PREFACE TO THE READER.

The inimitable, and immortal, Shakespeare, about a hundred and thirty Years since, wrote a Play, on this Subject, and call'd it, The Life of King Henry, the Fifth:— Mine is a New Fabrick, yet I built

on His Foundation; and the Reader, I am afraid, will, too easily, discover, without the Help of a Comparison, in what Places I am indebted to him.

The Success, which this Tragedy will meet with, on the Stage, is a Matter, of no Consequence: If it were otherwise, I shou'd be sorry, to have mistaken, so unseasonably, the Taste of the Fashionable! There is a Kind of Dumb Drama! a new, and wonderful, Discovery! that places the Wit in the Heels! and the Experience of Both our Theatres might have taught any Writer, but so dull a one as I am, that the Harlequins

are Gentlemen, of better Interest than the Harrys.

The Masters of the Stage act, like very discreet Judges: in falling in with a Humour, which they cou'd not have oppos'd but to their Disadvantage. What have They to do with Reason, to whom Folly is most profitable?—To sail, with Wind, and Tide, is safest, and most easy: Nor is it any Part of their Business, to stem the Current of the Times; and be Wise, with Empty Boxes.

No French Tricks, however, in the Days of my Hero, were able to

stand before him: Fortune favour'd him, then, against incredible Odds! and who knows, (if the Ladies will forgive me the Presumption of comparing small Things with Great,) but he may, now, become a Match, even for Eunuchs, and Merry-Andrews!

Yet, the Victory, at Agencourt, was an Action, not more wonderful! And it is, I fear, become impossible, since I have, imprudently, neglected to list those Squadrons of light-arm'd Forces, which have, so often, won the Day, for Our Leaders, in modern Poetry.

How poor a Thing is Fame, when so wretchedly caball'd for! It is hard to distinguish, which is strangest, and most ridiculous: the Noise, and Violence, of such Applause, in its first breaking out: or the Suddenness, with which it flattens, and leaves the Monsters aground! like that straggling Shoal of Whales, which the Sea has, lately, lifted into the Meadows of Hamborough.

After all, I am sanguine enough to hope, that a Taste for Tragedy may be restor'd:—Yet, who wou'd

not despair of it, when It is deserted by those Great Spirits, whose past Actions must adorn it!—When a Name may be read, in the List of Opera Directors, which will furnish the Poets, of Ages, yet to come, with as wonderful a Character! and with Conquests gain'd as nobly, over the French, and Spanish, Arms, as any of the Edwards, or the Henrys, have left us, by the most glorious of their antient Victories!

But, in all Events, I will be Easy, who have no better Reason to wish well to Poetry, than my Love for

a Mistress, I shall never be married to: For, whenever I grow ambitious, I shall wish to build higher; and owe my Memory to some Occasion, of more Importance, than my Writings.

December 5,
1723.

PROLOGUE: Spoke by Mr. WILKS.

From Wit's old Ruins, shadow'd o'er with Bays,
We draw some rich Remains of Shakespear's Praise.
Shakespear!—the Sound bids charm'd Attention wake:
And our aw'd Scenes, with conscious Reve'rence, Shake!
Arduous the Task, to mix with Shakespear's Muse!
Rash Game! where All, who play, are sure to lose.
Yet—what our Author cou'd, he dar'd to try:
And kept the fiery Pillar in his Eye.
Led by such Light, as wou'd not let him stray,
He pick'd out Stars, from Shakespear's milky Way.

Hid, in the Cloud of Battle, Shakespear's Care,
Blind, with the Dust of War, o'erlook'd the Fair:
Fond of their Fame, we shew their Influence, here,
And place 'em, twinkling through War's smokey Sphere.
Without their Aid, we lose Love's quick'ning Charms;
And sullen Virtue mopes, in steril Arms.
Now, rightly mix'd, th' enliven'd Passions move:
Love softens War,—and War invigo'rates Love:

Oh!—cry'd that tow'ring Genius of the Stage,
When, first, His Henry charm'd a former Age:
“Oh! for a Muse of Fire, our Cause to friend,
“That might Invention's brightest Heav'n ascend!

“That, for a Stage, a Kingdom might be seen!
“Princes, to act, grace'd with their native Mien:
“And Monarchs, to behold, the swelling Scene!
“Then, like Himself, shou'd warlike Harry rise:
“And, fir'd with all his Fame, blaze, in your Eyes!
“Crouch'd, at his Heels, and, like fierce Hounds, leash'd in,
“Sword, Fire, and Famine, with impatient Grin!
“Shou'd, fawning dreadful! but for Orders, stay:
“And, at his Nod,—start, horrible! away.

No barren Tale t' amuse, our Scene imparts:
But points Example at your kindling Hearts.
Mark, in their Dauphin, to our King oppos'd,
The diffe'rent Genius of the Realms disclos'd:
There, the French Levity—vain,—boastful,—loud:
Dancing, in Death,—gay, wanton, fierce, and proud.
Here, with a silent Fire, a temper'd Heat!
Calmly resolv'd, our English Bosoms beat.

Art is too poor, to raise the Dead, 'tis true:
But Nature does it, by their Worth, in You!
Your Blood, that warm'd their Veins, still flows, the same:
Still feeds your Valour, and supports their Fame.

Oh! let it waste no more, in Civil Jarr:
But flow, for glorious Fame, in foreign War.

EPILOGUE: Spoke by Mrs. OLDFIELD.

We've shown, Ye, Sirs! how France, of Old, was got:
And, now, I'll tell ye, why we kept it not.—
This Hero's Son and Heir,—no warring Ranger!
Lov'd Grace, obey'd his Wife, and hated Danger.
Our Harry fought, all Day, and slept, all Night:
Nor dreamt of gentler Joys, than those of Fight.
Tho' bold, in War, His Feats, in Love, were faint!
And this fam'd Champion gave the World a—Saint!
There was a Bliss!—Oh! how was Kate mistaken!
Such thund'ring Fame must mighty Hopes awaken:
But, tir'd with Action, Her Heroick Lover
Was found, in Peace, and Wedlock, no great Mover.

There lay the Guilt:—nor went unpunish'd, long,
Weak tho' the Son was, his Ill Fate was strong.
Urg'd by slack Reins, and, quite broke loose, at last,
The Horse of Power th' unequal Rider, cast.
Then rose Division, Faction, and Debate:
And That rank Weed, Rebellion, choak'd the State.
Plunder was Law; and Force, on both Sides, Right;
And Rogues in Red ravish'd, with all their Might!
Widows, and Wives, were task'd, to their full Skill:
And stubborn Maids were—pleas'd, against their Will.

No Plots, to hoodwink Horns, were, then, of Use:
For the whole Sex made One allow'd Excuse:
Why, Dear, what Help for't?—I was vex'd, I swear,
But—had not been so serv'd, had You been there.

Now, for some grave Instruction, from the Play,
To send you, warn'd, as well as pleas'd, away!
Who,—by the Woes of a weak Prince's Rule,
Learns not, to bless the steddy, brave, and cool?
All, that a Kingdom feels, of good, or ill,
She owes, to her King's Weakness, or his Skill:
Still, what the Monarch is, still, such the State,
For a King's Conduct is his People's Fate.

Dramatis Personæ.

Guards, Attendants, &c.

King Henry [King Henry the Fifth]	Mr. Booth.
Dauphin [Lewis],	Mr. Wilks.
King of France [Charles the Sixth],	Mr. Thurmond.
Princess Catherine [Katharine],	Mrs. Oldfield.
Harriet,	Mrs. Thurmond.
Charlot,	Mrs. Campbell.
Duke of Exeter,	Mr. Mills.
Duke of York,	Mr. Cory.
Lord Scroop,	Mr. Williams.
Duke of Bourbon,	Mr. Bridgwater.
Duke of Orleans,	Mr. Watson.
Earl of Cambridge,	Mr. Mills jun.
Sir Thomas Grey,	Mr. Oates.
French Officer,	Mr. Roberts.

King Henry the Fifth: OR, The Conquest of France, by the English. ACT I. SCENE I. The English Camp, before Harfleur; A Chair of State. Enter, Exeter, York, Cambridge, Scroop, Grey.

EXETER.
Now, France, stand firm—See! where Great Henry's Hand,
With thundring Summons, shakes the Gate of Harfleur,
And rising War dawns horrible upon Thee!

Cam.
Dreadfully footed on thy boastfull Shore,
We feel thy trembling Genius bend beneath Us.

Scroop.
Now, All the Youth of England are on Fire,

And silken Dalliance sleeps in dusty Wardrobes;
Now, thrive the Armourers; and Honour's Flame
Burns in the beating Breast of each rous'd Soldier.

Gray.
Even the slow Rustick, fir'd by fierce Example,
To buy the Horse, now sells the slighted Pasture.

York.
O! noble Friends! now! now! our England shines!
Her shouting Cities pour their People forth,
To aid their matchless King, with wing'd Desire:
High in the Air sits wakefull Expectation,
And covers a drawn Sword with Crowns, and Coronets,
Promis'd to Henry, and his glorious Followers.

Scroop.
The French, alarm'd at our so swift Invasion,
Shake, in their Fears; and, with pale Policy,
Seek to divert our threatning Purposes!
Encourag'd, too, perhaps, by past Success,
They hope to find some hollow Breast among Us:
O England! Model to thy inward Greatness!
Thou little Body with a mighty Heart!
What might'st thou not attain, that Honour wishes,
Were all thy Children kind, and natural!
Were all thy Subjects worthy their great King!

Gray.
The Courses of our glorious Master's Youth
Promis'd not This—

Cam.
The Joy that's least expected blesses double.

Exe.
The Breath no sooner left his Father's Body,
But Wildness, mortify'd in Him, dy'd too;
Sudden, and bright, in that one dazling Moment,
Consideration, like an Angel, came,
And stript th' offending Darkness from his Soul;
Never was such a sudden Scholar made;
Never came Reformation, in a Flood,
With such an heady Current, as in Him!

York.
Hear him but reason in Divinity,
And, All admiring, with a ravish'd Zeal,
The pious Audience wish their King a Prelate!

If he unravel the thick Web of Policy,
The wond'ring Statesman speaks his Praise in Blushes:
If He but talk of War, the List'ners hear
A Battle's Terror, in the Charms of Musick;
Soon as He speaks, the hurried Air grows calm,
And dumb Amazement dwells on Every Ear!

Exe.
How wond'rous was the Progress of these Virtues!

Scroop.
So grows the Strawberry beneath the Nettle,
And wholsome Berries thrive, and ripen best,
Neighbour'd by Fruit of baser Quality:
Thus our wise King, obscuring Contemplation
Under the borrow'd Veil of youthful Wildness,
Grew, like the Summer-Grass, fastest by Night.

