The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 07
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Title: The works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 07
Author: John Dryden
Editor: Walter Scott
Release date: July 31, 2005 [eBook #16402]
Most recently updated: December 12, 2020
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF JOHN DRYDEN, NOW FIRST COLLECTED IN EIGHTEEN VOLUMES. VOLUME 07 ***
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Fred Robinson and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE
WORKS
OF
JOHN DRYDEN,
NOW FIRST COLLECTED
_IN EIGHTEEN VOLUMES._
ILLUSTRATED
WITH NOTES,
HISTORICAL, CRITICAL, AND EXPLANATORY,
AND
A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,
BY
WALTER SCOTT, ESQ.
VOL. VII.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR WILLIAM MILLER, ALBEMARLE STREET,
BY JAMES BALLANTYNE AND CO. EDINBURGH
1808.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
OF
VOLUME SEVENTH.
The Duke of Guise, a Tragedy
Epistle Dedicatory to the Earl of Rochester
The Vindication of the Duke of Guise
Albion and Albanius, an Opera
Preface
Don Sebastian, a Tragedy
Epistle Dedicatory to the Earl of Leicester
Preface
* * * * *
THE
DUKE OF GUISE.
A TRAGEDY.
Outôs de philotimoi physeis en tais politeiais to agan mê
phylaxamenai, tôi agathou meizon to kakon echousi.
PLUTARCH. IN AGESILAO.
THE DUKE OF GUISE.
In the latter part of Charles the Second's reign, the stage, as well
as every other engine which could affect the popular mind, was eagerly
employed in the service of the contending factions. Settle and
Shadwell had, in tragedy and comedy, contributed their mite to the
support of the popular cause. In the stormy session of parliament, in
1680, the famous bill was moved, for the exclusion of the Duke of
York, as a papist, from the succession, and accompanied by others of a
nature equally peremptory and determined. The most remarkable was a
bill to order an association for the safety of his majesty's person,
for defence of the protestant religion, for the preservation of the
protestant liege subjects against invasion and opposition, and for
preventing any papist from succeeding to the throne of England. To
recommend these rigid measures, and to keep up that zealous hatred and
terror of the catholic religion, which the plot had inspired, Settle
wrote his forgotten tragedy of "Pope Joan," in which he revives the
old fable of a female pope, and loads her with all the crimes of which
a priest, or a woman, could possibly be guilty. Shadwell's comedy of
the "Lancashire Witches" was levelled more immediately at the papists,
but interspersed with most gross and scurrilous reflections upon the
English divines of the high church party. Otway, Lee, and Dryden were
the formidable antagonists, whom the court opposed to the whig poets.
Thus arrayed and confronted, the stage absolutely foamed with
politics; the prologues and epilogues, in particular formed channels,
through which the tenets of the opposite parties were frequently
assailed, and the persons of their leaders and their poets exposed to
scandal and derision.
In the middle of these political broils, Dryden was called upon, as he
informs us, by Lee, to return the assistance which that poet had
afforded in composing "OEdipus." The history of the Duke of Guise had
formerly occupied his attention, as an acceptable subject to the court
after the Restoration. A League, formed under pretence of religion,
and in defence of the king's authority, against his person, presented
facilities of application to the late civil wars, to which, we may be
sure, our poet was by no means insensible. But however apt these
allusions might have been in 1665, the events which had taken place in
1681-2 admitted of a closer parallel, and excited a deeper interest.
The unbounded power which Shaftesbury had acquired in the city of
London, and its state of factious fermentation, had been equalled by
nothing but the sway exercised by the leaders of the League in the
metropolis of France. The intrigues by which the Council of Sixteen
placed and displaced, flattered or libelled, those popular officers of
Paris, whom the French call _echevins_, admitted of a direct and
immediate comparison with the contest between the court and the whigs,
for the election of the sheriffs of London; contests which attained so
great violence, that, at one time, there was little reason to hope
they would have terminated without bloodshed. The tumultuous day of
the barricades, when Henry the second, after having in vain called in
the assistance of his guards, was obliged to abandon his capital to
the Duke of Guise and his faction, and assemble the states of his
kingdom at Blois, was not entirely without a parallel in the annals of
1681. The violence of the parliament at London had led to its
dissolution; and, in order to insure the tractability of their
successors, they were assembled, by the king, at Oxford, where a
concurrence of circumstances rendered the royal authority more
paramount than in any other city of the kingdom. To this parliament
the members came in an array, which more resembled the parliament of
the White Bands, in the reign of Edward the second, than any that had
since taken place. Yet, though armed, and attended by their retainers
and the more ardent of their favourers, the leaders of opposition
expressed their apprehensions of danger from the royal party. The
sixteen whig peers, in their memorable petition against this removal,
complained, that the parliament would at Oxford be exposed to the
bloody machinations of the papists and their adherents, "of whom too
many had crept into his majesty's guards." The aid of ballads and
libellous prints was called in, to represent this alteration of the
usual place of meeting as a manoeuvre to throw the parliament, its
members, and its votes, at the feet of an arbitrary monarch[1]. It is
probable that this meeting, which rather resembled a Polish diet than
a British parliament, would not have separated without some signal,
and perhaps bloody catastrophe, if the political art of Halifax, who
was at the head of the small moderate party, called Trimmers, joined
to the reluctance of either faction to commence hostilities against an
enemy as fully prepared as themselves, had not averted so eminent a
crisis. In all particulars, excepting the actual assassination, the
parliament of Oxford resembled the assembly of the States General at
Blois. The general character of the Duke of Monmouth certainly had not
many points of similarity to that of the Duke of Guise; but in one
particular incident his conduct had been formed on that model, and it
is an incident which makes a considerable figure in the tragedy. In
September 1679, after the king's illness, Monmouth was disgraced, and
obliged to leave the kingdom. He retired to Holland, where he resided
until the intrigues of Shaftesbury assured him the support of a party
so strongly popular, that he might return, in open defiance of the
court. In the November following, he conceived his presence necessary
to animate his partizans; and, without the king's permission for his
return, he embarked at the Brill, and landed at London on the 27th, at
midnight, where the tumultuous rejoicings of the popular party more
than compensated for the obscurity of his departure[2]. This bold step
was, in all its circumstances, very similar to the return of the Duke
of Guise from his government to Paris, against the express command of
Henry the second, together with his reception by the populace, whom he
came prepared to head in insurrection. Above all, the bill of
exclusion bore a striking resemblance to the proceedings of the League
against the King of Navarre, presumptive heir of the throne, whom, on
account of his attachment to the protestant faith, they threatened to
deprive of the succession.
The historical passages, corresponding in many particulars with such
striking accuracy, offered an excellent groundwork for a political
play, and the "Duke of Guise" was composed accordingly; Dryden making
use of the scenes which he had formerly written on the subject, and
Lee contributing the remainder, which he eked out by some scenes and
speeches adopted from the "Massacre of Paris," then, lying by him in
manuscript. The court, however, considered the representation of the
piece as at least of dubious propriety. The parallel was capable of
being so extended as to exhibit no very flattering picture of the
king's politics; and, on the other hand, it is possible, that the fate
of the Duke of Guise, as identified with Monmouth, might shock the
feelings of Charles, and the justice of the audience.
Accordingly, we learn from the "Vindication," that the representation
of the piece was prohibited; that it lay in the hands of the lord
chamberlain (Henry Lord Arlington) from before mid-summer, 1682, till
two months after that term; and that orders were not finally given for
its being acted until the month of December in the same year. The
king's tenderness for the Duke of Monmouth had by this time so far
given way, that he had ordered his arrest at Stafford; and, from the
dark preparations on both sides, it was obvious, that no measures were
any longer to be kept betwixt them. All the motives of delicacy and
prudence, which had prevented the representation of this obnoxious
party performance, were now therefore annihilated or overlooked.
Our author's part of the "Duke of Guise" is important, though not of
great extent, as his scenes contain some of the most striking
political sketches. The debate of the Council of Sixteen, with which
the play opens, was his composition; the whole of the fourth act,
which makes him responsible for the alleged parallel betwixt Guise and
Monmouth, and the ridicule cast upon the sheriffs and citizens of the
popular party, with the first part of the fifth, which implicates him
in vindicating the assassination of Guise. The character and
sentiments of the king, in these scenes, are drawn very closely after
Davila, as the reader will easily see, from the Italian original
subjoined in the notes. That picturesque historian had indeed
anticipated almost all that even a poet could do, in conveying a
portraiture, equally minute and striking, of the stormy period which
he had undertaken to describe; and, had his powers of description been
inferior, it is probable, that Dryden, hampered as he was, by
restraints of prudence and delicacy, would not have chosen to go far
beyond the authority to which he referred the lord chamberlain. The
language of the play, at least in these scenes, seldom rises above
that of the higher tone of historical oratory; and the descriptions
are almost literally taken from Davila, and thrown into beautiful
verse. In the character of Marmoutiere, there seems to be an allusion
to the duchess of Buccleuch and Monmouth, whose influence was always,
and sometimes successfully, used to detach her husband from the
desperate schemes of Shaftesbury and Armstrong. The introduction of
the necromancer, Malicorn, seems to refer to some artifices, by which
the party of Monmouth endeavoured to call to their assistance the
sanction of supernatural powers[3]. The particular story of Malicorn
is said to be taken from a narrative in Rosset's _Histoires
Tragiques_, a work which the present editor has never seen. In the
conference between Malicorn and Melanax, Dryden has made much use of
his astrological knowledge; and its mystical terms give a solemnity to
the spirit's predictions, which was probably deepened by the poet's
secret belief in this visionary study. As he borrowed liberally from
Davila in the other parts of the play, he has not here disdained to
use the assistance of Pulci, from whose romantic poem he has
translated one or two striking passages, as the reader will find upon
consulting the notes. The last scene betwixt the necromancer and the
fiend is horribly fine: the description of the approach of the Evil
One, and the effect which his presence produces upon the attendants,
the domestic animals, and the wizard himself, is an instance, amongst
many, of the powerful interest which may be produced by a judicious
appeal to the early prejudices of superstition. I may be pardoned,
however, when I add, that such scenes are, in general, unfit for the
stage, where the actual appearance of a demon is apt to excite
emotions rather ludicrous than terrific. Accordingly, that of Dryden
failed in the representation. The circumstance, upon which the
destruction of the wizard turns, is rather puerile; but there are many
similar fables in the annals of popular superstition[4].
Lee's part of this play is, in general, very well written, and
contains less rant than he usually puts in the mouths of his
characters.
The factions have been long at rest which were so deeply agitated by
the first representation of this performance; yet some pains has been
taken to trace those points of resemblance, which gave so much offence
to one party, and triumph to the other. Many must doubtless have
escaped our notice; but enough remains to shew the singular felicity
with which Dryden, in the present instance, as in that of "Absalom and
Achitophel," could adapt the narrative of ancient or foreign
transactions to the political events of his own time, and "moralize
two meanings in one word." Altogether abstracted from this
consideration, the "Duke of Guise," as a historical play, possesses
merit amply sufficient to rescue it from the oblivion into which it
has fallen.
The play was first acted 4th December, 1682, and encountered a stormy
and dubious, if not an unfavourable, reception. But as, the strength
of the court party increased, the piece was enabled to maintain its
ground with more general approbation. It was performed by the united
companies, and printed in 1683.
Footnotes:
1. I cannot resist transcribing that ballad, which cost poor College,
the protestant joiner, so extremely dear. It is extracted from Mr
Luttrell's collection, who has marked it thus. "A most scandalous
libel against the government, for which, with other things, College
was justly executed." The justice of the execution may, I think, be
questioned, unless, like Cinna the poet, the luckless ballad-monger
was hanged for his bad verses. There is prefixed a cut,
representing the king with a double face, carrying the house of
commons in a shew-box at his back. In another copartment, he sticks
fast in the mud with his burden. In another, Topham, the serjeant
of the house of commons, with the other officers of parliament,
liberate the members, and cram the bishops into the shew-box.
A RAREE SHOW.
To the tune of--"I am a senseless thing."
_Leviathan._
Come hither, Topham, come, with a hey, with a hey;
Bring a pipe and a drum, with a ho;
Where'er about I go,
Attend my raree show,
With a hey, trany, nony, nony, no.
_Topham._
That monstrous foul beast, with a hey, with a hey,
Has houses twain in's chest, with a ho;
O Cowper, Hughes, and Snow,
Stop thief with raree show,
With a hey, &c.
For if he should escape, with a hey, with a hey,
With Halifaxe's trap, with a ho,
He'll carry good Dom. Com.
Unto the pope of Rome,
With a hey, &c.
_Leviathan._
Be quiet, ye dull tools, with a hey, with a hey,
As other free-born fools, with a ho,
Do not all gaping stand
To see my slight of hand.
With a hey, &c.
'Tis not to Rome that I, with a hey, with a hey,
Lug about my trumpery, with a ho,
But Oxford, York, Carlisle,
And round about the isle,
With a hey, &c.
But if they would come out, with a hey, with a hey,
Let them first make a vote, with a ho.
To yield up all they have,
And Tower lords to save,
With a hey, &c.
_Topham._
Now that is very hard, with a hey, with a hey,
Thou art worse than cut-nose guard, with a ho.
And Clifford, Danby, Hide,
Halifax does all outride,
With a hey, &c.
Holy Ghost, in bag of cloak, with a hey, with a hey,
Quaking King in royal oak, with a ho.
And Rosamond in bower,
All badges are of power.
With a hey, &c.
And popularity, with a hey, with a hey,
Adds power to majesty, with a ho;
But Dom. Com. in little ease,
Will all the world displease,
With a hey, &c.
_Leviathan._
Let 'um hate me, so they fear, with a hey, with a hey,
Curst fox has the best cheer, with a ho;
Two states, in blind house pent,
Make brave strong government.
With a hey, &c.
_Topham._
But child of heathen Hobbes, with a hey, with a hey,
Remember old Dry Bobs, with a ho,
For fleecing England's flocks.
Long fed with bits and knocks,
With a hey, &c.
_Leviathan._
What's past is not to come, with a hey, with a hey,
Now safe is David's bum, with a ho;
Then hey for Oxford ho,
Strong government, raree show,
With a hey, &c.
Raree show is resouled, with a hey, with a hey,
This is worse than desouled, with a ho;
May the mighty weight at's back
Make's lecherous loins to crack,
With a hey, &c.
Methinks he seems to stagger, with a hey, with a hey,
Who but now did so swagger, with a ho;
God's fish he's stuck in the mire,
And all the fat's in the fire,
With a hey, &c.
Help Cooper, Hughs, and Snow, with a hey, with a hey,
To pull down raree show, with a ho:
So, so, the gyant's down,
Let's masters out of pound,
With a hey, &c.
And now you've freed the nation, with a hey, with a hey,
Cram in the convocation, with a ho,
With pensioners all and some.
Into this chest of Rome,
With a hey, &c.
And thrust in six-and-twenty, with a hey, with a hey.
With _not guilties_ good plenty, with a ho,
And hoot them hence away
To Cologn or Breda,
With a hey, &c.
Haloo, the hunt's begun, with a hey, with a hey,
Like father like son, with a ho;
Raree show in French lap
Is gone to take a nap,
And succession has the clap,
With a hey, trany, nony, nony, no.
2. "The news of his landing being reported by the watch, it soon
spread abroad through the whole city; insomuch, that before
day-light they rang the bells at St Giles in the Fields, placing
several flambeaus on the top of the steeple, and divers great
bonefires were made, two of which were very large, one in the
Palace-yard at Westminster, and the other in Thames-street, near
the custom-house, which was kindled in the morning, and maintained
burning all day till evening, and then the universal joy of the
people was expressed in most of the streets throughout London and
Westminster by bone-fires, fireworks, and ringing of bells,
accompanied with loud acclamations of joy, to the great grief of
the papists." _An Account of the heroick Life and magnanimous
Actions of the most illustrious Protestant Prince, James, Duke of
Monmouth._ London, 1683. p. 95.
3. "A relation was published in the name of one Elizabeth Freeman,
afterwards called the mayor of Hatfield, setting forth, that, on
the 24th of January, the apparition of a woman, all in white [the
Duke of Monmouth's mother was here to be understood], with a white
veil over her face, accosted her with these words; 'Sweetheart, the
15th of May is appointed for the blood-royal to be poisoned. Be not
afraid, for I am sent to tell thee.' That on the 27th the same
appearance stood before her again, and she having then acquired
courage enough to lay it under the usual adjuration, in the name,
&c. it assumed a more glorious shape, and said in a harsher tone of
voice, 'Tell King Charles from me, and bid him not remove his
parliament (i.e. from London to Oxford), and stand to his council;'
adding, 'Do as I bid you.' That on the 26th, it appeared to her a
third time, but said only, 'Do your message;' and that on the next
night, when she saw it for the last time, it said nothing at all.
Those, who depend upon the people for support, must try all manner
of practices upon them, and such fooleries as these sometimes
operate more forcibly than experiments of a more rational kind.
Care was besides taken to have this relation attested by Sir Joseph
Jordan, a justice of peace, and the rector of Hatfield, Dr Lee, who
was one of the king's chaplains. Nay, the message was actually sent
to his majesty, and the whole forgery very officially circulated
over the kingdom." RALPH'S _History_ Vol. I. p. 562.
4. In truth, the devil and the conjuror did not always play upon the
square, but often took the most unfair advantages of each other.
There is more than one instance of bad faith in the history of that
renowned enchanter, Peter Fabel. On one occasion, he prevailed upon
the devil, when he came to carry him off, to repose himself in an
enchanted chair, from which he refused to liberate him, until he
had granted him an additional lease of seven years. When this term
was also expired, he had the eloquence and art to prevail on the
fiend to allow him a farther respite, till a wax taper, then nearly
expiring, was burned out. This boon being granted, he instantly put
out the light, and deposited the taper in the church at Edmonton.
Hence, in Weiver's "Funeral Monuments," he is thus mentioned: "Here
(at Edmonton) lieth interred, under a seemly tombe without
inscription, the body of Peter Fabell, as the report goes, upon
whom this fable was fathered, that he, by his wittie devices,
beguiled the devill." p 514. See also the _Book of his Merry
Prankes_. Another instance occurs, in the famous history of Friar
Bacon, (London 1666) where that renowned conjurer is recorded to
have saved a man, that had given himself to the devil on condition
of his debts being paid. "The case was referred to the friar.
'Deceiver of mankind, said he (speaking to the devil), it was thy
bargain never to meddle with him so long as he was indebted to any;
now how canst thou demand of him any thing, when he is indebted for
all he hath to thee? When he payeth thee thy money, then take him
as thy due; till then thou hast nothing to do with him; and so I
charge thee to be gone.' At this the devil vanished with great
horrour; but Fryar Bacon comforted the gentleman, and sent him home
with a quiet conscience, bidding him never to pay the devil's money
back, as he tendred his own safety, which he promised for to
observe." From these instances, Melanax might have quoted precedent
for insisting on the literal execution of his stipulation with
Malicorn, since, to give the devil his due, the strict legal
interpretation appears always to have been applied to bargains of
that nature.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
LAWRENCE,
EARL OF ROCHESTER, &c.[1]
MY LORD,
The authors of this poem present it humbly to your lordship's
patronage, if you shall think it worthy of that honour. It has already
been a confessor, and was almost made a martyr for the royal cause:
but having stood two trials from its enemies,--one before it was
acted, another in the representation,--and having been in both
acquitted, it is now to stand the public censure in the reading: where
since, of necessity, it must have the same enemies, we hope it may
also find the same friends; and therein we are secure, not only of the
greater number, but of the more honest and loyal party. We only
expected bare justice in the permission to have it acted; and that we
had, after a severe and long examination, from an upright and knowing
judge, who, having heard both sides, and examined the merits of the
cause, in a strict perusal of the play, gave sentence for us, that it
was neither a libel, nor a parallel of particular persons[2]. In the
representation itself, it was persecuted with so notorious malice by
one side, that it procured us the partiality of the other; so that the
favour more than recompensed the prejudice. And it is happier to have
been saved (if so we were) by the indulgence of our good and faithful
fellow-subjects, than by our own deserts; because, thereby the
weakness of the faction is discovered, which, in us, at that time
attacked the government, and stood combined, like the members of the
rebellious League, against the lawful sovereign authority. To what
topic will they have recourse, when they are manifestly beaten from
their chief post, which has always been popularity, and majority of
voices? They will tell us,--that the voices of a people are not to be
gathered in a play-house; and yet, even there, the enemies, as well as
friends, have free admission: but, while our argument was serviceable
to their interests, they could boast, that the theatres were true
protestant; and came insulting to the plays, when their own triumphs
were represented[3]. But let them now assure themselves, that they can
make the major part of no assembly, except it be of a meeting-house[4].
Their tide of popularity is spent; and the natural current of
obedience is, in spite of them, at last prevalent. In which, my lord,
after the merciful providence of God, the unshaken resolution, and
prudent carriage of the king, and the inviolable duty, and manifest
innocence of his royal highness,--the prudent management of the
ministers is also most conspicuous. I am not particular in this
commendation, because I am unwilling to raise envy to your lordship,
who are too just, not to desire that praise should be communicated to
others, which was the common endeavour and co-operation of all. It is
enough, my lord, that your own part was neither obscure in it, nor
unhazardous. And if ever this excellent government, so well
established by the wisdom of our forefathers, and so much shaken by
the folly of this age, shall recover its ancient splendour, posterity
cannot be so ungrateful as to forget those, who, in the worst of
times, have stood undaunted by their king and country, and, for the
safeguard of both, have exposed themselves to the malice of false
patriots, and the madness of an headstrong rabble. But since this
glorious work is yet unfinished, and though we have reason to hope
well of the success, yet the event depends on the unsearchable
providence of Almighty God, it is no time to raise trophies, while
the victory is in dispute; but every man, by your example, to
contribute what is in his power to maintain so just a cause, on which
depends the future settlement and prosperity of three nations. The
pilot's prayer to Neptune was not amiss in the middle of the storm:
"Thou mayest do with me, O Neptune, what thou pleasest, but I will be
sure to hold fast the rudder." We are to trust firmly in the Deity,
but so as not to forget, that he commonly works by second causes, and
admits of our endeavours with his concurrence. For our own parts, we
are sensible, as we ought, how little we can contribute with our weak
assistance. The most we can boast of, is, that we are not so
inconsiderable as to want enemies, whom we have raised to ourselves
on no other account than that we are not of their number; and, since
that is their quarrel, they shall have daily occasion to hate us
more. It is not, my lord, that any man delights to see himself
pasquined and affronted by their inveterate scribblers; but, on the
other side, it ought to be our glory, that themselves believe not of
us what they write. Reasonable men are well satisfied for whose sakes
the venom of their party is shed on us; because they see, that at the
same time our adversaries spare not those to whom they owe allegiance
and veneration. Their despair has pushed them to break those bonds;
and it is observable, that the lower they are driven, the more
violently they write; as Lucifer and his companions were only proud
when angels, but grew malicious when devils. Let them rail, since it
is the only solace of their miseries, and the only revenge which, we
hope, they now can take. The greatest and the best of men are above
their reach; and, for our meanness, though they assault us like
footpads in the dark, their blows have done us little harm: we yet
live to justify ourselves in open day, to vindicate our loyalty to
the government, and to assure your lordship, with all submission and
sincerity, that we are
YOUR LORDSHIP'S
Most obedient, faithful servants,
JOHN DRYDEN.
