_Open Country._
_Enter the MARQUIS OF MONTAGUE, EGBERT, and
other LORDS of the White Rose Party, SOLDIERS, &c._
_Mont._ Cheerly, my valiant friends! the field is ours.
The scatter'd Roses of the Lancasters,
Now deeper tinted, blush a double red,
In shame of this defeat. Oh! this will much
Rejoice King Edward!--Say, has any friend
Made Henry sure?
_Egbert._ He is escaped alone, my lord! and Margaret,
Who, with her little son, went, hand in hand,
Hovering about the field, with anxious hope,
Ev'n to the very last; when she perceived
Her lines broke thro'--her troops almost dispersed,--
She hung upon her boy, in silent anguish,
Till the big tear dropt in his lily neck:
Then, kissing him, as by a sudden impulse,
Which mothers feel, she snatch'd him to her bosom,
And fled with her young treasure in her arms:----
Nature so spoke in't, that our very soldiers
Were soften'd at the scene, and, dull'd with pity,
Grew sluggish in pursuit.
_Mont._ Well, let them go:--
Their cause is, now, become so weak, and sickly,
That, tho' the head exist, to plot fresh mischief,
They will want limbs to execute,--Their House,
(Once strong and mighty,) like a a palsied Hercules,
Must, now, lament it has outlived its powers.--
Meantime, as we return, in pride of conquest,
Let us impress the minds of Englishmen
With new-won glories of the House of York.
Strike drum!--Sound trumpet!--Let the air be rent,
With high and martial songs of victory.
GRAND CHORUS.
_Strike!--the God of Conquest sheds_
_His choicest laurels on our heads:_
_Mars, with fury-darting eye,_
_Smooths his brow, and stalks before us;_
_Leading our triumphant chorus,_
_Hand in hand, with victory._
_And hark! the thund'ring drum, and fife's shrill tone,_
_With brazen trumpet's clang, proclaim the day our own._
[_Huzzas._
ACT THE SECOND.
SCENE I.
_A Cave, in Hexham Forest; in which ROBBERS are discovered, drinking._
OLD GLEE, AND OLD WORDS.
_When Arthur first, in court, began_
_To wear long hanging-sleeves,_
_He entertain'd three serving-men,_
_And all of them were thieves._
_The first he was an Irishman,_
_The second was a Scot,_
_The third he was a Welshman,_
_And all were knaves, I wot._
_The Irishman, he loved Usquebaugh,_
_The Scot loved ale, called blue-cap;_
_The Welshman he loved toasted cheese,_
_And made his mouth like a mouse-trap._
_Usquebaugh burnt the Irishman,_
_The Scot was drown'd in ale;_
_The Welshman had like t' have been choak'd with a mouse,_
_But he pull'd her out by the tail._
_1 Rob._ Sung like true and noble boys of plunder! Isn't this
free-booting spirit, now, better than leading a cowardly life of musty
regularity? Honesty is a scarce and tender commodity, that perishes
almost as soon as it appears:--the rich man is not known to have it,
for fortune has never put him to the test; and the poor blockhead, that
boasts on't, dies for hunger in proving it.
_2 Rob._ Right; it is but a fever in the blood, that soon kills the
patient if it be not expelled.--I had the fever, once.
_4 Rob._ And what was your cure for't?
_2 Rob._ Starving. Ever while you live, starve your fever:--when
honesty is your case, only call in poverty as physician, and the
disease soon yields to his prescriptions.
_1 Rob._ Pshaw! plague on your physic? aren't we taking our wine in the
full vigour of roguery? This it is [_Holding the Bottle._] that gives
courage to poor knaves to knock down rich fools, in the forest;--just
as it gives rich fools spirits to sally forth, and break poor knaves'
heads, in the town. Come, as I'm Lieutenant, and our Captain is prowling,
let's to business:--read over the list of our yesterday's booties.
_2 Rob._ Agreed! but, first, one more round; one health; one general
health, and then we'll to't.
_1 Rob._ Here it is then--here's a short, little, snug, general health,
that hits most humours; it suits your soldier, your tithe parson, your
lawyer, your politician, just as well as your robber.
_All._ Now for it. [_All rise._
_1 Rob._ Plunder! [_Drinks._
_All._ Plunder! [_All drink._
_1 Rob._ And now for the list.
_2 Rob._ [Reads.] _Hexham Forest, May 14th, 1462. Taken, from a single
lady, on a pad nag, eleven pounds, four groats, and a portmanteau.--She
seemed marvellously frightened, and whispered thanks, privately, for
her delivery._
_1 Rob._ No uncommon case--she isn't the first single lady who has been
delivered, and whispered thanks for it in private.
2 Rob. _From a Scotch laird, on his way from London to Inverness--by
Philip Thunder in gloves; the whole provision for his journey, viz. one
cracked angel, and two sticks of brimstone._
_1 Rob._ Who has his horse?
_2 Rob._ No one; the Scotch laird travelled on foot. _From a pair of
justices of the peace, a foundered mare, a black gelding, two doublets,
and a hundred marks in gold--they were tied back to back;--_
_1 Rob._ Good! It is but right, that they who bind over so many, should
at last, be bound over themselves; and a wise thief is ever bound in
justice to put a foolish justice in binding.
2 Rob. _Back to back, and hoodwinked--They were left, lamenting their
fate, in the forest._
_1 Rob._ Lament! O villains!--To be in the commission of the peace, and
not know that Justice should always be blind. Marry, a good day! Are there
any more?
_2 Rob._ Only a fat friar, who was half plundered, and saved himself
by flight.
_1 Rob._ The better fortune his. Few fat friars, I fancy, have the luck
to be saved. What did he yield?
2 Rob. _The rope from his middle, a bottle of sack from his bosom, and
a link of hog's puddings, pulled out of his left sleeve._
_1 Rob._ Gad a mercy, friar! For the sack, and the sausages, they shall
be shared, merrily, among us; and for the rope,--hum!--come, we won't
think of that, now. [_A Horn wound lowly._] Hark! there's our Captain's
horn!--'faith, for one who, I suspect is married, he chuses an odd
signal of approach.
_2 Rob._ Nay, though he may be married, he's no milksop; and, I warrant
him, when he's on duty, and robbing among us, he quite forgets his
wife, as an honest man should do. He has joined us but a short time,
yet, egad, he heads us nobly! He'll pluck you an hundred crowns from a
rich fellow's pocket, with one hand, and throw his share of them into a
hungry beggar's hat, with the other. But, here he comes.