Cam.
What Answer, think ye, will the King return
To this French Embassy? the proffer'd Princess
Wou'd hardly fail to stem the Tide of War,
Wou'd They, with Her, give up some Provinces;
But that vain Cavil of their Salic Law,
He frown'd on, as 'twas urg'd!

Exe.
He hears all gravely,
And, now, retir'd, as is his constant Custom,
In private, weighs their Words, and suits his Answer:
See, where He comes, and smiles with awfull Goodness!

Omnes.
Health to Your Majesty. Enter King Henry, and sits.

K. Hen.
Uncle of Exeter! and faithful York!
And You, Lord Scroop! Cambridge, and Gray! try'd Friends!
In whom a King may safely lodge Dependance!
Concerning this new Plea, so warmly urg'd
By these Embassadors? we pray You, tell Us,
Why that fond Salic Law, they have in France,
Or shou'd, or shou'd not, barr our Right of Claim?
Be careful how You wrest, or bend, the Truth;
Speak cautiously, and give us well-weigh'd Counsell.

Exe.
Clear is Your Title, as the Sun, dread Sovereign!
There is no seeming Spot to dim your Claim;
For while they vainly plead this Salic Law,
To bar your Race from urging female Right,
Unmindfull, that their own three Royal Races,
All, from the Female, drew th'imperial Sway,
They hide them in a Net, to wrong Your Title.

K. Hen.
What says th' experienc'd Duke of York to This?

York.
A Truth so known can leave no Room for Doubt;
Fold not your bloody Ensigns, mighty Leader!
Look back on your most fam'd of famous Ancestors,
Who firm'd this envy'd Claim, You now persue;
And here, in France, o'erthrew all France's Power!
Whilst his pleas'd Father, on a neighb'ring Hill,
Hem'd with unbusied Squadrons, looking on,
Stood smiling, conscious of the Worth, He gave.

K. Hen.
Call in the French Embassador; for, now
We stand confirm'd yet more,—and, by Heaven's Help,
And Yours, the noble Sinews of our Power,
France being ours, we'll bend it to our Awe,
Or break it into Pieces; Enter the Duke of Bourbon, attended by French Officers.
Not to answer
The weak Objections, you have urg'd to-day,
We wou'd be glad to hear that other Message,
From our good Cousin Dauphin—He, w'are told,
Has sent us rugged Greeting; pray ye speak it.

Bour.
Please it Your Majesty to give me Leave,
Freely to render what He gave in Charge?
Or shall I, sparingly, show You, far off,
The Dauphin's Meaning, softned o'er with Shadings?

K. Hen.
We are no Tyrant, but a Christian King,
Our Passions are the Subjects of our Reason:
Therefore with an uncurb'd, and vigorous Plainness,

Speak out the Dauphin's Meaning.

Bourb.
Thus then in Brief;
Your Majesty, invading France, in Claim
Of certain Dukedoms, which you call your Right,
By your great Predecessor, the Third Edward;
In Answer to this Hope, our Prince, the Dauphin,
Says, that your Aim favours too much of Youth,
And bids you be advis'd:—There's Nought in France,
That with a nimble Galliard can be won;
You cannot revel into Dukedoms, here!
He therefore sends you, suited to your Spirit,
A Tun of Treasure, and in Lieu thereof,
He begs you let the Dukedomes, that you claim,
Hear no more of you—This the Dauphin speaks.

K. Hen.
What Treasure, Unkle?

Exe.
Tennis-Balls, my Liege!

K. Hen.
We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us,
And that he feels his Country's Woe so lightly:
We'll furnish fitter Balls e're long, than these,
And, if he stands his Challenge, play a Sett,
Shall strike his Father's Crown into the Hazard:
He with mistaken Insult wrongs our Nature,
Who, by our wild Days past, wou'd judge the Present:
I have, 'tis true, in England, slept too long,
And, with a Spendthrift's Rashness, wasted Fame;
But tell the Dauphin, I will keep my State,
Look like a King, and spread my Sails of Greatness,
When I have rows'd me in my Throne of France. [King rises.
Your pleasant Prince will mourn this vain Reproach,
When his proud Soul, charg'd with its rising Vengeance,
Shall answer to the Widows, and the Orphans,
Whose Husbands, and whose Fathers, falling Towers
Shall bury quick beneath their batter'd Ruins;
So get ye hence in Peace—Give 'em safe Conduct. [Exit Duke of Bourbon.

Now, gallant Friends! the Soul of England smiles;
O! glorious York! Old as thou art, and drooping,
Thy sleepy Spirits, rous'd by our Countrey's Honour,
Start into Force, and snatch at future Action. Enter an Officer from the Town attended by French Soldiers.

Offic.
The Citizens of Harfleur, much distress'd,
'Twixt Loyalty, and Danger, greet your Majesty.

K. Hen.
How yet resolve They? As I am a Soldier,
A Name, that, in my Thoughts, becomes me best,
If I am forc'd to finish but yon Battery,
I'll bury your rash City in her Ashes;
The Gates of Mercy shall be shut against Ye,
And the flesh'd Soldier, rough, and hard of Heart,
In Liberty of bloody Hand, shall range,
With Conscience, wide as Hell:—What is't to Me,
If then blind War, when you yourselves are Cause,
Match his foul Actions to his smear'd Complexion?
If your lov'd Infants shall be mow'd, like Grass,
And your pure Virgins meet hot Violation?
What Rein can hold licentious Wickedness,
When, down the Hill he drives his fierce Career?
Therefore, while yet the cool, and temperate Breeze
Of Conduct overblows these Clouds of Rapine,
Take Pity of your Town, and spare your People.

Offic.
Their Expectation has this Day an End;
The Dauphin, whom for Succour they entreated,
Returns 'em, that his Powers are not yet ready;
Therefore, Great King! they yield to your hop'd Mercy;
Enter their Gates, dispose of them and Theirs.

K. Hen.
Stay, Scroop, and hold our Forces fit for Motion, [Exeunt (with the French and English Soldiers) King Henry, Exeter, York.

Scr.
My Lord of Cambridge, and Sir Thomas Gray!
It happens well, that we are thus together;

Our Hope grows rich! The Dauphin scruples nothing;
The Million of bright Gold, which we demanded,
Whate'er we wish, is Ours, so Henry dies.

Cambr.
My Letters speak the same.

Gray.
And mine; But tell me,
Think ye not This too much? This Death of Henry?
There, Treason seems to wear too deep a Grain!

Cambr.
I cou'd be better pleas'd, were That excus'd us.
Why shou'd it not suffice, that our Intelligence,
Securely blasting all His fear'd Designs,
Prevents the threatned Ill, and saves their Kingdom.

Scr.
In Faith, my Friends! these Doubts disgrace our Purpose.
The Man, who pauses in the Paths of Treason,
Halts on a Quicksand, the first Stop engulphs Him!
Why must I urge so oft your Wrongs by Henry?
Have you not Both been Sufferers?—You, Lord Cambridge?
Is not your Blood wrong'd? York's great House dethron'd?
And your just Claim robb'd of a Crown, your Due?
What is a Cause, if this can fail to move you?
Sir Thomas Gray!—Why must I still remind you,
What vile Indignities this Henry's Hate
Has heap'd upon your Person!—He's my Friend!
My Bosom-Partner!—Yet, like Roman Brutus,
I sacrifice his Love to Peace, and Liberty.
Why look You pale then? and grow sick with Horror?
He, who betrays a Prince, He fears to kill,
Like some rash Madman, holds a Lyon's Tail,
While the check'd Beast turns back in Rage, and tears Him.

Cambr.
More than the Thoughts of Death I hate This Henry,
I hate his Name, his Race, his Interest, Person;
To you, Lord Scroop, I lend a daring Will,
Point out the Means, and lead me at your Pleasure.

Gray.
I cannot love a Man, who loves not me;
Thrice have I miss'd a Suit, I stoop'd to kneel for,
And thrice seen Low-born Peasant Clowns supplant me;
Drudges in War! the brawny Works of Nature!
Sturdy-limb'd Ruffians, fam'd for Fist, and Football;
Broad-shoulder'd Rogues, strong-built to carry Armour,
The humane Sumpter-Mules of haughty Harry!
Fellows, whose Souls seem'd seated in their Stomachs!
The Curse of Poverty involve my Fortune
If I forget the Scorn, till I've reveng'd it.

Scr.
To Night, assembled in my Tent, we'll weigh
The fairest Means to reach the Point in View;
Meanwhile—a Secret This!—You Both remember
The lovely Harriet, my dead Brother's Daughter?

Grey.
Alas! poor Harriet! she, too, owes much to Henry!
The lawless Rover, e're his Father dy'd,
While the griev'd Nation rung with his Debauches,
Sullied your hapless Neice's Virgin Innocence.

Scr.
But, tir'd, like some mean Prostitute, He left Her;
On poor Pretence, that, by his Father's Death,
The Kingdom's Cares, reclining on his Breast,
Must banish Softness thence.—So turn'd Her off
Disgraceful, with the cold Consideration
Of a vile Pension, which had she accepted,
Had doubly punish'd Her in base Reward;
A sharp Memento, to remind her daily,
That even her Pride was owing to her Shame!

Cambr.
Something, like This, Report brought scatter'd to Me;
I grieve to find it True—and hop'd it Slander;
Th' unhappy Lady, doubtless, feels much Woe.

Scr.
No Woe, my Lord! the Blood of Scroop disdains it;
Her Soul, too strong for Grief, boasts nobler Passions;
Stung with the pointed Sense of Shame, and Scorn,

She labours with Revenge, and aids my Plottings;
Shading her Charms beneath a Boy's Appearance,
She baffles the keen Eye of watchful Policy,
And works out Wonders for the Cause, we strive in:
Six Days are past, since I dispatch'd her hence
To the French Camp, whence I expect Her hourly,
With Notices of more than vulgar Import:
My Lord, she comes—Perhaps 'twou'd be too sudden
At once to greet Her with confess'd Detection;
Please you a Moment to retire, and leave me,
By gradual Preparation, to instruct Her,
How safely she may trust you with her Story.

Cambr.
The Caution is well weigh'd:

Gray.
Pursue your Purpose. [Exeunt Cambridge, and Gray: Enter Harriet.

Scr.
Welcome Thou guardian Genius of thy Country!
Born to revenge thy own, and All our Wrongs!
Welcome, as Peace to Scroop, or War to Henry.

Har.
O, Uncle! must this Man for ever flourish?
Harfleur, as I now pass'd, receiv'd him Conqueror:
How long will he escape the Woes, he gives!
When will he fall, and the wrong'd World have Justice?
But down, big Heart—to-morrow, from the Dauphin
Your Hopes, I think, will all find happy End.

Scr.
Saw you this peerless Pride of France, this Catharine?
Our Camp is fill'd with Rumours of her Beauty.

