See, I will throw the blame of all on fate;
'Twas not your fault, no more than it was mine:
An evil spirit rose from the abyss,

To kindle in our hearts the flames of hate,
By which our tender youth had been divided:
It grew with us, and bad, designing men
Fann'd with their ready breath the fatal fire.
Now stand we face to face: now, sister, speak;
Name but my crime, I'll fully satisfy you:
Alas! had you vouchsafed to hear me then,
When I so earnest sought to meet your eye,
It never would have come to this, nor would,
Here in this mournful place, have happen'd now
This so distressful, this so mournful meeting.
Eliza. My better stars preserved me. I was warn'd,
And laid not to my breast the poisonous adder!
Accuse not fate! your own deceitful heart
It was, the wild ambition of your House.
But God is with me, and the haughty foe

Has not maintain'd the field. The blow was aim'd
Full at my head, but yours it is which falls!
Mary. I'm in the hand of Heaven.

Exert so cruelly the power it gives you.

You never will

Eliza. Who shall prevent me? Say, did not your uncle

Set all the Kings of Europe the example,

How to conclude a peace with those they hate?

Force is my only surety; no alliance

Can be concluded with a race of vipers.

Mary. O, this is but your wretched, dark suspicion !

For you have constantly regarded me

But as a stranger, and an enemy.

Had

you declared me heir to your dominions, As is my right, then gratitude and love

In me had fix'd, for you, a faithful friend
And kinswoman.

Eliza.

Your friendship is abroad.

Name you my successor! The treacherous snare!

That in my life you might seduce my people;
And, like a sly Armida, in your net

Entangle all our noble English youth;

That all might turn to the new rising Sun,
And I

Mary. O sister, rule your realm in peace:
I give up every claim to these domains:
Alas! the pinions of my soul are lamed;
Greatness entices me no more: your point
ls gain'd; I am but Mary's shadow now;
My noble spirit is at last broke down
By long captivity: you've done your worst
On me; you have destroy'd me in my bloom!
Now end your work, my sister; speak at length

The word, which to pronounce has brought you hither:
For I will ne'er believe that you are come

66

To mock unfeelingly your hapless victim.
Pronounce this word; say, Mary, you are free:
You have already felt my power; learn now
To honour too my generosity."

Say this, and I will take my life, will take
My freedom, as a present from your hands.
One word makes all undone; I wait for it:
O, let it not be needlessly delay'd:

Woe to you, if you end not with this word!
For, should you not, like some divinity
Dispensing noble blessings, quit me now,
Then, sister, not for all this island's wealth,
For all the realms encircled by the deep,
Would I exchange my present lot for yours.

Eliza. And you confess at last, that you are conquer❜d.

Are all your schemes run out? no more assassins

Now on the road? will no adventurer

Attempt again, for you, the sad achievement?
Yes, madam, it is over: you'll seduce

No mortal more. The world has other cares;

None is ambitious of the dangerous honour
Of being your fourth husband: you destroy
Your wooers like your husbands.

Mary.

Sister, sister!

Grant me forbearance, all ye powers of Heaven !

Eliza. Those then, my Lord of Leicester, are the charms Which no man with impunity can view,

Near which no woman dare attempt to stand?
In sooth, this honour has been cheaply gain'd;
She who to all is common may with ease

Become the common object of applause.
Mary. This is too much!

Eliza.

You show us now, indeed,

Your real face; till now 'twas but the mask.

Mary. My sins were human, and the faults of youth;
Superior force misled me. I have never

Denied or sought to hide it: I despised
All false appearance as became a Queen:
The worst of me is known, and I can say
That I am better than the fame I bear.
Woe to you! when, in time to come, the world
Shall draw the robe of honour from your deeds.
Virtue was not your portion from your mother;
Well know we what it was which brought the head
Of Anna Boleyn to the fatal block.

Shrews. [Stepping between them.] O Heaven! Alas, and must it come to this?

Is this the moderation, the submission,
My Lady?-

Mary.

Moderation! I've supported
What human nature can support: farewell,
Lamb-hearted resignation! passive patience,
Fly to thy native Heaven! burst at length
Thy bonds, come forward from thy dreary cave,
In all thy fury, long-suppressèd rancour!

And thou, who to the anger'd basilisk

Impart'st the murderous glance, O, arm my tongue

With poison'd darts!

Shrews.

She is beside herself!

Exasperated, mad! My Liege, forgive her.
Leices. Attend not to her rage! Away, away,
From this disastrous place!

Mary.

A bastard soils,

Profanes the English throne! The generous Britons
Are cheated by a juggler, whose whole figure
Is false and painted, heart as well as face!
If right prevail'd, you now would in the dust
Before me lie, for I'm your rightful monarch!

[ELIZA hastily quits the stage; the Lords follow her in great consternation. Ken. What have you done? She has gone hence in wrath. All hope is over now!

Mary.

Gone hence in wrath!

She carries death within her heart! I know it.

[Falling on KENNEDY's bosom.

Now I am happy, Hannah! and at last,

After whole years of sorrow and abasement,
One moment of victorious revenge!

A weight falls off my heart, a weight of mountains;
I plunged the steel in my oppressor's breast!

Ken. Unhappy Lady! frenzy overcomes you:
Yes, you have wounded your inveterate foe;
"Tis she who wields the lightning, she is Queen;
You have insulted her before her minion.

Mary. I have abased her before Leicester's eyes;
He saw it, he was witness of my triumph.
How did I hurl her from her haughty height,
He saw it, and his presence strengthen'd me.

RICHELIEU; OR, THE CONSPIRACY.

LORD BULWER-LYTTON.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

CHARACTERS: LOUIS XIII., King of France; Cardinal RICHELIEU, Minister of France, JULIE DE MORTIMER, an orphan ward to RICHELIEU, and afterwards wife of ADRIAN DE MAUPRAT; JOSEPH, a Capuchin Monk, and RICHELIEU's confidant; CLERMONT, a courtier, and BARADAS, the King's favourite. JULIE, through the aid of the Queen, having escaped the clutches of Louis XIII., flies to the castle of Cardinal RICHELIEU, and seeks protection of him. She also implores RICHELIEU to protect her husband, who had been seized and made prisoner by BARADAS. The King sends CLERMONT to conduct JULIE into his presence, but RICHELIEU refuses to give her up. He then sends BARADAS to demand her presence; but RICHELIEU, in his hour of political helplessness, throws around his ward the holy protection of the Church, and defies the power of the King.

Julie. [To RICHELIEU.] fate, my all!

Where is my husband?

Rich.

I ask thee for my home, my

You are Richelieu's ward,

A soldier's bride; they who insist on truth

Must out-face fear: you ask me for your husband?
There, where the clouds of heaven look darkest o'er
The domes of the Bastile!

Julie.

O, mercy, mercy!

Art thou not

Save him, restore him, father!

The Cardinal King? the Lord of life and death,

Art thou not Richelieu?

Rich.

Yesterday I was;

To-day a very weak old man; to-morrow,

I know not what.