its;
(At least his enemies would have it so.)
But malice, madam, seldom judges right.

_Qu. Eliz._ Oh, Nottingham! his pride is past enduring;
This insolent, audacious man, forgets
His honour and allegiance;--and refused
To render up his staff of office, here,
Beneath my very eye.

_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 gratefu