Jane Shore

by Nicholas Rowe

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE 1. AN APARTMENT IN JANE SHORE'S HOUSE.

Enter Alicia, speaking to Jane Shore as entering.

Alic. No further, gentle friend; good angels guard you,

And spread their gracious wings about your slumbers.

The drowsy night grows on the world, and now

The busy craftsmen and the o'er-labour'd hind

Forget the travail of the day in sleep:

Care only wakes, and moping pensiveness;

With meagre discontented looks they sit,

And watch the wasting of the midnight taper.

Such vigils must I keep, so wakes my soul,

Restless and self-tormented! O, false Hastings!

Thou hast destroy'd my peace.[knocking without.

What noise is that?

What visitor is this, who, with bold freedom,

Breaks in upon the peaceful night and rest,

With such a rude approach?

Enter a Servant.

Serv. One from the court,

Lord Hastings (as I think) demands my lady.

Alic. Hastings! Be still, my heart, and try to meet him

With his own arts! with falsehood.—But he comes.

Enter Lord Hastings, speaking to a Servant as entering.

Lord H. Dismiss my train, and wait alone without.

Alicia here! Unfortunate encounter!

But be it as it may.

Alic. When humbly, thus,

The great descend to visit the afflicted,

When thus, unmindful of their rest, they come

To sooth the sorrows of the midnight mourner,

Comfort comes with them; like the golden sun,

Dispels the sullen shades with her sweet influence,

And cheers the melancholy house of care.

Lord H. 'Tis true, I would not over-rate a courtesy,

Nor let the coldness of delay hang on it,

To nip and blast its favour, like a frost;

But rather chose, at this late hour, to come,

That your fair friend may know I have prevail'd;

The lord protector has receiv'd her suit,

And means to show her grace.

Alic. My friend! my lord.

Lord H. Yes, lady, yours; none has a right more ample

To task my pow'r than you.

Alic. I want the words,

To pay you back a compliment so courtly;

But my heart guesses at the friendly meaning,

And wo' not die your debtor.

Lord H. 'Tis well, madam.

But I would see your friend.

Alic. O, thou false lord!

I would be mistress of my heaving heart,

Stifle this rising rage, and learn from thee

To dress my face in easy, dull, indiff'rence;

But 'two' not be; my wrongs will tear their way,

And rush at once upon thee.

Lord H. Are you wise?

Have you the use of reason? Do you wake?

What means this raving, this transporting passion?

Alic. O, thou cool traitor! thou insulting tyrant!

Dost thou behold my poor, distracted, heart,

Thus rent with agonizing love and rage,

And ask me, what it means? Art thou not false?

Am I not scorn'd, forsaken, and abandon'd;

Left, like a common wretch, to shame and infamy;

Giv'n up to be the sport of villains' tongues,

Of laughing parasites, and lewd buffoons?

And all because my soul has doated on thee

With love, with truth, and tenderness unutterable!

Lord H. Are these the proofs of tenderness and love?

These endless quarrels, discontents, and jealousies,

These never-ceasing waitings and complainings,

These furious starts, these whirlwinds of the soul,

Which every other moment rise to madness?

Alic. What proof, alas! have I not giv'n of love?

What have I not abandon'd to thy arms?

Have I not set at nought my noble birth,

A spotless fame, and an unblemish'd race,

The peace of innocence, and pride of virtue?

My prodigality has giv'n thee all;

And now, I've nothing left me to bestow,

You hate the wretched bankrupt you have made.

Lord H. Why am I thus pursu'd from place to place,

Kept in the view, and cross'd at ev'ry turn?

In vain I fly, and, like a hunted deer,

Scud o'er the lawns, and hasten to the covert;

E'er I can reach my safety, you o'ertake me

With the swift malice of some keen reproach,

And drive the winged shaft deep in my heart.

Alic. Hither you fly, and here you seek repose;

Spite of the poor deceit, your arts are known,

Your pious, charitable, midnight visits.

Lord H. If you are wise, and prize your peace of mind,

Yet take the friendly counsel of my love;

Believe me true, nor listen to your jealousy.

Let not that devil, which undoes your sex,

That cursed curiosity, seduce you

To hunt for needless secrets, which, neglected,

Shall never hurt your quiet; but, once known,

Shall sit upon your heart, pinch it with pain,

And banish the sweet sleep for ever from you.

Go to—be yet advis'd—

Alic. Dost thou in scorn

Preach patience to my rage, and bid me tamely

Sit like a poor, contented, idiot down,

Nor dare to think thou'st wrong'd me? Ruin seize thee,

And swift perdition overtake thy treachery.

Have I the least remaining cause to doubt?

Hast thou endeavour'd once to hide thy falsehood?

To hide it might have spoke some little tenderness,

And shown thee half unwilling to undo me:

But thou disdain'st the weakness of humanity.

Thy words, and all thy actions, have confess'd it;

Ev'n now thy eyes avow it, now they speak,

And insolently own the glorious villany.

Lord H. Well then, I own my heart has broke your chains.

