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All comfortlefs, afflicted, and forlorn
She fits on Earth, and weeps upon her Cross:
Weary of Man, and his detested Ways,

Ev'n now she seems to meditate her Flight,
And waft her Angel to the Thrones above.

North. Ay, there, my Lord, you touch our heaviest Lofs,

With him our Holy Faith is doom'd to fuffer;

With him our Church fhall veil her facred Front,

That late from Heaps of Gothick Ruins rofe,
In her first native simple Majefly ;

The Toil of Saints, and Price of Martyr's Blood,
Shall fail with Edward; and again Old Rome
Shall fpread her Banners; and her Monkish Hoft,
Pride, Ignorance, and Rapine fhall return;
Blind bloody Zeal, and cruel Prieftly Power
Shall fcourge the Land for ten dark Ages more.

Sir J. Gates. Is there no Help in all the healing Art,
No Potent Juice or Drug to fave a Life

So precious, and prevent a Nation's Fate ?

North. What has been left untry'd that Art could do? The hoary wrinkled Leach has watch'd and toil'd, Try'd ev'ry Health-reftroing Herb and Gum,

And weary'd out his painful Skill in vain.

Clofe like a Dragon folded in his Den,

Some fecret Venom preys upon his Heart;
A ftubborn and unconquerable Flame

Creeps in his Veins, and drinks the Streams of Life:
His Youthful Sinews are unftrung, cold Sweats,
And deadly Palenefs fit upon his Vifage,

And ev'ry Gafp we look fhall be his laft.

Sir

Sir J. Gates. Doubt not, your Graces, but the Popish Will at this Juncture urge their utmost Force.

(Faction

All, on the Princefs Mary, turn their Eyes,

Well hoping fhe shall build again their Altars,
And bring their Idol-Worship back in Triumph.

North. Good Heaven ordain fome better Fate for England!
Suff. What better can we hope, if she should Reign?

I know her well, a blinded Zealot is she,

A gloomy Nature, fullen and fevere,

Nurtur'd by proud prefuming Romih Priefts,
Taught to believe they only cannot err,
Because they cannot err; bred up in Scorn
Of Reason, and the whole Lay-World; instructed
To hate whoe're diffent from what they teach,
To purge the World from Herefy by Blood,
To maffacre a Nation, and believe it

An A&t well-pleasing to the Lord of Mercy.

Thefe are thy Gods, Oh Rome and this thy Faith.

North. And fhall we tamely yield our felves to Bondage? Bow down before these Holy Purple Tyrants,

And bid 'em tread upon our flavish Necks?
No; let this Faithful Free-born English Hand
First dig my Grave in Liberty and Honour ;
And tho' I found but one more thus refolv'd,

That honest Man and I wou'd die together.

Suff. Doubt not, there are Ten thousand, and Ten thousand To own a Caufe fo juft.

Sir J. Gates. The List I gave

Into your Grace's Hand laft Night, declares

My Power and Friends at full,

[To Northumb.

North:

North. Be it your Care,

Good Sir John Gates, to fee your Friends appointed,

And ready for the Occafion. Haft this Inftant,

Lofe not a Moment's Time.

Sir J. Gates. I go, my Lord.

[Exit Sir J. Gates.

North. Your Grace's Princely Daughter, Lady JANE,

Is the yet come to Court?

Suff. Not yet arriv'd;

But with the fooneft I expect her here.

I know her Duty to the dying King,

Join'd with my ftrict Commands to haften hither,

Will bring her on the Wing.

North. Befeech your Grace,

To fpeed another Meffenger to prefs her;

For on her happy Prefence all our Counfels
Depend, and take their Fate.

Suff. Upon the Inftant

Your Grace fhall be obey'd. I go to fummon her.

North. What trivial Influences hold Dominion
O'er Wife Men's Counsels, and the Fate of Empire?
The greatest Schemes that human Wit can forge,
Or bold Ambition dares to put in Practice,
Depend upon our husbanding a Moment,
And the light lafting of a Woman's Will.
As if the Lord of Nature fhou'd delight
To hang this pond'rous Globe upon a Hair,
And bid it dance before a Breath of Wind.
She must be here, and lódg'd in Guilford's Arms,
E're Edward dies, or all we've done is marr'd.
Ha! Pembroke! that's a Bar which thwarts my Way;

[Exit Suff.

His

His fiery Temper brooks not Oppofition
And must be met with foft and fupple Arts;
With crouching Courtefy, and hony'd Words,
Such as affwage the Fierce, and bend the Strong.

Good morrow,

[Enter the Earl of Pembroke.]

Noble Pembroke: We have stay'd

The Meeting of the Council for your Prefence.

Pem, For mine, my Lord! You mock your Servant, fure, To fay that I am wanted, where your felf, The Great Alcides of our State, is prefent. Whatever Dangers menace Prince or People, Our Great Northumberland is arm'd to meet 'em; The ableft Head, and firmest Heart you bear, Nor need a fecond in the Glorious Task; Equal your felf to all your Toils of Empire. North. No, as I honour Virtue, I have try'd, And know my Strength too well; nor can the Voice Of friendly Flattery, like your's, deceive me.

I know my temper liable to Paffions,

And all the Frailties common to our Nature;
Blind to Events, too eafie of Perfwafion,
And often, too too often have 1 err'd.

Much therefore have I need of fome good Man,
Some wife and honeft Heart, whofe friendly Aid

Might guide my treading thro' our prefent Dangers:
And by the Honour of my Name I swear,

I know not one of all our English Peers,

Whom I would chufe for that beft Friend, like Pembroke.
Pem. What shall I anfwer to a Trust fo Noble,

This Prodigality of Praife and Honour ?

were

Were not your Grace too Generous of Soul,

To speak a Language differing from your Heart,
How might I think you could not mean this Goodness
To one, whom his Ill-Fortune has ordain'd

The Rival of your Son.

North. No more! I fcorn a Thought
So much below the Dignity of Virtue.
'Tis true, I look on Guilford like a Father,
Lean to his Side and fee but half his Failings:
But on a Point like this, when equal Merit
Stands forth to make its bold Appeal to Honour,
And calls to have the Balance held in Justice;
Away with all the Fondneffes of Nature !

I judge of Pembroke and my Son alike.

Pem. I ask no more to bind me to your Service.

North. The Realm is now at Hazard; and bold Factions

Threaten Change, Tumult and difaftrous Days.
Thefe Fears drive out the gentler Thoughts of Joy.
Of Courtship, and of Love. Grant, Heaven, the State
To fix in Peace and Safety once again;

Then speak your Paffion to the Princely Maid,
And fair Succefs attend you. For my felf,
My Voice fhall go as far for you, my Lord,
As for my Son, and Beauty be the Umpire.
But now a heavier Matter calls upon us,
The King with Life just lab'ring; and I fear,

The Council grow impatient at our Stay.

Pem. One Moment's Paufe, and I attend your Grace.

Old Winchester cries to me oft, Beware

[Exit North

Of Proud Northumberland. The Tefty Prelate,

Frow ard

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