Chapter IV: Act III: Scene I

_A Village, on the Skirts of the Forest._

_Enter FOOL and a VILLAGER._

_Vil._ Tell me, good fellow, now, I pr'ythee--

_Fool._ But wilt thou lend an ear to my tale?

_Vil._ That will I; all the ears I am worth.

_Fool._ Then need not I tell the story:--for, if thou lend'st all thy ears, then thou'lt have none left to hear it.--Wast ever in a battle, old boy?

_Vil._ No, truly!

_Fool._ Then thou art a dead man.

_Vil._ What, for not being in a battle!

_Fool._ Yea, marry,--by the very first rapier that comes in thy way;--for no man can live by the sword but a soldier;--and of soldiers there are three degrees; and three only.

_Vil._ As how?

_Fool._ As thus:--Your hot fighter--your cool fighter--and your fighter-shy.--The last degree makes a wondrous figure, in many muster-rolls.

_Vil._ Of which last you make one.

_Fool._ In some degree.

_Vil._ And it was that made you run from the battle.

_Fool._ Right; running is your only surety. Bully Achilles, the great warrior of old, thought otherwise; and he was vulnerable only in the heel:--now, my heels always insure me from being wounded.--Dost know why Heaven makes one leg of a man stouter than the other?

_Vil._ No.

_Fool._ That he may be able to put the best leg foremost, when there's occasion.

_Vil._ And you had occasion enough, last night.

_Fool._ Truly, had I; and thus came I to your cottage; where I slept on a bare board all night.

_Vil._ Ah! Heaven knows my lodging is poor enough! but such as it is, you are welcome.

_Fool._ Nay, I quarrel not with the lodging; I only complain of the board--and now wouldst thou know my story.

_Vil._ I would willingly hear of the battle that was lost.

_Fool._ Then pr'ythee, ask of those that found it: but, come, I'll e'en tell thee how it was.----Thou hast a wife?

_Vil._ Yes, forsooth;--that was my old dame you saw at home.

_Fool._ Keep her there; for nature plainly intended her for a homely woman--Didst ever quarrel with her before marriage?

_Vil._ Never.

_Fool._ Afterwards, a little?

_Vil._ Um!--Why, to say the truth, my poor dame has a fine flourish with a cudgel; but people will needs fall out, now and then, when once they come together.

_Fool._ That's the very way we lost the battle:--for had the two parties never met, depend on't, one had never cudgel'd the other.

_Vil._ Mass! thou art a rare fellow in the field!

_Fool._ Very rare;--for I never come there but when I can't help it.

SONG.--FOOL.

_To arms, to arms, when Captains cry,_
_With a heigho! the trumpets blow--_
_To legs, to legs, brave boys, say I!_
_Heigho;_
_I needs must go._

_Arrows swift begin to fly,_
_With a heigho! Twang goes the bow--_
_And soldiers tumble down and die:--_
_Heigho!_
_I'll not do so._

_Whizzing by come balls of lead;_
_With a heigho! thump they go.--_
_Tall men grow shorter by the head;_
_Heigho!_
_I'd rather grow._

_In time of trouble I'm away;_
_With a heigho!--ill winds blow;_
_But always ready at pay day;_
_Heigho!_
_Great folks do so._

_Enter another VILLAGER._

_1 Vil._ Now, goodman Hobs, whence come you?

_2 Vil._ There is a great lord come in, from the routed party, who has taken shelter in our village, since break of day. One of your great friends, good sir. [_To the FOOL._

_Fool._ Didst see him! how look'd he?

_2 Vil._ I tended him, some quarter of an hour:--troth, he seem'd wondrous weary.

_Fool._ Of thy company.--Now could I be weary too, and find in my heart to be dull:--but here come females; and, were a man's head emptier than a spendthrift's purse, they will ever bring something out on't. Hence comes it, that your dull husband's head is improved by your lively wife:--if she can bring out nothing else, why she brings out horns.

_Enter VILLAGERS, Male and Female._

Now, good folk, whither go you?

_3 Vil._ Truly, sir, this is our season for making of hay; and here am I, sir, with the rest of our village, going about it.

_Fool._ Now might I, were it not for disgracing the army, turn mower among these clowns;--and why not? Soldiers are but cutters down of flesh, and flesh is grass, all the world over. I'll e'en out, this morning, and do execution in the field.--Come, lads and maidens! One roundelay, and we'll to't!

