The Princess of Cleve, as it was acted at the Queens Theatre in Dorset-Garden / by Nath. Lee ...

SCENE II.

The Prince and Princess of Cleve.

P. C.

MAdam, the King commands me to attend His Daughter into Spain, and further adds, Because no Princess Rivals you in Fame, You will oblige the Court in going with me.

Princess C.

My Lord, I am prepar'd, and leave the Court With such a Joy as wou'd admit no bounds—

P. C.

As wou'd admit no bounds! and why? because It takes you from the Charms which you wou'd shun: This is a Vertue of such height indeed, As none but you can boast nor I deplore. But Madam, Rumor says the King intends To joyn another with me.

Princess C.

Who my Lord?

P. C.

'Twas thought at first the Chevalier de Guise.

Princess C.

He is your Friend, nor cou'd the King choose better.

P. C.

I say at first 'twas thought the Duke of Guise— But I was since instructed by the Queen, That Honour's fixt upon the Duke Nemours.

Princess C.

Nemours my Lord?

P. C.

Most certain.

Princess C.

For what reason?

P. C.

Because I mov'd the Dauphin Queen to gain him.

Princess C.

'Twas rashly done, against your Interest mov'd.

P. C.

Perhaps 'tis not too late yet to supplant him.

Princess C.

Do't then, be quick, Nemours will share your Honours, Eclipse your Glory—

P. C.

Ha—I must confess The Soldiers love him, and he bears the Palm Already from the Marshals of the Field.

Princess C.

And in the Court he's call'd the Rising Star: You see each night at every Entertainment Where he moves, what Troops of Beauties follow; How the Queens praise him, and all Eyes admire him—

P. C.

Ha! Chartres—

Princess C.

Ah! my Lord—what have I done?

P. C.

Nothing, my Chartres, but admire Nemours! O Heaven and Earth! and if I had but Patience To hear you out, how had you lost your self On that Eternal Object of your Love? No Madam, no, 'tis false, 'tis no Nemours: 'Twas my invention to find out the truth, Your trouble has convinc'd me 'tis Nemours: Which curst Discovery in another Woman, I shou'd have made by her too eager Joy. Why speak you Not? you're shock'd with your own Vertue, The resolution of your Justice aws you, Which cannot, dares not give it self the Lye.

Princess C.

My Lord, my Love, my Life; Alas my Cleve! O pity me! I know not what to answer, I'm mortally asham'd, I'm on the Rack; But spare this humble Passion—Take me with you, Where I may never see a Man again.

P. C.

O Rise my Chartres! Rise if possible; I'll force thee to be mine in spite of Fate: My constant Martyrdom and deathless Kindness, My more than Mortal Patience in these Sufferings, Shall poize his noblest Qualities, O Heav'n! No fear, my Chartres, tho these Sorrows fall,

That I suspect thy Glory; thou hast strength To curb this Passion in, that else may end us. All that I ask thee, is to bend thy Heart.

Princess C.

I'll break it.

P. C.

Turn it from Nemours, Nemours— But Oh! that name presents thy danger greater, Look to thy Honour then, and look to mine; I ask it as thy Lover and thy Husband; I beg it as a Man whose Life depends Upon thy Breath, that offers thee a Heart All bleeding with the Wounds of Mortal Love, All hack'd and gash'd, and stab'd and mangled o'er, And yet a Heart so true, in spite of pain, As ne'er yet lov'd, nor ever shall again.

Exit P.C.

Enter Irene.

Iren.

Ha! Madam, speak, how is it with your Heart?

Princess C.

As with a timorous Slave, condemn'd to Torments, That still cries out, he cannot, will not bear it, And yet bears on.

Iren.

Ah, Madam! I wou'd speak, If you cou'd bear the dreadful News I bring.

Princess C.

Alas! thou canst not add to grief like mine.

Iren.

May I demand then, if you have not told The Secret to your Husband?

Princess C.

Ha! Iren— Why dost thou ask?

Iren.

Because but now—Tournon, a Lady of the Queens, Told me 'tis blaz'd at Court—Nemours confessed He is belov'd by one of such nice Virtue, That fearing—lest the Passion might betray her, She own'd, confess'd, and told it to her Husband.

Princess C.

Death and Despair—But does Nemours avow it?

Iren.

