Classic Poem

MEN. Mr. Mills .

DUKE of Northumberland , Mr. Bowman .
Duke of Suffolk , Mr. Booth .
Lord Guilford Dudley , Mr. Elrington .
Earl of Pembroke , Mr. Ryan .
Earl of Sussex , Mr. Cibber .
Gardiner Bishop of Winchester , Mr. Shepherd .
Sir John Gates , Mr. Quin .
Lieutenant of the Tower .

WOMEN. Mrs Porter .

Dutchess of Suffolk , Mrs. Oldfield .
Lady Jane Gray ,

Lords of the Council, Gentlemen, Guards, Women, at Attendants.

SCENE LONDON .

The COURT.

Enter the Duke of N ORTHUMBERLAND , Duke of S UFFOLK ; and Sir John G ATES .

NORTHUMBERLAND.

T IS all in vain; Heav'n has requir'd its Pledge,
And he must die.

SUFFOLK.

Is there an honest Heart,
That loves our England , does not mourn for Edward?
The Genius of our Isle is shook with Sorrow,
He bows his venerable Head with Pain,
And labors with the Sickness of his Lord.
Religion melts in ev'ry holy Eye,
All comfortless, afflicted and forlorn
She fits on Earth, and weeps upon her Cross:
Weary of Man, and his detested Ways,
Ev'n now she seems to mediate her Flight,
And wast her Angel to the Thrones above.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Ay, there, my Lord, you touch our heaviest Lo!
With him our holy Faith is doom'd to suffer;
With him our Church shall veil her sacred Front
That late from Heaps of Gothic Ruins rose,
In her first native simple Majesty;
The Toil of Saints, and Price of Martyrs Blood,
Shall fail with Edward , and again old Rome
Shall spread her Banners; and her Monkish Host,
Pride, Ignorance, and Rapine shall return;
Blind bloody Zeal and cruel Priestly Pow'r,
Shall scourge the Land for ten dark Ages more.

GATES.

Is there no Help in all the healing Art,
No potent Juice or Drug to save a Life
So precious, and prevent a Nation's Fate?

NORTHUMBERLAND.

What has been left untry'd that Art could do?
The hoary wrinkled Leech has watch'd and toil'd,
Try'd ev'ry Health-restoring Herb and Gum,
And weary'd out his painful Skill in vain.
Close like a Dragon folded in his Den,
Some secret Venom preys upon his Heart;
A stubborn and unconquerable Flame
Creeps in his Veins, and drinks the Streams of Life;
His youthful Sinews are unstrung, cold Sweats;
And deadly Paleness sit upon his Visage,
And ev'ry Gasp we look shall be his last.

GATES.

Doubt not, your Graces, but the Popish Faction
Will at this Juncture urge their utmost Force.
All on the Princess Mary turn their Eyes,
Well hoping she shall build again their Altars,
And bring their Idol-Worship back in Triumph.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Good Heav'n ordain some better Fate for England .

SUFFOLK.

What better can we hope, if she should reign?
I know her well, a blinded Zealot is she,
A gloomy Nature, sullen and severe,
Nurtur'd by proud presuming Romish Priests,
Taught to believe they only cannot err,
Because they cannot err; bred up in Scorn
Of Reason, and the whole Lay-World; instructed
To hate whoe'er dissent from what they teach,
To purge the World from Heresy by Blood,
To massacre a Nation, and believe it
An Act well-pleasing to the Lord of Mercy.
These are thy Gods, Oh Rome! and this thy Faith.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

And shall we tamely yield ourselves to Bondage?
Bow down before these holy Purple Tyrants,
And bid 'em tread upon our slavish Necks?
No; let this faithful free-born English Hand
First dig my Grave in Liberty and Honor;
And tho' I found but one more thus resolv'd,
That honest Man and I would die together.

SUFFOLK.

Doubt not, there are ten thousand, and ten thousand,
To own a Cause so just.

GATES.