SONG AND CHORUS OF VILLAGERS.

1 Wom. _Drifted snow no more is seen;_
_Blust'ring Winter passes by;_
_Merry Spring comes clad in green,_
_While woodlarks pour their melody._
_I hear him! hark!_
_The merry lark,_
_Calls us to the new mown hay,_
_Piping to our roundelay._

2 Vil. _When the golden sun appears,_
_On the mountain's surly brow;_
_When his jolly beams he rears,_
_Darting joy--behold them now!--_
_Then, then, oh, hark!--_
_The merry lark_
_Calls us to the new mown hay,_
_Piping to our roundelay._

3 Vil. _When the village boy, to field,_
_Tramps it with the buxom lass,_
_Fain she would not seem to yield,_
_Yet gets her tumble on the grass:_
_Then, then, oh, hark!_
_The merry lark,_
_While they tumble in the hay,_
_Pipes alone his roundelay._

4 Vil. _What are honours? What's a court?_
_Calm content is worth them all:--_
_Our honour lies in cudgel sport;_
_Our brightest court a green-sward ball._
_But then--oh hark!_
_The merry lark,_
_Calls us to the new mown hay,_
_Piping to our roundelay._

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

_An old fashioned Apartment, in BARTON'S House, in the Village.
Rusty Arms, and other Military Paraphernalia hanging up, in
different Parts; &c._

_LA VARENNE and BARTON._

_Barton._ Nay, sir, thank not me:
I am no trader, I, in empty forms;
In neat congees, and kickshaw compliments;
In your,--"Dear sirs," and "Sir, you make me blush;"--
I'm for plain speaking; plain and blunt; besides,
I've been a soldier:--and, I take it, sir,
You, who are still in service, are aware
That blushing seldom troubles the profession.

_La Var._ Still, friend, I thank thee.--Thou hast shelter'd me,
At a hard trying moment, when the buffets
Of tainting fortune rather would persuade
Friends to shrink back, than serve me.

_Barton._ 'Faith, good sir,
I know not how you have been buffetted:--
But this I know,--at least I think I know it--
If there's a soldier, in the world's wide army,
Who will not, in the moment of distress,
Stretch forth his hand to save a falling comrade,
Why, then, I think, that he has little chance
Of being found in Heaven's muster-roll.

_La Var._ I like thy plainness well.

_Barton._ Nay, sir, my plainness
Is such as Nature gave me: and would men
Leave Nature to herself, good faith, her work
Is pretty equal;--but we will be garnishing;
Until the heart, like to a beauty's face,
Which she ne'er lets alone till she has spoil'd it,
Is so befritter'd round, with worldly nonsense,
That we can scarcely trace sweet Nature's outlines.

_La Var._ Who of our party, pr'ythee, since the battle
Have shelter'd here among the villagers?--
Canst tell their names?

_Barton._ Ay, marry, can I, sir.
But can and will are birds of diff'rent feather.
Can is a swan, that bottles up its music,
And never lets it out till death is near;
But will's a piping bullfinch, that does ever
Whistle forth every note it has been taught,
To any fool that bids it. Now, sir, mark;--
Whoever's here, would fain be private here;
Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I can;--
Whoever's here, depend on't, tell I will not.

_La Var._ Why, this is over-caution!--would not they
Rejoice as readily at seeing me,
As I at seeing them?

_Barton._ I know not that:
I am no whisper-monger;--and if, once,
A secret be entrusted to my charge,
I keep it, as an honest agent should,
Lock'd in my heart's old strong box; and I'll answer
No draught from any but my principal.

_La Var._ If now thou hast a charge, old trusty, I,
(Believe me), am next heir to't.

_Barton._ Very like.
Yet, sir, if heirs had liberty to draw
For what is not their own, till time shall give it them,
I fear the stock would soon be dry;--and, then,
The principals might have some cause to grumble.

_La Var._ Thou art the strangest fellow! What's thy name?

_Barton._ Barton;--that I may trust you with.

_La Var._ No more?

_Barton._ No, not a pin's point more. Pshaw! here comes one,
To let all out. Children, and fools, and women,
Will still be babbling.

_Enter PRINCE EDWARD._

_Prince._ Oh! my lord, is't you!

_La Var._ Oh, my young sir! how my heart springs to meet you!
Where is your royal mother? is she safe?

