Froward with Age, with difappointed Hopes,
And zealous for Old Rome, rails on the Duke,
Sufpecting him to favour the New Teachers.
Yet ev'n in that, if I judge right, he errs.

But were it fo, what are thefe Monkish Quarrels,
These wordy Wars of Proud Ill-manner'd Schoolmen,
To us and our Lay-Interefs? 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 braveft Spirit,
Has made me long the Partner of his Breast.
Nay, when he found, in fpite of the Resistance
My ftrugling 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 Bofom,
But call'd me ftill his Friend. And fee! 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 felf.

Guil. How cou'd my Tongue.

Take Pleafure, and be lavish in thy Praife!
How cou'd I fpeak thy Noblenefs of Nature,
Thy open manly Heart, thy Courage, Conftancy,
And inborn Truth unknowing to diffemble!
Thou art the Man in whom my Soul delights,

I

I

In whom, next Heaven, I trust.

Pem. Oh Generous Youth!

What can a Heart, stubborn and fierce, like mine,

Return to all thy Sweetnefs?

Yet I wou'd,

Oh, my cruel Fortune!

Wou'd I had never feen her! never caft

My Eyes on Suffolk's Daughter!

Guil. So wou'd I;

Since 'twas my Fate to fee and love her firft.

Pem. Oh! Why fhould fhe, that Univerfal Goodness,

Like Light, a common Bleffing to the World,

Rife like a Comet fatal to our Friendship,

And threaten it with Ruin?

Guil. Heaven forbid !

But tell me, Pembroke, Is it not in Virtue,
To arm against this proud imperious Paffion?
Does Holy Friendship dwell fo near to Envy,
She could not bear to fee another happy,
If blind miftaken Chance, and partial Beauty
Should join to favour Guilford?

Pem. Name it not, e

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 profper,
And mine to be refus'd. Tho, fure the Lofs
Wou'd wound me to the Heart.

Pem. Ha! Could'ft thou bear it?

And yet perhaps thou might'ft: Thy gentle Temper
Is form'd with Paffions mixt in due Proportion, .

Where

Where no one overbears nor plays the Tyrant,
But join in Nature's Bufinefs, and thy Happiness:
While mine difdaining Reafon and Her Laws,
Like all thou canft 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 Pleafure.

This only, and no more then. What foever
Fortune decrees, ftill let us call to Mind
Our Friendship and our Honour. And fince Love
Condemns us to be Rivals for one Prize,
Let us contend, as Friends and brave men ought,
With Openness and Juftice to each other;
That he who wins the Fair One to his Arms,
May take her as the Crown of great Defert:
And if the wretched Lofer does repine,

His own Heart and the World may all condem him.

[Exit Pem.

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 thoufand 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 feparate Interest

Where

Where is that piercing Forefight can unfold

Where all this mazy Error will have end,

And tell the Doom referv'd for me and Pembroke?
There is but one End certain, that is -Death:

Yet ev❜n that Certainty is ftill incertain.
For of thefe feveral 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 fee the Mistress of our Fate appear!

[Enter Lady JANE GRAY. Attendants.]
Hail, Princely Maid! who with Aufpicious Beauty
Chear'st every drooping Heart in this fad Place;
Who, like the Silver Regent of the Night,
Lift'ft up thy facred Beams upon the Land,

To bid the Gloom look Gay, difpell our Horrors,
And make us lefs lament the fetting Sun.

(fence

T. J. Gray. Yes, Guilford, Well doft thou compare my Pre

To the faint Comfort of the waining Moon:
Like her cold Orb, a chearlefs Gleam I bring,

Silence and Heavinefs of Heart, with Dews
To drefs the Face of Nature all in Tears.

But fay, 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. J. Gray. Defcend ye Choirs of Angels to receive him

Tune your melodious Harps to fome high Strain,

And waft him upwards with a Song of Triumph;

A purer Soul, and one more like your selves,
Never enter'd at the Golden Gates of Blifs.
Oh, Guilford! What remains for wretched England,
When he, our Guardian-Angel, fhall forfake us ?
For whofe dear Sake Heav'n fpar'd a guilty Land,
And fcatter'd not its Plagues while Edward reign'd.
Guil, I own my Heart bleeds inward at the Thought,
And rifing Horrors crowd the opening Scene.
And yet, forgive me, thou, my Native Country,
Thou Land of Liberty, thou Nurfe of Heroes,
Forgive me, if in fpite of all thy Dangers,
New Springs of Pleafure flow within my Borom,
When thus 'tis giv'n me to behold thofe Eyes,
Thus gaze and wonder, how excelling Nature
Can give each Day new Patterns of her Skill,
And yet at once furpass 'em.

L. J. 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 fweetly. 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 Bleffings of his parting Breath.

Guil, Were I, like dying Edward, fure 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 Bofom fwells with Paflion,
And my full Heart is pain'd with ardent Love,
Allow me but to look on you, and figh,

Tis all the humble Joy that Guilford asks,

B

L. J. Gray