LADY JANE GRAY. ACT I. SCENE, The Court.* Enter the Duke of NORTHUMBERLAND, Duke of SUFFOLK, and Sir JOHN GATES. Nor. 'Tis all in vain; Heav'n seems to claim its pledge, And he must die. Suff. Is there an honest heart, That loves our England, does not mourn for Edward? Our isle itself seems as if shook with sorrow, "Bowing his venerable head with pain, And labouring with the sickness of his Lord." Religion melts in ev'ry holy eye, All comfortless, afflicted, and forlorn Ev'n now she seems to meditate her flight, Nor. Ay, there, my Lord, you touch our heaviest With him our holy faith is like to suffer; With him our church shall veil her sacred front, The toil of saints, and price of martyrs' blood, * At Greenwich. + See the Editor's Preface, p. 328. R [loss, Ibid, p. 323, 328. Gates. Is there no help in all the healing art, No potent juice or drug to save a life So precious, and prevent a nation's fate? Nor. What has been left untried that art can do? The hoary wrinkled leech has watch'd and toil'd, Tried every health-restoring herb and gum, And wearied out his painful skill in vain. Close, like a dragon folded in his den, Some secret venom preys upon his heart; A stubborn and unconquerable flame "Creeps in his veins, and drinks the streams of life;'* His youthful sinews are unstrung, cold sweats, And deadly paleness sit upon his visage, And every gasp we look shall be his last. Gates. Doubt not, your graces, but the popish faction, Nor. Good Heav'n ordain some better fate for 'Suf. What better can we hope, if she should reign? I know her well, a blinded zealot is she, A gloomy nature, sullen and severe, Nurtur'd by proud presuming Romish priests, instructed To massacre a nation, and believe it An act well-pleasing to the Lord of Mercy. These are thy gods, Oh Rome! and this thy faith.' Nor. And shall we tamely yield ourselves to bondage, Bow down before the holy purple tyrants, And bid them tread upon our slavish necks? "Sorbent avidæ præcordia flammæ." Ovid. Metam. lib. ix. 1. 172. See a Note on these two lines in the Encyc. Brit. Vol. XIII. Pt. 11. p. 562. art. Metaphor. No; let this faithful free-born English hand Suf. Doubt not, there are ten thousand, and ten To own a cause so just. Gates. The list I gave Into your grace's hand last night, declares My pow'r and friends at full. Nor. Be it your care, [thousand, [To Northumb. Good Sir John Gates, to see your friends appointed, And ready for the occasion. Haste this instant, Gates. I go, my Lord. [Exit. Nor. Your grace's princely daughter, Lady Jane, Is she yet come to court? Suf. Not yet arriv'd, But with the soonest I expect her here. I know her duty to the dying king, Join'd with my strict commands to hasten hither, Nor. Beseech your grace, To speed another messenger to press her; Suf. Upon the instant Your grace shall be obey'd. I go to summon her. [Exit Suffolk. Nor. What seeming-trivial causes hold dominion O'er wise men's counsels, and the fate of empire? The greatest schemes that human wit can forge, Or bold ambition dares to put in practice, Depend upon our husbanding a moment.' She must be here, and lodg'd in Guilford's arms, Ere Edward dies, or all we've done is marr'd. Ha! Pembroke! that's a bar which thwarts my way. His fiery temper brooks not opposition, And must be met with soft and supple arts; With crouching courtesy, and honey'd words,' Such as assuage the fierce, and bend the strong. Enter the Earl of PEMBROKE.* Good morrow, noble Pembroke, we have staid [sure, Pem. For mine, my Lord! you mock your servant, Nor. No; as I honour virtue, I have tried, I know not one of all our English peers Whom I would choose for that best friend, like Pembroke. Were not your grace too generous of soul, To speak a language differing from your heart, Nor. No more! I scorn a thought So much below the dignity of virtue. 'Tis true, I look on Guilford like a father, See the Editor's Preface, p. 346. Away with all the fondnesses of nature! I judge of Pembroke and my son alike. Pem. I ask no more to bind me to your service. Then speak your passion to the princely maid, Pem. One' moment's pause, and I attend your grace. [Exit Northumb. Old Winchester cries to me oft, Beware And would not turn me forth from out his bosom, 'But call'd me still his friend.' And see! he comes. Enter Lord GUILFORD DUDLEY. Oh, Guilford, just as thou wert ent'ring here, |