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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Queen Mary and Harold + +Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson + +Release Date: October, 2005 [EBook #9176] +First Posted: September 11, 2003 +Last Updated: February 10, 2019 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUEEN MARY AND HAROLD *** + + + + +Etext produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + QUEEN MARY and HAROLD + </h1> + <h2> + By Alfred Lord Tennyson, Poet Laureate + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> HAROLD: A DRAMA. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</i> + + QUEEN MARY. + PHILIP, <i>King of Naples and Sicily, afterwards King of Spain</i>. + THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH. + REGINALD POLE, <i>Cardinal and Papal Legate</i>. + SIMON RENARD, <i>Spanish Ambassador</i>. + LE SIEUR DE NOAILLES, <i>French Ambassador</i>. + THOMAS CRANMER, <i>Archbishop of Canterbury</i>. + SIR NICHOLAS HEATH, <i>Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner</i>. + EDWARD COURTENAY, <i>Earl of Devon</i>. + LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, <i>afterwards Lord Howard, and Lord High Admiral</i>. + LORD WILLIAMS OF THAME. + LORD PAGET. + LORD PETRE. + STEPHEN GARDINER, <i>Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor</i>. + EDMUND BONNER, <i>Bishop of London</i>. + THOMAS THIRLBY, <i>Bishop of Ely</i>. + SIR THOMAS WYATT | + SIR THOMAS STAFFORD | <i>Insurrectionary Leaders</i>. + SIR RALPH BAGENHALL. + SIR ROBERT SOUTHWELL. + SIR HENRY BEDINGFIELD. + SIR WILLIAM CECIL. + SIR THOMAS WHITE, <i>Lord Mayor of London</i>. + THE DUKE OF ALVA | + THE COUNT DE FERIA | <i>attending on Philip</i>. + PETER MARTYR. + FATHER COLE. + FATHER BOURNE. + VILLA GARCIA. + SOTO. + CAPTAIN BRETT | + ANTHONY KNYVETT | <i>Adherents of Wyatt</i>. + PETERS, <i>Gentleman of Lord Howard</i>. + ROGER, <i>Servant to Noailles</i>. + WILLIAM, <i>Servant to Wyatt</i>. + STEWARD OF HOUSEHOLD <i>to the Princess Elizabeth</i>. + OLD NOKES <i>and</i> NOKES. + MARCHIONESS OF EXETER, <i>Mother of Courtenay</i>. + LADY CLARENCE | + LADY MAGDALEN DACRES | <i>Ladies in Waiting to the Queen</i>. + ALICE | <i>to the Princess Elizabeth</i>. + MAID OF HONOUR | + JOAN | + TIB | <i>two Country Wives</i>. + + Lords <i>and other</i> Attendants, Members <i>of the</i> Privy Council, + Members <i>of</i> Parliament, Two Gentlemen, Aldermen, + Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards, Pages, + Gospellers, Marshalmen, <i>etc</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + QUEEN MARY. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT I. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—ALDGATE RICHLY DECORATED. + + CROWD. MARSHALMEN. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARSHALMAN. Stand back, keep a clear lane! When will her Majesty pass, + sayst thou? why now, even now; wherefore draw back your heads and your + horns before I break them, and make what noise you will with your + tongues, so it be not treason. Long live Queen Mary, the lawful and + legitimate daughter of Harry the Eighth! Shout, knaves! + + CITIZENS. Long live Queen Mary! + + FIRST CITIZEN. That's a hard word, legitimate; what does it mean? + + SECOND CITIZEN. It means a bastard. + + THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, it means true-born. + + FIRST CITIZEN. Why, didn't the Parliament make her a bastard? + + SECOND CITIZEN. No; it was the Lady Elizabeth. + + THIRD CITIZEN. That was after, man; that was after. + + FIRST CITIZEN. Then which is the bastard? + + SECOND CITIZEN. Troth, they be both bastards by Act of Parliament and + Council. + + THIRD CITIZEN. Ay, the Parliament can make every true-born man of us a + bastard. Old Nokes, can't it make thee a bastard? thou shouldst know, + for thou art as white as three Christmasses. + + OLD NOKES (<i>dreamily</i>). Who's a-passing? King Edward or King Richard? + + THIRD CITIZEN. No, old Nokes. + + OLD NOKES. It's Harry! + + THIRD CITIZEN. It's Queen Mary. + + OLD NOKES. The blessed Mary's a-passing! + [<i>Falls on his knees</i>. + + NOKES. Let father alone, my masters! he's past your questioning. + + THIRD CITIZEN. Answer thou for him, then thou'rt no such cockerel + thyself, for thou was born i' the tail end of old Harry the Seventh. + + NOKES. Eh! that was afore bastard-making began. I was born true man at + five in the forenoon i' the tail of old Harry, and so they can't make + me a bastard. + + THIRD CITIZEN. But if Parliament can make the Queen a bastard, why, it + follows all the more that they can make thee one, who art fray'd i' + the knees, and out at elbow, and bald o' the back, and bursten at the + toes, and down at heels. + + NOKES. I was born of a true man and a ring'd wife, and I can't argue + upon it; but I and my old woman 'ud burn upon it, that would we. + + MARSHALMAN. What are you cackling of bastardy under the Queen's own + nose? I'll have you flogg'd and burnt too, by the Rood I will. + + FIRST CITIZEN. He swears by the Rood. Whew! + + SECOND CITIZEN. Hark! the trumpets. + + [<i>The Procession passes</i>, MARY <i>and</i> ELIZABETH <i>riding + side by side, and disappears under the gate</i>. + + CITIZENS. Long live Queen Mary! down with all traitors! God save her + Grace; and death to Northumberland! + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + + <i>Manent</i> TWO GENTLEMEN. + + FIRST GENTLEMAN. By God's light a noble creature, right royal! + + SECOND GENTLEMAN. She looks comelier than ordinary to-day; but to my + mind the Lady Elizabeth is the more noble and royal. + + FIRST GENTLEMAN. I mean the Lady Elizabeth. Did you hear (I have a + daughter in her service who reported it) that she met the Queen at + Wanstead with five hundred horse, and the Queen (tho' some say they be + much divided) took her hand, call'd her sweet sister, and kiss'd not + her alone, but all the ladies of her following. + + SECOND GENTLEMAN. Ay, that was in her hour of joy; there will be + plenty to sunder and unsister them again: this Gardiner for one, who + is to be made Lord Chancellor, and will pounce like a wild beast out + of his cage to worry Cranmer. + + FIRST GENTLEMAN. And furthermore, my daughter said that when there + rose a talk of the late rebellion, she spoke even of Northumberland + pitifully, and of the good Lady Jane as a poor innocent child who had + but obeyed her father; and furthermore, she said that no one in her + time should be burnt for heresy. + + SECOND GENTLEMAN. Well, sir, I look for happy times. + + FIRST GENTLEMAN. There is but one thing against them. I know not if + you know. + + SECOND GENTLEMAN. I suppose you touch upon the rumour that Charles, + the master of the world, has offer'd her his son Philip, the Pope and + the Devil. I trust it is but a rumour. + + FIRST GENTLEMAN. She is going now to the Tower to loose the prisoners + there, and among them Courtenay, to be made Earl of Devon, of royal + blood, of splendid feature, whom the council and all her people wish + her to marry. May it be so, for we are many of us Catholics, but few + Papists, and the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon it. + + SECOND GENTLEMAN. Was she not betroth'd in her babyhood to the Great + Emperor himself? + + FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, but he's too old. + + SECOND GENTLEMAN. And again to her cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal; + but I hear that he too is full of aches and broken before his day. + + FIRST GENTLEMAN. O, the Pope could dispense with his Cardinalate, and + his achage, and his breakage, if that were all: will you not follow + the procession? + + SECOND GENTLEMAN. No; I have seen enough for this day. + + FIRST GENTLEMAN. Well, I shall follow; if I can get near enough I + shall judge with my own eyes whether her Grace incline to this + splendid scion of Plantagenet. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—A ROOM IN LAMBETH PALACE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CRANMER. To Strasburg, Antwerp, Frankfort, Zurich, Worms, + Geneva, Basle—our Bishops from their sees + Or fled, they say, or flying—Poinet, Barlow, + Bale, Scory, Coverdale; besides the Deans + Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and Wells— + Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds more; + So they report: I shall be left alone. + No: Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not fly. + + <i>Enter</i> PETER MARTYR. + + PETER MARTYR. Fly, Cranmer! were there nothing else, your name + Stands first of those who sign'd the Letters Patent + That gave her royal crown to Lady Jane. + + CRANMER. + Stand first it may, but it was written last: + Those that are now her Privy Council, sign'd + Before me: nay, the Judges had pronounced + That our young Edward might bequeath the crown + Of England, putting by his father's will. + Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for me. + The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading eyes + Fixt hard on mine, his frail transparent hand, + Damp with the sweat of death, and griping mine, + Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to yield + His Church of England to the Papal wolf + And Mary; then I could no more—I sign'd. + Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency, + She cannot pass her traitor council by, + To make me headless. + + PETER MARTYR. That might be forgiven. + I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not own + The bodily presence in the Eucharist, + Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice: + Your creed will be your death. + + CRANMER. Step after step, + Thro' many voices crying right and left, + Have I climb'd back into the primal church, + And stand within the porch, and Christ with me: + My flight were such a scandal to the faith, + The downfall of so many simple souls, + I dare not leave my post. + + PETER MARTYR. But you divorced + Queen Catharine and her father; hence, her hate + Will burn till you are burn'd. + + CRANMER. I cannot help it. + The Canonists and Schoolmen were with me. + 'Thou shalt not wed thy brother's wife.'—'Tis written, + 'They shall be childless.' True, Mary was born, + But France would not accept her for a bride + As being born from incest; and this wrought + Upon the king; and child by child, you know, + Were momentary sparkles out as quick + Almost as kindled; and he brought his doubts + And fears to me. Peter, I'll swear for him + He <i>did</i> believe the bond incestuous. + But wherefore am I trenching on the time + That should already have seen your steps a mile + From me and Lambeth? God be with you! Go. + + PETER MARTYR. Ah, but how fierce a letter you wrote against + Their superstition when they slander'd you + For setting up a mass at Canterbury + To please the Queen. + + CRANMER. It was a wheedling monk + Set up the mass. + + PETER MARTYR. I know it, my good Lord. + But you so bubbled over with hot terms + Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist, + She never will forgive you. Fly, my Lord, fly! + + CRANMER. I wrote it, and God grant me power to burn! + + PETER MARTYR. They have given me a safe conduct: for all that + I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see you, + Dear friend, for the last time; farewell, and fly. + + CRANMER. Fly and farewell, and let me die the death. + [<i>Exit</i> PETER MARTYR. + + <i>Enter</i> OLD SERVANT. + + O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's Officers + Are here in force to take you to the Tower. + + CRANMER. Ay, gentle friend, admit them. I will go. + I thank my God it is too late to fly. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III.—ST. PAUL'S CROSS. + + FATHER BOURNE <i>in the pulpit</i>. A CROWD. MARCHIONESS OF EXETER, + COURTENAY. <i>The</i> SIEUR DE NOAILLES <i>and his man</i> ROGER <i>in front + of the stage. Hubbub</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + NOAILLES. Hast thou let fall those papers in the palace? + + ROGER. Ay, sir. + + NOAILLES. 'There will be no peace for Mary till + Elizabeth lose her head.' + + ROGER. Ay, sir. + + NOAILLES. And the other, 'Long live Elizabeth the Queen!' + + ROGER. Ay, sir; she needs must tread upon them. + + NOAILLES. Well. + These beastly swine make such a grunting here, + I cannot catch what Father Bourne is saying. + + ROGER. Quiet a moment, my masters; hear what the shaveling has to say + for himself. + + CROWD. Hush—hear! + + BOURNE.—and so this unhappy land, long divided in itself, and + sever'd from the faith, will return into the one true fold, seeing + that our gracious Virgin Queen hath—— + + CROWD. No pope! no pope! + + ROGER (<i>to those about him, mimicking</i> BOURNE).—hath sent for the + holy legate of the holy father the Pope, Cardinal Pole, to give us all + that holy absolution which—— + + FIRST CITIZEN. Old Bourne to the life! + + SECOND CITIZEN. Holy absolution! holy Inquisition! + + THIRD CITIZEN. Down with the Papist! + [<i>Hubbub</i>. + + BOURNE.—and now that your good bishop, + Bonner, who hath lain so long under bonds for the + faith— + [<i>Hubbub</i>. + + NOAILLES. Friend Roger, steal thou in among the crowd, + And get the swine to shout Elizabeth. + Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter, + Begin with him. + + ROGER (<i>goes</i>). By the mass, old friend, we'll have no pope here while + the Lady Elizabeth lives. + + GOSPELLER. Art thou of the true faith, fellow, that swearest by the + mass? + + ROGER. Ay, that am I, new converted, but the old leaven sticks to my + tongue yet. + + FIRST CITIZEN. He says right; by the mass we'll have no mass here. + + VOICES OF THE CROWD. Peace! hear him; let his own words damn the + Papist. From thine own mouth I judge thee—tear him down! + + BOURNE.—and since our Gracious Queen, let me call her our second + Virgin Mary, hath begun to re-edify the true temple——, + + FIRST CITIZEN. Virgin Mary! we'll have no virgins here—we'll have the + Lady Elizabeth! + + [<i>Swords are drawn, a knife is hurled and sticks in + the pulpit. The mob throng to the pulpit stairs</i>. + + MARCHIONESS OF EXETER. Son Courtenay, wilt thou see the holy father + Murdered before thy face? up, son, and save him! They love thee, and + thou canst not come to harm. + + COURTENAY (<i>in the pulpit</i>). Shame, shame, my masters! are you + English-born, And set yourselves by hundreds against one? + + CROWD. A Courtenay! a Courtenay! + + [<i>A train of Spanish servants crosses at the back of the stage</i>. + + NOAILLES. These birds of passage come before their time: + Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard there. + + ROGER. My masters, yonder's fatter game for you + Than this old gaping gurgoyle: look you there— + The Prince of Spain coming to wed our Queen! + After him, boys! and pelt him from the city. + + [<i>They seize stones and follow the Spaniards. + Exeunt on the other side</i> MARCHIONESS OF + EXETER <i>and</i> ATTENDANTS. + + NOAILLES (<i>to</i> ROGER). + Stand from me. If Elizabeth lose her head— + That makes for France. + And if her people, anger'd thereupon, + Arise against her and dethrone the Queen— + That makes for France. + And if I breed confusion anyway— + That makes for France. + Good-day, my Lord of Devon; + A bold heart yours to beard that raging mob! + + COURTENAY. My mother said, Go up; and up I went. + I knew they would not do me any wrong, + For I am mighty popular with them, Noailles. + + NOAILLES. You look'd a king. + + COURTENAY. Why not? I am king's blood. + + NOAILLES. And in the whirl of change may come to be one. + + COURTENAY. Ah! + + NOAILLES. But does your gracious Queen entreat you kinglike? + + COURTENAY. 