Strafford

Dedication

DEDICATED, IN ALL AFFECTIONATE ADMIRATION,

TO WILLIAM C. MACREADY, ESQ.

BY HIS MOST GRATEFUL AND DEVOTED FRIEND,

Act I

Scene I

A HOUSE NEAR WHITEHALL.

HAMPDEN, HOLLIS, the younger VANE, RUDYARD, FIENNES, and many of the Presbyterian Party: LOUDON and other Scots Commissioners: some seated, some standing beside a table strewn over with papers, &c.

VANE.

I say, if he be here . . .

RUDYARD.

And he is here!

HOLLIS.

For England's sake let every man be still Nor speak of him, so much as say his name, Till Pym rejoin us! Rudyard—Vane—remember One rash conclusion may decide our course And with it England's fate—think—England's fate! Hampden, for England's sake they should be still!

VANE.

You say so, Hollis? well, I must be still! It is indeed too bitter that one man— Any one man . . .

RUDYARD.

You are his brother, Hollis!

HAMPDEN.

Shame on you, Rudyard! time to tell him that, When he forgets the Mother of us all.

RUDYARD.

Do I forget her? . .

HAMPDEN.

—You talk idle hate Against her foe: is that so strange a thing? Is hating Wentworth all the help she needs?

A PURITAN.

The Philistine strode, cursing as he went: But David—five smooth pebbles from the brook Within his scrip . . .

RUDYARD.

—Be you as still as David!

FIENNES.

Here's Rudyard not ashamed to wag a tongue Stiff with ten years' disuse of Parliaments; Why, when the last sate, Wentworth sate with us!

RUDYARD.

Let's hope for news of them now he returns: —But I'll abide Pym's coming.

VANE.

Now by Heaven They may be cool that can, silent that can, Some have a gift that way: Wentworth is here— Here—and the King's safe closeted with him Ere this! and when I think on all that's past Since that man left us—how his single arm Roll'd back the good of England, roll'd it back And set the woeful Past up in its place . . .

A PURITAN.

Exalting Dagon where the Ark should be!

VANE.

. . . How that man has made firm the fickle King —Hampden, I will speak out!—in aught he feared To venture on before; taught Tyranny Her dismal trade, the use of all her tools, To ply the scourge yet screw the gag so close That strangled agony bleeds mute to death: —How he turns Ireland to a private stage For training infant villanies, new ways Of wringing treasure out of tears and gore, Unheard oppressions nourished in the dark To try how much Man's nature can endure —If he dies under it, what harm? if not . . .

FIENNES.

Why, one more trick is added to the rest Worth a King's knowing—

RUDYARD.

—And what Ireland bears England may learn to bear.

VANE.

. . . How all this while That man has set himself to one dear task, The bringing Charles to relish more and more Power . . .

RUDYARD.

Power without law . . .

FIENNES.

Power and blood too . .

VANE.

. . . Can I be still?

HAMPDEN.

For that you should be still.

VANE.

Oh, Hampden, then and now! The year he left us The People by its Parliament could wrest The Bill of Rights from the reluctant King: And now,—he'll find in an obscure small room A stealthy gathering of great-hearted men That take up England's cause: England is—here!

HAMPDEN.

And who despairs of England?

RUDYARD.

That do I If Wentworth is to rule her. I am sick To think her wretched masters, Hamilton, The muckworm Cottington, the maniac Laud, May yet be longed for back again. I say I do despair.

VANE.

And, Rudyard, I'll say this— And, (turning to the rest) all true men say after me! not loud— But solemnly and as you'd say a prayer: This Charles, who treads our England under foot, Has just so much—it may be fear or craft— As bids him pause at each fresh outrage; friends, He needs some sterner hand to grasp his own, Some voice to ask, "Why shrink?—am I not by?" —A man that England loved for serving her, Found in his heart to say, "I know where best The iron heel shall bruise her, for she leans Upon me when you trample." Witness, you! But inasmuch as life is hard to take From England . . .

