The Earl of Warwick, a tragedy: as it is perform'd at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- Advertisement. To the PUBLIC,

- ERRATA.

- PROLOGUE,

- Dramatis Personae.

- ACT I.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- ACT II.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II. the COUNCIL CHAMBER.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- ACT III.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- ACT IV.

- SCENE, THE TOWER.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE VII.

- ACT V.

- SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- SCENE IV.

- SCENE V.

- SCENE VI.

- SCENE the last.

- EPILOGUE,

THE EARL of WARWICK.

FINIS.

THE Earl of Warwick, A TRAGEDY, As it is perform'd at the THEATRE ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.

LONDON: Printed for T. DAVIES, Russel-Street, Covent-Garden; R. BALDWIN, Pater-Noster-Row; and W. GRIFFIN, Catharine-Street, in the Strand. M.DCC.LXVI. [Price ONE SHILLING and SIXPENCE.]

Advertisement. To the PUBLIC,

THE author takes this opportunity to acknowledge his obligation to the public, for their favourable reception of THE EARL OF WARWICK. He flatters himself, that the license so necessary to his plan, which he has taken in common with other writers, in deviating from historical truth, especially in a period so distant and obscure, will meet with indulgence.

For the many faults 〈…〉 of this piece, he can only plead that title to 〈…〉 is generally extended in favour of a first essay, and 〈…〉 that the same candour which approv'd on the stage, will accompany it to the closet.

He cannot, without the most manifest injustice, forbear to add, that the more than ordinary exertion of dramatic powers, display'd by the principal actors concerned in it, contributed in a great measure to the success of the performance.

ERRATA.

For the blush of virgin modesty read the crimson glow of modesty.

PROLOGUE,

Written by GEORGE COLMAN, Esq Spoken by Mr. BENSLEY.

SEVERE each poet's lot; but sure most hard

Is the condition of the playhouse bard:

Doom'd to hear all that wou'd-be critics talk,

And in the go-cart of dull rules to walk!

"Yet authors multiply," you say. 'Tis true.

But what a numerous crop of critics too!

Scholars alone of old durst judge and write;

But now each journalist turns Stagyrite.

Quintilians in each coffee-house you meet,

And many a Longinus walks the street.

In Shakespear's days, when his advent'rous muse,

A muse of fire! durst each bold licence use,

Her noble ardour met no critic's phlegm,

To check wild fancy, or her flights condemn:

Ariels and Calibans unblam'd she drew,

Or goblins, ghosts, and witches, brought to view.

If to historic truth she shap'd her verse,

A nation's annals freely she'd rehearse;

Bring Rome's or England's story on the stage,

And run, in three short hours, thro' half an age.

Our bard, all terror-struck, and fill'd with dread,

In Shakespear's awful footsteps dares not tread;

Thro' the wide field of hist'ry fears to stray,

And builds upon one narrow spot his play;

Steps not from realm to realm, whole feas between,

But barely changes twice or thrice his scene:

While Shakespear vaults on the poetic wire,

And pleas'd spectators fearfully admire,

Our bard, a critic pole between his hands,

On the tight-rope, scarce balanc'd, trembling stands;

Slowly and cautiously his way he makes,

And fears to fall at ev'ry step he takes:

While then fierce Warwick he before you brings,

That setter-up and puller-down of kings,

With British candour dissipate his sear!

An English story fits an English ear.

Tho' harsh and crude you deem his first essay,

A second may your favours well repay;

Applause may nerve his verse, and chear his heart,

And teach the practice of this dangerous art.

Dramatis Personae.

KING EDWARD,

Mr. POWELL.

EARL of WARWICK,

Mr. HOLLAND.

EARL of PEMBROKE,

Mr. BENSLEY.

EARL of SUFFOLK,

Mr. PACKER.

MARGARET of ANJOU,

Mrs. YATES.

LADY ELIZ. GRAY,

Mrs. PALMER.

LADY CLIFFORD,

Miss PLYM.

- OFFICERS GUARDS, &c.

SCENE, The PALACE.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

MARGARET of ANJOU, Lady CLIFFORD.

CLIFFORD.

THANKS! gracious heav'n, my royal mistress smiles,

Unusual gladness sparkles in her eye,

And bids me welcome in the stranger joy

To his new mansion.

MARGARET.

Yes, My faithful Clifford,

Fortune is weary of oppressing me:

Through my dark cloud of grief, a chearful ray

Of light breaks forth, and gilds the whole horison.

CLIFFORD.

Henry in chains, and Edward on the throne

Of Lancaster, thyself a pris'ner here,

Thy captive son torn from his mother's arms,

And in the tyrant's pow'r, a kingdom lost:

Amidst so many sorrows, what new hope

Hath wrought this wond'rous change?

MARGARET.

That which alone

In sorrow's bitt'rest hour, can minister

Sweet comfort to the daughters of affliction,

And bid misfortune smile, the hope of vengeance:

Vengeance, benignant patron of distress,

Thee I have oft invoked, propitious now

Thou smil'st upon me, if I do not grasp

The glorious opportunity, henceforth

Indignant frown, and leave me to my fate!

CLIFFORD.

Unhappy Princess! that deceiver hope

Hath often flatter'd, and as oft betray'd thee:

What hast thou gain'd by all its promises?

What's the reward of all thy toils?

MARGARET.

Experience—

Yes, Clifford, I have read th' instructive volume

Of human nature, there long since have learn'd

The way to conquer men is by their passions;

Catch but the ruling foible of their hearts,

And all their boasted virtues shrink before you.

Edward and Warwick, those detested names,

Too well thou know'st, united to destroy me.

CLIFFORD.

That was indeed a fatal league.

MARGARET.

But mark me;

If we cou'd break this adamantine chain,

We might again be free: this mighty warrior,

This dread of kings, th' unconquerable Warwick,

Is plighted to the fair Elizabeth.

CLIFFORD.

The lady Gray, you mean, the beauteous widow,

Whose husband fell in arms for Lancaster.

MARGARET.

The same, my Clifford—Warwick long has lov'd—

CLIFFORD.

And means to wed her.

MARGARET.

But if I have art,

Or she ambition, that shall never be.

CLIFFORD.

Can'st thou prevent it?

MARGARET.

Yes, my Clifford, Warwick

Were a mean choice for such transcendent beauty;

I shall provide her with a fitter husband,

A nobler far, and worthier of her charms,

Young Edward.—

CLIFFORD.

Ha! the king! impossible!

Warwick, ev'n now, commission'd by the state,

To treat with Lewis, offers England's throne

To France's daughter, and e'er this, perhaps,

Hath sign'd the solemn contract.

MARGARET.

Solemn trifles!

Mere cobweb ties—Love's a despotic tyrant,

And laughs, like other kings, at public faith,

When it opposes private happiness:

Edward is youthful, gay, and amorous;

His soul is ever open to the lure

Of beauty, and Elizabeth hath charms

Might shake a hermit's virtue.

CLIFFORD.

Hath he seen

This peerless fair one?

MARGARET.

Yes,—by my contrivance,

When last he hunted in the forest, some,

Whom I had planted there, as if by chance

Alone directed, led him cross the lawn

To Grafton, there—ev'n as my soul had wish'd,

The dazzling lustre of her charms surpris'd

His unsuspecting heart—

CLIFFORD.

What follow'd?

MARGARET.

O!

He gaz'd and wonder'd; for a while his pride

Indignant rose, and struggled with his passion,

But love was soon victorious: and last night,

The earl of Suffolk, so my trusty spies

Inform me, was dispatch'd on wings of love,

To plead his master's cause, and offer her

The throne of England.

CLIFFORD.

What if she refuse

The golden bribe?

MARGARET.

No matter; all I wish

Is but to make them foes: the gen'rous Warwick

Is fiery, and impatient of reproof,

He will not brook a rival in his love

Though seated on a throne; besides, thou know'st,

The haughty earl looks down with scorn on Edward,

As the mere work of his all-pow'rful hand,

The baby monarch of his own creation.

CLIFFORD.

Believe me, madam, Edward still reveres

And loves him, still as conscious of the debt,

Pays him with trust and confidence; their souls

Are link'd together in the strictest bonds

Of sacred friendship.

MARGARET.

That but serves my cause:

Where ties are close, and interests united,

The slightest inj'ries are severely felt;

Offended friendship never can forgive.

CLIFFORD.

Now the full prospect opens to my view,

I see thy distant aim, and trace the paths

Of vengeance: England soon will be a scene

Of blood and horror, discord's fatal torch

Once lit up it in this devoted land,

What pow'r shall e'er extinguish it? alas!

I tremble at the consequence.

MARGARET.

And I

Enjoy it:—O! 'twill be a noble contest

Of pride 'gainst pride, oppression 'gainst oppression;

Rise but the storm, and let the waves beat high,

The wreck may be our own: in the warm struggle,

Who knows but one or both of them may fall,

And Marg'ret rise triumphant on their ruin!

It must be so; and see the king approaches:

This way he passes from the council—mark

His down-cast eye, he is a stricken deer,

The arrow's in his side—he cannot 'scape:

We'll meet and speak to him.

CLIFFORD.

What mean you, madam?

MARGARET.

To ask him—what, I know, he will refuse;

That gives me fair pretext to break with him,

And join the man I hate, vindictive Warwick;

But soft, he comes—

SCENE II.

KING EDWARD, MARGARET, CLIFFORD, OFFICER.

EDWARD.

Is Suffolk yet return'd? (to an Officer.)

OFFICER.

No, my good liege.

EDWARD.

Go, wait and bring him to me,

[Ex. Of.

I'll to my closet.

Pardon me, fair lady,

I saw you not.

MARGARET.

Perhaps it is beneath

A conqu'ror to look down upon his slave;

But I've a boon to ask.

EDWARD.

Whate'er it is,

Within the limits of fair courtesy,

Which honour can bestow, I'll not refuse thee.

MARGARET.

There was a time when Margaret of Anjou

Wou'd not have deign'd to ask of Edward ought;

Nor was there ought which Edward dar'd refuse her;

But that is past, great Warwick's arm prevail'd,

And I am now your pris'ner.

EDWARD.

Since the hour,

When fortune smil'd propitious on the cause

Of justice, and gave vict'ry to our arms;

You have been treated with all due respect,

All your condition, or your sex cou'd claim;

Serv'd like a queen, and lodg'd within our palace:

Is there ought more you can with reason ask,

Or I in prudence grant you.

MARGARET.

Give me back

The liberty I lost, restore my son,

And I may then, perhaps, be reconcil'd

To un usurper, may with-hold my vengeance,

And let thee fit unpunish'd on—my throne.