'Fore God, I think she entreats me like a child. + + NOAILLES. You've but a dull life in this maiden court, I fear, my + Lord? + + COURTENAY. A life of nods and yawns. + + NOAILLES. So you would honour my poor house to-night, + We might enliven you. Divers honest fellows, + The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from prison, + Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wyatt, + Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more—we play. + + COURTENAY. At what? + + NOAILLES. The Game of Chess. + + COURTENAY. The Game of Chess! + I can play well, and I shall beat you there. + + NOAILLES. Ay, but we play with Henry, King of France, + And certain of his court. + His Highness makes his moves across the Channel, + We answer him with ours, and there are messengers + That go between us. + + COURTENAY. Why, such a game, sir, were whole years a playing. + + NOAILLES. Nay; not so long I trust. That all depends + Upon the skill and swiftness of the players. + + COURTENAY. The King is skilful at it? + + NOAILLES. Very, my Lord. + + COURTENAY. And the stakes high? + + NOAILLES. But not beyond your means. + + COURTENAY. Well, I'm the first of players, I shall win. + + NOAILLES. With our advice and in our company, + And so you well attend to the king's moves, + I think you may. + + COURTENAY. When do you meet? + + NOAILLES. To-night. + + COURTENAY (<i>aside</i>). + I will be there; the fellow's at his tricks— + Deep—I shall fathom him. (<i>Aloud</i>) Good morning, + Noailles. + [<i>Exit</i> COURTENAY. + + NOAILLES. Good-day, my Lord. Strange game of chess! a King + That with her own pawns plays against a Queen, + Whose play is all to find herself a King. + Ay; but this fine blue-blooded Courtenay seems + Too princely for a pawn. Call him a Knight, + That, with an ass's, not a horse's head, + Skips every way, from levity or from fear. + Well, we shall use him somehow, so that Gardiner + And Simon Renard spy not out our game + Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that anyone + Suspected thee to be my man? + + ROGER. Not one, sir. + + NOAILLES. No! the disguise was perfect. Let's away. + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE IV.—LONDON. A ROOM IN THE PALACE. + ELIZABETH. <i>Enter</i> COURTENAY. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + COURTENAY. So yet am I, + Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me, + A goodlier-looking fellow than this Philip. + Pah! + The Queen is ill advised: shall I turn traitor? + They've almost talked me into it: yet the word + Affrights me somewhat: to be such a one + As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in it. + Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by your age, + And by your looks you are not worth the having, + Yet by your crown you are. [<i>Seeing</i> ELIZABETH. + The Princess there? + If I tried her and la—she's amorous. + Have we not heard of her in Edward's time, + Her freaks and frolics with the late Lord Admiral? + I do believe she'd yield. I should be still + A party in the state; and then, who knows— + + ELIZABETH. What are you musing on, my Lord of Devon? + + COURTENAY. Has not the Queen— + + ELIZABETH. Done what, Sir? + + COURTENAY. —made you follow + The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Lennox?— + You, + The heir presumptive. + + ELIZABETH. Why do you ask? you know it. + + COURTENAY. You needs must bear it hardly. + + ELIZABETH. No, indeed! + I am utterly submissive to the Queen. + + COURTENAY. Well, I was musing upon that; the Queen + Is both my foe and yours: we should be friends. + + ELIZABETH. My Lord, the hatred of another to us + Is no true bond of friendship. + + COURTENAY. Might it not + Be the rough preface of some closer bond? + + ELIZABETH. My Lord, you late were loosed from out the Tower, + Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis, + You spent your life; that broken, out you flutter + Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now would settle + Upon this flower, now that; but all things here + At court are known; you have solicited + The Queen, and been rejected. + + COURTENAY. Flower, she! + Half faded! but you, cousin, are fresh and sweet + As the first flower no bee has ever tried. + + ELIZABETH. Are you the bee to try me? why, but now + I called you butterfly. + + COURTENAY. You did me wrong, + I love not to be called a butterfly: + Why do you call me butterfly? + + ELIZABETH. Why do you go so gay then? + + COURTENAY. Velvet and gold. + This dress was made me as the Earl of Devon + To take my seat in; looks it not right royal? + + ELIZABETH. So royal that the Queen forbad you wearing it. + + COURTENAY. I wear it then to spite her. + + ELIZABETH. My Lord, my Lord; + I see you in the Tower again. Her Majesty + Hears you affect the Prince—prelates kneel to + you.— + + COURTENAY. I am the noblest blood in Europe, Madam, + A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin. + + ELIZABETH. She hears you make your boast that after all + She means to wed you. Folly, my good Lord. + + COURTENAY. How folly? a great party in the state + Wills me to wed her. + + ELIZABETH. Failing her, my Lord, + Doth not as great a party in the state + Will you to wed me? + + COURTENAY. Even so, fair lady. + + ELIZABETH. You know to flatter ladies. + + COURTENAY. Nay, I meant + True matters of the heart. + + ELIZABETH. <i>My</i> heart, my Lord, + Is no great party in the state as yet. + + COURTENAY. Great, said you? nay, you shall be great. I love you, + Lay my life in your hands. Can you be close? + + ELIZABETH. Can you, my Lord? + + COURTENAY. Close as a miser's casket. + Listen: + The King of France, Noailles the Ambassador, + The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew, + Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some others, + Have sworn this Spanish marriage shall not be. + If Mary will not hear us—well—conjecture— + Were I in Devon with my wedded bride, + The people there so worship me—Your ear; + You shall be Queen. + + ELIZABETH. You speak too low, my Lord; + I cannot hear you. + + COURTENAY. I'll repeat it. + + ELIZABETH. No! + Stand further off, or you may lose your head. + + COURTENAY. I have a head to lose for your sweet + sake. + + ELIZABETH. Have you, my Lord? Best keep it for your own. + Nay, pout not, cousin. + Not many friends are mine, except indeed + Among the many. I believe you mine; + And so you may continue mine, farewell, + And that at once. + + <i>Enter</i> MARY, <i>behind</i>. + + MARY. Whispering—leagued together + To bar me from my Philip. + + COURTENAY. Pray—consider— + + ELIZABETH (<i>seeing the</i> QUEEN). + Well, that's a noble horse of yours, my Lord. + I trust that he will carry you well to-day, + And heal your headache. + + COURTENAY. You are wild; what headache? + Heartache, perchance; not headache. + + ELIZABETH (<i>aside to</i> COURTENAY). Are you blind? + + [COURTENAY <i>sees the</i> QUEEN <i>and exit. Exit</i> MARY. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> LORD WILLIAM HOWARD. + + HOWARD. Was that my Lord of Devon? do not you + Be seen in corners with my Lord of Devon. + He hath fallen out of favour with the Queen. + She fears the Lords may side with you and him + Against her marriage; therefore is he dangerous. + And if this Prince of fluff and feather come + To woo you, niece, he is dangerous everyway. + + ELIZABETH. Not very dangerous that way, my good uncle. + + HOWARD. But your own state is full of danger here. + The disaffected, heretics, reformers, + Look to you as the one to crown their ends. + Mix not yourself with any plot I pray you; + Nay, if by chance you hear of any such, + Speak not thereof—no, not to your best friend, + Lest you should be confounded with it. Still— + Perinde ac cadaver—as the priest says, + You know your Latin—quiet as a dead body. + What was my Lord of Devon telling you? + + ELIZABETH. Whether he told me anything or not, + I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle. + Quiet as a dead body. + + HOWARD. You do right well. + I do not care to know; but this I charge you, + Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord Chancellor + (I count it as a kind of virtue in him, + He hath not many), as a mastiff dog + May love a puppy cur for no more reason + Than that the twain have been tied up together, + Thus Gardiner—for the two were fellow-prisoners + So many years in yon accursed Tower— + Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to it, niece, + He hath no fence when Gardiner questions him; + All oozes out; yet him—because they know him + The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet + (Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the people + Claim as their natural leader—ay, some say, + That you shall marry him, make him King belike. + + ELIZABETH. Do they say so, good uncle? + + HOWARD. Ay, good niece! + You should be plain and open with me, niece. + You should not play upon me. + + ELIZABETH. No, good uncle. + + <i>Enter</i> GARDINER. + + GARDINER. The Queen would see your Grace upon the moment. + + ELIZABETH. Why, my lord Bishop? + + GARDINER. I think she means to counsel your withdrawing + To Ashridge, or some other country house. + + ELIZABETH. Why, my lord Bishop? + + GARDINER. I do but bring the message, know no more. + Your Grace will hear her reasons from herself. + + ELIZABETH. 'Tis mine own wish fulfill'd before the word + Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to crave + Permission of her Highness to retire + To Ashridge, and pursue my studies there. + + GARDINER. Madam, to have the wish before the word + Is man's good Fairy—and the Queen is yours. + I left her with rich jewels in her hand, + Whereof 'tis like enough she means to make + A farewell present to your Grace. + + ELIZABETH. My Lord, + I have the jewel of a loyal heart. + + GARDINER. I doubt it not, Madam, most loyal. + [<i>Bows low and exit</i>. + + HOWARD. See, + This comes of parleying with my Lord of Devon. + Well, well, you must obey; and I myself + Believe it will be better for your welfare. + Your time will come. + + ELIZABETH. I think my time will come. + Uncle, + I am of sovereign nature, that I know, + Not to be quell'd; and I have felt within me + Stirrings of some great doom when God's just hour + Peals—but this fierce old Gardiner—his big baldness, + That irritable forelock which he rubs, + His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd eyes + Half fright me. + + HOWARD. You've a bold heart; keep it so. + He cannot touch you save that you turn traitor; + And so take heed I pray you—you are one + Who love that men should smile upon you, niece. + They'd smile you into treason—some of them. + + ELIZABETH. I spy the rock beneath the smiling sea. + But if this Philip, the proud Catholic prince, + And this bald priest, and she that hates me, seek + In that lone house, to practise on my life, + By poison, fire, shot, stab— + + HOWARD. They will not, niece. + Mine is the fleet and all the power at sea— + Or will be in a moment. If they dared + To harm you, I would blow this Philip and all + Your trouble to the dogstar and the devil. + + ELIZABETH. To the Pleiads, uncle; they have lost + a sister. + + HOWARD. But why say that? what have you done + to lose her? + Come, come, I will go with you to the Queen. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE V.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE. + + MARY <i>with</i> PHILIP'S <i>miniature</i>. ALICE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARY (<i>kissing the miniature</i>). + Most goodly, King-like and an Emperor's son,— + A king to be,—is he not noble, girl? + + ALICE. Goodly enough, your Grace, and yet, methinks, + I have seen goodlier. + + MARY. Ay; some waxen doll + Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike; + All red and white, the fashion of our land. + But my good mother came (God rest her soul) + Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself, + And in my likings. + + ALICE. By your Grace's leave + Your royal mother came of Spain, but took + To the English red and white. Your royal father + (For so they say) was all pure lily and rose + In his youth, and like a lady. + + MARY. O, just God! + Sweet mother, you had time and cause enough + To sicken of his lilies and his roses. + Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, forlorn! + And then the King—that traitor past forgiveness, + The false archbishop fawning on him, married + The mother of Elizabeth—a heretic + Ev'n as <i>she</i> is; but God hath sent me here + To take such order with all heretics + That it shall be, before I die, as tho' + My father and my brother had not lived. + What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane, + Now in the Tower? + + ALICE. Why, Madam, she was passing + Some chapel down in Essex, and with her + Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne + Bow'd to the Pyx; but Lady Jane stood up + Stiff as the very backbone of heresy. + And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne, + To him within there who made Heaven and Earth? + I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace + What Lady Jane replied. + + MARY. But I will have it. + + ALICE. She said—pray pardon me, and pity her— + She hath harken'd evil counsel—ah! she said, + The baker made him. + + MARY. Monstrous! blasphemous! + She ought to burn. Hence, thou (<i>Exit</i> ALICE). No—being traitor + Her head will fall: shall it? she is but a child. + We do not kill the child for doing that + His father whipt him into doing—a head + So full of grace and beauty! would that mine + Were half as gracious! O, my lord to be, + My love, for thy sake only. + I am eleven years older than he is. + But will he care for that? + No, by the holy Virgin, being noble, + But love me only: then the bastard sprout, + My sister, is far fairer than myself. + Will he be drawn to her? + No, being of the true faith with myself. + Paget is for him—for to wed with Spain + Would treble England—Gardiner is against him; + The Council, people, Parliament against him; + But I will have him! My hard father hated me; + My brother rather hated me than loved; + My sister cowers and hates me. Holy Virgin, + Plead with thy blessed Son; grant me my prayer: + Give me my Philip; and we two will lead + The living waters of the Faith again + Back thro' their widow'd channel here, and watch + The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of old, + To heaven, and kindled with the palms of Christ! + + <i>Enter</i> USHER. + + Who waits, sir? + + USHER. Madam, the Lord Chancellor. + + MARY. Bid him come in. (<i>Enter</i> GARDINER.) + Good morning, my good Lord. + + [<i>Exit</i> USHER. + + GARDINER. That every morning of your Majesty + May be most good, is every morning's prayer + Of your most loyal subject, Stephen Gardiner. + + MARY. Come you to tell me this, my Lord? + + GARDINER. And