He own'd it to the Vidam, who agen Told it to Madam Tournon—she to others; 'Tis true, Nemours told not the Ladies name, Nor wou'd confess himself to be the Party, But yet the Court in general does believe it.

P••incess C.

I am undone—my Fame is lost for ever, And death, Irene, must be my remedy; 'Tis true, indeed, I laid my Bosom op'n, I shew'd my Heart to that ungrateful Cleve, Who since in dangerous search of him I love,

To the eternal ruine of my Honour, Has trusted a third Person—But away I hear his tread, and am resolv'd to tax him.

Enter Princess C.

Ah! Sir, what have you done? if you must kill me, Are there not Daggets Pois'n—But the Jealous Are Cruel still, and thoughtful in Revenge; And single Death's too little; must your will Of knowing Names, my duty durst not tell you, Oblige you to betray me to another; So to divulge the Secret of my Soul, That the whole Court must know it?

P. C.

Ha! know what? Know my Dishonour, have you told it then?

Princess C.

No, 'tis your self, 'tis you reveal'd it Sir, To gain a Confident for more Discovery, A Lady of the Queen's just now declar'd it, To your eternal Shame you have divulg'd it, She had it from the Vidam, Sir, of Chartres, And he from the Duke Nemours—

P. C.

Nemours— How, Madam, said you—What Nemours—Nemours! Does Nemours know you love him? Hell and Furies! And that I know it too, and not revenge it!

Princess C.

That's yet to seek, he will not own himself To be concern'd, he offers not at names, But yet 'tis found, 'tis known, believ'd by all, He cannot hold it, 'twill be shortly posted, That Cleve your Wife's that curst dishonour'd She You told him of—

P. C.

Is't possible I told him? Peace, Peace, and if it lyes in Humane Power To reason calmly, tell me Murd'ress, tell me, Compose that Face of flush'd Hypocrisie, And answer to a truth—Was it my Interest To speak of this? was I not rather ty'd To wish it buried in the Grave in Hell! Whence it might never rise to blot my Honour— But you have seen him, by my hopes of Heaven, You have met and interchang'd your secret Souls; On that Complotted; since I bore so tamely Your first Confession, I shou'd bear the latter.

Princess C.

Believe it if you please—

P. C.

I must believe it— This last Proceeding has unmask'd your Soul, He sees you ev'ry hour, and knows you love him: Nay, for your greater freedom, you have joyn'd To make this loath'd detested Cleve your Stale. Ha—I believ'd you might o'ercome this passion, So well you knew to Charm me with the show Of seeming Vertue, 'till I lost my Reason.

Princes. C.

'Tis likely Sir, it was but seeming Vertue, And you did ill to judge so kindly of me— I was mistaken too in that Confession, Because I thought that you wou'd do me Justice.

P. C.

You were mistaken when you thought I wou'd, Sure you forgot that I was desperate, Sentenc'd and doom'd by Fate, or rather damn'd To love you to my Grave—And cou'd I bear A Rival, what and when I was your Husband, And when you own'd your passion to my face, Confess'd you lov'd me much—But lov'd him more: Ha—Is not this enough to make me mad?

Princess C.

You have the power to set all right agen, Why do you not end me?

P. C.

No, I'll end my self, My Toughts are grown too violent for my Reason. By this last usage, Oh! Thou hast undone me; I know not what—This ought not to be thine— I have offended and wou'd Sue for pardon; But yet I blush, the Treason is too gross; After that most unnatural Confession, I wonder now that I have liv'd so long: Confess and then divulge, make me your Bawd— It Scents too far, the God of Love flies wide, He gets the Wind, and stops the Nose at this; No more—Farewel—False Chartres, False Nemours, False World, False All, since Chartres is not true! But you your Wish with lov'd Nemours shall have, And shortly see your Husband in the Grave.

Exit.

Princess C.

Sola. False World, False Cleve, False Chartres, False Nemours, Farewel to all, a long and last Farewel: From all Converse, to Deserts let me fly, And in some gloomy Cave forgotten lye.

My Bower at Noon the shade of some old Trees With whistl'ing Winds t'endulge my pomp of ease, And lulling Murmurs rowl'd from neighb'ring Seas. Where I may sometimes hasten to the Shore, And to the Rocks and Waves my Loss deplore: Where when I feel my hour of Fate draws on, Lest the false World shou'd claim a parting groan; My Mothers Ghost may rise to fix my mind, And leave no thought of tenderness behind.