_Enter GONDIBERT._
_All._ Hail, noble Captain!
_Gondi._ How now, my bold and rugged companions! What has been done in
my absence?
_1 Rob._ Oh, sir, a deal of business--We have been washing down old
scores, and getting vigour for new. We have had a cup for every breach
of the law we have committed. Marry, sir, ours is a rare cellar, to
stand such a soaking.
_Gondi._ Now then, to a business of greater import. I have been lurking
round the camp, here, on the skirts of the forest. The parties have
met, and a hot battle ensued. It was a long time fought with such
stubborn courage, that, as I stood observing it, the spirit of war,
pent up within me, had well nigh burst my breast.--Twenty times, I was
at the point of breaking from my shelter, and joining combat. But I am
pledged to you, my fellows;--that thought restrained me.
_2 Rob._ O, noble Captain!--but who has conquered?
_Gondi._ Ay, there it is:--'sdeath and fury, my blood boiled to see it!
The sleek, upstart rascals, cut through the ranks as if--oh! a plague
on their well feeding!--We had carried it else, all the world to
nothing!
_2 Rob._ We! why what is it to us who has the day? Do but tell us who.
_Gondi._ I had forgot. The Lancasters are defeated, their soldiers
routed, and many of their leaders dispersed about the country. Some,
no doubt, are in the forest. Usurping war never glutted on a richer
banquet.
_1 Rob._ Why, it seems to have been a pretty feast; and, the best on't
is, now 'tis over, we shall come in for the picking of the bones.
_Gondi._ It may be so. You all, I know, will expect a rich booty; and
they whom we shall meet will, probably, from the unsettled nature of
the times, bear their whole wealth about their persons:--but they are
brave, and have been oppressed;--disappointment, therefore, and their
situation, may cause them to fight in their defence, like heros.
_2 Rob._ Nay, an they fight like devils, they'll find we can match them
in courage. Put me to any proof you please, and they shall soon find me
a man.
_Gondi._ Then, prove it, friend, by pity for the unfortunate. Believe
me, comrades, he has little better to boast than a brute, who cannot
temper his courage with feeling. And, now, as our expedition is at
hand, let each of you observe my orders. If there be any whose
appearance denotes a more than common birth, treat him with due respect,
and conduct him to my cave. As to the plunder (which our wild life
obliges us to exact from the way-worn passenger) on this occasion,
pr'ythee, good comrades, take sparingly, and use your prisoners
generously.
_4 Rob._ [_Half aside, and muttering._] 'Sblood! this captain of ours
had better take to the pulpit than the road. If he must preach so
plaguily about generosity, he might, at least, pay for it out of his
own pocket.
_Gondi._ Who's he that dares to mutter? Come forth, thou wretch! Thus
do I punish mutiny, and presumption.
[_Pulls him down, and holds his Sword over him._
_4 Rob._ Oh, mercy! good Captain, mercy!
_Gondi._ Well, take it, though thou deservest none; and learn from
this, thou poor, base reptile! how to show mercy to others whom fortune
places in thy power. Now, friends, all to your posts. I shall go forth
alone. You have your orders, and I know you will obey them strictly.
The night steals on us apace; and the angry clouds, threatning a storm,
add to the awful gloom of the forest. Away, boys! and be steady.
_1 Rob._ As rocks, Captain. Come, bullies! all to your duties. Keep
your ears, and lose your tongues. Listen, in silence, for the tread of
a passenger; and, when he's near enough, spring upon him, like so many
cats at a mouse hole.
CATCH.
_"Buz, quoth the blue-fly."_
_Lurk o'er the green-sword;_
_Mum let us be:--_
_Lurk, and mum's the word,_
_For you and me!_
_Thro' the brake, thro' the wood, prowl, prowl around!_
_We watch the footsteps, with ears to the ground._
_Ears to the ground._
[_Exeunt ROBBERS._
_Gondi._ Here is another moment snatch'd--a short one--
To commune with myself:--yet, wherefore, think?
Why court consuming sorrow to my bosom,
Which, like the nurs'ling pelican, drinks the blood
Of its fond cherisher?
Why rather should not turbulence of action
Shake off the tax of tyrannous remembrance?
'Tis not the mere, and actual suffering,
That bends the noble spirit to the earth,
And cracks the proud heart's chord:--The prisoner,
Whose feverish limbs, for many a long, long year,
No summer breeze has fann'd, might still be patient,--
Did not remembrance, yoked with cursed comparison,
Enter his dungeon walls, and conjure up
The shadows of past joys;--then, thought on thought,
Like molten lead, run thro' the wretch's brain,
And burning fancy mads him.--Hence, Remembrance!
How baneful art thou to me, when this course
Must be thy antidote! I'll thro' the forest,
And seek these wanderers.--Fell necessity,
And the rude band that I am link'd withal,
Demand that I should prey on them:--yet, still,
My heart leans to them, tho' their fatal cause
Has shorn me to the quick:--for them I fled
My home, my dear loved----Oh, peace, Gondibert!
Touch not that string!--If I must think, I'll think
That Heaven one day may smile. [_Exit._
SCENE II.
_Part of the Forest._
_Enter ADELINE and GREGORY._
_Gregory._ Gently, good madam; gently, for the love of corns! Where is
it you mean to go?
_Adeline._ Even where chance shall carry us, Gregory.
_Gregory._ 'Faith, madam, and if chance would carry us, it would be
doing us a great favour; for we have walked far enough, in all
conscience.
_Adeline._ Then, here, my good fellow, we must rest ourselves.
_Gregory._ Here! what in the wood? and night coming on!
_Adeline._ Good faith even here!--here, for necessity demands it, we
must pass the night: and, in the morning, the ring-dove, cooing to its
mate, will wake us to our journey homeward. This is a retreat, were but
the mind at ease, a king might well repose in.
_Gregory._ It must be King Nebuchadnezzar then: if we haven't some of
his grass-eating qualities, we shall find ourselves badly off for a
supper. 'Tis ten to one, too, but we may wander here for a week,
without finding our way out again.
_Adeline._ Oh! this world! this world! I am weary on't! 'Would I had
been some villager!--'twere well, now, to be a shepherd's boy--he has
no cares--but while his sheep browse on the mountain's side, with
vacant mind--happy in ignorance--he sinks to sleep, o'ercanopied with
heaven, and makes the turf his pillow.