more. + Your people have begun to learn your worth. + Your pious wish to pay King Edward's debts, + Your lavish household curb'd, and the remission + Of half that subsidy levied on the people, + Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat for you. + I'd have you yet more loved: the realm is poor, + The exchequer at neap-tide: we might withdraw + Part of our garrison at Calais. + + MARY. Calais! + Our one point on the main, the gate of France! + I am Queen of England; take mine eyes, mine heart, + But do not lose me Calais. + + GARDINER. Do not fear it. + Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is loved. + That I may keep you thus, who am your friend + And ever faithful counsellor, might I speak? + + MARY. I can forespeak your speaking. Would I marry + Prince Philip, if all England hate him? That is + Your question, and I front it with another: + Is it England, or a party? Now, your answer. + + GARDINER. My answer is, I wear beneath my dress + A shirt of mail: my house hath been assaulted, + And when I walk abroad, the populace, + With fingers pointed like so many daggers, + Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip; + And when I sleep, a hundred men-at-arms + Guard my poor dreams for England. Men would murder me, + Because they think me favourer of this marriage. + + MARY. And that were hard upon you, my Lord Chancellor. + + GARDINER. But our young Earl of Devon— + + MARY. Earl of Devon? + I freed him from the Tower, placed him at Court; + I made him Earl of Devon, and—the fool— + He wrecks his health and wealth on courtesans, + And rolls himself in carrion like a dog. + + GARDINER. More like a school-boy that hath broken bounds, + Sickening himself with sweets. + + MARY. I will not hear of him. + Good, then, they will revolt: but I am Tudor, + And shall control them. + + GARDINER. I will help you, Madam, + Even to the utmost. All the church is grateful. + You have ousted the mock priest, repulpited + The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the rood again, + And brought us back the mass. I am all thanks + To God and to your Grace: yet I know well, + Your people, and I go with them so far, + Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to play + The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church. + + MARY (<i>showing the picture). + </i>Is this the face of one who plays the tyrant? + Peruse it; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle? + + GARDINER. Madam, methinks a cold face and a haughty. + And when your Highness talks of Courtenay— + Ay, true—a goodly one. I would his life + Were half as goodly (<i>aside</i>). + + MARY. What is that you mutter? + + GARDINER. Oh, Madam, take it bluntly; marry Philip, + And be stepmother of a score of sons! + The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, ha! + For Philip— + + MARY. You offend us; you may leave us. + You see thro' warping glasses. + + GARDINER. If your Majesty— + + MARY. I have sworn upon the body and blood of Christ + I'll none but Philip. + + GARDINER. Hath your Grace so sworn? + + MARY. Ay, Simon Renard knows it. + + GARDINER. News to me! + It then remains for your poor Gardiner, + So you still care to trust him somewhat less + Than Simon Renard, to compose the event + In some such form as least may harm your Grace. + + MARY. I'll have the scandal sounded to the mud. + I know it a scandal. + + GARDINER. All my hope is now + It may be found a scandal. + + MARY. You offend us. + + GARDINER (<i>aside</i>). + These princes are like children, must be physick'd, + The bitter in the sweet. I have lost mine office, + It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a fool. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> USHER. + + MARY. Who waits? + + USHER. The Ambassador from France, your Grace. + + MARY (<i>sits down</i>). + Bid him come in. Good morning, Sir de Noailles. + + [<i>Exit</i> USHER, + + NOAILLES (<i>entering</i>). + A happy morning to your Majesty. + + MARY. And I should some time have a happy morning; + I have had none yet. What says the King your master? + + NOAILLES. Madam, my master hears with much alarm, + That you may marry Philip, Prince of Spain— + Foreseeing, with whate'er unwillingness, + That if this Philip be the titular king + Of England, and at war with him, your Grace + And kingdom will be suck'd into the war, + Ay, tho' you long for peace; wherefore, my master, + If but to prove your Majesty's goodwill, + Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn between you. + + MARY. Why some fresh treaty? wherefore should I do it? + Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain + All former treaties with his Majesty. + Our royal word for that! and your good master, + Pray God he do not be the first to break them, + Must be content with that; and so, farewell. + + NOAILLES (<i>going, returns</i>). + I would your answer had been other, Madam, + For I foresee dark days. + + MARY. And so do I, sir; + Your master works against me in the dark. + I do believe he holp Northumberland + Against me. + + NOAILLES. Nay, pure phantasy, your Grace. + Why should he move against you? + + MARY. Will you hear why? + Mary of Scotland,—for I have not own'd + My sister, and I will not,—after me + Is heir of England; and my royal father, + To make the crown of Scotland one with ours, + Had mark'd her for my brother Edward's bride; + Ay, but your king stole her a babe from Scotland + In order to betroth her to your Dauphin. + See then: + Mary of Scotland, married to your Dauphin, + Would make our England, France; + Mary of England, joining hands with Spain, + Would be too strong for France. + Yea, were there issue born to her, Spain and we, + One crown, might rule the world. There lies your fear. + That is your drift. You play at hide and seek. + Show me your faces! + + NOAILLES. Madam, I am amazed: + French, I must needs wish all good things for France. + That must be pardon'd me; but I protest + Your Grace's policy hath a farther flight + Than mine into the future. We but seek + Some settled ground for peace to stand upon. + + MARY. Well, we will leave all this, sir, to our council. + Have you seen Philip ever? + + NOAILLES. Only once. + + MARY. Is this like Philip? + + NOAILLES. Ay, but nobler-looking. + + MARY. Hath he the large ability of the Emperor? + + NOAILLES. No, surely. + + MARY. I can make allowance for thee, + Thou speakest of the enemy of thy king. + + NOAILLES. Make no allowance for the naked truth. + He is every way a lesser man than Charles; + Stone-hard, ice-cold—no dash of daring in him. + + MARY. If cold, his life is pure. + + NOAILLES. Why (<i>smiling</i>), no, indeed. + + MARY. Sayst thou? + + NOAILLES. A very wanton life indeed (<i>smiling</i>). + + MARY. Your audience is concluded, sir. + + [<i>Exit</i> NOAILLES. + + You cannot + Learn a man's nature from his natural foe. + + <i>Enter</i> USHER. + + Who waits? + + USHER. The Ambassador of Spain, your Grace. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> SIMON RENARD. + + MARY (<i>rising to meet him</i>). + Thou art ever welcome, Simon Renard. Hast thou + Brought me the letter which thine Emperor promised + Long since, a formal offer of the hand Of Philip? + + RENARD. Nay, your Grace, it hath not reach'd me. + I know not wherefore—some mischance of flood, + And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, or wave + And wind at their old battle: he must have written. + + MARY. But Philip never writes me one poor word. + Which in his absence had been all my wealth. + Strange in a wooer! + + RENARD. Yet I know the Prince, + So your king-parliament suffer him to land, + Yearns to set foot upon your island shore. + + MARY. God change the pebble which his kingly foot + First presses into some more costly stone + Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it + And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd firelike; + I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond. + Let the great angel of the church come with him; + Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail! + God lay the waves and strow the storms at sea, + And here at land among the people! O Renard, + I am much beset, I am almost in despair. + Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours; + But for our heretic Parliament— + + RENARD. O Madam, + You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charles, + Bad you go softly with your heretics here, + Until your throne had ceased to tremble. Then + Spit them like larks for aught I care. Besides, + When Henry broke the carcase of your church + To pieces, there were many wolves among you + Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their den. + The Pope would have you make them render these; + So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole; ill counsel! + These let them keep at present; stir not yet + This matter of the Church lands. At his coming + Your star will rise. + + MARY. My star! a baleful one. + I see but the black night, and hear the wolf. + What star? + + RENARD. Your star will be your princely son, + Heir of this England and the Netherlands! + And if your wolf the while should howl for more, + We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold. + I do believe, I have dusted some already, + That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours. + + MARY. Why do they talk so foully of your Prince, + Renard? + + RENARD. The lot of Princes. To sit high + Is to be lied about. + + MARY. They call him cold, + Haughty, ay, worse. + + RENARD. Why, doubtless, Philip shows + Some of the bearing of your blue blood—still + All within measure—nay, it well becomes him. + + MARY. Hath he the large ability of his father? + + RENARD. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him. + + MARY. Is this like him? + + RENARD. Ay, somewhat; but your Philip + Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun. + This is a daub to Philip. + + MARY. Of a pure life? + + RENARD. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven, + The text—Your Highness knows it, 'Whosoever + Looketh after a woman,' would not graze + The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there, + Chaste as your Grace! + + MARY. I am happy in him there. + + RENARD. And would be altogether happy, Madam, + So that your sister were but look'd to closer. + You have sent her from the court, but then she goes, + I warrant, not to hear the nightingales, + But hatch you some new treason in the woods. + + MARY. We have our spies abroad to catch her tripping, + And then if caught, to the Tower. + + RENARD. The Tower! the block! + The word has turn'd your Highness pale; the thing + Was no such scarecrow in your father's time. + I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with the jest + When the head leapt—so common! I do think + To save your crown that it must come to this. + + MARY. No, Renard; it must never come to this. + + RENARD. Not yet; but your old Traitors of the Tower— + Why, when you put Northumberland to death, + The sentence having past upon them all, + Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford Dudley, + Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your crown? + + MARY. Dared? nay, not so; the child obey'd her father. + Spite of her tears her father forced it on her. + + RENARD. Good Madam, when the Roman wish'd to reign, + He slew not him alone who wore the purple, + But his assessor in the throne, perchance + A child more innocent than Lady Jane. + + MARY. I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor. + + RENARD. Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy, + And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this + Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne + Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come + Till she be gone. + + MARY. Indeed, if that were true— + For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one + Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church— + But no, no, no. Farewell. I am somewhat faint + With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen + Of mine own heart, which every now and then + Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden chain— + My father on a birthday gave it me, + And I have broken with my father—take + And wear it as memorial of a morning + Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me + As hopeful. + + RENARD (<i>aside</i>). Whew—the folly of all follies + Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (<i>Aloud</i>) Madam, + This chains me to your service, not with gold, + But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me, + Philip is yours. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + MARY. Mine—but not yet all mine. + + <i>Enter</i> USHER. + + USHER. Your Council is in Session, please your Majesty. + + MARY. Sir, let them sit. I must have time to breathe. + No, say I come. (<i>Exit</i> USHER.) I won by boldness once. + The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to Flanders. + I would not; but a hundred miles I rode, + Sent out my letters, call'd my friends together, + Struck home and won. + And when the Council would not crown me—thought + To bind me first by oaths I could not keep, + And keep with Christ and conscience—was it boldness + Or weakness that won there? when I, their Queen, + Cast myself down upon my knees before them, + And those hard men brake into woman tears, + Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that passion + Gave me my Crown. + + <i>Enter</i> ALICE. + + Girl; hast thou ever heard + Slanders against Prince Philip in our Court? + + ALICE. What slanders? I, your Grace; no, never. + + MARY. Nothing? + + ALICE. Never, your Grace. + + MARY. See that you neither hear them nor repeat! + + ALICE (<i>aside</i>). + Good Lord! but I have heard a thousand such. + Ay, and repeated them as often—mum! + Why comes that old fox-Fleming back again? + + <i>Enter</i> RENARD. + + RENARD. Madam, I scarce had left your Grace's presence + Before I chanced upon the messenger + Who brings that letter which we waited for— + The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand. + It craves an instant answer, Ay or No. + + MARY. An instant Ay or No! the Council sits. + Give it me quick. + + ALICE (<i>stepping before her</i>). + Your Highness is all trembling. + + MARY. Make way. [<i>Exit into the Council Chamber</i>. + + ALICE. O, Master Renard, Master Renard, + If you have falsely painted your fine Prince; + Praised, where you should have blamed him, I pray God + No woman ever love you, Master Renard. + It breaks my heart to hear her moan at night + As tho' the nightmare never left her bed. + + RENARD. My pretty maiden, tell me, did you ever + Sigh for a beard? + + ALICE. That's not a pretty question. + + RENARD. Not prettily put? I mean, my pretty maiden, + A pretty man for such a pretty maiden. + + ALICE. My Lord of Devon is a pretty man. + I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then? + + RENARD. Then, pretty maiden, you should know that whether + A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan + A kindled fire. + + ALICE. According to the song. + + His friends would praise him, I believed 'em, + His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 'em, + His friends—as Angels I received 'em, + His foes—the Devil had suborn'd 'em. + + RENARD. Peace, pretty maiden. + I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber. + Lord Paget's 'Ay' is sure—who else? and yet, + They are all too much at odds to close at once + In one full-throated No! Her Highness comes. + + <i>Enter</i> MARY. + + ALICE. How deathly pale!