SCENE IV.--THE GATE OF CÆSAR’S TOWER.

_Enter Lord and Troops._

_Lord._ In, in! for they do scar our very backs; And score us cowards in our hasty flight.

_Enter_ VORTIGERN.

_Vor._ Give me another sword! I have so clogg’d, And badged this with blood and slipp’ry gore, That it doth mock my gripe. A sword, I say!

_Lord._ Here, here, my noble lord!

_Vor._ As with their bloods I stain’d my reeking blade, From summit of the tow’r, the raven croak’d; Th’ heavy-wing’d crow did chatter o’er my head, And seem’d to bear black laurels for this brow: Yet, did not, erst, the sun-defying eagle O’er the world-conquering Macedonian hero, Flutter, and point his way to victory? Then from thy jarring throat spit pestilence; And, bird of hell, I’ll take thee for my guide.

_Lord._ The troops are enter’d; please you follow them?

_Vor._ I love not to be shut in walls of flint: My soul likes better this vast field of air. Let them come on.

_Lord._ Consider, my dear lord; think of your safety.

_Vor._ Must we not die? then, wherefore in a door, And rot with famine, and with pale-fac’d hunger? No; ’twere better nobly fall, full-stomach’d, Than linger out a six weeks’ tedious siege. Do as ye list, here firmly will I stand.

_Lord._ Is it your pleasure, then, they shall proceed?

_Vor._ Ay; e’en to it straight. Nay, stop! why should all these be doom’d to death? Mine is the crime, not theirs.

_Enter_ AURELIUS.

_Aur._ Villain and traitor! at thy word I take thee.

_Vor._ Ah! thy face the semblance of thy father’s bears. Thine eyes do pierce, more than thy steel-clad arm. Were fifty souls within that body cas’d, Proudly I’d scorn them all: but, ah! thy looks--

_Aur._ Thou perjur’d wretch! thou most abhorred villain!

_Vor._ Prate on, prate on: ’tis true, I merit this. But go not yet too far, lest, stripling boy, You should, to indignation, fire my blood, Which thou hast turn’d from out its wonted course, And make it fall on thee.

_Aur._ Alike, I do defy thy rage and threat. Where is my father?

_Vor._ Curse upon thee, thou grat’st my soul! O! if around this tatter’d conscience, e’er Did cling repentance, I now cast it off.

[_They fight and pause._

Nay, stand aloof, and hear me yet awhile.

_Aur._ I will not.

_Vor._ ’Twere better that thou didst, lest, waxing warm, I rise, and pour upon thy unform’d limbs That rage, which ’gins to swell within my veins, And lay a double murder on my soul.

_Aur._ Come on; come on, I say!

[_They fight; Vortigern is thrown to the ground._

Now, tyrant! now, I have thee in my power.

_Vor._ Dost think I’ll blanch my face, and be a coward? A lily coward? No! strike, then! Ne’er will I crave thy mercy.

_Aur._ Now, traitor! where’s my father?

_Vor._ Murdered!

_Aur._ And by whom?

_Vor._ Is not the crown thine own?

_Aur._ Ay; and is mine by right: then, speak, I say!

_Vor._ I will not, boy: hadst thou ten thousand voices, And lungs of brass to give them utterance, I’d not answer aught.

_Aur._ Then die!

FLAVIA _rushes forward_.

_Fla._ O! stop, Aurelius!--stay thy hand! Remember, he is still my father!

_Vor._ My daughter, here! then curse the tardy blow, That lingers thus performing of its office. Strike, strike, I now beseech thee; for I’m sick, And do abhor the very light of heaven.

_Fla._ O, mercy! on my knees I sue for mercy.

_Vor._ ’Twas I, ’twas I! this hand thy father murder’d.

_Aur._ And say’st thou this, e’en to my very face?

_Vor._ Ay, to thy face, and in thy ears I’ll ring it, Till thou for mercy’s sake shalt strike the blow.

_Enter_ WORTIMERUS, CATAGRINUS, _Soldiers, Lords, &c._

_Wort._ What! my father?

_Aur._ My Flavia, for thy sake, I grant him life.

_Vor._ In charity, then, I pray ye bear me hence!

_Aur._ Ay, lead him toward the Friars.

_Vor._ Yea, where ye list; but, take me from this sight.

[_Vor. is led out._

_Aur._ How speeds Edmunda?

_Wort._ Her mind far better fares, yet is she feeble.

_Aur._ And of your father doth she e’er say aught?