NAT. LEE.
Footnotes:
1. Lawrence Hyde, created Earl of Rochester in 1682, was the second
son of the famous Lord Clarendon, and affords a rare instance of
the son of a disgraced minister recovering that favour at court,
which had been withdrawn from his father. He was now at the head of
the Commissioners for the Treasury, and a patron of our poet; as
appears from the terms of Dryden's letter, soliciting his interest
in very affecting terms, and from the subsequent dedication of
"Cleomenes," where he acknowledges his lordship's goodness during
the reign of two masters; and that, even from a bare treasury, his
success was contrary to that of Mr Cowley; Gideon's fleece having
been moistened, when all the ground was dry around it. The Earl of
Rochester was the more proper patron for the "Duke of Guise," as he
was a violent opponent of the bill of exclusion. He was Lord High
Treasurer in the reign of James II., and died in 1711.
2. Henry Bennet, Earl of Arlington, then Lord Chamberlain.
3. Dryden seems here to allude to the triumphant strain in which
Shadwell mentions the reception of "The Lancashire Witches:" "I
could not imagine," he says, "till I heard that great opposition
was designed against the play a month before it was acted, by a
party who, being ashamed to say it was for the sake of the Irish
priest, pretended that I had written a satire on the Church of
England; and several profest Papists railed at it violently before
they had seen it, alleging that for a reason, such dear friends
they are to our Church: and, notwithstanding all was put out that
could any way be wrested to an offence against the Church, yet they
came with the greatest malice in the world to hiss it; and many,
that called themselves Protestants, joined with them in that noble
enterprise.
"But, for all this, they came resolved to hiss it, right or wrong,
and had gotten mercenary fellows, who were such fools they did not
know when to hiss; and this was evident to all the audience. It was
wonderful to see men of great quality, and gentlemen, in so mean a
combination; but, to my great satisfaction, they came off as meanly
as I could wish. I had so numerous an assembly of the best sort of
men, who stood so generously in my defence for the three first
days, that they quashed all the vain attempts of my enemies; the
inconsiderable party of hissers yielded, and the play lived in
spite of them.
"Had it been never so bad, I had valued the honour of having so
many and such friends as eminently appeared for me, above that of
excelling the most admirable Jonson, if it were possible to be done
by me."
This flourish of exultation contains many things which were
doubtless offensive to Dryden's jealousy of dramatic fame, as well
as to his political principles. Nor was he probably insensible to
the affected praise bestowed on Jonson, whose merit, it was
fashionable to say, he had attempted to depreciate.
4. The greater, and, perhaps, the most formidable, part of those who
now opposed the court, were the remnants of the old fanatics, whose
religious principles were shocked by the dissolute manners of
Charles and his courtiers. These, of course, added little to the
force of the party in the theatres, which they never frequented.
Shadwell seems to acknowledge this disadvantage in the epilogue to
"The Lancashire Witches:"
Our Popes and friars on one side offend,
And yet, alas! the city's not our friend:
The city neither like us nor our wit,
They say their wives learn ogling in the pit;
They're from the boxes taught to make advances,
To answer stolen sighs and naughty glances.
We virtuous ladies some new ways must seek,
For all conspire our playing trade to break.
But although the citizens declined to frequent even the plays
written on their own side of the question, Armstrong, and the
personal followers of Monmouth, were of a gayer complexion, and
doubtless, as they were not inferior to the courtiers in the
licence assumed by the age, formed the principal part of the
audience at the protestant plays. The discovery of the Rye-house
Plot broke the strength of this part of the confederacy, and the
odium attending that enterprise rendered their opposition to the
court in public assemblies both fruitless and dangerous.
PROLOGUE
WRITTEN BY MR DRYDEN.
SPOKEN BY MR SMITH.
Our play's a parallel: the Holy League
Begot our Covenant: Guisards got the whig:
Whate'er our hot-brained sheriffs did advance,
Was, like our fashions, first produced in France;
And, when worn out, well scourged, and banished there,
Sent over, like their godly beggars, here.
Could the same trick, twice played, our nation gull?
It looks as if the devil were grown dull;
Or served us up, in scorn, his broken meat,
And thought we were not worth a better cheat.
The fulsome Covenant, one would think in reason,
Had given us all our bellies full of treason;
And yet, the name but changed, our nasty nation
Chews its own excrements, the Association[1].
'Tis true, we have not learned their poisoning way,
For that's a mode but newly come in play;
Resides, your drug's uncertain to prevail,
But your true protestant can never fail
With that compendious instrument, a flail[2].
Go on, and bite, even though the hook lies bare;
Twice in one age expel the lawful heir;
Once more decide religion by the sword,
And purchase for us a new tyrant lord.
Pray for your king, but yet your purses spare;
Make him not two-pence richer by your prayer.
To show you love him much, chastise him more,
And make him very great, and very poor.
Push him to wars, but still no peace advance;
Let him lose England, to recover France.
Cry freedom up, with popular noisy votes,
And get enough to cut each other's throats.
Lop all the rights that fence your monarch's throne;
For fear of too much power, pray leave him none.
A noise was made of arbitrary sway;
But, in revenge, you whigs have found a way
An arbitrary duty now to pay.
Let his own servants turn to save their stake,
Glean from his plenty, and his wants forsake;
But let some Judas near his person stay,
To swallow the last sop, and then betray.
Make London independent of the crown;
A realm apart; the kingdom of the town.
Let ignoramus juries find no traitors[3],
And ignoramus poets scribble satires.
And, that your meaning none may fail to scan,
Do what in coffee-houses you began,--
Pull down the master, and set up the man.
Footnotes:
1. The association proposed in parliament was, by the royalists, said
to be, a revival of the Solemn League and Covenant. But the draught
of an association, found in Lord Shaftesbury's cabinet, and
produced on his trial, in which that memorable engagement seems to
be pretty closely copied, was probably what our poet alludes to.
2. The protestant flail was a kind of bludgeon, so jointed as to fold
together, and lie concealed in the pocket. They are supposed to
have been invented to arm the insurgents about this period. In the
trial of Braddon and Spoke for a misdemeanor, the recorder offered
to prove, that Braddon had bragged, that "he was the only inventor
of the protestant flails; an instrument you have heard of,
gentlemen, and for what use designed." This circumstance was not
omitted by Jefferies, in his characteristic address to the
prisoner. "But oh what a happiness it was for this sort of people,
that they had got Mr Braddon, an honest man and a man of courage,
says Mr Speke, a man _a propos_! and pray, says he to his friend,
give him the best advice you can, for he is a man very fit for the
purpose; and pray secure him under a sham name, for I'll undertake
there are such designs upon pious Mr Braddon, such connivances to
do him mischief, that, if he had not had his _protestant flail_
about him, somebody or other would have knocked him on the head;
and he is such a wonderful man, that all the king's courts must
needs conspire to do Mr Braddon a mischief. A very pretty sort of
man, upon my word, and he must be used accordingly." _State
Trials_, Vol. III. p. 897. In one of the scarce medals struck by
James II. Justice is represented weighing mural crowns, which
preponderate against a naked sword, a serpent, and a protestant
flail: on each side of the figure are a head and trunk,
representing those of Argyle and Monmouth. An accurate description
of this weapon occurs in the following passage from Roger North:
"There was much recommendation of silk armour, and the prudence of
being provided with it against the time protestants were to be
massacred. And accordingly there were abundance of these silken
backs, breasts, and pots (i.e. head-pieces), made and sold, that
were pretended to be pistol proof; in which any man dressed up was
as safe as in a house, for it was impossible any one could go to
strike him for laughing. So ridiculous was the figure, as they say,
of hogs in armour; an image of derision, insensible but to the
view, as I have had it. This was armour of defence; but our sparks
were not altogether so tame as to carry their provisions no
farther, for truly they intended to be assailants upon fair
occasion, and had for that end recommended also to them a certain
pocket weapon, which, for its design and efficacy, had the honour
to be called a _protestant flail_. It was for street and
crowd-work; and the engine lying perdue in a coat pocket, might
readily sally out to execution, and by clearing a great hall, a
piazza, or so, carry an election by a choice way of polling, called
_knocking down_. The handle resembled a farrier's blood-stick, and
the fall was joined to the end by a strong nervous ligature, that
in its swing fell just short of the hand, and was made of _lignum
vitæ_, or rather, as the poet termed it, _mortis_." _Examen._ p.
572. The following is the first stanza of "The Protestant Flail; an
excellent new song, to the tune of, Lacy's Maggot, or the Hobby
Horse." It is thus labelled by Luttrell: "A bonny thing, 14 June,
1632."
Listen a while, and I'll tell you a tale
Of a new device of a protestant flail;
With a thump, thump, thump a thump.
Thump a thump, thump.
This flail it was made of the finest wood,
All lined with lead, and notable good
For splitting of bones, and shedding the blood
Of all that withstood,
With a thump, &c.
3. Shaftesbury, College, and others, were liberated by grand juries,
who refused to find bills against them, bringing in what are
technically called verdicts of _ignoramus_. It was here that the
whig sheriffs were of most consequence to their party; for by their
means the juries were picked from the very centre of the faction;
and although they included many men of eminence, both for rank and
talents, yet they were generally such as had made up their minds to
cast the bill long before they came into court. This gave great
offence to the royalists. North says, "There lay the barrier of the
faction; and that stately word (_ignoramus_) became the appellative
of the whole corrupt practice, and the infamous title of all the
persons concerned in it." In Luttrell's Collection I find,
"Ignoramus, an excellent new song, to the tune of Lay by your
Pleading, Law lies a Bleeding." 15 Dec. 1681.
At the Old Bailey,
Where rogues flock daily,
A greater rogue far than Coleman, White, or Stayley,
Was late indicted.
Witnesses cited,
But then he was set free, so the king was righted.
'Gainst princes offences
Proved in all senses,
But 'gainst a whig there is no truth in evidences;
They sham us, and flam us,
And ram us, and damn us.
And then, in spite of law, come off with ignoramus, &c.
This song, according to the invariable practice of the scribblers
on both sides, was answered by a new Ignoramus.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
_The King of France._
_Duke of_ GUISE.
_Duke of_ MAYENNE.
GRILLON, _Colonel of the Guard._
ALPHONSO CORSO, _a Colonel._
BELLEURE, _a Courtier._
ABBOT DEL BENE, } _Royalists._
M. MONFERT, }
_The Cardinal of_ GUISE. }
_Archbishop of_ LYONS. }
POLIN, }
AUMALE, } _Of Guise's_
BUSSY, } _Faction._
_The Curate of St_ EUSTACE, }
MALICORN, _a Necromancer,_ }
MELANAX, _a Spirit,_ }
_Two Sheriffs,_
_Citizens and Rabble, &c._
_Queen Mother._
MARMOUTIERE, _Niece to_ GRILLON.
SCENE,--_Paris._
THE DUKE OF GUISE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.--_The Council of Sixteen seated; an empty Chair prepared for
the Duke of Guise._
BUSSY _and_ POLIN, _two of the Sixteen._
_Buss._ Lights there! more lights! What, burn the tapers dim,
When glorious Guise, the Moses, Gideon, David,
The saviour of the nation, makes approach?
_Pol._ And therefore are we met; the whole sixteen,
That sway the crowd of Paris, guide their votes,
Manage their purses, persons, fortunes, lives,
To mount the Guise, where merit calls him, high,
And give him a whole heaven for room to shine.
_Enter Curate of St_ EUSTACE.
_Buss._ The curate of St Eustace comes at last:
But, father, why so late?
_Cur._ I have been taking godly pains to satisfy some scruples raised
amongst weak brothers of our party, that were staggering in the cause.
_Pol._ What could they find to object?
_Cur._ They thought, to arm against the king was treason.
_Buss._ I hope you set them right?
_Cur._ Yes; and for answer, I produced this book.
A Calvinist minister of Orleans
Writ this, to justify the admiral
For taking arms against the king deceased;
Wherein he proves, that irreligious kings
May justly be deposed, and put to death.
_Buss._ To borrow arguments from heretic books,
Methinks, was not so prudent.
_Cur._ Yes; from the devil, if it would help our cause.
The author was indeed a heretic;
The matter of the book is good and pious.
_Pol._ But one prime article of our Holy League
Is to preserve the king, his power, and person.
_Cur._ That must be said, you know, for decency;
A pretty blind to make the shoot secure.
_Buss._ But did the primitive Christians e'er rebel,
When under heathen lords? I hope they did.
_Cur._ No sure, they did not; for they had not power;
The conscience of a people is their power.
_Pol._ Well; the next article in our solemn covenant
Has cleared the point again.
_Buss._ What is't? I should be glad to find the king
No safer than needs must.
_Pol._ That, in case of opposition from any person whatsoever--
_Cur._ That's well, that well; then the king is not excepted, if he
oppose us.--
_Pol._ We are obliged to join as one, to punish
All, who attempt to hinder or disturb us.
_Buss._ 'Tis a plain case; the king's included in the punishment, in
case he rebel against the people.
_Pol._ But how can he rebel?
_Cur._ I'll make it out: Rebellion is an insurrection against the
government; but they that have the power are actually the government;
therefore, if the people have the power, the rebellion is in the king.
_Buss._ A most convincing argument for faction.
_Cur._ For arming, if you please, but not for faction:
For still the faction is the fewest number:
So what they call the lawful government,
Is now the faction; for the most are ours.
_Pol._ Since we are proved to be above the king, I would gladly
understand whom we are to obey, or, whether we are to be all kings
together?
_Cur._ Are you a member of the League, and ask that question? There's
an article, that, I may say, is as necessary as any in the creed;
namely, that we, the said associates, are sworn to yield ready
obedience, and faithful service, to that head which shall be deputed.
_Buss._ 'Tis most manifest, that, by virtue of our oath, we are all
subjects to the Duke of Guise. The king's an officer that has betrayed
his trust; and therefore we have turned him out of service.
_Omn._ Agreed, agreed.
_Enter the Duke of_ GUISE, _Cardinal of_ GUISE, AUMALE: _Torches
before them. The Duke takes the Chair._
_Buss._ Your highness enters in a lucky hour;
The unanimous vote you heard, confirms your choice.
As head of Paris and the Holy League.
_Card._ I say amen to that.
_Pol._ You are our champion, buckler of our faith.
_Card._ The king, like Saul, is heaven's repented choice;
You his anointed one, on better thought.
_Gui._ I'm what you please to call me; any thing,
Lieutenant-general, chief, or constable,
Good decent names, that only mean--your slave.
_Buss._ You chased the Germans hence, exiled Navarre,
And rescued France from heretics and strangers.
_Aum._ What he, and all of us have done, is known.
What's our reward? Our offices are lost,
Turned out, like laboured oxen after harvest,
To the bare commons of the withered field.
_Buss._ Our charters will go next; because we sheriffs
Permit no justice to be done on those
The court calls rebels, but we call them saints.
_Gui._ Yes; we are all involved, as heads, or parties;
Dipt in the noisy crime of state, called treason;
And traitors we must be, to king, or country.
_Buss._ Why then my choice is made.
_Pol._ And mine.
_Omn._ And all.
_Card._ Heaven is itself head of the Holy League;
And all the saints are cov'nanters and Guisards.
_Gui._ What say you, curate?
_Cur._ I hope well, my lord.
_Card._ That is, he hopes you mean to make him abbot,
And he deserves your care of his preferment;
For all his prayers are curses on the government,
And all his sermons libels on the king;
In short, a pious, hearty, factious priest.
_Gui._ All that are here, my friends, shall share my fortunes:
There's spoil, preferments, wealth enough in France;
'Tis but deserve, and have. The Spanish king
Consigns me fifty thousand crowns a-week
To raise, and to foment a civil war.
'Tis true, a pension, from a foreign prince,
Sounds treason in the letter of the law,
But good intentions justify the deed.
_Cur._ Heaven's good; the cause is good; the money's good;
No matter whence it comes.
_Buss._ Our city-bands are twenty thousand strong,
Well-disciplined, well-armed, well-seasoned traitors,
Thick-rinded heads, that leave no room for kernel;
Shop-consciences, of proof against an oath,
Preached up, and ready tined for a rebellion[1].
_Gui._ Why then the noble plot is fit for birth;
And labouring France cries out for midwife hands.
We missed surprising of the king at Blois,
When last the states were held: 'twas oversight;
Beware we make not such another blot.
_Card._ This holy time of Lent we have him sure;
He goes unguarded, mixed with whipping friars.
In that procession, he's more fit for heaven:
What hinders us to seize the royal penitent,
And close him in a cloister?
_Cur._ Or dispatch him; I love to make all sure.
_Gui._ No; guard him safe;
Thin diet will do well; 'twill starve him into reason,
'Till he exclude his brother of Navarre,
And graft succession on a worthier choice.
To favour this, five hundred men in arms
Shall stand prepared, to enter at your call,
And speed the work; St Martin's gate was named;
But the sheriff Conty, who commands that ward,
Refused me passage there.
_Buss._ I know that Conty;
A snivelling, conscientious, loyal rogue;
He'll peach, and ruin all.
_Card._ Give out he's arbitrary, a Navarist,
A heretic; discredit him betimes,
And make his witness void.
_Cur._ I'll swear him guilty.
I swallow oaths as easy as snap-dragon,
Mock-fire that never burns.
_Gui._ Then, Bussy, be it your care to admit my troops,
At Port St Honore: [_Rises._] Night wears apace,
And day-light must not peep on dark designs.
I will myself to court, pay formal duty,
Take leave, and to my government retire;
Impatient to be soon recalled, to see
The king imprisoned, and the nation free[2]. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_Enter_ MALICORN _solus._
_Mal._ Each dismal minute, when I call to mind
The promise, that I made the Prince of Hell,
In one-and-twenty years to be his slave,
Of which near twelve are gone, my soul runs back,
The wards of reason roll into their spring.
O horrid thought! but one-and-twenty years,
And twelve near past, then to be steeped in fire,
Dashed against rocks, or snatched from molten lead,
Reeking, and dropping, piece-meal borne by winds,
And quenched ten thousand fathom in the deep!--
But hark! he comes: see there! my blood stands still,
[_Knocking at the Door._
My spirits start on end for Guise's fate.
_A Devil rises._
_Mal._ What counsel does the fate of Guise require?
_Dev._ Remember, with his prince there's no delay.
But, the sword drawn, to fling the sheath away;
Let not the fear of hell his spirit grieve,
The tomb is still, whatever fools believe:
Laugh at the tales which withered sages bring,
Proverbs and morals; let the waxen king,
That rules the hive, be born without a sting;
Let Guise by blood resolve to mount to power.
And he is great as Mecca's emperor.
He comes; bid him not stand on altar-vows,
But then strike deepest, when he lowest bows;
Tell him, fate's awed when an usurper springs,
And joins to crowd out just indulgent kings. [_Vanishes._
SCENE III.
_Enter the Duke of_ GUISE, _and Duke of_ MAYENNE.
_May._ All offices and dignities he gives
To your profest and most inveterate foes;
But if he were inclined, as we could wish him,
There is a lady-regent at his ear,
That never pardons.
_Gui._ Poison on her name!
Take my hand on't, that cormorant dowager
Will never rest, till she has all our heads
In her lap. I was at Bayonne with her,
When she, the king, and grisly d'Alva met.
Methinks, I see her listening now before me,
Marking the very motion of his beard,
His opening nostrils, and his dropping lids.
I hear him croak too to the gaping council,--
Fish for the great fish, take no care for frogs,
Cut off the poppy-heads, sir;--madam, charm
The winds but fast, the billows will be still[3].
_May._ But, sir, how comes it you should be thus warm,
Still pushing counsels when among your friends;
Yet, at the court, cautious, and cold as age,
Your voice, your eyes, your mien so different,
You seem to me two men?
_Gui._ The reason's plain.
Hot with my friends, because, the question given,
I start the judgment right, where others drag.
This is the effect of equal elements,
And atoms justly poised; nor should you wonder
More at the strength of body than of mind;
'Tis equally the same to see me plunge
Headlong into the Seine, all over armed,
And plow against the torrent to my point,
As 'twas to hear my judgment on the Germans,
This to another man would be a brag;
Or at the court among my enemies,
To be, as I am here, quite off my guard,
Would make me such another thing as Grillon,
A blunt, hot, honest, downright, valiant fool.
_May._ Yet this you must allow a failure in you,--
You love his niece; and to a politician
All passion's bane, but love directly death.
_Gui._ False, false, my Mayenne; thou'rt but half Guise again.
Were she not such a wond'rous composition,
A soul, so flushed as mine is with ambition,
Sagacious and so nice, must have disdained her:
But she was made when nature was in humour,
As if a Grillon got her on the queen,
Where all the honest atoms fought their way,
Took a full tincture of the mother's wit,
But left the dregs of wickedness behind.
_May._ Have you not told her what we have in hand?
_Gui._ My utmost aim has been to hide it from her,
But there I'm short; by the long chain of causes
She has scanned it, just as if she were my soul;
And though I flew about with circumstances.
Denials, oaths, improbabilities;
Yet, through the histories of our lives, she looked,
She saw, she overcame.
_May._ Why then, we're all undone.
_Gui._ Again you err.
Chaste as she is, she would as soon give up
Her honour, as betray me to the king:
I tell thee, she's the character of heaven;
Such an habitual over-womanly goodness,
She dazzles, walks mere angel upon earth.
But see, she comes; call the cardinal Guise,
While Malicorn attends for some dispatches,
Before I take my farewell of the court. [_Exit_ MAY.
_Enter_ MARMOUTIERE.
_Mar._ Ah Guise, you are undone!
_Gui._ How, madam?
_Mar._ Lost,
Beyond the possibility of hope:
Despair, and die.
_Gui._ You menace deeply, madam:
And should this come from any mouth but yours,
My smile should answer how the ruin touched me.
_Mar._ Why do you leave the court?
_Gui._ The court leaves me.
_Mar._ Were there no more, but weariness of state,
Or could you, like great Scipio, retire,
Call Rome ungrateful, and sit down with that;
Such inward gallantry would gain you more
Than all the sullied conquests you can boast:
But oh, you want that Roman mastery;
You have too much of the tumultuous times,
And I must mourn the fate of your ambition.
_Gui._ Because the king disdains my services,
Must I not let him know I dare be gone?
What, when I feel his council on my neck,
Shall I not cast them backward if I can,
And at his feet make known their villainy?
