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ACT V.

SCENE I.-Whitehall.

HOLLIS, Lady CARLISLE.

Hollis. Tell the King then! Come in with me!

Lady Carlisle.

He must not hear till it succeeds.

Hollis.

Not so!

Succeed?

No dream was half so vain-you'd rescue Strafford
And outwit Pym! I cannot tell you . . . lady,
The block pursues me, and the hideous show.

To-day. . . is it to-day? And all the while

He's sure of the King's pardon.

To tell this man he is to die.

Think, I have

The King

May rend his hair, for me! I'll not see Strafford ! Lady Carlisle. Only, if I succeed, remember

Charles

Has saved him. He would hardly value life

Unless his gift. My staunch friends wait. Go in-
You must go in to Charles!

Hollis.

Left Strafford long ago.

And all beside

The King has signed

The warrant for his death! the Queen was sick

Of the eternal subject. For the Court,—
The Trial was amusing in its way,

Only too much of it: the Earl withdrew

In time. But you, fragile, alone, so young
Amid rude mercenaries—you devise

A plan to save him! Even though it fails,
What shall reward you?

Lady Carlisle.

I may go, you think,

To France with him? And you reward me, friend,
Who lived with Strafford even from his youth
Before he set his heart on state-affairs

And they bent down that noble brow of his.
I have learned somewhat of his latter life,
And all the future I shall know: but, Hollis,
I ought to make his youth my own as well.
Tell me, when he is saved!

Hollis.

My gentle friend,

He should know all and love you, but 't is vain!

Lady Carlisle. Love? no-too late now! Let him

love the King!

'T is the King's scheme! I have your word, remember! We'll keep the old delusion up. But, quick!

Quick! Each of us has work to do, beside!

Go to the King! I hope-Hollis-I hope!

Say nothing of my scheme! Hush, while we speak Think where he is! Now for my gallant friends! Calling wildly upon Charles,

Hollis. Where he is?

Guessing his fate, pacing the prison-floor.

Let the King tell him! I'll not look on Strafford.

SCENE II.-The Tower.

STRAFFORD sitting with his Children. They sing.

O bell' andare

Per barca in mare,

Verso la sera

Di Primavera!

William. The boat 's in the broad moonlight all this

while

Verso la sera

Di Primavera!

And the boat shoots from underneath the moon

Into the shadowy distance; only still

You hear the dipping oar—

Verso la sera,

And faint, and fainter, and then all's quite gone,

Music and light and all, like a lost star.

Anne. But you should sleep, father: you were to sleep. Strafford. I do sleep, Anne; or if not-you must know

There's such a thing as

William.

You're too tired to sleep?

Strafford. It will come by-and-by and all day long,

In that old quiet house I told you of:

We sleep safe there.

Anne.

Strafford.

Too

Why not in Ireland?

No!

many dreams!—That song 's for Venice, William: You know how Venice looks upon the map

Isles that the mainland hardly can let go?

William. You've been to Venice, father?

Strafford.

I was young, then

William. A city with no King; that's why I like

Even a song that comes from Venice.

Strafford.

William!

William. Oh, I know why! Anne, do you love the

King?

But I'll see Venice for myself one day.

Strafford. See many lands, boy-England last of all,

That way you'll love her best.

William.

You sought to ruin her then?

Strafford.

Why do men say

Ah, they say that.

William. Why?
Strafford.

As you to sing.

Anne.

I suppose they must have words to say,

But they make songs beside:

Last night I heard one, in the street beneath,

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They soon left off when I cried out to them.

Strafford. We shall so soon be out of it, my boy! 'T is not worth while: who heeds a foolish song? William. Why, not the King.

Strafford.

Well it has been the fate

:

Of better; and yet,-wherefore not feel sure
That time, who in the twilight comes to mend
All the fantastic day's caprice, consign

To the low ground once more the ignoble Term,
And raise the Genius on his orb again,-

That time will do me right?

Anne.

(Shall we sing, William ?

For Ireland,

He does not look thus when we sing.)

Strafford.

Something is done: too little, but enough

To show what might have been.

William.

(I have no heart

To sing now! Anne, how very sad he looks!

Oh, I so hate the King for all he says!)

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