_Bur._ What may the purport of her business be? Her tender wishes are to Essex tied In love's soft fetters, and endearing bands.-- Conduct her in. [_Exit GENTLEMAN._ And you, my Raleigh, watch Southampton's steps; With care observe each movement of his friends; That no advantage on that side be lost.-- [_Exit RALEIGH._ Southampton's Essex' second self; His daring heart, and bold, ungovern'd tongue, Are both enlisted in the rash designs Of this proud lord, nor knows a will but his: A limb so fix'd, must with the body fall. _Enter LADY 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.