Y NOTTINGHAM._

_Not._ Thrice hail to rescued England's guiding genius!
His country's guardian, and his queen's defence!
Great Burleigh, thou whose patriot bosom beats
With Albion's glory, and Eliza's fame;
Who shield'st her person, and support'st her throne;
For thee, what fervent thanks, what offer'd vows,
Do prostrate millions pay!

_Bur._ Bright excellence,
This fair applause too highly over-rates,
Too much extols, the low deserts of Cecil.

_Not._ What praises are too high for patriot worth;
Or what applause exceeds the price of virtue?
My lord, conviction has at last subdued me,
And I am honour's proselyte:--Too long
My erring heart pursued the ways of faction;
I own myself t' have been your bitt'rest foe,
And join'd with Essex in each foul attempt
To blast your honour and traduce your fame.

_Bur._ Though ne'er my wishing heart could call you friend,
Yet honour and esteem I always bore you;
And never meant, but with respect to serve you.

_Not._ It is enough, my lord, I know it well,
And feel rekindling virtue warm my breast;
Honour and gratitude their force resume
Within my heart, and every wish is yours.
O Cecil, Cecil, what a foe hast thou!
A deadly foe, whilst hated Essex lives!

_Bur._ I know it well--but can assign no cause.

_Not._ Ambition's restless hand has wound his thoughts
Too high for England's welfare; nay, the queen
Scarce sits in safety on her throne, while he,
Th' audacious Essex, freely treads at large,
And breathes the common air. Ambition is
The only god he serves; to whom he'd sacrifice
His honour, country, friends, and every tie
Of truth and bond of nature; nay, his love.

_Bur._ The man, that in his public duty fails,
On private virtue will disdainful tread;
And mighty love, who rules all nature else,
Must follow here in proud ambition's train.

_Not._ Pronounce it not! my soul abhors the sound
Like death----O, Cecil, will you kindly lend
Some pity to a wretch like me?

_Bur._ Command,
Madam; my power and will are yours.

_Not._ Will Cecil's friendly ear vouchsafe to bend
Its great attention to a woman's wrongs;
Whose pride and shame, resentment and despair,
Rise up in raging anarchy at once,
To tear, with ceaseless pangs, my tortured soul?
Words are unequal to the woes I feel;
And language lessens what my heart endures.

_Bur._ Madam, your wrongs, I must confess, are great;
Yet still, I fear, you know not half his falsehood.
Who, that had eyes to look on beau