MANY VOICES.

Go on, Vane! 'Tis well said, Vane!

VANE.

. . . Who has not so forgotten Runnymead . . .

VOICES.

'Tis well and bravely spoken, Vane! Go on!

VANE.

. . There are some little signs of late she knows The ground no place for her! no place for her! When the King beckons—and beside him stands The same bad man once more, with the same smile, And the same savage gesture! Now let England Make proof of us.

VOICES.

Strike him—the Renegade— Haman—Ahithophel—

HAMPDEN.

(To the Scots.) Gentlemen of the North, It was not thus the night your claims were urged, And we pronounced the League and Covenant Of Scotland to be England's cause as well! Vane, there, sate motionless the whole night through.

VANE.

Hampden . . .

FIENNES.

Stay Vane!

LOUDON.

Be patient, gallant Vane!

VANE.

Mind how you counsel patience, Loudon! you Have still a Parliament, and a brave League To back it; you are free in Scotland still— While we are brothers (as these hands are knit So let our hearts be!)—hope's for England yet! But know you why this Wentworth comes? to quench This faintest hope? that he brings war with him? Know you this Wentworth? What he dares?

LOUDON.

Dear Vane, We know—'tis nothing new . . .

VANE.

And what's new, then, In calling for his life? Why Pym himself . . . You must have heard—ere Wentworth left our cause He would see Pym first; there were many more Strong on the People's side and friends of his,— Eliot that's dead, Rudyard and Hampden here, But Wentworth cared not for them; only, Pym He would see—Pym and he were sworn, they say, To live and die together—so they met At Greenwich: Wentworth, you are sure, was long, Specious enough, the devil's argument Lost nothing in his lips; he'd have Pym own A Patriot could not do a purer thing Than follow in his track; they two combined Could put down England. Well, Pym heard him out— One glance—you know Pym's eye—one word was all: "You leave us, Wentworth: while your head is on I'll not leave you."

HAMPDEN.

Has Pym left Wentworth, then? Has England lost him? Will you let him speak, Or put your crude surmises in his mouth? Away with this! (To the rest.) Will you have Pym or Vane?

VOICES.

Wait Pym's arrival! Pym shall speak!

HAMPDEN.

Meanwhile Let Loudon read the Parliament's report From Edinburgh: our last hope, as Vane says, Is in the stand it makes. Loudon!

VANE.

(As LOUDON is about to read)—No—no— Silent I can be: not indifferent!

HAMPDEN.

Then each keep silence, praying God a space That he will not cast England quite away In this her visitation! (All assume a posture of reverence.)

A PURITAN.

Seven years long The Midianite drove Israel into dens And caves. Till God sent forth a mighty man,

(PYM enters.)

Even Gideon! (All start up.)

PYM.

Wentworth's come: he has not reached Whitehall: they've hurried up a Council there To lose no time and find him work enough. Where's Loudon? your Scots' Parliament . . .

LOUDON.

Is firm: We were about to read reports . . .

PYM.

The King Has just dissolved your Parliament.

LOUDON AND OTHER OF THE SCOTS.

Great God! An oath-breaker! Stand by us England then!

PYM.

The King's too sanguine; doubtless Wentworth's here; But still some little form might be kept up.

HOLLIS.

Now speak, Vane! Rudyard, you had much to say!

HAMPDEN.

The rumour's false, then . . .

PYM.

Ay, the Court gives out His own concerns have brought him back: I know 'Tis Charles recalls him: he's to supersede The tribe of Cottingtons and Hamiltons Whose part is played: there's talk enough, by this,— Merciful talk, the King thinks: time is now To turn the record's last and bloody leaf That, chronicling a Nation's great despair, Tells they were long rebellious, and their Lord Indulgent, till, all kind expedients tried, He drew the sword on them, and reigned in peace. Laud's laying his religion on the Scots Was the last gentle entry:—the new page Shall run, the King thinks, "Wentworth thrust it down At the sword's point."

