How now! what light comes here?

Ser. So please your lordship,

If I mistake not, 'tis the earl of Pembroke.

Gar. Pembroke!thus early?

'Tis he: What calls him forth

Somewhat he seems to bring of high import;
Some flame uncommon kindles up his soul,
And flashes forth impetuous at his eyes.

Enter PEMBROKE; a PAGE with a Light before him.
Good-morrow, noble Pembroke! what importunate
And strong necessity breaks on your slumbers,

And rears your youthful head from off

At this unwholesome hour?

your pillow,

Pem. Oh, rev'rend Winchester! my beating heart Exults and labours with the joy it bears:

The news I bring shall bless the breaking morn.
Gar. What happiness is this?

Pem. 'Tis mercy, mercy,

Mary, our royal, ever-gracious, mistress,
Has to my services and humblest prayers
Granted the lives of Guilford and his wife;
Full and free pardon !

Gar. Ha! What said you? Pardon!

But sure you cannot mean it; could not urge
The queen to such a rash and ill-tim'd grace?
What, save the lives of those who wore her crown?
My lord, 'tis most unweigh'd, pernicious, counsel,
And must not be comply'd with.

Pem. Not comply'd with!

And who shall dare to bar her sacred pleasure,

And stop the stream of mercy?

Gar. That will I ;

Who will not see her gracious disposition

Drawn to destroy herself.

Pem. Thy narrow soul

Knows not the godlike glory of forgiving:

Nor can thy cold, thy ruthless heart conceive,

F

How large the power, how fix'd the empire is,
Which benefits confer on generous minds.

Gar. These are romantic, light, vain-glorious dreams,

Have you consider'd well upon the danger?

How dear to the fond many, and how popular
These are, whom you would spare? Have you forgot,
When at the bar, before the seat of judgment,
This Lady Jane, this beauteous trait'ress stood,
With what command she charm'd the whole assembly?
With silent grief the mournful audience sat,
Fix'd on her face, and list'ning to her pleading.
Her very judges wrung their hands for pity;
Their old hearts melted in them as she spoke,
And tears ran down upon their silver beards.
Ev'n I myself was mov'd, and, for a moment,
Felt wrath suspended in my doubtful breast,
And question'd if the voice I heard was mortal.
But when her tale was done, what loud applause,
Like bursts of thunder shook the spacious hall!
At last, when sore constrain'd, th' unwilling lords
Pronounc'd the fatal sentence on her life;
A peal of groans ran through the crowded court,
As ev'ry heart was broken, and the doom,
Like that which waits the world, were universal.
Pem. And can that sacred form, that angel's voice,
Which mov'd the hearts of a rude ruthless crowd,
Nay, mov'd ev❜n thine, now sue in vain for pity?
Gar. Alas, you look on her with lover's eyes:
I hear and see through reasonable organs,
Where passion has no part. Come, come, my lord,
You have too little of the statesman in you.

Pem. And you, my lord, too little of the churchman. Is not the sacred purpose of our faith

Peace and good-will to man? The hallow'd hand, Ordain'd to bless should know no stain of blood. "Tis true, I am not practis'd in your politics; 'Twas your pernicious counsel led the

queen

To break her promise with the men of Suffolk,
To violate, what in a prince should be

Sacred above the rest, her royal word.

Gar. Yes, and I dare avow it: I advis'd her To break through all engagements made with heretics, And keep no faith with such a miscreant crew.

Pem. Where shall we seek for truth, when ev'n religion,

The priestly robe and mitred head, disclaim it?
But thus bad men dishonour the best cause.
I tell thee, Winchester, doctrines like thine
Have stain'd our holy church with greater infamy
Than all your eloquence can wipe away.

Gar. Nay, if you rail, farewell. The queen must be
Better advis'd, than thus to cherish vipers,
Whose mortal stings are arm'd against her life.
But while I hold the seal no pardon passes
For heretics and traitors.

Pem. 'Twas unlucky

[Exit GARDINER.

To meet and cross upon this froward priest:
But let me lose the thought on't; let me haste,
Pour my glad tidings forth in Guilford's bosom,
And pay him back the life his friendship sav'd. [Exit.

SCENE II.

The LADY JANE kneeling, as at her Devotion; a Light and a Book placed on a Table before her. Enter LIEUTENANT OF THE TOWER, LORD GUILFORD, and Two female ATTENDANTS.

Lieut. Let me not press upon your lordship farther But wait your leisure in the antichamber. Guil. I will not hold you long. [Exit LIEUTENANT.

1 Wom. Softly, my lord!

For yet, behold she kneels. Before the night
Had reach'd her middle space, she left her bed,
And with a pleasing, sober cheerfulness,
As for her funeral, array'd herself

In those sad solemn weeds. Since then her knee
Has known that posture only, and her eye,
Or fix'd upon the sacred page before her,
Or lifted, with her rising hopes, to heav'n.

Guil. See, with what zeal those holy hands are rear'd!

Mark her vermilion lip, with fervour trembling;
Her spotless bosom swells with sacred ardour,
And burns with ecstacy and strong devotion;
Her supplication sweet, her faithful vows
Fragrant and pure, and grateful to high Heav'n,
Like incense from the golden censer rise;
Or blessed angels minister unseen,

Catch the soft sounds, and with alternate office,
Spread their ambrosial wings, then mount with joy,
And waft them upwards to the throne of

But she has ended, and comes forward.

grace.

[LADY JANE rises, and comes towards the Front of the Stage.]

Lady J. G. Ha!

Art thou my Guilford? Wherefore dost thou come
To break the settled quiet of my soul?

I meant to part without another pang,

And lay my weary head down full of peace.

Guil. Forgive the fondness of my longing soul, That melts with tenderness, and leans towards thee: Though the imperious, dreadful, voice of fate Summon her hence, and warn her from the world. But if to see thy Guilford give thee pain, 'Would I had died, and never more beheld thee: Though my lamented discontented ghost Had wander'd forth unblest by those dear eyes, And wail'd thy loss in death's eternal shades,

Lady J. G. My heart had ended ev'ry earthly care, And offer'd up its pray'rs for thee and England, And fix'd its hopes upon a rock unfailing; While all the little bus'ness, that remain'd, Was but to pass the forms of death and constancy, And leave a life become indifferent to me. But thou hast waken'd other thoughts within me; Thy sight, my dearest husband and my lord, Strikes on the tender strings of love and nature: My vanquish'd passions rise again, and tell me, 'Tis more, far more than death to part from thee.

Enter PEMBROKE.

Pem. Oh, let me fly, bear me, thou swift impatience, And lodge me in my faithful Guilford's arms!

[Embracing.
That I may warm his gentle heart with joy,
And talk to him of life, of life and pardon.
Guil. What means my dearest Pembroke?
Pem. Oh, my speech

Is chok'd with words that crowd to tell my tidings!
But I have sav'd thee-and-Oh, joy unutterable!
The queen, my gracious, my forgiving mistress,
Has given not only thee to my request,
But she, she too, in whom alone thou liv'st,

The partner of thy heart, thy love is safe.

Guil. Millions of blessings wait her!-Has she-

tell me,

Oh, has she spar'd my wife?

Pem. Both, both are pardon'd.

But haste, and do thou lead me to thy saint,
That I may cast myself beneath her feet,

And beg her to accept this poor amends

For all I've done against her-Thou fair excellence,

[Kneeling, Canst thou forgive the hostile hand that arm'd Against thy cause, and robb'd thee of a crown?