_Gregory._ Yes, but he has plaguy damp sheets, for all that. I'd
exchange all the turf and sky in the county, for a good warm barn and a
blanket; and as for the cooing doves, I would not give a crack'd tester
for a forest full of them; unless I could see some of their claws stuck
up through the holes of a brown piecrust.
_Adeline._ Fie! Gregory; be content, be content. Think that we are
happy in this forest, in having thus escaped the enemy's fire, and be
grateful in the change.
_Gregory._ Why, we are out of the fire, to be sure; but, make the best
on't we can, we are still in the frying-pan. And starving is one of
those blessings for which people are not very apt to be thankful. But
we have escaped killing; so I'll e'en be content, as long as there is
comfort in comparison. I stumbled over a fat trumpeter in the field,
stript and plunder'd, with his skin full of bullets. Well, I am
thankful yet--mine is a marvellous happy lot, to be better than a dead
trumpeter!
_Adeline._ Truce now, Gregory; and consider how we can best dispose
ourselves here, till the morning.
_Gregory._ Nay, there's no need of much consideration; there's little
distinction of apartments here, madam: we shall both sleep on the
ground floor--and our lodgings will be pure and airy, I warrant them.
_Adeline._ Peace, fool! nor let thy grosser mind, half fears, half
levity, thus trifle with my feelings! I have borne me up against
affliction, till my o'ercharged bosom can contain no longer.
_Gregory._ O the father! look if my poor dear lady be not a
weeping!--why, madam--Lady Adeline--dear madam! I am but a fool as you
say; but I'm as honest and as faithful as the greatest knave of them
all:--and haven't I sighed, sobbed, fasted, fought, and run away, to
show you that I would stand by you to the last? and haven't I----
_Adeline._ Pr'ythee, no more, Gregory! bear with, my pettishness--for,
now and then, the tongue of disappointment will needs let fall some of
the acid drops which misery sprinkles the heart withal.
_Gregory._ Now must I play the comforter. Why, lord, madam, I think,
when a body comes to be used to it a little, this forest must be a
sweet, dingy, retired, gloomy, pleasant sort of a place;--besides,
what's one night? sleeping bears it out--and I'll warrant us we'll find
such snug delicious beds of dry leaves, that-- [_Hard shower_.] 'Sbud!
no!--I lie--it rains like all the dogs and cats in the kingdom--there
won't be a dry twig left, large enough to shelter a cock-chafer--we
shall both be sopped here, like two toasts in a tankard-- [_Thunder._
_Adeline._ Why, why should fortune sport with a weak woman thus! why,
fickle goddess, wanton as boys in giddy cruelty, torture a silly fly
before you kill it?
_Gregory._ 'Faith, madam, for that matter, I am but a blue-bottle of
fortune's myself; and, though sorrow is dry, they say, this is a sort
of soaking it does not care to be moistened with. If it would rain good
barrels of ale, now, sorrow would not so much mind being out in the
storm. [_Thunder again._] No; sorrow would be disappointed there too:
this rumbling is enough to flatten the finest beer shower, a man would
wish to take a whet in.--Lud! lud! madam! let's get out ou't, if
there's a hollow tree to be found. [_Thunder._
_Adeline._ The thunder rolls awful on the ear, and strikes the soul
with terror. The plunderer, too, perhaps catching the sulphurous flash,
explores his wretched prey, and stalks to midnight murder.
_Gregory._ Mercy on us, madam, don't talk of that!--now I think on't,
if we were to pick and chuse, for a twelvemonth, we couldn't have
pitched upon a more convenient place to be knocked down in. Shelter!
dear madam! shelter.
_Adeline._ Is it thus you stand by me, Gregory? I, at least, hoped you
had valour enough to--
[_ROBBERS appear behind, and slowly advance._
_Gregory._ Exactly enough; but not a morsel to spare. So we'll e'en
look out for a place of safety. Not that I'm afraid though.--Stand by
you?--egad, if half a dozen, now, of stout, raw-boned fellows were to
dare to molest you, I would make no more of whipping this [_Drawing his
Sword._] through their dirty lungs, than I would of----
[_ROBBERS surround ADELINE and GREGORY._
_1 Rob._ Stand!
_Gregory._ O mercy! mercy! I'm as dead a man as ever I was in my life.
[_Drops his Sword, and falls._
_Adeline._ Heavens! when will my miseries end! Speak, friends, what
would you have?
_1 Rob._ What you have.
_Adeline._ If it is our lives you seek, they are so care worn, that in
resigning them, we part with that which is scarce worth the keeping.
_Gregory._ 'Tis very true indeed. Pray don't take them,
gentlemen;--they'll do you no kind of good.
_2 Rob._ Peace!
_1 Rob._ Marry, a well favoured boy. Say, youth, whence came you, and
whither bound?
_Adeline._ I scarce know whither; but I came far inland; sent by my
father to the wars; his sword the sole inheritance his age can leave
me. This man, a faithful servant of our cottage, in simple love has
followed me.
_1 Rob._ Well, youth; be of good cheer--He, who has little, has little
to lose; and a soldier's pocket is seldom much lighter for emptying.
Come; you must both with us--bring them to our captain's cave.
[_Exeunt FIRST and FOURTH ROBBER._
_Gregory._ Oh lud; oh lud! Dear, good, sweet faced gentlemen!
_2 Rob._ Peace, dolt! fear not; our captain's honourable!
_Gregory._ Nay, that he must be by his company--but sweet, civil,
honest gentlemen! [_The ROBBERS press them on._] Oh confound
these underground apartments! We shall never get out of them alive.
Lord! lord! how hard it is upon a man to be forced to walk to his own
burying!
[_Exeunt ADELINE and GREGORY, hurried off by the ROBBERS._
SCENE III.
_Another Part of the Forest._
_Enter MARGARET, with the Young PRINCE EDWARD._
_Marg._ Why, that's well done, my boy!--so--cheerly, cheerly!
See, too, the angry storm's subsiding:--what,
Thou canst not be a-weary, Ned?--I know,
Thou'rt more a man.
_Prince._ Sooth, now, my legs ache sadly!
My heart is light and fresh though; and it mocks
My legs for aching. I would I had your legs,
And you my heart.--Your heart, I fear me, mother,
Is heavier far than mine.
_Marg._ Dost think so, Ned?
_Prince._ Ay, and I know so too:--for I am in it.
_Marg._ My dear, wronged child!
