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To form the sacred union. Lady Jane
Of all his royal blood was still the dearest;
In every innocent delight they shared;
They sung, and danced, and sat, and walked to-
gether;

Nay, in the graver business of his youth,
When books and learning called him from his

sports,

Even there the princely maid was his companion.
She left the shining court to share his toil,
To turn with him the grave historian's
page,
And taste the rapture of the poet's song;
To search the Latin and the Grecian stores,
And wonder at the mighty minds of old.

Enter Lady JANE GRAY, weeping.

L. J. Gray. Wilt thou not break, my heart!
Suff. Alas, what mean'st thou?

Guil. Oh, speak!

Duch. Suff. How fares the king?
North. Say, is he dead?

L. J. Gray. The saints and angels have him.
Duch. Suff. When I left him,

He seemed a little cheered, just as you entered. L. J. Gray. As I approached to kneel and pay my duty,

He raised his feeble eyes, and faintly smiling,
Are you then come? he cried: I only lived,
To bid farewell to thee, my gentle cousin;
To speak a few short words to thee, and die.
With that he prest my hand, and, oh!-he said,
When I am gone, do thou be good to England,
Keep to that faith in which we both were bred,
And to the end be constant. More I would,
But cannot―There his faultering spirits failed,
And turning every thought from earth at once,
To that blest place where all his hopes were
fixed,

Earnest he prayed ;-Merciful, great defender!
Preserve thy holy altars undefiled,

Protect this land from bloody men and idols,
Save my poor people from the yoke of Rome,
And take thy painful servant to thy mercy!-
Then, sinking on his pillow, with a sigh,
He breathed his innocent and faithful soul
Into his hands who gave it.

Guil. Crowns of glory,
Such as the brightest angels wear, be on him!
Peace guard his ashes here, and paradise,
With all its endless bliss, be open to him!
North. Our grief be on his grave. Our pre-
sent duty

Enjoins to see his last commands obeyed.
I hold it fit his death be not made known
To any but our friends. To-morrow, early,
The council shall assemble at the Tower.
Mean while, I beg your grace would strait inform
[To the Duchess of SUFFOLK.
Your princely daughter of our resolution;
Our common interest in that happy tie
Demands our swiftest care to see it finished.

Duch. Suff. My lord, you have determined well.

Lord Guilford,

Be it your task to speak at large our purpose. Daughter, receive this lord as one whom I,

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Is dead to joy: but I will hear thee, Guilford;
Nay, I must hear thee, such is her command,
Whom early duty taught me still to obey.
Yet, oh! forgive me, if to all the story,
Though eloquence divine attend thy speaking,
Though every muse, and every grace, do crown
thee,

Forgive me, if I cannot better answer,
Than weeping- -thus, and thus-

Guil. If I offend thee,

Let me be dumb for ever: Let not life
Inform these breathing organs of my voice,
If any sound from me disturb thy quiet.
What is my peace or happiness to thine?
No; though our noble parents had decreed,
And urged high reasons, which import the state,
This night to give thee to my faithful arms,
My fairest bride, my only earthly bliss-

L. J. Gray. How! Guilford! on this night?
Guild. This happy night;

Yet, if thou art resolved to cross my fate,
If this, my utmost wish, shall give thee pain,
Now rather let the stroke of death fall on me,
And stretch me out a lifeless corse before thee!
Let me be swept away, with things forgotten,
Be huddled up in some obscure blind grave,
Ere thou shouldst say my love has made thee
wretched,

Or drop one single tear for Guilford's sake.
L. J. Gray. Alas! I have too much of death
already,

And want not thine to furnish out new horror.
Oh! dreadful thought, if thou wert dead indeed!
What hope were left me then? Yes, I will own,
Spite of the blush that burns my maiden cheek,
My heart has fondly leaned towards thee long:
Thy sweetness, virtue, and unblemished youth,
Have won a place for thee within my bosom:
And if my eyes look coldly on thee now,
And shun thy love on this disastrous day,
It is because I would not deal so hardly,
To give thee sighs for all thy faithful vows,
And pay thy tenderness with nought but tears.
And yet, 'tis all I have.

Guil. I ask no more;
Let me but call thee mine, confirm that hope,
To charm the doubts which vex my anxious soul;
For all the rest, do thou allot it for me,
And, at thy pleasure, portion out my blessings.
My eyes shall learn to smile or weep from thine,
Nor will I think of joy while thou art sad;

Nay, couldst thou be so cruel to command it,

will forego a bridegroom's sacred right, And sleep far from thee, on the unwholesome earth,

Where damps arise, and whistling winds blow loud;

Then, when the day returns, come drooping to thee,

My locks still drizzling with the dews of night, And cheer my heart with thee, as with the morning.

