Nor.
Away, fond Girl! Thou might'st as well presume
To heave a Mountain with those feeble Hands,
Or, with Entreaties, still the raging Wind,
As think to shake my steady Disposition,
And make me supplicate a Traytor's Cause.

Pier.
Had he not rashly step'd into Offence,
I had not knelt to intercede for Mercy.
O Sir, consider, 'tis the Work of Gods
To snatch the Wretched from the Verge of Death,
And lengthen out expiring Nature's Date.
Think too, What Praise, what Pleasure crowns the Deed,
What secret Satisfaction swells the Soul,
Which to it self can say, That Man had dy'd,
Had not my Voice revers'd his fatal Doom!
A greater Triumph to a generous Mind,
Than Victories obtain'd, or Crowns bestow'd.

North.
No more;—I charge Thee, think not of Aumerle;
Or, if thou dost, think of him as a Wretch,
Whom his malignant Stars have made my Foe,
And his bad Conduct has mark'd out for Ruin.
Forget him, for he dies this very Hour,

Pier.
Forbid it Heav'n! O heart-distracting Sound!
My shuddering Soul starts at the dire Alarm,
And shakes my Frame with agonizing Fear.
O if you do not wish to see your Child,

Your Piercy, dead, or raving with Despair,
Fly with a pitying Father's kind Concern,
Solicit Bolingbroke for poor Aumerle.
Why do I say, solicit? Do but ask,
And Bolingbroke must grant. 'Tis at your Hands
He holds the Sceptre, and the People's Hearts:
You rais'd him to the Throne, and One poor Life
Is scanty Retribution for such Gifts.

North.
Rise, thou perverse, rash Fool, and loose thy Hold;
Lest I, in just Resentment, do an Act,
Which I shall wish undone.

Pier.
Dash me to Earth,
Tread on my lab'ring Bosom, spurn me, kill me!
Death shall be welcome to my gladden'd Soul,
If you will promise but to spare his Life.
O, are the Springs of Nature quite lock'd up?
That you, unmov'd, can hear your Daughter's Cries,
See her, all bath'd in Tears, crawl at your Feet,
And not once chear her with the Voice of Comfort?

North.
Away!—There is Infection in her Grief,
Which steals into my Heart, and will unman me. Enter Lieutenant of the Tower.
Welcome to my Relief—How brook your Pris'ners
The Sentence of immediate Death?

Lieut.
My Lord,
They do embrace their Doom, with Minds prepar'd;
Rather impatient for the fatal Stroke,
Than startled, that it reaches them so soon.

North.
'Tis well; their Time's expir'd. Go, bring them forth:
The gracious King, in Mercy, has by Me
Sent one of them his Pardon. Exit Lieut.

Pier.
Sacred Powers!
Grant it be for Aumerle, and I am blest

Beyond Misfortune's Reach.

North.
Who waits without? Enter Servant.
Bid her Attendants take her hence with Speed.

Pier.
Hold, cruel Lord, reverse that needless Order.
I will not meanly linger, like a Slave,
To be, by Vassal Hands, dragg'd from your Presence.
Fain would I flatter my despairing Heart,
That Bolingbroke has sav'd the poor Aumerle,
Tho' sternly you disdain to let me know it.
If so, let Peace and Glory bless his Throne!
Let his Great Name stand forth to after Times
Our England's Triumph, and all Europe's Wonder!
But if, strict in Revenge, he thirsts for Blood,
Just Heaven! then short, and bloody be his Reign:
Let Discontents and Tumults wreck his Peace,
Let fresh Rebellions, like the Hydra's Heads,
Sprout on each other's Necks; and let his Own
Wild Offspring help to gaul his Heart with Sorrow!
  Till Anguish on his Soul so heavy lye,
  That He may curse his State, and wish to dye. Exit.

North.
These Violent Transports may be dangerous,
And make her desperate; which to prevent,
Concerns my Love, and Wisdom. Ho! within,— Enter Servant.
Give Charge, that Piercy's Women still be near her:
That they watch close, nor trust her with her self.
Aumerle once dead, this Extasy of Grief,
That, like a Tempest, now plows up her Soul,
Will settle down, and spend it self in Tears. Exit Northumberland.

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