A PURITAN.

I'll do your bidding, Pym,— England's and your's . . one blow!

PYM.

A glorious thing— We all say, friends, it is a glorious thing To right that England! Heaven grows dark above,— Let's snatch one moment ere the thunder fall To say how well the English spirit comes out Beneath it! all have done their best, indeed, From lion Eliot, that grand Englishman, To the least here: and who, the least one here, When She is saved (and her redemption dawns Dimly, most dimly, but it dawns—it dawns)— Who'd give at any price his hope away Of being named along with the Great Men? One would not . . no, one would not give that up!

HAMPDEN.

And one name shall be dearer than all names: When children, yet unborn, are taught that name After their fathers',—taught one matchless man . . .

PYM.

. . . Saved England? What if Wentworth's should be still That name?

RUDYARD and others.

We have just said it, Pym! His death Saves her!

FIENNES.

We said that! There's no way beside!

A PURITAN.

I'll do your bidding, Pym! They struck down Joab And purged the land.

VANE.

No villanous striking-down!

RUDYARD.

No—a calm vengeance: let the whole land rise And shout for it. No Feltons!

PYM.

Rudyard, no. England rejects all Feltons; most of all Since Wentworth . . . Hampden, say the praise again That England will award me . . . But I'll think You know me, all of you. Then, I believe, —Spite of the past,—Wentworth rejoins you, friends!

RUDYARD and others.

Wentworth! apostate . . .

VANE.

Wentworth, double-dyed A traitor! Is it Pym, indeed . .

PYM.

. . . Who says Vane never knew that Wentworth—loved that Wentworth— Felt glad to stroll with him, arm lock'd in arm, Along the streets to see the People pass And read in every island-countenance Fresh argument for God against the King,— Never sate down . . . say, in the very house Where Eliot's brow grew broad with noble thoughts (You've joined us, Hampden, Hollis, you as well.) And then left talking over Gracchus' death . . .

VANE.

. . To frame, we know it Pym, the choicest clause In the Petition of Rights: which Wentworth framed A month before he took at the King's hand His Northern Presidency, which that Bill Denounced. . . . .

RUDYARD.

And infamy along with it!

A PURITAN.

For whoso putteth his right-hand to the plough And turneth back . . .

PYM.

Never more, never more Walked we together! Most alone I went; I have had friends—all here are fast my friends— But I shall never quite forget that friend! (After a pause) And yet it could not but be real in him! You Vane, you Rudyard, have no right to trust That Wentworth . . . O will no one hope with me? —Vane—think you Wentworth will shed English blood Like water?

A PURITAN.

Ireland is Aceldama!

PYM.

Will he turn Scotland to a hunting-ground To please the King, now that he knows the King? The People or the King? The People, Hampden, Or the King . . . and that King—Charles! Will no one hope?

HAMPDEN.

Pym, we do know you: you'll not set your heart On any baseless thing: but say one deed Of Wentworth's, since he left us . . . (Shouting without.)

VANE.

Pym, he comes And they shout for him!—Wentworth!—he's with Charles— The king embracing him—now—as we speak . . And he, to be his match in courtesies, Taking the whole war's risk upon himself!— Now—while you tell us here how changed he is— Do you hear, Pym? The People shout for him!

FIENNES.

We'll not go back, now! Hollis has no brother— Vane has no father . . .

VANE.

Pym should have no friend! Stand you firm, Pym! Eliot's gone, Wentworth's lost, We have but you, and stand you very firm! Truth is eternal, come below what will, But . . I know not . . if you should fail . . O God! O God!

PYM (apart and in thought).

And yet if 'tis a dream, no more, That Wentworth chose their side, and brought the King To love it as though Laud had loved it first, And the Queen after—that he led their cause Calm to success and kept it spotless through, So that our very eyes could look upon The travail of our soul, and close content That violence, which something mars even Right That sanctions it, had taken off no grace From its serene regard. Only a dream!