EDWARD.

You talk too proudly, madam; but to shew you

I cannot fear, you have your liberty.

Letters this morning I receiv'd from France,

Have offer'd noble ransom for your person;

Without that ransom—for the soul of Edward

Is far above the sordid lust of gold,

I grant it—from this moment you are free;

But for your son—I cannot part with him.

MARGARET.

I scorn your bounties, scorn your proffer'd freedom,

What's liberty to me without my child?

But fate will place us soon above thy reach,

Thy short-liv'd tyranny is almost past,

The storm is gath'ring round thee, and will burst

With ten-fold vengeance on thy guilty head.

EDWARD.

I am not to be talk'd into submission,

Nor dread the menace of a clam'rous woman.

MARGARET.

Thou may'st have cause to dread a woman's pow'r:

The time may come—mark my prophetic word—

When wayward beauty shall repay with scorn

Thy fruitless vows, and vindicate my wrongs:

The friend thou lean'st on, like a broken reed,

Shall pierce thy side, and fill thy soul with anguish,

Keen as the pangs I feel: York's perjur'd house

Shall sink to rise no more, and Lancaster

With added lustre re-assume the throne.

Hear this and tremble—give me back my son—

Or dread the vengeance of a desp'rate mother.

SCENE III.

EDWARD.

Imperious woman! but the voice of woe

Is ever clam'rous: 'tis the privilege,

The charter of affliction to complain.—

This tardy Suffolk! how I long to know

Yet dread to hear my fate! Elizabeth,

On thee the colour of my future life

Depends, for thou alone can'st make me blest,

Or curs'd for ever:—O! this cruel doubt

Is worse than all my tortures: but he comes,

Th' ambassador of love.

SCENE IV.

EDWARD, EARL of SUFFOLK.

EDWARD.

What news, my Suffolk?

Shall I be happy? O! I'm on the rack

Of expectation, didst thou tell my tale

As if it were thy own, and may I hope—

SUFFOLK.

My royal liege.

EDWARD.

Good Suffolk, lay aside

The forms of dull respect, be brief, and tell me,

Speak, hast thou seen her, will she be my queen?

Quick, tell me ev'ry circumstance, each word,

Each look, each gesture; didst thou mark them, Suffolk?

SUFFOLK.

I did, and will recount it all;—last night

By your command, in secret I repair'd

To Grafton's tufted bow'r, the happy seat

Of innocence and beauty, there I found

Thy soul's best hope, the fair Elizabeth,

Ne'er did these eyes behold such sweet perfection:

I found her busy'd in the pious office

Of filial duty, tending her sick father.

EDWARD.

That was a lucky moment, to prefer

My humble suit: touch but the tender string

Of soft compassion in the heart, and love

Will quickly vibrate to its kindred passion;

You urg'd our royal purpose, then?

SUFFOLK.

I did,

With all the warmth of friendship, dwelt with pleasure

On ev'ry princely virtue that adorns

Your noble heart; she listen'd with attention,

And echo'd back your praises.

EDWARD.

Was not that

A kind propitious omen?

SUFFOLK.

Such indeed

Hoping to find it, I call'd in the pow'rs

Of flattery to my aid, and gaz'd upon her,

As if confounded by her dazling beauties—

Conscious she smil'd; but when, at length, I spake

Of England's monarch sighing at her feet—

The blush of virgin modesty o'erspread

Her cheek, and gave new lustre to her charms;

She turned aside, and as she silent bow'd

Her doubtful thanks, I mark'd the pearly tear

Steal down its secret track, and from her breast

Heard a deep sigh, she struggled to conceal;

If I have any judgment, or can trace

The hidden feelings of a woman's heart,

Her's is already fix'd: I fear, my liege,

With all that England, all that thou coud'st give,

The crown wou'd fit but heavy on her brow.

EDWARD.

Not heavier, Suffolk, than it sits on mine:

My throne is irksome to me; who wou'd wish

To be a sov'reign, when Elizabeth

Presers a subject?—Then th' impetuous Warwick,

His awful virtue will chastise my weakness.

I dread his censure, dread his keen reproaches,

And dread them more because they will be just.

I've promis'd Lewis to espouse his daughter,

To strengthen our alliance: wou'd to heav'n

I had not! If I seek this coy refuser,

And break with France, Warwick will take th' alarm;

If once offended, he's inexorable.

SUFFOLK.

I know him well—Believe me, Sir, the high

And haughty spirit, when it meets rebuke,

Is easiest check'd, and sinks into submission.

Let him, my liege, who ventures to arraign

His master's conduct, look into his own:

There ever is a corner in the heart

Open to folly; Warwick is not free

From human frailties.

EDWARD.

No: ambition fires

His noble breast, love triumphs over mine:

But well thou know'st, our eyes are ever open

To other's faults, and shut against our own.

We seldom pity woes we ne'er experienc'd,

Or pardon weakness which we do not feel:

He is a hero.

SUFFOLK.

Hero's are but men;

I have some cause to think so—but of that

We'll talk another time: mean while my liege,

I think lord Warwick is a useful friend.

EDWARD.

Aye, and a dangerous foe; the people love,

To adoration love him; if he falls

From his allegiance, crouds will follow him.

England has long been rent by civil broils,

And fain wou'd rest her in the arms of peace:

Her wounds scarce clos'd, shall Edward open them,

And bid them bleed a-fresh? believe me, Suffolk,

I wou'd not be the cause of new divisions

Amongst my people, for a thousand kingdoms.

SUFFOLK.

'Tis nobly said, and may thy grateful subjects,

Revere thy virtues, and reward thy love!

EDWARD.

O! Suffolk, did they know but half the cares

That wait on royalty, they wou'd not grudge

Their wretched master a few private hours

Of social happiness.—If France consents,

I am undone: and Warwick hath e'er this

Enslav'd me: curse on this state policy,

That binds us thus to love at second hand!

Who knows but he may link me to a wretch;

Wed me to folly, ignorance, and pride,

Ill-nature, sickness, or deformity;

And when I'm chain'd to mis'ry, coldly tell me,

To sooth my griefs, 'twas for the public good.

SUFFOLK.

How far you have commission'd him, I know not,

But were I worthy to advise, my liege,

I wou'd not be the dupe of his ambition,

But follow natures dictates, and be happy.

England has charms besides Elizabeth's,

And beauties that—

EDWARD.

No more; my heart is fix'd

On her alone; find out this pow'rful rival,

I charge thee, Suffolk: yet why wish to find,

What found will make me wretched? were he bound

In cords of tend'rest friendship round my heart,

Dearer than Warwick, dearer than thyself,

Forgive me, but I fear I shou'd abhor him.

O think on something that may yet be done,

To win her to my heart e'er Warwick comes.

SUFFOLK.

I hear he is expected every hour.

EDWARD.

Grant heav'n some friendly storm may yet retard him!

I dread his presence here.

SCENE IV.

MESSENGER, EDWARD, SUFFOLK.

MESSENGER.

My liege, the earl

Of Warwick, is arriv'd.

EDWARD.

Ha! when? how? where?

Wou'd he were bury'd in the rapid waves

That brought him hither! comes he here to night?

MESSENGER.

My liege, e'er now he might have reaoh'd the palace,

But that the shouting multitudes press hard

On ev'ry side, and seem to worship him.

SCENE V.

SUFFOLK, EDWARD.

SUFFOLK.

Such adoration

But ill befits the idol, that receives it.

EDWARD.

What's to be done? I cannot, must not see him,

Till all is fix'd: once more, my best-lov'd Suffolk;

Try the soft arts of thy persuasive tongue:

What method can'st thou think on, to evade

This promis'd marriage with ambitious France?

SUFFOLK.

Summon your council, lay your thoughts before them,

Meet Warwick there, and urge a sov'reigns right,

To please himself in that which shou'd concern

Himself alone—firm Buckingham and I

Will plead your cause against the haughty Warwick,

Whom I wou'd treat with cold civility,

And distant state which ever angers more

Resentful spirits, than the warmth of passion.

EDWARD.

'Tis well advis'd:—mean-time if possible,

I will compose my troubled thoughts to rest:

Suffolk, adieu: if Warwick asks for me,

I am not well, I'm hunting in the forest—

I'm busy—stay—remember what I told you,

Touching the earldom which I mean to give

Her father; that may bring her to the court;

You understand me, Suffolk—fare thee well.

SCENE VI.

EDWARD.

Why shou'd I dread to see the man I love—

The man I rev'rence—Warwick is not chang'd,

But Edward is—Suffolk, I know, abhors him—

A fav'rite must be hated—if he urges

This dreadful contract, I shall hate him too:

I cannot live without Elizabeth:

I'll think no more—if I must sacrifice

My friendship or my love—the choice is made.

END of the FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

WARWICK (Speaking to an officer.)

WARWICK.

'TIS well: I shall attend his highness' pleasure.

[Comes forward.]

Meet me i'th' council! Warwick might have claim'd

A private audience—After all my toils,

My perils in his service, 'tis a cold

Unkind reception: some base whisperer,

Some needy sycophant, perhaps, hath poison'd

My royal master's ear—or, do I judge

Too rashly? As my embassy concerns

The public welfare, he wou'd honour me

With public thanks.—Elizabeth will chide me

For this unkind delay—but honour calls,

And duty to my king: that task perform'd,

I haste, my love, to happiness and thee.

SCENE II. the COUNCIL CHAMBER.

King EDWARD, Dukes of CLARENCE, and BUCKINGHAM, Earls of SUFFOLK, PEMBROKE, &c.

EDWARD.

Good Buckingham, I thank thee for thy counsel,

Nor blame thy honest warmth; I love this freedom,

〈◊〉 is the birth-right of an Englishman,

And doth become thee: what says noble Suffolk?

SUFFOLK.

I wou'd not cross my royal master's will;

But, on my soul, I think, this nuptial league

With France prepost'rous and impolitic!

It cannot last; we are by nature foes,

And nought but mutual poverty and weakness,

Can ever make us friends—she wants our aid

Against the pow'rful Burgundy, and therefore,

Throws out this lure of beauty to ensnare you,

That purpose gain'd, she turns her arms against us.

PEMBROKE.

Why, let her: if she comes with hostile arm,

England thank heav'n, is ready to receive her:

I love my country, and revere my king,

As much perhaps as honest Buckingham,

Or my good fearful lord of Suffolk here,

Who knows so well, or wou'd be thought to know,

What France will do hereafter: yet I think,

The faith of nations is a thing so sacred,

It ought not to be trifled with.—I hate

As much as you th' unnatural forc'd alliance,

And yet, my lords, if Warwick is empow'r'd,

For so I hear he is, to treat with Lewis;

I know not how in honour you can swerve

From his conditions.