_Prince._ She's in this house, my lord.--Last night,
This honest man received us:--and another,--
His friend--not quite so honest as he might be--
Did bring us hither;--'twas a rogue, my lord;--
Yet no rogue neither;--and, to say the sooth,
The rogue, my lord, 's a very honest man.
Lord, how this meeting will rejoice my mother!
And she was wishing, now, within this minute,
To see the Seneschal of Normandy.

_Barton._ So!
This is the Seneschal of Normandy!
Here is another secret.--Plague take secrets!
This is in token of their liking me;--
Just as an over hospitable host,
Out of pure kindness to his visitor,
Crams the poor bursting soul with meat he loaths.

_La Var._ I cannot blame thee, friend;--thou knew'st me not:
And, thou hast, now, a jewel in thy care,
Well worth thy utmost caution in preserving.

_Barton._ I need not to be told the value on't.
I have been sworn his mother's subject, sir; and since
My poor house has been honour'd with her presence,
The tender scenes, I've been a witness to,
'Twixt her, and this young bud of royalty,
Would make me traitor to humanity,
Could I betray her. There is a rapturous something,
That plays about an English subject's heart,
When female majesty is seen employ'd
In these sweet duties of domestic love,
Which all can feel,--but very few describe!

_La Var._ Oh! how thou warm'st me, fellow, with thy zeal!
Come, my young lord!--now lead us to her majesty. [_To BARTON._

_Barton._ Why, as things are, I'll lead you where she is:--
But were they otherwise, and you had not
Discover'd where she is--you'll pardon me--
But I had led you, sir, a pretty dance
Ere I had led you to her. Come, I'll conduct you. [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_Another Apartment, in BARTON's House._

_Enter GONDIBERT and 1st ROBBER._

_Gondi._ Away all night! What then? Am not I their leader? Do they begin to doubt me? Am not I, as it were, wedded to the party?

_Rob._ Very true, noble captain: and we have treated you as a wife would a kind husband:--but when a husband is out all night--why--

_Gondi._ Well, sir;--what then?

_Rob._ Marry, then, the wife is apt to grumble a little; that's all.

_Gondi._ Go to;--I had reason. What's the news?

_Rob._ The news is, we have taken some stragglers, in the forest.

_Gondi._ Are they of note?

_Rob._ 'Faith, we have some of all qualities;--gentle and simple mixed:--we had no time to stand upon the picking:--they're all penn'd up in the back cavern;--and you must e'en take 'em like a score of sheep--fat and lean together. But, there is a beardless youth, follow'd by a cowardly serving man, who presses hard to see you.

_Gondi._ What would he?

_Rob._ 'Faith, sir, he would be a noble fellow. I take it he has a great soul, too large for the laws;--he has questioned me plentifully concerning you.

_Gondi._ Concerning me?

_Rob._ Yes; he inquired if you were married; how long you had been with us; your age; your stature; nay, he was particular enough to ask what sort of a nose stood on your face.

_Gondi._ Wherefore these questions?

_Rob._ Troth, I think he would like well to serve in our band; for he seems to have a marvellous nice notion of honour. He took up your dagger, of curious workmanship, that lies on your table, in the cave, and did so study the dudgeon on't!--Marry, the boy knows how to handle a weapon, I'll warrant him.

_Gondi._ Where have you bestowed him?

_Rob._ Why, he was so importunate, that I have brought him, and his man, hither along.--The man, I feared, might babble: so, I've entrusted him to your friend Barton, here; and he, finding he has been a butler, has locked him in the cellarage.

_Gondi._ Conduct the youth hither.

[_Exit ROBBER._

Then why should I repine? since there are others,
Who, in the early spring, and May of life,
Behold the promised blossoms of their hope
Nipt in the very bud. Here comes the youth;--
And bears a goodly outside;--yet 'tis a slender bark,
That Providence ne'er framed for tossing much
In a rough sea of troubles.

_Enter ROBBER with ADELINE._

_Rob._ Here, youth; this is our captain. Cheer up now, and speak boldly. You need not fear.--A raw youth, captain, but a mettled one, I'll warrant him.--A word with you. [_Takes GONDIBERT apart._

_Adeline._ It is, it is my lord!--Oh Heaven! my heart!--to find him thus, too!--Yet, to find him any how is transport.