Har.
Beauty?—by Heaven, there's Meaning in that Question,
And not in vain these French Embassadors
Have urg'd the Match with Catharine—O! no sooner
They spread the Net, than caught the willing Prey!
This Traitor King, This Ruiner of Woman,
Fir'd with her Praise, grows mad to have Her His;
More to undo me, He wou'd blast Himself;
To heap more Shame, more Misery on my Head,

Wou'd meanly wed his Country's Enemy,
And lull a Wife to Sleep with my curst Story:

Scr.
Quiet the jealous Fiend, that starts within Thee,
And quell these furious Sallies of thy Soul:
There is some Reason in thy Fears, but none
In thy wild Transports.

Har.
Reason?—I detest it—
'Tis that, which gives an Edge to all my Sufferings!
Am I not lost, disgrac'd, forsaken, scorn'd?
And owe I not this Ruin to my Love?
Has not the Man, I doted on, destroy'd me?
He, for whose sake I had no Ear for Honour!
Has he not left me, like a common Creature,
And paid me, like a Prostitute?—Death find Him!
Has he not offer'd me a sawcy Pension,
Told out the Hire of Infamy? and judg'd
Wealth an Equivalent for my Undoing?
Has he not dar'd all This?—and does He now,
While my Disgrace is new, freshblown, and flagrant,
Now, does he think to live, and wed another!
Calm? No—Let Cottage Fools, with helpless Sighs,
Bewail their ruin'd Innocence—My Soul,
Full charg'd with Hate, and Pride, breaks out in Passion,
Bold, as my Wrongs, and dreadfull, as my Purpose.

Scr.
At least be moderate, till—

Har.
Touch me not—
For there's a Flame, that blazes round my Heart,
Will catch, and burn You up, like Fire-touch'd Flax;
Wou'd You be heard with Patience, teach my Fury,
Instruct my Wishes; Let me learn a Way,
To leave my outstript Will behind my Vengeance;
Teach me to hunt him thro' the Night's still Dreams;
To pinch his Soul with Woe, his Heart with Pain,
To rack his restless Thoughts with Discontent,
To wear away his Life in endless Agony,
And feast upon the Joy of his Destruction:

Scr.
Retire, where, less observ'd, I may convince Thee,
That this new-offer'd Match is yet an Embrio;
Is yet rejected, and, perhaps, dislik'd!
For I but doubt from some dark Words of Henry's,
What You, with wild Excess of Fear, confirming,
With needless Rage perplex your hurried Soul,
And drive th' unwilling Torment thro' Your Bosom:

Har.
And was it only Doubt then?—Pardon me,
In generous Pity of my lost Condition!
Who that is wrong'd like me, can sit down tamely,
And, with dull Goodness, bless th' Undoer's Wishes?
You have forgiv'n me—but the barb'rous World
Meet me with speaking Eyes, and silent Scorn;
The balefull Brow of each proud Girl upbraids me;
Where-e'er I go, some new-born Anguish finds me;
And, when I strive to drown the hated Memory
Of my past Guilt, some keen Reproach, unmeant,
Strikes on the jarring String, untunes my Soul,
And rouzes the pale Image of my Shame:
Heaven! must the Traytor Man pursue our Sex,
With restless Artifice, and labour'd Vileness;
Hunt us thro' all the Wiles, and Turns of Caution,
'Till tir'd with vain Defence, his Snares surround us;
And shall he, then, when, pitying his feign'd Torments,
We give Him up our All—shall he then shun us?
With cold Disdain, or curst Indifference,
Repay the Fierceness of a Flame, he rais'd?
And shall we not revenge the Traitor's Falshood?
Religion never spoke it—Only Saints,
And cool-soul'd Hermits, mortify'd with Care,
And bent by Age, and Palsies, whine out Maxims,
Which their brisk Youth had blush'd at.

Scroop.
Gentle Harriet!
No more—the Means are ripe'ning for a Purpose,
Which, once successfull, will repay thy Sorrows
Back on his Head, who caus'd them;—Thou shalt have Means

To attend Exeter to the French Camp;
There, furthering our Intent, as I'll instruct Thee,
Crown wish'd Revenge, and disappoint this Marriage.

Har.
O! Uncle, you are wise, and shall conduct me;
Lost as I am, I dare beyond my Sex:
Danger is scorn'd, when Life becomes a Burthen;
And yet, my Soul, impartially severe,
Say, what but thy own Weakness caus'd this Ruin?
  Cou'd women be, at once, in Love, and wise,
And drive the Telltale Softness from their Eyes;
Th' encourag'd Tempter cou'd not, then, betray,
Aw'd by cold Looks, those Rubs in Passion's way;
Then All his Arts wou'd sooth our Sex in vain,
Nor Hours of Bliss be paid with Years of Pain. End of the first Act.

ACT II. SCENE I. SCENE, The French Camp. King of France, Dauphin, Duke of Orleans, as in Councell.

French King.
Cousin of Orleans, is their March confirm'd?

Orl.
'Tis certain they have pass'd the River Soam,
And Fear may teach us, from our late Examples,
That we can never be too provident;
For England her Approaches makes, as fierce,
As Currents to the sucking of a Gulph.

Dau.
That we so timely arm'd was well advis'd,
For Peace itself shou'd never sleep so soundly,
Tho' no fear'd War, or Quarrel, were in Question,
But that Defence, and warlike Preparation,
Shou'd, at due Distance, awe the Eye of Boldness:
The present Cause, however, gives no Fear,
For Harebrain'd England is so idly King'd,
Her Scepter so fantastically borne,
By a vain, giddy, shallow, humourous, Youth,
That Danger dwells not in her Menaces.

Orl.
I doubt, Prince Dauphin! we mistake this King;
Question your Grace the late Embassadors,
With what grave State he heard, and answer'd them:
How well supply'd with noble Councellours,
How cautious in Exception; but, withal,

How terrible in constant Resolution!
And You shall find, his youthful Vanities
But cloath'd Discretion with a Coat of Folly;
As skilful Gard'ners thickest earth the Plants,
Which shou'd, first, shoot, and rise most delicate.

Dau.
Well! 'tis scarce so, my Lord of Orleans!
But let us think it so, it is no matter!
In Causes of Defence, 'tis best to weigh
The Enemy, more mighty, than he seems.

Fr. King.
Be it as 'twill; think we King Harry strong;
And, Princes! look, ye strongly arm, to meet him;
The Kindred of Him have been flesh'd upon us;
And He is bred out of that bloody Strain,
That haunted us in our familiar Paths:
Witness our much too memorable Shame,
When mangled France groan'd loud, at Cressy's Field,
And Horror, circling thence, o'ershadow'd All. Enter Duke of Bourbon.

Bour.
The Duke of Exeter, from England's King,
Asks Audience of Your Majesty.

Fr. King.
Say, Cousin Bourbon, how near our Camp they lie?

Bour.
So near, that Exeter this Morning left 'em.

Fr. King.
You see, this Chace is hotly follow'd, Friends!

Dau.
Turns head, and stop Pursuit then—Coward Dogs
Most spend their Mouths when, what they threaten, runs
Farthest before them—Good my Sovereign!
Take up the English short, and let them know
Of what a Monarchy You are the Head;
Self-Love was never half so vile a Sin,
As Self-neglecting;—If they be not fought withall,
Let us not live in France; Let us quit All,
And give our Vineyards to a barbarous People.

Fr. King.
'Tis strange, methinks, that a few Sprays of us,

Our Syens on a wild, and savage Stock,
Shou'd shoot thus suddenly into the Clouds,
And overtop their Grafters.

Bour.
Bastard Normans!
Death to the Fame of France, if they march on,
And are not met, and fought, I'll sell my Dukedom.

Fr. King.
Admit the Duke: We'll give him present Audience. [Exit Bourbon.

Dau.
Shame of Arms!
Whence is it that these English have their Mettle?
Is not their Climate foggy, raw, and dull?
Does not the Sun, in spite, look pale upon them?
Can their boil'd Water, muddy Barley Broth,
Inspire their Blood with such a warlike Heat?
And shall ours, spirited with Wine, be frosty?
Oh! for the Honour of our blushing Country!
Let us not hang like roping Isicles,
Fix'd to our House's Thatch, while this cold People
Sweat in our Sun, and fatten on our Shame.

Fr. King.
Be not too rash—a Kingdom's Care requires
Sedate Advice, and cool Resolves, in Danger.

Dau.
Your Pardon, Royal Sir! by Faith, and Honour,
Our Madams mock us, and, in plain Terms, say,
Our Mettle is worn out; and that these English,
Men of more promising, and active Mould,
Must new-store France with bastard Warriours;
They bid us to the English dancing Schools,
And teach la Valta's high, and swift Curranto's:
For all our Grace, they say, is in our Heels,
And that we are most lofty Runaways! Enter Duke of Exeter, conducted by Bourbon, attended by Harriet, and other English.

Fr. King.
What would our Brother of England?

Exe.
He greets You, Sir;
And wills You to divest your borrow'd Glories;
Namely the Crown, and all the wide-stretch'd Honours,

Annex'd by Custom, and the Growth of Time,
To the fam'd Throne of France, with all her Dukedoms;
And that you may not stile it an old Claim,
From the dry Dust of dark Oblivion rak'd,
He sends you this most memorable Line;
There, when you have o'erlook'd his Pedigree,
From the Third Edward evenly deriv'd,
He, from your Justice, hopes the Resignation
Of your large Kingdom, indirectly held
From Him, the Native, and True Challenger:
This is His Claim, and here my Purpose ends,
Unless the Dauphin be in Presence—To Him
I bring a separate Greeting.

Dau.
For the Dauphin
I stand to answer;—What to Him from England?

Exe.
Defiance, slight Regard, Contempt, or any Thing,
Which may not misbecome the mighty Sender;
If, by the Grant of all Demands at large,
You not attone your late presumptuous Insult,
He'll call You to so hot an Answer of it,
That France shall tremble for Her Prince's Folly.

Dau.
Tell the too Proud Invader, that our Arms
Cou'd, at lost Harfleur's Gate, have check'd his Rashness;
But 'tis held wise to wait an Injury's Ripeness—
And then to bruise it—Harry's a Man of Health,
But his poor Realm will sicken at this War,
And his Exchequer die of a Consumption,
Catch'd, in repaying France her little Losses.

Exe.
There let it rest—our King in Person comes.
Act as you speak, and he'll forgive you all.

Fr. King.
We will in Counsell weigh th' important Message,
And you shall be dispatch'd with fair Conditions. [Exeunt Omnes, but the Dauphin, and Harriet.

Dau.
What new Discovery makes the friendly Scroop,
That brings my little Hermes back so suddenly?

Har.
Great Prince, your English Friends commend them to you:
The Gold, your Bounty's Pledge, they have receiv'd,
And, with due Thanks, accept the Princely Favour;
Warmly inspir'd with Zeal for Peace, and You:
Their earnest Care is bless'd, by full Detection
Of a base Plot, to shake your Country's Quiet,
With the deceitful Hand of feign'd Accord.