(shouting.)

Hark! the hero comes:

Those shouts proclaim him near: the joyful people

Will usher in their great deliverer

As he deserves.

SCENE III.

KING EDWARD, CLARENCE, SUFFOLK, BUCKINGHAM, PEMBROKE, WARWICK.

EDWARD.

Thrice welcome, noble Warwick,

Welcome to all!

[to Clarence, Pembroke, &c.

SUFFOLK.

You've had, my lord, I fear,

An arduous task, which few cou'd execute.

But Warwick, in the council and the field,

A like distinguish'd, and a like successful.

EDWARD.

What says our cousin France?

WARWICK.

By me, my liege,

He greets you well, and hopes in closer ties

United soon to wear a dearer name.

At length, thank heav'n! the iron gates of war

Are clos'd, and peace displays her silken banners

O'er the contending nations, ev'ry doubt

Is now remov'd, and confidence establish'd,

I hope, to last for ages.

EDWARD.

Peace, my lord,

Is ever welcome; 'tis the gift of heav'n,

The nurse of science, art's fair patroness,

And merit's best protector; but if France

Wou'd chain us down to ignominious terms,

Cramp our free commerce, and infringe the rights

Of our liege subjects, England may repent

Too late her rash credulity, and peace

With all her blessings may be bought too dear.

WARWICK.

The shame wou'd then be his, who made the purchase.

If any doubt my faith, my honest zeal

For thee and for my country, let him speak,

And I will answer: punish me, just heav'n,

If in the task I have consulted ought

But England's honour, and my sov'reign's glory!

EDWARD.

Mistake me not, good Warwick, well I know

Thy spotless truth, thy honour, and thy love;

But glory has no further charms for me:

Rais'd by thy pow'rful aid to England's throne,

I ask no more:—already I am great

As fame and fortune with their smiles can make me,

And all I wish for now is—to be happy.

WARWICK.

That too my liege, hath been thy Warwick's care;

Happy thou shalt be if the fairest form

That ever caught a gazing lover's eye,

Join'd to the sweetest most engaging virtues

Can make thee so:—Bona accepts with joy

Thy proffer'd hand: she is indeed a gem

Fit to adorn the brightest crown: to see

Is to admire her; trust me, England's self

The seat of beauty, and the throne of love,

Boasts not a fairer.

EDWARD.

Beauty, good my lord,

Is all ideal, 'tis the wayward child

Of fancy, shifting with the changeful wind

Of fond opinion; what to you appears

The model of perfection, may disgust

My strange capricious taste.

WARWICK.

Such charms would fix

Inconstancy itself:—her winning virtues,

Ev'n if her beauty fail'd, would soon subdue

The rebel heart, and you wou'd learn to love her.

EDWARD.

Is passion to be learn'd then? woud'st thou make

A science of affection, guide the heart,

And teach it where to fix? impossible!

'Tis strange philosophy.

(Rises and comes forward.)

My lord, of Warwick,

Your zeal in England's, and in Edward's cause

Merits our thanks; but for th' intended marriage

With France's daughter—it may never be.

WARWICK.

Not be! it must: your sacred word is pass'd,

And cannot be recall'd: but three days since

I sign'd the contract, and my honour's pledg'd

For the performance: heav'n's! whilst fickle France

Is branded 'midst the nations of the earth,

For breach of public faith, shall we, my liege,

Practise ourselves the vices we condemn,

Pass o'er a rival nation's ev'ry virtue,

And imitate their persidy alone?

EDWARD.

You'll pardon me, my lord, I thought it part

Of a king's pow'r to have a will, to see

With his own eyes, and in life's little feast,

To cater for himself; but 'tis, it seems,

A privilege his servants can refuse him.

WARWICK.

And so they ought—the king, who cannot conquer

His private int'rest for the public welfare,

Knows not his duty.

EDWARD.

Kings, my lord, are born

With passions, feelings, hearts—like other men;

Nor see I yet, why Edward's happiness

Must fall a sacrifice to Warwick's honour.

WARWICK.

My honour, Sir, is your's; my cause your own:

Who sent me, and whose image did I bear,

The image of a great and glorious king,

Or of a weak and wav'ring boy?—henceforth,

Choose from the herd of fawning sycophants,

Some needy slave for your mock ambassys,

To do your work, and stain the name of England

With foul reproach—Edward, I blush for thee,

And for my country; from this hour, expect

From injur'd France contempt, with deep resentment

For broken faith, and enmity eternal.

EDWARD.

Eternal be it then; for, as I prize

My inward peace, beyond the pomp of state,

And all the tinsel glare of fond ambition,

I will not wed her. Gracious heav'n! what am I?

The meanest peasant in my realm may chuse

His rustic bride, and share with her the sweets

Of mutual friendship and domestic bliss;

Why shou'd my happier subjects then deny me

The common rights, the privilege of nature,

And in a land of freedom thus conspire

To make their king the only slave amongst 'em?

WARWICK.

The worst of slaves is he whom passion rules,

Uncheck'd by reason and the pow'rful voice

Of friendship, which, I fear, is heard no more

By thoughtless Edward—'tis the curse of kings

To be surrounded by a venal herd

Of flatterers, that sooth his darling vices,

And rob their master of his subjects love.

Nay, frown not, Sirs, supported as ye are,

I fear you not—which of this noble train,

These well-beloved counsellors and friends,

Assembled here to witness my disgrace,

Have urg'd to this base unmanly falsehood?

Shame on you all! to stain the spotless mind

Of uncorrupted youth, undo the work

Of Warwick's friendly hand, and give him back

A sov'reign so unlike the noble Edward.

SUFFOLK.

My lord, we thank you for the kind suggestion

Howe'er ill-founded, and when next we meet,

To give our voice in ought that may concern

The public weal, no doubt shall ask your leave

E'er we proceed.

PEMBROKE.

My lord of Suffolk, speak

But for yourself; Warwick hath too much cause

To be offended: in my poor opinion,

Whate'er you courtiers think, the best support

Of England's throne are equity and truth;

Nor will I hold that man my sov'reign's friend,

Who shall exhort him to forsake his word,

And play the hypocrite: what tye shall bind

The subject to obedience, when his king,

Bankrupt in honour gives the royal sanction

To perfidy and falshood?

BUCKINGHAM.

It becomes

But ill the earl of Pembroke—

EDWARD.

Good my lords—

Let us have no dissentions here; we met

For other purposes—some few days hence

We shall expect your counsel in affairs

Of moment—for the present urge no further

This matter—fare ye well.

[The council break up and disperse.

EDWARD comes up to Warwick.

Lord Warwick, keep

In narrower bounds, that proud impetuous temper;

It may be fatal: there are private reasons—

When time befits we shall impart them to you,

Mean-while—if you have friendship, love, or duty,

No more of Bona—I'm determin'd.

SCENE IV.

WARWICK.

So:

'Tis well: 'tis very well: I have deserv'd it;

I've borne this callow eagle on my wing,

And now he spurns me from him: 'tis a change

I little look'd for, and sits heavy on me:

Alas! how doubly painful is the wound,

When 'tis inflicted by the hand we love!

Cruel, ungrateful Edward!—

Ha! who's here?

The captive queen! if she has ought to ask

Of me, she comes in luckless hour, for I

Am pow'rless now.

SCENE V.

MARGARET of ANJOU, WARWICK.

WARWICK.

Will Margaret of Anjou

Thus deign to visit her acknowledg'd foe?

MARGARET.

Alas! my lord, inured to wretchedness

As I am, and familiar with misfortune,

I harbour no resentment; have long since

Forgot that ever Warwick was my foe,

And only wish to prove myself his friend.

WARWICK.

Talk not of friendship, 'tis an empty name,

And lives but in idea; once indeed

I thought I had a friend.—

MARGARET.

Whose name was—Edward;

Read I aright, my lord, and am I not

A shrew'd diviner? yes; that down-cast eye

And gloomy aspect say I am: you look

As if the idol, made by your own hands,

Had fallen upon and crushed you, is't not so?

WARWICK.

Amazement! nought escapes thy piercing eye,

And penetrating judgment: 'tis too true,

I am a poor dishonour'd slave,

Not worth thy seeking; leave me, for the tide

Of court preferment flows another way.

MARGARET.

The feast, perhaps, you have provided, suits not

With Edward's nicer palate; he disdains,

How sweet soe'er, to taste a foreign banquet,

And relishes no dainties but his own:

Am I again mistaken?

WARWICK.

Sure thou deal'st

With some all-knowing spirit, who imparts

Each secret purpose to thee, else how knew'st thou

That Edward refus'd to wed the princess?

MARGARET.

O! it requires no supernatural aid

To trace his actions, nor has Marg'ret trod

The paths of life with unobserving eye;

I could have told you this long since—for know,

The choice is made, the nuptial rites prepar'd,

Which, but for your return, as unexpected

As undesired, had been, e'er this, complete;

And as in duty bound, you then had paid

Your due obedience to our—English queen.

WARWICK.

Determin'd, say'st thou? gracious heaven! 'tis well

I am return'd.

MARGARET.

Indeed, my lord, you came

A little out of season, 'twas unkind

To interrupt your master's happiness,

To blast so fair a passion in its bloom,

And check the rising harvest of his love.

WARWICK.

Marg'ret, I thank thee—yes, it must be so:

His blushes, his confusion, all confirm it,

And yet I am amaz'd, astonish'd.

MARGARET.

Wherefore?—

Is it so strange a youthful prince shou'd love?

Is it so strange, a mind, unfraught with wisdom,

And lifted high with proud prosperity,

Shou'd follow pleasure thro' the crooked paths

Of falshood, shou'd forsake a useless friend,

For the warm joys of animating beauty?

WARWICK.

No: but 'tis strange, that he who knows how much

He ow'd to Warwick, he, who ev'ry hour

Tastes the rich stream of bounty, should forget

The fountain whence it flow'd.

MARGARET.

Alas! my lord,

Had you been chasten'd in affliction's school

As I have been, and taught by sad experience

To know mankind, you had not fall'n a prey

To such delusion.

WARWICK.

Was it like a friend,

Was it like Edward to conceal his love?

Some base insinuating, artful woman,

With borrow'd charms, perhaps.—

MARGARET.

Hold, hold, my lord,

Be not too rash: who fights in darkness oft

May wound a bosom friend: perhaps you wrong

The best, and most accomplish'd of her sex.

WARWICK.

Know you the lady?

MARGARET.

But as fame reports,

Of peerless beauty and transcendent charms,

But for her virtues—I must ask of—you—

WARWICK.

