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SIR TRUSTY, Keeper of the Bower.
GRIDELINE, Wife to Sir Trusty.
Guardian Angels, &c.
SCENE, WOODSTOCK PARK.
SCENE I-A prospect of Woodstock Park, terminating in
Enter QUEEN and PAGE.
QUEEN. WHAT place is here!
And soft Elysiums rise:
With wild variety surprise;
PAGE. There gentle Rosamond immured,
PAGE. There does the pensive beauty mourn, And languish for her lord's return. QUEEN. Death and confusion! I'm too slow- [Aside. Show me the happy mansion, showPAGE. Great Henry thereQUEEN. Trifler, no more!— PAGE. Great Henry there
Will soon forget the toils of war. QUEEN. No more! the happy mansion show That holds this lovely, guilty foe.
My wrath, like that of heaven, shall rise,
PAGE. Behold on yonder rising ground
QUEEN. In such an endless maze I rove,
My breast with hoarded vengeance burns,
And rule my wavering soul by turns.
What are thy hated rival's crimes!
My Henry from my arms? 'Tis her crime to be loved,
'Tis her crime to have charms.
To a monarch like mine,
PAGE. Hark, hark! what sound invades my ear?
The conqueror's approach I hear.
A sound of war,
And fill with horror every wind.
The traitress shall bleed;
SCENE II.-The entry of the Bower.
SIR TRUSTY, Knight of the Bower, solus
How unhappy is he,
And famed for his wit and his beauty!
They ne'er have enough of our duty.
Whence rises this convulsive strife ?
GRIDELINE and SIR TRUSTY.
GRID. Faithless varlet, art thou there?
GRID. Cheat not me with false caresses.
GRID. She views thee with a lover's eye.
SIR TR. O Grideline! consult thy glass,
Will convince you I am true. GRID. Oh how blest were Grideline, Could I call Sir Trusty mine! Did he not cover amorous wiles, With soft, but ah! deceiving smiles: How should I revel in delight, The spouse of such a peerless knight! SIR TR. At length the storm begins to cease, I've soothed and flattered her to peace. 'Tis now my turn to tyrannize: I feel, I feel my fury rise! Tigress, begone.
-I love thee so
SIR TR. Thou 'rt the plague of my life.
SIR TR. Let us part,
Let us part.
GRID. Will you break my poor heart ?
SIR TR. I will if I can.
GRID. O barbarous man!
From whence doth all this passion flow? SIR TR. Thou art ugly and old,
And a villanous scold.
GRID. Thou art a rustic to call me so.
I'm not ugly nor old,
Nor a villanous scold,
But thou art a rustic to call me so.
SIR TR. Farewell, thou shrew!
SIR TR. Thou shrew,
ВоTH. Adieu! adieu!
SIR TR., solus. How hard is our fate,
And should lay out our cares
Make all our great labours miscarry!
Of him that has got
Fair Rosamond's bower,
With the clue in his power,
Both the great and the small,
As principal pimp to the mighty King Harry
But see the pensive fair draws near:
ROSAMOND and SIR TRUSTY.
ROSA. From walk to walk, from shade to shade,