_Mar._ No, Guise, not at his feet, but on his head;
For there you strike.
_Gui._ Madam, you wrong me now:
For still, whate'er shall come in fortune's whirl,
His person must be safe.
_Mar._ I cannot think it.
However, your last words confess too much.
Confess! what need I urge that evidence,
When every hour I see you court the crowd,
When with the shouts of the rebellious rabble,
I see you borne on shoulders to cabals;
Where, with the traitorous Council of Sixteen,
You sit, and plot the royal Henry's death;
Cloud the majestic name with fumes of wine,
Infamous scrolls, and treasonable verse;
While, on the other side, the name of Guise,
By the whole kennel of the slaves, is rung.
Pamphleteers, ballad-mongers sing your ruin.
While all the vermin of the vile Parisians
Toss up their greasy caps where'er you pass,
And hurl your dirty glories in your face.
_Gui._ Can I help this?
_Mar._ By heaven, I'd earth myself,
Rather than live to act such black ambition:
But, sir, you seek it with your smiles and bows.
This side and that side congeing to the crowd.
You have your writers too, that cant your battles,
That stile you, the new David, second Moses,
Prop of the church, deliverer of the people.
Thus from the city, as from the heart, they spread
Through all the provinces, alarm the countries,
Where they run forth in heaps, bellowing your wonders;
Then cry,--The king, the king's a Hugonot,
And, spite of us, will have Navarre succeed,
Spite of the laws, and spite of our religion:
But we will pull them down, down with them, down[4]. [_Kneels._
_Gui._ Ha, madam! Why this posture?
_Mar._ Hear me, sir;
For, if 'tis possible, my lord, I'll move you.
Look back, return, implore the royal mercy,
Ere 'tis too late; I beg you by these tears,
These sighs, and by the ambitious love you bear me;
By all the wounds of your poor groaning country,
That bleeds to death. O seek the best of kings,
Kneel, fling your stubborn body at his feet:
Your pardon shall be signed, your country saved,
Virgins and matrons all shall sing your fame,
And every babe shall bless the Guise's name.
_Gui._ O rise, thou image of the deity!
You shall prevail, I will do any thing:
You've broke the very gall of my ambition,
And all my powers now float in peace again.
Be satisfied that I will see the king,
Kneel to him, ere I journey to Champaigne,
And beg a kind farewell.
_Mar._ No, no, my lord;
I see through that; you but withdraw a while,
To muster all the forces that you can,
And then rejoin the Council of Sixteen.
You must not go.
_Gui._ All the heads of the League
Expect me, and I have engaged my honour.
_Mar._ Would all those heads were off, so yours were saved!
Once more, O Guise, the weeping Marmoutiere
Entreats you, do not go.
_Gui._ Is't possible
That Guise should say, in this he must refuse you!
_Mar._ Go then, my lord. I late received a letter
From one at court, who tells me, the king loves me:
Read it,--there is no more than what you hear.
I've jewels offered too,--perhaps may take them;
And if you go from Paris, I'll to court.
_Gui._ But, madam, I have often heard you say,
You loved not courts.
_Mar._ Perhaps I've changed my mind:
Nothing as yet could draw me, but a king;
And such a king,--so good, so just, so great,
That, at his birth, the heavenly council paused,
And then, at last, cried out,--This is a man.
_Gui._ Come, 'tis but counterfeit; you dare not go.
_Mar._ Go to your government, and try.
_Gui._ I will.
_Mar._ Then I'll to court, nay--to the king.
_Gui._ By heaven,
I swear you cannot, shall not,--dare not see him.
_Mar._ By heaven, I can, I dare, nay--and I will;
And nothing but your stay shall hinder me;
For now, methinks, I long for't.
_Gui._ Possible!
_Mar._ I'll give you yet a little time to think;
But, if I hear you go to take your leave,
I'll meet you there; before the throne I'll stand,--
Nay you shall see me kneel and kiss his hand. [_Exit._
_Gui._ Furies and hell! She does but try me,--Ha!
This is the mother-queen, and Espernon,
Abbot Delbene, Alphonso Corso too,
All packed to plot, and turn me into madness. [_Reading the Letter._
_Enter Cardinal_ GUISE, _Duke Of_ MAYENNE, MALICORN, _&c._
Ha! can it be! "Madam, the king loves you."-- [_Reads._
But vengeance I will have; to pieces, thus,
To pieces with them all. [_Tears the Letter._
_Card._ Speak lower.
_Gui._ No;
By all the torments of this galling passion,
I'll hollow the revenge I vow, so loud,
My father's ghost shall hear me up to heaven.
_Card._ Contain yourself; this outrage will undo us.
_Gui._ All things are ripe, and love new points their ruin.
Ha! my good lords, what if the murdering council
Were in our power, should they escape our justice?
I see, by each man's laying of his hand
Upon his sword, you swear the like revenge.
For me, I wish that mine may both rot off--
_Card._ No more.
_May._ The Council of Sixteen attend you.
_Gui._ I go--that vermin may devour my limbs;
That I may die, like the late puling Francis[5],
Under the barber's hands, imposthumes choak me,--
If while alive, I cease to chew their ruin;
Alphonso Corso, Grillon, priest, together:
To hang them in effigy,--nay, to tread,
Drag, stamp, and grind them, after they are dead. [_Exeunt._
ACT II. SCENE I.
_Enter Queen-Mother, Abbot_ DELBENE, _and_ POLIN.
_Qu. M._ Pray, mark the form of the conspiracy:
Guise gives it out, he journeys to Champaigne,
But lurks indeed at Lagny, hard by Paris,
Where every hour he hears and gives instructions.
Mean time the Council of Sixteen assure him,
They have twenty thousand citizens in arms.
Is it not so, Polin?
_Pol._ True, on my life;
And, if the king doubts the discovery,
Send me to the Bastile till all be proved.
_Qu. M._ Call colonel Grillon; the king would speak with him.
_Ab._ Was ever age like this? [_Exit_ POLIN.
_Qu. M._ Polin is honest;
Beside, the whole proceeding is so like
The hair-brained rout, I guessed as much before.
Know then, it is resolved to seize the king,
When next he goes in penitential weeds
Among the friars, without his usual guards;
Then, under shew of popular sedition,
For safety, shut him in a monastery,
And sacrifice his favourites to their rage.
_Ab._ When is this council to be held again?
_Qu. M._ Immediately upon the duke's departure.
_Ab._ Why sends not then the king sufficient guards,
To seize the fiends, and hew them into pieces?
_Qu. M._ 'Tis in appearance easy, but the effect
Most hazardous; for straight, upon the alarm,
The city would be sure to be in arms;
Therefore, to undertake, and not to compass,
Were to come off with ruin and dishonour.
You know the Italian proverb--_Bisogna copriersi_[6],--
He, that will venture on a hornet's nest,
Should arm his head, and buckler well his breast.
_Ab._ But wherefore seems the king so unresolved?
_Qu. M._ I brought Polin, and made the demonstration;
Told him--necessity cried out, to take
A resolution to preserve his life,
And look on Guise as a reclaimless rebel:
But, through the natural sweetness of his temper,
And dangerous mercy, coldly he replied,--
Madam I will consider what you say.
_Ab._ Yet after all, could we but fix him--
_Qu. M._ Right,--
The business were more firm for this delay;
For noblest natures, though they suffer long,
When once provoked, they turn the face to danger.
But see, he comes, Alphonso Corso with him;
Let us withdraw, and when 'tis fit rejoin him. [_Exeunt._
_Enter King, and_ ALPHONSO CORSO.
_King._ Alphonso Corso.
_Alph._ Sir.
_King._ I think thou lovest me.
_Alph._ More than my life.
_King._ That's much; yet I believe thee.
My mother has the judgment of the world,
And all things move by that; but, my Alphonso,
She has a cruel wit.
_Alph._ The provocation, sir.
_King._ I know it well;
But,--if thou'dst have my heart within thy hand,--
All conjurations blot the name of kings.
What honours, interest, were the world to buy him,
Shall make a brave man smile, and do a murder?
Therefore I hate the memory of Brutus,
I mean the latter, so cried up in story.
Cæsar did ill, but did it in the sun,
And foremost in the field; but sneaking Brutus,
Whom none but cowards and white-livered knaves
Would dare commend, lagging behind his fellows,
His dagger in his bosom, stabbed his father.
This is a blot, which Tully's eloquence
Could ne'er wipe off, though the mistaken man
Makes bold to call those traitors,--men divine.
_Alph._ Tully was wise, but wanted constancy.
_Enter Queen Mother, and Abbot_ DELBENE.
_Qu. M._ Good-even, sir; 'tis just the time you ordered
To wait on your decrees.
_King._ Oh, madam!
_Qu. M._ Sir?
_King._ Oh mother,--but I cannot make it way;--
Chaos and shades,--'tis huddled up in night.
_Qu. M._ Speak then, for speech is morning to the mind;
It spreads the beauteous images abroad,
Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul.
_King._ You would embark me in a sea of blood.
_Qu. M._ You see the plot directly on your person;
But give it o'er, I did but state the case.
Take Guise into your heart, and drive your friends;
Let knaves in shops prescribe you how to sway,
And, when they read your acts with their vile breath,
Proclaim aloud, they like not this or that;
Then in a drove come lowing to the Louvre,
And cry,--they'll have it mended, that they will,
Or you shall be no king.
_King._ 'Tis true, the people
Ne'er know a mean, when once they get the power;
But O, if the design we lay should fail,
Better the traitors never should be touched,
If execution cries not out--'Tis done.
_Qu. M._ No, sir, you cannot fear the sure design:
But I have lived too long, since my own blood
Dares not confide in her that gave him being.
_King._ Stay, madam, stay; come back, forgive my fears,
Where all our thoughts should creep like deepest streams:
Know, then, I hate aspiring Guise to death;
Whored Margarita,--plots upon my life,--
And shall I not revenge?[7]
_Qu. M._ Why, this is Harry;
Harry at Moncontour, when in his bloom
He saw the admiral Coligny's back.[8]
_King._ O this whale Guise, with all the Lorrain fry!
Might I but view him, after his plots and plunges,
Struck on those cowring shallows that await him,--
This were a Florence master-piece indeed.
_Qu. M._ He comes to take his leave.
_King._ Then for Champaigne;
But lies in wait till Paris is in arms.
Call Grillon in. All that I beg you now,
Is to be hushed upon the consultation,
As urns, that never blab.
_Qu. M._ Doubt not your friends;
Love them, and then you need not fear your foes.
_Enter_ GRILLON.
_King._ Welcome, my honest man, my old tried friend.
Why dost thou fly me, Grillon, and retire?
_Gril._ Rather let me demand your majesty,
Why fly you from yourself? I've heard you say,
You'd arm against the League; why do you not?
The thoughts of such as you, are starts divine;
And when you mould with second cast the spirit,
The air, the life, the golden vapour's gone.
_King._ Soft, my old friend; Guise plots upon my life;
Polin shall tell thee more. Hast thou not heard
The insufferable affronts he daily offers,--
War without treasure on the Huguenots;
While I am forced against my bent of soul,
Against all laws, all custom, right, succession,
To cast Navarre from the Imperial line?
_Gril._ Why do you, sir? Death, let me tell the traitor--
_King._ Peace, Guise is going to his government;
You are his foe of old; go to him, Grillon;
Visit him as from me, to be employed
In this great war against the Huguenots;
And, pr'ythee, tell him roundly of his faults,
No farther, honest Grillon.
_Gril._ Shall I fight him?
_King._ I charge thee, not.
_Gril._ If he provokes me, strike him;
You'll grant me that?
_King._ Not so, my honest soldier;
Yet speak to him.
_Gril._ I will, by heaven, to the purpose;
And, if he force a beating, who can help it? [_Exit._
_King._ Follow, Alphonso; when the storm is up,
Call me to part them.
_Qu. M._ Grillon, to ask him pardon,
Will let Guise know we are not in the dark.
_King._ You hit the judgment; yet, O yet, there's more;
Something upon my heart, after these counsels,
So soft, and so unworthy to be named!--
_Qu. M._ They say, that Grillon's niece is come to court,
And means to kiss your hand. [_Exit._
_King._ Could I but hope it!
O my dear father, pardon me in this,
And then enjoin me all that man can suffer;
But sure the powers above will take our tears
For such a fault--love is so like themselves. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.--_The Louvre._
_Enter_ GUISE, _attended with his Family;_ MARMOUTIERE _meeting him
new drest, attended, &c._
_Gui._ Furies! she keeps her word, and I am lost;
Yet let not my ambition shew it to her;
For, after all, she does it but to try me,
And foil my vowed design.--Madam, I see
You're come to court; the robes you wear become you;
Your air, your mien, your charms, your every grace,
Will kill at least your thousand in a day.
_Mar._ What, a whole day, and kill but one poor thousand!
An hour you mean, and in that hour ten thousand.
Yes, I would make with every glance a murder.--
Mend me this curl.
_Gui._ Woman! [_Aside._
_Mar._ You see, my lord,
I have my followers, like you. I swear,
The court's a heavenly place; but--O, my heart!
I know not why that sigh should come uncalled;
Perhaps, 'twas for your going; yet I swear,
I never was so moved, O Guise, as now,
Just as you entered, when from yonder window
I saw the king.
_Gui._ Woman, all over woman! [_Aside._
The world confesses, madam, Henry's form
Is noble and majestic.
_Mar._ O you grudge
The extorted praise, and speak him but by halves.
_Gui._ Priest, Corso, devils! how she carries it!
_Mar._ I see, my lord, you're come to take your leave;
And were it not to give the court suspicion,
I would oblige you, sir, before you go,
To lead me to the king.
_Gui._ Death and the devil!
_Mar._ But since that cannot be, I'll take my leave
Of you, my lord; heaven grant your journey safe!
Farewell, once more. [_Offers her hand._]
Not stir! does this become you,--
Does your ambition swell into your eyes?--
Jealousy by this light; nay then, proud Guise,
I tell you, you're not worthy of the grace;
But I will carry't, sir, to those that are,
And leave you to the curse of bosom-war. [_Exit._
_May._ Is this the heavenly--
_Gui._ Devil, devil, as they are all.
'Tis true, at first she caught the heavenly form,
But now ambition sets her on her head,
By hell, I see the cloven mark upon her.
Ha! Grillon here! some new court-trick upon me.
_Enter_ GRILLON.
_Gril._ Sir, I have business for your ear.
_Gui._ Retire. [_Exeunt his Followers._
_Gril._ The king, my lord, commanded me to wait you,
And bid you welcome to the court.
_Gui._ The king
Still loads me with new honours; but none greater
Than this, the last.
_Gril._ There is one greater yet,
Your high commission 'gainst the Huguenots;
I and my family shall shortly wait you,
And 'twill be glorious work.
_Gui._ If you are there,
There must be action.
_Gril._ O, your pardon, sir;
I'm but a stripling in the trade of war:
But you, whose life is one continued broil,
What will not your triumphant arms accomplish!
You, that were formed for mastery in war.
That, with a start, cried to your brother Mayenne,--
"To horse!" and slaughtered forty thousand Germans[9].
_Gui._ Let me beseech you, colonel, no more.
_Gril._ But, sir, since I must make at least a figure
In this great business, let me understand
What 'tis you mean, and why you force the king
Upon so dangerous an expedition.
_Gui._ Sir, I intend the greatness of the king;
The greatness of all France, whom it imports
To make their arms their business, aim, and glory;
And where so proper as upon those rebels,
That covered all the state with blood and death?
_Gril._ Stored arsenals and armouries, fields of horse,
Ordnance, munition, and the nerve of war,
Sound infantry, not harassed and diseased,
To meet the fierce Navarre, should first be thought on.
_Gui._ I find, my lord, the argument grows warm,
Therefore, thus much, and I have done: I go
To join the Holy League in this great war,
In which no place of office, or command,
Not of the greatest, shall be bought or sold;
Whereas too often honours are conferred
On soldiers, and no soldiers: This man knighted,
Because he charged a troop before his dinner,
And sculked behind a hedge i'the afternoon:
I will have strict examination made
Betwixt the meritorious and the base.
_Gril._ You have mouthed it bravely, and there is no doubt
Your deeds would answer well your haughty words;
Yet let me tell you, sir, there is a man,
(Curse on the hearts that hate him!) that would better,
Better than you, or all your puffy race,
That better would become the great battalion;
That when he shines in arms, and suns the field,
Moves, speaks, and fights, and is himself a war.
_Gui._ Your idol, sir; you mean the great Navarre:
But yet--
_Gril._ No _yet_, my lord of Guise, no _yet_;
By arms, I bar you that; I swear, no _yet_;
For never was his like, nor shall again.
Though voted from his right by your cursed League.
_Gui._ Judge not too rashly of the Holy League,
But look at home.
_Gril._ Ha! darest thou justify
Those villains?
_Gui._ I'll not justify a villain,
More than yourself; but if you thus proceed,
If every heated breath can puff away,
On each surmise, the lives of free-born people,
What need that awful general convocation,
The assembly of the states?--nay, let me urge,--
If thus they vilify the Holy League,
What may their heads expect?
_Gril._ What, if I could,
They should be certain of,--whole piles of fire.
_Gui._ Colonel, 'tis very well I know your mind,
Which, without fear, or flattery to your person,
I'll tell the king; and then, with his permission,
Proclaim it for a warning to our people.
_Gril._ Come, you're a murderer yourself within,
A traitor.
_Gui._ Thou a ---- hot old hair-brained fool.
_Gril._ You were complotter with the cursed League,
The black abettor of our Harry's death.
_Gui._ 'Tis false.
_Gril._ 'Tis true, as thou art double-hearted:
Thou double traitor, to conspire so basely;
And when found out, more basely to deny't.
_Gui._ O gracious Harry, let me sound thy name,
Lest this old rust of war, this knotty trifler,
Should raise me to extremes.
_Gril._ If thou'rt a man,
That didst refuse the challenge of Navarre,
Come forth[10].
_Gui._ Go on; since thou'rt resolved on death,
I'll follow thee, and rid thy shaking soul.
_Enter King, Queen-Mother,_ ALPHONSO, _Abbot, &c._
But see, the king: I scorn to ruin thee,
Therefore go tell him, tell him thy own story.
_King._ Ha, colonel, is this your friendly visit?
Tell me the truth, how happened this disorder?
Those ruffled hands, red looks, and port of fury?
_Gril._ I told him, sir, since you will have it so,
He was the author of the rebel-league;
Therefore, a traitor and a murderer.
_King._ Is't possible?
_Gui._ No matter, sir, no matter;
A few hot words, no more, upon my life;
The old man roused, and shook himself a little:
So, if your majesty will do me honour,
I do beseech you, let the business die.
_King._ Grillon, submit yourself, and ask his pardon.
_Gril._ Pardon me, I cannot do't.
_King._ Where are the guards!
_Gui._ Hold, sir;--come, colonel, I'll ask pardon for you;
This soldierly embrace makes up the breach;
We will be sorry, sir, for one another.
_Gril._ My lord, I know not what to answer you;
I'm friends,--and I am not,--and so farewell. [_Exit._
_King._ You have your orders; yet before you go,
Take this embrace: I court you for my friend,
Though Grillon would not.
_Gui._ I thank you on my knees;
And still, while life shall last, will take strict care
To justify my loyalty to your person. [_Exit._
_Qu. M._ Excellent loyalty, to lock you up!
_King._ I see even to the bottom of his soul;
And, madam, I must say the Guise has beauties,
But they are set in night, and foul design:
He was my friend when young, and might be still.
_Ab._ Marked you his hollow accents at the parting?
_Qu. M._ Graves in his smiles.
_King._ Death in his bloodless hands.--
O Marmoutiere! now I will haste to meet thee:
The face of beauty, on this rising horror,
Looks like the midnight moon upon a murder;
It gilds the dark design that stays for fate,
And drives the shades, that thicken, from the state. [_Exuent._
ACT III. SCENE I.
_Enter_ GRILLON _and_ POLIN._
_Gril._ Have then this pious Council of Sixteen
Scented your late discovery of the plot?
_Pol._ Not as from me; for still I kennel with them.
And bark as loud as the most deep-mouthed traitor,
Against the king, his government, and laws;
Whereon immediately there runs a cry
Of,--Seize him on the next procession! seize him.
And clap the Chilperick in a monastery!
Thus it was fixt, as I before discovered;
But when, against his custom, they perceived
The king absented, strait the rebels met,
And roared,--they were undone.
_Gril._ O, 'tis like them;
'Tis like their mongrel souls: flesh them with fortune,
And they will worry royalty to death;
But if some crabbed virtue turn and pinch them,
Mark me, they'll run, and yelp, and clap their tails,
Like curs, betwixt their legs, and howl for mercy.
_Pol._ But Malicorn, sagacious on the point,
Cried,--Call the sheriffs, and bid them arm their bands;
Add yet to this, to raise you above hope,
The Guise, my master, will be here to-day.--
For on bare guess of what has been revealed,
He winged a messenger to give him notice;
Yet, spite of all this factor of the fiends
Could urge, they slunk their heads, like hinds in storms.
But see, they come.
_Enter Sheriffs, with the Populace._
_Gril._ Away, I'll have amongst them;
Fly to the king, warn him of Guise's coming,
That he may strait despatch his strict commands
To stop him. [_Exit_ POLIN.
_1 Sher._ Nay, this is colonel Grillon,
The blunderbuss o'the court; away, away,
He carries ammunition in his face.
_Gril._ Hark you, my friends, if you are not in haste,
Because you are the pillars of the city,
I would inform you of a general ruin.
_2 Sher._ Ruin to the city! marry, heaven forbid!
_Gril._ Amen, I say; for, look you, I'm your friend.
'Tis blown about, you've plotted on the king,
To seize him, if not kill him; for, who knows,
When once your conscience yields, how far 'twill stretch;
Next, quite to dash your firmest hopes in pieces,
The duke of Guise is dead.
_1 Sher._ Dead, colonel!
_2 Sher._ Undone, undone!
_Gril._ The world cannot redeem you;
For what, sirs, if the king, provoked at last,
Should join the Spaniard, and should fire your city;
Paris, your head,--but a most venomous one,--
Which must be blooded?
_1 Sher._ Blooded, colonel!
_Gril._ Ay, blooded, thou most infamous magistrate,
Or you will blood the king, and burn the Louvre;
But ere that be, fall million miscreant souls,
Such earth-born minds as yours; for, mark me, slaves,
Did you not, ages past, consign your lives,
Liberties, fortunes, to Imperial hands,
Made them the guardians of your sickly years?
And now you're grown up to a booby's greatness,
What, would you wrest the sceptre from his hand?
Now, by the majesty of kings I swear,
You shall as soon be saved for packing juries.
_1 Sher._ Why, sir, mayn't citizens be saved?
_Gril._ Yes, sir,
From drowning, to be hanged, burnt, broke o'the wheel.
_1 Sher._ Colonel, you speak us plain.
