Bid the drum and trumpets join,

Warm my foul with rage

divine;

All thy pomps around thee call:

To conquer love will ask them all.

SCENE II.

[Exit.

The Scene changes to that part of the bower where Sir Trufty lies upon the ground, with the bowl and dagger on the table.

Enter QUEEN.

Every ftar, and ev'ry pow'r,

Look down on this important hour:
Lend your protection and defence,
Every guard of innocence!

Help me my Henry to affuage,
To gain his love, or bear his rage.
Myfterious love, uncertain treasure,
Haft thou more of pain or pleasure
Chill'd with tears,
Kill'd with fears,

Endless torments dwell about thee:

Yet who would live, and live without thee!

But oh the fight my foul alarms:

My Lord appears, I'm all on fire! Why am I banish'd from his arms?

My heart's too full, I must retire.

[Retires to the end of the flage. SCENE

Floods of forrew will I thed

To mourn the lovely thade!

My Rajamerad, alas, is dead,

And where, O where convey'd!

Sc bright a blaum, få fift an air,
Did ever nymph dijclife!

The lily was mi balf jo fair,

Nor balf fo fweet the rose.

QUEEN.

How is his heart with anguish torn!
My Lord, I cannot see you mourn:
The living you lament: while I,

To be lamented fo, cou'd die.

KING.

The living! fpeak, oh speak again!
Why will you dally with my pain!

QUEEN.

your lov'd Rofamond alive,

not my former wrongs revive?

[Afide.

47

KING.

Oh no, by visions from above,

Prepar'd for grief, and freed from love,

I came to take my last adieu,

Forbear, my Lord, to grieve,

And know your Rofamond does live.
If 'tis joy to wound a lover,

How much more to give him eafe?

When his paffion we discover,

Ob bow pleafing 'tis to please! The blifs returns, and we receive

Transports greater than we give.

O quickly relate

KING.

This riddle of fate!

My impatience forgive,

Does Rofamond live?

QUEEN.

The bowl with drowfy juices fill'd,
From cold Egyptian drugs diftill'd,
In borrow'd death has clos'd her eyes;
But foon the waking nymph fhall rife,

[Afide

And

SCENE III.

KING and QUEEN.

KING.

Some dreadful birth of fate is near:
Or why, my foul, unus'd to fear,
With fecret horror doft thou shake ?
Can dreams fuch dire impreffions make!
What means this folemn, filent show?
This pomp of death, this fcene of woe!
Support me, heav'n! what's this I read?
O horror! Rofamond is dead.

What shall Isay, or whither turn?
With grief, and rage, and love, I burn:
From thought to thought my foul is toft.
And in the whirle of paffion loft.
Why did I not in battle fall,

Crush'd by the thunder of the Gaul!
Why did the spear my bofom mifs
Ye pow'rs, was I referv'd for this?
Diftraded with was

I'll rub on the foe

To feek my relief
The fword or the dart
Shall pierce my fad beart

And finish my grief!

QUEEN.

QUEEN.

Fain wou'd my tongue his griefs appeafe,

And give his tortur'd bosom ease.

KING.

Bat fee the cause of all my fears,
The fource of all my grief appears!
No unexpected guest is here;
The fatal bowl

Inform'd my foul

Eleonora was too near.

QUEEN

Why do I here my Lord receive?

KING.

Is this the welcome that you give ?

QUEEN

Thus fhou'd divided lovers meet?

BOTH.

And is it thus, ab! thus we greet!

QUEEN.

What in thefe guilty thades cou'd you,

Inglorious conqueror, purfue?

[Afide.

QUEEN