The List I gave
Into your Grace's Hand last Night, declares
My Pow'r and Friends at full

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Be it your Care,
Good Sir John Gates , to see your Friends appointed,
And ready for the Occasion. Haste this Instant,
Lose not a Moment's Time.

GATES.

I go, my Lord.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Your Grace's princely Daughter, Lady J ANE ,
Is she yet come to Court?

SUFFOLK.

Not yet arriv'd,
But with the soonest I expect her here.
I know her Duty to the dying King,
Join'd with my strict Commands to hasten hither,
Will bring her on the Wing.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

Beseech your Grace,
To speed another Messenger to press her;
For on her happy Presence all our Counsels
Depend, and take their Fate.

SUFFOLK.

Upon the Instant
Your Grace shall be obey'd. I go to summon her.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

What trivial Influences hold Dominion
O'er wise Mens Counsels, and the Fate of Empire?
The greatest Schemes that human Wit can forge,
Or bold Ambition dares to put in practice,
Depend upon our husbanding a Moment,
And the light lasting of a Woman's Will;
As if the Lord of Nature shou'd delight
To hang this pond'rous Globe upon a Hair,
And bid it dance before a Breath of Wind.
She must be here, and lodg'd in Guilford 's Arms,
Ere Edward dies, or all we've done is marr'd.
Ha! Pembroke! that's a Bar which thwarts my Way?
His fiery Temper brooks not Opposition,
And must be met with soft and supple Arts,
With crouching Courtesy, and honey'd Words,
Such as assuage the Fierce, and bend the Strong.

Enter the Earl of P EMBROKE .

Good-morrow, noble Pembroke , we have staid
The Meeting of the Council for your Presence.

PEMBROKE.

For mine, my Lord! You mock your Servant, sure,
To say that I am wanted, where yourself,
The great Alcides of our State, is present;
Whatever Dangers menace Prince or People,
Our great Northumberland is arm'd to meet 'em;
The ablest Head, and firmest Heart you bear,
Nor need a Second in the glorious Task;
Equal yourself to all the Toils of Empire.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

No; as I honor Virtue, I have try'd,
And know my Strength too well; nor can the Voice
Of friendly Flattery, like yours, deceive me.
I know my Temper liable to Passions,
And all the Frailties common to our Nature;
Blind to Events, too easy of Persuasion,
And often, too too often, have I err'd.
Much therefore have I need of some good Man,
Some wise and honest Heart, whose friendly Aid
Might guide my treading thro' our present Dangers;
And by the Honor of my Name I swear,
I know not one of all our English Peers,
Whom I wou'd choose for that best Friend, like Pembroke .

PEMBROKE.

What shall I answer to a Trust so noble,
This Prodigality of Praise and Honor?
Were not your Grace too generous of Soul,
To speak a Language differing from your Heart,
How might I think you could not mean this Goodness
To one, whom his Ill-Fortune has ordain'd
The Rival of your Son.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

No more! I scorn a Thought
So much below the Dignity of Virtue.
'Tis true, I look on Guilford like a Father.
Lean to his Side, and see but half his Failings:
But on a Point like this, when equal Merit
Stands forth to make its bold Appeal to Honor,
And calls to have the Balance held in Justice;
Away with all the Fondnesses of Nature!
I judge of Pembroke and my Son alike.

PEMBROKE.

I ask no more to bind me to your Service.

NORTHUMBERLAND.

The Realm is now at hazard, and bold Factions
Threaten Change, Tumult, and disastrous Days.
These Fears drive out the gentler Thoughts of Joy,
Of Courtship, and of Love. Grant, Heav'n, the State
To fix in Peace and Safety once again;
Then speak your Passion to the princely Maid,
And fair Success attend you. For myself.
My Voice shall go as far for you, my Lord,
As for my Son, and Beauty be the Umpire.
But now a heavier Matter calls upon us;
The King with Life just lab'ring; and I fear,
The Council grow impatient at our Stay.

