ty;
Who, but the false, perfidious Essex, could
Prefer to Nottingham a Rutland's charms?
Start not!--By Heaven, I tell you naught but truth,
What I can prove, past doubt; that he received
The lady Rutland's hand, in sacred wedlock,
The very night before his setting out
For Ireland.

_Not._ Oh! may quick destruction seize them!
May furies blast, and hell destroy their peace!
May all their nights----

_Bur._ I pray, have patience, madam!
Restrain a while your rage; curses are vain.
But there's a surer method to destroy him;
And, if you'll join with me, 'tis done--he falls.

_Not._ Ha! say'st thou, Burleigh! Speak, my genius, speak!
Be quick as vengeance' self to tell me how!

_Bur._ You must have heard, the commons have impeached him,
And we have proofs sufficient for his ruin.
But then the queen--you know how fair he stands
In her esteem; and Rutland, too, his wife,
Hath full possession of the royal ear.
Here then, my Nottingham, begins thy task:
Try every art t' incense the queen against him,
Then step between her and the Lady Rutland:
Observe Southampton, too, with jealous eye;
Prevent, as much as possible, his suit:
For, well I know, he will not fail to try
His eloquence on the behalf of Essex.

_Not._ It shall be done; his doom is fix'd: he dies.
Oh 'twas a precious thought! I never knew
Such heartfelt satisfaction.--Essex dies!
And Rutland, in her turn, shall learn to weep.
The time is precious; I'll about it straight.
Come, vengeance, come! assist me now to breathe
Thy venom'd spirit in the royal ear! [_Exit._

_Bur._ There spoke the very genius of the sex!
A disappointed woman sets no bounds
To her revenge.--Her temper's form'd to serve me.

_Enter RALEIGH._

_Ral._ The Lord Southampton, with ungovern'd rage,
Resents aloud his disappointed measures.
I met him in the outward court; he seeks,
In haste, your lordship; and, forgetting forms,
Pursues me hither, and demands to see you.

_Bur._ Raleigh, 'tis well! Withdraw--attend the queen--
Leave me to deal with this o'erbearing man. [_Exit RALEIGH._

_Enter SOUTHAMPTON._

_South._ Where is the man, whom virtue calls her friend?--
I give you joy, my lord!--Your quenchless fury
At length prevails,--and now your malice triumphs.
You've hunted honour to the toil of faction,
And view his struggles with malicious joy.

_Bur._ What means my lord?

_South._ O fraud! shall valiant Essex
Be made a sac