Dau.
Come to my Arms, thou more than manly Spirit!
Dress'd in a Woman's Softness! why, Thou Charmer!
Thou Angel of a Traitor! what a Treasure
Of Honour and Reward does All France owe Thee!
Say, my Endymion! my Adonis! tell me,
What wou'd thy Country do?—Can Englishmen
Be Plotters?—Policy, and They, of old,
Convers'd, like Strangers; Good, rough, heavy Meanings,
Plain Truths, and sturdy Blows, were what they dealt in;
If they turn Statesmen, 'twill, indeed, concern us.

Har.
I am to urge your Highness's Consent,
That you wou'd hear my Message in the Presence
Of your illustrious Sister.

Dau.
My Sister? Does it then concern the Marriage?

Har.
It does suprizingly.

Dau.
By heaven, it pleases me; I'll bring Thee to Her. [Exeunt. Scene 2 SCENE changes to the Princess's Pavilion. The Princess, and Charlot.

Prin.
No, no, my Charlot! I disdain the Motive;
Love is a Flame, too bright, too clear, to burn

As Interests bids it;—What imports it me,
That coward France can shake at sudden Danger!
What are my Father's Fears to my Affections?
Shall I, because this hotbrain'd King of England
Sweeps o'er our Land with War, and Devastation,
Shall I, for That, grow fond of the Destroyer?
Smile at the Waste of his unpunish'd Insolence,
Throw myself Headlong into hostile Arms,
And sell my Peace of Mind, to save my Country?
Rather shall Death possess me, than this Harry.

Char.
O! who can blame you for so just an Anger!
How could your Royal Father think such Ruin?
Such Blasts to nip your Joy?—what! cross the Ocean,
To waste your lovely Youth in a cold Island,
Cloudy, and dull! cut off from all Mankind,
Stormy, and various, as the People's Temper!
While the wide Continent is fill'd with Kings,
Who court your Beauty, and wou'd die to please you.

Prin.
Am I, because they call my Father Sovereign,
To be the Slave, the Property, of France?
Can nothing buy their Peace, but my Undoing?
How nobler were it to quell Rage with Fury!
In Arms to check the bold Invader's Pride,
Meet Storm with Storm, and buckle in a Whirlwind?
Then, if the dire Event swept me away,
My Ruin, tho' 'twere dreadful, would be glorious:
But to hold out a Proffer of my Person,
Poorly, and at a Distance! Hang me out,
Like a shook Flagg of Truce!—oh! 'tis a Meanness,
That shames Ambition, and makes Pride look pale!
Where is the boasted Strength of Manhood, now?
Sooner than stoop to This, were mine the Scepter,
I wou'd turn Amazon;—My Softness hid
In glittering Steel, and my plum'd Helmet nodding
With terrible Adornment, I wou'd meet
This Henry with a Flame more fierce than Love:

Enter Dauphin and Harriet.

Dau.
How's this, my Sister? Fir'd with Rage, and Menace?
What hapless Object has inspir'd this Transport?

Prin.
The Kingdom, Brother; Is it then a wonder,
That I, with due Disdain, receive the News,
That I am doom'd your Victim?

Dau.
You have Reason,
'Tis on that Subject, I would gladly speak,
And wish your private Ear. [Exit Charlot.

Dau.
This gentle Youth,
Th' experienc'd Friend of France, brings some Discovery,
Which nearly touching your lov'd Interest, moves me
To hear th' important Message in your Presence.

Har.
Oh! matchless Pattern of imperial Beauty!
That Heaven, that gave you Charms, protects 'em strongly:
Your Royal Father, the known Friend of Peace,
Still nobly anxious for his Country's Safety,
Sent a late Embassy, and offer'd You:
You, fam'd for Beauty! You, much more a Princess
By your distinguish'd Charms, than by your Birth.

Prin.
'Tis well, young Orator! Flattery, I find,
Is of your Island's Growth; so warm a Vice
Cou'd not, I thought, have brook'd so raw a Climate.

Dau.
On with thy Tale;—If Flattery is a Sin,
Her Mercy has been taught to give it Pardon.

Har.
I need not tell you, how our stubborn Monarch,
Safe in blind Distance, and a Stranger yet
To those all-conquering Eyes, refus'd the Offer;
Refus'd a Gem, whose countless Value, known,
Will make Refusal its own Punishment:
Yet 'twas refus'd.—But when th' Ambassadors
Were, with severe Defiance, sent away,
Henry a sudden Council call'd together;
In which, forgetful of his boasted Plainness,
That open, honest, Heart, he would lay Claim to:

He told his Lords, and gain'd their joint Concurrence,
That, when advanc'd still farther into France,
When Fire, and Sword shou'd spread his Fame before Him,
Means wou'd be found to close with courted Peace,
And wed the Princess with improv'd Conditions;
'Tis true, he cry'd, I hate Her, for her Race,
But what has Love to do in Prince's Weddings?
The Match will serve to lull their Arms asleep;
And, when that fair Occasion smiles upon me,
I'll seize th' unguarded Kingdom—

Dau.
Why, 'tis well!
Forewarn'd by this Intelligence, we'll match Him
With Treasons, which become a Man's Designing:
He weaves the Web too course; not every Will
Is fram'd for Mischief—Policy requires
Spirit, and Thought! mere Blood and Bone can't reach it.

Prin.
You, Brother, may content yourself with That;
But I not brook so well the Shame design'd me;
I am, on Both Sides, then, the Toy of State!
One King's Condition, and the other's Engine!
The Tool, which Harry's Treason is to work with!
Whence shall I borrow Rage to speak my Anger?
O! aid me, all ye Stings of Indignation!
Lend me thy Gall, thou bitter-hearted Jealousy!
And every Fury, that can lash, assist me!
What will my Peacefull Father say to this?
Yes! He has chosen nobly for his Daughter!
Charles has a generous Son-in-Law in Harry:
O France! What lazy Frost has chill'd your Blood?
Where is that Pride of Arms, that boasted Courage,
Which your vain Tongues are swell'd with?—Where's the Soul,
That, in the warlike Gauls, your glorious Ancestors!
Shook the proud World, and sham'd the Roman Cæsars?

If there remains the Shadow of past Glory,
If any Spark yet glimmers in your Breasts,
Of your once furious Fire, Go, down upon Him;
Scatter his Army, like the Wind-driven Sands,
Seize him alive, and bring him me a Prisoner.

Dauph.
Prithee, no more of this vain, Woman's, Raving;
What we can do, we will:—But, for the Marriage;
Spite of this new-given Argument, I fear,
My Father's Love of Peace will force it forward.

Prin.
Sooner shall the two Kingdoms join their Cliffs,
And, rushing with a sudden Bound, together,
Dash the dividing Sea, to wash the Clouds.

Har.
What I have said, Your Highnesses will hold
As a fair Proof, however else unwelcome,
That you have watchful Agents;—well they know
The faithless Henry's Love of Change, and Roving;
And, when they thought, with Pity, on the Crowds,
The countless Crowds, of Beautys, He has ruin'd,
Then scorn'd, and left, for new ones, they grew sad,
And, sighing, told each other, 'twere a Shame,
The lovely Princess shou'd be match'd so ill! Enter Duke of Bourbon.

Bour.
Prince Dauphin! our Designs miscarry widely;
Your needful Presence, only, can support us:
The King, hem'd in with cringing Parasites,
Debates, what Answer shou'd be sent to Henry:
And seems determin'd to propose an Interview
With England's King, a shameful Interview!
To urge this Match!

Har.
O, Madam, strive to cross it;
Or you are lost for ever!—Henry's Eye,
Shou'd he once see You, will reform his Will,
And he'll forego the Crown, to conquer You

Dauph.
Tarry, till I return, with swift Instruction,
What Answer you shall bear our English Friends. [Exeunt Dauphin and Bourbon.

Prin.
—What! and no more, than so? gone thus, and left me
Distracted, unassur'd, and torn with Terrors?
O! perish all the wily Aims of Policy!
These Statesmen's Craft confounds the tortur'd World:
And Truth, and Innocence, are hunted by them.
O! hard Condition ours! twin-born with Greatness!
What infinite Heart's Ease does high Birth lose,
That the low World enjoys!—and what boast we,
Save Ceremony, which low Life has not too?
And, what art Thou? thou, Idol Ceremony?
What else, but Place? Degree? and empty Form?
What drink'st thou of, instead of Homage sweet,
But poison'd Flattery?—O! be sick, vain Greatness,
And bid thy Ceremony give thee Cure?
Canst thou, when thou command'st the Beggar's Knee,
Command the Health of it?—No, thou proud Dream!
Laid in thy high-rais'd, and majestick Bed,
Thou sleep'st less soundly, than the wretched Slave;
Who, with full Body, and a vacant Mind,
Gets him to Rest, cram'd with distressful Bread,
Never sees horrid Night, that Child of Hell!
But sweats in the Sun's Eye, from Rise to Set,
And follows so the ever-rolling Year,
With profitable Labour to his Grave!
And, but for Ceremony, such a Wretch,
Winding up Days with Toil, and Nights with Sleep,
Has greatly the Advantage of a King!
But I neglect the Stranger—Gentle Youth!
Forgive me, that my Sorrows, breaking o'er me,
Half drown'd Remembrance of the Thanks, I owe You;
Why look you sad?—does any Grief oppress you?

Har.
Alas! great Princess! Grief, and I, have, long,
Too long! been join'd—Perhaps, twou'd tire your Ear,
To amuse you with a Tale of private Woe;
Else, I cou'd melt your Pity into Tears,

And force some Sighs, to honour my Distresses:
I have a Sister—Ah! no—I had a Sister!
Whom flattering Lovers call'd her Sex's Wonder!
Deceitfull Henry saw, and, seeing, lov'd Her:
He knelt—he swore—he pray'd—he sigh'd—he threatned—
Like Heaven, he promis'd Joys, beyond expressing:
My Sister, long resisting, felt, at last,
The rising Passion swell her struggling Soul;
The kindled Fire grew stronger by Resistance,
And warm'd her slow Desire to yielding Ruin:
There broke the Charm—the fancied Treasure vanish'd,
And bitter Penitence, and conscious Guilt,
Became the gnawing Vultures of her Bosom;
The treacherous Prince no longer vow'd a Passion,
But basely shun'd the Wretchedness, he caus'd.

Prin.
See if the tender Creature does not weep!
Alas! thy mournful Story fills my Heart,
With Grief, almost as powerfull as thy own;
Trust me, 'twas base in Henry, thus to leave Her.

Har.
O, Princess! He's a general, known, Deceiver!
Far may your Fate divide you from his Wiles!
I cou'd swell Time, and wear away the Sun,
In dismal Stories of his perjur'd Loves. Re-enter the Dauphin.