L. J. Gray. Say, wilt thou consecrate this night to sorrow,

And give up every sense to solemn sadness?
Wilt thou, in watching, waste the tedious hours,
it silently, and careful, by my side,
List to the tolling clocks, the cricket's cry,
And every melancholy midnight noise?
Say, wilt thou banish pleasure and delight?
Wilt thou forget that ever we had loved,
And only now and then let fall a tear,
To mourn for Edward's loss, and England's fate?
Guil. Unwearied still, I will attend thy woes,
And be a very faithful partner to thee.
Near thee I will complain in sighs, as number-
less

As murmurs breathing in the leafy grove:
My eyes shall mix their falling drops with thine,
Constant, as never-ceasing waters roll,
That purl and gurgle o'er their sands for ever.
The sun shall see my grief through all his course;
And, when night comes, sad Philomel, who'plains,
From starry vesper to the rosy dawn,
Shall cease to tune her lamentable song,
Ere I give o'er to weep and mourn with thee.
L. J. Gray. Here, then, I take thee to my
heart for ever, [Giving her hand.
The dear companion of my future days:
Whatever Providence allots for each,
Be that the common portion of us both:
Share all the griefs of thy unhappy Jane;
But if good Heaven has any joys in store,
Let them be all thy own.

Guil. Thou wondrous goodness!
Heaven gives too much at once in giving thee;
And, by the common course of things below,
Where each delight is tempered with affliction,
Some evil, terrible and unforeseen,

Must sure ensue, and poise the scale against
This vast profusion of exceeding pleasure.
But be it so! let it be death and ruin!
On any terms I take thee.

L. J. Gray. Trust our fate

To him, whose gracious wisdom guides our ways,
And makes what we think evil turn to good.
Permit me now to leave thee and retire;
I'll summon all my reason and my duty,
To soothe this storm within, and frame my heart
To yield obedience to my noble parents.
Guil. Good angels minister their comforts to

thee!

And, oh! if, as my fond belief would hope,
If any word of mine be gracious to thee,
I beg thee, I conjure thee, drive away
Those murderous thoughts of grief, that kill thy
quiet!

VOL. I.

Restore thy gentle bosom's native peace
Lift up the light of gladness in thy eyes,
And cheer thy heaviness with one dear smile!
L.J. Gray. Yes, Guilford, I will study to forget
All that the royal Edward has been to me;
How we have loved, even from our very cradles.
My private loss no longer will I mourn,
But every tender thought to thee shall turn:
With patience I'll submit to Heaven's decree,
And what I lost in Edward find in thee.
But, oh! when I revolve what ruins wait
Our sinking altars and the falling state;
When I consider what my native land
Expected from her pious sovereign's hand;
How formed he was to save her from distress,
A king to govern, and a saint to bless:
New sorrow to my labouring breast succeeds,
And my whole heart for wretched England
bleeds. [Exit Lady JANE Gray.
Guil. My heart sinks in me, at her soft com-

plaining;

And every moving accent, that she breathes,
Resolves my courage, slackens my tough nerves,
And melts me down to infancy and tears.
My fancy palls, and takes distaste at pleasure:
My soul grows out of tune, it loathes the world,
Sickens at all the noise and folly of it;
And I could sit me down in some dull shade,
Where lonely Contemplation keeps her cave,
And dwells with hoary hermits; there forget my-
self,

There fix my stupid eyes upon the earth,
And muse away an age in deepest melancholy.

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thee,

The paleness of surprise and ghastly fear?
Since I have known thee first, and called thee
friend,

I never saw thee so unlike thyself,
So changed upon a sudden.

Guil. How! so changed!
Pem. So to my eye thou seem'st.
Guil. The king is dead.

Pem. I learned it from thy father,

Just as I entered here. But say, could that,
A fate which every moment we expected,
Distract thy thought, or shock thy temper, thus ?
Guil. Oh, Pembroke! 'tis in vain to hide from

thee!

2Q

For thou hast looked into my artless bosom,
And seen at once the hurry of my soul.
'Tis true, thy coming struck me with surprise.
I have a thought-but wherefore said I one?
I have a thousand thoughts all up in arms,
Like populous towns disturbed at dead of night,
That, mixed in darkness, bustle to and fro,
As if their business were to make confusion.
Pem. Then sure our better angels called me
hither;

For this is friendship's hour, and friendship's office,

To come,

when counsel and when help is wanting,

To share the pain of every gnawing care,
To speak of comfort in the time of trouble,
To reach a hand, and save thee from adversity.
Guil. And wilt thou be a friend to me indeed?
And, while I lay my bosom bare before thee,
Wilt thou deal tenderly, and let thy hand
Pass gently over every painful part?

Wilt thou with patience hear, and judge with temper?

And if, perchance, thou meet with something harsh,

Somewhat to rouse thy rage, and grate thy soul, Wilt thou be master of thyself, and bear it?