Of me? what virtues? whose?

MARGARET.

Elizabeth's.

WARWICK.

Amazement! no: it must not, it cannot be:

Elizabeth! he cou'd not, dare not do it!

Confusion! I shall soon discover all.

(aside.)

But what have I to do with Edward's choice,

Whoe'er she be, if he refuses mine?

MARGARET.

Dissimulation sits but ill, my lord,

On minds like yours: I am a poor weak woman,

And so, it seems, you think me; but suppose

That same all-knowing spirit which you rais'd,

Who condescends so kindly to instruct me,

Shou'd whisper—Warwick knows the pow'r of love

As well as Edward, that Elizabeth

Was his first wish, the idol of his soul;

What say you?—might I venture to believe it?

WARWICK.

Marg'ret, you might; for 'tis in vain to hide

A thought from thee; it might have told you too,

If it be so, there is not such a wretch

On earth as Warwick: give me but the proof—

MARGARET.

Lord Suffolk was last night dispatch'd to Grafton,

To offer her a share in Edward's throne.

WARWICK.

Which she refus'd: did she not, Marg'ret? say

She did.

MARGARET.

I know not that, my lord, but crowns

Are dazzling meteors in a woman's eye;

Such strong temptations, few of us, I fear,

Have virtue to resist.

WARWICK.

Elizabeth

Has every virtue, I'll not doubt her faith.

MARGARET.

Edward is young and handsome.

WARWICK.

Curses on him!

Think'st thou he knew my fond attachment there?

MARGARET.

O passing well, my lord, and when 'twas urg'd,

How deeply 'twou'd affect you, swore by heav'n,

Imperious Warwick ne'er shou'd be the master

Of charms like hers; 'twas happiness, he said,

Beyond a subject's merit to deserve,

Beyond his hope to wish for or aspire to.

WARWICK.

But for that Warwick, Edward's self had been

A subject still—and—may be so—hereafter.

Thou smil'st at my misfortunes.

MARGARET.

I must smile

When I behold a subtle statesman thus

Duped and deluded by a shallow boy,

Sent on a fruitless errand to expose

His country and himself—it was indeed

A master stroke of policy, beyond

One shou'd have thought, the reach of years so green

As Edward's, to dispatch the weeping lover,

And seize the glorious opportunity

Of tamp'ring with his mistress here at home.

WARWICK.

Did Nevil, Rutland, Clifford, bleed for this?

MARGARET.

For this doth Henry languish in a dungeon,

And wretched Marg'ret live a life of woe:

For this you gave the crown to pious Edward,

And thus he thanks you for his kingdom.

WARWICK.

Crowns

Are baubles, fit for children like himself

To play with, I have scatter'd many of them:

But thus to cross me in my dearest hope,

The sweet reward of all my toils for him

And for his country; if I suffer it,

If I forgive him, may I live the scorn

Of men, a branded coward, and old age

Without or love or rev'rence be my portion!

Henceforth, good Marg'ret, know me for thy friend,

We will have noble vengeance;—are there not

Still left among'st the lazy sons of peace,

Some busy spirits who wish well to thee

And to thy cause?

MARGARET.

There are: resentment sleeps,

But is not dead; beneath the hollow cover

Of loyalty, the slumb'ring ashes lye

Unheeded, Warwick's animating breath

Will quickly light them into flames again.

WARWICK.

Then, Edward, from this moment I abjure thee:

O I will make thee ample recompence

For all the wrongs that I have done the house

Of Lancaster:—go, summon all thy friends;

Be quick, good Marg'ret, haste e'er I repent,

And yield my soul to perjur'd York again.

The king, I think gives you free liberty,

To range abroad.

MARGARET.

He doth, and I will use it,

As I wou'd ever use the gift of foes,

To his destruction.

WARWICK.

That arch-pandar, Suffolk,

That minister of vice—but time is precious;

To-morrow, Marg'ret, we will meet in private,

And have some further conference; mean-time

Devise, consult, use ev'ry means against

Our common foe: remember, from this hour,

Warwick's thy friend—be secret and be happy.

SCENE VI.

MARGARET.

What easy fools these cunning statesmen are,

With all their policy, when once they fall

Into a woman's pow'r! This gallant leader,

This blust'ring Warwick, how the hero shrunk

And lessen'd to my sight!—Elizabeth,

I thank thee for thy wonder-working charms;

The time perhaps may come, when I shall stand

Indebted to them for—the throne of England.

Proud York beware, for Lancaster's great name

Shall rise superior in the lists of fame:

Fortune that long had frown'd, shall smile at last,

And make amends for all my sorrows past.

END of the SECOND ACT.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

MARGARET, CLIFFORD, Attendants.

MARGARET. [to a gentleman.

DISPATCH these letters strait; to Scotland—this

To the French envoy—these to th' earl of Pembroke.

[turning to lady Clifford.

Thus far, my friend, hath fortune favour'd us

Beyond our hopes: the soul of haughty Warwick

Is all on fire, and puling Edward loves

With most romantic ardour—O my Clifford,

You wou'd have smil'd to see how artfully

I play'd upon him: flatter'd, sooth'd, provok'd,

And wrought him to my purpose: we are link'd

In firmest bonds of amity and love.

CLIFFORD.

Hath Warwick then so soon forgot his Edward?

Think'st thou the frantic earl will e'er exert

His ill-directed powers to pull down

The royal structure, which himself had rais'd?

Never.

MARGARET.

What is there disappointed love

And unrestrain'd ambition will not do?

I tell thee, we are sworn and cordial friends.

CLIFFORD.

Thou know'st he hates the house of Lancaster.

MARGARET.

No matter—he has marvellous good skill

In making kings, and I—have business for him.

CLIFFORD.

And can'st thou then forget the cruel wrongs,

The deep-felt inj'ries of oppressive Warwick,

To join the hand that forg'd thy husband's chains

And rob'd thee of a crown?

MARGARET.

But what—my Clifford,

If the same hand that ravish'd shou'd restore it!

'Tis a court friendship and may last as long

As int'rest shall direct: I've not forgot,

No, nor forgiv'n; I hate, abhor, detest him,

But I will use him as my instrument;

My necessary tool, I'll make him draw

His trait'rous sword, to sheath it in the breast

Of him he loves, then point it to his own:

Yes, Clifford, I have twin'd me round his heart;

Like the fell serpent crept into his bosom,

That I might sting more surely: he shall perish;

I keep him for the last dear precious morsel,

To crown the glorious banquet of revenge.

CLIFFORD.

'Tis what he merits from us, yet th' attempt

Were dang'rous, he is still the people's idol,

MARGARET.

And so perhaps shall Marg'ret be; applause

Waits on success; the fickle multitude,

Like the light straw that floats along the stream,

Glide with the current still and follow fortune.

Our prospect brightens every hour:—the people

Are ripe for a revolt: by civil wars,

Long time inur'd to savage scenes of plunder

And desolation, they delight in war:

These English heroes, when once flesh'd with slaughter,

Like the keen mastiff, lose not soon the track

Of vengeance, nor forget the taste of blood.

CLIFFORD.

What further succours have we to depend on,

Beside earl Warwick's?

MARGARET.

O his name alone

Will be an army to us.

CLIFFORD.

If we have it:

Resentment is a short-liv'd passion—what

If Warwick should relent, and turn again

To Edward?

MARGARET.

Then I have a bosom friend

That shall be ready to reward him for it;—

But I have better hopes: without his aid;

We are not friendless: Scotland's hardy sons

Who smile at danger, and defy the storm,

Will leave their barren mountains to defend

That liberty they love: add too the aid

Of gallant Pembroke, and the pow'rs which France

Will send to vindicate her injur'd honour:

E'er Edward can collect his force and take

The field, we shall be thirty thousand strong.

CLIFFORD.

But what becomes of the young prince?

MARGARET.

Aye; there

I am indeed unhappy, O my child,

How shall I set him free?—hear nature, hear

A mother's pray'r! O guide me with thy counsel,

And teach me how to save my darling boy.

—Aye, now I have it: monitress divine,

I thank thee:—yes; I wait but for the means

Of his escape, then fly this hated palace,

Nor will return till I can call it mine.

SCENE II.

EDWARD, SUFFOLK.

EDWARD.

I fear we've gone too far: th' indignant Warwick

Ill brook'd our steady purpose; mark'd you, Suffolk,

With what an eye of scorn he turn'd him from us,

And lowr'd defiance—that prophetic woman!

Half of her curse already is fulfill'd,

And I have lost my friend.

SUFFOLK.

Some friends, perhaps,

Are better lost: you'll pardon me, my liege,

But, were it fitting, I could tell a tale

Wou'd soon convince you—Warwick is as weak—

EDWARD.

As Edward thou woud'st say.

SUFFOLK.

But 'twill distress

Thy noble heart too much, I dare not, Sir,

Yet one day you must know it.

EDWARD.

Then by thee

Let it be told me, Suffolk, thy kind hand

Will best administer the bitter draught:

Go on, my Suffolk, speak, I charge thee, speak.

SUFFOLK.

That rival whom you wish'd me to discover—

EDWARD.

Aye, what of him? quick, tell me, hast thou found

The happy traitor? give me but to know

That I may wreak my speedy vengeance on him.

SUFFOLK.

Suppose that rival were the man whom most

You lov'd, the man, perhaps, whom most you fear'd;

Suppose 'twere—Warwick.

EDWARD.

Ha! it cannot be:

I would not think it for a thousand worlds—

Warwick in love with her, impossible!

Now, Suffolk, do I fear thou speak'st from envy

And jealous hatred at the noble Warwick,

Not from the love of justice or of Edward;

Where didst thou learn this falshood?

SUFFOLK.

From the lips

Of truth, from one whose honour and whose word

You will not question; from—Elizabeth.

EDWARD.

From her! nay, then I fear—it must be so.

SUFFOLK.

When last I saw her, for again I went

By your command, tho' hopeless of success,

With all the little eloquence that I

Was master of, I urg'd your ardent passion.

Told her how much, how tenderly you lov'd her,

And press'd with eagerness to know the cause

Of her unkind refusal, till at length

Reluctantly, with blushes she confess'd

There was a cause;—she thank'd you for your goodness,

'Twas more she said, much more than she deserv'd,

She ever shou'd revere her king: and if

She had a heart to give it shou'd be—Edward's.

EDWARD.

So kind, and yet so cruel: well, go on.

SUFFOLK.

Then told me all the story of her love,

That Warwick long had woo'd her—that her hand

Was promis'd; soon as he return'd from France,

Though once her father cruelly opposed it,

They were by his consent to be united.

EDWARD.

