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The Royal Martyr, K. Charles I. An Opera.

By Alexander Fyfe

[No place:] Printed in the year, 1705.




Crom.] Some Cowards, a Treach'rous Heart did near deceive,
They seem'd to bogle, at th'Assent they gave,
Would needs the sacred Oracle invoke,
E're they'd determin to inflict the Stroke.
Prostrat before the Altars, we did mourn.

Har.] Heaven to your Pray'rs gave suitable return
He's damn'd, who durst the Voice resist! For lo
I uncontrol'd have giv'n the Fatal Blow,
See here, can ye the lifeless Statue know.

Enter Prince of Wales in Mourning at the other end of the Stage with his Sword drawn.

Prince.] If injur'd Monarchs their known Rights may sue,
What's Nature's Law? What's an Usurper's Due?
For Crimes of such a dye, what can attone?
A murther'd Father, and a banish'd Son!

Crom.] I took but up that Sword he could not wear,
And since I'm Conqueror, I'll be his Heir.
Titles to Crowns from Civil Contracts Spring;
It's Law that makes, and takes away a King.
It's but in vain a Birth-right to pretend;
For Publick Safety knows no private End.

Prince] You talk of Law, who Law have overthrown;
My Subjects gave you what was not their own.
Conquest! so murdering Robbers give't a Name;
Where prosp'rous Villainy admits no Shame.

Crom.] Though Gaudy Ensigns, stupid Fools did awe;
Impos'd a Divine Right, for human Law.
Yet free born Man, as such must needs be us'd;
It's Pow'r that makes the Right, when Right's abus'd:
'Gainst mine do ye a forfeit Title bring
Of Pow'r? the Peoples Voice, is th' only Spring.

Prince] Be bold in Mischief still, be not asham'd;
Though you're the Traitor, I'm the King proclaim'd.
O how th'Imposture Liberty deceives;
When you're the Tyrant, sure they're doubly Slaves.

[Exit Oliver whispering to Harrison to guard against the King's escape.

Har.] By's Sword, mind buy your wrestling Father's Case,
It's fatal to his Fortune's and his Race,
Bears out th'Advantage of its Conquest still.
Yield your pretences, e're He'll surely kill.

[Enter Marquess of Montrose in Mourning, with his Sword drawn, forcing Passage through the Guards.

Prince] Welcome you matchless Hero, Cromwel's here.

Mont] Sure there's an Ambush laid, do not appear.

Prince] O had he been a King I'd stab'd him dead.

Mont.] A Halter, not a Sword should cut the Threed.

Prince] Others, Conditions to be loyal made,
As Covenant, that ignis fatuus led.
But you, without Reserve, prov'd foreward stil,
And knew no Measure, but my Father's Will,
Born for the Support of a Suff'ring Cause.

Mont.] Sir, doing Duty, merits not applause.

Prince] Your Arm victorious still, resisted most:
No more, a Conquest, dare th'Usurper boast.
Trophies by wonders gain'd, I need not name.

Mont.] Capricious Fortune, play'd the scornful Game.
'Gainst Rebels, Fleets, and Armies yet appear,
Your murther'd Father, on their Ensigns bear.
O! for the Pious King's eclipsed Race,
I'd Hercules in all his Labours Trace.

Prince] 'Twixt ebbing Power, and success streaming Tide,
Each hurri'd Hour of Life away does glide.
I'm grasping still, when flatter'd with a smile:
Some general Rout doth all my Hopes beguile.

Mont.] Fortune her self's unstable as the Wind;
To you and me severe, and sometimes kind:
We'll bear her Turnings with an equal Mind.
Star forc'd to wander from thy Sphere, arise!
Assume thy proper Station in the Skies;
Outshine the Met'ors, which abuse our sight,
With more refulgent Rayes, now dart thy Light
Thy Native Light! and Magnitude display;
Mountains congeal'd in Factions melt away.
Your rallying Squadrons fearless I will head.

Prince] So may the Loyal Wish at last succeed.
What Titles to your Merit can be due;
My Right to these three Kingdoms then pursue.
It's you, and only you, a Trust shou'd claim,
Worthy of your untainted Blood, and Gallant NAME.

Mont.] I'm born to shine with my own Fire and Light,
No need your Royal Hands mould me more bright.
When me this Fev'rish Blood to arms shall boil;
I glory in the Honourable Toil,
And till ye mount your Throne, shall not recoil.
I by th'Immortal Gods have deeply swore,
This Hand your Crown's withheld, must needs restore;
I and Ten Thousand more shall walter in our Gore.

[Re-enter Oliver Cromwel with his Sword drawn.

Crom.] Are you Montrose, that Man of vast applause,
The Scottish Champion of the Royal Cause?

Mont.] Are you that much more famous Oliver,
Whose Name's a complicated Crime? -----

Crom.] ---- Beware.
Gaudy, with Scottish Triumphs ye appear;
You'll find the Steel a little harder here.


Mont.] This Knave had Skill to sin; whose hand did know
How to behead three Kingdoms at a Blow;
What! Have I not defeat a braver Foe.

Crom.] Upbraid me not with Glories I have won,
Since I that Noble Brutus have outdone.

Mont.] Because ye did succeed, be Villain more.


O were my Sword dy'd with the Purple Gore.

Har.] see how the furious Scot on's Valour Tow'rs:

[Throwing up their Swords.

Let's seise the Heir, the Inheritance is ours.

[Exeunt omnes.


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