_Prince._ Pr'ythee now, mother, do not grieve for me;--
I warrant I shall live to be a king, yet.
_Marg._ Alas! poor monkey! thou hast little cause
To be in love with greatness: thou hast felt
Its miseries full early.
_Prince._ Then, you know
I've all its good to come.
_Marg._ May Heaven grant it!
For thou dost promise nobly, boy. This forest
Will screen us from the hatred of our enemies.
Here, till the rage of war has ceased around us,
I will watch o'er thee, Ned; here guard thy life;--
Thy life! the hope, the care, the joy of mine!
And when thy harrass'd limbs have gain'd their pliancy,
We will resume our task: for I must lead thee
A painful walk, across Northumberland,
As far as Berwick, boy; where we may meet,
Again, our Scottish friends. What sayest thou Ned,
Shouldst joy to see thy father there?
_Prince._ Ay, mother;--
And, though we know he has escaped the traitors,
Were we but sure to find him there, I could
Set out directly.
_Marg._ Rest a day or two:
For hadst thou strength, the danger that surrounds us
Prevents our venturing.--Come!--on a little--
We will go look some moss-grown cavern out,
And there thou shalt repose thee, sweet.--
_Enter GONDIBERT._
Come, boy! come, take my hand----
[_GONDIBERT approaches, with his Sword drawn._
_Gondi._ Advance no further.
_Marg._ Ha! Who art thou, that comest, with murderous look,
Here, in the dusky bosom of the wood,
To intercept our passage?
_Gondi._ One of those
Who, stript of all, by an oppressing world,
Now make reprisals: if my looks be dark,
They best explain my purpose.
_Prince._ Fly! fly! mother!
The villain else, will kill us.
_Marg._ Let us pass.
Thou know'st us not; else would there so much terror
Still strike thee of our person, that--no matter.
What cause hast thou to stay me?
_Gondi._ Biting want;--
An oath sworn to my fellows;--disappointment;--
Despair.--I came not here to parley, lady;----quickly,
Yield what you have, or go where I command.
_Marg._ Command! base slave! reduced to this!--Command,
From thee? thou worm!
[_Making majestically past him, with the PRINCE._
_Gondi._ Nay, nay; you fly not, lady. [_Holds his Sword, over them._
_Marg._ Oh, Heaven! my boy! strike not, on thy allegiance!
Save him, I charge thee, fellow! Save my son;--
The son of thy anointed king.
_Gondi._ My king! [_Drops his Sword at their Feet._
_Marg._ Ay, look, and tremble, slave.
_Gondi._ I do indeed!--
And tho' my sword has never been unsheathed,
Since fate has link'd me to a lawless band,
But to intimidate, not harm the passenger,
I rather would have plunged its naked point
In mine own bosom, than have raised it thus.--
I do beseech your pardon:--and, if aught,
Wherein I may be capable of service,
Can make atonement, you shall find me ready,
Be it at what blind and perilous risk soever:--
For I have heard the fate of this day's battle;
And should a guide, whose dark, and haggard fortune,
Wraps him in humble seeming, be thought worthy,
In this the time's extremity, to direct
Your wand'ring steps, my zeal will prove itself
Warm, and unshaken, madam.
_Marg._ Thou makest amends:--
And the strong tide of evils, rushing in,
With rapid force, upon us, well might urge me,
Like sinking men who grasp at idle straws,
To accept thy service. Yet, thou may'st be false,
And lead my boy to his destruction.--Say,--
What sureties, fellow, have I of thy truth?
_Gondi._ Think on the awe-inspiring air that marks
A royal brow, and makes the trait'rous soul
Shrink at its own suggestion.--And, when care,
With envious weight, invades the diadem,
To aim an injury then--'twere monstrous baseness!
Oh! long, and ever, ever be there seen
A heaven-gifted charm round Majesty,
To draw confusion on the wretch, who, watching
A transient cloud, that dims its lustre, dares
Think on his sovereign with irreverence!
But, more to bind me, madam, to your confidence,
Know, I have been your soldier; and have fought
In this proud cause--some, haply, may remember me--
When fortune's sunshine smiled upon it.
_Marg._ Now--
For greatness ever has its summer friends,
Who, at the fall and winter of its glory,
Fly off like swallows--thou'lt betray me.
_Gondi._ Never.
Wrong me not in your thoughts, beseech you, madam;
For I will serve you truly;--truly guard
Your royal son.--He is but half a subject,
Who, in the zeal, and duty, for his monarch,
Feels not his breast glow for his prince's welfare.
And, in the moment when the time's rough trial
Calls, loudly, on my sworn allegiance,
And summons it to proof, if I abandon either,
May Heaven, when most I stand in need of mercy,
Abandon me!
_Prince._ Let us go with him, mother.
_Gondi._ I know each turn and foot-path of the forest:--
Can lead you thro' such blind and secret windings,
That will perplex pursuers, till they wander,
As in a labyrinth.--West of this a little,
There stand some straggling cottages, that form
A silent village; and whose humble tops,
Deep shadow'd by the dark o'erhanging wood,
Escape the notice of the traveller.
Thither, so please you, I'll conduct you, madam.
I have a friend,
Lowly but trusty, who shall tend upon you;
While I will scout the country round, to gain
Intelligence of your divided party.
_Marg._ [_Taking up the Sword which GONDIBERT dropped._]
Then, take my boy!--for I will trust thee, fellow.
I must perforce;--but mark;--for still I doubt:--
If for a moment--mark me, fellow, well!
Thou givest me cause to think thy damn'd intent
Aims at my dear child's life, that very moment,
Tho' that the next should be my last, I'll plunge
Thy weapon to thy heart.
_Gondi._ Fear not.
_Marg._ Lead on.
[_Exeunt_:--_GONDIBERT leading the PRINCE, and MARGARET following with
the Sword over Gondibert's Head._
ACT III.
SCENE I.
_A Village, on the Skirts of the Forest._
_Enter FOOL and a VILLAGER._
_Vil._ Tell me, good fellow, now, I pr'ythee--
_Fool._ But wilt thou lend an ear to my tale?
_Vil._ That will I; all the ears I am worth.
_Fool._ Then need not I tell the story:--for, if thou lend'st all thy
ears, then thou'lt have none left to hear it.--Wast ever in a battle,
old boy?
_Vil._ No, truly!
_Fool._ Then thou art a dead man.
_Vil._ What, for not being in a battle!
