May this unhappy face disarm,
And cast a veil o'er ev'ry charm:
Offended heav'n I'll there adore,
Nor see the sun, nor Henry more.

QUEEN. Moving language, shining tears,
Glowing guilt, and graceful fears,
Kindling pity, kindling rage,

At once provoke me, and assuage.
Ros. What shall I do to pacify

Your kindled vengeance!

Ros. Give me but one short moment's stay.

O Henry, why so far away?

QUEEN. Prepare to welter in a flood

Of streaming gore.

Aside.

[Offering the dagger.

[Aside.

[Offering the dagger.

[Takes the bowl in her hand.

[Aside.

[Falling on her knees.

And let me grasp the deadly bowl.

QUEEN. Ye powers, how pity rends my soul!

Ros. Thus prostrate at your feet I fall.

O let me still for mercy call!

Accept, great queen, like injur'd heaven,

The soul that begs to be forgiven :
If in the latest gasp of breath,
If in the dreadful pains of death,
When the cold damp bedews your brow,
You hope for mercy, show it now.

QUEEN. Mercy to lighter crimes is due,
Horrors and death shall thine pursue.

[Offering the dagger.

Ros. Thus I prevent the fatal blow,
Whither, ah! whither shall I go !

[Drinks.

QUEEN. Where thy past life thou shalt lament,

And wish thou hadst been innocent.

Ros. Tyrant! to aggravate the stroke,
And wound a heart already broke!
My dying soul with fury burns,
And slighted grief to madness turns.
Think not, thou author of my woe,
That Rosamond will leave thee so:
At dead of night,

A glaring sprite,
With hideous screams

I'll haunt thy dreams;

And when the painful night withdraws,
My Henry shall revenge my cause.

O whither does my frenzy drive!
Forgive my rage, your wrongs forgive,

My veins are froze; my blood grows chill;
The weary springs of life stand still;

The sleep of death benumbs all o'er

My fainting limbs, and I'm no more. [Falls on the couch. QUEEN. Hear and observe your queen's commands.

Beneath those hills a convent stands,
Where the fam'd streams of Isis stray;
Thither the breathless corse convey,
And bid the cloister'd maids with care
The due solemnities prepare.
When vanquish'd foes beneath us lie,
How great it is to bid them die!
But how much greater to forgive,
And bid a vanquish'd foe to live!

[To her attendants.

[Exeunt with the body.

[Exit.

SCENE VII.

SIR TRUSTY in a fright.

A breathless corse! what have I seen!
And follow'd by the jealous queen!
It must be she! my fears are true:
The bowl of pois'nous juice I view.
How can the fam'd sir Trusty live
To hear his master chide and grieve!
No! though I hate such bitter beer,
Fair Rosamond, I'll pledge thee here.
The king this doleful news shall read
In lines of my inditing:

"Great sir,

"Your Rosamond is dead

"As I am at this present writing."

The bower turns round, my brain's abus'd,
The labyrinth grows more confus'd,

The thickets dance-I stretch, I yawn.

[Drinks.

[Writes.

Death has tripp'd up my

heels-I'm gone.

[Staggers and falls.

SCENE VIII.

QUEEN sola.

The conflict of my mind is o'er,
And Rosamond shall charm no more.

Hence ye secret damps of care,
Fierce disdain, and cold despair.

Hence ye fears and doubts remove;
Hence grief and hate!
Ye pains that wait

On jealousy, the rage of love.
My Henry shall be mine alone,
The hero shall be all my own!
Nobler joys possess my heart,
Than crowns and sceptres can impart.

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.

A grotto, HENRY asleep, a cloud descends, in it two angels, supposed to be the guardian spirits of the British kings in war and in peace.

FIRST ANGEL. Behold the unhappy monarch there, That claims our tutelary care!

SECOND ANGEL. In fields of death around his head A shield of adamant I spread.

FIRST ANGEL. In hours of peace, unseen, unknown, I hover o'er the British throne.

SECOND ANGEL. When hosts of foes with foes engage, And round th' anointed hero rage,

The cleaving fauchion I misguide,
And turn the feather'd shaft aside.

FIRST ANGEL. When dark fermenting factions swell, th' ambitious to rebel,

And prompt

A thousand terrors I impart,

And damp the furious traitor's heart.

BOTH. But oh! what influence can remove

The pangs of grief and rage of love!

SECOND ANGEL. I'll fire his soul with mighty themes,
Till love before ambition fly.

FIRST ANGEL. I'll sooth his cares in pleasing dreams,
Till grief in joyful raptures die.
SECOND ANGEL. Whatever glorious and renown'd
In British annals can be found;
Whatever actions shall adorn
Britannia's heroes, yet unborn,
In dreadful visions shall succeed;
On fancied fields the Gaul shall bleed,
Cressy shall stand before his eyes,

And Agincourt and Blenheim rise.

FIRST ANGEL. See, see, he smiles amidst his trance,

And shakes a visionary lance.

His brain is fill'd with loud alarms;

Shouting armies, clashing arms,

The softer prints of love deface:

And trumpets sound in ev'ry trace.
BOTH. Glory strives!

The field is won!

Fame revives

And love is gone.

FIRST ANGEL. To calm thy grief, and lull thy cares,

Look up and see

What, after long revolving years,

Thy bow'r shall be!