y treasons;
They press me down beneath the reach of pity.
Despair alone can shield me from myself.

_Qu. Eliz._ My pride forbids me to reproach thee more;
My pity, rather, would relieve thy sorrow.
The people's clamours, and my special safety,
Call loud for justice, and demand your life.
But if forgiveness from an injured queen
Can make the few short hours you live more easy,
I give it freely, from my pitying heart;
And wish my willing power could grant thee more.

_Essex._ Oh, let me prostrate thus before you fall,
My better angel, and my guardian genius!
Permit me, royal mistress, to announce
My faithful sentiments, my soul's true dictates;
Vouchsafe your Essex but this one request,
This only boon--he'll thank you with his last,
His dying breath, and bless you in his passage.

_Qu. Eliz._ Rise, my lord!
If aught you have to offer can allay
Your woes, and reconcile you to your fate,
Proceed;--and I with patient ear will listen.

_Essex._ My real errors, and my seeming crimes,
Would weary mercy, and make goodness poor;
And yet the source of all my greatest faults
Was loyalty misled, and duty in extreme.
So jealous was my sanguine heart, so warm
Affection's zeal, I could not bear the least
Suspicion of my duty to my queen.
This drove me from my high command in Ireland;
This, too, impell'd me to that rude behaviour,
Which justly urged the shameful blow I felt;
And this, O fatal rashness! made me think
My queen had given her Essex up, a victim
To statesmen's schemes, and wicked policy.
Stung by that piercing thought, my madness flew
Beyond all bounds, and now, alas! has brought me
To this most shameful fall; and, what's still worse,
My own reproaches, and my queen's displeasure.

_Qu. Eliz._ Unhappy man! My yielding soul is touch'd,
And pity pleads thy cause within my breast.

_Essex._ Say, but, my gracious sovereign, ere I go
For ever from your presence, that you think me
Guiltless of all attempts against your throne,
And sacred life. Your faithful Essex ne'er
Could harbour in his breast so foul a thought.
Believe it not, my queen. By heaven, I swear,
When in my highest pitch of glory raised,--
The splendid noon of Fortune's brightest sunshine,--
Not ages of renown,--could yield me half
The joy, nor make my life so greatly blest,
As saving yours, though for a single hour.

_Qu. Eliz._ My lord, I would convince you, that I still
Regard your life, and labour to preserve it;
But cannot screen you from