Dau.
Curses unnumber'd blast the cank'ry Breath
Of yon vile Sycophants!—I came too late;
The mean Resolve was past;—My Arts prevail'd not:
The two Kings meet, and all my Hopes are Air.

Har.
Something must be resolv'd, that may prevent
This dangerous Treaty, or you're lost for ever.

Dau.
Fear not, I'll manage All to our Advantage;
But let us waste no Moments;—Here, within,
I will instruct you further in my Purpose.

  Now Fortune aid me, and inspire my Soul
With Force, these peaceful Counsels to controul;
Meekness, tho' wise, sits, tottering, on a Throne,
And suffering Kingdoms King's false Steps attone;
In me let France her ancient Fire resume,
Or crush me nobly in my Country's Doom. End of the Second Act.

ACT III. SCENE I. SCENE, A French Pavilion. Princess, and Charlot.

Princess.
O, Charlot! how will this new Tryal shake me!
What shall I do to arm my threaten'd Mind
Against th' Assaults of Madness?—Tyrant Duty!
Why are thy Laws so binding?—If Obedience
Must thus be blind, then, sure! Command shou'd see
With Eagle-Ey'd Discernment!—Unkingly Father!
As if, to offer me, were Shame too gentle,
Curse on the blushful Thought!—I'll go to meet him!
Meanly obtrude my self upon his Scorn,
And hear the Bargain of my Price debated!
Is this to be a Princess? Perish Pride!
Oh let my base Example teach the Humble,
How happy 'tis to stand below Ambition.

Char.
Were my poor Counsell worthy Your Attention,
There's yet a Way, perhaps, to move the King;
His Tenderness is Equal to his Fear,
And may be mov'd to counterpoize Your Danger:
Disclose, with speaking Tears, the fatal Secret;
Tell him, how All Your Heart, already fill'd,
Has Room for no new Comer.

Prin.
Art thou mad?
That were a dreadful Means to wound me deeper:

The Pride of State wou'd then new-fire his Anger,
And I, by Force, driv'n on, to wed this Monster,
This fighting Dæmon in the Dress of Royalty!
Shou'd lose all Hope once more to see the Stranger,
The lovely, unknown, Conqueror!—whose Addresses,
Whose, not to be describ'd, unnam'd, Perfections,
Twelve long Months since first charm'd my list'ning Soul,
Spite of unequal Birth, to wish him mine,
And even tho' hated England gave him Being.

Char.
There I have something new, to warm Your Hope with:
Led, by kind Chance, among the shining Train
Of English Youth, who came with Exeter,
Occasion gave me Scope to form some Questions,
Which past as an unmeaning Love of Novelty:
I ask'd what Cavalier, some twelve Months since,
Glitt'ring with Gems, outshone by his Behaviour,
Came with the Earl of Westmorland to France;
Was call'd his Nephew, thrice appear'd at Court,
Then vanish'd, on Pretence of further Travel:
By this Description, All, at once, agreed,
That Owen Tudor was the Person meant;
And lavish'd Hours of Rhetoric in his Praises.

Prin.
Alas! did I not know all This before?
England boasts no such Charmer, but her Tudor!
This is not, what I hop'd, from thy Beginning.

Char.
I further learnt, that Tudor's Birth is such,
As may entitle Him to Royal Love;
That fear'd Objection is of Force no longer,
When Your great Father shall perceive Your Flame,
Burning, undimn'd, for an Imperial Off-spring,
Deriv'd from a long Line of Britain's Kings.

Prin.
Ay! this indeed strikes Lustre thro' my Sorrows!
There's Promise in this Hope—O! gentle Charlot!
Secret, as Death, conceal the dear Intelligence,

As a last Prop to my endanger'd Passion:
Now, will I boldly meet this Champion Lover!
This courtly Sir—who woo's in War, and Thunder! Enter Dauphin.
So, Brother, will the King consent to spare me?
Or must I stoop to see this shamefull Interview?

Dau.
You must excite Your Spirits to Your Aid,
And bid a bold Defyance to Your Blushes;
I've try'd all Arts, in vain, that Reason teaches.
Come!—I must guide You to the Lists of Love,
And You must teach Your Charms new Ways of Wounding:
The King will have Your Beauty take the Field,
And does not fear, he says, but You can conquer!—
Him, whom our Armies fly from, You must face.

Prin.
Yes—I will go; but not, as He expects me,
I'll face this Foe of France; like France's Daughter!
The Woes of Ruin overtake those Reptiles,
Whose dronish Souls, bent under Age, or Fear,
Have thus misled their Master!—Yes, my Eyes
Shall dart keen Glances—but the Wounds, they give,
Shall be of Shame, not Love— [A Trumpet sounds.

Dau.
Hark! That shrill Trumpet's Notice summons Us!
Now, Sister! rouze your Gall; and loose those Storms,
Those restless Tempests, which, provok'd, by Scorn,
Whirl, with impatient Rage, round Woman's Soul:
Fearless, defend the Freedom of Your Choice,
And, with bold Innocence, assert Your Hate;
I'll watch the rising Moments of Occasion,
And aid Your glorious Purpose, all I can:
  Come—Let us dare the Brink of this rude Precipice,
Which, cutting off our Way, must stop our Journey,
Or, being bravely leapt, make Safety honourable. [Exeunt.

SCENE changes to a Barrier, on a Bridge, Trumpets from Both Sides: Enter, on one Part, the French King, on the Bridge, attended by the Dukes of Orleans, and Bourbon, &c. below:—On the other Side of the Bridge, King Henry, with the Dukes of Exeter, and York, Scroop, Cambridge, and Gray, below: [The Kings Embrace over the Bar.]

Fr. King.
The Peace, we wish for, smile upon this Meeting!
Health, and the Joys of a long happy Life
To our lov'd Brother England!—Right glad we are
Thus to behold Your Face; Bless'd be the Issue
Of this good Day! that these contending Kingdoms,
England, and neighb'ring France! whose Chalky Shores
Look pale with Envy, at Each other's Happiness,
May, henceforth, cease their Hate, and plant Accord!
'Till War no more advance her bleeding Sword,
To prey on Strife between them!

K. Henry.
To This, Amen!

Fr. King.
Since we thus meet You, let it not disgrace me,
If I demand th' Impediment, why Peace,
Dear Nurse of Arts! shou'd not in this best Garden
Of the fair World, lift up her lovely Visage?
Too plain, alas! the Marks of her short Absence!
Our Vine, the merry Chearer of the Heart,
Withers, unprun'd;—Our Hedges, shooting wild,
Like careless Pris'ners, overgrown with Hair,
Thrust forth disorder'd Twigs; Darnel, and Hemlock,
Root on our fallow Lays, and, springing thick,
Beneath their Shade, hide the neglected Culter.

K. Hen.
Not for Delight in Blood have we thus far
Advanc'd our Standard in the Eye of France;
Our deep-laid Purpose boasts a nobler Meaning:

The Eye of Kings shou'd watch their People's Safety:
And Ill shou'd I discharge the Trust, Heaven leads me,
If, sleeping o'er the Wrongs, You do my Country,
I not demanded back the Power, You hold,
And turn, with threatning Point, against our Bosom.

Fr. King.
Of this, already, we have let You know
Our Thoughts, and Purpose;—It remains, to weigh,
If, by wide-differing Means, we may not reach
The End, we jointly aim at?—Many Arrows
Come to one Mark; Far distant Rivers flow
Ten thousand Ways, yet meet in one main Sea!
How many Lines close in the Dial's Center!
So, may our various Purposes, at last,
Meet, in one fix'd Resolve, and please us Both. Enter the Dauphin on the Bridge, leading the Princess in a Veil, attended by Charlot.
Our Son, the Dauphin, has, we hear, of late,
Fir'd with the first warm Flash of Provocation,
Return'd Defiance, with too fierce a Throw;
Young Blood will boil;—and You, so fam'd for Courage,
Will weigh That Error light;—Receive Him, Brother,
As one, who wishes Peace, and seeks Your Love. [Presenting the Dauphin.

Dau.
Sir! Kings, and Fathers, claim a double Right [To King Henry.
To tax our Duty; and will be obey'd;
I wou'd have met you with a warmer Grasp,
Had France been held by me; but since His Will,
Who governs mine, holds back the Edge of War,
And wou'd reach Peace, by Roads, less sharp, and rugged,
I greet your Royal Presence; and submit
To Measures, which I cannot, yet, approve.

K. Hen.
Approve is mine—I'm yet your Debtor, Sir,
But purpose to repay the Favour soon;
The Time is near, when you, perchance, may feel,
That wise Defiance should be arm'd with Safety,
And Fierceness, wanting Strength, but gnaws herself.

Dau.
When That wish'd Time—

Fr. King.
Our Son, reply no more;
Daughter! Your Hand.

Prin.
Your Pardon, Royal Sir! if I offend,
Or seem to wrong the Promise of my Duty!
I came in forc'd Obedience to Your Will,
To attend this Interview;—But if your Majesty
Permits me to declare my secret Thoughts
Of England's King, our publick Enemy;
Then, let that Duty, which I owe my Country,
Inspire me to confess, what fix'd Aversion,
What rooted Hatred, Nature bids me bear
To Him, of all Mankind, the most abhorr'd;
Who brings Destruction on to mark his Way,
And woo's the Daughter, with the Father's Ruin.

Dau.
Bravely declar'd, thou Sister of my Soul! [Aside.

K. Hen.
Sorry we ought to be, that War's Offences
Have made the Fair our Foe;—You are an Enemy,
Whom we, spite of Your being such, can fear!

Prin.
Oh my high beating Heart! 'tis Tudor's Voice!

K. Hen.
In vain you shade Your Charms—That lovely Face,
Hid, as it is, remains no Stranger to us;
We wear Your Image, Lady! on our Heart.

Prin.
'Tis He!—'Tis Tudor!—O! amazing Chance! [Aside.
Where slept my Soul, that, at our first Approach,
It flew not forth to meet him?—Support me, Charlot,
A sudden Mist dances before my Eyes.
O, Charlot! This is He! Whom we thought Tudor [To Charlot.
Was Royal Henry! What a Chance is This?
Let me lean on Thee to devour his Accents,
And gaze him thro' at every word, He speaks!

K. Hen.
Drawn by the soft Remembrance of Your Charms,
Which, in my late-lost Father's Days, I saw,
When, at Your Court, I was a Guest unknown;
In Honour, Madam! of your hostile Beauty,

I stopt th' impetuous Progress of my Arms!
Rein'd in the Vigour of impatient War,
And wasted Fortune's Smiles, to gain this Meeting:
If I, now, listen to the Voice of Peace,
Whence must it come, but from the Call of Love?
When You, fair Foe! shall try your wondrous Power,
I cannot promise Fame t'oppose Your Will;
The healing Sweetness of your soft Command,
Spread o'er your rescued Land, might quiet War;
Might, like sweet Musick's Influence, still Your Air;
Might bid loud Discord die away, before it,
And drown th' inspiring Trumpet's shrill Alarms.

