Douglas: A Tragedy

Front matter

DOUGLAS:

A

TRAGEDY.

Prologue. Spoken by Mr. Sparks

PROLOGUE.

Spoken by Mr. SPARKS.

In antient times, when Britains trade was arms, And the lov'd musick of her youth, alarms. A god-like race sustain'd fair Englands fame: Who has not heard of gallant Piercys name? Ay, and of Douglas? Such illustrious foes In rival Rome and Carthage never rose! From age to age bright shone the British fire, And every hero was a hero's sire. When powerful fate decreed one warrior's doom, Up sprung the Phœnix from his parent's tomb. But whilst these generous rivals fought and fell, These generous rivals lov'd each other well: Tho' many a bloody field was lost and won, Nothing in hate, in honour all was done. When Piercy wrong'd defy'd his prince or peers, Fast came the Douglas, with his Scottish spears; And, when proud Douglas made his King his foe, For Douglas, Piercy bent his English bow. Expell'd their native homes by adverse fate, They knock'd alternate at each other's gate:

Then blaz'd the castle, at the midnight hour, For him whose arms had shook its firmest tower. This night a Douglas your protection claims; A wife! a mother! pity's softest names: The story of her woes indulgent hear, And grant your suppliant all she begs, a tear. In confidence she begs; and hopes to find Each English breast, like noble Piercys kind.

Dramatis Personæ

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Dramatis Personæ as represented at Edinburgh

Dramatis Personæ, as represented at EDINBURGH.

Act I, Scene I.

DOUGLAS:

A

TRAGEDY.

ACT I. SCENE I.

The court of a castle, surrounded with woods.

Clermontv2p6

<>Enter Lady Randolph. Ye woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom Accords with my soul's sadness, and draws forth The voice of sorrow from my bursting heart, Farewel a while: I will not leave you long; Clermontv1ch5For in your shades I deem some spirit dwells, Who from the chiding stream, or groaning oak, Still hears, and answers to Matilda's moan. O Douglas! Douglas! If departed ghosts

Are e'er permitted to review this world, Within the circle of that wood thou art, And with the passion of immortals hear'st My lamentation: hear'st thy wretched wife Weep for her husband slain, her infant lost. My brother's timeless death I seem to mourn; Who perish'd with thee on this fatal day. To thee I lift my voice; to thee address The plaint which mortal ear has never heard. O disregard me not; though I am call'd Another's now, my heart is wholly thine. Incapable of change, affection lies Buried, my Douglas, in thy bloody grave. But Randolph comes, whom fate has made my Lord, To chide my anguish, and defraud the dead.

<>Enter Lord Randolph. Again these weeds of woe! say, do'st thou well To feed a passion which consumes thy life? The living claim some duty; vainly thou Bestow'st thy cares upon the silent dead.

<>Lady Randolph. Silent, alas! is he for whom I mourn: Childless, without memorial of his name, He only now in my remembrance lives.

<>Lord Randolph. Time, that wears out the trace of deepest anguish, Has past o'er thee in vain. Wou'd thou wer't not Compos'd of grief and tenderness alone! Sure thou art not the daughter of Sir Malcolm: Strong was his rage, eternal his resentment: For when thy brother fell, he smil'd to hear That Douglas' son in the same field was slain.

<>Lady Randolph. Oh! rake not up the ashes of my fathers: Implacable resentment was their crime, And grievous has the expiation been.

Contending with the Douglas, gallant lives Of either house were lost; my ancestors Compell'd, at last, to leave their ancient seat On Tiviot's pleasant banks; and now, of them No heir is left. Had they not been so stern, I had not been the last of all my race.

<>Lord Randolph. Thy grief wrests to its purposes my words. I never ask'd of thee that ardent love, Which in the breasts of fancy's children burns. Decent affection, and complacent kindness Were all I wish'd for; but I wish'd in vain. Hence with the less regret my eyes behold The storm of war that gathers o'er this land: If I should perish by the Danish sword, Matilda would not shed one tear the more.

<>Lady Randolph. Thou do'st not think so: woeful as I am I love thy merit, and esteem thy virtues. But whither goest thou now?

<>Lord Randolph. Straight to the camp, Where every warrior on the tip-toe stands Of expectation, and impatient asks Each who arrives, if he is come to tell The Danes are landed.

<>Lady Randolph. O, may adverse winds, Far from the coast of Scotland, drive their fleet! And every soldier of both hosts return In peace and safety to his pleasant home!

