wished by my means to soften his prince's heart—may God pardon him! Although he would now tear me from him… But, thou, my mother … my mother! …
Monk. Walkendorff does not tear you from him; he only wishes you to leave the king.
Dyveke. I cannot.
Monk. I had hoped that religion would have taught you the respect due to your queen, and fit consideration for the king’s honour and peace. It would have been better to have sought the path of virtue willingly … it is not yet too late. Trust not to the king's affection for you. Remember who you are, and yield to her who has holier claims. For the last time I ask you. … 'Will you renounce the king?
Dyveke. Never. The king must forsake me first.
Monk. Reflect once more. Walkendorff promises you his protection.
Dyveke. I need not the archbishop’s protection; I have the king’s.
Monk. Since the claims of religion are disregarded, I must employ other means. Dyveke, if your mother’s safety be dear to you, leave the king.
Dyveke. My mother's safety! What mean you? Speak.
Monk. You know full well, that, trusting to the king’s favour, she bids defiance to the nobles and the clergy ; that she withdraws the king’s confidence from them, and stirs up the lower classes, the burghers—even the peasantry—against their rightful lords. Nay, more, our holy religion is not in safety ; the council of state itself is abased before your proud mother and her insolent adherents. It is suspected—and I fear too truly—that your mother favours the heresy of Luther, and intends to introduce it into these realms.
Dyveke. Have I fallen so low. that I must listen to language so insulting to my mother? I am not accustomed to this tone.
Monk. The importance of the subject—your own and your mother's danger—hurry me on. She is hated for her ambitious designs—there is a powerful party formed against her—they will demand her banishment.
Dyveke. Her banishment? My mother!
Monk. And if the king refuse the demand, they will threaten to withhold their assistance in the approaching war with revolted Sweden.
Dyveke. What shall I do? unhappy that I am! I know nothing of my mother's designs. How shall I act?
Monk. I have already told you. While the king loves you, so long will your mother preserve her influence over him. To deprive her of that influence, you must fly—you or she must be the victim.
Dyveke. Oh, let me die for her, and for my Christian’s peace! then all my misery will be ended. Good monk, I am ready; what do you require of me?
Monk. Lady, you misunderstand my words. Why speak of death? You must only go hence, far from the king and his dominions—perhaps to a cloister.
Dyveke. (sighing) And not to die?
Monk. Fly, or dread what may happen! Let not my warning be in vain.
Dyveke. Yes! I will save my mother.
Monk. Heaven has heard my prayer, and moved your heart; you shall soon hear from me again. Peace be with you, Dyveke.
Dyveke. Peace! yes—rest in the grave; there only is rest for me!
There is a very good scene between King Christian and Dyveke; and one still better, in which the fiendish monk poisons the cherries that are to be sent to Sigbrit and her daughter. His cool villany and Satanic laugh are well described; in short, the whole play is interesting and well written. But it is time to take leave for the present of the Danes and their literature. Among the authors of the nineteenth century, some names may occur, better known to the generality of English readers than those which have hitherto been enumerated.