—a chair, your Highness + [<i>Bringing one to the</i> QUEEN. + + RENARD. Madam, + The Council? + + MARY. Ay! My Philip is all mine. + + [<i>Sinks into chair, half fainting</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT II +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—ALINGTON CASTLE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SIR THOMAS WYATT. I do not hear from Carew or the Duke + Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move. + The Duke hath gone to Leicester; Carew stirs + In Devon: that fine porcelain Courtenay, + Save that he fears he might be crack'd in using, + (I have known a semi-madman in my time + So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too. + + <i>Enter</i> WILLIAM. + + News abroad, William? + + WILLIAM. None so new, Sir Thomas, and none so old, Sir Thomas. No new + news that Philip comes to wed Mary, no old news that all men hate it. + Old Sir Thomas would have hated it. The bells are ringing at + Maidstone. Doesn't your worship hear? + + WYATT. Ay, for the Saints are come to reign again. + Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's no call + As yet for me; so in this pause, before + The mine be fired, it were a pious work + To string my father's sonnets, left about + Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order, + And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine, + To grace his memory. + + WILLIAM. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas? He was a fine courtier, he; Queen + Anne loved him. All the women loved him. I loved him, I was in Spain + with him. I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I hate + Spain, Sir Thomas. + + WYATT. But thou could'st drink in Spain if I remember. + + WILLIAM. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas always + granted the wine. + + WYATT. Hand me the casket with my father's sonnets. + + WILLIAM. Ay—sonnets—a fine courtier of the old Court, old Sir + Thomas. [<i>Exit</i>. + + WYATT. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more + His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace, + To read and rhyme in solitary fields, + The lark above, the nightingale below, + And answer them in song. The sire begets + Not half his likeness in the son. I fail + Where he was fullest: yet—to write it down. + [<i>He writes</i>. + + <i>Re-enter</i> WILLIAM. + + WILLIAM. There <i>is</i> news, there <i>is</i> news, and no call for + sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand + men on Penenden Heath all calling after your worship, and your + worship's name heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the first + man in Kent and Christendom, for the Queen's down, and the world's up, + and your worship a-top of it. + + WYATT. Inverted Aesop—mountain out of mouse. + Say for ten thousand ten—and pothouse knaves, + Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale. + + <i>Enter</i> ANTONY KNYVETT. + + WILLIAM. Here's Antony Knyvett. + + KNYVETT. Look you, Master Wyatt, + Tear up that woman's work there. + + WYATT. No; not these, + Dumb children of my father, that will speak + When I and thou and all rebellions lie + Dead bodies without voice. Song flies you know + For ages. + + KNYVETT. Tut, your sonnet's a flying ant, + Wing'd for a moment. + + WYATT. Well, for mine own work, + [<i>Tearing the paper</i>. + It lies there in six pieces at your feet; + For all that I can carry it in my head. + + KNYVETT. If you can carry your head upon your shoulders. + + WYATT. I fear you come to carry it off my shoulders, + And sonnet-making's safer. + + KNYVETT. Why, good Lord, + Write you as many sonnets as you will. + Ay, but not now; what, have you eyes, ears, brains? + This Philip and the black-faced swarms of Spain, + The hardest, cruellest people in the world, + Come locusting upon us, eat us up, + Confiscate lands, goods, money—Wyatt, Wyatt, + Wake, or the stout old island will become + A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you + On Penenden Heath, a thousand of them—more— + All arm'd, waiting a leader; there's no glory + Like his who saves his country: and you sit + Sing-songing here; but, if I'm any judge, + By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt, + As a good soldier. + + WYATT. You as poor a critic + As an honest friend: you stroke me on one cheek, + Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, Antony! + You know I know all this. I must not move + Until I hear from Carew and the Duke. + I fear the mine is fired before the time. + + KNYVETT (<i>showing a paper</i>). + But here's some Hebrew. Faith, I half forgot it. + Look; can you make it English? A strange youth + Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 'Wyatt,' + And whisking round a corner, show'd his back + Before I read his face. + + WYATT. Ha! Courtenay's cipher. [<i>Reads</i>. + 'Sir Peter Carew fled to France: it is thought the Duke will be taken. + I am with you still; but, for appearance sake, stay with the Queen. + Gardiner knows, but the Council are all at odds, and the Queen hath no + force for resistance. Move, if you move, at once.' + + Is Peter Carew fled? Is the Duke taken? + Down scabbard, and out sword! and let Rebellion + Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. No; not that; + But we will teach Queen Mary how to reign. + Who are those that shout below there? + + KNYVETT. Why, some fifty + That follow'd me from Penenden Heath in hope + To hear you speak. + + WYATT. Open the window, Knyvett; + The mine is fired, and I will speak to them. + + Men of Kent; England of England; you that have kept your old customs + upright, while all the rest of England bow'd theirs to the Norman, the + cause that hath brought us together is not the cause of a county or a + shire, but of this England, in whose crown our Kent is the fairest + jewel. Philip shall not wed Mary; and ye have called me to be your + leader. I know Spain. I have been there with my father; I have seen + them in their own land; have marked the haughtiness of their nobles; + the cruelty of their priests. If this man marry our Queen, however + the Council and the Commons may fence round his power with restriction, + he will be King, King of England, my masters; and the Queen, and the + laws, and the people, his slaves. What? shall we have Spain on the + throne and in the parliament; Spain in the pulpit and on the law-bench; + Spain in all the great offices of state; Spain in our ships, in our + forts, in our houses, in our beds? + + CROWD. No! no! no Spain! + + WILLIAM. No Spain in our beds—that were worse than all. I have been + there with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I know. I hate Spain. + + A PEASANT. But, Sir Thomas, must we levy war against the Queen's + Grace? + + WYATT. No, my friend; war <i>for</i> the Queen's Grace—to save her from + herself and Philip—war against Spain. And think not we shall be + alone—thousands will flock to us. The Council, the Court itself, is + on our side. The Lord Chancellor himself is on our side. The King of + France is with us; the King of Denmark is with us; the world is with + us—war against Spain! And if we move not now, yet it will be known + that we have moved; and if Philip come to be King, O, my God! the + rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, the stake, the fire. If we move not + now, Spain moves, bribes our nobles with her gold, and creeps, creeps + snake-like about our legs till we cannot move at all; and ye know, my + masters, that wherever Spain hath ruled she hath wither'd all beneath + her. Look at the New World—a paradise made hell; the red man, that + good helpless creature, starved, maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd, + boil'd, buried alive, worried by dogs; and here, nearer home, the + Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no more—only this, their + lot is yours. Forward to London with me! forward to London! If ye love + your liberties or your skins, forward to London! + + CROWD. Forward to London! A Wyatt! a Wyatt! + + WYATT. But first to Rochester, to take the guns + From out the vessels lying in the river. + Then on. + + A PEASANT. Ay, but I fear we be too few, Sir Thomas. + + WYATT. Not many yet. The world as yet, my friend, + Is not half-waked; but every parish tower + Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass, + And pour along the land, and swoll'n and fed + With indraughts and side-currents, in full force + Roll upon London. + + CROWD. A Wyatt! a Wyatt! Forward! + + KNYVETT. Wyatt, shall we proclaim Elizabeth? + + WYATT. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. + + KNYVETT. Or Lady Jane? + + WYATT. No, poor soul; no. + Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field + Beside the brimming Medway, it may chance + That I shall never look upon you more. + + KNYVETT. Come, now, you're sonnetting again. + + WYATT. Not I. + I'll have my head set higher in the state; + Or—if the Lord God will it—on the stake. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—GUILDHALL. + + SIR THOMAS WHITE (The Lord Mayor), LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, SIR RALPH + BAGENHALL, ALDERMEN <i>and</i> CITIZENS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WHITE. I trust the Queen comes hither with her guards. + + HOWARD. Ay, all in arms. + + [<i>Several of the citizens move hastily out of the hall</i>. + + Why do they hurry out there? + + WHITE. My Lord, cut out the rotten from your apple, + Your apple eats the better. Let them go. + They go like those old Pharisees in John + Convicted by their conscience, arrant cowards, + Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent. + When will her Grace be here? + + HOWARD. In some few minutes. + She will address your guilds and companies. + I have striven in vain to raise a man for her. + But help her in this exigency, make + Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man + This day in England. + + WHITE. I am Thomas White. + Few things have fail'd to which I set my will. + I do my most and best. + + HOWARD. You know that after + The Captain Brett, who went with your train bands + To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him + With all his men, the Queen in that distress + Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the traitor, + Feigning to treat with him about her marriage— + Know too what Wyatt said. + + WHITE. He'd sooner be, + While this same marriage question was being argued, + Trusted than trust—the scoundrel—and demanded + Possession of her person and the Tower. + + HOWARD. And four of her poor Council too, my Lord, + As hostages. + + WHITE. I know it. What do and say + Your Council at this hour? + + HOWARD. I will trust you. + We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. The Council, + The Parliament as well, are troubled waters; + And yet like waters of the fen they know not + Which way to flow. All hangs on her address, + And upon you, Lord Mayor. + + WHITE. How look'd the city + When now you past it? Quiet? + + HOWARD. Like our Council, + Your city is divided. As we past, + Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There were citizens + Stood each before his shut-up booth, and look'd + As grim and grave as from a funeral. + And here a knot of ruffians all in rags, + With execrating execrable eyes, + Glared at the citizen. Here was a young mother, + Her face on flame, her red hair all blown back, + She shrilling 'Wyatt,' while the boy she held + Mimick'd and piped her 'Wyatt,' as red as she + In hair and cheek; and almost elbowing her, + So close they stood, another, mute as death, + And white as her own milk; her babe in arms + Had felt the faltering of his mother's heart, + And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious Catholic, + Mumbling and mixing up in his scared prayers + Heaven and earth's Maries; over his bow'd shoulder + Scowl'd that world-hated and world-hating beast, + A haggard Anabaptist. Many such groups. + The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Courtenay, + Nay the Queen's right to reign—'fore God, the rogues— + Were freely buzzed among them. So I say + Your city is divided, and I fear + One scruple, this or that way, of success + Would turn it thither. Wherefore now the Queen + In this low pulse and palsy of the state, + Bad me to tell you that she counts on you + And on myself as her two hands; on you, + In your own city, as her right, my Lord, + For you are loyal. + + WHITE. Am I Thomas White? + One word before she comes. Elizabeth— + Her name is much abused among these traitors. + Where is she? She is loved by all of us. + I scarce have heart to mingle in this matter, + If she should be mishandled. + + HOWARD. No; she shall not. + The Queen had written her word to come to court: + Methought I smelt out Renard in the letter, + And fearing for her, sent a secret missive, + Which told her to be sick. Happily or not, + It found her sick indeed. + + WHITE. God send her well; + Here comes her Royal Grace. + + <i>Enter</i> GUARDS, MARY <i>and</i> GARDINER. SIR THOMAS + WHITE <i>leads her to a raised seat on the dais</i>. + + WHITE. I, the Lord Mayor, and these our companies + And guilds of London, gathered here, beseech + Your Highness to accept our lowliest thanks + For your most princely presence; and we pray + That we, your true and loyal citizens, + From your own royal lips, at once may know + The wherefore of this coming, and so learn + Your royal will, and do it.