<>Lord Randolph. Thou speak'st a woman's, hear a warrior's wish: Right from their native land, the stormy north, May the wind blow, till every keel is fix'd

Immoveable in Caledonia's strand! Then shall our foes repent their bold invasion, And roving armies shun the fatal shore.

<>Lady Randolph. War I detest: but war with foreign foes, Whose manners, language, and whose looks are strange, Is not so horrid, nor to me so hateful, As that which with our neighbours oft we wage. A river here, there an ideal line By fancy drawn, divides the sister kingdoms. On each side dwells a people similar, As twins are to each other, valiant both, Both for their valour famous thro' the world. Yet will they not unite their kindred arms, And, if they must have war, wage distant war, But with each other fight in cruel conflict. Gallant in strife, and noble in their ire, The battle is their pastime. They go forth Gay in the morning, as to summer sport: When ev'ning comes, the glory of the morn, The youthful warrior, is a clod of clay. Thus fall the prime of either hapless land; And such the fruit of Scotch and English wars.

<>Lord Randolph. I'll hear no more: this melody would make A soldier drop his sword, and doff his arms, Sit down and weep the conquests he has made; Yea, (like a monk), sing rest and peace in heav'n To souls of warriours in his battles slain. Lady, farewel: I leave thee not alone; Yonder comes one whose love makes duty light.

<>Enter Anna.

<>Anna. Forgive the rashness of your Anna's love: Urg'd by affection, I have thus presum'd

To interrupt your solitary thoughts; And warn you of the hours that you neglect, And lose in sadness.

<>Lady Randolph. So to lose my hours Is all the use I wish to make of time.

<>Anna. To blame thee, lady, suits not with my state: But sure I am, since death first prey'd on man, Never did sister thus a brother mourn. What had your sorrows been if you had lost, In early youth, the husband of your heart?

<>Lady Randolph. Oh!

<>Anna. Have I distrest you with officious love, And ill-tim'd mention of your brother's fate? Forgive me, lady: humble tho' I am, The mind I bear partakes not of my fortune: So fervently I love you, that to dry These piteous tears, I'd throw my life away.

<>Lady Randolph. What power directed thy unconscious tongue To speak as thou hast done? to name——

<>Anna. I know not: But since my words have made my mistress tremble, I will speak so no more; but silent mix My tears with hers.

<>Lady Randolph. No, thou shalt not be silent. I'll trust thy faithful love, and thou shalt be Henceforth th' instructed partner of my woes. But what avails it? Can thy feeble pity Roll back the flood of never-ebbing time?

Compell the earth and ocean to give up Their dead alive?

<>Anna. What means my noble mistress?

<>Lady Randolph. Didst thou not ask what had my sorrows been?—— If I in early youth had lost a husband?4 In the cold bosom of the earth is lodg'd, Mangl'd with wounds, the husband of my youth; And in some cavern of the ocean lyes My child and his.6

<>Anna. O! lady, most rever'd! The tale wrapt up in your amazing words Deign to unfold.

<>Lady Randolph. Alas! an ancient feud, Hereditary evil, was the source Of my misfortunes. Ruling fate decreed, That my brave brother should in battle save The life of Douglas' son, our house's foe: The youthful warriours vow'd eternal friendship. To see the vaunted sister of his friend Impatient, Douglas to Balarmo came, Under a borrow'd name.—My heart he gain'd; Nor did I long refuse the hand he begg'd: My brother's presence authoriz'd our marriage. Three weeks, three little weeks, with wings of down, Had o'er us flown, when my lov'd lord was call'd To fight his father's battles; and with him, In spite of all my tears, did Malcolm go. Scarce were they gone, when my stern sire was told That the false stranger was lord Douglas' son. Frantic with rage, the baron drew his sword And question'd me. Alone, forsaken, faint, Kneeling beneath his sword, fault'ring I took

An oath equivocal, that I ne'er would Kenilworthv3ch10Wed one of Douglas name. Sincerity Thou first of virtues, let no mortal leave Thy onward path! altho' the earth should gape, And from the gulf of hell destruction cry To take dissimulation's winding way.

<>Anna. Alas! how few of woman's fearful kind Durst own a truth so hardy!

<>Lady Randolph. The first truth Is easiest to avow. This moral learn, This precious moral, from my tragic tale.— In a few days the dreadful tidings came That Douglas and my brother both were slain. My lord! my life! my husband!—mighty God! What had I done to merit such affliction?