_Rob._ I shall look to it.--You would be private now, I take it.--Now, youth, plead, cleverly, to get admitted among us, and your fortune's made. Be but a short time with us, and it will go hard, indeed, if all your cares, in this world, are not shortly at an end. [_Exit._

_Gondi._ Now to your business, youth.

_Adeline._ 'Tis brief.--I have been sorely wrung, sir, by the keen pressure of mishap.--I once had friends: they have left me. One whom I thought a special one--a noble gentleman--who pledged himself, by all the ties that are most binding to a man, to guard my uninstructed youth--even he, to whom my soul looked up; whom, I might say, I loved as with a woman's tenderness,--even he has, now, deserted me.

_Gondi._ Then he acted basely.

_Adeline._ I hope not so, sir.

_Gondi._ Trust me, I think he did, youth; for there is an open native sincerity that marks thy countenance, which I scarce believe could give just cause to a steady friend to leave thee.

_Adeline._ Now, by my holy dame, he had none to suspect me. Yet, from the pressure of the time,--some trying chance--but, I am wandering. This is my suit to you.--If you should find me fit to be entrusted with the secrets of your party, I could wish to be enrolled among you.

_Gondi._ Hast thou well weigh'd the hardships which our life
Constrains us to? Our perils; nightly watchings
Our fears, disquietudes; our jealousies,
Even of ourselves?--which keep the lawless mind
For ever on the stretch, and turn our sleep,
To frightful slumbers;--where imagination
Discovers, to the dull and feverous sense,
Mis-shapen forms, ghastly and horrible;--
And mixes, in the chaos of the brain,
Terrors, half real, half unnatural;--
Till nature, struggling under the oppression,
Rouses the sleeping wretch,--who starts, and wipes
The chilly drop from off his clay-cold temples;
And fain would call for help, yet dares not utter,
But trembles on his couch, silent and horror struck!

_Adeline._ Attempt not to dissuade me; I am fix'd.
Yet there is one soft tie, which, when I think
The cruel edge of keen necessity
Has cut asunder, almost bursts my heart.

_Gondi._ What is it, youth?

_Adeline._ That, which from my youth,--
For I have scarcely yet told one and twenty,--
Might, haply, not be thought;--yet so it is;--
Know, then, that I am married.

_Gondi._ Married, didst say?
And dost thou love----

_Adeline._ Oh! witness for me, Heaven!
The pure and holy warmth that fills my bosom.

_Gondi._ Nay then, my heart bleeds for thee! for thou mightst
As easily attempt to walk unmov'd,
With all the liquid fires which AEtna vomits
Pour'd in thy breast, as here to hope for happiness.
Oh! what does the heart feel, that's rudely torn
From the dear object of its wedded love!
And, still, to add a spur to gall'd reflection,
That very object, whom the time's necessity
Mads you to part with, witless of the cause,
Arraigns your conduct.

_Adeline._ And have you felt this! [_With emotion._

_Gondi._ I tell thee wretched youth--fie! thou unman'st me.--
Pr'ythee, return, young man!--I have a feeling,--
A fellow feeling for thee;--if thou hop'st
For gentle peace to be an inmate with thee,
Turn thy steps homeward;--link not with our band.

_Adeline._ Wherefore should I return? return to witness
The bitter load of misery, which circumstance
Has brought upon my house? My infant children--

_Gondi._ And hast thou children then?
Whose innocence has oft beguil'd thy hours;
Who have look'd smiling up into thy face,
Till the sweet tear of rapturous content
Has trickled down thy cheek?--Thou trying for tune!
Mark out the frozen breast of apathy,
And tho' 'twere triple cased in adamant,
Throw but this poisonous shaft of malice at it,
'Twill pierce it thro'and thro'.

_Adeline._ An if I thought 'twere so?--

_Gondi._ Hear me, young man:--
Thou wring'st a secret from me, which, till now,
Was borne in silence here; while, vulture-like,
It preys upon my vitals.--I am married:--
I have a wife--and one whom kindly nature
Form'd in her lavish mood:--Oh! her gentle love
Beam'd through her eyes, whene'er she turn'd them on me,
With such a mild and virtuous innocence,
That it might charm stern murder!--and yet I
Have wounded, villain like, her peace. Even I,--
In whom her very soul was wrapt--
Turn'd coward with the time, have basely left her.
But I am punish'd for't:--day, night,--asleep,
Awake,--still, or in action,--bleeding fancy
Pictures my wife, sitting in patient anguish;
Pale; mild in sufferance; mingling meek forgiveness
With bitter agony;--blessing him who wrongs her;--
While my poor children, my deserted little ones,
Hang on her knees, and watch the silent drops
Steal down her grief-worn face!--Yea, dost thou weep?
Shape thy course homeward then; for pangs like mine,
Would so convulse thee, youth, that, like an engine,
'Twould wrench thy tender nature from its frame,
And pluck life with it.

