And can she thus roll in the very dust
Her own, and every monarch's majesty?
She thinks on nothing now but present danger,
Nor looks to that which is so far removed.
And fears she not the dread revenge of France?
With France she makes an everlasting peace;
And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand.
Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms?
She fears not a collected world in arms?
If with her people she remains at peace.
Were this a spectacle for British eyes?
This land, my queen, has, in these latter days,
Seen many a royal woman from the throne
Descend and mount the scaffold: – her own mother
And Catherine Howard trod this fatal path;
And was not Lady Grey a crowned head?
No, Mortimer, vain fears have blinded you;
'Tis but the honest care of your true heart,
Which conjures up these empty apprehensions.
It is not, sir, the scaffold that I fear:
There are so many still and secret means
By which her majesty of England may
Set all my claims to rest. Oh, trust me, ere
An executioner is found for me,
Assassins will be hired to do their work.
'Tis that which makes me tremble, Mortimer:
I never lift the goblet to my lips
Without an inward shuddering, lest the draught
May have been mingled by my sister's love.
No: – neither open or disguised murder
Shall e'er prevail against you: – fear no more;
All is prepared; – twelve nobles of the land
Are my confederates, and have pledged to-day,
Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you,
With dauntless arm, from this captivity.
Count Aubespine, the French ambassador,
Knows of our plot, and offers his assistance:
'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings.
You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy!
An evil boding penetrates my heart.
Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scared
By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads,
Set up as warnings upon London's bridge?
Nor by the ruin of those many victims
Who have, in such attempts, found certain death,
And only made my chains the heavier?
Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth!
Fly, if there yet be time for you, before
That crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes,
And mix his traitors in your secret plots.
Fly hence: – as yet, success hath never smiled
On Mary Stuart's champions.
I am not scared
By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads
Set up as warnings upon London's bridge;
Nor by the ruin of those many victims
Who have, in such attempts, found certain death:
They also found therein immortal honor,
And death, in rescuing you, is dearest bliss.
It is in vain: nor force nor guile can save me: —
My enemies are watchful, and the power
Is in their hands. It is not Paulet only
And his dependent host; all England guards
My prison gates: Elizabeth's free will
Alone can open them.
Expect not that.
One man alone on earth can open them.
Oh, let me know his name!
Lord Leicester.
He!
[Starts back in wonder.
The Earl of Leicester! Your most bloody foe,
The favorite of Elizabeth! through him —
If I am to be saved at all, 'twill be
Through him, and him alone. Go to him, sir;
Freely confide in him: and, as a proof
You come from me, present this paper to him.
[She takes a paper from her bosom; MORTIMER draws back,
and hesitates to take it.
It doth contain my portrait: – take it, sir;
I've borne it long about me; but your uncle's
Close watchfulness has cut me off from all
Communication with him; – you were sent
By my good angel.
[He takes it.
Oh, my queen! Explain
This mystery.
Lord Leicester will resolve it.
Confide in him, and he'll confide in you.
Who comes?
'Tis Paulet; and he brings with him
A nobleman from court.
It is Lord Burleigh.
Collect yourself,