PEMBROKE.

One Moment's Pause, and I attend your Grace.

Old Winchester cries to me oft, Beware
Of proud Northumberland . The testy Prelate,
Froward with Age, with disappointed Hopes,
And zealous for old Rome , rails on the Duke,
Suspecting him to favor the New Teachers;
Yet ev'n in that, if I judge right, he errs.
But were it so, what are these monkish Quarrels,
These wordy Wars of proud ill-manner'd Schoolmen,
To us and our Lay-Interest? Let 'em rail
And worry one another at their pleasure.
This Duke, of late, by many worthy Offices,
Has sought my Friendship, and yet more, his Son
The noblest Youth our England has to boast of,
The gentlest Nature and the bravest Spirit,
Has made me long the Partner of his Breast.
Nay, when he found, in spite of the Resistance
My struggling Heart had made, to do him Justice,
That I was grown his Rival; he strove hard,
And would not turn it forth from out his Bosom,
But call'd me still his Friend, And see! he comes.

Enter Lord G UILFORD .

Oh! Guilford just as thou wert ent'ring here,
My Thought was running all thy Virtues o'er,
And wond'ring how thy Soul could choose a Partner
So much unlike itself.

GUILFORD.

How cou'd my Tongue
Take pleasure, and be lavish in thy Praise!
How could I speak thy Nobleness of Nature,
Thy open manly Heart, thy Courage, Constancy,
And in-born Truth unknowing to dissemble!
Thou art the Man in whom my Soul delights,
In whom, next Heav'n, I trust.

PEMBROKE.

Oh! gen'rous Youth;
What can a Heart, stubborn and fierce, like mine,
Return to all thy Sweetness? — Yet I wou'd,
I wou'd be grateful — — Oh, my cruel Fortune!
Wou'd I had never seen her, never cast
Mine Eyes on Suffolk 's Daughter!

GUILFORD.

So wou'd I;
Since 'twas my Fate to see and love her first.

PEMBROKE.

Oh! why should she, that universal Goodness,
Like Light, a common Blessing to the World,
Rise like a Comet fatal to our Friendship,
And threaten it with Ruin?

GUILFORD.

Heav'n forbid!
But tell me, Pembroke , Is it not in Virtue
To arm against this proud imperious Passion?
Does holy Friendship dwell so near to Envy,
She could not bear to see another happy,
If blind mistaken Chance, and partial Beauty
Should join to favor Guilford? — —

PEMBROKE.

Name it not,
My fiery Spirits kindle at the Thought,
And hurry me to Rage,

GUILFORD.

And yet I think
I should not murmur, were thy Lot to prosper,
And mine to be refus'd. Tho' sure the Loss
Would wound me to the Heart.

PEMBROKE.

Ha! Could'st thou bear it?
And yet perhaps thou might'st: Thy gentle Temper
Is form'd with Passions mix'd in due Proportion,
Where no one over-bears nor plays the Tyrant,
But join in Nature's Business and thy Happiness:
While mine, disdaining Reason and her Laws,
Like all thou canst imagine wild and furious,
Now drive me headlong on, now whirl me back,
And hurry my unstable flitting Soul
To ev'ry mad Extreme. Then pity me,
And let my Weakness stand. — —

Enter Sir John G ATES .

GATES.

The Lords of Council
Wait with Impatience. — —

PEMBROKE.

I attend their Pleasure.
This only, and no more then. Whatsoever
Fortune decrees, still let us call to mind
Our Friendship and our Honor. And since Love
Condemns us to be Rivals for one Prize,
Let us contend, as Friends and brave Men ought,
With Openness and Justice to each other;
That he who wins the Fair-One to his Arms,
May take her as the Crown of great Desert:
And if the wretched Loser does repine,
His own Heart and the World may all condemn him.

GUILFORD.

