The Sicilian usurper a tragedy as it was acted at the Theatre-Royal : with prefatory epistle in vindication of the author, occasioned by this play on the stage / written by N. Tate.

SCENE the Third. A Heath.

King, Aumerle, Carlile, Souldiers.

King.

Command a hault, we will a while refresh, Our sultry March, a cool breez fanns this Air— The last expresses we receiv'd from Wales, Spoke of full 20000 fighting men, Did it not Lords?

Aum.

And some odd Troops besides.

King.

Nor will our Uncle York be negligent, To muster up what Force he can, Sure we shall blush my Lords, at our own strength, Heaping such numbers for so just a cause.

Aum.

Sir, doubt not but the active Foe will find Business enough t'employ our outmost Numbers. Enter Salisbury. I fear me we shall more want Hands than Work.

King.

See Cousen who comes here, i'th 'very Minute To clear thy doubts, our trusty Salisbury. Welcome my Lord, how far off lies your Power?

Sal.

My gracious Lord, no farther off nor nearer Then this weak Arm, discomfort guides my tongue, And bids me speak of nothing but despair. I fear my noble Lord one day too late,

Has clouded all your happy days on earth! O call back yesterday, bid time return, Thou shalt have 20000 Fightingmen, To day to day! one luckless day too late, O'rethrows thy Friends, thy Fortune and thy State; Our Welchmen Miss-inform'd that you were dead, Are gone to Bullingbrook disperst and fled.

Aum.

Comfort my Liege, why looks your Grace so pale?

King.

But now the blood of 20000 men, Did triumph in my Face and they are fled, Have I not reason think you to look pale? My Fortune like a wife that has arriv'd The hardness to have once prov'd open false, Will set no Limits to her treach'rys now: But turn to every upstart that will court her, Now all that will be safe fly from my side, For time has set a blast upon my Pride.

Aum.

My Liege remember who you are.

King.

I had forgot my self, am I not King? Awake thou sluggard Majesty thou sleep'st! Is not the Kings name 40000 names, Arm, arm my Name! a puny Subject strikes At thy great glory! look not to the ground Ye favourites of a King; See Salisbury, our hasty Scroop brings Balm To salve the Wound thy piercing tidings gave.

Enter Scroop.

Come on thou trusty Souldier; oh draw near! Thou never shew'dst thy self more seasonably, Not when the flying Battle thou hast turn'd, And from the hands of Conquest forc't the Day.

Scroop.

More health and happiness befall my Liege, Then my care-burden'd Tongue has to deliver.

King.

How's that? I charge thee on thy Soul speak comfort. Ha! wilt thou not speak Comfort? then speak Truth. My ear is open and my heart prepar'd, The worst thou canst unfold is worldly loss, Say, is my Kingdom lost? why 'twas my Care; And what loss is it to be rid of Care? Strives Bullingbrook to be as great as we? If Heav'n approve his hopes, why let 'em thrive!

Revolt our Subjects? that we cannot mend, To Heav'n they first were false and then to us! Then give thy heavy heart as heavy speech, Cry Woe, Destruction, Ruin, Loss, Decay, The worst is Death, and Death will have his Day.

Scroop.

I'm glad to find your Highness so prepar'd, Like a fierce sudden Storm that swells the Floods, As if the world were all dissolv'd to Tears, So rages Bullingbrook above his bounds, Cov'ring the fearful Land with clashing Arms; Old Sires have bound their hairless Scalps in steel, Boys leave their sports and tune their tender Pipes To the big voice of War, and strut in Armour; The very Beadsmen learn to bend their Bows, The very Women throw their Infants by, Snatch rusty Bills and flock to the mad War, And all goes worse than I have Power to tell.

King.

Too well, alas, thou tell'sta Tale so Ill! Where is the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushie, Bagot? That they have let these mischiefs spread so far, If we prevail their Heads shall answer for't! I warrant they have made peace with Bullingbrook.

Scroop.

Peace have they made with him indeed.

King.