_Gril._ A plague confound you,
Why should I not? what is there in such rascals,
Should make me hide my thought, or hold my tongue?
Now, in the devil's name, what make you here,
Daubing the inside of the court, like snails,
Sliming our walls, and pricking out your horns?
To hear, I warrant, what the king's a doing,
And what the cabinet-council; then to the city,
To spread your monstrous lies, and sow sedition?
Wild fire choke you!
_1 Sher._ Well, we'll think of this;
And so we take our leaves.
_Gril._ Nay, stay, my masters;
For I'm a thinking now just whereabouts
Grow the two tallest trees in Arden forest.
_1 Sher._ For what, pray, colonel, if we may be so bold?
_Gril._ Why, to hang you upon the highest branches.
'Fore God, it will be so; and I shall laugh
To see you dangling to and fro i'the air,
With the honest crows pecking your traitors' limbs.
_All._ Good colonel!
_Gril._ Good rats, my precious vermin.
You moving dirt, you rank stark muck o'the world,
You oven-bats, you things so far from souls,
Like dogs, you're out of Providence's reach,
And only fit for hanging; but be gone,
And think of plunder.--You right elder sheriff,
Who carved our Henry's image on a table,
At your club-feast, and after stabbed it through,--[11]
_1 Sher._ Mercy, good colonel.
_Gril._ Run with your nose to earth;
Run, blood-hound, run, and scent out royal murder.--
You second rogue, but equal to the first,
Plunder, go hang,--nay, take your tackling with you,
For these shall hold you fast,--your slaves shall hang you.
To the mid region in the sun:
Plunder! Begone, vipers, asps, and adders!
[_Exeunt Sheriffs and People._
_Enter_ MALICORN.
Ha! but here comes a fiend, that soars above;
A prince o'the air, that sets the mud a moving.
_Mal._ Colonel, a word.
_Gril._ I hold no speech with villains.
_Mal._ But, sir, it may concern your fame and safety.
_Gril._ No matter; I had rather die traduced,
Than live by such a villain's help as thine.
_Mal._ Hate then the traitor, but yet love the treason.
_Gril._ Why, are you not a villain?
_Mal._ 'Tis confessed.
_Gril._ Then, in the name of all thy brother-devils,
What wouldst thou have with me?
_Mal._ I know you're honest;
Therefore it is my business to disturb you.
_Gril._ 'Fore God, I'll beat thee, if thou urge me farther.
_Mal._ Why, though you should, yet, if you hear me after,
The pleasure I shall take in your vexation,
Will heal my bruises.
_Gril._ Wert thou definite rogue,
I'faith, I think, that I should give thee hearing;
But such a boundless villainy as thine
Admits no patience.
_Mal._ Your niece is come to court,
And yields her honour to our Henry's bed.
_Gril._ Thou liest, damned villain. [_Strikes him._
_Mal._ So: why this I looked for;
But yet I swear by hell, and my revenge,
'Tis true, as you have wronged me.
_Gril._ Wronged thee, villain!
And name revenge! O wert thou Grillon's match,
And worthy of my sword, I swear, by this
One had been past an oath; but thou'rt a worm,
And if I tread thee, darest not turn again.
_Mal._ 'Tis false; I dare, like you, but cannot act;
There is no force in this enervate arm.
Blasted I was ere born--curse on my stars!--
Got by some dotard in his pithless years,
And sent a withered sapling to the world.
Yet I have brain, and there is my revenge;
Therefore I say again, these eyes have seen
Thy blood at court, bright as a summer's morn,
When all the heaven is streaked with dappled fires.
And flecked with blushes like a rifled maid;
Nay, by the gleamy fires that melted from her,
Fast sighs and smiles, swol'n lips, and heaving breasts,
My soul presages Henry has enjoyed her.
_Gril._ Again thou liest! and I will crumble thee,
Thou bottled spider, into thy primitive earth,
Unless thou swear thy very thought's a lie.
_Mal._ I stand in adamant, and thus defy thee!
Nay, draw, and with the edge betwixt my lips,
Even while thou rak'st it through my teeth, I'll swear
All I have said is true, as thou art honest,
Or I a villain.
_Gril._ Damned infamous wretch!
So much below my scorn, I dare not kill thee;
And yet so much my hate, that I must fear thee.
For should it be as thou hast said, not all
The trophies of my laurelled honesty
Should bar me from forsaking this bad world,
And never draw my sword for Henry more.
_Mal._ Ha! 'tis well, and now I am revenged.
I was in hopes thou wouldst have uttered treason,
And forfeited thy head, to pay me fully.
_Gril._ Hast thou compacted for a lease of years
With hell, that thus thou ventured to provoke me?
_Mal._ Perhaps I have: (How right the blockhead hits!)
Yet more to rack thy heart, and break thy brain,
Thy niece has been before the Guise's mistress.
_Gril._ Hell-hound, avaunt!
_Mal._ Forgive my honest meaning. [_Exit._
_Gril._ 'Tis hatched beneath, a plot upon mine honour;
And thus he lays his baits to catch my soul:--
Ha! but the presence opens; who comes here?
By heaven, my niece! led by Alphonso Corso!
Ha, Malicorn! is't possible? truth from thee!
'Tis plain! and I, in justifying woman,
Have done the devil wrong.
_Enter_ ALPHONSO CORSO, _leading in_ MARMOUTIERE.
_Alph._ Madam, the king
(Please you to sit) will instantly attend you. [_Exit._
_Gril._ Death, hell, and furies! ha! she comes to seek him!--
O prostitute!--and, on her prodigal flesh,
She has lavished all the diamonds of the Guise,
To set her off, and sell her to the king.
_Mar._ O heavens! did ever virgin yet attempt
An enterprise like mine? I, that resolved
Never to leave those dear delightful shades,
But act the little part that nature gave me,
On the green carpets of some guiltless grove,
And having finished it, forsake the world;
Unless sometimes my heart might entertain
Some small remembrance of the taking Guise:
But that far, far from any darkening thought,
To cloud my honour, or eclipse my virtue.
_Gril._ Thou liest! and if thou hadst not glanced aside,
And spied me coming, I had had it all.
_Mar._ By heaven! by all that's good--
_Gril._ Thou hast lost thy honour.
Give me this hand, this hand by which I caught thee
From the bold ruffian in the massacre,
That would have stained thy almost infant honour,
With lust, and blood;--dost thou remember it?
_Mar._ I do, and bless the godlike arm, that saved me.
_Gril._ 'Tis false! thou hast forgot my generous action;
And now thou laugh'st, to think how thou hast cheated,
For all his kindness, this old grisled fool.
_Mar._ Forbid it heaven!
_Gril._ But oh, that thou hadst died
Ten thousand deaths, ere blasted Grillon's glory;
Grillon, that saved thee from a barbarous world.
Where thou hadst starved, or sold thyself for bread;
Took thee into his bosom, fostered thee
As his own soul, and laid thee in his heart-strings;
And now, for all my cares, to serve me thus!
O 'tis too much, ye powers! double confusion
On all my wars; and oh,--out, shame upon thee!
It wrings the tears from Grillon's iron heart,
And melts me to a babe.
_Mar._ Sir! father! hear me!
I come to court, to save the life of Guise.
_Gril._ And prostitute thy honour to the king.
_Mar._ I have looked, perhaps, too nicely for my sex,
Into the dark affairs of fatal state;
And, to advance this dangerous inquisition,
I listened to the love of daring Guise.
_Gril._ By arms, by honesty, I swear thou lovest him!
_Mar._ By heaven, that gave those arms success, I swear
I do not, as you think! but take it all.
I have heard the Guise, not with an angel's temper,
Something beyond the tenderness of pity,
And yet, not love.
Now, by the powers that framed me, this is all!
Nor should the world have wrought this close confession,
But to rebate your jealousy of honour.
_Gril._ I know not what to say, nor what to think;
There's heaven still in thy voice, but that's a sign
Virtue's departing; for thy better angel
Still makes the woman's tongue his rising ground,
Wags there a while, and takes his flight for ever.
_Mar._ You must not go.
_Gril._ Though I have reason, plain
As day, to judge thee false, I think thee true:
By heaven, methinks I see a glory round thee!
There's something says, thou wilt not lose thy honour:--
Death and the devil! that's my own honesty;
My foolish open nature, that would have
All like myself;--but off; I'll hence and curse thee!
_Mar._ O, stay!
_Gril._ I will not.
_Mar._ Hark! the king's coming.
Let me conjure you, for your own soul's quiet,
And for the everlasting rest of mine,
Stir not, till you have heard my heart's design.
_Gril._ Angel, or devil, I will.--Nay, at this rate,
She'll make me shortly bring him to her bed.--
Bawd for him? no, he shall make me run my head
Into a cannon, when 'tis firing, first;
That's honourable sport. But I'll retire,
And if she plays me false, here's that shall mend her.
[_Touching his Dagger, exit._ MARMOUTIERE
_sits. Song and Dance._
_Enter the King._
_King._ After the breathing of a love-sick heart
Upon your hand, once more,--nay twice,--forgive me.
_Mar._ I discompose you, sir.
_King._ Thou dost, by heaven;
But with such charming pleasure,
I love, and tremble, as at angels' view.
_Mar._ Love me, my lord?
_King._ Who should be loved, but you?
So loved, that even my crown, and self are vile,
While you are by. Try me upon despair;
My kingdom at the stake, ambition starved,
Revenge forgot, and all great appetites
That whet uncommon spirits to aspire,
So once a day I may have leave--
Nay, madam, then you fear me.
_Mar._ Fear you, sir! what is there dreadful in you?
You've all the graces that can crown mankind;
Yet wear them so, as if you did not know them;
So stainless, fearless, free in all your actions,
As if heaven lent you to the world to pattern.
_King._ Madam, I find you are no petitioner;
My people would not treat me in this sort,
Though 'twere to gain a part of their design;
But to the Guise they deal their faithless praise
As fast, as you your flattery to me;
Though for what end I cannot guess, except
You come, like them, to mock at my misfortunes.
_Mar._ Forgive you, heaven, that thought! No, mighty monarch,
The love of all the good, and wonder of the great;
I swear, by heaven, my heart adores, and loves you.
_King._ O madam, rise.
_Mar._ Nay, were you, sir, unthroned
By this seditious rout that dare despise you,
Blast all my days, ye powers! torment my nights;
Nay, let the misery invade my sex,
That could not for the royal cause, like me,
Throw all their luxury before your feet,
And follow you, like pilgrims, through the world.
_Gril._ Sound wind and limb! 'fore God, a gallant girl! [_Aside._
_King._ What shall I answer to thee, O thou balm
To heal a broken, yet a kingly heart!
For, so I swear I will be to my last.
Come to my arms, and be thy Harry's angel,
Shine through my cares, and make my crown sit easy.
_Mar._ O never, sir.
_King._ What said you, Marmoutiere?
Why dost thou turn thy beauties into frowns?
_Mar._ You know, sir, 'tis impossible; no more.
_King._ No more?--and with that stern resolved behaviour?
By heaven! were I a dying, and the priest
Should urge my last confession, I'd cry out,
Oh Marmoutiere! and yet thou say'st,--No more!
_Mar._ 'Tis well, sir; I have lost my aim, farewell.
_King._ Come back! O stay, my life flows after you.
_Mar._ No, sir, I find I am a trouble to you;
You will not hear my suit.
_King._ You cannot go,
You shall not.--O your suit, I kneel to grant it;
I beg you take whatever you demand.
_Mar._ Then, sir, thus low, or prostrate if you please,
Let me intreat for Guise.
_King._ Ha, madam, what!
For Guise; for Guise! that stubborn arrogant rebel,
That laughs at proffered mercy, slights his pardon,
Mocks royal grace, and plots upon my life?
Ha! and do you protect him? then the world
Is sworn to Henry's death: Does beauty too,
And innocence itself conspire against me?
Then let me tamely yield my glories up,
Which once I vowed with my drawn sword to wear
To my last drop of blood.--Come Guise, come cardinal,
All you loved traitors, come--I strip to meet you;
Sheathe all your daggers in curst Henry's heart.
_Mar._ This I expected; but when you have heard
How far I would intreat your majesty,
Perhaps you'll be more calm.
_King._ See, I am hushed;
Speak then; how far, madam, would you command?
_Mar._ Not to proceed to last extremities,
Before the wound is desperate. Think alone,
For no man judges like your majesty:
Take your own methods; all the heads of France
Cannot so well advise you, as yourself.
Therefore resume, my lord, your god-like temper,
Yet do not bear more than a monarch should;
Believe it, sir, the more your majesty
Draws back your arm, the more of fate it carries.
_King._ Thou genius of my state, thou perfect model
Of heaven itself, and abstract of the angels,
Forgive the late disturbance of my soul!
I'm clear by nature, as a rockless stream;
But they dig through the gravel of my heart,
And raise the mud of passions up to cloud me;
Therefore let me conjure you, do not go;
'Tis said, the Guise will come in spite of me;
Suppose it possible, and stay to advise me.
_Mar._ I will; but, on your royal word, no more.
_King._ I will be easy,
To my last gasp, as your own virgin thoughts,
And never dare to breathe my passion more;
Yet you'll allow me now and then to sigh
As we discourse, and court you with my eyes?
_Enter_ ALPHONSO.
Why do you wave your hand, and warn me hence?
So looks the poor condemned,
When justice beckons, there's no hope of pardon.
Sternly, like you, the judge the victim eyes,
And thus, like me, the wretch, despairing, dies.
[_Exit with_ ALPHONSO.
_Enter_ GRILLON.
_Gril._ O rare, rare creature! By the power that made me,
Wer't possible we could be damned again
By some new Eve, such virtue might redeem us.
Oh I could clasp thee, but that my arms are rough,
Till all thy sweets were broke with my embraces,
And kiss thy beauties to a dissolution!
_Mar._ Ah father, uncle, brother, all the kin,
The precious blood that's left me in the world,
Believe, dear sir, whate'er my actions seem,
I will not lose my virtue, for a throne.
_Gril._ Why, I will carve thee out a throne myself;
I'll hew down all the kings in Christendom,
And seat thee on their necks, as high as heaven.
_Enter Abbot_ DELBENE.
_Abb._ Colonel, your ear.
_Mar._ By these whispering councils,
My soul presages that the Guise is coming.
If he dares come, were I a man, a king,
I'd sacrifice him in the city's sight.--
O heavens! what was't I said? Were I a man,
I know not that; but, as I am a virgin,
If I would offer thee, too lovely Guise,
It should be kneeling to the throne of mercy.--
Ha! then thou lovest, that thou art thus concerned.
Down, rising mischief, down, or I will kill thee,
Even in thy cause, and strangle new-born pity!--
Yet if he were not married!--ha, what then?
His charms prevail;--no, let the rebel die.
I faint beneath this strong oppression here;
Reason and love rend my divided soul;
Heaven be the judge, and still let virtue conquer.
Love to his tune my jarring heart would bring,
But reason over-winds, and cracks the string. [_Exit._
_Abb._ The king dispatches order upon order,
With positive command to stop his coming.
Yet there is notice given to the city;
Besides, Belleure brought but a half account,
How that the Guise replied, he would obey
His majesty in all; yet, if he might
Have leave to justify himself before him,
He doubted not his cause.
_Gril._ The axe, the axe:
Rebellion's pampered to a pleurisy,
And it must bleed. [_Shout within._
_Abb._ Hark, what a shout was there!
I'll to the king; it may be, 'tis reported
On purpose thus.
Let there be truth or lies
In this mad fame, I'll bring you instant word. [_Exit Abbot._
_Manet_ GRILLON: _Enter_ GUISE, CARDINAL, MAYENNE, MALICORN,
_Attendants, &c. Shouts again._
_Gril._ Death, and thou devil Malicorn, is that
Thy master?
_Gui._ Yes, Grillon, 'tis the Guise;
One, that would court you for a friend.
_Gril._ A friend!
Traitor thou mean'st, and so I bid thee welcome;
But since thou art so insolent, thy blood
Be on thy head, and fall by me unpitied. [_Exit._
_Gui._ The bruises of his loyalty have crazed him. [_Shouts louder._
_Spirit within sings._
_Malicorn, Malicorn, Malicorn, ho!
If the Guise resolves to go,
I charge, I warn thee let him know,
Perhaps his head may lie too low._
_Gui._ Why, Malicorn.
_Mal._ [_Starting._] Sir, do not see the king.
_Gui._ I will.
_Mal._ 'Tis dangerous.
_Gui._ Therefore I will see him,
And so report my danger to the people.
Halt--to your judgment.--[MALICORN _makes signs of Assassination._]
Let him, if he dare.--
But more, more, more;--why, Malicorn!--again?
I thought a look, with us, had been a language;
I'll talk my mind on any point but this
By glances;--ha! not yet? thou mak'st me blush
At thy delay; why, man, 'tis more than life,
Ambition, or a crown[12].
_Mal._ What, Marmoutiere?
_Gui._ Ay, there a general's heart beat like a drum!
Quick, quick! my reins, my back, and head and breast
Ache, as I'd been a horse-back forty hours.
_Mal._ She has seen the king.
_Gui._ I thought she might. A trick upon me; well.
_Mal._ Passion o' both sides.
_Gui._ His, thou meanest.
_Mal._ On hers.
Down on her knees.
_Gui._ And up again; no matter.
_Mal._ Now all in tears, now smiling, sad at parting.
_Gui._ Dissembled, for she told me this before;
'Twas all put on, that I might hear and rave.
_Mal._ And so, to make sure work on't, by consent
Of Grillon, who is made their bawd,--
_Gui._ Away!
_Mal._ She's lodged at court.
_Gui._ 'Tis false, they do belie her.
_Mal._ But, sir, I saw the apartment.
_Gui._ What, at court?
_Mal._ At court, and near the king; 'tis true, by heaven:
I never play'd you foul, why should you doubt me?
_Gui._ I would thou hadst, ere thus unmanned my heart!
Blood, battles, fire, and death! I run, I run!
With this last blow he drives me like a coward;
Nay, let me never win a field again,
If, with the thought of these irregular vapours,
The blood ha'nt burst my lips.
_Card._ Peace, brother.
_Gui._ By heaven, I took thee for my soul's physician,
And dost thou vomit me with this loathed peace?
'Tis contradiction: no, my peaceful brother,
I'll meet him now, though fire-armed cherubins
Should cross my way. O jealousy of love!
Greater than fame! thou eldest of the passions,
Or rather all in one, I here invoke thee,
Where'er thou'rt throned in air, in earth, or hell,
Wing me to my revenge, to blood, and ruin!
_Card._ Have you no temper?
_Gui._ Pray, sir, give me leave.
A moment's thought;--ha, but I sweat and tremble,
My brain runs this and that way; it will not fix
On aught but vengeance.--Malicorn, call the people. [_Shouts within._
But hark, they shout again: I'll on and meet them;
Nay, head them to his palace, as my guards.
Yet more, on such exalted causes borne,
I'll wait him in his cabinet alone,
And look him pale; while in his courts without,
The people shout him dead with their alarms,
And make his mistress tremble in his arms. [_Exeunt._
SCENE II.
_Enter King and Council._ [_Shouts without._
_King._ What mean these shouts?
_Abb._ I told your majesty,
The sheriffs have puffed the populace with hopes
Of their deliverer. [_Shouts again._
_King._ Hark! there rung a peal
Like thunder: see, Alphonso, what's the cause.
_Enter_ GRILLON.
_Gril._ My lord, the Guise is come.
_King._ Is't possible! ha, Grillon, said'st thou, come?
_Gril._ Why droops the royal majesty? O sir!
_King._ O villain, slave, wert thou my late-born heir,
Given me by heaven, even when I lay a-dying--
But peace, thou festering thought, and hide thy wound;--
Where is he?
_Gril._ With her majesty, your mother;
She has taken chair, and he walks bowing by her,
With thirty thousand rebels at his heels.
_King._ What's to be done? No pall upon my spirit;
But he that loves me best, and dares the most
On this nice point of empire, let him speak.
_Alph._ I would advise you, sir, to call him in,
And kill him instantly upon the spot.
_Abb._ I like Alphonso's counsel, short, sure work;
Cut off the head, and let the body walk.
_Enter_ QUEEN-MOTHER.
_Qu. M._ Sir, the Guise waits.
_King._ He enters on his fate.
_Qu. M._ Not so,--forbear; the city is up in arms;
Nor doubt, if, in their heat, you cut him off,
That they will spare the royal majesty.
Once, sir, let me advise, and rule your fury.
_King._ You shall: I'll see him, and I'll spare him now.
_Qu. M._ What will you say?
_King._ I know not;--
Colonel Grillon, call the archers in,
Double your guards, and strictly charge the Swiss
Stand to their arms, receive him as a traitor. [_Exit_ GRILLON.
My heart has set thee down, O Guise, in blood,--
Blood, mother, blood, ne'er to be blotted out.
_Qu. M._ Yet you'll relent, when this hot fit is over.
_King._ If I forgive him, may I ne'er be forgiven!
No, if I tamely bear such insolence,
What act of treason will the villains stop at?
Seize me, they've sworn; imprison me is the next,
Perhaps arraign me, and then doom me dead.
But ere I suffer that, fall all together,
Or rather, on their slaughtered heaps erect
My throne, and then proclaim it for example.
I'm born a monarch, which implies alone
To wield the sceptre, and depend on none. [_Exeunt[13]._
ACT IV.
SCENE I._--The Louvre._
_A Chair of State placed; the King appears sitting in it; a Table by
him, on which he leans; Attendants on each Side of him; amongst the
rest,_ ABBOT, GRILLON, _and_ BELLIEURE. _The_ QUEEN-MOTHER _enters,
led by the Duke of_ GUISE, _who makes his Approach with three
Reverences to the King's Chair; after the third, the King rises, and
coming forward, speaks._
_King._ I sent you word, you should not come.
_Gui._ Sir, that I came--
_King._ Why, that you came, I see.
Once more, I sent you word, you should not come.
_Gui._ Not come to throw myself, with all submission,
Beneath your royal feet! to put my cause
And person in the hands of sovereign justice!
_King._ Now 'tis with all submission,--that's the preface,--
Yet still you came against my strict command;
You disobeyed me, duke, with all submission.
_Gui._ Sir, 'twas the last necessity that drove me,
To clear myself of calumnies, and slanders,
Much urged, but never proved, against my innocence;
Yet had I known 'twas your express command,
I should not have approached.
_King._ 'Twas as express, as words could signify;--
Stand forth, Bellieure,--it shall be proved you knew it,--
Stand forth, and to this false man's face declare
Your message, word for word.
_Bel._ Sir, thus it was. I met him on the way,
And plain as I could speak, I gave your orders,
Just in these following words:--
_King._ Enough, I know you told him;
But he has used me long to be contemned,
And I can still be patient, and forgive.
_Gui._ And I can ask forgiveness, when I err;
But let my gracious master please to know
The true intent of my misconstrued faith.
