Scroop.
My lord of Cambridge! wherefore dost thou leave
The presence thus, to skulk in holes and corners;
Indulging thy ungovernable spleen?
My life for't, ere 'tis long thoul't be observ'd:
King Harry must be blind he does not mark
The clouds of treason low'ring on your brow.

By heav'n your heart's seen plainly in your face.
Rebellion threatens in your very looks.
Cast off those frowns, for shame; and wear a smile,
As if not Henry, but yourself were king.

Cam.
Now, by th' immortal Edward's honour'd shade,
I cannot do't. This pomp of coronation
Hath set my stirring spirits up in arms.
I'm stung with scorpions that I tamely suffer
This limb of the dead tyrant Bolingbroke
T' usurp the throne of my wife's brother, Mortimer.
Deriv'd from Clarence, the third Edward's son,
Whose birth preceeded that of John of Gaunt;
'Tis clear, in point of right, that Richard's death
Left him the fairest title to the throne;
And shall he live, secluded from the light,
To breathe the dank dews of unwholesome prisons?
To waste the flow'ring season of his days,
Coop'd up within a nook of six foot space,
Of all that kingdom to the which he's heir?
No, by the blood of York, that fills my veins,
I'll right him yet. He yet shall be a king.

Scroop.
Soft, Cambridge, soft—stone walls at court have ears.
Know'st thou not that? I hate as much as thou
The tyrant house of Lancaster. But, stay;
We are not yet in state to pull it down:
To shake it were at peril of our heads.
Remember Percy, Worcester, Hastings, Scroop,
And others, the first nobles in the land,
That idly perish'd in this desperate cause.
Blood hath already been too freely shed
In this still thirsty quarrel: shall we raise
The sleeping axe to fall but on ourselves?
No, be thou wary, cherishing thy hate
No more than is consistent with thy safety.

Cam.
I cannot bear to see this truant youth
Thus disappoint our boldest expectations.
It pours cold water on my smoth'ring hopes,
That blaz'd at the decease of hated Bolingbroke.

Scroop.
Had Harry prov'd the idler we expected;
There had indeed been hopes for Mortimer:
But now—

Cam.
Oh! I could go to daggers with him,
To see his grave demeanour and address;
But yesterday with thieves a pot-companion,
The scoff and nay-word of each manly tongue.
I'm all on fire, to hear his sober prate,
See his mock-majesty and portly mein,
So aping royalty, that all his peers
Cry out in wonder of their gracious king.—
Lord Scroop of Masham, swear thou art my friend.

Scroop.
Cambridge, what now? hast thou not found it oft?

Cam.
I have—no more—shall Mortimer be king?

Scroop.
With all my heart: would 'twere in Masham's power!
But steep and many are the steps between
His lowly cell and England's lofty throne:
Steps which, at present, none may safely tread.
In silence, therefore, hope for better times,
And bear thee evenly till heav'n shall send them.

Cam.
I cannot, tho' at hazard of my head,
I was not form'd to play the hypocrite,
Or wear a face that's foreign to my heart.
Harry regards me with a friendly eye,
Profusely show'ring on me daily favours,
As if he sought to win me from myself:
Methinks I would not give him room hereafter
T'upbraid my soul with that soul sin ingratitude.

Scroop.
How say'st thou? am not I in favour too?
But what of that? dost think what kings bestow,
Is giv'n in love? trust me, 'tis policy;
Mere policy! they must be serv'd—to you
What gives king Henry more than is your own?
For well he knows, that next to Mortimer,
Your wife lays claim to th' crown.—Respecting me,
Think you not Harry builds upon my service?
His kindness too may bribe me to forget
A Scroop was once beheaded by his father.

But, if I do forget it, or forgive,
May heav'n forget me in my last distress.

Cam.
And yet, methinks, revenge so deeply rooted
Might make dissimulation deeply painful.
For me, I know my heart's so full of hate,
That shews of love but hurt me to the soul.

Scroop.
Why what a squeamish conscience, lord, is thine?
Not brook hypocrisy! what else is made
The universal business of mankind?
Mark but the thriving features of the world:
There's not a male, of half a grain of wit,
From childhood upwards, ev'n from ten to eighty,
But is an arrant hypocrite. The school-boy,
Nature whipt out of him and barefac'd honesty,
Plodding with vacant ear and leaden eye,
Follows the fescue, poring o'er his book,
As if he conn'd his lesson; while abroad
His absent mind is robbing groves and orchards,
Or scamp'ring o'er the fields, in truant play.
Grown up to manhood, the hot blood of youth
Urges the lustful stripling, in the dark,
To the rank stews in lanes, blind streets, and allies;
Whence, skulking e're 'tis light, he dons the mask
Of soberness demure, to cheat the day.
See next the worn-out ribaud, past his labour,
Scarr'd by the goujeres of his younger days;
With him hypocrisy turn'd inside out,
He puts the mask on with the worst side outwards,
And chaste, perforce, hires strumpets to abuse him.
In each condition, age, and state of life,
Thus seem men good or bad, they're so far neither;
Better or worse they may: but all agree
To dupe each other by hypocrisy.

Cam.
What argues this but poverty of soul;
The sneaking cowardice of narrow minds?

Scroop.
Cambridge! we live but in a narrow world.
Had individuals all the souls of kings,
This globe would be too little to contain them;
Each grasping at a kingdom for himself.
But, art thou so dispos'd; to Harry—go.

Lay ope thy honest heart, and in return,
He'll take thy head. How weak is this impatience!
I'm ever bound to Mortimer and thee;
But let us not run headlong into ruin.
Fortune's a fickle mistress and a coy one:
Let us, attentive, wait her lucky minute:
'Tis hers to snape occasion, ours to seize it.

Cam.
Impatience! sayst thou? canst thou, Scroop, foresee
A glimpse of aught that in the womb of time
May yield a fairer season for success?
Thou know'st we've many staunch and loyal friends;
And what will boot delay? revenge hath sigh'd
Unsatisfied too long; and desperate ills
Demand a desperate cure.

Scroop.
I'll tell the what.
Thou know'st th' enormous riches of the clergy
Have set the envious barons on their backs;
Who mean, th' ensuing parliament, to strip
The church of half its overgrown possessions.
This, with the late encroachments of the pope,
That gall the king, as touching his prerogative,
Will likely raise commotions in the realm,
And form divisions, we may profit by.

Cam.
As how?

Scroop.
Thou must, by all means, chime in with the clergy;
And raise an interest in the court of Rome.
Assure the legate of your pious zeal,
And that of Mortimer, to th' holy see:
Forgetting not how willing he'd have been,
If England's king, to yield the nomination
Of bishops and their spiritual hangers-on,
Throughout the kingdom, to his holiness:
Hinting beside the payment of th' allegiance
And tribute first exacted of king John.

Cam.
How may this speed?

Scroop.
The clergy on our side,
Should our young king break also with the French,
As in all likelihood he rashly will,
The state in ferment, Rome and France our friends,
Something may be attempted with success.

Cam.
By Heav'n, Lord Scroop, thou hast a plotting head.
In such a crisis, what may not be done?

Scroop.
Mean-while, I undertake to urge the king
In his resentment 'gainst both Rome and France.
But hush, be gone—of this another time.
Yon goes the king. I'm bidden to his closet:
Belike on secret business.—When we meet,
Hold we, in publick, ever diff'rent minds.
Dissimulation as the means is honest,
When honest is the end we mean t'obtain.

Cam.
Well, as I hope our time is near at hand,
I will dissemble, smother up my thoughts,
And mutter as discreetly as I may. [Exit Cambridge.

Previous section

Next section