.

Information about this book

Title statement

The tragedy of Sir Thomas Overbury: as it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, ... Written by Richard Savage, ...

Savage, Richard, d. 1743.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5103

ID [isbn10]

1106021029

ID [isbn13]

9781106021021

ID [TCP]

K100402.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3314792807

ID [ECLL]

0871002000

Availability

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

Source

— The tragedy of Sir Thomas Overbury: as it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, ... Written by Richard Savage, ..., Savage, Richard, d. 1743.. xv,[1],55,[1]p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for Samuel Chapman,. 1724.. [With a half-title.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT125844.] [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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