<>Anna. My dearest lady! Many a tale of tears I've listen'd to; but never did I hear A tale so sad as this.

<>Lady Randolph. In the first days Of my distracting grief, I found myself—— As women wish to be who love their lords. But who durst tell my father? The good priest Who join'd our hands, my brother's antient tutour, With his lov'd Malcolm, in the battle fell: They two alone were privy to the marriage. On silence and concealment I resolv'd, Till time should make my father's fortune mine. That very night on which my son was born, My nurse, the only confident I had, Set out with him to reach her sister's house: But nurse, nor infant, have I ever seen, Or heard of, Anna, since that fatal hour. My murder'd child!—had thy fond mother fear'd

The loss of thee, she had loud fame defy'd, Despis'd her father's rage, her father's grief, And wander'd with thee thro' the scorning world.

<>Anna. Not seen, nor heard of! then perhaps he lives.

<>Lady Randolph. No. It was dark December: wind and rain Had beat all night. Across the Carron lay The destin'd road; and in it's swelling flood My faithful servant perish'd with my child. O hapless son! of a most hapless sire!— But they are both at rest; and I alone Dwell in this world of woe, condemn'd to walk, Like a guilt-troubl'd ghost, my painful rounds: Nor has despiteful fate permitted me The comfort of a solitary sorrow. Tho' dead to love, I was compell'd to wed Randolph, who snatch'd me from a villain's arms; And Randolph now possesses the domains, That by Sir Malcolm's death on me devolv'd; Domains, that should to Douglas' son have giv'n A baron's title, and a baron's power. Such were my foothing thoughts, while I bewail'd The slaughter'd father of a son unborn. And when that son came, like a ray from heav'n, Which shines and disappears; alas! my child! How long did thy fond mother grasp the hope Of having thee, she knew not how, restor'd. Year after year hath worn her hope away; But left still undiminish'd her desire.

<>Anna. The hand, that spins th' uneven thread of life, May smooth the length that's yet to come of your's.

<>Lady Randolph. Not in this world: I have consider'd well Its various evils, and on whom they fall.

Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself? And sweet affection prove the spring of woe O! had I died when my lov'd husband fell! Had some good angel op'd to me the book Of providence, and let me read my life, My heart had broke, when I beheld the sum Of ills, which one by one I have endur'd.

<>Anna. That God, whose ministers good angels are, Hath shut the book in mercy to mankind. But we must leave this theme: Glenalvon comes: I saw him bend on you his thoughtful eyes, And hitherwards he slowly stalks his way.

<>Lady Randolph. I will avoid him. An ungracious person Is doubly irksome in an hour like this.

<>Anna. Why speaks my lady thus of Randolph's heir?

<>Lady Randolph. Because he's not the heir of Randolph's virtues. Subtle and shrewd, he offers to mankind An artificial image of himself: And he with ease can vary to the taste Of different men, it's features. Self-denied, And master of his appetites he seems: But his fierce nature, like a fox chain'd up, Watches to seize unseen the wish'd-for prey. Never were vice and virtue pois'd so ill, As in Glenalvon's unrelenting mind. Yet is he brave and politic in war, And stands aloft in these unruly times. Why I describe him thus I'll tell hereafter; Stay and detain him till I reach the castle.

<>Anna. O happiness! where art thou to be found? I see thou dwellest not with birth and beauty, Tho' grac'd with grandeur, and in wealth array'd: Nor dost thou, it would seem, with virtue dwell; Else had this gentle lady miss'd thee not.

<>Enter Glenalvon.

<>Glenalvon. What dost thou muse on, meditating maid? Like some entranc'd and visionary seer On earth thou stand'st, thy thoughts ascend to heaven.

<>Anna. Wou'd that I were, e'en as thou say'st, a seer, To have my doubts by heav'nly vision clear'd!

<>Glenalvon. What dost thou doubt of? what hast thou to do With subjects intricate? Thy youth, thy beauty, Cannot be questioned: think of these good gifts; And then thy contemplations will be pleasing.

<>Anna. Let women view yon monument of woe, Then boast of beauty: who so fair as she? But I must follow: this revolving day Awakes the memory of her ancient woes.

<>Glenalvon solus. So!—Lady Randolph shuns me; by and by I'll woo her as the lion wooes his brides. The deed's a doing now, that makes me lord Of these rich valleys, and a chief of power. The season is most apt; my sounding steps Will not be heard amidst the din of arms.