O never, Suffolk, may I live to see

That dreadful hour! designing hypocrite.

Are these his arts, is this the friend I lov'd?

By heav'n! she shall be mine; I will assert

A sov'reign's right, and tear her from him—what

If he rebel—another civil war!

'Tis terrible—O that I cou'd shake off

This cumbrous garb of majesty that clings

So close around me, meet him man to man,

And try who best deserves her! but when kings

Grow mad, their guiltless subjects pay the forfeit.

Horrible thought—good Suffolk, for a while

I wou'd be private—therefore wait without,

Let me have no intruders; above all,

Keep Warwick from my sight—

SCENE III.

WARWICK, EDWARD.

WARWICK.

Behold him here;

No welcome guest it seems, unless I ask

My lord of Suffolk's leave—there was a time

When Warwick wanted not his aid to gain

Admission here.

EDWARD.

There was a time perhaps,

When Warwick more desired and more—deserv'd it.

WARWICK.

Never; I've been a foolish faithful slave;

All my best years, the morning of my life,

Hath been devoted to your service: what

Are now the fruits? disgrace and infamy;

My spotless name which never yet the breath

Of calumny had tainted, made the mock

For foreign fools to carp at: but 'tis fit

Who trust in princes, shou'd be thus rewarded.

EDWARD.

I thought, my lord, I had full well repay'd

Your services with honours, wealth, and pow'r

Unlimited: thy all-directing hand

Guided in secret ev'ry latent wheel

Of government, and mov'd the whole machine:

Warwick was all in all, and pow'rless Edward

Stood like a cypher in the great account.

WARWICK.

Who gave that cypher worth, and seated thee

On England's throne? thy undistinguish'd name

Had rotted in the dust from whence it sprang,

And moulder'd in oblivion, had not Warwick

Dug from its sordid mine the useless ore,

And stamp'd it with a diadem. Thou know'st,

This wretched country, doom'd, perhaps, like Rome,

To fall by its own self-destroying hand,

Tost for so many years in the rough sea

Of civil discord, but for me had perish'd.

In that distressful hour I seiz'd the helm,

Bade the rough waves subside in peace, and steer'd

Your shatter'd vessel safe into the harbour.

You may despise, perhaps, that useless aid

Which you no longer want; but know, proud youth,

He who forgets a friend, deserves a foe.

EDWARD.

Know too, reproach for benefits receiv'd

Pays ev'ry debt, and cancels obligation.

WARWICK.

Why, that indeed is frugal honesty,

A thrifty saving knowledge, when the debt

Grows burthensome, and cannot be discharg'd.

A spunge will wipe out all, and cost you nothing.

EDWARD.

When you have counted o'er the numerous train

Of mighty gifts your bounty lavish'd on me,

You may remember next the inj'ries

Which I have done you; let me know 'em all,

And I will make you ample satisfaction.

WARWICK.

Thou can'st not; thou hast robb'd me of a jewel

It is not in thy pow'r to restore:

I was the first, shall future annals say,

That broke the sacred bond of public trust

And mutual confidence; ambassadors,

In after times, mere instruments, perhaps,

Of venal statesmen, shall recal my name

To witness, that they want not an example,

And plead my guilt, to sanctify their own.

Amidst the herd of mercenary slaves

That haunt your court, cou'd none be found but Warwick,

To be the shameless herald of a lye?

EDWARD.

And woud'st thou turn the vile repoach on me?

If I have broke my faith, and stain'd the name

Of England, thank thy own pernicious counsels

That urg'd me to it, and extorted from me

A cold consent to what my heart abhor'd.

WARWICK.

I've been abus'd, insulted, and betray'd;

My injur'd honour cries aloud for vengeance,

Her wounds will never close!

EDWARD.

These gusts of passion,

Will but inflame them; if I have been right

Inform'd, my lord, besides these dang'rous scars

Of bleeding honour, you have other wounds

As deep, tho' not so fatal: such perhaps

As none but fair Elizabeth can cure.

WARWICK.

Elizabeth!

EDWARD.

Nay, start not, I have cause

To wonder most: I little thought indeed

When Warwick told me I might learn to love,

He was himself so able to instruct me:

But I've discovered all.—

WARWICK.

And so have I;

Too well I know thy breach of friendship there,

Thy fruitless base endeavours to supplant me,

EDWARD.

I scorn it, sir,—Elizabeth hath charms,

And I have equal right with you t'admire them:

Nor see I ought so godlike in the form,

So all-commanding in the name of Warwick,

That he alone shou'd revel in the charms

Of beauty, and monopolize perfection.

I knew not of your love.

WARWICK.

By heav'n, 'tis false!

You knew it all, and meanly took occasion,

Whilst I was busy'd in the noble office,

Your grace thought fit to honour me withal.

To tamper with a weak unguarded woman,

To bribe her passions high, and basely steal

A treasure which your kingdom cou'd not purchase.

EDWARD.

How know you that? but be it as it may,

I had a right, nor will I tamely yield

My claim to happiness, the privilege,

To choose the partner of my throne and bed:

It is a branch of my prerogative.

WARWICK.

Prerogative!—what's that? the boast of tyrants:

A borrow'd jewel, glitt'ring in the crown

With specious lustre, lent but to betray,

You had it, sir, and hold it—from the people.

EDWARD.

And therefore do I prize it; I wou'd guard

Their liberties, and they shall strengthen mine:

But when proud faction and her rebel crew

Insult their sov'reign, trample on his laws,

And bid defiance to his pow'r, the people

In justice to themselves, will then defend

His cause, and vindicate the rights they gave.

WARWICK.

Go to your darling people then; for soon,

If I mistake not, 'twill be needful; try

Their boasted zeal, and see if one of them

Will dare to lift his arm up in your cause,

If I forbid them.

EDWARD.

Is it so, my lord,

Then mark my words: I've been your slave too long,

And you have rul'd me with a rod of iron,

But henceforth know, proud peer, I am thy master,

And will be so: the king, who delegates

His pow'r to other's hands, but ill deserves

The crown he wears.

WARWICK.

Look well then to your own;

It sits but loosely on your head, for know,

The man who injur'd Warwick never pass'd

Unpunish'd yet.

EDWARD.

Nor he who threaten'd Edward—

You may repent it, Sir,—my guards there—seize

This traitor, and convey him to the tow'r,

There let him learn obedience.

(Guards enter, seize Warwick, and endeavour to disarm him.

WARWICK.

Slaves, stand off:

If I must yield my sword, I'll give it him

Whom it so long has serv'd; there's not a part

In this old faithful steel, that is not stain'd

With English blood in grateful Edward's cause.

Give me my chains, they are the bands of friendship,

Of a king's friendship, for his sake a while

I'll wear them.

EDWARD.

Hence: away with him—

WARWICK.

'Tis well:

Exert your pow'r, it may not last you long;

For know, tho' Edward may forget his friend,

That England will not.—now, sir, I attend you.

[Exit Warwick.

EDWARD.

Presumptuous rebel—ha! who's here?

SCENE IV.

MESSENGER, EDWARD,

MESSENGER.

My liege;

Queen Marg'ret with the prince her son are fled;

In a few hours she hopes, for so we learn,

From those who have pursued her, to be join'd

By th' earl of Warwick, in his name it seems

She has already rais'd three thousand men.

EDWARD.

Warwick in league with her! O heav'n! 'tis well

We've crush'd the serpent e'er his poison spread

Throughout our kingdom—guard the palace gates,

Keep double watch; summon my troops together,

Where is my brother Clarence, Buckingham

And Pembroke? we must check this foul rebellion—

SCENE V.

EDWARD SUFFOLK,.

SUFFOLK.

My liege, the duke of Clarence—

EDWARD.

What of him?

SUFFOLK.

Hath left the court; this moment I beheld him

In conf'rence deep with Pembroke, who, it seems,

Is Marg'ret's firmest friend: 'tis whisper'd, both

Will join the queen.

EDWARD.

Well:—'tis no matter: I

Have deeper cause for grief, he cannot feel

A brother's falshood, who has lost a friend,

A friend like Warwick,—Suffolk, thou behold'st me

Betray'd, deserted by the man I lov'd;

Treated with cold indifference by her

Whom I ador'd, forsaken by my brother,

And threaten'd by the subjects I protect,

Oppress'd on every side: but, thou shalt see,

I have a soul superior to misfortunes.

Tho' rebel Clarence wrings my tortur'd heart,

And faithless Warwick braves me, we will yet

Maintain our right—come on, my friend, thou know'st,

Without his boasted aid, I cou'd have gain'd

The crown, without him now I will preserve it.

END of the THIRD ACT.

ACT IV.

SCENE, THE TOWER.

WARWICK.

MISTAKEN mortals plan delusive schemes

Of bliss, and call futurity their own,

Yet are not masters of a moment—this

Was the appointed time, the very day

Which shou'd have join'd me to Elizabeth

In nuptial bonds:—O cruel memory,

Do not torment me—if there be a crime

Of deeper dye than all the guilty train

Of human vices, 'tis—ingratitude.

'Tis now two years since Henry lost the crown,

And here he is, ev'n in this very prison

A fellow captive now: disgraceful thought!

How will he smile to meet his conqu'ror here!

O for that stoic apathy which lulls

The drowsy soul to sweet forgetfulness!

But 'twill not be:—Elizabeth, where art thou?

Perhaps with Edward—O that thought distracts me:

It is, I fear, as Marg'ret said; she's false.

But when I look on these, can I expect

To find one virtue left in human kind?

My Pembroke too! am I so soon forgotten?

O no; he comes—

SCENE II.

PEMBROKE, WARWICK.

PEMBROKE.

My friend!

WARWICK.

My Pembroke, welcome:

Thee I have ever found most just and kind;

But, in the darkness of adversity

The jewel friendship shines with double lustre.

PEMBROKE.

I am not of the infect train that bask

In fortune's sunshine, and when ev'ning damps

Arise, are seen no more: no, Warwick, what

I speak, I mean: you have been hardly treated.

WARWICK.

O! Pembroke, didst thou know but half the wrongs

That I have suffer'd, thou wou'dst pity me.

PEMBROKE.

I wou'd do more, much more, my Warwick: he

Who only pities but insults the wretched;

I come with nobler views, I come to tell thee,

That I have felt thy inj'ries as my own,

And will revenge them too.

WARWICK.

How kind thou art

To feel for Warwick!

PEMBROKE.

Ev'ry honest breast

Must feel the inj'ries that a good man suffers:

Thine is the common cause of all: adieu

To English freedom, when our liberty

Shall be dependent on a sov'reign's nod,

When years of honest service shall be paid

With infamy and chains.

