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QUEEN. Eleonora, think betimes,
What are thy hated rival's crimes!
Whither, ah whither dost thou go!
What has she done to move thee so!
-Does she not warm with guilty fires
The faithless lord of my desires?
Have not her fatal arts remov'd

My Henry from my arms? 'Tis her crime to be lov'd,

"Tis her crime to have charms.
Let us fly, let us fly,
She shall die, she shall die.

I feel, I feel my heart relent:
How could the fair be innocent!

To a monarch like mine,
Who would not resign!
One so great and so brave
All hearts must enslave.

PAGE. Hark, hark! what sound invades my ear?

The conqueror's approach I hear.

He comes, victorious Henry comes!
Hautboys, trumpets, fifes, and drums,
In dreadful concert join'd.
Send from afar

A sound of war,

And fill with horror ev'ry wind.
QUEEN. Henry returns from danger free!
Henry returns!- -but not to me.
He comes his Rosamond to greet,
And lay his laurels at her feet,
His vows impatient to renew;
His vows, to Eleonora due.

Here shall the happy nymph detain,
(While of his absence I complain),
Hid in her mazy, wanton bower,
My lord, my life, my conqueror.
No, no, 'tis decreed

The trait'ress shall bleed:
No fear shall alarm,
No pity disarm;

In my rage shall be seen

The revenge of a queen.


The entry of the bower.

SIR TRUSTY, knight of the bower, solus.

How unhappy is he,

That is tied to a she,

And fam'd for his wit and his beauty!
For of us pretty fellows
Our wives are so jealous,

They ne'er have enough of our duty.
But hah! my limbs begin to quiver,
I glow, I burn, I freeze, I shiver;

Whence rises this convulsive strife?
I smell a shrew!

My fears are true,
I see my wife.



GRID. Faithless varlet, art thou there?

SIR TRUSTY. My love, my dove, my charming fair!
GRID. Monster, thy wheedling tricks I know.

SIR TRUSTY. Why wilt thou call thy turtle so?
GRID. Cheat not me with false caresses.

SIR TRUSTY. Let me stop thy mouth with kisses.
GRID. Those to fair Rosamond are due.
SIR TRUSTY. She is not half so fair as you.
GRID. She views thee with a lover's eye.
SIR TRUSTY. I'll still be thine, and let her die.
GRID. No, no, 'tis plain. Thy frauds I see,
Traitor to thy king and me!

SIR TRUSTY. O Grideline! consult thy glass,
Behold that sweet bewitching face,

Those blooming cheeks, that lovely hue!
Ev'ry feature
(Charming creature)

Will convince you I am true.

GRID O how blest were Grideline,
Could I call sir Trusty mine!
Did he not cover amorous wiles
With soft, but ah! deceiving smiles:
How should I revel in delight,
spouse of such a peerless knight!

SIR TRUSTY. At length the storm begins to cease,

I've sooth'd and flatter'd her to peace.

"Tis now my turn to tyrannize: I feel, I feel my fury rise! Tigress, begone.



-I love thee so
I cannot go.

SIR TRUSTY. Fly from my passion, beldame, fly!
GRID. Why so unkind, sir Trusty, why?
SIR TRUSTY. Thou'rt the plague of my life.
GRID. I'm a foolish, fond wife.
SIR TRUSTY. Let us part,

Let us part.

GRID. Will you break my poor heart?
Will you break my poor heart?

SIR TRUSTY. I will if I can.
GRID. O barbarous man!

From whence doth all this passion flow?
SIR TRUSTY. Thou art ugly and old,
And a villanous scold.

GRID. Thou art a rustic to call me so,

I'm not ugly nor old,

Nor a villanous scold,

But thou art a rustic to call me so,

Thou traitor, adieu!

SIR TRUSTY. Farewell, thou shrew!

GRID. Thou traitor.

SIR TRUSTY. Thou shrew!
BOTH. Adieu! Adieu!


How hard is our fate,
Who serve in the state,
And should lay out our cares
On public affairs;
When conjugal toils,
And family broils,

[Exit Grid.

Make all our great labours miscarry!

Yet this is the lot

Of him that has got

Fair Rosamond's bower,

With the clew in his power,
And is courted by all,

Both the great and the small,

As principal pimp to the mighty king Harry.
But see, the pensive fair draws near:
I'll at a distance stand and hear.



Ros. From walk to walk, from shade to shade, From stream to purling stream convey'd, Through all the mazes of the grove, Through all the mingling tracks I rove,





Full of grief and full of love,
Impatient for my lord's return
I sigh, I pine, I rave, I mourn,
Was ever passion cross'd like mine?

To rend my breast,

And break my rest,

A thousand thousand ills combine.
Absence wounds me,

Fear surrounds me,
Guilt confounds me,

Was ever passion cross'd like mine?


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