—I, Lord Mayor + Of London, and our guilds and companies. + + MARY. In mine own person am I come to you, + To tell you what indeed ye see and know, + How traitorously these rebels out of Kent + Have made strong head against ourselves and you. + They would not have me wed the Prince of Spain: + That was their pretext—so they spake at first— + But we sent divers of our Council to them, + And by their answers to the question ask'd, + It doth appear this marriage is the least + Of all their quarrel. + They have betrayed the treason of their hearts: + Seek to possess our person, hold our Tower, + Place and displace our councillors, and use + Both us and them according as they will. + Now what I am ye know right well—your Queen; + To whom, when I was wedded to the realm + And the realm's laws (the spousal ring whereof, + Not ever to be laid aside, I wear + Upon this finger), ye did promise full + Allegiance and obedience to the death. + Ye know my father was the rightful heir + Of England, and his right came down to me + Corroborate by your acts of Parliament: + And as ye were most loving unto him, + So doubtless will ye show yourselves to me. + Wherefore, ye will not brook that anyone + Should seize our person, occupy our state, + More specially a traitor so presumptuous + As this same Wyatt, who hath tamper'd with + A public ignorance, and, under colour + Of such a cause as hath no colour, seeks + To bend the laws to his own will, and yield + Full scope to persons rascal and forlorn, + To make free spoil and havock of your goods. + Now as your Prince, I say, + I, that was never mother, cannot tell + How mothers love their children; yet, methinks, + A prince as naturally may love his people + As these their children; and be sure your Queen + So loves you, and so loving, needs must deem + This love by you return'd as heartily; + And thro' this common knot and bond of love, + Doubt not they will be speedily overthrown. + As to this marriage, ye shall understand + We made thereto no treaty of ourselves, + And set no foot theretoward unadvised + Of all our Privy Council; furthermore, + This marriage had the assent of those to whom + The king, my father, did commit his trust; + Who not alone esteem'd it honourable, + But for the wealth and glory of our realm, + And all our loving subjects, most expedient. + As to myself, + I am not so set on wedlock as to choose + But where I list, nor yet so amorous + That I must needs be husbanded; I thank God, + I have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt + But that with God's grace, I can live so still. + Yet if it might please God that I should leave + Some fruit of mine own body after me, + To be your king, ye would rejoice thereat, + And it would be your comfort, as I trust; + And truly, if I either thought or knew + This marriage should bring loss or danger to you, + My subjects, or impair in any way + This royal state of England, I would never + Consent thereto, nor marry while I live; + Moreover, if this marriage should not seem, + Before our own High Court of Parliament, + To be of rich advantage to our realm, + We will refrain, and not alone from this, + Likewise from any other, out of which + Looms the least chance of peril to our realm. + Wherefore be bold, and with your lawful Prince + Stand fast against our enemies and yours, + And fear them not. I fear them not. My Lord, + I leave Lord William Howard in your city, + To guard and keep you whole and safe from all + The spoil and sackage aim'd at by these rebels, + Who mouth and foam against the Prince of Spain. + + VOICES. Long live Queen Mary! + Down with Wyatt! + The Queen! + + WHITE. Three voices from our guilds and companies! + You are shy and proud like Englishmen, my masters, + And will not trust your voices. Understand: + Your lawful Prince hath come to cast herself + On loyal hearts and bosoms, hoped to fall + Into the wide-spread arms of fealty, + And finds you statues. Speak at once—and all! + For whom? + Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's will; + The Queen of England—or the Kentish Squire? + I know you loyal. Speak! in the name of God! + The Queen of England or the rabble of Kent? + The reeking dungfork master of the mace! + Your havings wasted by the scythe and spade— + Your rights and charters hobnail'd into slush— + Your houses fired—your gutters bubbling blood— + + ACCLAMATION. No! No! The Queen! the Queen! + + WHITE. Your Highness hears + This burst and bass of loyal harmony, + And how we each and all of us abhor + The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt + Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now make oath + To raise your Highness thirty thousand men, + And arm and strike as with one hand, and brush + This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a flea + That might have leapt upon us unawares. + Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, all, + With all your trades, and guilds, and companies. + + CITIZENS. We swear! + + MARY. We thank your Lordship and your loyal city. + [<i>Exit</i> MARY <i>attended</i>. + + WHITE. I trust this day, thro' God, I have saved the crown. + + FIRST ALDERMAN. Ay, so my Lord of Pembroke in command + Of all her force be safe; but there are doubts. + + SECOND ALDERMAN. I hear that Gardiner, coming with the Queen, + And meeting Pembroke, bent to his saddle-bow, + As if to win the man by flattering him. + <i>Is</i> he so safe to fight upon her side? + + FIRST ALDERMAN. If not, there's no man safe. + + WHITE. Yes, Thomas White. + I am safe enough; no man need flatter me. + + SECOND ALDERMAN. Nay, no man need; but did you mark our Queen? + The colour freely play'd into her face, + And the half sight which makes her look so stern, + Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world of hers, + To read our faces; I have never seen her + So queenly or so goodly. + + WHITE. Courage, sir, + <i>That</i> makes or man or woman look their goodliest. + Die like the torn fox dumb, but never whine + Like that poor heart, Northumberland, at the block. + + BAGENHALL. The man had children, and he whined for those. + Methinks most men are but poor-hearted, else + Should we so doat on courage, were it commoner? + The Queen stands up, and speaks for her own self; + And all men cry, She is queenly, she is goodly. + Yet she's no goodlier; tho' my Lord Mayor here, + By his own rule, he hath been so bold to-day, + Should look more goodly than the rest of us. + + WHITE. Goodly? I feel most goodly heart and hand, + And strong to throw ten Wyatts and all Kent. + Ha! ha! sir; but you jest; I love it: a jest + In time of danger shows the pulses even. + Be merry! yet, Sir Ralph, you look but sad. + I dare avouch you'd stand up for yourself, + Tho' all the world should bay like winter wolves. + + BAGENHALL. Who knows? the man is proven by the hour. + + WHITE. The man should make the hour, not this the man; + And Thomas White will prove this Thomas Wyatt, + And he will prove an Iden to this Cade, + And he will play the Walworth to this Wat; + Come, sirs, we prate; hence all—gather your men— + Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to Southwark; + I'll have the drawbridge hewn into the Thames, + And see the citizens arm'd. Good day; good day. + [<i>Exit</i> WHITE. + + BAGENHALL. One of much outdoor bluster. + + HOWARD. For all that, + Most honest, brave, and skilful; and his wealth + A fountain of perennial alms—his fault + So thoroughly to believe in his own self. + + BAGENHALL. Yet thoroughly to believe in one's own self, + So one's own self be thorough, were to do + Great things, my Lord. + + HOWARD. It may be. + + BAGENHALL. I have heard + One of your Council fleer and jeer at him. + + HOWARD. The nursery-cocker'd child will jeer at aught + That may seem strange beyond his nursery. + The statesman that shall jeer and fleer at men, + Makes enemies for himself and for his king; + And if he jeer not seeing the true man + Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool; + And if he see the man and still will jeer, + He is child and fool, and traitor to the State. + Who is he? let me shun him. + + BAGENHALL. Nay, my Lord, + He is damn'd enough already. + + HOWARD. I must set + The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well, Sir Ralph. + + BAGENHALL. 'Who knows?' I am for England. But who knows, + That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, and the Pope, + Whether I be for Wyatt, or the Queen? + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III.—LONDON BRIDGE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> SIR THOMAS WYATT <i>and</i> BRETT. + + WYATT. Brett, when the Duke of Norfolk moved against us + Thou cried'st 'A Wyatt!' and flying to our side + Left his all bare, for which I love thee, Brett. + Have for thine asking aught that I can give, + For thro' thine help we are come to London Bridge; + But how to cross it balks me. I fear we cannot. + + BRETT. Nay, hardly, save by boat, swimming, or wings. + + WYATT. Last night I climb'd into the gate-house, Brett, + And scared the gray old porter and his wife. + And then I crept along the gloom and saw + They had hewn the drawbridge down into the river. + It roll'd as black as death; and that same tide + Which, coming with our coming, seem'd to smile + And sparkle like our fortune as thou saidest, + Ran sunless down, and moan'd against the piers. + But o'er the chasm I saw Lord William Howard + By torchlight, and his guard; four guns gaped at me, + Black, silent mouths: had Howard spied me there + And made them speak, as well he might have done, + Their voice had left me none to tell you this. + What shall we do? + + BRETT. On somehow. To go back + Were to lose all. + + WYATT. On over London Bridge + We cannot: stay we cannot; there is ordnance + On the White Tower and on the Devil's Tower, + And pointed full at Southwark; we must round + By Kingston Bridge. + + BRETT. Ten miles about. + + WYATT. Ev'n so. + But I have notice from our partisans + Within the city that they will stand by us + If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to-morrow. + + <i>Enter one of</i> WYATT'S MEN. + + MAN. Sir Thomas, I've found this paper; pray + your worship read it; I know not my letters; the old + priests taught me nothing. + + WYATT (<i>reads</i>). 'Whosoever will apprehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt + shall have a hundred pounds for reward.' + + MAN. Is that it? That's a big lot of money. + + WYATT. Ay, ay, my friend; not read it? 'tis not written + Half plain enough. Give me a piece of paper! + [<i>Writes 'THOMAS WYATT' large</i>. + There, any man can read that. [<i>Sticks it in his cap</i>. + + BRETT. But that's foolhardy. + + WYATT. No! boldness, which will give my followers boldness. + + <i>Enter</i> MAN <i>with a prisoner</i>. + + MAN. We found him, your worship, a plundering o' Bishop Winchester's + house; he says he's a poor gentleman. + + WYATT. Gentleman! a thief! Go hang him. Shall we make + Those that we come to serve our sharpest foes? + + BRETT. Sir Thomas— + + WYATT. Hang him, I say. + + BRETT. Wyatt, but now you promised me a boon. + + WYATT. Ay, and I warrant this fine fellow's life. + + BRETT. Ev'n so; he was my neighbour once in Kent. + He's poor enough, has drunk and gambled out + All that he had, and gentleman he was. + We have been glad together; let him live. + + WYATT. He has gambled for his life, and lost, he hangs. + No, no, my word's my word. Take thy poor gentleman! + Gamble thyself at once out of my sight, + Or I will dig thee with my dagger. Away! + Women and children! + + <i>Enter a Crowd of</i> WOMEN <i>and</i> CHILDREN. + + FIRST WOMAN. O Sir Thomas, Sir Thomas, pray you go away, Sir Thomas, + or you'll make the White Tower a black 'un for us this blessed day. + He'll be the death on us; and you'll set the Divil's Tower a-spitting, + and he'll smash all our bits o' things worse than Philip o' Spain. + + SECOND WOMAN. Don't ye now go to think that we be for Philip o' Spain. + + THIRD WOMAN. No, we know that ye be come to kill the Queen, and we'll + pray for you all on our bended knees. But o' God's mercy don't ye kill + the Queen here, Sir Thomas; look ye, here's little Dickon, and little + Robin, and little Jenny—though she's but a side-cousin—and all on + our knees, we pray you to kill the Queen further off, Sir Thomas. + + WYATT. My friends, I have not come to kill the Queen + Or here or there: I come to save you all, + And I'll go further off. + + CROWD. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be beholden to you, and we'll pray for + you on our bended knees till our lives' end. + + WYATT. Be happy, I am your friend. To Kingston, forward! + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE IV.—ROOM IN THE GATEHOUSE OF WESTMINSTER PALACE. + + MARY, ALICE, GARDINER, RENARD, LADIES. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GARDINER. Their cry is, Philip never shall be king. + + MARY. Lord Pembroke in command of all our force + Will front their cry and shatter them into dust. + + ALICE. Was not Lord Pembroke with Northumberland? + O madam, if this Pembroke should be false? + + MARY. No, girl; most brave and loyal, brave and loyal. + His breaking with Northumberland broke Northumberland. + At the park gate he hovers with our guards. + These Kentish ploughmen cannot break the guards. + + <i>Enter</i> MESSENGER. + + MESSENGER. Wyatt, your Grace, hath broken thro' the guards + And gone to Ludgate. + + GARDINER. Madam, I much fear + That all is lost; but we can save your Grace. + The river still is free. I do beseech you, + There yet is time, take boat and pass to Windsor. + + MARY. I pass to Windsor and I lose my crown. + + GARDINER. Pass, then, I pray your Highness, to the Tower. + + MARY. I shall but be their prisoner in the Tower. + + CRIES <i>without</i>. The traitor! treason! Pembroke! + + LADIES. Treason! treason! + + MARY. Peace. + False to Northumberland, is he false to me? + Bear witness, Renard, that I live and die + The true and faithful bride of Philip—A sound + Of feet and voices thickening hither—blows— + Hark, there is battle at the palace gates, + And I will out upon the gallery. + + LADIES. No, no, your Grace; see there the arrows flying. + + MARY. I am Harry's daughter, Tudor, and not fear. + [<i>Goes out on the gallery</i>. + The guards are all driven in, skulk into corners + Like rabbits to their holes. A gracious guard + Truly; shame on them! they have shut the gates! + + <i>Enter</i> SIR ROBERT SOUTHWELL. + + SOUTHWELL. The porter, please your Grace, hath shut the gates + On friend and foe. Your gentlemen-at-arms, + If this be not your Grace's order, cry + To have the gates set wide again, and they + With their good battleaxes will do you right + Against all traitors. + + MARY. They are the flower of England; set the gates wide. + + [<i>Exit</i> SOUTHWELL. + + <i>Enter</i> COURTENAY. + + COURTENAY. All lost, all lost, all yielded! A barge, a barge! + The Queen must to the Tower. + + MARY. Whence come you, sir? + + COURTENAY. From Charing Cross; the rebels broke us there, + And I sped hither with what haste I might + To save my royal cousin. + + MARY. Where is Pembroke? + + COURTENAY. I left him somewhere in the thick of it. + + MARY. Left him and fled; and thou that would'st be King, + And hast nor heart nor honour. I myself + Will down into the battle and there bide + The upshot of my quarrel, or die with those + That are no cowards and no Courtenays. + + COURTENAY. I do not love your Grace should call me coward. + + <i>Enter another</i> MESSENGER. + + MESSENGER. Over, your Grace, all crush'd; the brave Lord William + Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor flying + To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice Berkeley + Was taken prisoner. + + MARY. To the Tower with <i>him</i>! + + MESSENGER. 'Tis said he told Sir Maurice there was one + Cognisant of this, and party thereunto, + My Lord of Devon. + + MARY. To the Tower with <i>him</i>! + + COURTENAY. O la, the Tower, the Tower, always the Tower, + I shall grow into it—I shall be the Tower. + + MARY. Your Lordship may not have so long to wait. Remove him! + + COURTENAY. La, to whistle out my life, + And carve my coat upon the walls again! + [<i>Exit</i> COURTENAY <i>guarded</i>. + + MESSENGER. Also this Wyatt did confess the Princess + Cognisant thereof, and party thereunto. + + MARY. What? whom—whom did you say? + + MESSENGER. Elizabeth, + Your Royal sister. + + MARY. To the Tower with <i>her</i>! + My foes are at my feet and I am Queen. + + [GARDINER <i>and her</i> LADIES <i>kneel to her</i>. + + GARDINER (<i>rising</i>). + There let them lie, your foot-stool! (<i>Aside</i>.) Can I strike + Elizabeth?