Oh Villains Vipers, damn'd without redemption! Dogs, quickly won to fawn on any Comer, Snakes in my Heartsblood warm'd to sting my Heart, Wou'd they make Peace? eternal Hell make War Upon their spotted souls for this Offence.

Scroop.

Again uncurse their Souls, their Peace is made With Heads and not with Hands, those whom you curse Are butcher'd in your Cause, beheaded all And with their last breath wisht your Arms success.

Aum.

Where is the Duke my Father with his Forces?

King.

No matter where; of Comfort no man speak; Let's talk of Graves, of Worms and Epitaphs, Make Dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth! For Heav'ns sake let's sit upon the ground, And tell sad stories of the Death of Kings, How some have been depos'd, some slain in War,

Some poyson'd by their Wives, some sleeping kill'd; All murther'd: for within the hollow Crown That rounds the mortal Temples of a King, Keeps death his Court, and there the Antique sits, Scoffing his State, and grinning at his Pomp! Allowing him a short fictitious Scene, To play the Prince, be fear'd, and kill with looks, 'Till swell'd with vain conceit the flatter'd thing Believes himself immortal as a God; Then to the train fate's Engineer sets fire, Blows up his pageant Pride and farewell King. Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood, With solemn reverence, throw away Respect, Obeysance, Form and Ceremonious Duty, For you have but mistook me all this while, I live with bread like you, feel Wants, tast Grief, Therefore am I no King, or a King nothing.

Aum.

Give to the Foe my Lord, this cold despair, No worse can come of Fight, of Death much better. My Fathers Troops are firm let's joyn with them, And manage wisely that last stake o'th' War, Want's craft can make a body of a limb.

King.

You chide me well, proud Bullingbrook I come,

Rises.

To change blows with thee for our day of Doom, This Ague-fit of fear is overblown, An easie task it is to win our own; Say, Scroop, where lies our Uncle with his Pow'r? My fir'd heart now longs for the fatal hour.

Scroop.

Men by the Skies complexion judge the day, So may you by my dull and heavy eye, Find that my tongue brings yet a heavier Tale, I play the Torturer by small and small! Your Uncle York treating with Bullingbrook, Was seiz'd by him, and's still keptclose Confin'd, So that the strength which he was must'ring up, Is quast and come to nought.

King.

Thou hast said enough, Beshrew thee Cousin that didst lead me forth Of that sweet I was in to despair! What say ye now? what comfort have ye now?

By Heav'n I'll hate him everlastingly, That bids me be of comfort any more!

Enter Queen, Dutchess, Ladies and Attendants.

Now by despair my Queen and her fair train! Come to congratulate our Victory, And claim the triumph we at parting promis'd; Go tell 'em Lords, what feats you have perform'd, And if ye please tell my adventures too, You know I was no Idler in the War. Oh! torture, now I feel my miseries sting, And this appearance strikes me dead with shame

Queen.

Welcome my Lord, This minute is our own, and I'll devote it all To extasie, the Realm receives her King, And I my Lover,—thou dost turn away! Nor are they tears of joy which thou dost shed, I give thee welcome, thou reply'st with sighs!

King.

What language shall my bankrupt fortunes find, To greet such Heavenly excellence as thine? I promiss'd thee success and bring thee Tears! O couldst thou but devorce me from thy Heart! But oh! I know thy virtue will undoe thee, Thou wilt be still a faithful constant Wife, Feel all my Wrongs and suffer in my Fall? There is the sting and venom of my Fate, When I shall think that I have ruin'd Thee.

Queen.

I ask no more my Lord, at Fortunes hands Then priviledge to suffer for your sake! Who wou'd not share your Grief to share your Love? This Kingdom yet, which once you did prefer To the worlds sway, this Beauty and this Heart Is Richards still, millions of Loyal thoughts Are always waiting there to pay you homage. That glorious Empire yields to you alone, No Bullingbrook can chase you from that Throne.

King.

We'll march no farther, lead to th' Castle here.

Exeunt.