_Adeline._ Oh! my dear, loved lord!
Here cease those pangs;--here, in the ecstacy of joy,
Behold your Adeline, now rushing to the arms
Of a beloved husband. [_Running into his Arms._

_Gondi._ Merciful Heaven!
My Adeline! And hast thou!--Oh, my heart!
This sudden conflict!--thus let me clasp thee to it;
Ne'er to part more, till pangs of death shall shake us.
What hast thou suffer'd, sweet!--for me to cause--
And are our children----?

_Adeline._ Well, and in safety.

_Gondi._ And, to leave them too!

_Adeline._ Nay, pr'ythee, now, no more of this:--
Blot from thy memory all former sorrow:--
Or, if we think on't, be it at some moment,
When calm content smiles round our happy board.
And, trust me, now, I think our storms are over:--
For, on my way, I learn, the House of York
Has now sent forth free pardon to all those,
Who, long attach'd to the Lancastrian party,
Have not engaged in their late enterprise.

_Gondi._ Blessed chance,
That now constrain'd me to inaction! Adeline!
Once more to hold thee! to return to happiness--
To see our children!--

_Enter FIRST ROBBER._

How now! What's the matter?

_1 Rob._ Marry, the matter is, with the oaf in the cellar; the fool shakes as though he were in an ague; we may e'en turn him adrift any how, for he will no how turn to our profit. He's cowardly and poor; he can neither rob, nor be robbed.

_Adeline._ Oh! 'tis my man: I pray you conduct him hither.

_1 Rob._ I'll trundle him in; but you will make nothing of him. I have been trying to talk him into service, and make him fit for our party; but there are some manner of men 'tis impossible to work any good upon. [_Exit._

_Adeline._ Poor simpleton! 'tis Gregory, who, in pure zeal, and honest attachment, has followed me.

_Enter GREGORY._

_Gregory._ Mercy on us! this is the great cock captain of the whole brood of banditti! 'Tis all over! and I have been shut up, these two hours, like a calf for killing. Lord! lord! if calves did but know the reason for their being stalled, as I have been, they'd so fall away with fear, that veal would not be worth the taking to market.

_Gondi._ Why, how now, man?

_Gregory._ Oh lud! I am a poor fellow, sir; that shall be a longtime getting rich, and would fain not die till I am so. Take my life, sir, and you take all;--I carry it about me, as a snail does his house:--and, truly, sir, you'll find that time has a mortgage upon it of forty-two years, and the furniture, of late, is so worn with ill usage, that the remainder of the lease is not worth your acceptance:--if, sweet, noble, sir, you would but----

[_During this Speech, GREGORY has been gradually raising his Eyes
from the Ground, till he fixes them on GONDIBERT'S Face._

Eh!--Oh!--O, the father!--No!--Yes--Oh lud--Oh lord!

_Gondi._ Why, dost not know me, Gregory?

_Gregory._ Huzza!--He's found! [_Capering._] Dear my lord, I never was happier since I was born, at the sight of you.

_Gondi._ Trust me, I think so, Gregory. Come, love;
Let's in for calmer conference. Follow, good Gregory.

[_Exeunt ADELINE and GONDIBERT._

_Gregory._ Here's a simple change in a man's fortune! Now might I, when I say 'tis he--were it not as plain 'tis he as a nose is a nose--swear that my eyes were putting a lie in my mouth, in very spite of my teeth.--Oh, the quiet, comfortable days that I shall see again! Mercy on me! 'Tis enough to make a coward tremble, to think on the battles my valour has been put to. Nothing, now again, but old fare, old rubbing of spoons, and a cup of old sherry, behind the old pantry door, to comfort my nose, in a cold frosty morning.

SONG.

"Moderation and Alteration."