How cross the Ways of Life lie! While we think
We travel on direct in one high Road,
And have our Journey's End oppos'd in View,
A thousand thwarting Paths break in upon us,
To puzzle and perplex our wand'ring Steps.
Love, Friendship, Hatred, in their turns mislead us,
And ev'ry Passion has its separate Interest.
Where is that piercing Foresight can unfold
Where all this mazy Error will have end,
And tell the Doom reserv'd for me and Pembroke ?
There is but one End certain, that is — — Death:
Yet ev'n that Certainty is still uncertain,
For of these several Tracks which lie before us,
We know that one leads certainly to Death,
But know not which that one is. 'Tis in vain,
This blind Divining; let me think no more on't
And see the Mistress of our Fate appear!

Enter Lady J ANE G RAY . Attendants .

Hail, princely Maid! who with auspicious Beauty
Chear'st ev'ry drooping Heart in this sad Place,
Who, like the silver Regent of the Night;
Lift'st up thy sacred Beams upon the Land,
To bid the Gloom look gay, dispel our Horrors,
And make us less lament the setting Sun.

Lady JANE.

Yes, Guilford ; well dost thou compare my Presence
To the faint Comfort of the waining Moon:
Like her cold Orb, a chearless Gleam I bring,
Silence and Heaviness of Heart, with Dews
To dress the Face of Nature all in Tears.
But say, how fares the King?

GUILFORD.

He lives as yet,
But ev'ry Moment cuts away a Hope,
Adds to our Fears, and gives the Infant Saint
A nearer Prospect of his opening Heaven.

Lady JANE.

Descend ye Choirs of Angels to receive him,
Tune your melodious Harps to some high Strain,
And waft him upwards with a Song of Triumph:
A purer Soul and one more like yourselves,
Ne'er enter'd at the Golden Gates of Bliss,
Oh, Guilford! what remains for wretched England ,
When he, our Guardian-Angel, shall forsake us?
For whose dear sake, Heav'n spar'd a guilty Land,
And scatter'd not its Plagues while Edward reign'd.

GUILFORD.

I own my Heart bleeds inward at the Thought,
And rising Horrors crowd the opening Scene.
And yet, forgive me, thou, my native Country,
Thou Land of Liberty, thou Nurse of Heroes,
Forgive me, if in spite of all thy Dangers,
New Springs of Pleasure flow within my Bosom,
When thus 'tis giv'n me to behold those Eyes,
Thus gaze and wonder how excelling Nature
Can give each Day new Patterns of her Skill,
And yet at once surpass 'em.

Lady JANE.

Oh, vain Flattery!
Harsh and ill-sounding ever to my Ear;
But on a Day like this, the Raven's Note
Strikes on my Sense more sweetly. But, no more,
I charge thee touch th' ungrateful Theme no more;
Lead me to pay my Duty to the King,
To wet his pale cold Hand with these last Tears,
And share the Blessings of his parting Breath.

GUILFORD.

Were I like dying Edward , sure a Touch
Of this dear Hand would kindle Life a-new.
But I obey, I dread that gath'ring Frown;
And oh! whene'er my Bosom swells with Passion,
And my full Heart is pain'd with ardent Love,
Allow me but to look on you, and sigh;
'Tis all the humble Joy that Guilford asks.

Lady JANE.

Still wilt thou frame thy Speech to this vain Purpose,
When the wan King of Terrors stalks before us,
When universal Ruin gathers round,
And no Escape is left us? Are we not,
Like Wretches in a Storm, whom ev'ry Moment
The greedy Deep is gaping to devour?
Around us see the pale despairing Crew,
Wring their sad Hands, and give their Labor o'er;
The Hope of Life has ev'ry Heart forsook,
And Horror sits on each distracted Look;
One solemn Thought of Death does all employ,
And cancels, like a Dream, Delight and Joy;
One Sorrow streams from all their weeping Eyes,
And one consenting Voice for Mercy cries:
Trembling they dread just Heav'n's avenging Power,
Mourn their past Lives, and wait the fatal Hour.