Prin.
Foe, as you are to France, there shines, methinks,
A kind of manly Merit in Your Meaning;
Something! I know not what, that Courage charms with,
Wakes my Discernment to admire Your Worth:
And, spite of my Resentment, bids me greet You:
Bow to Your Virtues, and confess Your Glory:
Cou'd my Desires incline Your Wills to Peace,
The unbrac'd Drum shou'd sleep, and the glad Trumpet
Fall its fierce Hoarsness, and inspire Delight;
All shou'd be calm, and while th' unruffled Kingdoms
Hush down the troubled Swell of dying Strife,
France shou'd no more, in her torn Bowels, feel
The strong Convulsions, which she shakes with, now.

Fr. King.
Why, that's well said—So speaks the Sex's Softness;
Your gentle Natures were not fram'd for Discord.

Dau.
Sister! That Mist you talk'd of, has, I doubt,
Risen o'er Your Senses, and obscur'd Your Memory.
Sir! on my Knees, since your too gracious Nature [to the Fr. King.
Stands bent to Quiet, and o'ervalues Danger;
I beg Permission to unfold a Notice,
The welcome Import of whose smiling Promise
[Illeg.]se Your Royal Soul, to change its Purpose.

Fr. King.
Rise, and, with all just Freedom, speak your Meaning.

Dau.
Even now, as I approach'd your Royal Presence,
Posts, from our several Camps, have brought Intelligence,
That these rash English are enclos'd betwixt us;
Full sixty thousand French, this Night, surround 'em!
Yet, at this glorious Juncture, we submit
To lose, in Treaty, what is ours by Arms.

K. Hen.
Enjoy, unenvy'd, that imagin'd Benefit:
Courage is poorly hous'd, that dwells in Number:
The Lyon never counts the Herd about him,
Nor weighs how many Flocks, he has to scatter:
My Followers scarce are more, than one to Six
Of Your encircling Swarms;—Sickness has shrunk us,
And the enfeebled Few, whom I command,
Are, now, scarce better, than as many Frenchmen;
Yet, when we please to move, we shall come on,
Tho' France, conjoin'd with such another Neighbour,
Stood in our Way;—Now, even this Night, we'll march!
Passage left free, 'tis well!—if 'tis disputed,
We shall your tawny Plains, with your hot Blood
Discolour.—Now, You know our State, and Purpose.

Fr. King.
Advantage cannot change my Love of Peace,
And I yet offer the propos'd Conditions.

K. Hen.
What, in my Flow of Fortune, I refus'd,
Can never, in its Ebb, deserve Acceptance.

Dau.
France has but slept, proud King, tho' she seem'd dead!
Now shall thy punish'd Folly shame thy Weakness;
Now shalt thou praise our Patience;—England's Insolence
Shall bow beneath the Ransom of her Pride!
I cannot see what Chance can save Thee now;

Thou art so near the Gulph, thou need'st must drive,
Till catch'd, whirl'd round, and swallow'd!—Therefore, haste,
Remind thy Followers of a short Repentance,
That, from our vengeful Fields, their Souls ascending
May make a peaceful, and sedate Departure,
While their doom'd Bodies, mouldring on our Plains,
Enrich our Harvests, and attone thy Mischief.

K. Hen.
Madam! My Heart had Hopes, that Your sweet Voice
Might, free from Interruption, have decided
The yet uncertain End of bloody War;
But This gay Prince, ambitious of Distinction,
Ill brooks, that any but Himself should talk:
Sir!—It is well—Your Words are full of Fire!
Take heed, the dusty Field choak not the Blaze:
My surly Soldiers cannot threaten thus;
Their speaking Actions keep their Valour silent,
And when their Swords find Work, their Tongues are idle;
But for their Bodies, many shall, no doubt,
Find Native Graves; and Monuments, on which
Witness of this Day's Work shall live in Brass:
For those, who leave their scatter'd Bones in France,
Dying like Men, tho' bury'd on your Dunghills,
Even there, your Sun shall greet them with his Beams,
And draw their reeking Honours up to Heaven:
But I grow proud;—This Air of France infects me:
And I am swell'd with your contagious Vanity!
No more—when next we meet, our Swords shall argue.

Fr. King.
Why then 'tis War!—

Dau.
'Tis Glory and Revenge! [Exeunt severally the Kings, follow'd by the English, and French Parties. Princess and Charlot come forward on the Stage.

Prin.
Now! what can Flattery find to give me Comfort?

Where are my Prospects now? Did ever Fortune
Thus send Discovery in a Flash of Hope!
Just to show Joy, then leave it lost in Darkness!

Charl.
How happy had your Highness now been made,
Cou'd you have known, that All you wish'd was Henry!

Prin.
Tormentor! So they paint the punish'd Fiends,
Stung by an envy'd View of distant Heaven!
Now is War's raging Tide again broke in,
And all my Hopes are swept away before it:
O, Cruel! Tantalizing! Curse of Fortune!
In high-try'd Malice just to show him to me!
Just to convince me what a Bliss 'twou'd be,
To have him mine; then, drag him ever from me!
Heaven!—How he talk'd!—His Words, like Summer Breezes,
Ruffled, and fann'd at once my glowing Soul:
O! what a Scorn of Danger grac'd his Eyes!
What wanton Gayness sparkled in His Smiles,
And made even Terror charming! Then his Courage!
With what a clear and equal Fire it blaz'd!
Not blown about, or spread, by Blasts of Anger:
How manly, yet how tender, was his Love!
O! I shall die with Shame of my own Folly;
Who ever labour'd thus to be undone,
And courted her own Misery? who knows,
If the two Armies join, whether his Breast
May not be gor'd, by some ill-guided Spear?
And his Blood pay the Price of my mistaking!
It is too much! O, Charlot! I am mad!
I cannot bear the Thought! Horror distracts me!

Charl.
Lord Scroop's young Messenger not yet has left
Our Camp, but waits some Letters from the Dauphin;
Perhaps, if he were trusted with your Wishes,
He might propose some Means—

Prin.
Ha!—say no more—
For thou hast started something in my Soul,
That bears a Form, too dreadful for Description.
The Letters, which my Brother sends, are meant
To bring on Treason, and inhumane Murder!
The Death of Henry was propos'd from England,
And who can answer for my Brother's Hate?
Crush the false Traytors, All-avenging Heaven!
But Heaven is slow to punish—Let me think—
Why may not I?—I must—I will prevent it—
  Ages to come, when they shall hear the Fame
  Of my just Act, shall bless my living Name;
  What, tho' his Arms my Country's Peace oppose?
  All, who hate Treason, and strike gene'rous Blows,
  Shall praise this Deed, which I to Honour owe;
  And, in the Lover's Cause, forget the Foe. End of the Third Act.

ACT IV. SCENE I. SCENE, The English Pavilion. King Henry, and Duke of Exeter.

K. Henry.
From the French Camp? to speak with me in private!
What can it mean?—and talks of Traitors, said you?

Exe.
Brought to my Tent, she earnestly assur'd me,
I cou'd not more contribute to your safety,
Than by procuring Her a private Andience.

K. Hen.
Admit Her, Uncle. [Exit Duke of Exeter.
A Woman Messenger from the French Camp!
There must be Myste'ry in't—my wakeful Soul
With sudden Hurry, beats the Alarm within me!
Were I inclin'd to superstitious Dreamings,
Or apt to build on Signs, and idle Omens,
There shou'd be Danger near me. Welcome Lady? Enter Charlot.
To what unusual Cause are we oblig'd,
For your fair Greeting?

Char.
If my trembling Lips
Can speak the Purpose of my beating Heart,
I, from the Princess Catharine, come to greet you;
Command a trusty Guard to follow me,
And I will point out a discover'd Traitor;
But lose no Time—The Lords of France, who came
To guide me hither, Strangers to my Purpose,
Hold him, without, in unsuspected Conference:

Haste—lest he scape you, and your threatned Life
Be caught by sudden Danger!

K. Hen.
Life! what Life!
Cool thy Impatience, gentle Lady! stay
And temperately explain thy dark Intention.

Charl.
O! do not trifle with th'important Moments:
Give me a Guard, and save yourself from Treason:
The Princess gives you Life, and bids me tell you,
She will not over-rate the gene'rous Merit;
But hopes, that thus disarming War's worst Meaning
Entitles Her to claim the Thanks of Peace.

K. Hen.
Uncle of Exeter! Enter Exeter.

Exe.
What wills my Liege?

K. Hen.
Call me a chosen Guard. [Exit Exeter.

Charl.
One thing I had forgot;
The Princess, fearful, for her Person's Safety,
Claims Leave to pass your interposing Camp,
And enter yon near Castle, Agincourt;
This was my only known, and publick Errand.

K. Hen.
She shall have Royal, and illustrious Welcome;
The Safety, she bestows, she must command:
We judge the Occasion happy, and we hope,
The noble-minded Princess, passing near,
Will honour us with Licence to declare,
What Thanks our Heart must owe Her; for our Words
Wou'd sully our Conceptions, and deceive Her! Re-enter Exeter, with a Guard.
Go, with this Lady, and observe Her Orders,
And whom she points you out, seize, and secure. [Exeunt omnes, but the King.
My Soul, with keen Impatience, waits the Issue
Of this strange Notice—Treason?—'tis impossible!
Whom has my short Reign wrong'd?—what want a People,

Whom Wealth and Plenty smile upon, at Home,
And whom, abroad, the Fame of Arms makes dreadful?
What wou'd Complaint have more?—Ill-judging Vulgar!
Were it not glorious to make Millions happy,
Who, that had Sense of Bliss, wou'd be a King!
Th' unbusied Shepherd, stretch'd beneath the Hawthorn,
His careless Limbs thrown out in wanton Ease,
With thoughtless Gaze perusing the arch'd Heavens,
And idly whistling, while His Sheep feed round him;
Enjoys a sweeter Shade, than That of Canopies,
Hem'd in with Cares, and shook by Storms of Treason! Re-enter Exeter.
Now Uncle! what Discovery?

Exe.
Near Your Pavilion stood some French of Figure;
And with them a fair English Youth, whom oft
I have observ'd, and wonder'd at his Beauty;
The Lady mark'd him out, then took her Leave,
And as she left, we seiz'd him—

K. Hen.
Let him come in alone. Exeter goes out, and enter Harriet in Confusion.
A very Boy!—Treason in Thee budds early!
Who art Thou? say—to whom thou dost belong?
Silent?—Nay, then, there's Guilt! why art thou dumb?
Come farther this way—if thou shun'st the Light,
Thy Deeds have Darkness in them—Immortal Heaven!
What is it, that I see?—Can'st Thou be Harriet?