Randolph has liv'd too long: his better fate Had the ascendant once, and kept me down: When I had seiz'd the dame, by chance he came, Rescu'd and had the lady for his labour; I 'scap'd unknown: a slender consolation! Heaven is my witness that I do not love To sow in peril, and let others reap The jocund harvest. Yet I am not safe: By love, or something like it, stung, inflam'd, Madly I blabb'd my passion to his wife, And she has threaten'd to acquaint him of it. The way of woman's will I do not know: But well I know the baron's wrath is deadly. I will not live in fear: the man I dread Is as a Dane to me; ay, and the man Who stands betwixt me and my chief desire. No bar but he; she has no kinsman near; No brother in his sister's quarrel bold; And for the righteous cause, a stranger's cause, I know no chief that will defy Glenalvon.

End of the First Act.

Act II, Scene I.

ACT II. SCENE I.

A Court, &c.

Enter servants and a stranger at one door, and Lady Ran­dolph and Anna at another.

<>Lady Randolph. What means this clamour? stranger, speak secure; Hast thou been wrong'd? have these rude men presum'd To vex the weary traveller on his way?

<>First Servant. By us no stranger ever suffer'd wrong: This man with outcry wild has call'd us forth; So sore afraid he cannot speak his fears.

<>Enter Lord Randolph and young man, with their swords <> drawn and bloody.

<>Lady Randolph. Not vain the stranger's fears! how fares my lord?

<>Lord Randolph. That it fares well, thanks to this gallant youth, Whose valour sav'd me from a wretched death! As down the winding dale I walk'd alone, At the cross way four armed men attack'd me: Rovers, I judge, from the licentious camp, Who would have quickly laid Lord Randolph low, Had not this brave and generous stranger come,

Like my good angel in the hour of fate, And, mocking danger, made my foes his own. They turn'd upon him: but his active arm Struck to the ground, from whence they rose no more, The fiercest two; the others fled amain, And left him master of the bloody field. Speak, Lady Randolph: upon Beauty's tongue Dwell accents pleasing to the brave and bold. Speak, noble dame, and thank him for thy lord.

<>Lady Randolph. My lord, I cannot speak what now I feel. My heart o'erflows with gratitude to heav'n, And to this noble youth, who all unknown To you and yours, deliberated not, Nor paus'd at peril, but humanely brave Fought on your side, against such fearful odds. Have you yet learn'd of him whom we should thank? Whom call the saviour of Lord Randolph's life?

<>Lord Randolph. I ask'd that question, and he answer'd not: But I must know who my deliverer is. >>>(to the Stranger)

<>Stranger. A low born man, of parentage obscure, Who nought can boast but his desire to be A soldier, and to gain a name in arms.

<>Lord Randolph. Whoe'er thou art, thy spirit is ennobled By the great King of Kings! thou art ordain'd And stampt a hero by the sovereign hand Of nature! blush not, flower of modesty As well as valour, to declare thy birth.

<>Stranger. My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain, Whose constant cares were to encrease his store,

And keep his only son, myself, at home. For I had heard of battles, and I long'd To follow to the field some warlike lord; And heaven soon granted what my sire denied. This moon which rose last night, round as my shield, Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light, A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills, Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale, Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled For safety, and for succour. I alone, With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd The road he took, then hasted to my friends; Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, I met advancing. The pursuit I led, Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. We fought and conquer'd. E're a sword was drawn, An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief, Who wore that day the arms which now I wear. Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard That our good king had summon'd his bold peers To lead their warriours to the Carron side, I left my father's house, and took with me A chosen servant to conduct my steps:— Yon trembling coward who forsook his master. Journeying with this intent, I past these towers. And, heaven-directed, came this day to do The happy deed that gilds my humble name.

<>Lord Randolph. He is as wise as brave. Was ever tale With such a gallant modesty rehears'd? My brave deliverer! thou shalt enter now A nobler list, and in a monarch's sight Contend with princes for the prize of fame.

I will present thee to our Scottish king, Whose valiant spirit ever valour lov'd. Ha! my Matilda! wherefore starts that tear?