HAMPDEN.

Proceed to England's work: who reads the list?

A VOICE.

"Ship-money is refused or fiercely paid In every county, save the northern ones Where Wentworth's influence" . . . (Renewed shouting.)

VANE (passionately striking the table).

I, in England's name Declare her work, this way, at end! till now— Up to this moment—peaceful strife was well! We English had free leave to think: till now, We had a shadow of a Parliament: 'Twas well; but all is changed: they threaten us: They'll try brute-force for law—here—in our land!

MANY VOICES.

True hearts with Vane! The old true hearts with Vane!

VANE.

Till we crush Wentworth for her, there's no act Serves England!

VOICES.

Vane for England!

PYM.

(As he passes slowly before them) Pym should be Something to England! I seek Wentworth, friends!

Scene II

WHITEHALL.

Enter CARLISLE and WENTWORTH.

WENTWORTH.

And the King?

CARLISLE.

Dear Wentworth, lean on me; sit then; I'll tell you all; this horrible fatigue Will kill you.

WENTWORTH.

No; or—Lucy, just your arm; I'll not sit till I've cleared this up with him: After that, rest. The King?

CARLISLE.

Confides in you.

WENTWORTH.

Why? why now? —They have kind throats, the people! Shout for me . . . they!—poor fellows.

CARLISLE.

Did they shout? —We took all measures to keep off the crowd— Did they shout for you?

WENTWORTH.

Wherefore should they not? Does the King take such measures for himself? Beside, there's such a dearth of malcontents, You say?

CARLISLE.

I said but few dared carp at you . . .

WENTWORTH.

At me? at us, Carlisle! The King and I! He's surely not disposed to let me bear Away the fame from him of these late deeds In Ireland? I am yet his instrument Be it for well or ill? He trusts me then?

CARLISLE.

The King, dear Wentworth, purposes, I know To grant you, in the face of all the Court . . .

WENTWORTH.

All the Court! Evermore the Court about us! Savile and Holland, Hamilton and Vane About us,—then the King will grant me. . . . Lady, Will the King leave these—leave all these—and say "Tell me your whole mind, Wentworth!"

CARLISLE.

But you said You would be calm.

WENTWORTH.

Lucy, and I am calm! How else shall I do all I come to do, —Broken, as you may see, body and mind— How shall I serve the King? time wastes meanwhile, You have not told me half . . . His footstep! No. —But now, before I meet him,—(I am calm)— Why does the King distrust me?

CARLISLE.

He does not Distrust you.

WENTWORTH.

Lucy, you can help me . . you Have even seemed to care for me: help me! Is it the Queen?

CARLISLE.

No—not the Queen—the party That poisons the Queen's ear,—Savile—and Holland . . .

WENTWORTH.

I know—I know—and Vane, too, he's one too? Go on—and he's made Secretary—Well? —Or leave them out and go straight to the charge! The charge!

CARLISLE.

O there's no charge—no precise charge— Only they sneer, make light of . . . one may say Nibble at what you do.

WENTWORTH.

I know: but Lucy, Go on, dear Lucy—Oh I need you so! I reckoned on you from the first!—Go on! . . Was sure could I once see this gentle girl When I arrived, she'd throw an hour away To help her weary friend . . .

CARLISLE.

You thought of me, Dear Wentworth?

WENTWORTH.

. . But go on! The People here . . .

CARLISLE.

They do not think your Irish Government Of that surpassing value . . .

WENTWORTH.

The one thing Of value! The one service that the crown May count on! All that keeps these very things In power, to vex me . . not that they do vex me, Only it might vex some to hear that service Decried—the sole support that's left the King!

CARLISLE.

So the Archbishop says.

WENTWORTH.

Ah? well, perhaps The only hand held up in its defence May be old Laud's! These Hollands, then, these Saviles Nibble? They nibble?—that's the very word!

