Five new plays ... as they were acted by His Majesty's servants at the Theatre-Royal / written by the Honourable Sir Robert Howard.

SCENE I.

Enter Maria, and the Confessor following her▪

Maria.

IS this Divinity? Defend me, Heaven!

Conf.

Sweet Lady, hear me.

Maria.

Go preach thy Heresies to Toads and Serpents, Or to the Sun-burnt-Indians, whose Devotion Is paid to that which thou wou'dst have me be, A Devil.

Conf.

Pray, Madam, be not so loud, you may be heard.

Maria.

Wou'd my Soul's storms cou'd raise my Voice Loud as the Oceans Raving; that the Fool'd World May know what dangerous Couzenage may lie hid Under such holy shapes.

Conf.

Is this my Recompence?

Maria.

Oh Monstrous! Thou exquisite Exceeder of Impieties, That dost Expect a Recompence from Sin, Perhaps 'tis all your Trades with Cheating Zeal, To tear your Jaws, and stretch your Throats to hoarseness, To raise poor People to a fond belief, The easier to o'erthrow their new-built Faith; When such as you but laugh at what you taught; Such a Destroyer now of all Mankind Art thou black Homicide.

Conf.

Homicide? Who whispers to a Storm, may be o'erwhelm'd, But never heard; I wish'd you to the King, And something with it, of a holier name Than what you rave at, but farewel.

Mar.

—Stay, Father— What's this? A holier name?— You or I rave indeed.

Conf.

Yes, and perhaps may warm your coldness, The name of Queen, Will that yet take Impression?

Mar.

No—I am as chast to that as to the other, Ambition has its Lust, as well as Love.

Con.

You give too course a name to great Attempts, And blast our honours, with the care of yours, You may be rais'd unto your Prince's Bed, And climb by your obedience to his Throne, Led by your Love, and not Ambition.

Mar.

These are large thoughts—but the Queen.—

Conf.

Forget her, she is in her wayne.

Mar.

Ha! there is no safety while she is alive.

Conf.

Nothing's unsafe to thee but unbelief, Thy Father got thy Honour, and thy Life, And will not murder either: take my advice, And for the rest—see—your Father.

Enter Lerma.

Ler.

Tell me, holy Father, is it Idolatry To pay Devotion to those Glorious Eyes, And call them Lights Divine? they are my Stars, Since their Bright Influence must direct my fate, My growth of Life, and Fortune must depend Upon their warmth, whose power must fetter pow'r, And Majesty it self learn to obey.

Mar.

What means my honour'd Father?

Ler.

Call me not Father, I must take Life from thee, And from thy Suns, like growing Fruit be ripen'd.

Mar.

This is strange, to me, Sir.

Ler.

Ha! Have you not wrought her?

Conf.

I have us'd my utmost art, and tempted her With the name of Queen—but—

Ler.

You are dull: I thought your profession Had been more subtile in these practices; Leave us a little—

Exit Confessor.

Has not your Confessor, my best Maria, Acquainted you with my designs?

Mar.

He told me something, Sir, had an ill sound, But may be 'twas his Piety to try me, It was not his Religion sure to tempt me?

Ler.

Tempt you? to what? to a King's Love, Perhaps his Throne; Call your own niceness folly, And not his Love and Care Impiety.

Mar.

My Mother, Sir, upon her Death-bed, charg'd me (When her Acquaintance grew so great with Heaven,) That I shou'd still be chast; chast to all Appetites, Call'd Pride, the Dropsie of Infected Souls, That swell'd 'em first, then burst 'em.

Ler.

Your Mother was for t'other World When she preach'd thus, but I am yet for this; And I must leave it in a hurry, unless thy power Stops the fierce Whirlwind that is just now ready To wrap me into nothing—

Mar.

Heaven defend my Father.

Ler.

Amen, but you must help; it was On purpose that Heaven made thee fair, To save thy Father.

Mar.

I hope there is no danger near you?

Ler.

Nothing but Death, or Banishment; Come, Maria, my Best, my Dear Maria, Come shine upon the King, the flames thou giv'st Will return warmth to thee, like the bright Sun That gives the World his heat, and yet so justly Paid back again, he lends at no expence, But preserves all, and shines, as thou maist do. If a declining Father be thy all, if not, Let it be night, and it shall be a dark one To more than me.

Mar.

Oh Heavens! What do you mean?

Ler.

Peace, see the King. This opportunity is lost.

Mar.

Good Sir, let me go.

Ler.

You must not.

Enter King, Duke D' Alva, the Marquess of Alcara, and Count Bruchero.

D' Alva.

Your Father's Blessing

Lerma observes.

Seal'd it with that condition.

Alca.

You forfeit all the strength of his advice, If at the first you break his strict Commands.

Bruc.

The King commanded Lerma's Banishment, As if some Oracle had said, till that be done, The Plague shall Reign, or Famine, or the Sword.

Ler.

Mark that, Maria.

King.

I am unwilling to begin my Reign, With a severity to any one—but—

D' Alva.

Look, Sir, where he is, no fitter time Than now, to throw him to his Banishment.

King.

What Lady's that?—

Alca.

How he gazes on her?— 'Tis his Daughter, Sir.—

D' Alva.

Sir, Remember now, your Father's last Commands: What do you look at, Sir?

Ler.

Now, my prophetick Soul!

Aside.

King.

Look at?—that fair Lady: Is she not wondrous fair?

Bruc.

But she is Lerma's Daughter, Sir.

King.

No matter—Madam—

Goes to her.

I ought sooner to have Saluted you, But 'tis not less Respect, to so much Beauty To lose Civility in Admiration.

She looks down.

Ler.

Speak.