Pem. Away with all this needless preparation! Thou know'st thou art so dear, so sacred to me, That I can never think thee an offender. If it were so, that I indeed must judge thee, I should take part with thee against myself, And call thy fault a virtue.

Guil. But suppose

The thought were somewhat that concerned our love?

Pem. No more; thou know'st we spoke of

that to-day,

And on what terms we left it. 'Tis a subject,
Of which, if possible, I would not think;
I beg that we may mention it no more.

Guil. Can we not speak of it with temper?
Pem. No.

Thou know'st I cannot.

spare it.

Therefore, prithee

Guil. Oh! could the secret I would tell thee sleep,

And the world never know it, my fond tongue Should cease from speaking, ere I would unfold

it,

Or vex thy peace with an officious tale!
But since, howe'er ungrateful to thy ear,
It must be told thee once, hear it from me.
Pem. Speak, then, and ease the doubts that
shock my soul!

Guil. Suppose thy Guilford's better stars prevan,

And crown his love

Pem. Say not, suppose: 'tis done. Seek not for vain excuse, or softening words: Thou hast prevaricated with thy friend, By under-hand contrivances undone me: And, while my open nature trusted in thee, Thou hast stepped in between me and my hopes, And ravished from me all my soul held dear.

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winds,

And reason with the rude tempestuous surge, Sooner than hold discourse with rage like thine. Pem. Tell it, or, by my injured love, I swear, [Laying his hand upon his sword. I'll stab the lurking treason in thy heart. Guil. Ha! stay thee there; nor let thy frantic hand [Stopping him. Unsheath thy weapon. If the sword be drawn, If once we meet on terms like those, farewell To every thought of friendship; one must fall. Pem. Curse on thy friendship! I would break the band.

Guil. That as you please-Beside, this place is sacred,

And will not be profaned with brawls and out

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Henceforward let the thoughts of our past lives
Be turned to deadly and remorseless hate!
Here I give up the empty name of friend,
Renounce all gentleness, all commerce with thee;
To death defy thee as my mortal foe;
And, when we meet again, may swift destruction
Rid me of thee, or rid me of myself!

[Exit PEMBROKE. Guil. The fate, I ever feared, is fallen upon me; And long ago my boding heart divined A breach like this from his ungoverned rage. Oh, Pembroke! thou hast done me much injustice,

For I have borne thee true unfeigned affection; ·

'Tis past, and thou art lost to me for ever.
Love is, or ought to be, our greatest bliss;
Since every other joy, how dear soever,
Gives way to that, and we leave all for love.
At the imperious tyrant's lordly call,
In spite of reason or restraint we come,
Leave kindred, parents, and our native home.
The trembling maid, with all her fears, he charms,
And pulls her from her weeping mother's arms:
He laughs at all her leagues, and, in proud scorn,
Commands the bands of friendship to be torn;
Disdains a partner should partake his throne,
But reigns unbounded, lawless, and alone.

[Exit.

ACT III.

SCENE I.-The Tower.

Enter PEMBROKE and GARDINER.

Gar. Nay, by the rood, my lord, you were to

blame,

To let a hare-brained passion be your guide,
And hurry you into such med extremes.
Marry, you might have made much worthy pro-
fit,

By patient hearing; the unthinking lord
Had brought forth every secret of his soul;
Then when you were the master of his bosom,
That was the time to use him with contempt,
And turn his friendship back upon his hands.
Pem. Thou talk'st as if a madman could be
wise.

Oh, Winchester! thy hoary frozen age
Can never guess my pain; can never know
The burning transports of untamed desire.
I tell thee, reverend lord, to that one bliss,
To the enjoyment of that lovely maid,
As to their centre, I had drawn each hope,
And every wish my furious soul could form;
Still with regard to that my brain forethought,
And fashioned every action of my life.
Then, to be robbed at once, and, unsuspecting,
Be dashed in all the height of expectation!
It was not to be borne.

Gar. Have you not heard of what has happen-
ed since?

Pem. I have not had a minute's peace of mind, A moment's pause, to rest from rage, or think.

I

Gar. Learn it from me then: But, ere I speak, warn you to be master of yourself.

Though,
as you know, they have confined me
long,
Gra'mercy to their goodness, prisoner here;
Yet as I am allowed to waik at large
Within the Tower, and hold free speech with any,
I have not dreamt away my thoughtless hours,
Without good heed to these ou righteous rulers.
Το prove this true, this morn a trusty spy
Has brought me word, that yester evening late,
In spite of all the grief for Edward's death,
Your friends were inarried.

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More than the female world can give me back.
I had beheld even her whole sex, unmoved,
Look'd o'er them like a bed of gaud: flowers,
That lift their painted heads, and live a day,
Then shed their trifling glories unregarded:
My heart disdained their beauties, till she came,
With every grace that Nature's hand could give,
And with a mind so great, it spoke its essence
Immortal and divine.

