This ardour well befits thee. Go, my Henry,
Visit our brother France; there shine a star
Of this rich diadem; let the bright dawn
Of thy young virtues glitter in their eyes;
Those virtues which shall grace this glorious isle,
When we are low in dust.
Pr. And shew a heart
Prepar'd to vindicate each royal due,
With the last drop that warms its swelling veins.
King. Spoke with a free-born spirit-Yet beware,
Be not impetuous to grasp at power,
Nor use it, when obtain'd, beyond the limits
Of reason and uprightness; in the monarch
Do not forget the man. This honest lord,
An able counsellor and steady friend,
We make companion of thy expedition;
Receive him, Henry, from thy father's hand,
Worthy thy friendship-wear him near thy heart;
And, should some hasty warmth mislead thy youth,
Be his white hairs the rev'rend monitors,
To warn thee back to the neglected path,
From which thy steps had stray'd.
Pr. I love his virtues,
And thus receive the man my sire esteems.
Queen. Must I then lose him? Is he not my son ? Or has a mother's tongue no right to plead In her own sufferings? Oh, my lord, my Henry, Stand thou between thy wife, and the hard sentence
Of men, who feel not the soft ties of nature,
And give me back my boy.
King. Madam, forbear!
Parental feelings in my bosom sway,
Strong as in thine. Is he not lost alike
To Henry as to Eleanor? Subdue
This unbecoming weakness, that prefers
Self-satisfaction to the public weal.
Queen. Alas! there was a time
When Henry's speech had falter'd o'er and o'er, Ere he had utter'd, with determin'd breath,
So harsh a sentence. Is that time forgot?
Nay, turn not from me, Henry! doth thy heart Shame to avow the guests it harbour'd once, Fond love and gentle pity?
Pr. Cease, my mother,
Oh, cease to interrupt my course of glory;
I go but for a season, to return
More worthy thy endearments.
Queen. Art thou, too,
A traitor to my peace? And dost thou wish
To fly a mother's arms? To leave her here,
Helpless and unprotected! Oh, my son!
Oppose not thou my wish, but rather join
To melt a father's heart.
King. 'T were useless, madam;
Think who thy husband is, and what his ties.
How light, how wavering must he appear
In public eyes, should he abjure the point
He hath just labour'd! Recollect thyself
Thou canst not wish him so to slight the claim
Of wisdom, and of honour.
Queen. Nor the claims,
The soft'ning duties of domestic life;
The claims of happiness, of inward peace,
Which long my heart hath sigh'd for.
King. Eleanor,
Once more remember who we are; a king
That will not brook to be arraign'd and school'd
For petty indiscretions. Henry judges
His own mis-doings, and the chastisement
Must be inflicted by his conscious mind,
Not the bold railings of another's tongue.
Queen. I will be mild, be patient, be advis'd;
I do recall my words, revoke each free,
Each hasty breath of my unguarded speech,
Which hath offended thee; henceforth I bend
My temper to thy will, thy nicest wish,
That posture ill becomes us both. I grieve
'Thou shouldst be so importunate, for what
We must not, cannot, will not grant.
Queen. For this
Have I debas'd myself? Hath England's queen
Bent lowly to the earth, to be denied
A suit, the mother has a right to claim ?
My heart swells high, indignant of the meanness,
And scorns itself for such servility.
King. Prefer a proper suit, thou canst not ask
What Henry shall refuse.
Queen. Oh no! thy grants,
Thy kind consenting smiles, thy soothing accents,
Thy love, thy faith, are all withdrawn from Eleanor,
And given to another; conscious shame
O'er-pow'rs me, while I own they once were dear:
But I will now forget them, 'raze them out
From my officious mem'ry, which hath dar'd
To call them back to my insulted heart.
King. Well doth this railing which thy fury promis'd,'
Warn us to part; our kindness meant to give
Some days indulgence to the mother's feelings.
Queen. I scorn both that and thee.
Pr. [Aside.] My bosom swells,
Impatient of her wrongs-down, down, a while,
The time, the time will come
Prepare thee, on the instant; he shall hence
Before yon sun decline. If thou hast aught
Of love or duty for thy mother's ear,
Thou hast free licence, Henry, to employ
The present moments in that pious office;
Yet take good heed-let not a woman's weakness
Melt thy resolves, and tempt thee to forget
The debt thou ow'st thy country and thy king.
Pr. Restrain those precious drops, my dearest mother, That trembling stand in thy swoln eyes, and shew Like the full bubblings on the mountain's brim, Pressing to pass their bounds; abate this grief, And bid thy bosom rest.
Queen. If thou behold'st
One tear disgrace mine eye, fierce indignation,
Not grief, hath call'd it forth-away, away—
Seem not solicitous about the cause
That pains thee not; thou art no more a son,
No more a comfort to thy mother's woe.
Pr.. Oh, by the hopes I have of future fame,
I do not merit those ungentle terms.
Revoke thy words-resume those gentle strains,
Which wont to fall upon thy Henry's ear,
And nature's feelings will unsluice my heart
In blood to thy complainings.
Join'd with the rest, a foe to my repose?
Seest thou not how thy mother is neglected,
Abandon'd, scorn'd? Yet thou canst yield obedience
To the decrees of him who thus insults me,
And leave me to my wrongs.
Pr. Can I oppose
A parent's absolute command? Oh, madam!
Think on my state, how critically nice;
"Twixt two such urgent claims, how hard to judge! I must resist a king and father's power,
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