—not now and save the life + Of Devon: if I save him, he and his + Are bound to me—may strike hereafter. (<i>Aloud</i>.) Madam, + What Wyatt said, or what they said he said, + Cries of the moment and the street— + + MARY. He said it. + + GARDINER. Your courts of justice will determine that. + + RENARD (<i>advancing</i>). + I trust by this your Highness will allow + Some spice of wisdom in my telling you, + When last we talk'd, that Philip would not come + Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of Suffolk, + And Lady Jane had left us. + + MARY. They shall die. + + RENARD. And your so loving sister? + + MARY. She shall die. + My foes are at my feet, and Philip King. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT III. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—THE CONDUIT IN GRACECHURCH, + + <i>Painted with the Nine Worthies, among them King Henry VIII. holding a + book, on it inscribed</i> 'Verbum Dei'. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Enter</i> SIR RALPH BAGENHALL <i>and</i> SIR THOMAS STAFFORD. + + BAGENHALL. A hundred here and hundreds hang'd in Kent. + The tigress had unsheath'd her nails at last, + And Renard and the Chancellor sharpen'd them. + In every London street a gibbet stood. + They are down to-day. Here by this house was one; + The traitor husband dangled at the door, + And when the traitor wife came out for bread + To still the petty treason therewithin, + Her cap would brush his heels. + + STAFFORD. It is Sir Ralph, + And muttering to himself as heretofore. + Sir, see you aught up yonder? + + BAGENHALL. I miss something. + The tree that only bears dead fruit is gone. + + STAFFORD. What tree, sir? + + BAGENHALL. Well, the tree in Virgil, sir, + That bears not its own apples. + + STAFFORD. What! the gallows? + + BAGENHALL. Sir, this dead fruit was ripening overmuch, + And had to be removed lest living Spain + Should sicken at dead England. + + STAFFORD. Not so dead, + But that a shock may rouse her. + + BAGENHALL. I believe + Sir Thomas Stafford? + + STAFFORD. I am ill disguised. + + BAGENHALL. Well, are you not in peril here? + + STAFFORD. I think so. + I came to feel the pulse of England, whether + It beats hard at this marriage. Did you see it? + + BAGENHALL. Stafford, I am a sad man and a serious. + Far liefer had I in my country hall + Been reading some old book, with mine old hound + Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old flask of wine + Beside me, than have seen it: yet I saw it. + + STAFFORD. Good, was it splendid? + + BAGENHALL. Ay, if Dukes, and Earls, + And Counts, and sixty Spanish cavaliers, + Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, pearls, + That royal commonplace too, cloth of gold, + Could make it so. + + STAFFORD. And what was Mary's dress? + + BAGENHALL. Good faith, I was too sorry for the woman + To mark the dress. She wore red shoes! + + STAFFORD. Red shoes! + + BAGENHALL. Scarlet, as if her feet were wash'd in blood, + As if she had waded in it. + + STAFFORD. Were your eyes + So bashful that you look'd no higher? + + BAGENHALL. A diamond, + And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's love, + Who hath not any for any,—tho' a true one, + Blazed false upon her heart. + + STAFFORD. But this proud Prince— + + BAGENHALL. Nay, he is King, you know, the King of Naples. + The father ceded Naples, that the son + Being a King, might wed a Queen—O he + Flamed in brocade—white satin his trunk-hose, + Inwrought with silver,—on his neck a collar, + Gold, thick with diamonds; hanging down from this + The Golden Fleece—and round his knee, misplaced, + Our English Garter, studded with great emeralds, + Rubies, I know not what. Have you had enough + Of all this gear? + + STAFFORD. Ay, since you hate the telling it. + How look'd the Queen? + + BAGENHALL. No fairer for her jewels. + And I could see that as the new-made couple + Came from the Minster, moving side by side + Beneath one canopy, ever and anon + She cast on him a vassal smile of love, + Which Philip with a glance of some distaste, + Or so methought, return'd. I may be wrong, sir. + This marriage will not hold. + + STAFFORD. I think with you. + The King of France will help to break it. + + BAGENHALL. France! + We have once had half of France, and hurl'd our battles + Into the heart of Spain; but England now + Is but a ball chuck'd between France and Spain, + His in whose hand she drops; Harry of Bolingbroke + Had holpen Richard's tottering throne to stand, + Could Harry have foreseen that all our nobles + Would perish on the civil slaughter-field, + And leave the people naked to the crown, + And the crown naked to the people; the crown + Female, too! Sir, no woman's regimen + Can save us. We are fallen, and as I think, + Never to rise again. + + STAFFORD. You are too black-blooded. + I'd make a move myself to hinder that: + I know some lusty fellows there in France. + + BAGENHALL. You would but make us weaker, Thomas Stafford. + Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he fail'd, + And strengthen'd Philip. + + STAFFORD. Did not his last breath + Clear Courtenay and the Princess from the charge + Of being his co-rebels? + + BAGENHALL. Ay, but then + What such a one as Wyatt says is nothing: + We have no men among us. The new Lords + Are quieted with their sop of Abbeylands, + And ev'n before the Queen's face Gardiner buys them + With Philip's gold. All greed, no faith, no courage! + Why, ev'n the haughty prince, Northumberland, + The leader of our Reformation, knelt + And blubber'd like a lad, and on the scaffold + Recanted, and resold himself to Rome. + + STAFFORD. I swear you do your country wrong, Sir Ralph. + I know a set of exiles over there, + Dare-devils, that would eat fire and spit it out + At Philip's beard: they pillage Spain already. + The French King winks at it. An hour will come + When they will sweep her from the seas. No men? + Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true man? + Is not Lord William Howard a true man? + Yea, you yourself, altho' you are black-blooded: + And I, by God, believe myself a man. + Ay, even in the church there is a man— + Cranmer. + Fly would he not, when all men bad him fly. + And what a letter he wrote against the Pope! + There's a brave man, if any. + + BAGENHALL. Ay; if it hold. + + CROWD (<i>coming on</i>). + God save their Graces! + + STAFFORD. Bagenhall, I see + The Tudor green and white. (<i>Trumpets</i>.) They are coming now. + And here's a crowd as thick as herring-shoals. + + BAGENHALL. Be limpets to this pillar, or we are torn + Down the strong wave of brawlers. + + CROWD. God save their Graces! + + [<i>Procession of Trumpeters, Javelin-men, etc.; then + Spanish and Flemish Nobles intermingled</i>. + + STAFFORD. Worth seeing, Bagenhall! These black dog-Dons + Garb themselves bravely. Who's the long-face there, + Looks very Spain of very Spain? + + BAGENHALL. The Duke + Of Alva, an iron soldier. + + STAFFORD. And the Dutchman, + Now laughing at some jest? + + BAGENHALL. William of Orange, + William the Silent. + + STAFFORD. Why do they call him so? + + BAGENHALL. He keeps, they say, some secret that may cost + Philip his life. + + STAFFORD. But then he looks so merry. + + BAGENHALL. I cannot tell you why they call him so. + + [<i>The</i> KING <i>and</i> QUEEN <i>pass, attended by Peers of + the Realm, Officers of State, etc. Cannon shot off</i>. + + CROWD. Philip and Mary, Philip and Mary! + Long live the King and Queen, Philip and Mary! + + STAFFORD. They smile as if content with one another. + + BAGENHALL. A smile abroad is oft a scowl at home. + + [KING <i>and</i> QUEEN <i>pass on. Procession</i>. + + FIRST CITIZEN. I thought this Philip had been one of those black + devils of Spain, but he hath a yellow beard. + + SECOND CITIZEN. Not red like Iscariot's. + + FIRST CITIZEN. Like a carrot's, as thou say'st, and English carrot's + better than Spanish licorice; but I thought he was a beast. + + THIRD CITIZEN. Certain I had heard that every Spaniard carries a tail + like a devil under his trunk-hose. + + TAILOR. Ay, but see what trunk-hoses! Lord! they be fine; I never + stitch'd none such. They make amends for the tails. + + FOURTH CITIZEN. Tut! every Spanish priest will tell you that all + English heretics have tails. + + FIFTH CITIZEN. Death and the Devil—if he find I have one— + + FOURTH CITIZEN. Lo! thou hast call'd them up! here they come—a pale + horse for Death and Gardiner for the Devil. + + <i>Enter</i> GARDINER <i>(turning back from the procession)</i>. + + GARDINER. Knave, wilt thou wear thy cap before the Queen? + + MAN. My Lord, I stand so squeezed among the crowd + I cannot lift my hands unto my head. + + GARDINER. Knock off his cap there, some of you about him! + See there be others that can use their hands. + Thou art one of Wyatt's men? + + MAN. No, my Lord, no. + + GARDINER. Thy name, thou knave? + + MAN. I am nobody, my Lord. + + GARDINER (<i>shouting</i>). + God's passion! knave, thy name? + + MAN. I have ears to hear. + + GARDINER. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee ears to hear. + Find out his name and bring it me (<i>to</i> ATTENDANT). + + ATTENDANT. Ay, my Lord. + + GARDINER. Knave, thou shalt lose thine ears and find thy tongue, + And shalt be thankful if I leave thee that. + [<i>Coming before the Conduit</i>. + The conduit painted—the nine worthies—ay! + But then what's here? King Harry with a scroll. + Ha—Verbum Dei—verbum—word of God! + God's passion! do you know the knave that painted it? + + ATTENDANT. I do, my Lord. + + GARDINER. Tell him to paint it out, + And put some fresh device in lieu of it— + A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir; ha? + There is no heresy there. + + ATTENDANT. I will, my Lord; + The man shall paint a pair of gloves. I am sure + (Knowing the man) he wrought it ignorantly, + And not from any malice. + + GARDINER. Word of God + In English! over this the brainless loons + That cannot spell Esaias from St. Paul, + Make themselves drunk and mad, fly out and flare + Into rebellions. I'll have their bibles burnt. + The bible is the priest's. Ay! fellow, what! + Stand staring at me! shout, you gaping rogue! + + MAN. I have, my Lord, shouted till I am hoarse. + + GARDINER. What hast thou shouted, knave? + + MAN. Long live Queen Mary! + + GARDINER. Knave, there be two. There be both King and Queen, + Philip and Mary. Shout! + + MAN. Nay, but, my Lord, + The Queen comes first, Mary and Philip. + + GARDINER. Shout, then, + Mary and Philip! + + MAN. Mary and Philip! + + GARDINER. Now, + Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, shout for mine! + Philip and Mary! + + MAN. Must it be so, my Lord? + + GARDINER. Ay, knave. + + MAN. Philip and Mary! + + GARDINER. I distrust thee. + Thine is a half voice and a lean assent. + What is thy name? + + MAN. Sanders. + + GARDINER. What else? + + MAN. Zerubbabel. + + GARDINER. Where dost thou live? + + MAN. In Cornhill. + + GARDINER. Where, knave, where? + + MAN. Sign of the Talbot. + + GARDINER. Come to me to-morrow.— + Rascal!—this land is like a hill of fire, + One crater opens when another shuts. + But so I get the laws against the heretic, + Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William Howard, + And others of our Parliament, revived, + I will show fire on my side—stake and fire— + Sharp work and short. The knaves are easily cow'd. + Follow their Majesties. + [<i>Exit. The crowd following</i>. + + BAGENHALL. As proud as Becket. + + STAFFORD. You would not have him murder'd as Becket was? + + BAGENHALL. No—murder fathers murder: but I say + There is no man—there was one woman with us— + It was a sin to love her married, dead + I cannot choose but love her. + + STAFFORD. Lady Jane? + + CROWD (<i>going off</i>). + God save their Graces! + + STAFFORD. Did you see her die? + + BAGENHALL. No, no; her innocent blood had blinded me. + You call me too black-blooded—true enough + Her dark dead blood is in my heart with mine. + If ever I cry out against the Pope + Her dark dead blood that ever moves with mine + Will stir the living tongue and make the cry. + + STAFFORD. Yet doubtless you can tell me how she died? + + BAGENHALL. Seventeen—and knew eight languages—in music + Peerless—her needle perfect, and her learning + Beyond the churchmen; yet so meek, so modest, + So wife-like humble to the trivial boy + Mismatch'd with her for policy! I have heard + She would not take a last farewell of him, + She fear'd it might unman him for his end. + She could not be unmann'd—no, nor outwoman'd— + Seventeen—a rose of grace! + Girl never breathed to rival such a rose; + Rose never blew that equall'd such a bud. + + STAFFORD. Pray you go on. + + BAGENHALL. She came upon the scaffold, + And said she was condemn'd to die for treason; + She had but follow'd the device of those + Her nearest kin: she thought they knew the laws. + But for herself, she knew but little law, + And nothing of the titles to the crown; + She had no desire for that, and wrung her hands, + And trusted God would save her thro' the blood + Of Jesus Christ alone. + + STAFFORD. Pray you go on. + + BAGENHALL. Then knelt and said the Misere Mei— + But all in English, mark you; rose again, + And, when the headsman pray'd to be forgiven, + Said, 'You will give me my true crown at last, + But do it quickly;' then all wept but she, + Who changed not colour when she saw the block, + But ask'd him, childlike: 'Will you take it off + Before I lay me down?' 'No, madam,' he said, + Gasping; and when her innocent eyes were bound, + She, with her poor blind hands feeling—'where is it? + Where is it?'—You must fancy that which follow'd, + If you have heart to do it! + + CROWD (<i>in the distance</i>). + God save their Graces! + + STAFFORD. Their Graces, our disgraces! God confound them! + Why, she's grown bloodier! when I last was here, + This was against her conscience—would be murder! + + BAGENHALL. The 'Thou shall do no murder,' which God's hand + Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd out pale— + She could not make it white—and over that, + Traced in the blackest text of Hell—'Thou shall!' + And sign'd it—Mary! + + STAFFORD. Philip and the Pope + Must have sign'd too. I hear this Legate's coming + To bring us absolution from the Pope. + The Lords and Commons will bow down before him— + You are of the house? what will you do, Sir Ralph? + + BAGENHALL. And why should I be bolder than the rest, + Or honester than all? + + STAFFORD. But, sir, if I— + And oversea they say this state of yours + Hath no more mortice than a tower of cards; + And that a puff would do it—then if I + And others made that move I touch'd upon, + Back'd by the power of France, and landing here, + Came with a sudden splendour, shout, and show, + And dazzled men and deafen'd by some bright + Loud venture, and the people so unquiet— + And I the race of murder'd Buckingham— + Not for myself, but for the kingdom—Sir, + I trust that you would fight along with us. + + BAGENHALL. No; you would fling your lives into the gulf. + + STAFFORD. But if this Philip, as he's like to do, + Left Mary a wife-widow here alone, + Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads hither + To seize upon the forts and fleet, and make us + A Spanish province; would you not fight then? + + BAGENHALL. I think I should fight then. + + STAFFORD. I am sure of it. + Hist! there's the face coming on here of one + Who knows me. I must leave you. Fare you well, + You'll hear of me again. + + BAGENHALL. Upon the scaffold. