Enter the King, as a Pilgrim. King. Must it be ever thus? still doom'd to tread Becket, though in his grave, torments me still. And be thyself again. Cliff. Who thus vents forth His sore disquiets? King. What is he who asks? If yon expiring lamp deceive me not, Thy garb betokens a religious function. King. Inform me, holy guide, [Advancing. What boot the punishments your laws enjoin Cliff. Much, pious stranger, Much they avail; within these silent walls King. Divinely spoke! but well may'st thou declaim Their harsh severities-Thou happily canst Cliff. No-would to Heaven I had that boast; but rank'd 'Mongst error's sons, I share the general weakness. King. Methinks thou hast involv'd me in a share Who hath inflicted it? Cliff. Myself-my conscience. King. Thyself! Cliff. The mind that feels its own demerits Needs no infliction from another's tongue. King. My ears, my soul, are open to thy words→→→ Give me to know thy crime. Cliff. How can I utter it, And not sink down with shame? King. Let shame betide The coward heart that will not own its frailties: To all beside, it must be that true pride D And noble Henry's fame-Henry, the greatest, The best of kings! King. Oh, painful recollection! [Aside. Thou once hadst such a friend!-Ungrateful Henry! He had a daughter, beauteous as the eye King. Spare me, spare me Oh, bitter tale!Thou hadst a daughter, Clifford ! [Aside. Cliff. I mark'd her for my own; pour'd the false tale Of wily love into her credulous ear, And won her artless heart. King. [Aside.] Tumultuous pangs Rush like a torrent thro' my bursting breast; Cliff. Heart, heart, be strong! [Aside. He muses deeply on it.-I have hurt [To the King. Thou hast a daughter, who, like this, my victim, King. Away, away- I can endure no more,-Oh, conscience, conscience! [Aside. With what a wild variety of torments Thou rushest thro' my soul!-'Tis all distraction! And asks some more than human strength of reason, To save me from despair. Cliff. Kind Heaven, I thank thee; His noble nature is not quite extinguish'd. And all my bus'ness in this life is done. [Exit. [Exit. ACT III. SCENE I. An Apartment in the Bower. RoSAMOND discovered writing. ETHELINDA attending. Rosamond. Ir is in vain-my trembling hands deny Is the poor breast which honour hath deserted! Ethel. Say, is it ought thy servant can discharge? She wishes to relieve thy woe, and shares Thy every pang. Rosa. Thy sympathizing heart Hath oft consol'd me, soften'd the rude hour Encroaching agony-my Henry gave thee Wherein thy lot was cast, taught me to change That servile title for the name of friend. Ethel. Give me that office now, and let me speak Thy meanings there. Rosa. I know not what I mean. In vain, alas! she strives to please herself, And his last hours were charg'd with grief and shame. To these bright scenes of happiness and joy. Rosa. I have no title to them; these bright scenes May give delight to unpolluted breasts, |