Should I not come to vindicate my fame
From wrong constructions? And--
_King._ Come, duke, you were not wronged; your conscience knows
You were not wronged; were you not plainly told,
That, if you dared to set your foot in Paris,
You should be held the cause of all commotions
That should from thence ensue? and yet you came.
_Gui._ Sir, will you please with patience but to hear me?
_King._ I will; and would be glad, my lord of Guise,
To clear you to myself.
_Gui._ I had been told,
There were in agitation here at court,
Things of the highest note against religion,
Against the common properties of subjects,
And lives of honest well-affected men;
I therefore judged,--
_King._ Then you, it seems, are judge
Betwixt the prince and people? judge for them,
And champion against me?
_Gui._ I feared it might be represented so,
And came resolved,--
_King._ To head the factious crowd.
_Gui._ To clear my innocence.
_King._ The means for that,
Had been your absence from this hot-brained town,
Where you, not I, are king!--
I feel my blood kindling within my veins;
The genius of the throne knocks at my heart:
Come what may come, he dies.
_Qu. M._ [_Stopping the king._] What mean you, sir?
You tremble and look pale; for heaven's sake think,
'Tis your own life you venture, if you kill him.
_King._ Had I ten thousand lives, I'll venture all.
Give me way, madam!
_Qu. M._ Not to your destruction.
The whole Parisian herd is at your gates;
A crowd's a name too small, they are a nation,
Numberless, armed, enraged, one soul informs them.
_King._ And that one soul's the Guise. I'll rend it out,
And damn the rabble all at once in him.
_Gui._ My fate is now in the balance; fool within,
I thank thee for thy foresight. [_Aside._
_Qu. M._ Your guards oppose them!
_King._ Why not? a multitude's a bulky coward.
_Qu. M._ By heaven, there are not limbs in all your guards,
For every one a morsel.
_King._ Cæsar quelled them,
But with a look and word.
_Qu. M._ So Galba thought.
_King._ But Galba was not Cæsar.
_Gui._ I must not give them time for resolution.-- [_Aside._
My journey, sir, has discomposed my health, [_To the king._
I humbly beg your leave, I may retire,
Till your commands recall me to your service. [_Exit[14]._
_King._ So, you have counselled well; the traitor's gone,
To mock the meekness of an injured king. [_To Qu. M._
Why did not you, who gave me part of life,
Infuse my father stronger in my veins?
But when you kept me cooped within your womb,
You palled his generous blood with the dull mixture
Of your Italian food, and milked slow arts
Of womanish tameness in my infant mouth.
Why stood I stupid else, and missed a blow,
Which heaven and daring folly made so fair?
_Qu. M._ I still maintain, 'twas wisely done to spare him.
_Gril._ A pox on this unseasonable wisdom!
He was a fool to come; if so, then they,
Who let him go, were somewhat.
_King._ The event, the event will shew us what we were;
For, like a blazing meteor hence he shot,
And drew a sweeping fiery train along.--
O Paris, Paris, once my seat of triumph,
But now the scene of all thy king's misfortunes;
Ungrateful, perjured, and disloyal town,
Which by my royal presence I have warmed
So long, that now the serpent hisses out,
And shakes his forked tongue at majesty,
While I--
_Qu. M._ While you lose time in idle talk,
And use no means for safety and prevention.
_King._ What can I do? O mother, Abbot, Grillon!
All dumb! nay, then 'tis plain, my cause is desperate.
Such an overwhelming ill makes grief a fool,
As if redress were past.
_Gril._ I'll go to the next sheriff,
And beg the first reversion of a rope:
Dispatch is all my business; I'll hang for you.
_Abb._ 'Tis not so bad, as vainly you surmise;
Some space there is, some little space, some steps
Betwixt our fate and us: our foes are powerful,
But yet not armed, nor marshalled into order;
Believe it, sir, the Guise will not attempt,
Till he have rolled his snow-ball to a heap.
_King._ So then, my lord, we're a day off from death:
What shall to-morrow do?
_Abb._ To-morrow, sir,
If hours between slide not too idly by,
You may be master of their destiny,
Who now dispose so loftily of yours.
Not far without the suburbs there are quartered
Three thousand Swiss, and two French regiments.
_King._ Would they were here, and I were at their head!
_Qu. M._ Send Mareschal Byron to lead them up.
_King._ It shall be so: by heaven there's life in this!
The wrack of clouds is driving on the winds,
And shews a break of sunshine--
Go Grillon, give my orders to Byron,
And see your soldiers well disposed within,
For safeguard of the Louvre.
_Qu. M._ One thing more:
The Guise (his business yet not fully ripe,)
Will treat, at least, for shew of loyalty;
Let him be met with the same arts he brings.
_King._ I know, he'll make exorbitant demands,
But here your part of me will come in play;
The Italian soul shall teach me how to sooth:
Even Jove must flatter with an empty hand,
'Tis time to thunder, when he gripes the brand. [_Exeunt._
SCENE _II.--A Night Scene._
_Enter_ MALICORN _solus._
_Mal._ Thus far the cause of God; but God's or devil's,--
I mean my master's cause, and mine,--succeed,
What shall the Guise do next? [_A flash of lightning._
_Enter the spirit_ MELANAX.
_Mel._ First seize the king, and after murder him.
_Mal._ Officious fiend, thou comest uncalled to-night.
_Mel._ Always uncalled, and still at hand for mischief.
_Mal._ But why in this fanatic habit, devil?
Thou look'st like one that preaches to the crowd;
Gospel is in thy face, and outward garb,
And treason on thy tongue.
_Mel._ Thou hast me right:
Ten thousand devils more are in this habit;
Saintship and zeal are still our best disguise:
We mix unknown with the hot thoughtless crowd,
And quoting scriptures, (which too well we know,)
With impious glosses ban the holy text,
And make it speak rebellion, schism, and murder;
So turn the arms of heaven against itself.
_Mal._ What makes the curate of St. Eustace here?
_Mel._ Thou art mistaken, master; 'tis not he,
But 'tis a zealous, godly, canting devil,
Who has assumed the churchman's lucky shape,
To talk the crowd to madness and rebellion.
_Mal._ O true enthusiastic devil, true,--
(For lying is thy nature, even to me,)
Did'st thou not tell me, if my lord, the Guise,
Entered the court, his head should then lie low?
That was a lie; he went, and is returned.
_Mel._ 'Tis false; I said, _perhaps_ it should lie low;
And, but I chilled the blood in Henry's veins,
And crammed a thousand ghastly, frightful thoughts,
Nay, thrust them foremost in his labouring brain,
Even so it would have been.
_Mal._ Thou hast deserved me,
And I am thine, dear devil: what do we next?
_Mel._ I said, first seize the king.
_Mal._ Suppose it done:
He's clapt within a convent, shorn a saint,
My master mounts the throne.
_Mel._ Not so fast, Malicorn;
Thy master mounts not, till the king be slain.
_Mal._ Not when deposed?
_Mel._ He cannot be deposed:
He may be killed, a violent fate attends him;
But at his birth there shone a regal star.
_Mal._ My master had a stronger.
_Mel._ No, not a stronger, but more popular.
Their births were full opposed, the Guise now strongest
But if the ill influence pass o'er Harry's head,
As in a year it will, France ne'er shall boast
A greater king than he; now cut him off,
While yet his stars are weak.
_Mal._ Thou talk'st of stars:
Can'st thou not see more deep into events,
And by a surer way?
_Mel._ No, Malicorn;
The ways of heaven are broken since our fall,
Gulph beyond gulph, and never to be shot.
Once we could read our mighty Maker's mind,
As in a crystal mirror, see the ideas
Of things that always are, as he is always;
Now, shut below in this dark sphere,
By second causes dimly we may guess,
And peep far off on heaven's revolving orbs,
Which cast obscure reflections from the throne.
_Mal._ Then tell me thy surmises of the future.
_Mel._ I took the revolution of the year,
Just when the Sun was entering in the Ham:
The ascending Scorpion poisoned all the sky,
A sign of deep deceit and treachery.
Full on his cusp his angry master sate,
Conjoined with Saturn, baleful both to man:
Of secret slaughters, empires overturned,
Strife, blood, and massacres, expect to hear,
And all the events of an ill-omened year.
_Mal._ Then flourish hell, and mighty mischief reign!
Mischief, to some, to others must be good.
But hark! for now, though 'tis the dead of night,
When silence broods upon our darkened world,
Methinks I hear a murmuring hollow sound,
Like the deaf chimes of bells in steeples touched.
_Mel._ It is truly guessed;
But know, 'tis from no nightly sexton's hand.
There's not a damned ghost, nor hell-born fiend,
That can from limbo 'scape, but hither flies;
With leathern wings they beat the dusky skies,
To sacred churches all in swarms repair;
Some crowd the spires, but most the hallowed bells, }
And softly toll for souls departing knells: }
Each chime, thou hear'st, a future death foretells, }
Now there they perch to have them in their eyes,
'Till all go loaded to the nether skies[15].
_Mal._ To-morrow then.
_Mel._ To-morrow let it be;
Or thou deceiv'st those hungry, gaping fiends,
And Beelzebub will rage.
_Mal._ Why Beelzebub? hast thou not often said,
That Lucifer's your king?
_Mel._ I told thee true;
But Lucifer, as he who foremost fell,
So now lies lowest in the abyss of hell,
Chained till the dreadful doom; in place of whom
Sits Beelzebub, vicegerent of the damned,
Who, listening downward, hears his roaring lord,
And executes his purpose.--But no more[16].
The morning creeps behind yon eastern hill,
And now the guard is mine, to drive the elves,
And foolish fairies, from their moonlight play,
And lash the laggers from the sight of day. [_Descends._
[_Exit_ MAL.
SCENE III.
_Enter_ GUISE, MAYENNE, CARDINAL, _and_ ARCHBISHOP.
_May._ Sullen, methinks, and slow the morning breaks,
As if the sun were listless to appear,
And dark designs hung heavy on the day.
_Gui._ You're an old man too soon, you're superstitious;
I'll trust my stars, I know them now by proof;
The genius of the king bends under mine:
Environed with his guards, he durst not touch me;
But awed and cravened, as he had been spelled,
Would have pronounced, Go kill the Guise, and durst not.
_Card._ We have him in our power, coop'd in his court.
Who leads the first attack? Now by yon heaven,
That blushes at my scarlet robes, I'll doff
This womanish attire of godly peace,
And cry,--Lie there, Lord Cardinal of Guise.
_Gui._ As much too hot, as Mayenne is too cool.
But 'tis the manlier fault of the two.
_Arch._ Have you not heard the king, preventing day,
Received the guards into the city gates,
The jolly Swisses marching to their fifes?
The crowd stood gaping, heartless and amazed,
Shrunk to their shops, and left the passage free.
_Gui._ I would it should be so, 'twas a good horror[17].
First let them fear for rapes, and ransacked houses;
That very fright, when I appear to head them,
Will harden their soft city courages:
Cold burghers must be struck, and struck like flints,
Ere their hid fire will sparkle.
_Arch._ I'm glad the king has introduced these guards.
_Card._ Your reason.
_Arch._ They are too few for us to fear;
Our numbers in old martial men are more,
The city not cast in; but the pretence,
That hither they are brought to bridle Paris,
Will make this rising pass for just defence.
_May._ Suppose the city should not rise?
_Gui._ Suppose, as well, the sun should never rise:
He may not rise, for heaven may play a trick;
But he has risen from Adam's time to ours.
Is nothing to be left to noble hazard?
No venture made, but all dull certainty?
By heaven I'll tug with Henry for a crown,
Rather than have it on tame terms of yielding:
I scorn to poach for power.
_Enter a Servant, who whispers_ GUISE.
A lady, say'st thou, young and beautiful,
Brought in a chair?
Conduct her in.-- [_Exit Servant._
_Card._ You would be left alone?
_Gui._ I would; retire. [_Exeunt_ MAY. CARD. _&c._
_Re-enter Servant with_ MARMOUTIERE, _and exit._
_Starting back._] Is't possible? I dare not trust my eyes!
You are not Marmoutiere?
_Mar._ What am I then?
_Gui._ Why, any thing but she:
What should the mistress of a king do here?
_Mar._ Find him, who would be master of a king.
_Gui._ I sent not for you, madam.
_Mar._ I think, my lord, the king sent not for you.
_Gui._ Do you not fear, your visit will be known?
_Mar._ Fear is for guilty men, rebels, and traitors:
Where'er I go, my virtue is my guard.
_Gui._ What devil has sent thee here to plague my soul?
O that I could detest thee now as much
As ever I have loved, nay, even as much
As yet, in spite of all thy crimes, I love!
But 'tis a love so mixt with dark despair,
The smoke and soot smother the rising flame,
And make my soul a furnace. Woman, woman,
What can I call thee more? if devil, 'twere less.
Sure, thine's a race was never got by Adam,
But Eve played false, engendering with the serpent,
Her own part worse than his.
_Mar._ Then they got traitors.
_Gui._ Yes, angel-traitors, fit to shine in palaces,
Forked into ills, and split into deceits;
Two in their very frame. 'Twas well, 'twas well,
I saw thee not at court, thou basilisk;
For if I had, those eyes, without his guards,
Had done the tyrant's work.
_Mar._ Why then it seems
I was not false in all: I told you, Guise,
If you left Paris, I would go to court:
You see I kept my promise.
_Gui._ Still thy sex:
Once true in all thy life, and that for mischief.
_Mar._ Have I said I loved you?
_Gui._ Stab on, stab:
'Tis plain you love the king.
_Mar._ Nor him, nor you,
In that unlawful way you seem to mean.
My eyes had once so far betrayed my heart,
As to distinguish you from common men;
Whate'er you said, or did, was charming all.
_Gui._ But yet, it seems, you found a king more charming.
_Mar._ I do not say more charming, but more noble,
More truly royal, more a king in soul,
Than you are now in wishes.
_Gui._ May be so:
But love has oiled your tongue to run so glib,--
Curse on your eloquence!
_Mar._ Curse not that eloquence that saved your life:
For, when your wild ambition, which defied
A royal mandate, hurried you to town;
When over-weening pride of popular power
Had thrust you headlong in the Louvre toils,
Then had you died: For know, my haughty lord,
Had I not been, offended majesty
Had doomed you to the death you well deserved.
_Gui._ Then was't not Henry's fear preserved my life?
_Mar._ You know him better, or you ought to know him:
He's born to give you fear, not to receive it.
_Gui._ Say this again; but add, you gave not up
Your honour as the ransom of my life;
For, if you did, 'twere better I had died.
_Mar._ And so it were.
_Gui._ Why said you, so it were?
For though 'tis true, methinks 'tis much unkind.
_Mar._ My lord, we are not now to talk of kindness.
If you acknowledge I have saved your life,
Be grateful in return, and do an act,
Your honour, though unasked by me, requires.
_Gui._ By heaven, and you, whom next to heaven I love,
(If I said more, I fear I should not lie,)
I'll do whate'er my honour will permit.
_Mar._ Go, throw yourself at Henry's royal feet,
And rise not till approved a loyal subject.
_Gui._ A duteous loyal subject I was ever.
_Mar._ I'll put it short, my lord; depart from Paris.
_Gui._ I cannot leave
My country, friends, religion, all at stake.
Be wise, and be before-hand with your fortune;
Prevent the turn, forsake the ruined court;
Stay here, and make a merit of your love.
_Mar._ No; I'll return, and perish in those ruins.
I find thee now, ambitious, faithless, Guise.
Farewell, the basest and the last of men!
_Gui._ Stay, or--O heaven!--I'll force you: Stay--
_Mar._ I do believe
So ill of you, so villainously ill,
That, if you durst, you would:
Honour you've little, honesty you've less;
But conscience you have none:
Yet there's a thing called fame, and men's esteem,
Preserves me from your force. Once more, farewell.
Look on me, Guise; thou seest me now the last;
Though treason urge not thunder on thy head,
This one departing glance shall flash thee dead. [_Exit._
_Gui._ Ha, said she true? Have I so little honour?
Why, then, a prize so easy and so fair
Had never 'scaped my gripe: but mine she is;
For that's set down as sure as Henry's fall.
But my ambition, that she calls my crime;--
False, false, by fate! my right was born with me.
And heaven confest it in my very frame;
The fires, that would have formed ten thousand angels,
Were crammed together for my single soul.
_Enter_ MALICORN.
_Mal._ My lord, you trifle precious hours away;
The heavens look gaudily upon your greatness,
And the crowned moments court you as they fly.
Brisac and fierce Aumale have pent the Swiss,
And folded them like sheep in holy ground;
Where now, with ordered pikes, and colours furled,
They wait the word that dooms them all to die:
Come forth, and bless the triumph of the day.
_Gui._ So slight a victory required not me:
I but sat still, and nodded, like a god,
My world into creation; now 'tis time
To walk abroad, and carelessly survey
How the dull matter does the form obey. [_Exit with_ MALICORN.
SCENE IV.
_Enter Citizens, and_ MELANAX, _in his fanatic Habit, at the head
them._
_Mel._ Hold, hold, a little, fellow citizens; and you, gentlemen of
the rabble, a word of godly exhortation to strengthen your hands, ere
you give the onset.
_1 Cit._ Is this a time to make sermons? I would not hear the devil
now, though he should come in God's name, to preach peace to us.
_2 Cit._ Look you, gentlemen, sermons are not to be despised; we have
all profited by godly sermons that promote sedition: let the precious
man hold forth.
_Omn._ Let him hold forth, let him hold forth.
_Mel._ To promote sedition is my business: It has been so before any
of you were born, and will be so, when you are all dead and damned; I
have led on the rabble in all ages.
_1 Cit._ That's a lie, and a loud one.
_2 Cit._ He has led the rabble both old and young, that's all ages: A
heavenly sweet man, I warrant him; I have seen him somewhere in a
pulpit.
_Mel._ I have sown rebellion every where.
_1 Cit._ How, every where? That's another lie: How far have you
travelled, friend?
_Mel._ Over all the world.
_1 Cit._ Now, that's a rapper.
_2 Cit._ I say no: For, look you, gentlemen, if he has been a
traveller, he certainly says true, for he may lie by authority.
_Mel._ That the rabble may depose their prince, has in all times, and
in all countries, been accounted lawful.
_1 Cit._ That's the first true syllable he has uttered: but as how,
and whereby, and when, may they depose him?
_Mel._ Whenever they have more power to depose, than he has to oppose;
and this they may do upon the least occasion.
_1 Cit._ Sirrah, you mince the matter; you should say, we may do it
upon no occasion, for the less the better.
_Mel._ [_Aside._] Here's a rogue now, will out-shoot the devil in his
own bow.
_2 Cit._ Some occasion, in my mind, were not amiss: for, look you,
gentlemen, if we have no occasion, then whereby we have no occasion to
depose him; and therefore, either religion or liberty, I stick to
those occasions; for when they are gone, good night to godliness and
freedom.
_Mel._ When the most are of one side, as that's our case, we are
always in the right; for they, that are in power, will ever be the
judges: so that if we say white is black, poor white must lose the
cause, and put on mourning; for white is but a single syllable, and we
are a whole sentence. Therefore, go on boldly, and lay on resolutely
for your Solemn League and Covenant; and if here be any squeamish
conscience who fears to fight against the king,--though I, that have
known you, citizens, these thousand years, suspect not any,--let such
understand that his majesty's politic capacity is to be distinguished
from his natural; and though you murder him in one, you may preserve
him in the other; and so much for this time, because the enemy is at
hand.
_2 Cit._ [_Looking out._] Look you, gentlemen, 'tis Grillon, the
fierce colonel; he that devours our wives, and ravishes our children.
_1 Cit._ He looks so grum, I don't care to have to do with him; would
I were safe in my shop, behind the counter.
_2 Cit._ And would I were under my wife's petticoats. Look you,
gentlemen.
_Mel._ You, neighbour, behind your counter, yesterday paid a bill of
exchange in glass louis d'ors; and you, friend, that cry, look you,
gentlemen, this very morning was under another woman's petticoats, and
not your wife's.
_2 Cit._ How the devil does he know this?
_Mel._ Therefore, fight lustily for the cause of heaven, and to make
even tallies for your sins; which, that you may do with a better
conscience, I absolve you both, and all the rest of you: Now, go on
merrily; for those, that escape, shall avoid killing; and those, who
do not escape, I will provide for in another world.
[_Cry within, on the other side of the
stage,_ Vive le Roi, vive le Roi!
_Enter_ GRILLON, _and his Party._
_Gril._ Come on, fellow soldiers, _Commilitones_; that's my word, as
'twas Julius Cæsar's, of pagan memory. 'Fore God, I am no speech
maker; but there are the rogues, and here's bilbo, that's a word and a
blow; we must either cut their throats, or they cut ours, that's pure
necessity, for your comfort: Now, if any man can be so unkind to his
own body,--for I meddle not with your souls,--as to stand still like a
good Christian, and offer his weasand to a butcher's whittle,--I say
no more, but that he may be saved, and that's the best can come on
him. [_Cry on both sides,_ Vive le Roi,
vive Guise! _They fight._
_Mel._ Hey, for the duke of Guise, and property! Up with religion and
the cause, and down with those arbitrary rogues there! Stand to't, you
associated cuckolds. [_Citizens go back._] O rogues! O cowards!--Damn
these half-strained shopkeepers, got between gentlemen and city wives;
how naturally they quake, and run away from their own fathers! twenty
souls a penny were a dear bargain of them.
[_They all run off,_ MELANAX _with them;
the 1st and 2d Citizens taken._
_Gril._ Possess yourselves of the place, Maubert, and hang me up those
two rogues, for an example.
_1 Cit._ O spare me, sweet colonel; I am but a young beginner, and new
set up.
_Gril._ I'll be your customer, and set you up a little better,
sirrah;--go, hang him at the next sign-post:--What have you to say for
yourself, scoundrel? why were you a rebel?
_2 Cit._ Look you, colonel, 'twas out of no ill meaning to the
government; all that I did, was pure obedience to my wife.
_Gril._ Nay, if thou hast a wife that wears the breeches, thou shalt
be condemned to live: Get thee home for a hen-pecked traitor.--What,
are we encompassed? Nay, then, faces this way; we'll sell our skins to
the fairest chapmen.
_Enter_ AUMALE _and Soldiers, on the one side, Citizens on the
other._ GRILLON, _and his Party, are disarmed._
_1 Cit._ Bear away that bloody-minded colonel, and hang him up at the
next sign-post: Nay, when I am in power, I can make examples too.
_Omn._ Tear him piece-meal; tear him piece-meal. [_Pull and haul him._
_Gril._ Rogues, villains, rebels, traitors, cuckolds! 'Swounds, what
do you make of a man? do you think legs and arms are strung upon a
wire, like a jointed baby? carry me off quickly, you were best, and
hang me decently, according to my first sentence.
