Rich. Yesterday I was !— To-day, a very weak old man!-To-morrow, Against his servant. Lady, while we speak, More powerless than the Minister of France. Cler. Enter CLERMONT. Madame de Mauprat! Pardon, your Eminence-even now I seek This lady's home-commanded by the King Το pray her presence. Julie (clinging to RICHELIEU). Think of my dead father!— And take me to your breast. Rich. To those who sent you!— And say you found the virtue they would slay Cler. My Lord, I am your friend and servant— So roused against you:-shall I take this answer ?— Rich. All time my foe, If I, a Priest, could cast this holy Sorrow Forth from her last asylum! Cler. He is lost! [Exit CLERMONT. Rich. God help thee, child!—she hears not! Look upon her! The storm, that rends the oak, uproots the flower. Her father loved me so! and in that age When friends are brothers! She has been to me Soother, nurse, plaything, daughter. Are these tears? Oh! shame, shame!-dotage! Joseph. [Places her in the arms of JOSEPH. Tears are not for eyes That rather need the lightning! which can pierce Must see that written treason in your hands, Rich. Ay-and close Upon my corpse !—I am not made to live— Friends, glory, France, all reft from me;-my star For all men's feet to trample! Yea!-to-morrow Triumph or death! Look up, child!-Lead us, Joseph. [Enter BARADAS and DE BERINGHEN. Bar. My Lord, the King cannot believe your Eminence So far forgets your duty, and his greatness, As to resist his mandate! Pray you, Madam, Obey the King!-no cause for fear! Then wakes the power which in the age of iron Ay, it is so? Burst forth to curb the great, and raise the low. Set but a foot within that holy ground, And on thy head—yea, though it wore a crown I launch the curse of Rome! Bar. I dare not brave you! I do but speak the orders of my King, The Church, your rank, power, very word, my Lord, If it should cost you power! Rich. That my stake.—Ah! Dark gamester! what is thine? Look to it well!- Thou shalt have France, or I thy head! Bar. (aside to DE BERINGHEN). Have the Despatch? He cannot Joseph (aside to RICHELIEU). Patience is your game : Reflect, You have not the Despatch! O! monk! Rich. Bar. (aside). He wanders! Rich. So cling close unto my breast, Here where thou droop'st lies France! I am very feeble— Of little use it seems to either now. Well, well-we will go home. Bar. In sooth, my Lord, You do need rest-the burthens of the State Rich. (to JOSEPH, pauses). I'm patient, see! And life are breaking fast! Rich. (overhearing him) Irreverent ribald ! If so, beware the falling ruins! Hark! His mind I tell thee, scorner of these whitening hairs, Walk blindfold on; behind thee stalks the headsman. LORD LYTTON. [By kind permission of Messrs. Routledge.] FROM "THE IRON CHEST." Four Characters.-SIR EDWARD MORTIMER, Adam SIR EDWARD MORTIMER discovered at the writing-table, ADAM Sir E. 'Tis his first trespass, so we'll quit him, Adam; But caution him how he offend again. As keeper of the forest, I should fine him. Win. Nay, that your worship should: he'll prove ere long, Mark but my words,-a sturdy poacher. Well, 'Tis you know best. Sir E. Well, well, no matter, Adam : He has a wife and child. Win. Ah, bless your honour! Sir E. They killed his dog? Win. Ay, marry, sir, a lurcher; Black Martin Wincot, the keeper, shot him, A perilous good aim. I warrant me, The rogue has lived this year upon that lurcher. Sir E. Poor wretch! Oh, well bethought: send Walter to me; I would employ him; he must ride for me On business of much import. Win. Lackaday! That it should chance so! I have sent him forth To Winchester, to buy me flannel hose, For winter's coming on. Good lack! that things Sir E. Nay, nay, do not fret ; 'Tis better that my business cool, good Adam, Than thy old limbs. Win. Ah! you've a kindly heart! Sir E. Is Wilford waiting? Win. (Aside.) Wilford !-Mercy on me! I tremble now to hear his name. (Aloud.) He is Here, in the hall, sir. Sir E. Send him in, I prithee. Win. I shall, sir. Heaven bless you! Heaven bless you! [Exit. Sir E. Good morning, good old heart! (Rising.) This honest soul Would fain look cheery in my house's gloom, And, like a gay and sturdy evergreen, Smiles in the midst of blast and desolation, Where all around him withers. Well, well-whither! Perish this frail and fickle frame! this clay, |