Illustrious sovereign, thou crown'st to-day The fervent wishes of thy people; now We can rejoice in the propitious days Which thou bestowest upon us; and we look No more with fear and trembling towards the time Which, charged with storms, futurity presented. Now, but one only care disturbs this land; It is a sacrifice which every voice Demands; Oh! grant but this and England's peace Will be established now and evermore. (ELIZABETH: What wish they still, my lord? Speak.) They demand The Stuart's head. If to thy people thou Wouldst now secure the precious boon of freedom, And the fair light of truth so dearly won, Then she must die; if we are not to live In endless terror for thy precious life The enemy must fall; for well thou know'st That all thy Britons are not true alike; Romish idolatry has still its friends In secret, in this island, who foment The hatred of our enemies. Their hearts All turn toward this Stuart; they are leagued With the two plotting brothers of Lorrain, The foes inveterate of thy house and name. 'Gainst thee this raging faction hath declared A war of desolation, which they wage With the deceitful instruments of hell. At Rheims, the cardinal archbishop's see, There is the arsenal from which they dart These lightnings; there the school of regicide; Thence, in a thousand shapes disguised, are sent Their secret missionaries to this isle; Their bold and daring zealots; for from thence Have we not seen the third assassin come? And inexhausted is the direful breed Of secret enemies in this abyss. While in her castle sits at Fotheringay, The Ate (1) of this everlasting war, Who, with the torch of love, spreads flames around; For her who sheds delusive hopes on all, Youth dedicates itself to certain death; To set her free is the pretence--the aim Is to establish her upon the throne. For this accursed House of Guise denies Thy sacred right; and in their mouths thou art A robber of the throne, whom chance has crowned. By them this thoughtless woman was deluded, Proudly to style herself the Queen of England; No peace can be with her, and with her house; (Their hatred is too bloody, and their crimes Too great;) thou must resolve to strike, or suffer-- Her life is death to thee, her death thy life.

Burleigh Monologue from Mary Stuart: A Tragedy

Rehearse Burleigh's monologue