_2 Cit._ Look you, colonel; you are too bulky to be carried off all at
once; a leg or an arm is one man's burden: give me a little finger for
a sample of him, whereby I'll carry it for a token to my sovereign
lady.
_Gril._ 'Tis too little, in all conscience, for her; take a bigger
token, cuckold. _Et tu, Brute,_ whom I saved? O the conscience of a
shopkeeper!
_2 Cit._ Look you, colonel, for your saving of me, I thank you
heartily, whereby that debt's paid; but for speaking treason against
my anointed wife, that's a new reckoning between us.
_Enter_ GUISE, _with a General's Staff in his Hand;_ MAYENNE,
_Cardinal, Archbishop,_ MALICORN, _and Attendants._
_Omn._ _Vive_ Guise!
_Gui._ [_Bowing, and bareheaded._]
I thank you, countrymen: the hand of heaven
In all our safeties has appeared this day.
Stand on your guard, and double every watch,
But stain your triumph with no Christian blood;
French we are all, and brothers of a land.
_Card._ What mean you, brother, by this godly talk,
Of sparing Christian blood? why, these are dogs;
Now, by the sword that cut off Malchus' ear,
Mere dogs, that neither can be saved nor damned.
_Arch._ Where have you learnt to spare inveterate foes?
_Gui._ You know the book.
_Arch._ And can expound it too:
But Christian faith was in the nonage then,
And Roman heathens lorded o'er the world.
What madness were it for the weak and few,
To fight against the many and the strong?
Grillon must die, so must the tyrant's guards,
Lest, gathering head again, they make more work.
_Mal._ My lord, the people must be fleshed in blood,
To teach them the true relish; dip them with you,
Or they'll perhaps repent.
_Gui._ You are fools; to kill them, were to shew I feared them;
The court, disarmed, disheartened and besieged,
Are all as much within my power, as if
I griped them in my fist.
_May._ 'Tis rightly judged:
And, let me add, who heads a popular cause,
Must prosecute that cause by popular ways:
So, whether you are merciful or no,
You must affect to be.
_Gui._ Dismiss those prisoners.--Grillon, you are free;
I do not ask your love, be still my foe.
_Gril._ I will be so: but let me tell you, Guise,
As this was greatly done, 'twas proudly too:
I'll give you back your life when next we meet;
'Till then I am your debtor.
_Gui._ That's till dooms-day. [GRILLON _and his Party exeunt
one way, Rabble the other._
Haste, brother, draw out fifteen thousand men,
Surround the Louvre, lest the prey should 'scape.
I know the king will send to treat;
We'll set the dice on him in high demands,
No less than all his offices of trust;
He shall be pared, and cantoned out, and clipped
So long, he shall not pass.
_Card._ What! do we talk
Of paring, clipping, and such tedious work,
Like those that hang their noses o'er a potion,
And qualm, and keck, and take it down by sips!
_Arch._ Best make advantage of this popular rage,
Let in the o'erwhelming tide on Harry's head;
In that promiscuous fury, who shall know,
Among a thousand swords, who killed the king?
_Mal._ O my dear lord, upon this only day
Depends the series of your following fate:
Think your good genius has assumed my shape,
In this prophetic doom.
_Gui._ Peace, croaking raven!--
I'll seize him first, then make him a led monarch;
I'll be declared lieutenant-general
Amidst the three estates, that represent
The glorious, full, majestic face of France,
Which, in his own despite, the king shall call:
So let him reign my tenant during life,
His brother of Navarre shut out for ever,
Branded with heresy, and barred from sway;
That, when Valois consumed in ashes lies,
The Phoenix race of Charlemain may rise. [_Exeunt._
SCENE V.--_The Louvre._
_Enter King, Queen-Mother, Abbot, and_ GRILLON.
_King._ Dismissed with such contempt?
_Gril._ Yes, 'faith, we past like beaten Romans underneath the fork.
_King._ Give me my arms.
_Gril._ For what?
_King._ I'll lead you on.
_Gril._ You are a true lion, but my men are sheep;
If you run first, I'll swear they'll follow you.
_King._ What, all turned cowards? not a man in France
Dares set his foot by mine, and perish by me?
_Gril._ Troth, I can't find them much inclined to perishing.
_King._ What can be left in danger, but to dare?
No matter for my arms, I'll go barefaced,
And seize the first bold rebel that I meet.
_Abb._ There's something of divinity in kings,
That sits between their eyes, and guards their life.
_Gril._ True, Abbot; but the mischief is, you churchmen
Can see that something further than the crowd;
These musket bullets have not read much logic,
Nor are they given to make your nice distinctions:
[_One enters, and gives the
Queen a Note, she reads--_
One of them possibly may hit the king
In some one part of him that's not divine;
And so that mortal part of his majesty would draw
the divinity of it into another world, sweet Abbot.
_Qu. M._ 'Tis equal madness to go out or stay;
The reverence due to kings is all transferred
To haughty Guise; and when new gods are made,
The old must quit the temple; you must fly.
_King._ Death! had I wings, yet would I scorn to fly.
_Gril._ Wings, or no wings, is not the question:
If you won't fly for't, you must ride for't,
And that comes much to one.
_King._ Forsake my regal town!
_Qu. M._ Forsake a bedlam;
This note informs me fifteen thousand men
Are marching to inclose the Louvre round.
_Abb._ The business then admits no more dispute,
You, madam, must be pleased to find the Guise;
Seem easy, fearful, yielding, what you will;
But still prolong the treaty all you can,
To gain the king more time for his escape.
_Qu. M._ I'll undertake it.--Nay, no thanks, my son.
My blessing shall be given in your deliverance;
That once performed, their web is all unravelled,
And Guise is to begin his work again. [_Exit Q.M._
_King._ I go this minute.
_Enter_ MARMOUTIERE.
Nay, then another minute must be given.--
O how I blush, that thou shouldst see thy king
Do this low act, that lessens all his fame:
Death, must a rebel force me from my love!
If it must be--
_Mar._ It must not, cannot be.
_Gril._ No, nor shall not, wench, as long as my soul wears a body.
_King._ Secure in that, I'll trust thee;--shall I trust thee?
For conquerors have charms, and women frailty:--
Farewell thou mayst behold me king again;
My soul's not yet deposed:--why then farewell!--
I'll say't as comfortably as I can:
But O cursed Guise, for pressing on my time,
And cutting off ten thousand more adieus!
_Mar._ The moments that retard your flight are traitors.
Make haste, my royal master, to be safe,
And save me with you, for I'll share your fate.
_King._ Wilt thou go too?
Then I am reconciled to heaven again:
O welcome, thou good angel of my way,
Thou pledge and omen of my safe return!
Not Greece, nor hostile Juno could destroy
The hero that abandoned burning Troy;
He 'scaped the dangers of the dreadful night,
When, loaded with his gods, he took his flight.
[_Exuent, the King leading her._
ACT V.
SCENE I.--_The Castle of Blois._
_Enter_ GRILLON, _and_ ALPHONSO CORSO.
_Gril._ Welcome, colonel, welcome to Blois.
_Alph._ Since last we parted at the barricadoes,
The world's turned upside down.
_Gril._ No, 'faith, 'tis better now, 'tis downside up:
Our part o'the wheel is rising, though but slowly.
_Alph._ Who looked for an assembly of the States?
_Gril._ When the king was escaped from Paris, and got out of the
toils, 'twas time for the Guise to take them down, and pitch others:
that is, to treat for the calling of a parliament, where, being sure
of the major part, he might get by law what he had missed by force.
_Alph._ But why should the king assemble the States, to satisfy the
Guise, after so many affronts?
_Gril._ For the same reason, that a man in a duel says he has received
satisfaction, when he is first wounded, and afterwards disarmed.
_Alph._ But why this parliament at Blois, and not at Paris?
_Gril._ Because no barricadoes have been made at Blois. This Blois is
a very little town, and the king can draw it after him; but Paris is a
damned unwieldy bulk; and when the preachers draw against the king, a
parson in a pulpit is a devilish fore-horse. Besides, I found in that
insurrection what dangerous beasts these townsmen are; I tell you,
colonel, a man had better deal with ten of their wives, than with one
zealous citizen: O your inspired cuckold is most implacable.
_Alph._ Is there any seeming kindness between the king and the duke of
Guise?
_Gril._ Yes, most wonderful: they are as dear to one another as an old
usurer, and a rich young heir upon a mortgage. The king is very loyal
to the Guise, and the Guise is very gracious to the king: Then the
cardinal of Guise, and the archbishop of Lyons, are the two pendants
that are always hanging at the royal ear; they ease his majesty of all
the spiritual business, and the Guise of all the temporal; so that the
king is certainly the happiest prince in Christendom, without any care
upon him; so yielding up every thing to his loyal subjects, that he's
infallibly in the way of being the greatest and most glorious king in
all the world.
_Alph._ Yet I have heard he made a sharp reflecting speech upon their
party at the opening of the parliament, admonished men of their
duties, pardoned what was past, but seemed to threaten vengeance if
they persisted for the future.
_Gril._ Yes; and then they all took the sacrament together: he
promising to unite himself to them, and they to obey him, according to
the laws; yet the very next morning they went on, in pursuance of
their old commonwealth designs, as violently as ever.
_Alph._ Now, I am dull enough to think they have broken their oath.
_Gril._ Ay, but you are but one private man, and they are the three
States; and if they vote that they have not broken their oaths, who is
to be judge?
_Alph._ There's one above.
_Gril._ I hope you mean in heaven; or else you are a bolder man than I
am in parliament time[18]; but here comes the master and my niece.
_Alph._ Heaven preserve him! if a man may pray for him without
treason.
_Gril._ O yes, you may pray for him; the preachers of the Guise's side
do that most formally; nay, you may be suffered civilly to drink his
health; be of the court, and keep a place of profit under him: for, in
short, 'tis a judged case of conscience, to make your best of the
king, and to side against him.
_Enter_ KING _and_ MARMOUTIERE.
_King._ Grillon, be near me,
There's something for my service to be done,
Your orders will be sudden; now, withdraw.
_Gril._ [_Aside._] Well, I dare trust my niece, even though she comes
of my own family; but if she cuckolds my good opinion of her honesty,
there's a whole sex fallen under a general rule, without one
exception. [_Exeunt_ GRIL. _and_ ALPH.
_Mar._ You bid my uncle wait you.
_King._ Yes.
_Mar._ This hour?
_King._ I think it was.
_Mar._ Something of moment hangs upon this hour.
_King._ Not more on this, than on the next, and next.
My time is all ta'en up on usury;
I never am beforehand with my hours,
But every one has work before it comes.
_Mar._ "There's something for my service to be done;"--
Those were your words.
_King._ And you desire their meaning?
_Mar._ I dare not ask, and yet, perhaps, may guess.
_King._ 'Tis searching there where heaven can only pry,
Not man, who knows not man but by surmise;
Nor devils, nor angels of a purer mould,
Can trace the winding labyrinths of thought.
I tell thee, Marmoutiere, I never speak,
Not when alone, for fear some fiend should hear,
And blab my secrets out.
_Mar._ You hate the Guise.
_King._ True, I did hate him.
_Mar._ And you hate him still.
_King._ I am reconciled.
_Mar._ Your spirit is too high,
Great souls forgive not injuries, till time
Has put their enemies into their power,
That they may shew, forgiveness is their own;
For else, 'tis fear to punish, that forgives;
The coward, not the king.
_King._ He has submitted.
_Mar._ In show; for in effect he still insults.
_King._ Well, kings must bear sometimes.
_Mar._ They must, till they can shake their burden off;
And that's, I think, your aim.
_King._ Mistaken still:
All favours, all preferments, pass through them;
I'm pliant, and they mould me as they please.
_Mar._ These are your arts, to make them more secure;
Just so your brother used the admiral.
Brothers may think, and act like brothers too.
_King._ What said you, ha! what mean you, Marmoutiere?
_Mar._ Nay, what mean you? that start betrayed you, sir.
_King._ This is no vigil of St Bartholomew,
Nor is Blois Paris.
_Mar._ 'Tis an open town.
_King._ What then?
_Mar._ Where you are strongest.
_King._ Well, what then?
_Mar._ No more; but you have power, and are provoked.
_King._ O, thou hast set thy foot upon a snake!
Get quickly off, or it will sting thee dead.
_Mar._ Can I unknow it?
_King._ No, but keep it secret.
_Mar._ Think, sir, your thoughts are still as much your own,
As when you kept the key of your own breast;
But since you let me in, I find it filled
With death and horror: you would murder Guise.
_King._ Murder! what, murder! use a softer word,
And call it sovereign justice.
_Mar._ Would I could!
But justice bears the godlike shape of law,
And law requires defence, and equal plea
Betwixt the offender, and the righteous judge.
_King._ Yes, when the offender can be judged by laws:
But when his greatness overturns the scales,
Then kings are justice in the last appeal,
And, forced by strong necessity, may strike;
In which, indeed, they assert the public good,
And, like sworn surgeons, lop the gangrened limb:
Unpleasant, wholesome, work.
_Mar._ If this be needful.
_King._ Ha! didst not thou thyself, in fathoming
The depth of my designs, drop there the plummet?
Didst thou not say--Affronts so great, so public,
I never could forgive?
_Mar._ I did; but yet--
_King._ What means, _but yet?_ 'tis evidence so full,
If the last trumpet sounded in my ears,
Undaunted I should meet the saints half way,
And in the face of heaven maintain the fact.
_Mar._ Maintain it then to heaven, but not to me.
Do you love me?
_King._ Can you doubt it?
_Mar._ Yes, I can doubt it, if you can deny;
Love begs once more this great offender's life.
Can you forgive the man you justly hate,
That hazards both your life and crown to spare him?
One, whom you may suspect I more than pity,--
For I would have you see, that what I ask,
I know, is wondrous difficult to grant,--
Can you be thus extravagantly good?
_King._ What then? for I begin to fear my firmness,
And doubt the soft destruction of your tongue.
_Mar._ Then, in return, I swear to heaven and you,
To give you all the preference of my soul;
No rebel rival to disturb you there;
Let him but live, that he may be my convert!
[_King walks awhile, then wipes
his eyes, and speaks._
_King._ You've conquered; all that's past shall be forgiven.
My lavish love has made a lavish grant;
But know, this act of grace shall be my last.
Let him repent, yes, let him well repent;
Let him desist, and tempt revenge no further:
For, by yon heaven, that's conscious of his crimes,
I will no more by mercy be betrayed.
_Deputies appearing at the Door._
The deputies are entering; you must leave me.
Thus, tyrant business all my hours usurps,
And makes me live for others.
_Mar._ Now heaven reward you with a prosperous reign,
And grant, you never may be good in vain! [_Exit._
_Enter Deputies of the Three States: Cardinal of_ GUISE, _and
Archbishop of_ LYONS, _at the head of them._
_King._ Well, my good lords, what matters of importance
Employed the States this morning?
_Arch._ One high point
Was warmly canvassed in the Commons House,
And will be soon resolved.
_King._ What was't?
_Card._ Succession.
_King._ That's one high point indeed, but not to be
So warmly canvassed, or so soon resolved.
_Card._ Things necessary must sometimes be sudden.
_King._ No sudden danger threatens you, my lord.
_Arch._ What may be sudden, must be counted so.
We hope and wish your life; but yours and ours
Are in the hand of heaven.
_King._ My lord, they are;
Yet, in a natural way, I may live long,
If heaven, and you my loyal subjects, please.
_Arch._ But since good princes, like your majesty,
Take care of dangers merely possible,
Which may concern their subjects, whose they are,
And for whom kings are made--
_King._ Yes; we for them,
And they for us; the benefits are mutual,
And so the ties are too.
_Card._ To cut things short,
The Commons will decree, to exclude Navarre
From the succession of the realm of France.
_King._ Decree, my lord! What! one estate decree?
Where then are the other two, and what am I?
The government is cast up somewhat short,
The clergy and nobility cashiered,
Five hundred popular figures on a row,
And I myself, that am, or should be, king,
An o'ergrown cypher set before the sum:
What reasons urge our sovereigns for the exclusion?
_Arch._ He stands suspected, sir, of heresy.
_King._ Has he been called to make his just defence?
_Card._ That needs not, for 'tis known.
_King._ To whom?
_Card._ The Commons.
_King._ What is't those gods, the Commons, do not know?
But heresy, you churchmen teach us vulgar,
Supposes obstinate, and stiff persisting
In errors proved, long admonitions made,
And all rejected: Has this course been used?
_Arch._ We grant it has not; but--
_King._ Nay, give me leave,--
I urge, from your own grant, it has not been.
If then, in process of a petty sum,
Both parties having not been fully heard,
No sentence can be given;
Much less in the succession of a crown,
Which, after my decease, by right inherent,
Devolves upon my brother of Navarre.
_Card._ The right of souls is still to be preferred;
Religion must not suffer for a claim.
_King._ If kings may be excluded, or deposed,
Whene'er you cry religion to the crowd;
That doctrine makes rebellion orthodox,
And subjects must be traitors, to be saved.
_Arch._ Then heresy's entailed upon the throne.
_King._ You would entail confusion, wars, and slaughters:
Those ills are certain; what you name, contingent.
I know my brother's nature; 'tis sincere,
Above deceit, no crookedness of thought;
Says what he means, and what he says performs;
Brave, but not rash; successful, but not proud;
So much acknowledging, that he's uneasy,
Till every petty service be o'erpaid.
_Arch._ Some say, revengeful.
_King._ Some then libel him;
But that's what both of us have learned to bear.
He can forgive, but you disdain forgiveness.
Your chiefs are they no libel must profane;
Honour's a sacred thing in all but kings;
But when your rhymes assassinate our fame,
You hug your nauseous, blundering ballad-wits,
And pay them, as if nonsense were a merit,
If it can mean but treason.
_Arch._ Sir, we have many arguments to urge--
_King._ And I have more to answer: Let them know,
My royal brother of Navarre shall stand
Secure by right, by merit, and my love.
God, and good men, will never fail his cause,
And all the bad shall be constrained by laws.
_Arch._ Since gentle means to exclude Navarre are vain,
To-morrow, in the States, 'twill be proposed,
To make the duke of Guise lieutenant-general;
Which power, most graciously confirmed by you,
Will stop this headlong torrent of succession,
That bears religion, laws, and all before it.
In hope you'll not oppose what must be done,
We wish you, sir, a long and prosperous reign.
[_Exeunt all but the King._
_King._ To-morrow Guise is made lieutenant-general;--
Why, then, to-morrow I no more am king.
'Tis time to push my slackened vengeance home,
To be a king, or not to be at all.
The vow that manacled my rage is loosed;
Even heaven is wearied with repeated crimes,
Till lightning flashes round, to guard the throne,
And the curbed thunder grumbles to be gone.
_Enter_ GRILLON _to him._
_Gril._ 'Tis just the appointed hour you bid me wait.
_King._ So just, as if thou wert inspired to come;
As if the guardian-angel of my throne,
Who had o'erslept himself so many years,
Just now was roused, and brought thee to my rescue.
_Gril._ I hear the Guise will be lieutenant-general.
_King._ And canst thou suffer it?
_Gril._ Nay, if you will suffer it, then well may I. If kings will be
so civil to their subjects, to give up all things tamely, they first
turn rebels to themselves, and that's a fair example for their
friends. 'Slife, sir, 'tis a dangerous matter to be loyal on the wrong
side, to serve my prince in spite of him; if you'll be a royalist
yourself, there are millions of honest men will fight for you; but if
you will not, there are few will hang for you.
_King._ No more: I am resolved.
The course of things can be with-held no longer
From breaking forth to their appointed end:
My vengeance, ripened in the womb of time,
Presses for birth, and longs to be disclosed.
Grillon, the Guise is doomed to sudden death:
The sword must end him:--has not thine an edge?
_Gril._ Yes, and a point too; I'll challenge him.
_King._ I bid thee kill him. [_Walking._
_Gril._ So I mean to do.
_King._ Without thy hazard.
_Gril._ Now I understand you; I should murder him:
I am your soldier, sir, but not your hangman.
_King._ Dost thou not hate him?
_Gril._ Yes.
_King._ Hast thou not said,
That he deserves it?
_Gril._ Yes; but how have I
Deserved to do a murder?
_King._ 'Tis no murder;
'Tis sovereign justice, urged from self-defence.
_Gril._ 'Tis all confest, and yet I dare not do't.
_King._ Go; thou art a coward.
_Gril._ You are my king.
_King._ Thou say'st, thou dar'st not kill him.
_Gril._ Were I a coward, I had been a villain,
And then I durst have done't.
_King._ Thou hast done worse, in thy long course of arms.
Hast thou ne'er killed a man?
_Gril._ Yes, when a man would have killed me.
_King._ Hast thou not plundered from the helpless poor?
Snatched from the sweating labourer his food?
_Gril._ Sir, I have eaten and drank in my own defence, when I was
hungry and thirsty; I have plundered, when you have not paid me; I
have been content with a farmer's daughter, when a better whore was
not to be had. As for cutting off a traitor, I'll execute him lawfully
in my own function, when I meet him in the field; but for your
chamber-practice, that's not my talent.
_King._ Is my revenge unjust, or tyrannous?
Heaven knows I love not blood.
_Gril._ No, for your mercy is your only vice. You may dispatch a rebel
lawfully, but the mischief is, that rebel has given me my life at the
barricadoes, and, till I have returned his bribe, I am not upon even
terms with him.
_King._ Give me thy hand; I love thee not the worse:
Make much of honour, 'tis a soldier's conscience.
Thou shalt not do this act; thou art even too good;
But keep my secret, for that's conscience too.
_Gril._ When I disclose it, think I am a coward.
_King._ No more of that, I know thou art not one.
Call Lognac hither straight, and St Malin;
Bid Larchant find some unsuspected means,
To keep guards doubled at the council-door,
That none pass in or out, but those I call:
The rest I'll think on further; so farewell.
_Gril._ Heaven bless your majesty! Though I'll not kill him for you,
I'll defend you when he's killed: For the honest part of the job let
me alone[19]. [_Exeunt severally._
SCENE II.--SCENE _opens, and discovers Men and Women at a Banquet,_
MALICORN _standing by._
_Mal._ This is the solemn annual feast I keep,
As this day twelve year, on this very hour,
I signed the contract for my soul with hell.
I bartered it for honours, wealth, and pleasure,
Three things which mortal men do covet most;
And 'faith, I over-sold it to the fiend:
What, one-and-twenty years, nine yet to come!
How can a soul be worth so much to devils?
O how I hug myself, to out-wit these fools of hell!
And yet a sudden damp, I know not why,
Has seized my spirits, and, like a heavy weight,
Hangs on their active springs. I want a song
To rouse me; my blood freezes.--Music there.
A SONG BETWIXT A SHEPHERD AND SHEPHERDESS.
Shepherdess.