Gar. She was a wonder;
Detraction must allow that.

Pem. The virtues came,

Sorted in gentle fellowship, to crown her,
As if they meant to mend each other's work.
Candour with goodness, fortitude with sweetness,
Strict piety, and love of truth, with learning,
More than the schools of Athens ever knew,
Or her own Plato taught. A wonder, Winches-

ter!

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Their haughty hearts shall be abased ere long,
And feel the vengeance of our Mary's reign.
Pem. And wouldst thou have my fierce impa-
tience stay?

Bid me lie bound upon a rock, and wait
For distant joys, whole ages yet behind?
Can love attend on politicians' schemes,
Expect the slow events of cautious counsels,
Cold unresolving heads, and creeping time?

Gar. To-day, or I am ill informed, Northum-
berland,

With easy Suffolk, Guilford, and the rest,
Meet here in council, on some deep design,
Some traitorous contrivance, to protect
Their upstart faith from near approaching ruin.
But there are punishments-halters and axes
For traitors, and consuming flames for heretics:
The happy bridegroom may be yet cut short,
Even in his highest hope-But go not you,
Howe'er the fawning sire, old Dudley, court you;
No, by the holy rood, I charge you, mix not
With their pernicious counsels.-Mischief waits
them,

Sure, certain, unavoidable destruction.

Pem. Ha! join with them! the cursed Dudley's race!

Who, while they held me in their arms, betrayed me;

Scorned me for not suspecting they were villains,
And made a mockery of my easy friendship!
No, when I do, dishonour be my portion,
And swift perdition catch mc.-Join with them!
Gar. I would not have you-Hie you to the
city,

And join with those that love our ancient faith.
Gather your friends about you, and be ready
To assert our zealous Mary's royal title,
And doubt not but her grateful hand shall give

you

To see your soul's desire upon your enemies. The church shall pour her ample treasures forth too,

And pay you with ten thousand years of pardon. Pem. No; keep your blessings back, and give me vengeance!

Give me to tell that soft deceiver, Guilford, Thus, traitor, hast thou done, thus hast thou wronged me,

And thus thy treason finds a just reward! Gar. But, soft! no more: the lords o' th' council come

Ha! by the mass, the bride and bridegroom too! Retire with me, my lord; we must not meet them.

Pem. 'Tis they themselves, the cursed happy
pair!

Haste, Winchester, haste! let us fly for ever,
And drive her from my very thoughts, if possible.
Oh! love, what have I lost? Oh! reverend lord!
Pity this fond, this foolish weakness in me!
Methinks, I go like our first wretched father,
When from his blissful garden he was driven :
Like me he went despairing, and like me,
Thus at the gate stopt short for one last view!
Then with the cheerless partner of his woe,

He turned him to the world that lay below:
There, for his Eden's happy plains, beheld
A barren, wild, uncomfortable field;
He saw 'twas vain his ruin to deplore,
He tried to give the sad remembrance o'er;
The sad remembrance still returned again,
And his lost paradise renewed his pain.
[Exeunt PEM. and GAR.

SCENE II.

Enter Lord GUILFORD and Lady JANE Guil. What shall I say to thee! What powe divine

Will teach my tongue to tell thee what I feel?
To pour the transports of my bosom forth,
And make thee partner of the joy dwells there?
For thou art comfortless, full of affliction,
Heavy of heart as the forsaken widow,
And desolate as orphans. Oh, my fair one!
Thy Edward shines amongst the brightest stars,
And yet thy sorrows seek him in the grave.

L. J. Gray. Alas, my dearest lord! a thousand griefs

Beset my anxious heart: and yet, as if
The burthen were too little, I have added
The weight of all thy cares; and, like the mise",
Increase of wealth has made me but more

wretched.

The morning light seems not to rise as usual,
It dawns not to me like my virgin days,
But brings new thoughts and other fears upon

me;

I tremble, and my anxious heart is pained, Lest aught but good should happen to my Guil ford.

Guil. Nothing but good can happen to thy
Guilford,

While thou art by his side, his better angel,
His blessing, and his guard.

L. J. Gray. Why came we hither?
Why was I drawn to this unlucky place,
This tower, so often stained with royal blood?
Here the fourth Edward's helpless sons were
murdered,

And pious Henry fell by ruthless Gloster:
Is this the place allotted for rejoicing?
The bower adorned to keep our nuptial feast in?
Methinks Suspicion and Distrust dwell here,
Staring, with meagre forms, through grated win-
dows:

Death lurks within, and unrelenting Punishment:
Without, grim Danger, Fear, and fiercest Power,
Sit on the rude old towers, and gothic battle
ments;

While Horror overlooks the dreadful wall,
And frowns on all around.

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