DONIZETTI

ANNA BOLENA

Anne recalls her one and only love with bitter regrets at having cast it aside for the shallow glory of a royal throne:

Headstrong, I knew no better

Than turn like a windblown feather.

Now weighted down with heavy heart,

I weep, and my days are but pageantry,

A crown of shallow fame,

A hollow surface of polished flattery,

A dull and pointless game

Where I’m compelled to play a part.

Richard Percy, exiled by Henry but now unexpectedly invited back to England and apparently pardoned, has not forgotten:

Ever since the day we parted,

I have wandered, illusion shattered,

Blindly followed a course uncharted,

A living death across a lonesome sea.

Hope and light for me had faded;

Life and love and all that mattered

Lost or vanished, and crumbled to ashes,

All I wanted was to die.

ROCHEFORT:

Coming back, are you not merely

Pouring salt on open gashes?

PERCY:

Absent minded, heavy hearted,

Like a vagrant, I go unguided . . .

Yet . . . Though embattled and bombarded,

When the blows of cruel fortune land severely,

Even then I still see clearly

She has suffered more than I.

Recognizing the danger of his return, Anne pleads with him to flee from England and seek a new life elsewhere:

ANNE:

Ah, say no more! Too much tormented,

Terror-stricken, I kneel before you.

Yield to tears and prayer, I implore you.

Go this minute across land and sea.

Find a life serene, contented;

Love again, think not of me.

PERCY: At your feet, a man demented,

I would die without misgiving,

But I draw the line at leaving;

From my love I cannot flee.

Only here am I contented;

Here alone my life must be.

Now imprisoned, facing a trial with a foregone conclusion, abandoned by former friends, Anne is consoled by a few of her loyal ladies in waiting:

LADIES:

Gone are they all, the friends of yore,

The court that wooed and flattered.

Set is her sun to rise no more;

The faithless flock has scattered.

And Jane Seymour, her dearest friend,

Returns no more to call.

Her truest, closest, dearest friend --

Unkindest cut of all.

Hurling imprecations at the woman who has usurped her place, Anne does not yet realize that she is addressing that very woman, her closest friend, Jane Seymour:

Fire and storm pour down upon her!

To thy work, o God of vengeance!

May her despair equal mine.

May her heart, like mine, be rended.

May her crown, like mine, be thorny.

Like my own, may her days be tormented.

On her bed, with sleep denied her,

Let suspicion and fear infect her

And the monster that lies beside her.

There I’ll rise, a grisly spectre,

Headless, red, my wound still bleeding,

Let her cry and shriek for aid.

Armed for vengeance, deaf to pleading,

From her sight I shall not fade.

Let her cry and shriek for aid;

From her sight I shall not fade.

Shattered in mind and spirit, Anne nonetheless faces the gruesome reality that lies ahead with a measure of serenity:

ANNE:

So near the end of mortal care,

Come, close my eyes, o Almighty,

And turn my fevered earthly fears

To hope of final rest.

CHORUS:

Be merciful, o heaven,

And on her woes take pity.

Above, beyond these fleeting tears,

Enfold her to thy breast.