WARWICK.

I've not deserv'd them.

PEMBROKE.

Nor shalt thou wear them long: for thou hast great

And pow'rful friends—the noble duke of Clarence.

Behold his signet—this, my Warwick, gain'd me

Admission here—we must be secret.

WARWICK.

Then I am not forsaken: Clarence!—Ha!

PEMBROKE.

Yes:

The gallant youth, with honest zeal, declar'd

He lov'd his brother much, but justice more.

WARWICK.

Then, Edward, I defy thee: gen'rous Clarence!

Thou know'st, the man who thus cou'd treat a friend,

Wou'd soon forget a brother—but say, Pembroke,

How stands the duke of Buckingham?

PEMBROKE.

Fast bound

To Edward; he and that smooth courtier Suffolk

Are the two rotten pillars that support

His tott'ring throne: but Marg'ret—

WARWICK.

Aye: how fares

My new ally? has she escaped the tyrant?

PEMBROKE.

She has: and by some wond'rous means contriv'd

To free her captive son.

WARWICK.

Tho' I abhor,

I must admire that enterprising woman:

Her active mind is ever on the wing

In search of fresh expedients, to recover

The crown she lost.

PEMBROKE.

Already she has rais'd

A pow'rful army; all the secret foes

Of York's ambitious line rush forth in crowds,

And join her standard: e'er to-morrow's sun

Shall dawn upon us, she will set thee free.

WARWICK.

O! Pembroke, nothing wounds the gen'rous mind

So deep as obligations to a foe.

Is there no way to liberty, my friend,

But through the bloody paths of civil war?

PEMBROKE.

I fear there is not.

WARWICK.

Then it must be so:

I cou'd have wish'd—but freedom and revenge

On any terms are welcome.

PEMBROKE.

Here then join we

Our hands—

WARWICK.

Our hearts.

PEMBROKE.

Now, Warwick, be thou firm

In thy resolves; let no unmanly fears,

No foolish fond remembrance of past friendship

Unnerve thy arm, or shake thy steady purpose.

WARWICK.

No: by my wrongs it shall not: once, thou know'st,

I lov'd him but too well, and these vile chains

Are my reward,—O give me but the use

Of this once pow'rful arm, and thou shalt see

How it shall punish falshood.—are thy forces

Prepar'd?

PEMBROKE.

They are, and wait but for my orders;

Clarence will join us soon: our first great end

Is to secure thy liberty; that done,

We haste to seize the palace and redeem

The fair Elizabeth.

WARWICK.

Redeem her, ha!

Is she a captive too?

PEMBROKE.

A willing slave;

A gay state pris'ner, left to roam at large

O'er the young monarch's palace.

WARWICK.

Aye, my Pembroke,

That's more inviting than a prison:—O

She's false, she's false—who sent her there?

PEMBROKE.

She came

It seems, to thank him for his royal bounties

To her good father, the new earl of Rivers,

Who will no doubt persuade her to accept—

WARWICK.

Of Edward's hand—distraction! fly, my friend,

Haste thee to Marg'ret, tell her if she hopes

For Warwick's aid, she must release him now,

E'er Edward's ill-tim'd mercy shall prevent her.

PEMBROKE.

I go; my friend, adieu! when next we meet,

I hope to bring thee liberty.

WARWICK.

Farewel.

She's lost: she's gone: that base seducer Edward,

Hath wrought on her weak mind, it must be so.

SCENE III.

MESSENGER, WARWICK.

MESSENGER.

My lord,

The lady Elizabeth.

WARWICK.

Amazement! sure

It cannot be! admit her sir—why, what

[Exit Mess.

Cou'd bring her here? Edward has sent her hither,

To see if I will crouch to him for pardon;

Be still, my jealous heart.—

SCENE IV.

ELIZABETH, WARWICK.

ELIZABETH.

My Warwick!

WARWICK.

'Tis a grace I look'd not for,

That a fair fav'rite, who so late had tasted

The pleasures of a court, shou'd condescend

To visit thus a poor abandon'd captive.

ELIZABETH.

I come to take my portion of misfortune,

To pour the balm of comfort in, and heal

If possible, the wounds which I had made.

Too well I know, I was the fatal cause

Of all thy sorrows,—but the noble Edward,

For so indeed he is—

WARWICK.

And art thou come,

To plead the cause of him who sent me hither?

ELIZABETH.

I came to be the messenger of peace,

To calm thy troubled soul, and give thee rest,

To teach my Warwick to forget his wrongs.

WARWICK.

Forget my wrongs! was that thy errand here,

To teach me low submission to a tyrant;

To ask forgiveness, kneel and deprecate,

The wrath of blust'ring Edward? If thou com'st

On terms like these to bring me freedom, know

It will not be accepted: now I see

Thro' all your arts, by heav'n, I'd rather lose

A thousand lives, than owe one to his bounty.

ELIZABETH.

Either my Warwick is much chang'd, and so

I fear he is, or he wou'd never talk

Thus coldly to me, never wou'd despise

A life so precious, if he knew how much

Elizabeth had suffer'd to preserve it.

The gallant Edward won by my entreaties—

WARWICK.

Entreaties! didst thou then descend so low,

As to entreat him for me?

ELIZABETH.

Hadst thou seen,

When I implor'd him to forgive my Warwick,

How kind he look'd, how his repenting heart

Heav'd with the pangs of agonizing friendship,

Thou wou'd'st have pity'd him.

WARWICK.

Deceitful woman,

I see thy falshood now, I am betray'd,

And thou art leagu'd with Edward to destroy me.

Go to your royal lover and unite

Those only fit companions for each other,

A broken friendship, and a perjur'd love:

Give up discarded Warwick, and to make

The compact firm, cement it with my blood.

ELIZABETH.

I thought the soul of Warwick far above

Such mean suspicions—shall the man, whose truth,

Whose constancy, and love have been so long

My bright example, shall he stoop so low,

As thus to listen to an idle tale

Told by some prating courtier? if indeed

Thou cou'd'st believe it, I should pity thee.

WARWICK.

Where is your father, the new earl of Rivers?

Why sends he not his forces to our aid?

ELIZABETH.

He cannot: honour, gratitude, forbid,

That he shou'd lift up his rebellious arm

Against his benefactor! well thou know'st,

Of late, when civil discord reign'd among'st us,

He fought with Henry, and with Henry fell:

When injur'd Edward gen'rously forgave,

Restor'd his forfeit lands, and late advanc'd him

To rank and title.

WARWICK.

Infamy and shame;

The common nets which fearful knav'ry spreads

To catch ambition's fools: mean sordid bribes!

We know the treasure they were mean't to purchase.

ELIZABETH.

Unkind suggestion! how have I deserv'd it?

Have I for this refus'd a youthful monarch,

And spurn'd his offer'd sceptre at my feet,

To be reproach'd at last by cruel Warwick?

Had I once listen'd to him! had these eyes

Been dazzled with the splendor of a court,

I need not thus have chang'd it for a dungeon.

But since I am suspected, witness heav'n,

And witness Warwick to my vows! henceforth,

Dear as thou art, I cast thee from my love;

Elizabeth will never wed—a traitor.

WARWICK.

Am I awake, and did Elizabeth

Say she wou'd never wed her faithful Warwick?

Then bear me witness too, all judging heav'n!

Here yield I up all visionary dreams

Of future bliss, of liberty, or life,

Ev'n the sweet hope of vengeance that alone

Sustain'd my spirit, loses all its charms;

I wish'd for freedom but to purchase thine:

For life, but to enjoy it with my love,

And she disclaims me.

WARWICK.

Heav'n forbid! O Warwick,

Let not the tide of passion thus overwhelm

Thy reason.

WARWICK.

Can'st thou pardon me? thou know'st

Th' unguarded warmth, the weakness of my nature.

I wou'd not wrong thee, but I've been so oft

So cruelly deceiv'd

ELIZABETH.

I know thou hast;

But never by Elizabeth.

WARWICK.

O no!

It is impossible that perfidy

Shou'd wear a form like thine.

(Looking at her.)

I wonder not

That Edward lov'd, no; when I look on thee,

All beauteous, all enchanting as thou art:

By heav'n! I think I cou'd almost forgive him.

ELIZABETH.

Then wherefore not be reconcil'd?

WARWICK.

To whom?

The author of my wrongs? It cannot be:

Know, I have promis'd Marg'ret to destroy him.

ELIZABETH.

Destroy thy friend! ungen'rous cruel Warwick,

Is't not enough that thou hast triumph'd here?

Already we have pierc'd his noble heart

With the keen pangs of disappointed love:

And woud'st thou wound his breast with added sorrows;

Woud'st thou involve a nation in his ruin?

WARWICK.

Elizabeth, no more: alas! too well

Thou know'st, there is a pow'rful advocate

In Warwick's breast, that pleads for perjur'd Edward.

ELIZABETH.

Cherish the soft emotion: O my Warwick!—

WARWICK.

That angel form can never plead in vain;

But then, my friends—where is my solemn vow

To Marg'ret, and to Pembroke? there's the tie;

My honour's dearer to me—

ELIZABETH.

Than thy love;

Dearer, much dearer, than Elizabeth?

But I have done: farewel, my lord, I see

Thy deep resentment is not to be mov'd

By my weak influence o'er thee.

(Going.)

WARWICK.

Stay, I charge thee.

ELIZABETH.

What is this phantom, honour, this proud idol

That tramples thus on ev'ry humble virtue?

This cruel bloody Molock, that delights

In human sacrifice? O! wou'd to heav'n

I were its only victim! but with me,

You offer up your country and your king.

WARWICK.

Think on my vow, think on my promise giv'n.

ELIZABETH.

Thy league with Marg'ret must be fatal: grant

We should succeed, and Lancaster once more

Assume the throne; how dear the victory,

That's purchas'd with our fellow-subjects blood!

Alas! such triumphs make the conqu'ror weep.

But if we fail—

WARWICK.

Impossible!

ELIZABETH.

O! think

Betimes! what dreadful punishments await

The vanquish'd rebel: thou, perhaps, my love,

Shalt then be doom'd on th' ignominious block

To fall inglorious; and, when thou art gone,

Who shall defend thy poor Elizabeth?

WARWICK.

Alarming thought! It staggers my firm purpose,

And makes me half a villain.

SCENE V.

WARWICK, ELIZABETH, an OFFICER.

OFFICER.

Madam, the king demands your presence, I

Have orders to convey you to the palace.

WARWICK.

And wilt thou leave me?

ELIZABETH.