_Fool._ Yea, marry,--by the very first rapier that comes in thy
way;--for no man can live by the sword but a soldier;--and of soldiers
there are three degrees; and three only.
_Vil._ As how?
_Fool._ As thus:--Your hot fighter--your cool fighter--and your
fighter-shy.--The last degree makes a wondrous figure, in many
muster-rolls.
_Vil._ Of which last you make one.
_Fool._ In some degree.
_Vil._ And it was that made you run from the battle.
_Fool._ Right; running is your only surety. Bully Achilles, the great
warrior of old, thought otherwise; and he was vulnerable only in the
heel:--now, my heels always insure me from being wounded.--Dost know
why Heaven makes one leg of a man stouter than the other?
_Vil._ No.
_Fool._ That he may be able to put the best leg foremost, when there's
occasion.
_Vil._ And you had occasion enough, last night.
_Fool._ Truly, had I; and thus came I to your cottage; where I slept on
a bare board all night.
_Vil._ Ah! Heaven knows my lodging is poor enough! but such as it is,
you are welcome.
_Fool._ Nay, I quarrel not with the lodging; I only complain of the
board--and now wouldst thou know my story.
_Vil._ I would willingly hear of the battle that was lost.
_Fool._ Then pr'ythee, ask of those that found it: but, come, I'll e'en
tell thee how it was.----Thou hast a wife?
_Vil._ Yes, forsooth;--that was my old dame you saw at home.
_Fool._ Keep her there; for nature plainly intended her for a homely
woman--Didst ever quarrel with her before marriage?
_Vil._ Never.
_Fool._ Afterwards, a little?
_Vil._ Um!--Why, to say the truth, my poor dame has a fine flourish
with a cudgel; but people will needs fall out, now and then, when once
they come together.
_Fool._ That's the very way we lost the battle:--for had the two
parties never met, depend on't, one had never cudgel'd the other.
_Vil._ Mass! thou art a rare fellow in the field!
_Fool._ Very rare;--for I never come there but when I can't help it.
SONG.--FOOL.
_To arms, to arms, when Captains cry,_
_With a heigho! the trumpets blow--_
_To legs, to legs, brave boys, say I!_
_Heigho;_
_I needs must go._
_Arrows swift begin to fly,_
_With a heigho! Twang goes the bow--_
_And soldiers tumble down and die:--_
_Heigho!_
_I'll not do so._
_Whizzing by come balls of lead;_
_With a heigho! thump they go.--_
_Tall men grow shorter by the head;_
_Heigho!_
_I'd rather grow._
_In time of trouble I'm away;_
_With a heigho!--ill winds blow;_
_But always ready at pay day;_
_Heigho!_
_Great folks do so._
_Enter another VILLAGER._
_1 Vil._ Now, goodman Hobs, whence come you?
_2 Vil._ There is a great lord come in, from the routed party, who has
taken shelter in our village, since break of day. One of your great
friends, good sir. [_To the FOOL._
_Fool._ Didst see him! how look'd he?
_2 Vil._ I tended him, some quarter of an hour:--troth, he seem'd
wondrous weary.
_Fool._ Of thy company.--Now could I be weary too, and find in my heart
to be dull:--but here come females; and, were a man's head emptier than
a spendthrift's purse, they will ever bring something out on't. Hence
comes it, that your dull husband's head is improved by your lively
wife:--if she can bring out nothing else, why she brings out horns.
_Enter VILLAGERS, Male and Female._
Now, good folk, whither go you?
_3 Vil._ Truly, sir, this is our season for making of hay; and here am
I, sir, with the rest of our village, going about it.
_Fool._ Now might I, were it not for disgracing the army, turn mower
among these clowns;--and why not? Soldiers are but cutters down of
flesh, and flesh is grass, all the world over. I'll e'en out, this
morning, and do execution in the field.--Come, lads and maidens! One
roundelay, and we'll to't!
SONG AND CHORUS OF VILLAGERS.
1 Wom. _Drifted snow no more is seen;_
_Blust'ring Winter passes by;_
_Merry Spring comes clad in green,_
_While woodlarks pour their melody._
_I hear him! hark!_
_The merry lark,_
_Calls us to the new mown hay,_
_Piping to our roundelay._
2 Vil. _When the golden sun appears,_
_On the mountain's surly brow;_
_When his jolly beams he rears,_
_Darting joy--behold them now!--_
_Then, then, oh, hark!--_
_The merry lark_
_Calls us to the new mown hay,_
_Piping to our roundelay._
3 Vil. _When the village boy, to field,_
_Tramps it with the buxom lass,_
_Fain she would not seem to yield,_
_Yet gets her tumble on the grass:_
_Then, then, oh, hark!_
_The merry lark,_
_While they tumble in the hay,_
_Pipes alone his roundelay._
4 Vil. _What are honours? What's a court?_
_Calm content is worth them all:--_
_Our honour lies in cudgel sport;_
_Our brightest court a green-sward ball._
_But then--oh hark!_
_The merry lark,_
_Calls us to the new mown hay,_
_Piping to our roundelay._
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
_An old fashioned Apartment, in BARTON'S House, in the Village.
Rusty Arms, and other Military Paraphernalia hanging up, in
different Parts; &c._
_LA VARENNE and BARTON._
_Barton._ Nay, sir, thank not me:
I am no trader, I, in empty forms;
In neat congees, and kickshaw compliments;
In your,--"Dear sirs," and "Sir, you make me blush;"--
I'm for plain speaking; plain and blunt; besides,
I've been a soldier:--and, I take it, sir,
You, who are still in service, are aware
That blushing seldom troubles the profession.
_La Var._ Still, friend, I thank thee.--Thou hast shelter'd me,
At a hard trying moment, when the buffets
Of tainting fortune rather would persuade
Friends to shrink back, than serve me.
_Barton._ 'Faith, good sir,
I know not how you have been buffetted:--
But this I know,--at least I think I know it--
If there's a soldier, in the world's wide army,
Who will not, in the moment of distress,
Stretch forth his hand to save a falling comrade,
Why, then, I think, that he has little chance
Of being found in Heaven's muster-roll.
_La Var._ I like thy plainness well.
_Barton._ Nay, sir, my plainness
Is such as Nature gave me: and would men
Leave Nature to herself, good faith, her work
Is pretty equal;--but we will be garnishing;
Until the heart, like to a beauty's face,
Which she ne'er lets alone till she has spoil'd it,
Is so befritter'd round, with worldly nonsense,
That we can scarcely trace sweet Nature's outlines.
