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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.

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,

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

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.

[Exit.

[Retires to the end of the flage. SCENE

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Floods of forrew will I hed

To mourn the lovely fhade! My Rajamant, alas, is dead,

And where, O where convey'd! Sc bright a bluum, fi fift am air,

Did ever nymph difclife! 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 so, 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.

KING.

Oh no; by vifions from above,

Prepar'd for grief, and freed from love,
I came to take my laft adieu,

QUEEN.

How am I blefs'd if this be true!

KING.

And leave th' unhappy nymph for you.
But O!

QUEEN.

Forbear, my Lord, to grieve,
And know your Rofamond does live.
If 'tis joy to wound a lover,
How much more to give him ease?
When his paffion we discover,

Ob bow pleafing 'tis to please!
The blifs returns, and we receive
Transports greater than we give.

KING.

O quickly relate

This riddle of fate!

My impatience forgive,
Does Rofamond live?
QUEEN.

The bowl with drowsy juices fill'd,
From cold Egyptian drugs distill'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 wee
I'll rub on the foe

To feek my relief:
The fword or the dart
Shall pierce my fad beart
And finif my grief!

QUEEN.

QUEEN.

Fain wou'd my tongue his griefs appeafe,
And give his tortur'd bofom ease.

KING.

Bat fee the caufe of all my fears,
The source 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?

KING.

Cruel woman, what cou'd you?

QUEEN.

Degenerate thoughts have fir'd your breaft.

KING.

The thirft of blood has yours poffefs'd.

[Afide.

QUEEN.

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