Patient, I bore the painful bondage long,

At length my gen'rous love disdains your tyranny;

The bitterness and stings of taunting jealousy,

Vexations days, and jarring, joyless, nights,

Have driv'n him forth to seek some safer shelter,

Where he may rest his weary wings in peace.

Alic. You triumph!—do! and with gigantic pride

Defy impending vengeance. Heav'n shall wink;

No more his arm shall roll the dreadful thunder,

Nor send his lightnings forth: no more his justice

Shall visit the presuming sons of men,

But perjury, like thine, shall dwell in safety.

Lord H. Whate'er my fate decrees for me hereafter,

Be present to me now, my better angel!

Preserve me from the storm that threatens now,

And, if I have beyond atonement sinn'd,

Let any other kind of plague o'ertake me,

So I escape the fury of that tongue.

Alic. Thy prayer is heard—I go—but know, proud lord,

Howe'er thou scorn'st the weakness of my sex,

This feeble hand may find the means to reach thee,

Howe'er sublime in pow'r and greatness plac'd,

With royal favour guarded round and graced;

On eagle's wings my rage shall urge her flight,

And hurl thee headlong from thy topmast height;

Then, like thy fate, superior will I sit,

And view thee fall'n, and grov'ling at my feet;

See thy last breath with indignation go,

And tread thee sinking to the shades below.[exit.

Lord H. How fierce a fiend is passion! With what wildness,

What tyranny, untam'd it reigns in woman!

Unhappy sex! whose easy, yielding, temper

Gives way to ev'ry appetite alike:

And love in their weak bosoms is a rage

As terrible as hate, and as destructive.

But soft ye now—for here comes one, disclaims

Strife and her wrangling train; of equal elements,

Without one jarring atom, was she form'd,

And gentleness and joy make up her being.

Enter Jane Shore.

Forgive me, fair one, if officious friendship

Intrudes on your repose, and comes thus late

To greet you with the tidings of success.

The princely Gloster has vouchsaf'd your hearing,

To-morrow he expects you at the court;

There plead your cause, with never-failing beauty,

Speak all your griefs, and find a full redress.

Jane S. Thus humbly let your lowly servant bend.[kneeling.

Thus let me bow my grateful knee to earth,

And bless your noble nature for this goodness.

Lord H. Rise, gentle dame, you wrong my meaning much,

Think me not guilty of a thought so vain,

To sell my courtesy for thanks like these.

Jane S. 'Tis true, your bounty is beyond my speaking:

But, though my mouth be dumb, my heart shall thank you;

And when it melts before the throne of mercy,

Mourning and bleeding for my past offences,

My fervent soul shall breathe one pray'r for you,

That heav'n will pay you back, when most you need,

The grace and goodness you have shown to me.

Lord H. If there be aught of merit in my service,

Impute it there, where most 'tis due, to love;

Be kind, my gentle mistress, to my wishes,

And satisfy my panting heart with beauty.

Jane S. Alas! my lord——

Lord H. Why bend thy eyes to earth?

Wherefore these looks of heaviness and sorrow?

Why breathes that sigh, my love? And wherefore falls

This trickling show'r of tears, to stain thy sweetness?

Jane S. If pity dwells within your noble breast,

(As sure it does), oh, speak not to me thus.

Lord H. Can I behold thee, and not speak of love?

Ev'n now, thus sadly as thou stand'st before me,

Thus desolate, dejected, and forlorn,

Thy softness steals upon my yielding senses,

Till my soul faints, and sickens with desire;

How canst thou give this motion to my heart,

And bid my tongue be still?

Jane S. Cast round your eyes

Upon the high-born beauties of the court;

Behold, like opening roses, where they bloom,

Sweet to the sense, unsully'd all, and spotless;

There choose some worthy partner of your heart,

To fill your arms and bless your virtuous bed;

Nor turn your eyes this way.

Lord H. What means this peevish, this fantastic, change?

Where is thy wonted pleasantness of face,

Thy wonted graces, and thy dimpled smiles?

Where hast thou lost thy wit and sportive mirth?

That cheerful heart, which us'd to dance for ever,

And cast a ray of gladness all around thee?

Jane S. Yes, I will own I merit the reproach;

And for those foolish days of wanton pride,

My soul is justly humbled to the dust:

All tongues, like yours, are licens'd to upbraid me,

Still to repeat my guilt; and urge my infamy,

And treat me like that abject thing I have been.

Lord H. No more of this dull stuff. 'Tis time enough

To whine and mortify thyself with penance,

The present moment claims more gen'rous use;

Thy beauty, night, and solitude, reproach me,

For having talk'd thus long—come, let me press thee,

[laying hold of her.

Pant on thy bosom, sink into thy arms,

And lose myself in the luxurious flood.

Jane S. Forbear, my lord!—here let me rather die,[kneeling.

And end my sorrows and my shame for ever.

Lord H. Away with this perverseness——'tis too much.

Nay, if you strive—'tis monstrous affectation![striving.