_La Var._ Who of our party, pr'ythee, since the battle
Have shelter'd here among the villagers?--
Canst tell their names?
_Barton._ Ay, marry, can I, sir.
But can and will are birds of diff'rent feather.
Can is a swan, that bottles up its music,
And never lets it out till death is near;
But will's a piping bullfinch, that does ever
Whistle forth every note it has been taught,
To any fool that bids it. Now, sir, mark;--
Whoever's here, would fain be private here;
Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I can;--
Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I will not.
_La Var._ Why, this is over-caution!--would not they
Rejoice as readily at seeing me,
As I at seeing them?
_Barton._ I know not that:
I am no whisper-monger;--and if, once,
A secret be entrusted to my charge,
I keep it, as an honest agent should,
Lock'd in my heart's old strong box; and I'll answer
No draught from any but my principal.
_La Var._ If now thou hast a charge, old trusty, I,
(Believe me), am next heir to't.
_Barton._ Very like.
Yet, sir, if heirs had liberty to draw
For what is not their own, till time shall give it them,
I fear the stock would soon be dry;--and, then,
The principals might have some cause to grumble.
_La Var._ Thou art the strangest fellow! What's thy name?
_Barton._ Barton;--that I may trust you with.
_La Var._ No more?
_Barton._ No, not a pin's point more. Pshaw! here comes one,
To let all out. Children, and fools, and women,
Will still be babbling.
_Enter PRINCE EDWARD._
_Prince._ Oh! my lord, is't you!
_La Var._ Oh, my young sir! how my heart springs to meet you!
Where is your royal mother? is she safe?
_Prince._ She's in this house, my lord.--Last night,
This honest man received us:--and another,--
His friend--not quite so honest as he might be--
Did bring us hither;--'twas a rogue, my lord;--
Yet no rogue neither;--and, to say the sooth,
The rogue, my lord, 's a very honest man.
Lord, how this meeting will rejoice my mother!
And she was wishing, now, within this minute,
To see the Seneschal of Normandy.
_Barton._ So!
This is the Seneschal of Normandy!
Here is another secret.--Plague take secrets!
This is in token of their liking me;--
Just as an over hospitable host,
Out of pure kindness to his visitor,
Crams the poor bursting soul with meat he loaths.
_La Var._ I cannot blame thee, friend;--thou knew'st me not:
And, thou hast, now, a jewel in thy care,
Well worth thy utmost caution in preserving.
_Barton._ I need not to be told the value on't.
I have been sworn his mother's subject, sir; and since
My poor house has been honour'd with her presence,
The tender scenes, I've been a witness to,
'Twixt her, and this young bud of royalty,
Would make me traitor to humanity,
Could I betray her. There is a rapturous something,
That plays about an English subject's heart,
When female majesty is seen employ'd
In these sweet duties of domestic love,
Which all can feel,--but very few describe!
_La Var._ Oh! how thou warm'st me, fellow, with thy zeal!
Come, my young lord!--now lead us to her majesty. [_To BARTON._
_Barton._ Why, as things are, I'll lead you where she is:--
But were they otherwise, and you had not
Discover'd where she is--you'll pardon me--
But I had led you, sir, a pretty dance
Ere I had led you to her. Come, I'll conduct you. [_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_Another Apartment, in BARTON's House._
_Enter GONDIBERT and 1st ROBBER._
_Gondi._ Away all night! What then? Am not I their leader? Do they
begin to doubt me? Am not I, as it were, wedded to the party?
_Rob._ Very true, noble captain: and we have treated you as a wife
would a kind husband:--but when a husband is out all night--why--
_Gondi._ Well, sir;--what then?
_Rob._ Marry, then, the wife is apt to grumble a little; that's all.
_Gondi._ Go to;--I had reason. What's the news?
_Rob._ The news is, we have taken some stragglers, in the forest.
_Gondi._ Are they of note?
_Rob._ 'Faith, we have some of all qualities;--gentle and simple
mixed:--we had no time to stand upon the picking:--they're all penn'd
up in the back cavern;--and you must e'en take 'em like a score of
sheep--fat and lean together. But, there is a beardless youth, follow'd
by a cowardly serving man, who presses hard to see you.
_Gondi._ What would he?
_Rob._ 'Faith, sir, he would be a noble fellow. I take it he has a
great soul, too large for the laws;--he has questioned me plentifully
concerning you.
_Gondi._ Concerning me?
_Rob._ Yes; he inquired if you were married; how long you had been with
us; your age; your stature; nay, he was particular enough to ask what
sort of a nose stood on your face.
_Gondi._ Wherefore these questions?
_Rob._ Troth, I think he would like well to serve in our band; for
he seems to have a marvellous nice notion of honour. He took up your
dagger, of curious workmanship, that lies on your table, in the cave,
and did so study the dudgeon on't!--Marry, the boy knows how to handle
a weapon, I'll warrant him.
_Gondi._ Where have you bestowed him?
_Rob._ Why, he was so importunate, that I have brought him, and his
man, hither along.--The man, I feared, might babble: so, I've entrusted
him to your friend Barton, here; and he, finding he has been a butler,
has locked him in the cellarage.
_Gondi._ Conduct the youth hither.
[_Exit ROBBER._
Then why should I repine? since there are others,
Who, in the early spring, and May of life,
Behold the promised blossoms of their hope
Nipt in the very bud. Here comes the youth;--
And bears a goodly outside;--yet 'tis a slender bark,
That Providence ne'er framed for tossing much
In a rough sea of troubles.
_Enter ROBBER with ADELINE._
_Rob._ Here, youth; this is our captain. Cheer up now, and speak
boldly. You need not fear.--A raw youth, captain, but a mettled one,
I'll warrant him.--A word with you. [_Takes GONDIBERT apart._
_Adeline._ It is, it is my lord!--Oh Heaven! my heart!--to find him
thus, too!--Yet, to find him any how is transport.
_Rob._ I shall look to it.--You would be private now, I take it.--Now,
youth, plead, cleverly, to get admitted among us, and your fortune's
made. Be but a short time with us, and it will go hard, indeed, if all
your cares, in this world, are not shortly at an end. [_Exit._
_Gondi._ Now to your business, youth.