Har.
Can'st Thou be Henry, and alive to ask it?
O! 'tis with Justice, Fate, thus, overtakes me,
For having meanly linger'd in my Vengeance!
High Heaven will reach Thee, Tyrant! tho' I cannot;
Since thy still-fortunate Deceits protect Thee;
Since perjur'd Love does not alone upbraid Thee,
But thy Eternal Wiles win all alike,

And even thy Foes grow treacherous, and assist Thee.

K. Hen.
But is it possible, that Thou conspir'st?
That Thou can'st wish me dead?

Har.
Insulting Tyrant!
Cool, frosty-hearted Monster!—Wish Thee dead?
Why, 'tis the only glorious Hope, I live for!
Think on the Miseries, Thou hast wrung my Soul with;
The biting Shame, the never-dying Anguish!
Think on the guilty Arts, the Oaths, the Subtleties!
The endless, inexpressible, Deceits!
The Wiles, and Perjuries, which have undone me!
Think on the feign'd Endearments; studied Graces!
False Smiles; enticing Raptures! labour'd Flatteries!
And all that nameless Train of silent Treacheries,
Which help'd thy tempting Tongue to make me wretched!
Look back on all this dreadfull Pile of Baseness,
And then—Oh! Heaven!—if then, Thou dar'st look farther!
If frighted Memory does not fly thy Soul;
Think, in the bitter Agonies of Conscience,
What follow'd all this Train of Preparation!
See me abandon'd to the Lash of Shame;
Turn'd out an Object for sharp-ey'd Derision,
By Friends forsaken, and disown'd by Kindred:
Wild, and distracted, with unconquer'd Sorrow!
Expos'd, to be the Mirth of wiser Hypocrites,
And stand the Scorn-Mark of the hooting World:
Death!—Thou Destroyer! think of This! and then,
In the cool Insolence of Pride, and Majesty,
Ask me again—if I can wish Thee dead?

K. Hen.
'Tis true, fair Murderer! I have greatly wrong'd Thee!
And, yet, not I—but what I once was, wrong'd Thee:
'Tis a sad Theme, and Reason trembles at it:
Yet, what can be—all, that weak Words can give Thee,

And Grief, and Penitence, and Shame, and Love,
All this sit down, and hear, to calm thy Soul. [Takes her Hand.

Har.
Perish that treacherous Smoothness—
Unhand me, that my curdled Blood, all chill'd,
As at a Serpent's Sting, when thou com'st near me,
May flow in Freedom, and give Power to curse Thee. [Breaks from Him.

K. Hen.
Have You not Prudence? Are you Mad?—Come hither!
I must, by gentle Force, compell thy Passion,
Since Reason cannot guide tempestuous Sorrow:
Calm thy loud Ravings—If thy Shame offends thee,
Why wou'dst thou thus proclaim it? Be wiser, Harriet!
The quick-ear'd Camp will spread the Telltale Sorrow:
Nay, 'tis in vain to struggle; sit, and hear me. [He forces her into a Chair, and sits down by her.
Sit, and be patient, while Repentance pleads,
And Love's soft Sympathy condoles thy Woe;
As yet, this Dress, and its too bloody Purpose
Conceal Thee, and thou may'st be still conceal'd.

Har.
What wilt thou do? Why dost thou thus compell me
Helpless, to listen to the Voice of Ruin? [Snatches at his Sword.
Give me thy Sword—thy Words have lost all Power
To give me Comfort;—Is that, too, deny'd me?
Then I must hear Thee; hear thy base Upbraidings;
Friendless, and destitute of all Assistance,
Must sit, and tremble at my lost Condition:
Yet, Thou art guiltier far, than I can be!
O! Thou wert born to pull down Misery on me, [Weeping.
And, Every Way, to ruin, and destroy me.

K. Hen.
If, in this dreadfull Conflict of thy Soul,
Distracted Judgment holds her ruffled Empire,
Listen, and mark what my sad Heart shall utter.

Fatal our Course of Passion!—Its Effect
Proves bitter—but the Cause was tend'rest Love!
Youth is unbridled, blind, and void of Fear,
Ever determin'd,—deaf to Consequence,
And rolling forward upon Pleasure's Byas:
All Youth is thus—but mine was worse than All!
Wild, and disorderly, beyond Example!
Why did not thy discerning Reason tell thee,
A Wretch, like me, deserv'd no Pity from thee?
How cou'd a Madman's Hurry weigh thy Worth?
But Thou wilt say, my Oaths, and Vows deceiv'd thee!
Ascribe that Guilt to thy own Power of Charming:
When the Blood boils, and Beauty fires the Soul,
What will the Tongue not swear?—Discretion, then,
Does, with a Peacock's Feather, fan the Sun;
Yet, in the midst of all those wild Desires,
Which then divided my impatient Mind,
Thou wert the warmest Wish, my Soul persued!
My Love to Thee was permanent, and strong;
Thy Beauties were my waking Theme; and Night
Grew charming, by soft Dreams of thy Perfection.
Were I, now, what I was, when Harriet bless'd me,
Still were I Hers—My Love can never die!
And I think on thee, Harriet, with such Tenderness,
As dying Fathers bless their weeping Sons with:
And were I not a King, Thou still wert happy.

Har.
Can'st Thou, then, mourn the Sorrows, thou hast caus'd me?
Am I still lov'd?—I thought thou hadst despis'd me.

K. Hen.
Still I regard Thee, with the same Desires;
Gaze, with the same transporting Pleasure, on Thee,
As when our bounding Souls first flew together,
And mingled Raptures, in consenting Softness.
But Kings must have no Wishes for Themselves!
We are our People's Properties! Our Cares
Must rise above our Passions! The public Eye
Shou'd mark no Fault on Monarchs; 'Tis contagious!

Else I, to Death, had borne the dear Delight,
And, bless'd in mutual Transport, still liv'd Thine!
Call it not Guilt then, 'twas a dire Necessity!
And what remains, is tenderest Penitence,
And wish'd Atonement.—For the first, my Soul
In never ceasing Anguish mourns thy Misery:
Were the last possible, my Love wou'd reach it;
But where the Ill's incurable, how vain!
To rack the Suffe'rer with our useless Cordials!
What I cou'd do, was done; but thy Disdain
Made frustrate all my Watchings, o'er thy Fortune;
And, now—

Har.
Enough; O! Yet too lovely, Henry!
My aking Heart, oppress'd, twixt Joy, and Pain,
Can bear no longer the fierce Pangs, it feels:
Take, now—but bless me yet once more, say, Henry!
Once Mine!—Dost thou, with Pity, think on Harriet?

K. Hen.
Pity's too mean a Word to reach my Woe:
The Grief, it gives me, to behold thee thus,
Can but be felt!—'Tis not in Language, Harriet,
To cloath its mighty Bulk with due Description.

Har.
Take, then, these Letters, and be happy still. [Gives him Letters.
They will bring Safety to thee; Canst thou pardon me?
I shou'd have been consenting to thy Murder!

K. Hen.
My sad Heart pardons thee, and hopes it from thee.

Har.
Perhaps, when I go hence, we part for ever!
Pardon me, therefore, if I gaze upon thee;
My Eyes may never more behold thy Face!
The chilling Call of Death has warn'd me from thee,
And I shall be at Peace, ere long, and Happy.

K. Hen.
O! let me kiss away that mournful Sound.

Har.
Forbear—My Soul, too sad, to soften more,
Shrinks from the fatal Folly!—much oblig'd
By this Forgiveness, which has bless'd my Ruin;
By that kind Pity, which you heal my Woes with!
I have but one way left, to thank Your Goodness:

I have one new Discovery, yet, to make You, [Feeling in her Pocket,
Containing the last Secret of my Soul;
I did not think, so soon, to have disclos'd it:
But since, without it, you can ne'er be happy,
I send it, thus—directed to my Heart. [Draws a Dagger, and stabs herself.

K. Hen.
Rash Girl! What hast thou done?—Uncle, of Exeter!
Help me! Who waits without? oh! help! support her! Enter Exeter, and York.
Harriet! the injur'd Harriet, dies!—O, Uncle!
Her catching Grasp, by Fits, strives hard to hold me!
Her straining Eyes half burst their watry Balls!
Vainly they glare, to snatch a parting Look!
And Love, convulsive, shakes her struggling Bosom:
Care comes too late;—Her quivering Lips grow pale;
And frighted Beauty, loth to leave its Mansion,
Ebbs slow, with the unwilling Blood, away:
O! see, the fatal Fruits of guilty Love!

Exe.
The sudden Wonder so confounds my Thoughts,
I know not what Advice to give your Grief:
Poor Harriet! was it Thee, I seiz'd for Treason?

York.
Who waits there?—Gently take away this Body,
Place it within, till you have further Orders;
The mournful Object will but feed his Sorrow. [They carry off the Body. K. Henry opens, and reads the Letters.

K. Hen.
O Uncles! Here is Treason will surprize You!
Letters to some, most near us, from the Dauphin,
Concerning a large Sum of Gold, in Bribe,
For our intended Murder, when the French
Shou'd first join Battle with us.

Exe.
Heaven forbid!
That such false Traitors should be near Your Person.

York.
Have not the Villains Names?

K. Hen.
Wou'd ye believe it? Scroop!

Exe.
Lord Scroop! Your Bosom Favorite!

York.
Is this possible?

K. Hen.
Cambridge, and He, join'd with Sir Thomas Gray!
These Letters lay all open; Their Delivery
Was the last Token of poor Harriet's Love:
How false, and slippery, are the Wills of Men!
—Admit the Counsell;—we'll take instant Care
To crush this Treason; for the Rest in Hand,
Delay we, till to-morrow, all Debate. Enter Scroop, Cambridge, and Gray, with others; who, with the King, Exeter, and York, sit down at the Table.

K. Hen.
Surrounded, as we are, give us Your Thoughts,
My faithful Friends! for, sure, none here have Cause
To wish us Evil!—Think ye, the Troops, we head,
Will cut their Passage thro' th' opposing Frenchmen?

Scroop.
No doubt they will, if Each Man do his Best.

K. Hen.
Can we doubt That?

Cam.
There's not a single Heart in Your whole Army,
That gives not full Consent to all your Wishes.

Gray.
Never was Monarch more belov'd, and fear'd,
Than is Your Majesty—There's not, I think,
Among Your happy Millions, one griev'd Subject.

Scroop.
The Men, who were your Father's Enemies,
Have steep'd their Gall in Honey; and obey You,
With Hearts brimfull of Duty, and of Zeal.

K. Hen.
We judge no less—Uncle, of Exeter!
Enlarge the Man committed Yesterday,
For railing at our Person;—we consider,
It was Excess of Wine, that push'd him forward,
And, on more serious Thoughts, we pardon Him.

Exe.
Your Majesty is rich in Clemency;
And 'tis a Princely Virtue!

York.
Kings, not more
By Power grow dreadful, than rever'd for Mercy.