_Tell me, Thyrsis, tell your anguish,
Why you sigh, and why you languish;
When the nymph whom you adore,
Grants the blessing
Of possessing,
What can love and I do more?_
Shepherd.
_Think it's love beyond all measure,
Makes me faint away with pleasure;
Strength of cordial may destroy.
And the blessing
Of possessing,
Kills me with excess of joy._
Shepherdess.
_Thyrsis, how can I believe you!
But confess, and I'll forgive you;
Men are false, and so are you,
Never nature
Framed a creature
To enjoy, and yet be true._
Shepherd.
_Mine's a flame beyond expiring,
Still possessing, still desiring,
Fit for love's imperial crown;
Ever shining,
And refining,
Still the more 'tis melted down._
Chorus together.
_Mine's a flame beyond expiring.
Still possessing, still desiring,
Fit for love's imperial crown;
Ever shining,
And refining,
Still the more 'tis melted down._
_After a Song and Dance, loud knocking at the Door,_
_Enter a Servant._
_Mal._ What noise is that?
_Serv._ An ill-looked surly man,
With a hoarse voice, says he must speak with you.
_Mal._ Tell him I dedicate this day to pleasure.
I neither have, nor will have, business with him. [_Exit_ SERV.
What, louder yet? what saucy slave is this? [_Knock louder._
_Re-enter Servant._
_Serv._ He says you have, and must have, business with him.
Come out, or he'll come in, and spoil your mirth.
_Mal._ I will not.
_Serv._ Sir, I dare not tell him so; [_Knocking again more fiercely._
My hair stands up in bristles when I see him;
The dogs run into corners; the spay'd bitch
Bays at his back, and howls[20].
_Mal._ Bid him enter, and go off thyself. [_Exit Serv._
SCENE _closes upon the company._
_Enter_ MELANAX, _an hour-glass in his hand, almost empty._
How dar'st thou interrupt my softer hours?
By heaven, I'll ram thee in some knotted oak,
Where thou shalt sigh, and groan to whistling winds,
Upon the lonely plain.
Or I'll confine thee deep in the red sea, groveling on the sands,
Ten thousand billows rolling o'er thy head.
_Mel._ Hoh, hoh, hoh!
_Mal._ Laughest thou, malicious fiend?
I'll ope my book of bloody characters,
Shall rumple up thy tender airy limbs,
Like parchment in a flame.
_Mel._ Thou can'st not do it.
Behold this hour-glass.
_Mal._ Well, and what of that?
_Mel._ Seest thou these ebbing sands?
They run for thee, and when their race is run,
Thy lungs, the bellows of thy mortal breath,
Shall sink for ever down, and heave no more.
_Mal._ What, resty, fiend?
Nine years thou hast to serve.
_Mel._ Not full nine minutes.
_Mal._ Thou liest; look on thy bond, and view the date.
_Mel._ Then, wilt thou stand to that without appeal?
_Mal.._ I will, so help me heaven!
_Mel._ So take thee hell. [_Gives him the bond._
There, fool; behold who lies, the devil, or thou?
_Mal._ Ha! one-and-twenty years are shrunk to twelve!
Do my eyes dazzle?
_Mel._ No, they see too true:
They dazzled once, I cast a mist before them,
So what was figured twelve, to thy dull sight
Appeared full twenty-one.
_Mal._ There's equity in heaven for this, a cheat.
_Mel._ Fool, thou hast quitted thy appeal to heaven,
To stand to this.
_Mal._ Then I am lost for ever!
_Mel._ Thou art.
_Mal._ O why was I not warned before?
_Mel._ Yes, to repent; then thou hadst cheated me.
_Mal._ Add but a day, but half a day, an hour:
For sixty minutes, I'll forgive nine years.
_Mel._ No, not a moment's thought beyond my time.
Dispatch; 'tis much below me to attend
For one poor single fare.
_Mal._ So pitiless?
But yet I may command thee, and I will:
I love the Guise, even with my latest breath,
Beyond my soul, and my lost hopes of heaven:
I charge thee, by my short-lived power, disclose
What fate attends my master.
_Mel._ If he goes
To council when he next is called, he dies.
_Mal._ Who waits?
_Enter Servant._
Go, give my lord my last adieu;
Say, I shall never see his eyes again;
But if he goes, when next he's called, to council,
Bid him believe my latest breath, he dies.-- [_Exit Serv._
The sands run yet.--O do not shake the glass!--
[_Devil shakes the glass._
I shall be thine too soon!--Could I repent!--
Heaven's not confined to moments.--Mercy, mercy!
_Mel._ I see thy prayers dispersed into the winds,
And heaven has past them by.
I was an angel once of foremost rank,
Stood next the shining throne, and winked but half;
So almost gazed I glory in the face,
That I could bear it, and stared farther in;
'Twas but a moment's pride, and yet I fell,
For ever fell; but man, base earth-born man,
Sins past a sum, and might be pardoned more:
And yet 'tis just; for we were perfect light,
And saw our crimes; man, in his body's mire,
Half soul, half clod, sinks blindfold into sin,
Betrayed by frauds without, and lusts within.
_Mel._ Then I have hope.
_Mal._ Not so; I preached on purpose
To make thee lose this moment of thy prayer.
Thy sand creeps low; despair, despair, despair!
_Mal._ Where am I now? upon the brink of life,
The gulph before me, devils to push me on,
And heaven behind me closing all its doors.
A thousand years for every hour I've past,
O could I 'scape so cheap! but ever, ever!
Still to begin an endless round of woes,
To be renewed for pains, and last for hell!
Yet can pains last, when bodies cannot last?
Can earthy substance endless flames endure?
Or, when one body wears and flits away,
Do souls thrust forth another crust of clay,
To fence and guard their tender forms from fire?
I feel my heart-strings rend!--I'm here,--I'm gone!
Thus men, too careless of their future state,
Dispute, know nothing, and believe too late.
[_A flash of lightning, they sink together._
SCENE III.--_Enter Duke of_ GUISE; _Cardinal, and_ AUMALE.
_Card._ A dreadful message from a dying man,
A prophesy indeed!
For souls, just quitting earth, peep into heaven,
Make swift acquaintance with their kindred forms,
And partners of immortal secrets grow.
_Aum._ 'Tis good to lean on the securer side:
When life depends, the mighty stake is such,
Fools fear too little, and they dare too much.
_Enter Arch-Bishop._
_Gui._ You have prevailed, I will not go to council.
I have provoked my sovereign past a pardon,
It but remains to doubt if he dare kill me:
Then if he dares but to be just, I die.
'Tis too much odds against me; I'll depart,
And finish greatness at some safer time.
_Arch._ By heaven, 'tis Harry's plot to fright you hence,
That, coward-like, you might forsake your friends.
_Gui._ The devil foretold it dying Malicorn.
_Arch._ Yes, some court-devil, no doubt:
If you depart, consider, good my lord,
You are the master-spring that moves our fabric,
Which once removed, our motion is no more.
Without your presence, which buoys up our hearts,
The League will sink beneath a royal name;
The inevitable yoke prepared for kings
Will soon be shaken off; things done, repealed;
And things undone, past future means to do.
_Card._ I know not; I begin to taste his reasons.
_Arch._ Nay, were the danger certain of your stay,
An act so mean would lose you all your friends,
And leave you single to the tyrant's rage:
Then better 'tis to hazard life alone,
Than life, and friends, and reputation too.
_Gui._ Since more I am confirmed, I'll stand the shock.
Where'er he dares to call, I dare to go.
My friends are many, faithful, and united;
He will not venture on so rash a deed:
And now, I wonder I should fear that force,
Which I have used to conquer and contemn.
_Enter_ MARMOUTIERE.
_Arch._ Your tempter comes, perhaps, to turn the scale,
And warn you not to go.
_Gui._ O fear her not,
I will be there. [_Exeunt Arch-Bishop and Cardinal._
What can she mean?--repent?
Or is it cast betwixt the king and her
To sound me? come what will, it warms my heart
With secret joy, which these my ominous statesmen
Left dead within me;--ha! she turns away.
_Mar._ Do you not wonder at this visit, sir?
_Gui._ No, madam, I at last have gained the point
Of mightiest minds, to wonder now at nothing.
_Mar._ Believe me, Guise, 'twere gallantly resolved,
If you could carry it on the inside too.
Why came that sigh uncalled? For love of me,
Partly, perhaps; but more for thirst of glory,
Which now again dilates itself in smiles,
As if you scorned that I should know your purpose.
_Gui._ I change, 'tis true, because I love you still;
Love you, O heaven, even in my own despite;
I tell you all, even at that very moment,
I know you straight betray me to the king.
_Mar._ O Guise, I never did; but, sir, I come
To tell you, I must never see you more.
_Gui._ The king's at Blois, and you have reason for it;
Therefore, what am I to expect from pity,--
From yours, I mean,--when you behold me slain?
_Mar._ First answer me, and then I'll speak my heart.
Have you, O Guise, since your last solemn oath,
Stood firm to what you swore? Be plain, my lord,
Or run it o'er a while, because again
I tell you, I must never see you more.
_Gui._ Never!--She's set on by the king to sift me.
Why, by that never then, all I have sworn
Is true, as that the king designs to end me.
_Mar._ Keep your obedience,--by the saints, you live.
_Gui._ Then mark; 'tis judged by heads grown white in council,
This very day he means to cut me off.
_Mar._ By heaven, then you're forsworn; you've broke your vows.
_Gui._ By you, the justice of the earth, I have not.
_Mar._ By you, dissembler of the world, you have.
I know the king.
_Gui._ I do believe you, madam.
_Mar._ I have tried you both.
_Gui._ Not me, the king you mean.
_Mar._ Do these o'erboiling answers suit the Guise?
But go to council, sir, there shew your truth;
If you are innocent, you're safe; but O,
If I should chance to see you stretched along,
Your love, O Guise, and your ambition gone,
That venerable aspect pale with death,
I must conclude you merited your end.
_Gui._ You must, you will, and smile upon my murder.
_Mar._ Therefore, if you are conscious of a breach,
Confess it to me. Lead me to the king;
He has promised me to conquer his revenge,
And place you next him; therefore, if you're right,
Make me not fear it by asseverations,
But speak your heart, and O resolve me truly!
_Gui._ Madam, I've thought, and trust you with my soul.
You saw but now my parting with my brother,
The prelate too of Lyons; it was debated
Warmly against me, that I should go on.
_Mar._ Did I not tell you, sir?
_Gui._ True; but in spite
Of those imperial arguments they urged,
I was not to be worked from second thought:
There we broke off; and mark me, if I live,
You are the saint that makes a convert of me.
_Mar._ Go then:--O heaven! Why must I still suspect you?
Why heaves my heart, and overflow my eyes?
Yet if you live, O Guise,--there, there's the cause,--
I never shall converse, nor see you more.
_Gui._ O say not so, for once again I'll see you.
Were you this very night to lodge with angels,
Yet say not never; for I hope by virtue
To merit heaven, and wed you late in glory.
_Mar._ This night, my lord, I'm a recluse for ever.
_Gui._ Ha! stay till morning: tapers are too dim;
Stay till the sun rises to salute you;
Stay till I lead you to that dismal den
Of virgins buried quick, and stay for ever.
_Mar._ Alas! your suit is vain, for I have vowed it:
Nor was there any other way to clear
The imputed stains of my suspected honour.
_Gui._ Hear me a word!--one sigh, one tear, at parting,
And one last look; for, O my earthly saint,
I see your face pale as the cherubins'
At Adam's fall.
_Mar._ O heaven! I now confess,
My heart bleeds for thee, Guise.
_Gui._ Why, madam, why?
_Mar._ Because by this disorder,
And that sad fate that bodes upon your brow,
I do believe you love me more than glory.
_Gui._ Without an oath I do; therefore have mercy,
And think not death could make me tremble thus;
Be pitiful to those infirmities
Which thus unman me; stay till the council's over;
If you are pleased to grant an hour or two
To my last prayer, I'll thank you as my saint:
If you refuse me, madam, I'll not murmur.
_Mar._ Alas, my Guise!--O heaven, what did I say?
But take it, take it; if it be too kind,
Honour may pardon it, since 'tis my last.
_Gui._ O let me crawl, vile as I am, and kiss
Your sacred robe.--Is't possible! your hand!
[_She gives him her hand._
O that it were my last expiring moment,
For I shall never taste the like again.
_Mar._ Farewell, my proselyte! your better genius
Watch your ambition.
_Gui._ I have none but you:
Must I ne'er see you more?
_Mar._ I have sworn you must not:
Which thought thus roots me here, melts my resolves, [_Weeps._
And makes me loiter when the angels call me.
_Gui._ O ye celestial dews! O paradise!
O heaven! O joys, ne'er to be tasted more!
_Mar._ Nay, take a little more: cold Marmoutiere,
The temperate, devoted Marmoutiere
Is gone,--a last embrace I must bequeath you.
_Gui._ And O let me return it with another!
_Mar._ Farewell for ever; ah, Guise, though now we part,
In the bright orbs, prepared us by our fates,
Our souls shall meet,--farewell!--and Io's sing above,
Where no ambition, nor state-crime, the happier spirits prove,
But all are blest, and all enjoy an everlasting love.
[_Exit_ MARMOUTIERE.
GUISE _solus._
_Gui._ Glory, where art thou? fame, revenge, ambition,
Where are you fled? there's ice upon my nerves;
My salt, my metal, and my spirits gone,
Palled as a slave, that's bed-rid with an ague,
I wish my flesh were off. [_Blood falls from his nose._
What now! thou bleed'st:--
Three, and no more!--what then? and why, what then?
But just three drops! and why not just three drops,
As well as four or five, or five and twenty?
_Enter a Page._
_Page._ My lord, your brother and the arch-bishop wait you.
_Gui._ I come;--down, devil!--ha! must I stumble too?
Away, ye dreams! what if it thundered now,
Or if a raven crossed me in my way?
Or now it comes, because last night I dreamt
The council-hall was hung with crimson round,
And all the ceiling plaistered o'er with black.
No more!--Blue fires, and ye dull rolling lakes,
Fathomless caves, ye dungeons of old night,
Phantoms, be gone! if I must die, I'll fall
True politician, and defy you all. [_Exit._
SCENE II.--_The Court before the Council-hall._
GRILLON, LARCHANT, _Soldiers placed, People crowding_
_Gril._ Are your guards doubled, captain?
_Larch._ Sir, they are.
_Gril._ When the Guise comes, remember your petition.--
Make way there for his eminence; give back.--
Your eminence comes late.
_Enter two Cardinals, Counsellors, the Cardinal of_ GUISE,
_Arch-bishop of Lyons, last the_ GUISE.
_Gui._ Well, colonel, are we friends?
_Gril._ 'Faith, I think not.
_Gui._ Give me your hand.
_Gril._ No, for that gives a heart.
_Gui._ Yet we shall clasp in heaven.
_Gril._ By heaven, we shall not,
Unless it be with gripes.
_Gui._ True Grillon still.
_Larch._ My lord.
_Gui._ Ha! captain, you are well attended:
If I mistake not, sir, your number's doubled.
_Larch._ All these have served against the heretics;
And therefore beg your grace you would remember
Their wounds and lost arrears[21].
_Gui._ It shall be done.--
Again, my heart! there is a weight upon thee,
But I will sigh it off.--Captain, farewell.
[_Exeunt Cardinal,_ GUISE, _&c._
_Gril._ Shut the hall-door, and bar the castle-gates:
March, march there closer yet, captain, to the door. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.--_The Council-hall._
_Gui._ I do not like myself to-day.
_Arch._ A qualm! he dares not.
_Card._ That's one man's thought; he dares, and that's another's.
_Enter_ GRILLON.
_Gui._ O Marmoutiere! ha, never see thee more?
Peace, my tumultuous heart! why jolt my spirits
In this unequal circling of my blood?
I'll stand it while I may. O mighty nature!
Why this alarm? why dost thou call me on
To fight, yet rob my limbs of all their use? [_Swoons._
_Card._ Ha! he's fallen, chafe him. He comes again.
_Gui._ I beg your pardons; vapours, no more.
_Gril._ The effect
Of last night's lechery with some working whore[22].
_Enter_ REVOL.
_Rev._ My lord of Guise, the king would speak with you.
_Gui._ O cardinal, O Lyons!--but no more;
Yes, one word more: thou hast a privilege [_To the Cardinal._
To speak with a recluse; O therefore tell her,
If never thou behold'st me breathe again,
Tell her I sighed it last.--O Marmoutiere! [_Exit bowing._
_Card._ You will have all things your own way, my lord.
By heaven, I have strange horror on my soul.
_Arch._ I say again, that Henry dares not do it.
_Card._ Beware, your grace, of minds that bear like him.
I know he scorns to stoop to mean revenge;
But when some mightier mischief shocks his toure,
He shoots at once with thunder on his wings,
And makes it air.--but hark, my lord, 'tis doing!
_Guise within._] Murderers, villains!
_Arch._ I hear your brother's voice; run to the door.
CARD. _and_ ARCH. _run to the door._
_Card._ Help, help, the Guise is murdered!
_Arch._ Help, help!
_Gril._ Cease your vain cries, you are the king's prisoners;--
Take them, Dugast, into your custody.
_Card._ We must obey, my lord, for heaven calls us. [_Exeunt._
_The_ SCENE _draws, behind it a Traverse._
_The_ GUISE _is assaulted by eight. They stab him in all parts, but
most in the head._
_Gui._ O villains! hell-hounds! hold.
[_Half draws his sword, is held._
Murdered, O basely, and not draw my sword!--
Dog, Lognac,--but my own blood choaks me.
Down, villain, down!--I'm gone,--O Marmoutiere!
[_Flings himself upon him, dies[23]._
_The Traverse is drawn._
_The King rises from his Chair, comes forward with his
Cabinet-council._
_King._ Open the closet, and let in the council;
Bid Dugast execute the cardinal;
Seize all the factious leaders, as I ordered,
And every one be answered, on your lives.
_Enter Queen-Mother followed by the Counsellors._
O, madam, you are welcome; how goes your health?
_Qu. M._ A little mended, sir.--What have you done?
_King._ That which has made me king of France; for there
The king of Paris at your feet lies dead.
_Qu. M._ You have cut out dangerous work, but make it up
With speed and resolution[24].
_King._ Yes, I'll wear
The fox no longer, but put on the lion;
And since I could resolve to take the heads
Of this great insurrection, you, the members,
Look to it; beware, turn from your stubbornness,
And learn to know me, for I will be king.
_Gril._ 'Sdeath, how the traitors lower, and quake, and droop,
And gather to the wing of his protection,
As if they were his friends, and fought his cause!
_King._ [_Looking upon_ GUISE.]
Be witness, heaven, I gave him treble warning!
He's gone--no more.--Disperse, and think upon it.
Beware my sword, which, if I once unsheath,
By all the reverence due to thrones and crowns,
Nought shall atone the vows of speedy justice,
Till fate to ruin every traitor brings,
That dares the vengeance of indulgent kings. [_Exuent._
Footnotes:
1. The Council of Sixteen certainly offered to place twenty thousand
disciplined citizens of Paris at the devotion of the Duke of Guise;
and here the intended parallel came close: for Shaftesbury used to
boast, that he could raise the like number of brisk boys in the
city of London, by merely holding up his finger.
2. During the cabals of the Council of Sixteen, the Duke of Aumale
approached Paris with five hundred veteran horse, levied in the
disaffected province of Picardy. Jean Conti, one of the sheriffs
(_Echevins_) of Paris, was tampered with to admit them by St
Martin's gate; but as he refused, the leaguers stigmatised him as a
heretic and favourer of Navarre. Another of these officers
consented to open to Aumale the gate of St Denis, of which the keys
were intrusted to him.
The conspirators had determined, as is here expressed, to seize the
person of the king, when he should attend the procession of the
Flagellants, as he was wont to do in time of Lent. But he was
apprised of their purpose by Poltrot, one of their number, and used
the pretext of indisposition to excuse his absence from the
penitential procession. _Davila_, lib. viii.
3. In the year 1565, an interview took place at Bayonne between
Catharine of Medicis, her son Charles IX., and the Queen of Spain,
attended by the famous Duke of Alva, and the Count of Benevento.
Many political discussions took place; and the opinion of Alva, as
expressed in the text, is almost literally versified from Davila's
account of the conference. "_Il Duca D'Alva, uomo di veemente
natura risolutamente diceva, che per distruggere la novità della
fede, e le sollevazioni di stato, bisognava levare le teste de'
papaveri, pescare i pesci grossi e non si curare di prendere le
ranocchie: erano questi i concetti proferiti da lui; perchè cessati
i venti, l'onde della plebe facilmente si sarebbono da se stesse
composte e acquietate: aggiugneva, che un prencipe non può far cosa
più vituperosa nè più dannosa a se stesso, quanto il permettere al
popolo il vivere secondo la loro coscienza, ponendo tanta varietà
di religioni in uno stato, quanto sono i capricci degli huomini e
le fantasíe delle persone inquiete, aprendo la porta alla discordia
e alla confusione: e dimostrava con lunga commemorazione di
segnalati esempj, che la diversità della fede aveva sempre messo
l'arme in mano ai sudditi, e sempre sollevate atroci perfidie e
funeste rebellioni contra i superiori: onde conchiudeva nel fine,
che siccome le controversie della fede avevan sempre servito di
pretesto e di argumento alle sollevazioni de' mal contenti, così
era necessario rimovere a primo tratto questa coperta, e poi con
severi rimedj, e senza riguardo di ferro, nè di fuoco, purgare le
radici di quel male, il quale colla dolcezza e con la sofferenza
perniciosamente germogliando si dilatava sempre, e si
accresceva._"--Delle Guerre Civili di Francia, lib. iii.
4. The popular arts of the Duke of Monmouth are here alluded to, which
his fine person and courteous manners rendered so eminently, and
for himself so unfortunately, successful. The lady, in whose mouth
these remonstrances are placed, may be supposed to be the duchess,
by whose prayers and tears he was more than once induced to suspend
his career.
5. Francis II. of France, a prince of delicate health and mean
talents, died of an imposthume in the head.
6. When Poltrot had discovered the intentions of the Council of
Sixteen against the king's person, it was warmly debated in the
council of Henry, whether the persons of the conspirators ought not
to be seized at their next meeting. But, upon considering the
numbers of the citizens, and their zeal for the League, together
with the small number of the king's guards and adherents, this
advice was rejected as too hazardous. It was upon this occasion
that Catherine quoted the Tuscan proverb in the text,--"_Bisogna
copriersi bene il viso inanzi che struzzicare il vespaio;_"
Davila, lib. IX.
7. Margaret of Navarre, sister of Henry II., was suspected of an
intrigue with the Duke of Guise.
8. Henry II., when Duke of Anjou, defeated the Huguenots, commanded by
the famous Admiral Coligni, with very great loss, taking all his
artillery and baggage, with two hundred standards and colours,
1569.