_Adeline._ 'Tis brief.--I have been sorely wrung, sir, by the keen
pressure of mishap.--I once had friends: they have left me. One whom
I thought a special one--a noble gentleman--who pledged himself, by
all the ties that are most binding to a man, to guard my uninstructed
youth--even he, to whom my soul looked up; whom, I might say, I loved
as with a woman's tenderness,--even he has, now, deserted me.
_Gondi._ Then he acted basely.
_Adeline._ I hope not so, sir.
_Gondi._ Trust me, I think he did, youth; for there is an open native
sincerity that marks thy countenance, which I scarce believe could give
just cause to a steady friend to leave thee.
_Adeline._ Now, by my holy dame, he had none to suspect me. Yet, from
the pressure of the time,--some trying chance--but, I am wandering.
This is my suit to you.--If you should find me fit to be entrusted with
the secrets of your party, I could wish to be enrolled among you.
_Gondi._ Hast thou well weigh'd the hardships which our life
Constrains us to? Our perils; nightly watchings
Our fears, disquietudes; our jealousies,
Even of ourselves?--which keep the lawless mind
For ever on the stretch, and turn our sleep,
To frightful slumbers;--where imagination
Discovers, to the dull and feverous sense,
Mis-shapen forms, ghastly and horrible;--
And mixes, in the chaos of the brain,
Terrors, half real, half unnatural;--
Till nature, struggling under the oppression,
Rouses the sleeping wretch,--who starts, and wipes
The chilly drop from off his clay-cold temples;
And fain would call for help, yet dares not utter,
But trembles on his couch, silent and horror struck!
_Adeline._ Attempt not to dissuade me; I am fix'd.
Yet there is one soft tie, which, when I think
The cruel edge of keen necessity
Has cut asunder, almost bursts my heart.
_Gondi._ What is it, youth?
_Adeline._ That, which from my youth,--
For I have scarcely yet told one and twenty,--
Might, haply, not be thought;--yet so it is;--
Know, then, that I am married.
_Gondi._ Married, didst say?
And dost thou love----
_Adeline._ Oh! witness for me, Heaven!
The pure and holy warmth that fills my bosom.
_Gondi._ Nay then, my heart bleeds for thee! for thou mightst
As easily attempt to walk unmov'd,
With all the liquid fires which AEtna vomits
Pour'd in thy breast, as here to hope for happiness.
Oh! what does the heart feel, that's rudely torn
From the dear object of its wedded love!
And, still, to add a spur to gall'd reflection,
That very object, whom the time's necessity
Mads you to part with, witless of the cause,
Arraigns your conduct.
_Adeline._ And have you felt this! [_With emotion._
_Gondi._ I tell thee wretched youth--fie! thou unman'st me.--
Pr'ythee, return, young man!--I have a feeling,--
A fellow feeling for thee;--if thou hop'st
For gentle peace to be an inmate with thee,
Turn thy steps homeward;--link not with our band.
_Adeline._ Wherefore should I return? return to witness
The bitter load of misery, which circumstance
Has brought upon my house? My infant children--
_Gondi._ And hast thou children then?
Whose innocence has oft beguil'd thy hours;
Who have look'd smiling up into thy face,
Till the sweet tear of rapturous content
Has trickled down thy cheek?--Thou trying for tune!
Mark out the frozen breast of apathy,
And tho' 'twere triple cased in adamant,
Throw but this poisonous shaft of malice at it,
'Twill pierce it thro'and thro'.
_Adeline._ An if I thought 'twere so?--
_Gondi._ Hear me, young man:--
Thou wring'st a secret from me, which, till now,
Was borne in silence here; while, vulture-like,
It preys upon my vitals.--I am married:--
I have a wife--and one whom kindly nature
Form'd in her lavish mood:--Oh! her gentle love
Beam'd through her eyes, whene'er she turn'd them on me,
With such a mild and virtuous innocence,
That it might charm stern murder!--and yet I
Have wounded, villain like, her peace. Even I,--
In whom her very soul was wrapt--
Turn'd coward with the time, have basely left her.
But I am punish'd for't:--day, night,--asleep,
Awake,--still, or in action,--bleeding fancy
Pictures my wife, sitting in patient anguish;
Pale; mild in sufferance; mingling meek forgiveness
With bitter agony;--blessing him who wrongs her;--
While my poor children, my deserted little ones,
Hang on her knees, and watch the silent drops
Steal down her grief-worn face!--Yea, dost thou weep?
Shape thy course homeward then; for pangs like mine,
Would so convulse thee, youth, that, like an engine,
'Twould wrench thy tender nature from its frame,
And pluck life with it.
_Adeline._ Oh! my dear, loved lord!
Here cease those pangs;--here, in the ecstacy of joy,
Behold your Adeline, now rushing to the arms
Of a beloved husband. [_Running into his Arms._
_Gondi._ Merciful Heaven!
My Adeline! And hast thou!--Oh, my heart!
This sudden conflict!--thus let me clasp thee to it;
Ne'er to part more, till pangs of death shall shake us.
What hast thou suffer'd, sweet!--for me to cause--
And are our children----?
_Adeline._ Well, and in safety.
_Gondi._ And, to leave them too!
_Adeline._ Nay, pr'ythee, now, no more of this:--
Blot from thy memory all former sorrow:--
Or, if we think on't, be it at some moment,
When calm content smiles round our happy board.
And, trust me, now, I think our storms are over:--
For, on my way, I learn, the House of York
Has now sent forth free pardon to all those,
Who, long attach'd to the Lancastrian party,
Have not engaged in their late enterprise.
_Gondi._ Blessed chance,
That now constrain'd me to inaction! Adeline!
Once more to hold thee! to return to happiness--
To see our children!--
_Enter FIRST ROBBER._
How now! What's the matter?
_1 Rob._ Marry, the matter is, with the oaf in the cellar; the fool
shakes as though he were in an ague; we may e'en turn him adrift any
how, for he will no how turn to our profit. He's cowardly and poor;
he can neither rob, nor be robbed.
_Adeline._ Oh! 'tis my man: I pray you conduct him hither.
_1 Rob._ I'll trundle him in; but you will make nothing of him. I have
been trying to talk him into service, and make him fit for our party;
but there are some manner of men 'tis impossible to work any good upon.
[_Exit._
_Adeline._ Poor simpleton! 'tis Gregory, who, in pure zeal, and honest
attachment, has followed me.