CARLISLE.

Your profit in the Customs, Bristol says, . . .

WENTWORTH.

Enough! 'tis too unworthy,—I am not So patient as I thought! What's Pym about?

CARLISLE.

Pym?

WENTWORTH.

Pym and the People.

CARLISLE.

Oh, the Faction! Extinct—of no account—there'll never be Another Parliament.

WENTWORTH.

Tell Savile that! You may know—(ay, you do—the creatures here Never forget!) that in my earliest life I was not . . . not what I am now! The King May take my word on points concerning Pym Before Lord Savile's, Lucy, or if not, Girl, they shall ruin their vile selves, not me, These Vanes and Hollands—I'll not be their tool— Pym would receive me yet! —But then the King!— I'll bear it all. The King—where is he, Girl?

CARLISLE.

He is apprised that you are here: be calm!

WENTWORTH.

And why not meet me now? Ere now? You said He sent for me . . he longed for me!

CARLISLE.

Because . . He is now . . . I think a Council's sitting now About this Scots affair . . .

WENTWORTH.

A Council sits? They have not taken a decided course Without me in this matter?

CARLISLE.

I should say . . .

WENTWORTH.

The War? They cannot have agreed to that? Not the Scots' War?—without consulting me— Me—that am here to show how rash it is, How easy to dispense with? —Ah, you too Against me! well,—the King may find me here. (As CARLISLE is going.)

—Forget it, Lucy: cares make peevish: mine Weigh me (but 'tis a secret) to my grave.

CARLISLE.

For life or death I am your own, dear friend! (Aside.) I could not tell him . . . sick too! . . And the King Shall love him! Wentworth here, who can withstand His look?——And he did really think of me? O 'twas well done to spare him all the pain! (Exit.)

WENTWORTH.

Heartless! . . . but all are heartless here. Go now, Forsake the people! —I did not forsake The People: they shall know it . . . when the King Will trust me!—who trusts all beside at once While I . . . have not spoke Vane and Savile fair, And am not trusted: have but saved the Throne: Have not picked up the Queen's glove prettily, And am not trusted! But he'll see me now: And Weston's dead—and the Queen's English now— More English—oh, one earnest word will brush These reptiles from . . . (footsteps within.) The step I know so well! 'Tis Charles!—But now—to tell him . . no—to ask him What's in me to distrust:—or, best begin By proving that this frightful Scots affair Is just what I foretold: I'll say, "my liege" . . . . And I feel sick, now! and the time is come— And one false step no way to be repaired. . . . You were revenged, Pym, could you look on me!

(PYM enters.)

WENTWORTH.

I little thought of you just then.

PYM.

No? I Think always of you, Wentworth.

WENTWORTH.

(Aside.) The old voice! I wait the King, sir.

PYM.

True—you look so pale; A council sits within; when that breaks up He'll see you.

WENTWORTH.

Sir, I thank you.

PYM.

Oh, thank Laud! You know when Laud once gets on Church affairs The case is desperate: he'll not be long To-day: He only means to prove, to-day, We English all are mad to have a hand In butchering the Scots for serving God After their fathers' fashion: only that.

WENTWORTH.

Sir, keep your jests for those who relish them! (Aside.) Does he enjoy their confidence? (To P.) 'Tis kind To tell me what the Council does.

PYM.

You grudge That I should know it had resolved on war Before you came? no need—you shall have all The credit, trust me.

WENTWORTH.

Have they, Pym . . . not dared— They have not dared . . . that is—I know you not— Farewell—the times are changed.

PYM.

—Since we two met At Greenwich? Yes—poor patriots though we be, You shall see something here, some slight return For your exploits in Ireland! Changed indeed, Could our friend Eliot look from out his grave! Ah, Wentworth, one thing for acquaintance-sake; Just to decide a question; have you, now, Really felt well since you forsook us?