This, my Warwick, this

Is the decisive moment, now determine,

Accept of mercy, e'er it be too late;

E'er hasty Edward—Shall, I say, thou wilt

Return to thy obedience, and receive

Thy pardon? shall I? speak my love.

WARWICK.

Perhaps

I may accept it, if 'tis brought by thee.

ELIZABETH.

Then we shall meet in happiness—

WARWICK.

Farewel!

SCENE VI.

WARWICK.

Now to those worst companions in affliction,

My own sad thoughts again, they're gloomy all,

And like my habitation full of horror.

I like not Edward's message—if he hears

My league with Margaret, he still has pow'r

To make me feel his rage: I have deserv'd it—

[a trampling heard without.

Methought I heard a noise—this way they come,

Perhaps it is the messenger of death—

SCENE VII.

PEMBROKE, WARWICK.

PEMBROKE.

The messenger of vengeance—see her sword;

Accept it and be free.

(offers the sword)

WARWICK.

First let me know

To whom I am indebted for't.

PEMBROKE.

To me.

Soon as the rumour of thy foul disgrace

Had reach'd the public ear, th' impatient people

Uncertain of thy fate, tumultuous throng'd

Around the palace, and demanded thee;

Give us our Warwick, give us back, they cry'd

Our hero, our deliv'rer—I step'd forth

And bade them, instant, if they wish'd to save

The best of men, from infamy, and death,

To follow me: transported they obey'd:

I led them hither: forced the prison gates,

And brought thee this—direct it as thou wilt.

(Gives the sword.)

WARWICK.

Welcome once more, thou dearest gift of heav'n

Immortal liberty! my friend, I thank thee.

O Pembroke, woud'st thou had'st been here! my love,

My dear Elizabeth is true.

PEMBROKE.

At least

You think so.

WARWICK.

She has told me such sweet truths;

Edward repents him sorely, he is griev'd

At his ingratitude.

PEMBROKE.

And well he may;

I fear thou art betray'd: alas! my Warwick,

Thy open gen'rous unsuspecting virtue

Thinks ev'ry heart as honest as thy own.

Thou know'st not Edward—nor Elizabeth.

The kingdom is in arms, and ev'ry hour,

It is expected France will join the queen:

England will want its great protector's aid.

Edward and Rivers have conspired to cheat

Thy credulous ear, and who so fit to spread

The flimsy web as thy Elizabeth,

Their fair ambassadress? I see thou'rt caught.

WARWICK.

By heav'n! it may be so: I am the sport

Of fortune and of fraud.

PEMBROKE.

Away, my friend:

It is not now a time to think of her:

Marg'ret, supported by thy pow'rful name,

And join'd by Clarence, waits us at the head

Of fifteen thousand men, who, eager all

To crush a tyrant, and pull down oppression,

Attend thy wish'd-for presence; not a soldier

Will act or move till Warwick shall direct them.

Edward and England's fate depend on thee.

WARWICK.

Away my friend, I'll follow thee.

[Exit Pembroke.

Yet stop

A moment—let not passion hurry me

To base dishonour—if my country calls

For Warwick's aid, shall I not hear her voice,

And save her? Pembroke may have private views,

And subtle Marg'ret too—Elizabeth!

I must not lose thee—O! direct me heav'n!

END of the FOURTH ACT.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

ELIZABETH.

THE royal pardon came too late, and Pembroke

Already has releas'd him; he is gone—

Elizabeth may never see him more.

A thousand terrors haunt me, a fond father,

A guiltless sov'reign, a distracted lover,

Fame, fortune, friends, and country, all depend

On one eventful moment—hark! the sound

Of distant groans! perhaps the king—perhaps

My Warwick bleeds. O! agonizing thought!

Great God of armies, whose all-guiding hand

Directs the fate of nations, O! look down

On thy own image, let not cruel discord

Divide their kindred souls! in pity hear,

Pour thy benignant spirit o'er their hearts,

And once more knit them in the bonds of peace!

SCENE II.

ELIZABETH, SUFFOLK.

SUFFOLK.

The pray'r of innocence is always heard.

ELIZABETH.

Ha! Suffolk, whither hast'st thou? art thou come—

SUFFOLK.

I come to heal thy sorrows, lovely fair one,

To tell thee, Edward, and thy much-lov'd Warwick,

Once more are friends.

ELIZABETH.

Indeed! O welcome news!

My joy's too great for utt'rance: tell me, Suffolk,

How was it? speak, is Warwick safe? O heav'n!

SUFFOLK.

A moment's patience, and I'll tell thee all.

Marg'ret, thou know'st, had rais'd a pow'rful force,

That doubled Edward's troops: elate with pride,

And almost sure of victory, she urg'd

The tardy spearmen; on they rush'd, as if

Secure of conquest: the unhappy king

Stood nobly firm, and seem'd to brave his fate,

When Warwick like a guardian god appear'd:

His noble mien and all-commanding look

Struck deep attention; ev'ry eye was bent

Upon him, and an awful silence reign'd

O'er either host, he rais'd his voice on high,

And stop, he cry'd, your sacrilegious hands,

Nor touch my friend: who pierces Edward's breast,

Must pass through mine: I rais'd him to the throne,

And will support him there: to you I gave,

From you my fellow-soldiers I expect him:

Howe'er his cruel wrongs have wounded me,

He never injur'd you, and, I—forgive him.

He spake, and instant thro' the gazing croud

A murmur ran; down dropp'd their nerveless arms,

As if enchanted by some magic pow'r,

And with one voice they cry'd, long live king Edward!

ELIZABETH.

How pow'rful is the tongue of eloquence,

When in the cause of virtue!—well, what sollow'd?

SUFFOLK.

Encourag'd by the shouting soldiers, Edward

On like a modest virgin wishing came,

Yet fearful, Warwick with a bridegroom's speed

To meet him flew; into each other's arms

They ran with speechless joy: the tender scene

Affected ev'ry heart, and the rough soldier,

Unused to melting sympathy, forgot

His ruthless nature, and dissolv'd in tears.

ELIZABETH.

Sweet reconcilement! then, Elizabeth,

Thou didst not plead in vain; but, say, how brook'd

The haughty queen this unexpected change?

SUFFOLK.

Abash'd, confounded, for a while she strove

To stem the torrent, but in vain; then fled

Precipitate.

ELIZABETH.

But where, O where's my Warwick?

SUFFOLK.

With a few chosen squadrons he pursues

The disappointed Marg'ret.

ELIZABETH.

O my fears!

I know not why, but at that hateful name

I tremble ever, my foreboding heart

Presages something dreadful.

SUFFOLK.

Do not vex

Thy tender mind with visionary dangers.

ELIZABETH.

O! wou'd to heav'n that he were shelter'd here,

And safe within these arms!

SUFFOLK.

Be not alarm'd:

He is the care of heav'n: all good men love,

All bad ones fear him.

ELIZABETH.

Such superior merit

Must have a thousand foes, the constant mark

Of envy's poison'd darts.

SUFFOLK.

There Suffolk feels

The keen reproach; with blushes I confess

There was a time, when, urg'd by fond ambition,

I look'd on Warwick with a jealous eye:

But this last noble deed hath won my heart,

And I am now a convert to his virtues;

But see, the king approaches.

SCENE III.

EDWARD, ELIZABETH.

EDWARD.

Health and peace,

And happiness to fair Elizabeth!

Thou art no stranger to the joyful news;

The lustre of those speaking eyes declares it.

ELIZABETH.

Suffolk, ev'n now, hath bless'd me with the tidings.

EDWARD.

O! 'tis amazement all: Elizabeth,

When last we met, thou wert the suppliant, now

'Tis I must ask forgiveness, I who injur'd

The dearest, best of men; O! thou hast say'd

Edward from shame, and England from destruction.

ELIZABETH.

Did I not say my Warwick wou'd be just?

EDWARD.

Thou did'st, and on those beauteous lips fair truth

And soft persuasion dwell; long time he stood

Inflexible, and deaf to friendship's voice,

Listen'd to nought but all subduing love.

In after-times, thy name shall be enroll'd

Amongst the great deliv'rer's of their country.

ELIZABETH.

I have no title to the lavish praise

Thy gen'rous heart bestows; I only said

What duty prompted, and what love inspir'd;

Indulgent heav'n has crown'd it with success.

EDWARD.

Thou hast done all: I am indebted to thee

For more, much more than I can e'er repay.

Long time, with shame, I own, hath Warwick soar'd

Above me, but I will not be outdone

For ever by this proud aspiring rival:

Poor as I am, there yet is one way left

To pay the debt of gratitude I owe him,

One great reward for such exalted virtues,

Thyself, Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH.

What means my lord,

My royal master?

EDWARD.

Yes; when next we meet

I will bestow it on him, will resign

All my fond claim to happiness and thee;

Tho' thy dear image ne'er can be effac'd

From Edward's breast, tho' still I doat upon thee,

Tho' I could hang for ever on thy beauties;

Yet will I yield them to their rightful lord;

Warwick has earn'd, Warwick alone deserves them.

ELIZABETH.

Wou'd he were here to thank thee for thy goodness!

Know, gen'rous prince, Elizabeth has long

Admir'd thy virtues, and cou'd love admit

Of a divided heart, the noble Edward

Wou'd share it with his friend.

SCENE IV.

MESSENGER, EDWARD.

MESSENGER.

My royal liege,

The rebels are dispers'd, queen Marg'ret's son

Was slain in the pursuit—and she—

EDWARD.

I hope

Secur'd—

MESSENGER.

Is taken pris'ner, and will soon

Be here—

EDWARD.

But where's lord Warwick?

MESSENGER.

Sir—the queen—

SCENE V.

MARGARET Prisoner.

MARGARET.

Once more I am your pris'ner.

EDWARD.

'Twill be prudent

Henceforth to keep you so.

MARGARET.

You dare not!

Thou think'st, perhaps, that I shall sue to thee

For mercy: no; in Marg'ret of Anjou,

Thou fee'st the wife, and daughter of a king.

A spirit not to be subdu'd; tho fall'n

Triumphant still, and tho' a pris'ner free.

For know, I bear a mind above the reach

Of fortune or of Edward—I have lost

All I cou'd wish to live for in my child;

And gain'd what most I wish'd to gain, revenge!

Or life or death are now indiff'rent to me.

EDWARD.

For thy unbounded goodness, pow'r supreme

Accept our praise!

ELIZABETH. (kneeling)

Accept our humble pray'r!

MARGARET.

Insulting piety! the common trick

Of hypocrites and slaves: when ye shall know

What Marg'ret knows, ye may not be so thankful.

Methinks 'tis pity Warwick is not here

To join in your devotion.

ELIZABETH.

Wou'd to heav'n

He were!