<>Lady Randolph. I cannot say: for various affections, And strangely mingled, in my bosom swell; Yet each of them may well command a tear. I joy that thou art safe; and admire Him and his fortunes who hath wrought thy safety. Obscure and friendless, he the army sought, Bent upon peril, in the range of death Resolv'd to hunt for fame, and with his sword To gain distinction which his birth denied. In this attempt unknown he might have perish'd, And gain'd, with all his valour, but oblivion. Now grac'd by thee, his virtue serves no more Beneath despair. The soldier now of hope He stands conspicuous; fame and great renown Are brought within the compass of his sword. On this my mind reflected, whilst you spoke, And bless'd the wonder-working Lord of heaven.

<>Lord Randolph. Pious and grateful ever are thy thoughts! My deeds shall follow where thou point'st the way. Next to myself, and equal to Glenalvon, In honour and command shall Norval be.

<>Norval. I know not how to thank you. Rude I am, In speech and manners: never till this hour Stood I in such a presence: yet, my lord, There's something in my breast which makes me bold To say, that Norval ne'er will shame thy favour.

<>Lady Randolph. I will be sworn thou wilt not. Thou shalt be

My knight; and ever, as thou didst to-day, With happy valour guard the life of Randolph. <>Lord Randolph. Well hast thou spoke. Let me forbid reply.

We are thy debtors still; thy high desert O'ertops our gratitude. I must proceed, As was at first intended, to the camp. Some of my train I see are speeding hither, Impatient, doubtless, of their lord's delay. Go with me, Norval, and thine eyes shall see The chosen warriors of thy native land, Who languish for the fight, and beat the air With brandish'd swords.

<>Norval. Let us begone, my lord.

<>Lord Randolph.

About the time that the declining sun Shall his broad orbit o'er yon hills suspend, Expect us to return. This night once more Within these walls I rest; my tent I pitch To-morrow in the field. Prepare the feast. Free is his heart who for his country fights: He in the eve of battle may resign Himself to social pleasure; sweetest then, When danger to a soldier's soul endears The human joy that never may return.

Act II, Scene II.

SCENE II.

Lady Randolph and Anna.

<>Lady Randolph. His parting words have struck a fatal truth. O Douglas! Douglas! tender was the time

When we two parted, ne'er to meet again! How many years of anguish and despair Has heav'n annex'd to those swift passing hours Of love and fondness! Then my bosom's flame Oft, as blown back by the rude breath of fear, Return'd, and with redoubled ardour blaz'd.

<>Anna. May gracious heav'n pour the sweet balm of peace Into the wounds that fester in your breast! For earthly consolation cannot cure them.

<>Lady Randolph. One only cure can heav'n itself bestow;— A grave—that bed in which the weary rest. Wretch that I am! Alas! why am I so? At every happy parent I repine! How blest the mother of yon gallant Norval! She for a living husband bore her pains, And heard him bless her when a man was born: She nurs'd her smiling infant on her breast; Tended the child, and rear'd the pleasing boy: She, with affection's triumph, saw the youth In grace and comeliness surpass his peers: Whilst I to a dead husband bore a son, And to the roaring waters gave my child.

<>Anna. Alas! alas! why will you thus resume Your grief afresh? I thought that gallant youth Would for a while have won you from your woe. On him intent you gazed, with a look Much more delighted, than your pensive eye Has deign'd on other objects to bestow.

<>Lady Randolph. Delighted say'st thou? Oh! even there mine eye

Found fuel for my life-consuming sorrow. I thought, that had the son of Douglas liv'd, He might have been like this young gallant stranger, And pair'd with him in features and in shape, In all endowments, as in years, I deem, My boy with blooming Norval might have number'd. Whilst thus I mus'd, a spark from fancy fell On my sad heart, and kindled up a fondness For this young stranger, wand'ring from his home, And like an orphan cast upon my care. I will protect thee, (said I to myself) With all my power, and grace with all my favour.

<>Anna. Sure heav'n will bless so gen'rous a resolve. You must, my noble dame, exert your power: You must awake: devices will be fram'd, And arrows pointed at the breast of Norval.

<>Lady Randolph. Glenalvon's false and crafty head will work Against a rival in his kinsman's love, If I deter him not: I only can. Bold as he is, Glenalvon will beware How he pulls down the fabric that I raise. I'll be the artist of young Norval's fortune. 'Tis pleasing to admire! most apt was I To this affection in my better days; Though now I seem to you shrunk up, retir'd Within the narrow compass of my woe. Have you not sometimes seen an early flower Open it's bud, and spread it's silken leaves, To catch sweet airs, and odours to bestow; Then, by the keen blast nipt, pull in it's leaves, And, tho' still living, die to scent and beauty?

