Than any of my subjects?
Duke S. Ev'ry state,
Allotted to the race of man below,
Is, in proportion, doom'd to taste some sorrow,
Nor is the golden wreath on a king's brow
Exempt from care; and yet, who would not bear it?
Think on the monarchs of our royal race,
They liv'd not for themselves: how many blessings,
How many lifted hands shall pay thy toil,
If for thy people's good thou happ❜ly borrow
Some portions from the hours of rest, and wake
To give the world repose!
Suff. Behold, we stand upon the brink of ruin,
And only thou canst save us. Persecution,
That fiend of Rome and hell, prepares her tortures;
See where she comes in Mary's priestly train!
Still wilt thou doubt; till thou behold her stalk,
Red with the blood of martyrs, and wide wasting
O'er England's bosom? All the mourning year
Our towns shall glow with unextinguish'd fires;
Our youth on racks shall stretch their crackling
bones;
Our babes shall sprawl on consecrated spears;
Matrons and husbands, with their new-born infants,
Shall burn promiscuous; a continu'd peal
Of lamentations, groans, and shrieks, shall sound,
Through all our purple ways.
Think thou behold'st thy Guilford's head laid low, Bloody and pale
Lady J. G. Oh! spare the dreadful image!
Guil. Oh! would the misery be bounded there, My life were little; but the rage of Rome Demands whole hecatombs, a land of victims. With superstition comes that other fiend,
That bane of peace, of arts and virtue, tyranny;
That foe of justice, scorner of all law;
That beast, which thinks mankind were born for one,
And made by Heav'n to be a monster's prey;
That heaviest curse of groaning nations' tyranny.
Mary shall, by her kindred Spain, be taught
To bend our necks beneath a brazen yoke,
And rule o'er wretches with an iron sceptre.
Lady J.G. Avert that judgment, Heav'n!
Whate'er thy providence allots for me,
In mercy spare my country.
Guil. Oh, my queen!
Does not thy great, thy generous heart relent,
To think this land, for liberty so fam'd,
Shall have her towery front at once laid low,
And robb'd of all its glory? Oh! my country!
Oh! fairest Albion ! empress of the deep,
How have thy noblest sons, with stubborn valour,
Stood to the last, dy'd many a field in blood,
In dear defence of birth-right and their laws!
And shall those hands which fought the cause of
freedom,
Be manacled in base unworthy bonds:
Be tamely yielded up, the spoil, the slaves
Of hair-brain'd zeal, and cruel coward priests!
Lady J. G. Yes, my lov'd lord, my soul is mov'd
like thine,
At ev'ry danger which invades our England;
My cold heart kindles at the great occasion,
And could be more than man in her defence.
But where is my commission to redress?
Or whence my pow'r to save? Can Edward's will,
Or twenty met in council, make a queen?
Can you, my lords, give me the power to canvas
A doubtful title with king Henry's daughters?
Where are the rev'rend sages of the law,
To guide me with their wisdoms, and point out
The paths which right and justice bid me tread ?
North. The judges all attend, and will at leisure
Resolve you ev'ry scruple.
Lady J. G. They expound;
But where are those, my lord, that make the law?
Where are the ancient honours of the realm,
The nobles, with the mitred fathers join'd?
The wealthy commons solemnly assembled ?
Where is that voice of a consenting people,
To pledge the universal faith with mine,
And call me justly queen?
North. Nor shall that long
Be wanting to your wish. The lords and commons
Shall, at your royal bidding, soon assemble,
And with united homage own your title.
Delay not then to meet the general wish,
But be our queen, be England's better angel.
Nor let mistaken piety betray you
To join with cruel Mary in our ruin:
Her bloody faith commands her to destroy,
And yours forbids to save.
Guil. Our foes, already
High in their hopes, devote us all to death:
The dronish monks, the scorn and shame of manhood,
Rouse and prepare once more to take possession,
To nestle in their ancient hives again :
Again they furbish up their holy trumpery,
Relicks and wooden wonder-working saints
Whole loads of lumber and religious rubbish,
In high procession mean to bring them back,
And place the puppets in their shrines again:
While those of keener malice, savage Bonner,
And deep-designing Gard'ner, dream of vengeance;
Deyour the blood of innocents, in hope;
Like vultures, snuff the slaughter in the wind,
And speed their flight to havoc and the prey.
Haste then, and save us, while 'tis given to save
Your country, your religion."
North. Save your friends!
Suff. Your father!
Duchess S. Mother!
Guil. Husband!
Lady J. G. Take me, crown me.
Invest me with this royal wretchedness;
Let me not know one happy minute more;
Let all my sleepless nights be spent in care,
My days be fix'd in tumults and alarms;
If only I can save you, if my fate
Has mark'd me out to be the public victim,
I take the lot with joy. Yes, I will die
For that eternal truth my faith is fix'd on,
And that dear native land which gave me birth.
Guil. Wake ev'ry tuneful instrument to tell it,
And let the trumpet's sprightly note proclaim
My Jane is England's queen! Let the loud cannon
In peals of thunder speak it to Augusta;
Imperial Thames, catch thou the sacred sound,
And roll it to the subject ocean down:
Tell the old deep, and all thy brother floods,
My Jane is empress of the wat'ry world! ·
Lady J. G. Oh, Guilford! what do we give up for glory!
For glory! that's a toy I would not purchase;
An idle, empty bubble. But for England!
What must we lose for that? Since then my fate
Has forc'd this hard exchange upon my will,
Let gracious Heav'n allow me one request:
For that blest peace in which I once did dwell,
For books, retirement, and my studious cell,
For all those joys my happier days did prove,
For Plato, and his academic grove;
All that I ask, is, tho' my fortune frown,
And bury me beneath this fatal crown;
Let that one good be added to my doom,
To save this land from tyranny and Rome. [Exeunt.
Enter PEMBROKE and GARDIner.
Gar. In an unlucky and accursed hour
Set forth that traitor duke, that proud Northumber
To draw his sword upon the side of heresy,
And war against our Mary's holy right:
Ill fortune fly before, and pave his way
With disappointments, mischief, and defeat ;
Do thou, O holy Becket, the protector,
The champion, and the martyr of our church,
Appear, and once more own the cause of Rome:
Beat down his lance, break thou his sword in battle,
And cover foul rebellion with confusion.
Pem. I saw him marching at his army's head;
I mark'd him issuing thro' the city gate
In harness all appointed, as he pass'd;
And (for he wore his beaver up) could read
Upon his visage, horror and dismay.
No voice of cheerful salutation cheer'd him;
None wish'd his arms might thrive, or bade God speed
But through a staring ghastly looking crowd,
Unhail'd, unbless'd, with heavy heart he went:
As if his traitor father's haggard ghost,
And Somerset, fresh bleeding from the axe,
On either hand had usher'd him to ruin.
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