Scroop.
Yet Mercy, sometimes, favours of Security;
Presumption shou'd be punish'd, lest Example
Spread, by Forbearance.

K. Hen.
Oh! let us still be merciful!

Cam.
So may Your Majesty, yet punish, too.

Gray.
You show great Mercy, if this Fellow lives,
After due Taste of sharp Correction.

Exe.
O! do not thus, with Cruelty's keen Breath,
Blow off, and scatter, the sweet Dew of Mercy;
When, from the Heav'n of Power, that soft Rain falls,
The thriving State looks fresh; Dominion prospers,
And parch'd Rebellion shuts her drowthy Gapings.
Mercy is the becoming Smile of Justice;
This makes her lovely, as her Rigour, dreadfull:
Either, alone, defective:—but when join'd,
Like Clay, and Water, in the Potter's Hands,
They mingle Influence, and together rise,
In Forms, which neither, separate, cou'd bestow.

Scroop.
Well has his noble Grace of Exeter
Declaim'd on Mercy!—Mercy is a Topic,
Copious, and fair; but Men, who councell Monarchs,
Must smile at naked Nature's moral Dreams,
And, skill'd in manly Rigour, cast off Pity:
Pity! that Waster of a Prince's Safety!
What! shall a Villain Hind defy his King?
Spurn at his Laws, and then cry—Help me Mercy!
I wou'd have us'd my Sovereign, like a Slave,
And, therefore, must have Mercy—Out upon't!
'Tis the Priest's Rattle! Heaven's Ambrosial Diet!
Too thin a Food for Mortals!—Men wou'd starve on't:
Mercy is soft, indeed, as his Grace says,
And so is Rottenness in hoarded Fruit;
Yet, is such Softness so far wide of adding
To the Fruit's Value, that, if not cut off,
It spreads Contagion, and o'er-runs the Sound.

Gray.
The Advice is just, and I stand up to second it.

Cambr.
He cannot love the King, who counsells Mercy.

K. Hen.
My Lords! Your too warm Love, and Care of me,
Are heavy Orisons against this Wretch:
But, if small Faults, arising from Distemper,
May not be wink'd at, how must we stretch our Eye,
When capital, cool, Crimes, ripe, and digested,
Shall come before us;—We'll howe'er enlarge Him;—
Now, to our other Business—Our French Cares.
We have thought fit to name three new Commissioners,
For what, the written Causes, here, will show:
My Lord of Cambridge, there is one to you!
This, Scroop! is yours! This yours, Sir Thomas Gray!
Read them, and know, I know your Worthiness! [Gives them the Dauphin's Letters.
Look! how they change! Why, how now, Gentlemen?
What find you in those Papers, that you, thus,
Lose your Complexions?

Cambr.
Sir, I confess my Fault; and 'twere in vain,
Now, to deny, what may be prov'd, too plainly!

Grey.
I, also, own my Guilt.

Scroop.
We throw us on Your Mercy.

K. Hen.
Mercy?—Dare Mercy's Foes lay Claim to Mercy?
You must not dare, for shame, to think of Mercy!
Your own Advice turns short upon yourselves,
And worries you, as Dogs devour their Masters.
Why shou'd you reap a Good, you envy Others?
See you, my noble Lords! these English Monsters!
My Lord of Cambridge, here! you all remember,
How he has shar'd our Favour—yet this Man
Has, for a worthless Sum of shameful Gold,
Conspir'd to kill us, in the Cause of France!
So has This Knight, tho' no less bound to us,
By Acts of Grace, than Cambridge—But, Lord Scroop!

What shall I say to Thee? Thou, who didst bear
The Key of all my Counsels! Thou, who might'st
Have coin'd my Crown out into Gold, to serve thee!
Canst Thou wish Death to Henry?—Is it possible,
That foreign Hire can bribe my Scroop against me?
If that vile Demon, who seduc'd thee thus,
Shou'd, with his Lyon Gait, walk round the World,
He might return, and say to his fellow Fiends!
I cannot, in my boundless Compass, find
One Soul, so easy, as that Englishman's!
O! how hast thou, with Jealousy, infected
The Confidence of Friendship!—A Guard here instantly! Enter a Guard.
Touching our Person, seek we no Revenge;
But we our Kingdom's Safety must so tender,
Whose Ruin you have sought, that, to her Laws,
We must deliver you—Go, bear 'em hence. [Exeunt Scroop, Cambridge, and Gray, guarded.

Exe.
This, as an Earnest of Heaven's Favour, promises
A glorious Issue of our noble Enterprise.

York.
So black a Treason, strangely brought to Light,
Removes a dangerous Rub, from England's Way. [A Trumpet sounds. Exeter, looking out,
  The Princess, in her Way to Agincourt,
Enters your Royal Camp, and passes nigh. Enter Princess, with Charlot and Attendants.

K. Hen.
Instruct my Wishes, fair, and generous, Enemy!
What I shall do, to thank you, as I ought!
You have, in spight of Fortune, conquer'd me,
And I grow weak in Arms, as Love grows stronger.

Prin.
Tho' by the Duty, which I owe my Country,
I must, perforce, regard you, as a Foe;
Yet cou'd I not permit such Worth to fall

By Treason, which, by Arms, I ought to wish
O'erthrown—but shou'd be glad to save, even there.

K. Hen.
From Honour's Lessons I have learnt to know,
That He, whose Life you sav'd, shou'd live for you:
I thought, when, in your Father's Court, I first
Fed my devouring Eye with your Perfection;
I thought, fond Novice, and unlearn'd in Love!
I, then, felt Passion, which cou'd ne'er be heighten'd;
But, now, enflam'd by growing Admiration,
As I come nearer your amazing Excellence,
Dazled with Lustre, I adore your Virtue,
Feel your whole Influence, and am lost in Love.

Prin.
It pleases me, that You, thus, own my Favour!
This noble Gratitude adorns your Nature;
I hope, I shall not vainly put to Tryal
This generous Temper of your Royal Soul:
If I am half so dear to Henry's Wishes,
As his too-flattering Tongue has painted me,
He will not, cannot, then, deny my Prayer:
Accept the Terms, my Father lately offer'd,
And pay me back the Debt, you owe my Care.

K. Hen.
That were to prove unworthy your Regard. [Alarm of Drums, Trumpets, and Shouts. Enter Exeter.

Exe.
The French advance, on every side, upon us,
Spreading, like Mists, they cloud the neighb'ring Hills!
The Dauphin heads them; and they come, determin'd,
To force us on a Battle.

Prin.
Restless Brother!
Unhappy Accident!—O! Royal Henry!
How shall my Wishes speak, divided thus?
Kind Heaven, at least, watch o'er thy noble Person!
And shield thee from the Danger of the Battle.

K. Hen.
The Night comes on; and 'twere a braver Part,
To have their Courage witness'd by the Morning.
Madam! you see, I am not fond of Blood,
Your furious Brother throws Himself upon me,
And if his Country bleeds, He gives the Wound:
Whate'er the doubtful Chance of War may be,
I bear such Memory of your Excellence,
As cannot die, but with me—Uncle, of Exeter!
Be it your Care to see the Princess safe,
To Agincourt's near Castle—May you live
Long to adorn the World with your Perfections!

Prin.
Farewell! and, if we never more must meet,
Think, 'tis our Fate, and not my Choice, divides us. [Exeunt Princess, Charlot, and Exeter. Enter Duke of York.

K. Hen.
Who's That?—Good York.

York.
York, on his aged Knees,
Most humbly begs, since the proud Foe comes on,
He may command your Vanguard.

K. Hen.
Gallant York!
Take, and enjoy, with Glory, thy brave Wish:
Night's sable Scene is now so closely drawn,
The Foe, however rash, must wait the Dawn;
Then, Skill in Arms assist my lab'ring Brain,
And give that Conquest, Valour scarce cou'd gain:
The Souls of Leaders must inspire their Bands,
For all War's Fate lies in the General's Hands. End of the Fourth Act.

ACT V. SCENE I. SCENE, a large Champian, with the Castle of Agincourt at a Distance: on the one side, the English Camp; on the other, the French. Enter, on the French Side, the Dauphin, Orleans, and Bourbon.

Bourbon.

Nay, never go about to dispute it; 'tis the best Armour in the World.

Orl.

The Armour is excellent; but then rob not my Horse of his Due.

Dau.

Will it never be Morning?—My Lords, of Orleans, and Bourbon! you talk of Horse and Armour; I'll not change my Horse for a Diadem— Cha ha—Cha-ha—he bounds from the Earth, as if his Entrails were Hares! he's the Horse of the Muses! the Pegasus!—with Nostrils of Fire! when I once get astride him, I soar! I'm a Hawk!—He trots thro' the Air; the Earth sings when he touches it, and the basest Horn of his Hoof is more musical, than the Harp of Apollo.

Orl.

He's of the Colour of a Nutmeg.

Dau.

And of the Heat of the Ginger! 'Tis a Beast for a Perseus! pure Air, and Fire!—The dull Elements, of Water, and Earth, never appear in him, but only in patient Stillness, while I mount him;—

He is indeed a Horse, and all others of his Kind, you may call Jades.

Bour.

Indeed, my Lord! it is a most absolute, and excellent Horse!

Dau.

He is the Prince of Palfrys;—His Neigh, is, like the Bidding of a Monarch, and his Countenance enforces Homage.

Orl.

Well, but enough of him, Cousin!

Dau.

Psha!—The Man has no Wit, who can't, from the rising of the Lark, to the Lodging of the Lamb, vary deserv'd Praises on my Palfry! the Theme is as fluent as the Sea! Turn the Sands into eloquent Tongues, and my Horse will be Argument for them All!—Will it never be Day?—I will trot him to-morrow, a Mile, and a half, and my way shall be pav'd with English Faces.

Orl.

I wou'd it were Morning; for I wou'd fain be about the Ears of the English!

Bour.

Who'll go to Hazard, with me, for twenty Prisoners?

Dau.

Alas, poor Harry! He longs not for the Dawning, as we do! What a wretched, peevish, Fellow is this King of England, to mope with his fat-brain'd Followers, so far out of his Knowledge?

Orl.

If the English had any Apprehension, they wou'd run away.

Bour.

That Island of England breeds very valiant Mastiffs!

Dau.

Foolish Currs!—that run winking into the Mouth of a Bear, and have their Heads crush'd, like a rotten Apple; you may e'en as well say, 'tis a valiant Flea, that dares breakfast on the Lip of a Lyon.

Orl.

Just!—Just!—and the Men, too, are much a-kin to the Mastiffs!—rough, and robust, in

coming on; but they leave all their Wit with their Wives;—And then give them great Meals of Beef, and Iron, and Steel, and they'll eat, like Wolves, and fight, like Devils.

Dau.

Ay; but these English are shrewdly out of Beef—Come, now we'll in, 'tis about two a Clock,