Enter Lady Nottingham.
Not. Thrice hail to rescued England's guiding genius!
His country's guardian, and his queen's defence!
Great Burleigh, thou whose patriot bosom beats
With Albion's glory, and Eliza's fame;
Who shield'st her person, and support'st her throne;
For thee, what fervent thanks, what offer'd vows,
Do prostrate millions pay!
Bur. Bright excellence,
This fair applause too highly over-rates,
Too much extols, the low deserts of Cecil.
Not. What praises are too high for patriot worth;
Or what applause exceeds the price of virtue?
My lord, conviction has at last subdued me,
And I am honour's proselyte:—Too long
My erring heart pursued the ways of faction;
I own myself t' have been your bitt'rest foe,
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
Too high for England's welfare; nay, the 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?