9. Alluding to a celebrated battle fought near Montargis, in 1587,
when Guise, with very disproportioned forces, surprised and cut to
pieces a large army of German auxiliaries, who had advanced into
France to join the king of Navarre, afterwards Henry IV. Upon that
occasion, the Duke of Guise kept his resolution to fight a profound
secret till the very day of the attack, when, after having dined,
and remained thoughtful and silent for a few minutes, he suddenly
ordered the trumpets to sound to horse, and, to the astonishment of
the Duke of Mayenne, and his other generals, who had never
suspected his intention, instantly moved forward against the
enemy.--_Davila_, lib. viii.
10. The king of Navarre (Henry IV.), by his manifesto, published in
1585, after discussing sundry points of state with the leaguers,
defied the Duke of Guise, their loader, to mortal combat, body to
body, or two to two, or ten to ten, or twenty to twenty. To this
romantic defiance the Duke returned no direct answer; but his
partizans alleged, that as the quarrel betwixt the king of Navarre
and their patron did not arise from private enmity, it could not
become the subject of single combat. _Davila_ lib. vii.]
11. This alludes to the defacing the Duke of York's picture at
Guildhall; an outrage stigmatized in the epilogue to "Venice
Preserved," where Otway says,
Nothing shall daunt his pen, when truth does call;
No, not the picture-mangler at Guildhall.
The rebel tribe, of which that vermin's one.
Have now set forward, and their course begun;
And while that prince's figure they deface,
As they before had massacred his name,
Durst their base fears but look him in the face,
They'd use his person as they've used his fame;
A face, in which such lineaments they read
Of that great Martyr's, whose rich blood they shed.
The picture-mangler is explained by a marginal note to be, "the
rascal, that cut the Duke of York's picture." The same circumstance
is mentioned in "_Musa Præfica_, or the London Poem, or a humble
Oblation on the sacred Tomb of our late gracious Monarch King
Charles II., of ever blessed and eternal Memory; by a Loyal
Apprentice of the honourable City of London." The writer mentions
the Duke of York as
--loaded with indignity,
Already martyred in effigy.
O blast the arm, that dared that impious blow!
Let heaven reward him with a vengeance meet,
Who God's anointed dared to overthrow!
His head had suffered, when they pierced his feet.
Explained to allude to the Duke of York's "picture in Guildhall,
cut from the legs downward undiscovered."
In another tory ballad, we have this stanza in the character of a
fanatic:
We'll smite the idol in Guildhall,
And then, as we are wont,
We'll cry it was a Popish plot,
And swear these rogues have done't.
12. This speech depends on the gesticulation of the sorcerer: Guise
first desires him report the danger to the people,--then bids him
halt, and express his judgment more fully. Malicorn makes signs of
assassination.--Guise goes on--
--Let him if he dare.
But more, more, more;--
i.e. I have a further reason than state policy for my
visit.--Malicorn makes repeated signs of ignorance and discontent;
and Guise urges him to speak out on a subject, which he himself was
unwilling to open.
13. The business of this scene is taken from the following passage.
_"Entrò il Duca di Guisa in Parigi il Lunedì nono giorno di Maggio,
ch' era gia vicino il mezzogiorno, non con maggior comitiva che di
sette cavalli tra gentiluomini e servitori: ma come una piccolo
palla di neve, che discende dall' erto si va tanto ingrossando, che
nel fine diviene quasi una montagna eminente; così abandonando il
popolo le case e le botteghe, con plauso e con allegrezza, per
seguitarlo, non fu a mezzo la città, che aveva dietro più di
trentamila persone, ed era tanta la calca, che a pena egli medesimo
poteva seguitare la sua strada. Andavan le grida del popolo insino
al cielo, nè mai fu con tanto plauso gridato, "Vita il Re" con
quanto ora si gridava "Vita Guisa." Chi lo sulutava, chi lo
ringraziava, chi se gl' inchinava, chi gli baciava le falde de'
vestimenti, chi, non potendo accostarsi, con le mani e con i gesti
di tutto il corpo dava segui profusi d' allegrezza; e furono veduti
di quelli che, adorandolo come santo, lo toccavano con le corone, e
le medesime poi o baciavano, o con esse si toccavano gli occhi e la
fronte; e sino le donne dalle finestra, spargendo fiori e fronde,
onoravano e benedicevano la sua venuta. Egli all' incontro, con
viso popolare e con faccia ridente, altri accarezzava con le
parole, altri risalutava con i gesti, altri rallegrava con l'
occhio, e traversando le caterve del popolo con la testa scoperta,
non permetteva cosa alcuna, che fosse a proposito per finire a
conciliarsi la benevolenza e l' applauso popolare. In questa
maniera, senza fermarsi alla sua casa, andò a dirittura a smontare
a Sant' Eustachio al palazzo della Reina Madre, la quale mezza
attonita per il suo venire improvviso; perchè Monsignor di
Bellieure arrivato tre ore innanzi aveva posto in dubbio la sua
venuta; lo ricevè pallida nel volto, tutta tremante e contra l'
ordinario costume della natura sua quasi smarrita. Le dimostrazioni
del Duca di Guisa furono piene d' affettuosa umiltà e di profonda
sommissione: le parole della Reina ambigue, dicendoli; che lo
vedeva volentieri, ma che molto più volontieri l' arebbe veduto in
altro tempo; alla quale egli rispose con sembiante modestissimo ma
con parole altiere: Ch' egli era buon servitore del Re, e che
avendo intese le calunnie date all' innocenza sua, e le cose che si
trattavano contra la religione e contra gli uomini dabbene di quel
popolo, era venuto, o per divertire il male, e espurgarese stesso,
ovvero per lasciar la vita in servizio di Santa Chiesa e della
salute universale. La Reina, interrotto il ragionamento, mentre
egli salutava, come è solito, le altre Dame della corte, chiamò
Luigi Davila suo Gentiluomo d' onore, e gli commise, che facesse
intendere al Re, ch' era arrivato il Duca di Guisa, e ch' ella fra
poco l' arebbe condotto al Lovero personalmente. Si commosse di
maniera il Re, ch' era nel suo gabinetto con Monsignore di
Villaclera, con Bellieure e con l' abbate del Bene, che fu
costretto appogiarsi col braccio, coprendosi la faccia, al
tavolino, e interrogato il Davila d' ogni particolare, gli
commandò, che dicesse segretamente alla Reina, che framettesse più
tempo che fosse possibile alla venuta. L' Abbate del Bene e il
Colonello Alfonso Corso, il quale entrò in questo punto nel
gabinetto, e era confidentissimo, servitore del Re, e pieno di
merito verso la corona, lo consigliavano, che ricevendo il Duca di
Guisa nel medesimo gabinetto, lo facese uccidere subito nell'
istesso luogo, dicendo l' abbate questo_ Percutiam pastorem, et
dispergentur oves_. Ma Villaclera, Bellieure, e il gran Cancelliere
che sopravvenne, furono di contrario parere allegando esesr tanta
la commozione del popolo, che in caso tale, sprezzando la Maestà
regia, e rompendo tutti i vincoli delle leggi, sarebbe corso a
precipitosa vendetta, e che non essendo le cose ancora
apparecchiate per la difesa propria, e per frenare il furore della
città le forze de' Parigini erano troppo poderose parole per
stuzzicarle."_ Lib. ix.
14. For this scene also, which gave great offence to the followers of
Monmouth, our author had the authority of Davila in the
continuation of the passage already quoted.
_"Mentre il Re sta dubbioso nell' animo, sopraggiunse la Reina, che
conduceva il Duca di Guisa essendo venuta nella sua seggetta, e il
Duca accompagnatala sempre a piedi; ma con tanto seguito e
frequenza di gente, che tutta la Città pareva ridotta nel giro del
cortile del Lovero e nelle strade vicine. Traversarono fra la
spalliera de' soldati, essendo presente Monsignor di Griglione
maestro di campo della guardia, il quale uomo libero e militare, e
poco amico del Duca di Guisa, mentre egli s' inchina ad ogni
privato soldato, fece pochissimo sembiante di riverirlo, il che da
lui fu con qualche pallidezza del volto ben osservato, la quale
continuò maggiormente, poichè vide gli Suizzeri far spalliera con
l'arme a piedi della scala, e nella sala gli arcieri, e nelle
camere i gentiluomini tutti radunati per aspettarlo. Entrarono
nella camera del Re, il quale mentre il Duca di Guisa con profonda
riverenza se gl' inchinò, con viso scorrucciato gli disse; Io v'
avevo fatto intendere, che non veniste. A queste parole il Duca con
l' istessa sommissione, che aveva fatto alla Reina, ma con parole
più ritenute, rispose. Ch' Egli era venuto a mettersi nelle braccia
della giustitia di Sua Maestà, per iscolparsi delle calunnie, che
gli erano apposte da' suoi nemici, e che nondimeno non sarebbe
venuto, quando gli fosse stato detto chiaramente, che Sua Maestà
comandata, che non venisse. Il Re rivolto a Bellieure,
alteratamente lo domandò s' era vero, che gli avesse data
commissione di dire al Duca di Guisa, che non venisse, se non
voleva esser tenuto per autore delli scandali, e delle sollevazioni
de' Parigini. Monseignor di Bellieure si feceinnanzi, e volle
render conto dell' ambasciata sua; ma nel principio del parlare, il
Re l' interruppe, dicendogli, che bastava, e rivolto al Duca di
Guisa disse; che non sapeva, ch' egii fosse stato calunniato da
persona alcuna, ma che la sua innocenza sarebbe apparsa chiara,
quando dalla sua venuta non fosse nata alcuna novità, e interrotta
la quiete del governo, come si prevedeva. La Reina pratica della
natura del Re, conoscendolo dalla faccia inclinato a qualche
gagliarda risoluzione, lo tirò da parte, e gli disse in sostanza
quel che aveva veduto della concorrenza del popolo, e che non
pensasse a deliberazioni precipitose, perchè non era tempo. Il
medesimo soggiunse la Duchessa d' Uzes, che gli era vicina, e il
Duca di Guisa osservando attentamente ogni minuzia, come vide
questa fluttazione, per non dar tempo al Re di deliberare, si
finse stracco dal viaggio, e licenziandosi brevemente da lui,
accompagnato dall' istessa frequenza di popolo, ma da niuno di
quelli della corte, si ritirò nella strada di Sant' Antonio alle
sue case."_ Lib. ix.]
15. See the speech of Ashtaroth and his companions, on taking leave of
Rinaldo, whom they had transported to the field of Roncisvalles:
_Noi ce n' andremo or, io e Farfarello,
Tra le campane, e soneremo a festa,
Quando vedrem, che tu farai macello.
In Roncisvalle una certa chiesetta
Era in quel tempo, ch' avea due campane,
Quivi stetton coloro alla veletta,
Per ciuffar di quell' anime pagane,
Come sparvier tra ramo e ramo aspetta;
E bisognò, che menassin le mane,
E che e' batessin tutto il giorno l' ali,
A presentarle a' guidici infernali._
Il Morgante Maggiore, Canto XXVI. St. 82, 89.
16. See the speech of Ashtaroth to Rinaldo, in the Morgante Maggiore.
_Noi abbiam come voi principe e duce
Giù nell' Inferno, e 'l primo è Belzebue,
Chi una cosa, e chi altra conduce,
Ognuno attende alle faccende sue;
Ma tutto a Belzebù, poi si riduce
Perchè Lucifer relegato fue
Ultimo a tutti, e nel centro più imo,
Poi ch' egli intese esser nel Ciel su primo._
Canto XV. St. 207.
17. This striking account of the entry of the guards is literally from
DAVILA.
"_La mattina del Giovedi duodecimo giorno dì maggio, un' ora
innanzi giorno, si sentirono i pifferi e i tamburi degli Suizzeri,
che battendo l' ordinanza entrarono nella città per la porta di
Sant' Onorato, precedendo il Maresciallo di Birone a cavallo, e
conseguentamente sotto i loro capitani entrarono con le corde
accese le compagníe de' Francesi."--"All' entrare della milizia,
nota a tutta la città per lo strepito de' tamburi, il popolo pieno
di spavento, e già certo, che la fama divolgata dell' intenzione
del re era più che sicura, cominciò a radunarsi, serrando le porte
delle case, e chiudendo l'entrate delle botteghe, che conforme all'
uso della città di lavorare innanzi giorno, già s' erano cominciare
ad aprire, e ognuno si messe a preparare l'armi, apettando l'ordine
di quello si dovesse operare._" Lib. IX.
18. It was a frequent complaint of the tories at this period, that the
commons, in zeal for their own privileges and immunities, were apt
sometimes to infringe the personal liberties of the subject. This
is set forth with some humour in a political pamphlet of the day,
called, "A Dialogue betwixt Sam, the ferryman of Datchet, Will, a
waterman of London, and Tom, a bargeman of Oxford;" upon the king's
calling a parliament to meet at Oxford, London, 1681. "As to their
own members, they turned them out, and took others in at their will
and pleasure; and if they made any fault, they expelled them; and
wherever any stood in competition for any town, him they knew would
give his vote along with them was admitted, right or wrong. And then
they terrified all the sheriffs, mayors, and bailiffs in the
kingdom, besides abundance of gentlemen and other honest
countrymen. For, on the least complaint of any man's misdemeanour,
or information from any member, immediately a serjeant at arms was
sent for them, and so much a mile and hour paid, and down on their
marrowbones to their worships, and a sound scolding from Mr
Speaker, or else to the Tower or Gatehouse they went. The king, God
bless him, never took a quarter of that state on him they did ...
It was brought to that pass, that two footboys, boxing one day in
the Palace-yard, he that was beaten proved to belong to a member,
and told the other boy, if he knew his master, he would cause him
to be sent for in custody, for keeping such a rogue as he was, that
had committed a breach of privilege in beating a member's servant.
The boy replied, if it would do him any kindness, he would beat him
again, and tell him his master's name into the bargain; and would
lay him a crown, that, though his master should bid the Speaker,
and all the House of Commons, kiss, &c. they durst not send a
serjeant at arms for him. The beaten boy, much nettled at his
speech, laid down his money, as the other did: now, said the boy,
my master is the king of France, and I am come over with some of
his servants to fetch horses out of England; go, bid thy master and
the House of Commons send a serjeant at arms to fetch him
over.--_Sam._ Before my heart it was a good answer; I hope he won
his monies?--_Will._ So he did; but it was put into a waterman's
hands, and when it was demanded, says the beaten boy, Sirrah, give
it him, if you dare; if his master be the king of France, I'll make
you answer it before the House of Commons. The waterman durst do no
other, but gave either their own monies. There's no contending with
parliament men, or parliament men's men, nor boys."
Some occasion was given for these reproaches by the summary and
arbitrary commitment of many individuals, who had addressed the
king in terms expressing their abhorrence of the vehement petitions
presented by the other party for the sitting of parliament, and
were thence distinguished by the name of Abhorrers. This course was
ended by the sturdy resistance of one Stowell, who had, as foreman
of the grand jury at Exeter, presented an _abhorring_ address to
the king. A serjeant at arms having been sent to apprehend him, he
refused to submit, and bid the officer take his course, adding, he
knew no law which made him accountable for what he did as a grand
juryman. The House were so much embarrassed by his obstinacy, that
they hushed up the matter by voting that he was indisposed, and
adjourning the debate _sine dic._
19. This famous interview betwixt Grillon and the king deserved to
have been brought on the stage, in a nobler strain, and free from
the buffoonery, by which the veteran's character is degraded. It is
thus told by Davila: _"Trattandosi delle persone, che avessero da
eseguire il fatto, il Re elesse di fidarsene nel Maestro di campo
della sua guardia Griglione, uomo feroce e ardito e per molte
cagioni nemico del Duca di Guisa. Fattolo perciò venire, gli espose
con accomodate parole il suo pensiero, e gli significò aver
disegnato, che egli fosse quello, che eseguisse l' impresa, nella
quale consisteva tutta la sua salute. Griglione rispose con brevi e
significanti parole: Sire, Io sono ben servitore a Vostra Maestà di
somma fedeltà e divozione, ma faccio professione di soldato, e di
cavuliero; s' ella vuoles ch' io vada a sfidare il Duca di Guisa, e
che mi ammazzi a corpo a corpo con lui, son pronto a farlo in
questo istesso punto; ma ch' io serva di manigoldo, mentre la
giustizia sua determina di farlo morire, questo non si conviene a
par mio, nè sono per farlo giammai. Il Re non si stupì molto della
libertà di Griglione, noto a lui e a tutta la corte per uomo
schietto, e che libramente diceva i suoi sensi senza timore alcuno,
e però replicò; che gli bastava, che tenesse segreta questo
pensiero, perchè non l' aveva communicato ad alcun altro, e
divulgandosi egli sarebbe stato colpevole d' averlo palesato. A
questo rispose Griglione: Essere servitore di fede, d' onore, nè
dover mai ridire i segreti interessi del padrone, e partito lasciò
il Re grandemente dubbioso di quello dovesse operare."_ Lib. ix.
20. A similar assemblage of terrific circumstances announces the
arrival of a fiend upon a similar errand, in the old play,
entitled, the "Merry Devil of Edmonton."
What means the trolling of this fatal chime?
O what a trembling horror strikes my heart!
My stiffened hair stands upright on my head,
As do the bristles of a porcupine.
* * * * *
Coreb, is't thou?
I know thee well; I hear the watchful dogs,
With hollow howling, tell of thy approach.
The lights burn dim, affrighted with thy presence,
And this distempered and tempestuous night
Tells me the air is troubled with some devil!
Dryden certainly appears to have had the old play in his memory
though he has far excelled it.
21. On the evening previous to the assassination, the Seigneur de
Larchant accosted the duke as he passed from his own lodging to the
king's, accompanied by a body of soldiers, who, he pretended, were
petitioners for the duke's interest, to obtain payment of their
arrears, and would attend at the door of the council next day, to
remind him of their case. This pretext was to account for the
unusual number of guards, which might otherwise have excited G
uise's suspicion.
22. _Intanto il Duca entrato nel consiglio, e pustosi in una sedia
vicina al fuoco si sentì un poco di svenimento, o che allora, gli
sovcenisse il pericolo, net quale si ritrovava, separato e diviso
da tutti i suoi, o che natura, come bene spesso avviene, presaga
del mal futuro da se medesima allora si risentizze, o come dissero
i suoi malevoli, per essere stato la medesima notte con Madama di
Marmoutiere amata grandemente da lui, e essersi soverchiamente
debilitato._ Davila, Lib. ix.]
23. The murder of Guise was perpetrated in the Anti-chamber, before
the door of the king's cabinet. Lognac, a gentleman of the king's
chamber, and a creature of the late duke de Joyeuse, commanded the
assassins, who were eight in number. The duke never was able to
unsheath his sword, being slain with many wounds as he grappled
with Lognac. The king himself was in the cabinet, and listened to
the murderous scuffle, till the noise of Guise's fall announced its
termination. The cardinal of Guise, and the archbishop of Lyons
were also within hearing, and were arrested, while they were
endeavouring to call their attendants to Guise's assistance. The
cardinal was next day murdered by Da Gast, to whose custody he had
been commuted.]
24. Literally from Davila: _"Ora comparse il Re, le dimanda egli
primo, come ella stava; al quale avendo risposto che si sentisse
meglio, egli ripigliò: Ancor io mi trovo ora molto meglio, perchè
questa mattina son fatto Re di Francia avendo fatto morire il Re di
Parigi. Alle quali parole, replicò la Reina: Voi avete fatto morire
il Duca di Guisa, ma Dio voglia che non siate ora fatto Re da
niente; avete tagliato bene, non so, se cucirete così bene. Avete
voi preveduti i mali, che sono per succedere? Provvedetevi
diligentemente. Due cose sono necessarie, prestezza e
risoluzione."_ Lib. ix.]
EPILOGUE.
WRITTEN BY MR DRYDEN[1].
SPOKEN BY MRS COOK.
Much time and trouble this poor play has cost;
And, 'faith, I doubted once the cause was lost.
Yet no one man was meant, nor great, nor small;
Our poets, like frank gamesters, threw at all.
They took no single aim:--
But, like bold boys, true to their prince, and hearty,
Huzza'd, and fired broadsides at the whole party.
Duels are crimes; but, when the cause is right,
In battle every man is bound to fight.
For what should hinder me to sell my skin, }
Dear as I could, if once my hand were in? }
_Se defendendo_ never was a sin. }
'Tis a fine world, my masters! right or wrong,
The Whigs must talk, and Tories hold their tongue.
They must do all they can,
But we, forsooth, must bear a christian mind;
And fight, like boys, with one hand tied behind;
Nay, and when one boy's down, 'twere wond'rous wise,
To cry,--box fair, and give him time to rise.
When fortune favours, none but fools will dally; }
Would any of you sparks, if Nan, or Mally, }
Tip you the inviting wink, stand, shall I, shall I? }
A Trimmer cried, (that heard me tell this story)
Fie, mistress Cook, 'faith you're too rank a Tory!
Wish not Whigs hanged, but pity their hard cases;
You women love to see men make wry faces.--
Pray, sir, said I, don't think me such a Jew;
I say no more, but give the devil his due.--
Lenitives, says he, suit best with our condition.--
Jack Ketch, says I, is an excellent physician.--
I love no blood.--Nor I, sir, as I breathe;
But hanging is a fine dry kind of death.--
We Trimmers are for holding all things even.--
Yes; just like him that hung 'twixt hell and heaven.--
Have we not had men's lives enough already?--
Yes, sure: but you're for holding all things steady.
Now since the weight hangs all on one side, brother,
You Trimmers should, to poize it, hang on t'other.
Damned neuters, in their middle way of steering,
Are neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red-herring:
Not Whigs, nor Tories they; nor this, nor that;
Not birds, nor beasts; but just a kind of bat:
A twilight animal, true to neither cause,
With Tory wings, but Whigish teeth and claws[2].
Footnotes:
1. There is in Mr Bindley's collection another Epilogue, which appears
to have been originally subjoined to the "Duke of Guise." It is
extremely coarse; and as the author himself suppressed it, the
editor will not do his better judgment the injustice to revive it.
2. The Trimmers, a body small and unpopular, as must always be the
case with those, who in violent times declare for moderate and
temporising measures, were headed by the ingenious and politic
Halifax. He had much of the confidence, at least of the countenance
of Charles, who was divided betwixt tenderness for Monmouth, and
love of ease, on the one hand, and, on the other, desire of
arbitrary power, and something like fear of the duke of York.
Halifax repeatedly prevented each of these parties from subjugating
the other, and his ambidexter services seem to have been rewarded
by the sincere hatred of both. In 1688 was published a vindication
of this party, entitled, "the Character of a Trimmer;" and his
opinion of,--I. The laws of government. II. Protestant Religion.
III. Foreign affairs. By the Hon. Sir William Coventry.
THE
VINDICATION:
OR, THE
PARALLEL
OF THE
FRENCH
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