Emblem of me: affliction, like a storm, Hath kill'd the forward blossom of my heart.

<>Enter Glenalvon.

<>Glenalvon. Where is my dearest kinsman, noble Randolph?

<>Lady Randolph. Have you not heard, Glenalvon, of the base——

<>Glenalvon. I have: and that the villains may not scape, With a strong band I have begirt the wood. If they lurk there, alive they shall be taken, And torture force from them th' important secret Whether some foe of Randolph hir'd their swords, Or if——

<>Lady Randolph. That care becomes a kinsman's love. I have a counsel for Glenalvon's ear. >>>(Exit Anna.)

<>Glenalvon. To him your counsels always are commands.

<>Lady Randolph. I have not found so: thou art known to me.

<>Glenalvon. Known!

<>Lady Randolph. And most certain is my cause of knowledge.

<>Glenalvon. What do you know? By the most blessed cross, You much amaze me. No created thing, Yourself except, durst thus accost Glenalvon.

<>Lady Randolph. Is guilt so bold? and dost thou make a merit Of thy pretended meekness? This to me, Who, with a gentleness which duty blames, Have hitherto conceal'd what, if divulg'd, Would make thee nothing; or, what's worse than that,

An outcast beggar, and unpitied too: For mortals shudder at a crime like thine.

<>Glenalvon. Thy virtue awes me. First of womankind! Permit me yet to say, that the fond man Whom love transports beyond strict virtue's bounds, If he is brought by love to misery, In fortune ruin'd, as in mind forlorn, Unpitied cannot be. Pity's the alms Which on such beggars freely is bestow'd: For mortals know that love is still their lord, And o'er their vain resolves advances still: As fire, when kindled by our shepherds, moves Thro' the dry heath before the fanning wind.

<>Lady Randolph. Reserve these accents for some other ear. To love's apology I listen not. Mark thou my words; for it is meet thou should'st. His brave deliverer Randolph here retains. Perhaps his presence may not please thee well: But, at thy peril, practise ought against him: Let not thy jealousy attempt to shake And loosen the good root he has in Randolph; Whose favourites I know thou hast supplanted. Thou look'st at me, as if thou fain would'st pry Into my heart. 'Tis open as my speech. I give this early caution, and put on The curb, before thy temper breaks away. The friendless stranger my protection claims: His friend I am, and be not thou his foe.

Act II, Scene III.

SCENE III.

Manet Glenalvon.

Child that I was, to start at my own shadow, And be the shallow fool of coward conscience! I am not what I have been; what I should be. The darts of destiny have almost pierc'd My marble heart. Had I one grain of faith In holy legends, and religious tales, I should conclude there was an arm above That fought against me, and malignant turn'd, To catch my self, the subtle snare I set. Why, rape and murder are not simple means! Th' imperfect rape to Randolph gave a spouse; And the intended murder introduc'd A favourite to hide the sun from me; And worst of all, a rival. Burning hell! This were thy center, if I thought she lov'd him! 'Tis certain she contemns me; nay commands me, And waves the flag of her displeasure o'er me, In his behalf. And shall I thus be brav'd? Curb'd, as she calls it, by dame chastity? Infernal fiends, if any fiends there are More fierce than love, ambition, and revenge, Rise up and fill my bosom with your fires And policy remorseless! Chance may spoil A single aim; but perseverance must Prosper at last. For chance and fate are words: Persistive wisdom is the fate of man. Darkly a project peers upon my mind, Like the red moon when rising in the east,

Cross'd and divided by strange-colour'd clouds. I'll seek the slave who came with Norval hither, And for his cowardice was spurned from him. I've known a follower's rankled bosom breed Venom most fatal to his heedless lord.

End of the Second Act.

Act III, Scene I.

ACT III. SCENE I.

A Court, &c. as before.

<>Enter Anna.

<>Anna. Thy vassals, Grief! great nature's order break, And change the noon-tide to the midnight hour. Whilst Lady Randolph sleeps I will walk forth, And taste the air that breathes on yonder bank. Sweet may her slumbers be! Ye ministers Of gracious heaven who love the human race, Angels and seraphs who delight in goodness! Forsake your skies, and to her couch descend! There from her fancy chase those dismal forms That haunt her waking; her sad spirit charm With images celestial, such as please The blest above upon their golden beds.