The flower of the world's chivalry, most courtly,
Where met the splendour of all courts! When Europe
Sent its three Sov'reigns to that Golden Field,
Who won all eyes with liberal noble bearing?

Who charm'd all ears with high and gracious speech?
Who made all hearts his slaves by inbred worth
But English Henry? by his pattern all

Moved, spoke, rode, tilted, shaped their dress, their language,

And he that most resembled England's King

Was kingliest in the esteem of all. This he
That lay whole hours before my worshipp'd feet,
Making the air melodious with his words?
So fearful to offend, having offended
So fearful of his pardon, not myself

More jealous of my maiden modesty ;

The bridegroom of my youth, my infant's Father!
Ah me! my rash and inconsiderate speech,

My pride, hath wrought from his too hasty nature
This shame upon mine head: he'll turn, he'll come,
My prodigal, back to mine heart—if not,
I'm born his subject, sworn before high Heaven
His faithful wife; then let him cast me from him,
Spurn, trample me to dust-the foe, the stranger
That owns no law of kindred, blood, or duty,

Is taught, where every word is Heaven's own truth,
To love where most he's hated. I will live

On the delicious memory of the past,

And bless him so for my few years of bliss,
My lips shall find no time for harsh reproach,
I'll be as one of those sweet flowers that, crush'd
By the contemptuous foot, winds closer round it,
And breathes in every step its richest odours.

An Apartment in Westminster.

ANGELO, LADY ROCHFORD.

ANGELO.

In that proud Prelate's heart a noble chord
I touch'd, now harp we on a baser string.
The Lady Rochford!* thou art here to tell me
That thou fulfill'st the terms on which the Church,
In its high plenitude of power, absolves

The guilty soul.

LADY ROCHFORD.

I come, Sir, to advise

With your wise sanctity.

ANGELO.

We've judged already,

And look but for obedience-hast thou scatter'd
Those hints and seeds of hate in the King's path,
That he behold this Queen in her true colours?

* All writers agree in the unprincipled and unnatural character of the Countess of Rochford, who suffered at a subsequent period for being accessary to the criminal conduct of Queen Catherine Howard.

LADY ROCHFORD.

I have; with zeal so fatal, with success
So manifest, mine inmost soul recoils

At the base service.

ANGELO.

Hast obtain'd that paper

In Lady Wingfield's hand?

LADY ROCHFORD.

'Tis here.

ANGELO.

Good! good!

LADY ROCHFORD.

Inexorable!—must I show no mercy ?

Must crime be still atoned by crime? Oh! think,
She is my husband's sister-his, the bridegroom

Of my fond youth

ANGELO.

To whom thou art so true

And faithful!

LADY ROCHFORD.

Ha! what need of words to thee,

That read'st the inmost depths of this dark heart
More clearly than myself-I hate that husband,
For that I've injured him so deeply; hate
Her virtue that reproaches mine own shame :
But yet to slander her pure

fame-

ANGELO.

Erewhile you doubted her yourself.

You said

LADY ROCHFORD.

The sinful

Have a base interest to drag down the holy

To their own level. Set me some strange penance,
To grind the flesh, and wring the heart's-blood forth;
Oh! anything but this base wicked service!

ANGELO.

Thou wilt do all but what the Church commands.

What is it for a life like thine-a life

That doth confess, bewail, forswear its sins,

But with new zest t' indulge-that com'st so oft
With the foul tale, that I do fear to breathe
The tainted air of my confessional?

For such a life is not that place ordain'd

Where air is fire, life pain, and language howling?

Oh! horror!

LADY ROCHFORD.

ANGELO.

Look that thou perform our bidding

To the strict letter, the extremest point,
Wary and secret, as becomes a servant
Would merit grace and favour.

LADY ROCHFORD.

I'm no servant

A slave-a lash'd, a crouching, abject slave,

In the iron bondage of my sins!

ANGELO.

Ungrateful!

When I might hurl thee, black with malediction,
Where all thy direst visions of remorse,

The racking moments of remember'd crime,
The fangs of Conscience tearing at thy heart,
Thy tossing, feverish, spectre-staring midnights,
Would seem remission, peace, delight to years
Interminable-

LADY ROCHFORD.

Oh! my soul! my soul!

ANGELO.

And I have taught thee how to merit favour
From those to whom the eternal keys are given-
Tinged thy black desperation with the hue
Of hope-Away! back to thy duty-watch!
And those who weigh in the everlasting scales
Service against rebellion, and obedience
Against transgression, may at length strike down
The balance, and pronounce thee what thou dar'st not-
Thou dost not-hope may be thy lot.-Away!

The Garden, as before.

MARK SMEATON, MAGDALENE SMEATON.

My brother!

MAGDALENE.

MARK.

Oh! her voice-it will not cease

It sounds within my ears, within my heart.