_Wort._ Yea, truly; but she haply thinks him dead.

_Enter_ UTER.

_Uter._ Of all, the King hath truly made confession. To you he justly renders up the crown, And bade me hail you Albion’s rightful King.

(_All Kneel._)

_All._ Hail to Aurelius, Lawful King of Britain.

PASCENTIUS _enters_.

_Pas. to Aur._ Vortigern on thee bestows our sister, And bade me, in his name, present her hand:--

_Aur._ Which thus I kiss; and, with the self-same breath, Do hail her wife, and Britain’s lovely Queen.

_All._ All hail to Flavia, Queen of Britain.

_Aur._ Much, we confess, we owe to all here present; Each distinct service we shall well repay, As best our dignity and state befit. To-morrow, Lords, we’ll meet at Westminster; For your ripe ages and experience, Must teach our young and giddy years the way, To sow content after these dismal times.

[_Curtain drops._

“FOOL _comes forward_.”

“Methinks, but now I heard some gentles say,-- Where’s master Fool? I’troth, he’s run away. Right! for look you, when there’s danger near, He, then, most courage hath, who most doth fear; Besides, observe, I came not here to fight, Let him that dares, say nay, I’m in the right: I will not out and risk a knocking down, For though I like our king, I like my crown: Besides, there is a time for Fools to play; But, then, they must have nought, save good to say. Chance, you will ask if this be tragedy; We kill, indeed, but still ’tis comedy: For none save bad do fall, which draws no tear, Nor lets compassion sway your tender ear: Play! grant it, then--the story ye have read, For ’tis well chronicled in Hollinshed. Now give your plaudits, and when that be done, Your Fool shall bow, and thank ye ev’ry one,”

FINIS.

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN BY THE LATE ROBERT MERRY, ESQ.

SPOKEN BY MRS. JORDAN.

Ye solemn critics! wheresoe’er you’re seated, To grant a favour, may you be entreated? For which I’ll pay you proper adoration, And strive to please you--that is my vocation. Then do not frown, but give due share of praise, Nor rend from Shakspeare’s tomb the sacred bays. The scatter’d flow’rs he left, benignly save! Posthumous flow’rs! the garland of the grave! What, tho’ he liv’d two hundred years ago, He knew you very well, as I will show: His pencil sketch’d you, and that seldom errs; You’re all, whate’er you think, _his_ characters. How!--do you doubt it?--cast your eyes around, In ev’ry corner of this house they’re found. Observe the jolly grazier in the pit; Why, he is Falstaff, fat, and full of wit; In fun, and feasting places, his delight; And, with his Dolly, emulates the knight. Look at that youth, whose countenance of wo, Denotes a tender-hearted Romeo! He only wishes, tho’ he dare not speak, To be a glove to touch his Juliet’s cheek! While she, from yonder terrace, smiles serene, And longs, with him, to play the garden scene. But, O! I tremble now:--there sits a man, Rugged and rough, a very Caliban! He growls out his displeasure,--’tis a shame! Do, dear Miranda! make the monster tame. And you, my pretty Beatrice, don’t fret, Your Benedict is fond of a coquette. For tho’ he vows he’ll think no more about you, He means to marry--he can’t live without you. Kind faithful Imogenes are here, to charm us, Mad Edgars, ancient Pistols to alarm us; And Hotspurs, too, who seek the glorious boon, “To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon.” Besides, we have our Touchstones, Shylocks dire, Iagos false, and many a shallow Squire: Nay, there are ladies, who in their own houses, Are Desdemonas, plagu’d with jealous spouses. ’Tis true, there is some change, I must confess, Since Shakspeare’s time, at least, in point of dress: The ruffs are gone, and the long female waist Yields to the Grecian, more voluptuous taste; While circling braids the copious tresses bind, And the bare neck spreads beautiful behind. Our senators and peers no longer go, Like men in armour, glitt’ring in a row; But, for the cloak and pointed beard we note The close-cropt head, and little short great coat. Yet is the modern Briton still the same, Eager to cherish, and averse to blame; Foe to deception, ready to defend, A kind protector and a gen’rous friend.

* * * * *

IN THE PRESS, HENRY THE SECOND, AN HISTORICAL DRAMA, WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR OF VORTIGERN, AND ATTRIBUTED TO SHAKSPEARE.

BALNE, PRINTER, GRACECHURCH STREET, LONDON.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A _fac-simile_ of the forged MS. of the above speech faces the title.

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

Italics are represented thus _italic_.