_Enter GREGORY._
_Gregory._ Mercy on us! this is the great cock captain of the whole
brood of banditti! 'Tis all over! and I have been shut up, these two
hours, like a calf for killing. Lord! lord! if calves did but know the
reason for their being stalled, as I have been, they'd so fall away
with fear, that veal would not be worth the taking to market.
_Gondi._ Why, how now, man?
_Gregory._ Oh lud! I am a poor fellow, sir; that shall be a longtime
getting rich, and would fain not die till I am so. Take my life, sir,
and you take all;--I carry it about me, as a snail does his
house:--and, truly, sir, you'll find that time has a mortgage upon it
of forty-two years, and the furniture, of late, is so worn with ill
usage, that the remainder of the lease is not worth your
acceptance:--if, sweet, noble, sir, you would but----
[_During this Speech, GREGORY has been gradually raising his Eyes
from the Ground, till he fixes them on GONDIBERT'S Face._
Eh!--Oh!--O, the father!--No!--Yes--Oh lud--Oh lord!
_Gondi._ Why, dost not know me, Gregory?
_Gregory._ Huzza!--He's found! [_Capering._] Dear my lord, I never was
happier since I was born, at the sight of you.
_Gondi._ Trust me, I think so, Gregory. Come, love;
Let's in for calmer conference. Follow, good Gregory.
[_Exeunt ADELINE and GONDIBERT._
_Gregory._ Here's a simple change in a man's fortune! Now might I, when
I say 'tis he--were it not as plain 'tis he as a nose is a nose--swear
that my eyes were putting a lie in my mouth, in very spite of my
teeth.--Oh, the quiet, comfortable days that I shall see again! Mercy
on me! 'Tis enough to make a coward tremble, to think on the battles my
valour has been put to. Nothing, now again, but old fare, old rubbing
of spoons, and a cup of old sherry, behind the old pantry door, to
comfort my nose, in a cold frosty morning.
SONG.
"Moderation and Alteration."
_In an old quiet parish, on a brown healthy old moor,_
_Stands my master's old gate, whose old threshold is wore_
_With many an old friend, who for liquor would roar,_
_And I uncork'd the old sherry--that I had tasted before._
_But it was in Moderation, &c._
_There I had an old quiet pantry, of the servants was the head;_
_And kept the key of the old cellar, and old plate, and chipp'd
the brown bread._
_If an old barrel was missing, it was easily said,_
_That the very old beer was one morning found dead:--_
_But it was in Moderation, &c._
_But, we had a good old custom, when the week did begin,_
_To show, by my accounts, I had not wasted a pin;--_
_For my lord, tho' he was bountiful, thought waste was a sin;_
_And never would lay out much, but when my lady lay-in._
_But still it was Moderation._
_Good lack! good lack! how once Dame Fortune did frown!_
_I left my old quiet pantry, to trudge from town to town;_
_Worn quite off my legs, in search of thumps, bobs, and cracks
on the crown,_
_I was fairly knock'd up, and very near foully knock'd down._
_But now there's an Alteration,_
_Oh! it's a wonderful Alteration!_
[_Exit._
SCENE IV.
_The Village._
_Enter MARGARET, LA VARENNE, and PRINCE._
_Marg._ The northern coast beset!
_La Var._ Close watch'd with enemies:--'twere too bold a risk,
That way to seek the sea: then bend your course
Thro' Cumberland, so please you.----
At Solway Frith, we have warm friends, to favour
Your embarkation--Sailing, thence to Galloway,
With all convenient speed, we march towards Edinburgh;
And thitherward, I learn, the king has fled:
Where, in the bosom of the Scottish court,
You may in safety sojourn, till the succour
Which noble Burgundy, warm in beauty's cause,
Once more, no doubt, will lend, again shall plume
The wing of majesty.
_Marg._ Then, let sharp injury
Subdue base minds alone; its scalding spirit,
Pour'd in a royal breast, will quicken vengeance.
Why, worthy Seneschal, there's hope in't still!
Holds it not likely,
When our dispersed nobility shall hear,
We are again on foot, our royal standard
Will be so flock'd with friends!----
Here comes the fellow, whom I told you of.
_Enter GONDIBERT, ADELINE, and GREGORY, behind._
Now, good friend, the news?
_Gondi._ Thus, as my spies inform me, madam:--Montague
Has march'd right north; towards Dunstaburgh; hoping
There to surprise your Majesty--
_Marg._ Let the fool on.--
This favours our intended march, through Cumberland.
What else?
_Gondi._ No more; but that some twenty,
Or thereabout, of your dispersed soldiers
Are fall'n into my power. I have ventured,
Finding, that, here, the village is attach'd,
In honest bonds of loyalty, to direct
My men to march them hither: if your course
Should need a secret guard, these few will serve,
When more were dangerous.
_Marg._ Oh, true, true fellow!
Believe me, honest friend, of all the bolts,
Which spiteful fortune hurls against my crown,
None strike so deeply, as my poor ability
Now to requite thy faith.
_Gondi._ The subject, madam,
Who, in his poor endeavour, can relieve
A sovereign from distress, they, who are loyal,
Will pour down blessings on him; that requital
Threefold o'erpays his services. But here,
Heaven has, in pity of me, now pour'd balm
Upon my bleeding sufferings.
_Marg._ What, my young warrior!
_Adeline._ A weak one, madam;--and a woman too.
Your pardon, madam, if, to seek a husband,--
Happy has been my search--more than the cause,
Altho' my heart is warm in't--brought me hither.
_Gondi._ Your guard approaches, madam, and the villagers,
_Enter KNIGHTS and SOLDIERS._
Anxious, in zeal, to see their royal mistress,
In throngs have follow'd.
_Enter VILLAGERS, MALE and FEMALE, on each Side._
_Marg._ This is a cheering sight!
Soon may this warmth be general; and may Henry
Bask in its genial sunshine.--England, awhile, farewell!
And if in future times--no doubt 'twill be so--
Thy King unite his people to his confidence,
And his commanding virtues, mild, yet kingly,
Shall draw the breath of rapturous loyalty
From the gilt palace to the clay-built cottage,
Then will thy realm, indeed, be enviable.
Strike!----Then on.
_Procession of SOLDIERS, and Grand Chorus of VILLAGERS._
_Sea-girt England, fertile land!_
_Plenty, from her richest stores,_
_Ever, with benignant hand,_
_Her treasure on thy bosom pours._
_England! to thyself be true;_
_When thy realm is truly blest,_
_'Tis when a monarch's love for you_
_Is by your loyalty confest._
THE END.