King.

Be not displeas'd, fair wonder of your Se••, That I admire so suddenly; a slower Conquest Is fit for lesser Beauties.

D' Alva.

Sir, Do you remember?

King.

I do, concerning Lerma, Know, my Lord, I will not wait for a Petition That this fair Beauty might present; 'Tis juster to her power to tell you, I can pronounce no Banishment, nor Death To him that gave her Life.

Ler.

You pour Mercies on me.

Bruc.

What change is this?

King.

In Return, my Lord, I do expect this gratitude, That I and all the Court may be made happy By this fair Object—I do expect your promise.

Ler.

You have it, Sir.

King.

I will no more punish her modesty.

D' Alva.

Sir, Will you forget?

Exit. looking on Maria, the Lords on Lerma.

King.

No more.

Ler.

Now, my Maria, Should I not fall down And worship the Divinity that saves me?

Mar.

Are there Divinities below?

Ler.

There are; every wise thing is a Divinity, That can dispose, and check the fate of things: I ask no other help but thine, To make Spain know I am their Deity. Come, you must to Court, my word's engag'd.

Mar.

What to do, Sir? To be a Prostitute, or to be thought so? I shall show there, Sir, not like a Sun, But like a Meteor, risen on a sudden, Whose false light quickly slides into a vapour.

Ler.

Ha! Dost thou in Disobedience shew thy vertue, And with those guilty Eyes, that may preserve me, Gaze unconcern'd on my approaching ruine.

Mar.

Heaven will defend you, Sir.

Ler.

I will not trouble Heaven, when you may do't; Did you not hear my Banishment and Death Charg'd on the young King, as his Father's Legacy, Of safety to his Crown? Was he not going Just to pronounce it too? when thy bright Eyes Arrested all his Anger at Love's Sute.

Mar.

What should I do?

Ler.

Keep still his heat alive, or I am sent To an Eternal Coldness; and like a Crocodile, Thou may'st then weep, o'er him thou hast destroy'd.

Mar.

Were there no way, Sir, but by my Death To make your Life secure? I wou'd resign It willingly, and pay you back, The Life I borrow'd of you.

Ler.

No, 'tis the Death of others then must save me, Since I must fall, excuse me, curs'd necessity; For I will sow Murders so thick, and sudden, That Death shall have a fruitful Harvest.

Mar.

What d'ye talk of, Sir?

Ler.

Of Death.

Mar.

Of whose?

Ler.

Of those that have the power of mine.

Mar.

Not of the King's, Sir?

Ler.

Yes of the King's, why d'ye start? Nature has no exceptions, though Laws have.

Mar.

Direct me, Heaven!

Ler.

Come, I trifle, And play with my own dangers, farewel: I'll leave a Father's Curse behind me, And only stay to please my Eyes with ruine Before mine comes.

Offers to go.

Mar.

Stay, Sir—I know not what to say; I will do any thing; I should have said That had been honest; but that is disobedience. I beg, Sir, but one minutes time to think.

Ler.

Do, while I call the Confessor: Be sudden in your thoughts, for death depends Upon your Meditations.

Exit.

Mar.

What storms are risen, in my shaken breast? Thoughts succeed thoughts, like restless troubled waves, Dashing out one another: if I deny, My Father to avoid his destiny, May reach that sacred Life, which I may save; If I discover this my Father dies. Vertue, thou shalt protect me before heaven, Though not from this bad world. Ah me! The only way now left me to preserve A King, and Father, is t'expose my Fame: Hard fate, when Vertue is the guide to shame.

Enter Lerma with the Confessor.

Ler.

Come, Are you resolv'd?

Mar.

I am, Sir.

Ler.

To what?

Mar.

Obedience, Sir.

Ler.

Oh, Maria, thou breath'st new life into me, And I could waste it in embracing thee; But time will not allow me choice in happiness. Here, Father, carry her: where I appointed: Remember only this my dear, Maria; Be not too easie, nor too nice: she's wise That rules as much by Craft, as by her Eyes.

Ex. Maria and Confessor.

So now I may rise To be a Pyramid, For I have laid a large foundation. The Queen must be remember'd and forgotten, Or she may shake my politick structures.

Enter Caldroon.

How now, Caldroon; what has transported thee? There is a kind of wantonness that plays On thy pleas'd Countenance, what is the matter?

Cald.

Nothing but your good fortune cou'd Have caus'd it.

Ler.

Why, didst thou meet the Confessor That told thee?

Cald.

No.

Ler.

How didst thou hear it then?

Cald.

The quick-ey'd Rascals spy'd it.

Ler.

Who?

Cald.

Poor suffering fellows, whose business Is to watch, on every change of power: They have heard of the King's smiles. And are now in full cry, hunting after you.

Ler.

Good, Excellent.

Cald.

They were running on a wrong track But I hollow'd 'em in—see, my Lord—

They have found you; walk by, Leave 'em to my managing.

Enter two or three Suitors, they follow Caldroon fawningly and how to Lerma. He walks smiling.

Ler.

Good, very good.

Cald.

Well, my Lord is now a little busie.

Suit.

We ever pray'd for your Grace.

Exeunt.

Ler.

Kind Rogues. Here's an alteration, strange as Winter's Thunder, Not two days since neglected as the Grave, That holds dead Inmates; now I grow warm, The Flies begin to buzze and swarm about me; What an attractive force has a King's favour? The Dogs now fawn upon me, that before Started away, and bark'd like little Curs At some unusual Traveller; I was grown Useless, like a dull piece of Iron of no vertue, Till by a Loadstone touch'd, and then it gathers. Such a magnetick Power's in a King, Where he but kindly touches, others cling.

Exeunt.