« ZurückWeiter »
Froward with Age, with disappointed Hopes,
And zealous for Old Rome, rails on the Duke,
Suspecting hiin to favour the New Teachers.
Yet ev’n in that, if I judge right, he errs.
But were it so, what are these Monkish Quarrels,
These wordy Wars of Proud Ill-manner'd Schoolmen,
To us and our Lay-Interess? Let'em rail
And worry one another at their Pleasure.
This Duke, of late, by many worthy Offices,
Has fought my Friendship. And yet more, his Son,
The nobleft Youth our England has to boast of,
The gentleft Nature and the bravest Spirit,
Has made me long the Partner of his Breast
Nay, when he found, in spite of the Resistance
My strugling Heart had made, to do him Justice,
That I was grown his Rival; he' ftrove hard,
And would not turn me forth from out his Bosom,
But calld me still his Friend. And see! He comes.
[Enter Lord GUILFORD.]
Oh, Guilford ! Just as thou wer't entring here,
My Thought was running all thy Virtues over.
And wondring how thy Soul could chufe a Partner
So much unlike it felt.
Guil. How cou'd my Tongue : -
Take Pleasure, and be lavish in thy Praise !
How cou'd I speak thy Nobleness of Nature,
Thy open manly Heart, thy Courage, Conftancy,
And inborn Truth unknowing to diffemble!
Thou art the Man in whom my Soúl delights,
In whom, next Heaven, I trust.
Pem. Oh! Generous Youth!
What can a Heart, stubborn and fierce, like mine,
Return to all thy Sweetness? Yet I wou'd,
I wou'd be Grateful.--
Wou'd I had never seen her! never caft
My Eyes on Suffolk's Daughter!
Guil. So wou'd I;
Since 'twas my Fate to see and love her first.
Pem. Oh! Why should she, that Universal Goodness,
Like Light, a common Blessing to the World,
Rife like a Comet fatal to our Friendship,
And threaten it with Ruin?
Guil. Heaven forbid !
But tell me, Pembroke, Iset not in Virtue,
To arm against this proud imperious Passion?
Docs Holy Friendship dwell so near to Envy,
She could not bear to see another happy,
If blind mistaken Chance, and partial Beauty
Should join to favour Guilford?'
Pem. Name it not,
My fiery Spirits kindle at the Thought,
And hurry me to Rage."
Guil. And Yet I think
I should not murmur, were thy Lot to prosper,
And mine to be refus’d.' Tho, fure the Loss
Wou'd wound me to the Heart.
Pem. Ha! Could'st thou bear it?
And yet perhaps thou might'st: Thy gentle Temper
Is form'd with Passions mixt in due Proportion,
Where no one overbears nor plays the Tyrant,
But join in Nature's Business, and thy Happiness:
While mine difüaining Reason and Her Laws,
Like all thou canst imagine wild and furious :
Now drive me Head-long on, now whirl me back,
And hurry my unstable flitting Soul
To ev'ry mad Extream. Then Pity me,'
And let my Weakness stand.
(Enter Sir John Gates.)
Sir J. Gates. The Lords of Council
Wait with Impatience.
Pem. I attend their Pleasure.
This only, and no more then, Whatsoever
Fortune decrees, still let us call to Mind
Our Friendship and our Honour. And since Love
Condemns us to be Rivals for one Prize,
Let us contend, as Friends and brave men ought,
With Openness and Justice to each other ;
That he who wins the Fair One to his Arms,
May take her as the Crown of great Desert;
And if the wretched Loser does repine,
His own Heart and the World may all condem him.
Guil. How cross the Ways of Life lie! While we think
We travel on direct in one high Road,
And have our Journey's End oppos’d in, View,
A thousand thwarting Paths break in upon us,
To puzzle and perplex our wandring Steps,
Love, Friendship, Hatred, in their Turns mislead us,
As ev'ry Paffion has its separate Interest
Where is that piercing Foresight can unfold
Where all this mazy Error will have end,
And tell the Doom resery'd for me and Penibroke?
There is but one End certain, that is --Death:
Yet ev’n that Certainty is still incertain.
For of these several Tracks which lie before us,
We know that one leads certainly to Death,
But know not which that one is. 'Tis in vain
This blind Divining; let me think no more on't,
And see the Mistress of our Fate appear!
[Enter Lady JANE GRAY. Attendants.]
Hail, Princely Maid! who with Auspicious Beauty
Chear'st every drooping Heart in this fad Place ;
Who, like the Silver Regent of the Night,
Lift'st up thy facred Beams upon the Land,
To bid the Gloom look Gay, difpell our Horrors,
And make us less lament the setting Sun.
T.. F. Gray. Yes, Guilford ; Welldost thou compare my Pre-
To the faint Comfort of the waining Moon :
Like her cold Orb, a chearless Gleam I bring,
Silence and Heaviness of Heart, with Dews
To dress the Face of Nature all in Tears.
But say, how fares the King?
Guil. He lives as yet,
But ev'ry Moment cuts away a Hope,
Adds to our Fears, and gives the Infant Saint
A nearer Prospect of his op'ning Heaven.
L. 7. Gray. Descend ye Choirs of Angels to receive him
Tune your melodious Harps to some high Strain,
And waft him upwards with a Song of Triumph :
A purer Soul, and one more like your felves,
Never enter'd at the Golden Gates of Bliss.
Oh, Guilford! What remains for wretched England,
When he, our Guardian Angel, shall forsake us?
For whose dear Sake Heav'n spar'd a guilty Land,
And scatter'd not its Plagues while Edward reign’d.
Guil. I own my Heart bleeds inward at the Thought,
And rising Horrors crowd the opening Scene.
And yet, forgive me, thougʻmy Native Country,
Thou Land of Liberty, thou Nurfe of Heroes,
Forgive me, if in spite of all thy Dangers,
New Springs of Pleasure flow within my'Botom,
When thus 'tis giv'n me to-behold those Eyes,
Thus gaze and wonder, how excelling Nature
Can give each Day new Patterns of her Skill,
And yet at once surpass 'em.
L. 7. Gray. Oh, vain Flattery !
Harsh and ill founding ever to my Ear,
But on a Day, like this, the Raven's Note
Strikes on my Senfe more sweetly. But, no more,
I charge thee touch th' ungrateful Theme no more,
Lead me, to pay my Duty to the King,
To wet his pale cold Hand with these last Tears,
And share the Blessings of his parting Breath.
Guil. Were I, like dying Edward, sure a Touch
Of this dear Hand, would kindle Life a-new.
But I obey, I dread that gath’ring Frown,
And Oh! Whene'er my Bosom (wells with Pasion,
And my full Heart is pain’d with ardent Love,
Allow me but to look on you, and sigh,
Tis all the humble Joy that Guilford asks,
L. J. Gray