Jane S. Retire! I beg you, leave me——

Lord H. Thus to coy it!——

With one who knows you too.——

Jane S. For mercy's sake——

Lord H. Ungrateful woman! Is it thus you pay

My services?——

Jane S. Abandon me to ruin——

Rather than urge me——

Lord H. This way to your chamber;[pulling her.

There if you struggle——

Jane S. Help, O gracious heaven!

Help! Save me! Help![exit.

Enter Dumont; he interposes.

Dum. My lord! for honour's sake——

Lord H. Hah! What art thou?—Be gone!

Dum. My duty calls me

To my attendance on my mistress here.

Lord H. Avaunt! base groom——

At distance wait, and know thy office better.

Dum. No, my lord——

The common ties of manhood call me now,

And bid me thus stand up in the defence

Of an oppress'd, unhappy, helpless, woman.

Lord H. And dost thou know me, slave?

Dum. Yes, thou proud lord!

I know thee well; know thee with each advantage

Which wealth, or pow'r, or noble birth, can give thee.

I know thee too for one who stains those honours,

And blots a long illustrious line of ancestry,

By poorly daring thus to wrong a woman.

Lord H. 'Tis wondrous well! I see, my saint-like dame,

You stand provided of your braves and ruffians,

To man your cause, and bluster in your brothel.

Dum. Take back the foul reproach, unmanner'd railer!

Nor urge my rage too far, lest thou shouldst find

I have as daring spirits in my blood

As thou or any of thy race e'er boasted;

And though no gaudy titles grac'd my birth,

Yet heav'n that made me honest, made me more

Than ever king did, when he made a lord.

Lord H. Insolent villain! henceforth let this teach thee

[draws, and strikes him.

The distance 'twixt a peasant and a prince.

Dum. Nay then, my lord, [drawing] learn you by this, how well

An arm resolv'd can guard its master's life.

[they fight; Dumont disarms Lord Hastings.

Lord H. Confusion! baffled by a base-born hind!

Dum. Now, haughty sir, where is our difference now?

Your life is in my hand, and did not honour,

The gentleness of blood, and inborn virtue,

(Howe'er unworthy I may seem to you,)

Plead in my bosom, I should take the forfeit.

But wear your sword again; and know, a lord,

Oppos'd against a man, is but a man.

Lord H. Curse on my failing hand! your better fortune

Has giv'n you 'vantage o'er me; but perhaps

Your triumph may be bought with dear repentance.[exit.

Re-enter Jane Shore.

Jane S. Alas! what have you done? Know ye the pow'r,

The mightiness, that waits upon this lord?

Dum. Fear not, my worthiest mistress; 'tis a cause

In which heaven's guards shall wait you. O pursue,

Pursue, the sacred counsels of your soul,

Which urge you on to virtue;

Assisting angels shall conduct your steps,

Bring you to bliss, and crown your days with peace.

Jane S. O that my head were laid, my sad eyes clos'd,

And my cold corse wound in my shroud to rest!

My painful heart will never cease to beat,

Will never know a moment's peace, till then.

Dum. Would you he happy, leave this fatal place;

Fly from the court's pernicious neighbourhood;

Where innocence is sham'd, and blushing modesty

Is made the scorner's jest; where hate, deceit,

And deadly ruin, wear the masks of beauty,

And draw deluded fools with shows of pleasure.

Jane S. Where should I fly, thus helpless and forlorn,

Of friends and all the means of life bereft?

Dum. Belmour, whose friendly care still wakes to serve you,

Has found you out a little peaceful refuge,

Far from the court and the tumultuous city.

Within an ancient forest's ample verge,

There stands a lonely but a healthful dwelling,

Built for convenience and the use of life:

Around it, fallows, meads, and pastures fair,

A little garden, and a limpid brook,

By nature's own contrivance seem'd dispos'd;

No neighbours, but a few poor simple clowns,

Honest and true, with a well-meaning priest:

No faction, or domestic fury's rage,

Did e'er disturb the quiet of that place,

When the contending nobles shook the land

With York and Lancaster's disputed sway.

Your virtue there may find a safe retreat

From the insulting pow'rs of wicked greatness.

Jane S. Can there be so much happiness in store?

A cell like that is all my hopes aspire to.

Haste then, and thither let us take our flight,

E'er the clouds gather, and the wintry sky

Descends in storms to intercept our passage.

Dum. Will you then go? You glad my very soul.

Banish your fears, cast all your cares on me;

Plenty and ease, and peace of mind, shall wait you,

And make your latter days of life most happy.

O lady! but I must not, cannot, tell you,

How anxious I have been for all your dangers,

And how my heart rejoices at your safety.

So when the spring renews the flow'ry field,

And warns the pregnant nightingale to build,

She seeks the safest shelter of the wood,

Where she may trust her little tuneful brood;

Where no rude swains her shady cell may know,

No serpents climb, nor blasting winds may blow;

Fond of the chosen place, she views it o'er,

Sits there, and wanders through the grove no more;

Warbling, she charms it each returning night,

And loves it with a mother's dear delight.[exeunt.

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