MARGARET.

That monster, that perfidious slave

Who broke his faith to Marg'ret, and to thee;

Thy coward soul, unable to defend

The treasure thou hadst stol'n, cou'd meanly stoop

To court the traitor whom thou dar'st not punish.

Not so the injur'd Marg'ret—she repell'd

The wrongs she felt, and the deceiver met

The fate he merited.

EDWARD.

What fate?—ev'n now

Crown'd with immortal wreaths, the hero comes

To bless his friends, and punish guilt like thine.

MARGARET.

Proud and deluded wretches! I look down

With pity on you: Captive as I am,

'Tis mine to judge and punish; be it yours

To hear and tremble.

EDWARD.

Ha!

ELIZABETH.

What can this mean?

MARGARET.

If I mistake not, Warwick is your friend,

Your lover too, I think.

ELIZABETH.

My lord, my husband.

MARGARET.

Know then, that friend, that lover, perjur'd Warwick,

Hath not an hour to live.

EDWARD.

What murth'rous hand—

MARGARET.

Mine, tyrant mine: think not I mean to hide

The noble deed; it is my happiness,

It is my glory: thou wilt call me base,

Blood-thirsty, cruel, savage, and revengeful.

But here I stand acquitted to myself,

And ev'ry feeling heart that knows my wrongs.—

To late posterity dethroned queens,

And weeping mothers shall applaud my justice.

EDWARD.

Justice, on whom?

MARGARET.

Can Edward ask me? who

Imprison'd Henry, rob'd me of a crown,

And plac'd it on a proud usurper's head?

Who gave his sacred promise to a queen,

And broke it? who, for which indignant heav'n

Chastis'd him, basely murther'd my sweet boy?

Bereft of honour, fortune, husband, child,

Depriv'd of ev'ry comfort, what remain'd

For me but vengeance, what for him but death?

EDWARD.

What hast thou done? when? where? speak, murthress, speak.

MARGARET.

Press'd by surrounding multitudes, and made

A slave, they dragg'd me to the conqu'ror's tent,

There the first horrid object I beheld,

Was the pale corse of my poor bleeding child:

There—as th' insulting Warwick stood, and seem'd

To triumph o'er him—from my breast I drew

A ponyard forth, and plung'd it in his heart.

Th' astonish'd soldiers throng'd around him, seiz'd

And brought me here—now to your pray'rs again.

EDWARD. [Elizabeth faints.

She faints, good Suffolk, help there, help, support

Assist her.—lead her in.

[Exit Elizabeth.

If it be true,

As much I fear it is, a thousand deaths

Were punishment too little for thy guilt;

Thou shalt be tortur'd.

MARGARET.

Tyrant, I defy thee;

Thy threats appall not me: prepare your tortures,

Let them be sharp and cruel as thyself,

All that ingenious malice can suggest,

Or pow'r inflict, 'twill be my comfort still,

They cannot be so great as those you feel.

EDWARD.

Guards, take the monster hence, let her be chain'd

In some deep dungeon, dark as her own thoughts,

There let her perish—hence, away with her.

MARGARET.

Despair, and horror visit thee—farewell—

He comes, my triumph is complete—look there!

SCENE VI.

WARWICK, leaning on two soldiers.

WARWICK.

Where is he? lead me, lead me to my king.

EDWARD.

My Warwick! my preserver!—she shall bleed

For this in ev'ry vein.

WARWICK.

Think not of her,

She has no pow'r to hurt thee; and with guilt

Like hers, 'tis punishment enough to live:

This is no time for vengeance; death comes on

With hasty strides, 'tis but a little while,

A few short moments, and we part for ever.

My friend—

EDWARD.

I am not worthy of the name,

For I disgrac'd, dishonour'd, murther'd thee;

Edward's unkindness was the cause of all:

Can'st thou forgive me?

WARWICK.

O! may Warwick's crimes

Ne'er meet forgiveness from offended heav'n,

If from my soul, I do not pardon, love,

And honour thee!

EDWARD.

Away, let me support him;

'Tis the last office I shall e'er perform

For thee, my Warwick—wilt thou lean upon me

And seal my pardon with one kind embrace?

WARWICK.

We never hated.

EDWARD.

But my love was blind.

WARWICK.

And blinder my resentment.

EDWARD.

I forgot

Thy services.

WARWICK.

And I remember'd not

Thou wert my king—my sweet Elizabeth,

Where is she? Edward, do not keep her from me,

We are no rivals now.

EDWARD.

Shock'd at the news

Of thy untimely fate, she sunk beneath it,

And fainted in these arms; I seiz'd th' occasion,

And bade her weeping maidens bear her hence:

This would have been a dreadful sight indeed.

ELIZABETH without.

I can, I will, support it.

WARWICK.

Ha! that voice—

Sure 'tis Elizabeth's!

SCENE the last.

ELIZABETH, WARWICK, EDWARD.

ELIZABETH.

O! give me way,

For I must see him—O! my Warwick!

WARWICK.

O!

This is too much, the bitterness of death

Is to be sever'd thus from those we love.

EDWARD.

Why wou'd you bring her here!

(to the attendants.)

WARWICK.

Elizabeth,

Be comforted.

ELIZABETH.

O no, it is my doom

Never to taste of joy or comfort more:

No; from this hateful world will I retire,

And mourn my Warwick's fate, imploring heav'n

That I may soon wear out my little store

Of hopeless days, and join thee in the tomb.

WARWICK.

That must not be: I've done my friend a wrong,

And only thou can'st make atonement for it.

Thy hand, Elizabeth, if e'er thou lov'st,

Observe me now—thine, Edward—for my sake

Cherish this beauteous mourner, take her from me,

As the last present of a dying friend.

EDWARD.

If ought cou'd make the precious gift more dear,

It wou'd be Warwick, that it came from thee.

O! I will guard her with a parent's care,

From every ill, watch over and protect her;

And when the memory of thee shall awake,

As oft it will, her poignant griefs, repel

The rising sigh, wipe off the flowing tear,

And strive to charm her to forgetfulness.

WARWICK.

Wilt thou indeed? then I shall die in peace.

ELIZABETH.

Yet thou may'st live.

WARWICK.

Impossible:—I feel

The hand of death press cold upon my heart,

And all will soon be o'er:—I've liv'd to save

My falling country, to repent my crimes,

Redeem my honour, and restore my king.

EDWARD.

Alas! my friend, the memory of thee

Will poison every bliss.

WARWICK.

All-healing time

That closes ev'ry wound, shall pour it's balm

O'er thine.—mean-while, remember Warwick's fate.—

I gave my word to Margaret, and broke it;

Heav'n is not to be mock'd, it soon o'ertakes us,

And in our crime we meet our punishment.

O Edward, if thou hop'st that length of days,

And fair prosperity shall crown thy wishes,

Beware of passion, and resentment—make

Thy people's good and happiness thy own,

Discourage faction, banish flatt'rers, keep

Thy faith inviolate, and reign in peace.

I can no more—my love! have mercy heav'n!

(dies.)

EDWARD.

He's gone!—

ELIZABETH.

And with him all my hopes of bliss.

EDWARD.

Let ev'ry honour to a soldier due,

Attend the hero to his tomb—mean-while,

Deep in the living tablet of my heart,

Will I engrave thy words—illustrious shade!

Living thou wert my counsellor and friend,

And dead I will remember, and obey thee.

ELIZABETH.

Warwick farewel, I shall not long survive thee.

EDWARD.

I hope thou wilt—Elizabeth, remember

His dying charge, think on thy promise giv'n.

Thou shall remain with me, with me lament

Our common benefactor; we will sit

And talk together of my Warwick's virtues,

For I will try to emulate them all,

And learn, by copying him, to merit thee.

His great example shall inspire my breast

With patriot zeal, shall teach me to subdue

The pow'r of faction, vanquish party rage,

And make me, what alone I wish to be,

The happy king of an united people.

EPILOGUE,

Written by DAVID GARRICK, Esq Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

EXHAUSTED quite with prisons, racks, and death,

Permit me here to take a little breath!

You who have seen my actions, known their springs,

Say, are we women such insipid things?

Say, lords of the creation, mighty men!

〈…〉 have you surpass'd us, where? and when?

I come to know to whom the palm is due,

To us weak vessels, or to stronger you?

Against your conqu'ring swords, I draw—my fan,

Come on!—now parry Marg'ret, if you can.

(Sets herself in a posture of defence.

Stand up, ye boasters! (to the pit) don't there sneaking sit;

Are you for Pleasure, Politics, or Wit?

The boxes smile to see me scold the pit.

Their turn is next—and tho' I will not wrong 'em,

A woeful havock there will be among 'em.—

You our best friends, (to the pit) love, cherish, and respect us;

Not take our fortunes, marry, and neglect us.

You think indeed, that as you please, you rule us,

And with a strange importance often school us!

Yet, let each citizen describe a brother,

I'll tell you what you say of one another.

My neighbour leads, poor foul, a woeful life,

A worthy man—but govern'd by his wife!

How, say you? what, all silent?—then, 'tis true:

We rule the city—Now, great Sirs; to you. (to the boxes.)

What is your boast?—Wou'd you, like me, have done,

To free a captive wife, or fare a son?

Rather than run such dangers of your lives,

You'd leave your children, and lock up your wives.

When with your noblest deeds, a nation rings!

You are but puppets, and we play the strings.

We •…an no battles—true—but out of fight,

〈…〉 the fun,—and armies halt or fight!

You have th' advantage, Ladies—wisely reap it,

And let me •…nt the only way to keep it.

〈◊〉 men of vain ideas, have their sill,

〈…〉 bounce, stride, strut,—while you, with happy skill,

〈…〉, use the finest silken thread;

〈…〉 enough—nor check the tugging head:

The 〈…〉 •…ounder—you with gentle hand,

And 〈…〉, must bring the trout to land;

〈…〉 cannot be—

〈…〉 falls with Me.

Information about this book

Title statement

The Earl of Warwick, a tragedy: as it is perform'd at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane.

Francklin, Thomas, 1721-1784.

Publication

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University of Oxford Text Archive
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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4423

ID [isbn10]

1106014227

ID [isbn13]

9781106014221

ID [TCP]

K056360.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310376085

ID [ECLL]

0058602300

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— The Earl of Warwick, a tragedy: as it is perform'd at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane., Francklin, Thomas, 1721-1784., La Harpe, Jean-François de, 1739-1803.. [4],71,[1]p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for T. Davies; R. Baldwin; and W. Griffin,. 1766.. [Altered from 'Le comte de Warwick' by Jean François de La Harpe by Thomas Francklin.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT65526.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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