' 



THE TKIAL SCENE FROM QUEEN ANNE BOLEYN. 529 



Men of all estimation reckless 



That my kind uncle, his good Grace of Norfolk, 



(Whose love for me and mine was never questioned), 



Condemns us, yet unpleaded and unheard, 



Crimping the noble span of British justice 



To a pent form, whereon to daub a warrant ? 



Audely. Madam, your pardon ; by the King's commission, 

 To which no choice of ours, but featly binds, 

 You are here summoned to my Lords, your Peers, 

 To answer, as best may be, certain charges ; 

 Which, not directly met, and clear rebutted, 

 Demon strably entail severest penalties. 

 May I invite your patience to the cause? 



Anne. Sir Chancellor, I thank ye. [Sits. 



Norf. Read o'er the depositions. [ Clerk of the council reads. 



Clerk. Anne Boleyn, Marchioness of Pembroke, Queen, 

 And you, George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, 

 Stand charged, that you, Anne, by base allurements, 

 Have oft affected the King's daily servants, 

 And their familiar intercourse incited ; 

 Whereof are evidence Sir Henry Norris 



Anne. (Starting forward.} Norris against me! then 'tis concluded. 

 Clerk. Sir William Brereton and Sir Thomas Weston, 

 Knights, of high treason severally convict ; 

 Together with Mark Smeaton, groom of chamber 



Anne. What ! that mean boy, scarce known or spoken with, 

 Endured for some light skill upon the virginals, 

 That tuned an hour or so of stately solitude ! 

 The' indecent gossip overcomes my patience ! 



Clerk. With whom, on certain days hereafter named, 

 You did commit your person unreserved ; 

 And by the' advice of Lady Rochford, sworn to 

 That with her husband, your said Brother George, 

 Incontinent 



Anne. Ha! Thou devil of corruption infinite ! 

 Arch minister of hell down, down, I bid thee, down ! 

 Or, lo ! my desperate and unyoked phrenzy 

 Wrests from the' accursed some never-taxed revenge, 

 To sear thy rebel tongue to ashes, 

 Choak up thy' insatiate throat with its own filth, 

 Search thy dark soul, seal up the fount of thought, 

 And spurn thee, drivelling, felon, deep in hell, 

 A wretch abhorrent to the blackest damned ! 

 My very soul is shuddering within me ! 

 My Lords, my Lords, command his instant silence ; 

 And would ye save this o'erwrought brain from madness, 

 Oh, read no more, those horrid fabrications, 

 That shock my sex, and outrage modest nature. 

 You cannot prove, you will not dare attach 

 Enormities so monstrous 'gainst my virtue, 

 Which, though it haply lack the high repute 

 M.M. No. 95. 3 Y 



