Depend upon our husbanding a moment,
And the light lasting of a woman's will;
She must be here, and lodg'd in Guilford's arms,
Ere Edward dies, or all we've done is marr'd.
Ha! Pembroke! that's a bar which thwarts my way?
His fiery temper brooks not opposition,
And must be met with soft and supple arts,
Such as assuage the fierce, and bend the strong.
Enter the EARL of PEMBROKE.
Good-morrow, noble Pembroke: we have staid
The meeting of the council for your presence.
Pem. For mine, my lord! you mock your servant
To say that I am wanted, where yourself,
The great Alcides of our state, is present.
Whatever dangers menace prince or people,
Our great Northumberland is arm'd to meet them:
The ablest head, and firmest heart you bear,
Nor need a second in the glorious task;
Equal yourself to all the 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 yours, deceive me.
I know my temper liable to passions,
And all the frailties common to our nature;
Much therefore have I need of some good man,
Some wise and honest heart, whose friendly aid
Might guide my treading thro' our present dangers;
And, by the honour of my name I swear,
I know not one of all our English peers,
Whom I would chuse for that best friend, like Pembroke.
Pem. What shall I answer to a trust so noble;
This prodigality of praise and honour ?
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 scorn a thought
So much below the dignity of virtue.
'Tis true, I look on Guilford like a father,
Lean to his side, and see 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 fondnesses 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 fac-
tions
Threaten change, tumult, and disastrous days.
These fears drive out the gentler thoughts of joy,
Of courtship, and of love. Grant, Heav'n, the state
To fix in peace and safety once again;
Then speak your passion to the princely maid,
And fair success attend you. For myself,
My voice shall 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 pause, and I attend your grace.
[Exit NORTHUMBERLAND.
Old Winchester cries to me oft, Beware
Of proud Northumberland. The testy prelate,
Froward with age, with disappointed hopes,
And zealous for old Rome, rails on the duke,
Suspecting him 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 interest? Let them rail
And worry one another at their pleasure.
This duke, of late, by many worthy offices,
Has sought my friendship. And yet more, his son,
The noblest youth our England has to boast of,
Has made me long the partner of his breast.
Oh, Guilford! just as thou wert ent'ring here,
My thought was running all thy virtues over,
And wond'ring how thy soul could chuse a partner
So much unlike itself.
Guil. How could my tongue
Take pleasure and be lavish in thy praise!
Thou art the man in whom my soul delights,
In whom, next Heav'n, I trust.
Pem. Oh, generous youth;
What can a heart, stubborn and fierce, like mine, Return to all thy sweetness?—Yet I would,
'Would I had never seen her, never cast
Mine eyes on Suffolk's daughter!
Guil. So would I !
Since 'twas my fate to see and love her first.
But tell me, Pembroke, is it not in virtue.
To arm against this proud imperious passion?
Does 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. Though sure, the loss
Would wound me to the heart.
Pem. Ha! Couldst thou bear it?
And yet perhaps thou might'st; thy gentle temper Is form'd with passions mix'd with due proportion,
Where no one overbears nor plays the tyrant,
While mine, disdaining reason and her laws,
Like all thou canst imagine wild and furious,
Now drive me headlong on, now whirl me back,
And hurl my unstable flitting soul
Enter SIR JOHN GATES.
Sir J. G. 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 condemn him. [Exit PEMBROKE. Guil. Where is that piercing foresight can unfold Where all this mazy error will have end, And tell the doom reserv'd for me and Pembroke? And see, the mistress of our fate appears!
Enter LADY JANE GREY and ATTENDANTS.
Hail, princely maid! who with auspicious beauty
Cheer'st ev'ry drooping heart in this sad place;
Who, like the silver regent of the night,
Lift'st up thy sacred beams upon the land,
To bid the gloom look gay, dispel our horrors,
And make us less lament the setting sun.
Lady J. G. Yes, Guilford; well dost thou compare
To the faint comfort of the waning moon:
Like her, cold orb, a cheerless 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
Great prospect of his op'ning Heaven.
Lady J. G. 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 yourselves,
Ne'er entered 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 op'ning scene.
And yet, forgive me, thou, my native country,
Thou land of liberty, thou nurse of heroes,
Forgive me, if, in spite of all thy dangers,
New springs of pleasure flow within my bosom,
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 them.
Lady J. G. Oh, vain flattery!
Harsh and ill-sounding ever to my ear;
But on a day like this, the raven's note
Strikes on my sense more sweetly. But, no more,
I charge thee touch the 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 anew.
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