_In an old quiet parish, on a brown healthy old moor,_
_Stands my master's old gate, whose old threshold is wore_
_With many an old friend, who for liquor would roar,_
_And I uncork'd the old sherry--that I had tasted before._
_But it was in Moderation, &c._

_There I had an old quiet pantry, of the servants was the head;_
_And kept the key of the old cellar, and old plate, and chipp'd
the brown bread._
_If an old barrel was missing, it was easily said,_
_That the very old beer was one morning found dead:--_
_But it was in Moderation, &c._

_But, we had a good old custom, when the week did begin,_
_To show, by my accounts, I had not wasted a pin;--_
_For my lord, tho' he was bountiful, thought waste was a sin;_
_And never would lay out much, but when my lady lay-in._
_But still it was Moderation._

_Good lack! good lack! how once Dame Fortune did frown!_
_I left my old quiet pantry, to trudge from town to town;_
_Worn quite off my legs, in search of thumps, bobs, and cracks
on the crown,_
_I was fairly knock'd up, and very near foully knock'd down._
_But now there's an Alteration,_
_Oh! it's a wonderful Alteration!_

[_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_The Village._

_Enter MARGARET, LA VARENNE, and PRINCE._

_Marg._ The northern coast beset!

_La Var._ Close watch'd with enemies:--'twere too bold a risk,
That way to seek the sea: then bend your course
Thro' Cumberland, so please you.----
At Solway Frith, we have warm friends, to favour
Your embarkation--Sailing, thence to Galloway,
With all convenient speed, we march towards Edinburgh;
And thitherward, I learn, the king has fled:
Where, in the bosom of the Scottish court,
You may in safety sojourn, till the succour
Which noble Burgundy, warm in beauty's cause,
Once more, no doubt, will lend, again shall plume
The wing of majesty.

_Marg._ Then, let sharp injury
Subdue base minds alone; its scalding spirit,
Pour'd in a royal breast, will quicken vengeance.
Why, worthy Seneschal, there's hope in't still!
Holds it not likely,
When our dispersed nobility shall hear,
We are again on foot, our royal standard
Will be so flock'd with friends!----
Here comes the fellow, whom I told you of.

_Enter GONDIBERT, ADELINE, and GREGORY, behind._

Now, good friend, the news?

_Gondi._ Thus, as my spies inform me, madam:--Montague
Has march'd right north; towards Dunstaburgh; hoping
There to surprise your Majesty--

_Marg._ Let the fool on.--
This favours our intended march, through Cumberland.
What else?

_Gondi._ No more; but that some twenty,
Or thereabout, of your dispersed soldiers
Are fall'n into my power. I have ventured,
Finding, that, here, the village is attach'd,
In honest bonds of loyalty, to direct
My men to march them hither: if your course
Should need a secret guard, these few will serve,
When more were dangerous.

_Marg._ Oh, true, true fellow!
Believe me, honest friend, of all the bolts,
Which spiteful fortune hurls against my crown,
None strike so deeply, as my poor ability
Now to requite thy faith.

_Gondi._ The subject, madam,
Who, in his poor endeavour, can relieve
A sovereign from distress, they, who are loyal,
Will pour down blessings on him; that requital
Threefold o'erpays his services. But here,
Heaven has, in pity of me, now pour'd balm
Upon my bleeding sufferings.

_Marg._ What, my young warrior!

_Adeline._ A weak one, madam;--and a woman too.
Your pardon, madam, if, to seek a husband,--
Happy has been my search--more than the cause,
Altho' my heart is warm in't--brought me hither.

_Gondi._ Your guard approaches, madam, and the villagers,

_Enter KNIGHTS and SOLDIERS._

Anxious, in zeal, to see their royal mistress,
In throngs have follow'd.

_Enter VILLAGERS, MALE and FEMALE, on each Side._

_Marg._ This is a cheering sight!
Soon may this warmth be general; and may Henry
Bask in its genial sunshine.--England, awhile, farewell!
And if in future times--no doubt 'twill be so--
Thy King unite his people to his confidence,
And his commanding virtues, mild, yet kingly,
Shall draw the breath of rapturous loyalty
From the gilt palace to the clay-built cottage,
Then will thy realm, indeed, be enviable.
Strike!----Then on.

_Procession of SOLDIERS, and Grand Chorus of VILLAGERS._

_Sea-girt England, fertile land!_
_Plenty, from her richest stores,_
_Ever, with benignant hand,_
_Her treasure on thy bosom pours._
_England! to thyself be true;_
_When thy realm is truly blest,_
_'Tis when a monarch's love for you_
_Is by your loyalty confest._

THE END.

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