WENTWORTH.

Pym— You're insolent!

PYM.

Oh, you misapprehend! Don't think I mean the advantage is with me: I was about to say that, for my part, I've never quite held up my head since then,— Been quite myself since then: for first, you see, I lost all credit after that event With those who recollect how sure I was Wentworth would outdo Eliot on our side.

WENTWORTH.

By Heaven . . .

PYM.

Forgive me: Savile, Vane, and Holland Eschew plain-speaking: 'tis a trick I have.

WENTWORTH.

How, when, where,—Savile, Vane, and Holland speak,— Plainly or otherwise,—would have my scorn, My perfect scorn, Sir . . .

PYM.

. . Did not my poor thoughts Claim somewhat?

WENTWORTH.

Keep your thoughts! believe the King Mistrusts me for their speaking, all these Vanes And Saviles! make your mind up, all of you, That I am discontented with the King!

PYM.

Why, you may be—I should be, that I know, Were I like you.

WENTWORTH.

Like me?

PYM.

I care not much For titles: our friend Eliot died no Lord, Hampden's no Lord, and Savile is a Lord: But you care, since you sold your soul for one. I can't think, therefore, Charles did well to laugh When you twice prayed so humbly for an Earldom.

WENTWORTH.

Pym. . . .

PYM.

And your letters were the movingest! Console yourself: I've borne him prayers just now From Scotland not to be opprest by Laud— And moving in their way: he'll pay, be sure, As much attention as to those you sent.

WENTWORTH.

False! a lie, Sir! . . Who told you, Pym? —But then The King did very well . . nay, I was glad When it was shewn me why;—I first refused it! . . . Pym, you were once my friend—don't speak to me!

PYM.

Oh, Wentworth, ancient brother of my soul, That all should come to this!

WENTWORTH.

Leave me!

PYM.

My friend, Why should I leave you?

WENTWORTH.

To tell Rudyard this, And Hampden this! . . .

PYM.

Whose faces once were bright At my approach . . now sad with doubt and fear, Because I hope in you—Wentworth—in you Who never mean to ruin England—you Who shake, with God's great help, this frightful dream Away, now, in this Palace, where it crept Upon you first, and are yourself—your good And noble self—our Leader—our dear Chief— Hampden's own friend— This is the proudest day! Come Wentworth! Do not even see the King! The rough old room will seem itself again! We'll both go in together—you've not seen Hampden so long—come—and there's Vane—I know You'll love young Vane! This is the proudest day!

(The KING enters. WENTWORTH lets fall PYM'S hand.)

CHARLES.

Arrived, my Lord?—This Gentleman, we know, Was your old friend: (To PYM) The Scots shall be informed What we determine for their happiness. (Exit PYM.) You have made haste, my Lord.

WENTWORTH.

Sire . . . I am come . . .

CHARLES.

To aid us with your counsel: this Scots' League And Covenant spreads too far, and we have proofs That they intrigue with France: the Faction, too . . .

WENTWORTH.

(Kneels.) Sire, trust me! but for this once, trust me, Sire!

CHARLES.

What can you mean?

WENTWORTH.

That you should trust me! now! Oh—not for my sake! but 'tis sad, so sad That for distrusting me, you suffer—you Whom I would die to serve: Sire, do you think That I would die to serve you?

CHARLES.

But rise, Wentworth!

WENTWORTH.

What shall convince you? What does Savile do To . . . Ah, one can't tear out one's heart—one's heart— And show it, how sincere a thing it is!

CHARLES.

Have I not trusted you?

WENTWORTH.

Say aught but that! It is my comfort, mark you: all will be So different when you trust me . . as you shall! It has not been your fault,—I was away, Maligned—away—and how were you to know? I am here, now—you mean to trust me, now— All will go on so well!

CHARLES.

Be sure I will— I've heard that I should trust you: as you came Even Carlisle was telling me . . . .

WENTWORTH.