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—ROOM IN WHITEHALL PALACE. + + MARY. <i>Enter</i> PHILIP <i>and</i> CARDINAL POLE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + POLE. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Benedicta tu in mulieribus. + + MARY. Loyal and royal cousin, humblest thanks. + Had you a pleasant voyage up the river? + + POLE. We had your royal barge, and that same chair, + Or rather throne of purple, on the deck. + Our silver cross sparkled before the prow, + The ripples twinkled at their diamond-dance, + The boats that follow'd, were as glowing-gay + As regal gardens; and your flocks of swans, + As fair and white as angels; and your shores + Wore in mine eyes the green of Paradise. + My foreign friends, who dream'd us blanketed + In ever-closing fog, were much amazed + To find as fair a sun as might have flash'd + Upon their lake of Garda, fire the Thames; + Our voyage by sea was all but miracle; + And here the river flowing from the sea, + Not toward it (for they thought not of our tides), + Seem'd as a happy miracle to make glide— + In quiet—home your banish'd countryman. + + MARY. We heard that you were sick in Flanders, cousin. + + POLE. A dizziness. + + MARY. And how came you round again? + + POLE. The scarlet thread of Rahab saved her life; + And mine, a little letting of the blood. + + MARY. Well? now? + + POLE. Ay, cousin, as the heathen giant + Had but to touch the ground, his force return'd— + Thus, after twenty years of banishment, + Feeling my native land beneath my foot, + I said thereto: 'Ah, native land of mine, + Thou art much beholden to this foot of mine, + That hastes with full commission from the Pope + To absolve thee from thy guilt of heresy. + Thou hast disgraced me and attainted me, + And mark'd me ev'n as Cain, and I return + As Peter, but to bless thee: make me well.' + Methinks the good land heard me, for to-day + My heart beats twenty, when I see you, cousin. + Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's death, + How oft hath Peter knock'd at Mary's gate! + And Mary would have risen and let him in, + But, Mary, there were those within the house + Who would not have it. + + MARY. True, good cousin Pole; + And there were also those without the house + Who would not have it. + + POLE. I believe so, cousin. + State-policy and church-policy are conjoint, + But Janus-faces looking diverse ways. + I fear the Emperor much misvalued me. + But all is well; 'twas ev'n the will of God, + Who, waiting till the time had ripen'd, now, + Makes me his mouth of holy greeting. 'Hail, + Daughter of God, and saver of the faith. + Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui!' + + MARY. Ah, heaven! + + POLE. Unwell, your Grace? + + MARY. No, cousin, happy— + Happy to see you; never yet so happy + Since I was crown'd. + + POLE. Sweet cousin, you forget + That long low minster where you gave your hand + To this great Catholic King. + + PHILIP. Well said, Lord Legate. + + MARY. Nay, not well said; I thought of you, my liege, + Ev'n as I spoke. + + PHILIP. Ay, Madam; my Lord Paget + Waits to present our Council to the Legate. + Sit down here, all; Madam, between us you. + + POLE. Lo, now you are enclosed with boards of cedar, + Our little sister of the Song of Songs! + You are doubly fenced and shielded sitting here + Between the two most high-set thrones on earth, + The Emperor's highness happily symboll'd by + The King your husband, the Pope's Holiness + By mine own self. + + MARY. True, cousin, I am happy. + When will you that we summon both our houses + To take this absolution from your lips, + And be regather'd to the Papal fold? + + POLE. In Britain's calendar the brightest day + Beheld our rough forefathers break their Gods, + And clasp the faith in Christ; but after that + Might not St. Andrew's be her happiest day? + + MARY. Then these shall meet upon St. Andrew's day. + + <i>Enter</i> PAGET, <i>who presents the Council. Dumb show</i>. + + POLE. I am an old man wearied with my journey, + Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to withdraw. + To Lambeth? + + PHILIP. Ay, Lambeth has ousted Cranmer. + It was not meet the heretic swine should live + In Lambeth. + + MARY. There or anywhere, or at all. + + PHILIP. We have had it swept and garnish'd after him. + + POLE. Not for the seven devils to enter in? + + PHILIP. No, for we trust they parted in the swine. + + POLE. True, and I am the Angel of the Pope. + Farewell, your Graces. + + PHILIP. Nay, not here—to me; + I will go with you to the waterside. + + POLE. Not be my Charon to the counter side? + + PHILIP. No, my Lord Legate, the Lord Chancellor goes. + + POLE. And unto no dead world; but Lambeth palace, + Henceforth a centre of the living faith. + + [<i>Exeunt</i> PHILIP, POLE, PAGET, <i>etc</i>. + + <i>Manet</i> MARY. + + MARY. He hath awaked! he hath awaked! + He stirs within the darkness! + Oh, Philip, husband! now thy love to mine + Will cling more close, and those bleak manners thaw, + That make me shamed and tongue-tied in my love. + The second Prince of Peace— + The great unborn defender of the Faith, + Who will avenge me of mine enemies— + He comes, and my star rises. + The stormy Wyatts and Northumberlands, + The proud ambitions of Elizabeth, + And all her fieriest partisans—are pale + Before my star! + The light of this new learning wanes and dies: + The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius fade + Into the deathless hell which is their doom + Before my star! + His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to Ind! + His sword shall hew the heretic peoples down! + His faith shall clothe the world that will be his, + Like universal air and sunshine! Open, + Ye everlasting gates! The King is here!— + My star, my son! + + <i>Enter</i> PHILIP, DUKE OF ALVA, <i>etc</i>. + + Oh, Philip, come with me; + Good news have I to tell you, news to make + Both of us happy—ay, the Kingdom too. + Nay come with me—one moment! + + PHILIP (<i>to</i> ALVA). More than that: + There was one here of late—William the Silent + They call him—he is free enough in talk, + But tells me nothing. You will be, we trust, + Sometime the viceroy of those provinces— + He must deserve his surname better. + + ALVA. Ay, sir; + Inherit the Great Silence. + + PHILIP. True; the provinces + Are hard to rule and must be hardly ruled; + Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty rind, + All hollow'd out with stinging heresies; + And for their heresies, Alva, they will fight; + You must break them or they break you. + + ALVA (<i>proudly</i>). The first. + + PHILIP. Good! + Well, Madam, this new happiness of mine? + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> THREE PAGES. + + FIRST PAGE. News, mates! a miracle, a miracle! news! + The bells must ring; Te Deums must be sung; + The Queen hath felt the motion of her babe! + + SECOND PAGE. Ay; but see here! + + FIRST PAGE. See what? + + SECOND PAGE. This paper, Dickon. + I found it fluttering at the palace gates:— + 'The Queen of England is delivered of a dead dog!' + + THIRD PAGE. These are the things that madden her. Fie upon it! + + FIRST PAGE. Ay; but I hear she hath a dropsy, lad, + Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. + + THIRD PAGE. Fie on her dropsy, so she have a dropsy! + I know that she was ever sweet to me. + + FIRST PAGE. For thou and thine are Roman to the core. + + THIRD PAGE. So thou and thine must be. Take heed! + + FIRST PAGE. Not I, + And whether this flash of news be false or true, + So the wine run, and there be revelry, + Content am I. Let all the steeples clash, + Till the sun dance, as upon Easter Day. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III.—GREAT HALL IN WHITEHALL. + + <i>At the far end a dais. On this three chairs, two under one canopy + for</i> MARY <i>and</i> PHILIP, <i>another on the right of these for</i> POLE. + <i>Under the dais on</i> POLE'S <i>side, ranged along the wall, sit all the + Spiritual Peers, and along the wall opposite, all the Temporal. The + Commons on cross benches in front, a line of approach to the dais + between them. In the foreground</i>, SIR RALPH BAGENHALL <i>and other + Members of the Commons</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + FIRST MEMBER. St. Andrew's day; sit close, sit close, we are friends. + Is reconciled the word? the Pope again? + It must be thus; and yet, cocksbody! how strange + That Gardiner, once so one with all of us + Against this foreign marriage, should have yielded + So utterly!—strange! but stranger still that he, + So fierce against the Headship of the Pope, + Should play the second actor in this pageant + That brings him in; such a cameleon he! + + SECOND MEMBER. This Gardiner turn'd his coat in Henry's time; + The serpent that hath slough'd will slough again. + + THIRD MEMBER. Tut, then we all are serpents. + + SECOND MEMBER. Speak for yourself. + + THIRD MEMBER. Ay, and for Gardiner! being English citizen, + How should he bear a bridegroom out of Spain? + The Queen would have him! being English churchman + How should he bear the headship of the Pope? + The Queen would have it! Statesmen that are wise + Shape a necessity, as a sculptor clay, + To their own model. + + SECOND MEMBER. Statesmen that are wise + Take truth herself for model. What say you? + [<i>To</i> SIR RALPH BAGENHALL. + + BAGENHALL. We talk and talk. + + FIRST MEMBER. Ay, and what use to talk? + Philip's no sudden alien—the Queen's husband, + He's here, and king, or will be—yet cocksbody! + So hated here! I watch'd a hive of late; + My seven-years' friend was with me, my young boy; + Out crept a wasp, with half the swarm behind. + 'Philip!' says he. I had to cuff the rogue + For infant treason. + + THIRD MEMBER. But they say that bees, + If any creeping life invade their hive + Too gross to be thrust out, will build him round, + And bind him in from harming of their combs. + And Philip by these articles is bound + From stirring hand or foot to wrong the realm. + + SECOND MEMBER. By bonds of beeswax, like your creeping thing; + But your wise bees had stung him first to death. + + THIRD MEMBER. Hush, hush! + You wrong the Chancellor: the clauses added + To that same treaty which the emperor sent us + Were mainly Gardiner's: that no foreigner + Hold office in the household, fleet, forts, army; + That if the Queen should die without a child, + The bond between the kingdoms be dissolved; + That Philip should not mix us any way + With his French wars— + + SECOND MEMBER. Ay, ay, but what security, + Good sir, for this, if Philip—— + + THIRD MEMBER. Peace—the Queen, Philip, and Pole. + [<i>All rise, and stand</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> MARY, PHILIP, <i>and</i> POLE. + + [GARDINER <i>conducts them to the three chairs of state</i>. + PHILIP <i>sits on the</i> QUEEN'S <i>left</i>, POLE <i>on her right</i>. + + GARDINER. Our short-lived sun, before his winter plunge, + Laughs at the last red leaf, and Andrew's Day. + + MARY. Should not this day be held in after years + More solemn than of old? + + PHILIP. Madam, my wish + Echoes your Majesty's. + + POLE. It shall be so. + + GARDINER. Mine echoes both your Graces'; (<i>aside</i>) but the Pope— + Can we not have the Catholic church as well + Without as with the Italian? if we cannot, + Why then the Pope. + My lords of the upper house, + And ye, my masters, of the lower house, + Do ye stand fast by that which ye resolved? + + VOICES. We do. + + GARDINER. And be you all one mind to supplicate + The Legate here for pardon, and acknowledge + The primacy of the Pope? + + VOICES. We are all one mind. + + GARDINER. Then must I play the vassal to this Pole. [<i>Aside</i>. + + [<i>He draws a paper from under his robes and + presents it to the</i> KING <i>and</i> QUEEN, <i>who look + through it and return it to him; then ascends + a tribune, and reads</i>. + + We, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, + And Commons here in Parliament assembled, + Presenting the whole body of this realm + Of England, and dominions of the same, + Do make most humble suit unto your Majesties, + In our own name and that of all the state, + That by your gracious means and intercession + Our supplication be exhibited + To the Lord Cardinal Pole, sent here as Legate + From our most Holy Father Julius, Pope, + And from the Apostolic see of Rome; + And do declare our penitence and grief + For our long schism and disobedience, + Either in making laws and ordinances + Against the Holy Father's primacy, + Or else by doing or by speaking aught + Which might impugn or prejudice the same; + By this our supplication promising, + As well for our own selves as all the realm, + That now we be and ever shall be quick, + Under and with your Majesties' authorities, + To do to the utmost all that in us lies + Towards the abrogation and repeal + Of all such laws and ordinances made; + Whereon we humbly pray your Majesties, + As persons undefiled with our offence, + So to set forth this humble suit of ours + That we the rather by your intercession + May from the Apostolic see obtain, + Thro' this most reverend Father, absolution, + And full release from danger of all censures + Of Holy Church that we be fall'n into, + So that we may, as children penitent, + Be once again received into the bosom + And unity of Universal Church; + And that this noble realm thro' after years + May in this unity and obedience + Unto the holy see and reigning Pope + Serve God and both your Majesties. + + VOICES. Amen. + [<i>All sit. + + [He again presents the petition to the</i> KING <i>and</i> + QUEEN, <i>who hand it reverentially to</i> POLE. + + POLE (<i>sitting</i>). This is the loveliest day that ever smiled + On England. All her breath should, incenselike, + Rise to the heavens in grateful praise of Him + Who now recalls her to His ancient fold. + Lo! once again God to this realm hath given + A token of His more especial Grace; + For as this people were the first of all + The islands call'd into the dawning church + Out of the dead, deep night of heathendom, + So now are these the first whom God hath given + Grace to repent and sorrow for their schism; + And if your penitence be not mockery, + Oh how the blessed angels who rejoice + Over one saved do triumph at this hour + In the reborn salvation of a land + So noble. [<i>A pause</i>. + For ourselves we do protest + That our commission is to heal, not harm; + We come not to condemn, but reconcile; + We come not to compel, but call again; + We come not to destroy, but edify; + Nor yet to question things already done; + These are forgiven—matters of the past— + And range with jetsam and with offal thrown + Into the blind sea of forgetfulness. [<i>A pause</i>. + Ye have reversed the attainder laid on us + By him who sack'd the house of God; and we, + Amplier than any field on our poor earth + Can render thanks in fruit for being sown, + Do here and now repay you sixty-fold, + A hundred, yea, a thousand thousand-fold, + With heaven for earth. + + [<i>Rising and stretching forth his hands. All kneel but</i> + SIR RALPH BAGENHALL, <i>who rises and remains standing</i>. + + The