Beauf.
What of Dame Eleanor?—

Queen.
Speak Buckingham.—

Buckin.
Madam, the Trial is over.

Queen.
But, how?—

Buckin.
I heard her Doom pronounced.—

Queen.
Give me the Words.—
Pronounce it o'er again:—Miss not a Tittle.

Buckin.
The Bishops were unanimous:—When, from his Throne,
Old, venerable Chicheley, thus, gave Sentence.
“Dame Eleanor;—Thou stand'st convict of Sorcery:—
“Sorcery most foul, against the Lord's Anointed;
“Our Sovereign Liege:—A Crime, that merits Death.—
“For which Offence, thy Penance is; Bare-foot,
“To pass along, through the wide City-Streets;
“Carrying a lighted Taper in thy Hand:—
“That every Witness of Thy publick Shame
“May see, No Dignity is rais'd above
“The Censure of the Church.—

Queen.
Proceed.—What, more?—
Pause, yet, a While; and recollect the Whole.

Buckin.
  “This done;—Close Prisoner, in the Isle of Man,
“Remain in Penitence:—And ask, of Heaven, Forgiveness.
  Such, Madam, is the Sentence on the Dutchess;
Who is conducted to the Palace Prison.

Beauf.
A merciful Award, for such a Crime!

Queen.
It is sufficient, Beaufort!—Let her Live:—
Live Infamous;—far, from her Lord, divided;—

The publick Scorn;—Derision of the Court!

Beauf.
I know, your Majesty does not require
Extremity of Justice:—

Queen.
  No!—Let her live!—To Age, in Anguish pine:
And, late, enjoy the Happiness of Death.
  Oh, my Lord Cardinal; Suffolk; Buckingham!—
Condemn me not, my Friends, if I rejoice,—
If I exult, in Eleanor's Confusion!—
Have I not Reason?—Was I not her Queen?—
Yet who, but She, of All the Nobles Wives,
O'erlook'd my Rank; and vied with Me, in Grandeur?—
When She appear'd, loaded with Gold and Jewels,
Sweeping her Train along; All Eyes She drew:
While I stood, disregarded, in the Circle;
Or pass'd, unheeded, through the Throng of Courtiers.
  Now,—let her draw All Eyes:—Now, let them gaze
Their Fill;—as, through the crouded Streets, She walks
In Penance:—Till, wounded with Revilings,
Remorse be fix'd, for ever, in her Soul!—
But,—I have done.—Beaufort; Thy Thought is busy.
Unfold thy Mind.

Beauf.
On this Success,—methinks,—
Another might be rais'd;—of higher Import.—

Queen.
As how?

Suff.
Disclose it to the Queen.

Beauf.
Somewhat,—
More tending—to the Honour—of the King.

Queen.
Speak out; good Cardinal.

Beauf.
And yet,—my Zeal,
Perhaps, is over-sedulous.

Buckin.
Fear not.—
Suffolk and I shall not betray the Secret:—

Suff.
Nor, start from any Purpose,—here, approv'd.

Beauf.
What, though the Duke of Gloucester be a Man,
Not lightly moved?—Yet,—can I well conceive,
His doating Love for Eleanor will raise
A Ferment in his Blood.—Confiding in his Power,
And, desperate to prevent her publick Shame;
He may be wrought to such a Pitch of Rashness,
That We, at once, may lift him from his Office:—
His Usurpation of the Sovereign Power.

Queen.
That were a Master-Stroke, in Policy!

Beauf.
Not, that I bear Displeasure to my Nephew.—
But,—while he stiles himself the Lord Protectour;
He does eclipse the Lustre of the Crown:—

Suff.
That, in Another, would be construed Treason:—

Buckin.
Nor, is it less, in Him.

Queen.
What think you, then; my Lords?—
Seems not the Cardinal to counsell wisely?

Suff.
I think, the Event will answer to our Wishes.

Buckin.
It cannot fail.

Queen.
Then,—am I Queen, indeed!—

Beauf.
Or,—should our Expectation fail.—Why, then;—
We think,—again.—You, my Lord Buckingham,
Find Gloucester out;—and, sharpen his Resentments:
While I prepare my Brethren, to assert
The Justice of their Sentence.

Queen.
May your Purpose
Prove as successful, as the Hopes are pleasing

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