How I may compass the religious ends
My state demands, and my whole soul aspires to, Without disquieting my Henry's peace,
And I will bless thee for it.
Abbot. Love alone
Confers true honour on the marriage-state.
Without this sanction of united hearts,
The sacred bond of wedlock is defil'd,
And all its holy purposes o'erthrown.
Rosa. Be plain, good father.
Abbot. Happiness should crown
The altar's rites-and Henry sure deserves
To be supremely happy; thou alone
Clear unambiguous phrases best befit
My simple sense.
Abbot. His union with the queen
Cannot be term'd a marriage; Heav'n disdains
The prostituted bond, where hourly jars
Pervert the bless'd intent; thy vain retirement-
What boots it Eleanor? who now retains
The name alone of queen; or what avails
The title of a wife? Thou art th' espous'd
Of his affections; let the church then shed
Her holy sanction on your plighted loves;
A pious duty calls, assert thy claim,
Let thy fond lord divorce her from her state,
And Rosamond shall mount the vacant throne.
Rosa. Thy specious arguments delude me not;
My soul revolts against them. Hence, I scorn
Thy further speech-Have I not crimes enough?
Have I not amply injur'd Henry's wife,
But I must further swell the guilty sum?
Fly with thy wicked, thy pernicious schemes,
To breasts whence every trace of good is banish'd.
I am not yet so vile; 't was Henry's self
I lov'd, not England's king; not for the wealth
Of worlds, for all that grandeur can afford,
The pride of dignity, the pomp of power,
Nor even to fix my Henry mine alone,
Will I advance one added step in sin,
Or plant another torment in her breast,
Whom too severely I have wrong'd already.
Abbot. Bane to this coward heart, which shrunk
The peevish outrage of a frantic girl!
The vain presumer sorely shall repent
Her bold licentious pride, that dar'd oppose
Her upstart insolence 'gainst my controul,
Whose bidding should direct her every thought,
Had she obey'd, the doating king perchance
Had rais'd the painted moppet to his throne,
And, by that deed, had lost his people's love;
A ready victim to the daring bands
That threaten him around. That hope is lost-
New schemes must be devis'd-all arts employ'd;
For nothing shall appease my fierce resentment,
Till the foul wounds giv'n to our mitted saint,
Be deep aveng'd in Henry's impious heart.
The Palace. The ABBOT alone.
Ir shall be so the queen herself shall be
ly instrument of vengeance, both on Henry,
And that audacious minion, who presum'd
To disobey my dictates. This new project
Cannot deceive my hopes: the haughty Eleanor,
Fir'd by those demons, Jealousy, and Anger,
Will set no bounds to her outrageous will,
And she hath suffered wrongs that might inflame
A colder breast. But why recoils
my heart
At thought of harm to this presumptuous wanton ?
Why feel reluctant strugglings, as if virtue
Check'd and condemn'd my purpose? 'Tis not harm; "Tis piety, 'tis mercy.- -Will she not
Be taken from a life of sin and shame,
And plac'd where she at leisure may repent
Her great offences? This is giving her
Her soul's desire.
Shall be the means.
Night gathers round apace:
Ascend, thick gloom, and with thy sable wings
Veil Henry's peace for ever from his eyes!
Hail, honour'd Queen!
Queen. Art thou a comforter?
Thine order calls thee such; but thou approachest
Unlike the messenger of gladsome tidings:
Delay is in thy step, and disappointment
Sits on thy brow.
Abbot. Oh, skilful in the lines
Which the mind pictures on th' obedient visage,
To speak her inward workings!
Queen. Thy designs
Have fail'd?
Abbot. To thee I yield the palm of wisdom,
Effective policy, and deep contrivance;
To thee resign it all.
Queen. Lose not the moments
In vain lamentings o'er mischances past:
One project foil'd, another should be try'd,,
And former disappointments brace the mind
For future efforts, and sublimer darings.
Abbot. Thy noble spirit may perchance succeed
Where all my arts have fail'd. I boast no power
O'er this perverse, this self-directed wanton;
She seems new fram'd-her gentle disposition,
Which erst was passive to instruction s breath,
As vernal buds to zephyr's soothing gale,
Is banish'd from her breast; iniperious tones
Exalt her voice, and passion warms her check.
Queen. Whence can it spring, this new presumptuous
change?
Can she assume the port of arrogance?
She, whose soft looks and hypocritic meckness
Have won admiring eyes and pitying tongues,
While I am tax'd with warm and wayward temper,
For that I have not meanness to conceal
A just resentment for atrocious wrongs,
But bid them glow within my crimson cheek,
And flash indignant from my threat'ning eye.
Abbot. The lures of greatness, and ambition's baits, Are eagerly pursu'd by soaring minds:
When first their splendor is display'd before them,
Anticipating hope exalts their brightness,
And fires the wretched gazer, ev'n to frenzy.
Queen. What hope-what greatness-what ambi-
tion?-speak!
Explain thy meaning, ease the gath'ring tumult
That struggles here, and chokes me with its fullness.
Abbot. I fear to speak.
Queen. Why fear? Look on me well;
I am a woman with a hero's heart.
Be quick-be plain-thou hast no tale t' unfold
Can make me shudder-tho' it make me feel.
Abbot. Her wild imagination hurries her
Beyond belief, or ev'n conception's limit;
Safely protected by the royal favour
Of her great master (may I say his love?)
Queen. On with thy speech-dispatch!
Abbot. She threats defiance
To every other power, and all controul :
Bids me, with haughty phrase, no more assume
The right to check her deeds; exalts herself
Above the peers and worthies of the realm:
Nay, frantic in her fancied excellence,
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