And join'd with Essex in each foul attempt
To blast your honour, and traduce your fame.
Bur. Though ne'er my wishing heart could call
you friend,

Yet honour and esteem I always bore you;
And never meant, but with respect to serve you.
Not. It is enough, my lord, I know it well,
And feel rekindling virtue warm my breast;
Honour and gratitude their force resume
Within my heart, and every wish is yours.
O Cecil, Cecil, what a foe hast thou !

A deadly foe, whilst hated Essex lives!

Bur. I know it well-but can assign no cause.
Not. Ambition's restless hand has wound his

thoughts

the
Too high for England's welfare; nay, queen
Scarce sits in safety on her throne, while he,
Th' audacious Essex, freely treads at large,
And breathes the common air. Ambition is
The only god he serves; to whom he'd sacrifice
His honour, country, friends, and every tie
Of truth, and bond of nature; nay, his love.
Bur. The man, that in his public duty fails,
On private virtue will disdainful tread;
And mighty love, who rules all nature else,
Must follow here, in proud ambition's train.

Not. Pronounce it not! my soul abhors the sound
Like death.O, Cecil, will you kindly lend
Some pity to a wretch like me?

Bur. Command,

Madam; my power and will are yours.

Not. Will Cecil's friendly ear vouchsafe to bend
Its great attention to a woman's wrongs;

Whose pride and shame, resentment and despair,
Rise up in raging anarchy at once,

To tear, with ceaseless pangs, my tortur'd soul?
Words are unequal to the woes I feel;

And language lessens what my heart endures.

Bur. Madam, your wrongs, I must confess, are

great ;

Yet still, I fear, you know not half his falsehood.
Who, that had eyes to look on beauty;
Who, but the false, perfidious Essex, could
Prefer to Nottingham a Rutland's charms?
Start not!-By Heaven, I tell you naught but truth,
What I can prove, past doubt; that he receiv'd
The Lady Rutland's hand, in sacred wedlock,
The very night before his setting out

For Ireland.

Not. Oh! may quick destruction seize them! May furies blast, and hell destroy their peace! May all their nights

--

Bur. I pray, have patience, madam ! Restrain a while your rage; curses are vain. But there's a surer method to destroy him; And, if you'll join with me, 'tis done-he falls. Not. Ha! say'st thou, Burleigh! Speak, my ge nius, speak!

Be quick as vengeance' self to tell me how!

Bur. You must have heard, the commons have im
peach'd him,

And we have proofs sufficient for his ruin.
But the queen-you know how fair he stands
In her esteem; and Rutland, too, his wife,
Hath full possession of the royal ear.

Here then, my Nottingham, begins thy task:
Try ev'ry art t' incense the queen against him,
Then step between her and the Lady Rutland:
Observe Southampton, too, with jealous eye;
Prevent, as much as possible, his suit:
For, well I know, he will not fail to try
His eloquence on the behalf of Essex.

Not. It shall be done; his doom is fix'd: he dies.
Oh, 'twas a precious thought! I never knew
Such heartfelt satisfaction.-Essex dies!

And Rutland, in her turn, shall learn to weep.

The time is precious; I'll about it strait.

Come, vengeance, come! assist me now to breathe Thy venom'd spirit in the royal ear!

[Exit.

Bur. There spoke the very genius of the sex!

A disappointed woman sets no bounds

To her revenge.-Her temper's form'd to serve me.
Enter RALEIGH.

Ral. The Lord Southampton, with ungovern'd rage, Resents aloud his disappointed measures.

I met him in the outward court; he seeks,
In haste, your lordship; and, forgetting forms,
Pursues me hither, and demands to see you.

Bur. Raleigh, 'tis well! Withdraw-attend the

queen

Leave me to deal with this o'erbearing man.

Enter SOUTHAMPTON.

[Exit RALEIGH.

South. Where is the man, whom virtue calls her friend?

I give you joy, my lord!--Your quenchless fury
At length prevails, and now your malice triumphs.
You've hunted honour to the toil of faction,

And view his struggles with malicious joy.

Bur. What means my lord?

South. O fraud"! shall valiant Essex

Be made a sacrifice to your ambition!
Oh, it smells foul, indeed, of rankest malice,
And the vile statesman's craft.

You dare not, sure,

Thus bid defiance to each show of worth,

Each claim of honour: dare not injure thus
Your suffering country, in her bravest son!

Bur. But why should stern reproach her angry

brow

Let fall on me? Am I alone the cause

That gives this working humour strength? Do I
Instruct the public voice to warp his actions?

Justice, untaught, shall poise th' impartial scales,
And every curious eye may mark the beam.

South. The specious shield, which private malice bears,

Is ever blazon'd with some public good;
Behind that artful fence, skulk low, conceal'd,
The bloody purpose, and the poison'd shaft;
Ambition there, and envy, nestle close;
From whence they take their fatal aim unseen;
And honest merit is their destin'd mark.

Bur. My country's welfare, and my queen's command,

Have ever been my guiding stars through life,
My sure direction still,-To these I now

Appeal;-from these, no doubt, this lord's misconduct

Hath widely stray'd; and reason, not reviling,
Must now befriend his cause.

South How ill had Providence

Dispos'd the suffering world's oppress'd affairs,
Had sacred right's eternal rule been left

To crafty politicians' partial sway!

Then power and pride would stretch th' enormous

grasp,

And call their arbitrary portion, justice:

Ambition's arm, by av'rice urg'd, would pluck

The core of honesty from virtue's heart,

And plant deceit and rancour in its stead:

Falsehood would trample then on truth and honour,

And envy poison sweet benevolence.

Oh, 'tis a goodly group of attributes,

And well befits some statesman's righteous rule!
Out, out upon such bloody doings!

The term of being is not worth the sin;
No human bosom can endure its dart.

Then put this cruel purpose from thee far,
Nor let the blood of Essex whelm thy soul.

Bur. 'Tis well, my lord! your words no comment

need;

No doubt, they've well explain'd your honest meaning;

"Tis clear and full.-To parts, like yours,
discretion
Would be a clog, and caution but incumbrance.
Yet mark me well, my lord, the clinging ivy
With th' oak may rise, but with it too must fali.
South. Thy empty threats, ambitious man, hurt not
The breast of truth. Fair innocence, and faith,
Those strangers to thy practis'd heart, shall shield
My honour, and preserve my friend.-In vain,
Thy malice, with unequal arm, shall strive
To tear the applauded wreath from Essex' brow;
His honest laurel, held aloft by fame,

Above thy blasting reach, shall safely flourish,
And bloom immortal to the latest times;
Whilst thou, amidst thy tangling snares involv'd,
Shalt sink confounded, and unpitied fall.

Bur. Rail on, proud lord, and give thy choler

vent:

It wastes itself in vain; the queen shall judge
Between us in this warm debate. To her
I now repair: and, in her royal presence,
You may approve your innocence and faith.
Perhaps you'll meet me there. Till then, farewell.

[Exit.

South. Confusion wait thy steps, thou cruel mon→

ster!

My noble and illustrious friend betray'd
By crafty faction, and tyrannic power,

His sinking trophies, and his falling fame,
Oppress my very soul. I'll to the

Lay all their envy open to her view,

queen,

Confront their malice, and preserve my friend. [Exit.