No,—hear nothing— Be told nothing about me! you're not told Your right-hand serves you, or your children love you!

CHARLES.

You love me . . only rise!

WENTWORTH.

I can speak now. I have no right to hide the truth. 'Tis I Can save you; only I. Sire, what is done!

CHARLES.

Since Laud's assured . . . the minutes are within . . Loath as I am to spill my subjects' blood . . . .

WENTWORTH.

That is, he'll have a war: what's done is done!

CHARLES.

They have intrigued with France; that's clear to Laud.

WENTWORTH.

Has Laud suggested any way to meet The war's expence?

CHARLES.

He'd not decide on that Until you joined us.

WENTWORTH.

Most considerate! You're certain they intrigue with France, these Scots? (Aside.) The People would be with us!

CHARLES.

Very sure.

WENTWORTH.

(The People for us . . were the People for us!) Sire, a great thought comes to reward your trust! Summon a parliament! in Ireland first, And then in England.

CHARLES.

Madness!

WENTWORTH.

(Aside.) That puts off The war—gives time to learn their grievances— To talk with Pym—(To CHARLES). I know the faction, as They style it, . .

CHARLES.

. . Tutors Scotland!

WENTWORTH.

All their plans Suppose no parliament: in calling one You take them by surprise. Produce the proofs Of Scotland's treason; bid them help you, then! Even Pym will not refuse!

CHARLES.

You would begin With Ireland?

WENTWORTH.

Take no care for that: that's sure To prosper.

CHARLES.

You shall rule me: you were best Return at once: but take this ere you go! (Giving a paper.) Now, do I trust you? You're an Earl: my Friend Of Friends: yes, Strafford, while . . . You hear me not!

WENTWORTH.

Say it all o'er again—but once again— The first was for the music—once again!

CHARLES.

Strafford, my brave friend, there were wild reports— Vain rumours . . Henceforth touching Strafford is To touch the apple of my sight: why gaze So earnestly?

WENTWORTH.

I am grown young again, And foolish! . . what was it we spoke of?

CHARLES.

Ireland, The Parliament,—

WENTWORTH.

I may go when I will? —Now?

CHARLES.

Are you tired so soon of me?

WENTWORTH.

My King . . . . But you will not so very much dislike A Parliament? I'd serve you any way!

CHARLES.

You said just now this was the only way.

WENTWORTH.

Sire, I will serve you!

CHARLES.

Strafford, spare yourself— You are so sick, they tell me, . . .

WENTWORTH.

'Tis my soul That's well and happy, now! This Parliament— We'll summon it, the English one—I'll care For every thing: You shall not need them much!

CHARLES.

If they prove restive . . .

WENTWORTH.

I shall be with you!

CHARLES.

Ere they assemble?

WENTWORTH.

I will come, or else Deposit this infirm humanity I'the dust! My whole heart stays with you, my King!

(As STRAFFORD goes out, the QUEEN enters.)

CHARLES.

That man must love me!

QUEEN.

Is it over then? Why he looks yellower than ever! well, At least we shall not hear eternally Of his vast services: he's paid at last.

CHARLES.

Not done with: he engages to surpass All yet performed in Ireland.

QUEEN.

I had thought Nothing beyond was ever to be done. The War, Charles—will he raise supplies enough?

CHARLES.

We've hit on an expedient; he . . . that is, I have advised . . . we have decided on The calling—in Ireland—of a Parliament.

QUEEN.

O truly! You agree to that? Is this The first fruit of his counsel? But I guessed As much.

CHARLES.

This is too idle, Henrietta! I should know best: He will strain every nerve, And once a precedent established . . .

QUEEN.

Notice How sure he is of a long term of favours! He'll see the next, and the next after that; No end to Parliaments!

CHARLES.

Well, it is done: He talks it smoothly, doubtless: if, indeed, The Commons here . . .

QUEEN.

Here! you will summon them Here? Would I were in France again to see A King!