_Not._ Presumptuous man! Your faithful subjects will resent this pride, This insolence, this treason to their queen; They must, my gracious sovereign. 'Tis not safe To shield him longer from their just resentment. Then give him up to justice and the laws. _Qu. Eliz._ You seem well pleased to urge severity. Offended majesty but seldom wants Such sharp advisers--Yet no attribute So well befits the exalted seat supreme, And power's disposing hand, as clemency. Each crime must from its quality be judged; And pity there should interpose, where malice Is not the aggressor. _Not._ Madam, my sentiments were well intended; Justice, not malice, moved my honest zeal. My words were echoes of the public voice, Which daily rises, with repeated cries Of high complaint against this haughty lord. I pity, from my heart, his rash attempts, And much esteem the man. _Qu. Eliz._ Go, Nottingham, My mind's disturbed, and send me Rutland hither. [_Exit LADY NOTTINGHAM._ O vain distinction of exalted state! No rank ascends above the reach of care, Nor dignity can shield a queen from woe. Despotic nature's stronger sceptre rules, And pain and passion in her right prevails. Oh, the unpity'd lot, severe condition, Of solitary, sad, dejected grandeur! Alone condemn'd to bear th' unsocial throb Of heartfelt anguish, and corroding grief; Deprived of what, within his homely shed, The poorest peasant in affliction finds, The kind, condoling, comfort of a dear Partaking friend. _Enter LADY RUTLAND._ Rutland, I want thy timely Counsel. I'm importuned, and urged to punish-- But justice, sometimes, has a cruel sound. Essex has, No doubt, provoked my anger, and the laws; His haughty conduct calls for sharp reproof, And just correction. Yet I think him guiltless Of studied treasons, or design'd rebellion. Then, tell me, Rutland, what the world reports, What censure says of his unruly deeds. _Rut._ The world, with envy's eye, beholds his merit; Madam, 'tis malice all, and false report. I know his noble heart, 'tis fill'd with honour; No trait'rous taint has touch'd his generous soul; His grateful mind still glows with pure affection; And all his thoughts are loyalty and you. _Qu. Eliz._ I grant you, Rutland, all you say; and think The earl possess'd of many splendid virtues. What pity 'tis, he should afford his foes Such frequent, sad occasions to undo him! _Rut._ What human heart can, unafflicted, bear Such manly merit in distress, beset By cruel foes, and faction's savage cry? My good, my gracious mistress, stretch, betimes, Your saving arm, and snatch him from destruction, From deadly malice, treachery, and Cecil. Oh, let him live, to clear his conduct up! My gracious queen, he'll nobly earn your bounty, And with his dearest blood deserve your mercy.