Lord who hath redeem'd us + With His own blood, and wash'd us from our sins, + To purchase for Himself a stainless bride; + He, whom the Father hath appointed Head + Of all his church, He by His mercy absolve you! [<i>A pause</i>. + And we by that authority Apostolic, + Given unto us, his Legate, by the Pope, + Our Lord and Holy Father, Julius, + God's Vicar and Vicegerent upon earth, + Do here absolve you and deliver you + And every one of you, and all the realm + And its dominions from all heresy, + All schism, and from all and every censure, + Judgment, and pain accruing thereupon; + And also we restore you to the bosom + And unity of Universal Church. + [<i>Turning to</i> GARDINER. + Our letters of commission will declare this plainlier. + + [QUEEN <i>heard sobbing. Cries of</i> Amen! Amen! <i>Some of the + Members embrace one another. All but</i> SIR RALPH BAGENHALL + <i>pass out into the neighboring chapel, whence is heard + the Te Deum</i>. + + BAGENHALL. We strove against the papacy from the first, + In William's time, in our first Edward's time, + And in my master Henry's time; but now, + The unity of Universal Church, + Mary would have it; and this Gardiner follows; + The unity of Universal Hell, + Philip would have it; and this Gardiner follows! + A Parliament of imitative apes! + Sheep at the gap which Gardiner takes, who not + Believes the Pope, nor any of them believe— + These spaniel-Spaniard English of the time, + Who rub their fawning noses in the dust, + For that is Philip's gold-dust, and adore + This Vicar of their Vicar. Would I had been + Born Spaniard! I had held my head up then. + I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, + English. + + <i>Enter</i> OFFICER. + + OFFICER. Sir Ralph Bagenhall! + + BAGENHALL. What of that? + + OFFICER. You were the one sole man in either house + Who stood upright when both the houses fell. + + BAGENHALL. The houses fell! + + OFFICER. I mean the houses knelt + Before the Legate. + + BAGENHALL. Do not scrimp your phrase, + But stretch it wider; say when England fell. + + OFFICER. I say you were the one sole man who stood. + + BAGENHALL. I am the one sole man in either house, + Perchance in England, loves her like a son. + + OFFICER. Well, you one man, because you stood upright, + Her Grace the Queen commands you to the Tower. + + BAGENHALL. As traitor, or as heretic, or for what? + + OFFICER. If any man in any way would be + The one man, he shall be so to his cost. + + BAGENHALL. What! will she have my head? + + OFFICER. A round fine likelier. + Your pardon. [<i>Calling to</i> ATTENDANT. + By the river to the Tower. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE IV.—WHITEHALL. A ROOM IN THE PALACE. + MARY, GARDINER, POLE, PAGET, BONNER, <i>etc</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARY. The King and I, my Lords, now that all traitors + Against our royal state have lost the heads + Wherewith they plotted in their treasonous malice, + Have talk'd together, and are well agreed + That those old statutes touching Lollardism + To bring the heretic to the stake, should be + No longer a dead letter, but requicken'd. + + ONE OF THE COUNCIL. Why, what hath fluster'd Gardiner? how he rubs + His forelock! + + PAGET. I have changed a word with him + In coming, and may change a word again. + + GARDINER. Madam, your Highness is our sun, the King + And you together our two suns in one; + And so the beams of both may shine upon us, + The faith that seem'd to droop will feel your light, + Lift head, and flourish; yet not light alone, + There must be heat—there must be heat enough + To scorch and wither heresy to the root. + For what saith Christ? 'Compel them to come in.' + And what saith Paul? 'I would they were cut off + That trouble you.' Let the dead letter live! + Trace it in fire, that all the louts to whom + Their A B C is darkness, clowns and grooms + May read it! so you quash rebellion too, + For heretic and traitor are all one: + Two vipers of one breed—an amphisbaena, + Each end a sting: Let the dead letter burn! + + PAGET. Yet there be some disloyal Catholics, + And many heretics loyal; heretic throats + Cried no God-bless-her to the Lady Jane, + But shouted in Queen Mary. So there be + Some traitor-heretic, there is axe and cord. + To take the lives of others that are loyal, + And by the churchman's pitiless doom of fire, + Were but a thankless policy in the crown, + Ay, and against itself; for there are many. + + MARY. If we could burn out heresy, my Lord Paget, + We reck not tho' we lost this crown of England— + Ay! tho' it were ten Englands! + + GARDINER. Right, your Grace. + Paget, you are all for this poor life of ours, + And care but little for the life to be. + + PAGET. I have some time, for curiousness, my Lord + Watch'd children playing at <i>their</i> life to be, + And cruel at it, killing helpless flies; + Such is our time—all times for aught I know. + + GARDINER. We kill the heretics that sting the soul— + They, with right reason, flies that prick the flesh. + + PAGET. They had not reach'd right reason; little children! + They kill'd but for their pleasure and the power + They felt in killing. + + GARDINER. A spice of Satan, ha! + Why, good! what then? granted!—we are fallen creatures; + Look to your Bible, Paget! we are fallen. + + PAGET. I am but of the laity, my Lord Bishop, + And may not read your Bible, yet I found + One day, a wholesome scripture, 'Little children, + Love one another.' + + GARDINER. Did you find a scripture, + 'I come not to bring peace but a sword'? The sword + Is in her Grace's hand to smite with. Paget, + You stand up here to fight for heresy, + You are more than guess'd at as a heretic, + And on the steep-up track of the true faith + Your lapses are far seen. + + PAGET. The faultless Gardiner! + + MARY. You brawl beyond the question; speak, Lord Legate! + + POLE. Indeed, I cannot follow with your Grace: + Rather would say—the shepherd doth not kill + The sheep that wander from his flock, but sends + His careful dog to bring them to the fold. + Look to the Netherlands, wherein have been + Such holocausts of heresy! to what end? + For yet the faith is not established there. + + GARDINER. The end's not come. + + POLE. No—nor this way will come, + Seeing there lie two ways to every end, + A better and a worse—the worse is here + To persecute, because to persecute + Makes a faith hated, and is furthermore + No perfect witness of a perfect faith + In him who persecutes: when men are tost + On tides of strange opinion, and not sure + Of their own selves, they are wroth with their own selves, + And thence with others; then, who lights the faggot? + Not the full faith, no, but the lurking doubt. + Old Rome, that first made martyrs in the Church, + Trembled for her own gods, for these were trembling— + But when did our Rome tremble? + + PAGET. Did she not + In Henry's time and Edward's? + + POLE. What, my Lord! + The Church on Peter's rock? never! I have seen + A pine in Italy that cast its shadow + Athwart a cataract; firm stood the pine— + The cataract shook the shadow. To my mind, + The cataract typed the headlong plunge and fall + Of heresy to the pit: the pine was Rome. + You see, my Lords, + It was the shadow of the Church that trembled; + Your church was but the shadow of a church, + Wanting the Papal mitre. + + GARDINER (<i>muttering</i>). Here be tropes. + + POLE. And tropes are good to clothe a naked truth, + And make it look more seemly. + + GARDINER. Tropes again! + + POLE. You are hard to please. Then without tropes, my Lord, + An overmuch severeness, I repeat, + When faith is wavering makes the waverer pass + Into more settled hatred of the doctrines + Of those who rule, which hatred by and by + Involves the ruler (thus there springs to light + That Centaur of a monstrous Commonweal, + The traitor-heretic) then tho' some may quail, + Yet others are that dare the stake and fire, + And their strong torment bravely borne, begets + An admiration and an indignation, + And hot desire to imitate; so the plague + Of schism spreads; were there but three or four + Of these misleaders, yet I would not say + Burn! and we cannot burn whole towns; they are many, + As my Lord Paget says. + + GARDINER. Yet my Lord Cardinal— + + POLE. I am your Legate; please you let me finish. + Methinks that under our Queen's regimen + We might go softlier than with crimson rowel + And streaming lash. When Herod-Henry first + Began to batter at your English Church, + This was the cause, and hence the judgment on her. + She seethed with such adulteries, and the lives + Of many among your churchmen were so foul + That heaven wept and earth blush'd. I would advise + That we should thoroughly cleanse the Church within + Before these bitter statutes be requicken'd. + So after that when she once more is seen + White as the light, the spotless bride of Christ, + Like Christ himself on Tabor, possibly + The Lutheran may be won to her again; + Till when, my Lords, I counsel tolerance. + + GARDINER. What, if a mad dog bit your hand, my Lord, + Would you not chop the bitten finger off, + Lest your whole body should madden with the poison? + I would not, were I Queen, tolerate the heretic, + No, not an hour. The ruler of a land + Is bounden by his power and place to see + His people be not poison'd. Tolerate them! + Why? do they tolerate you? Nay, many of them + Would burn—have burnt each other; call they not + The one true faith, a loathsome idol-worship? + Beware, Lord Legate, of a heavier crime + Than heresy is itself; beware, I say, + Lest men accuse you of indifference + To all faiths, all religion; for you know + Right well that you yourself have been supposed + Tainted with Lutheranism in Italy. + + POLE (<i>angered</i>). But you, my Lord, beyond all supposition, + In clear and open day were congruent + With that vile Cranmer in the accursed lie + Of good Queen Catherine's divorce—the spring + Of all those evils that have flow'd upon us; + For you yourself have truckled to the tyrant, + And done your best to bastardise our Queen, + For which God's righteous judgment fell upon you + In your five years of imprisonment, my Lord, + Under young Edward. Who so bolster'd up + The gross King's headship of the Church, or more + Denied the Holy Father! + + GARDINER. Ha! what! eh? + But you, my Lord, a polish'd gentleman, + A bookman, flying from the heat and tussle, + You lived among your vines and oranges, + In your soft Italy yonder! You were sent for. + You were appeal'd to, but you still preferr'd + Your learned leisure. As for what I did + I suffer'd and repented. You, Lord Legate + And Cardinal-Deacon, have not now to learn + That ev'n St. Peter in his time of fear + Denied his Master, ay, and thrice, my Lord. + + POLE. But not for five-and-twenty years, my Lord. + + GARDINER. Ha! good! it seems then I was summon'd hither + But to be mock'd and baited. Speak, friend Bonner, + And tell this learned Legate he lacks zeal. + The Church's evil is not as the King's, + Cannot be heal'd by stroking. The mad bite + Must have the cautery—tell him—and at once. + What would'st thou do hadst thou his power, thou + That layest so long in heretic bonds with me; + Would'st thou not burn and blast them root and branch? + + BONNER. Ay, after you, my Lord. + + GARDINER. Nay, God's passion, before me! speak' + + BONNER. I am on fire until I see them flame. + + GARDINER. Ay, the psalm-singing weavers, cobblers, scum— + But this most noble prince Plantagenet, + Our good Queen's cousin—dallying over seas + Even when his brother's, nay, his noble mother's, + Head fell— + + POLE. Peace, madman! + Thou stirrest up a grief thou canst not fathom. + Thou Christian Bishop, thou Lord Chancellor + Of England! no more rein upon thine anger + Than any child! Thou mak'st me much ashamed + That I was for a moment wroth at thee. + + MARY. I come for counsel and ye give me feuds, + Like dogs that set to watch their master's gate, + Fall, when the thief is ev'n within the walls, + To worrying one another. My Lord Chancellor, + You have an old trick of offending us; + And but that you are art and part with us + In purging heresy, well we might, for this + Your violence and much roughness to the Legate, + Have shut you from our counsels. Cousin Pole, + You are fresh from brighter lands. Retire with me. + His Highness and myself (so you allow us) + Will let you learn in peace and privacy + What power this cooler sun of England hath + In breeding godless vermin. And pray Heaven + That you may see according to our sight. + Come, cousin. + [<i>Exeunt</i> QUEEN <i>and</i> POLE, <i>etc</i>. + + GARDINER. Pole has the Plantagenet face, + But not the force made them our mightiest kings. + Fine eyes—but melancholy, irresolute— + A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine beard. + But a weak mouth, an indeterminate—ha? + + BONNER. Well, a weak mouth, perchance. + + GARDINER. And not like thine + To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or raw. + + BONNER. I'd do my best, my Lord; but yet the Legate + Is here as Pope and Master of the Church, + And if he go not with you— + + GARDINER. Tut, Master Bishop, + Our bashful Legate, saw'st not how he flush'd? + Touch him upon his old heretical talk, + He'll burn a diocese to prove his orthodoxy. + And let him call me truckler. In those times, + Thou knowest we had to dodge, or duck, or die; + I kept my head for use of Holy Church; + And see you, we shall have to dodge again, + And let the Pope trample our rights, and plunge + His foreign fist into our island Church + To plump the leaner pouch of Italy. + For a time, for a time. + Why? that these statutes may be put in force, + And that his fan may thoroughly purge his floor. + + BONNER. So then you hold the Pope— + + GARDINER. I hold the Pope! + What do I hold him? what do I hold the Pope? + Come, come, the morsel stuck—this Cardinal's fault— + I have gulpt it down. I am wholly for the Pope, + Utterly and altogether for the Pope, + The Eternal Peter of the changeless chair, + Crown'd slave of slaves, and mitred king of kings, + God upon earth! what more? what would you have? + Hence, let's be gone. + + <i>Enter</i> USHER. + + USHER. Well that you be not gone, + My Lord. The Queen, most wroth at first with you, + Is now content to grant you full forgiveness, + So that you crave full pardon of the Legate. + I am sent to fetch you. + + GARDINER. Doth Pole yield, sir, ha! + Did you hear 'em? were you by? + + USHER. I cannot tell you, + His bearing is so courtly-delicate; + And yet methinks he falters: their two Graces + Do so dear-cousin and royal-cousin him, + So press on him the duty which as Legate + He owes himself, and with such royal smiles— + + GARDINER. Smiles that burn men. Bonner, it will be carried. + He falters, ha? 'fore God, we change and change; + Men now are bow'd and old, the doctors tell you, + At three-score years; then if we change at all + We needs must do it quickly; it is an age + Of brief life, and brief purpose, and brief patience, + As I have shown to-day. I am sorry for it + If Pole be like to turn. Our old friend Cranmer, + Your more especial love, hath turn'd so often, + He knows not where he stands, which, if this pass, + We two shall have to teach him; let 'em look to it, + Cranmer and Hooper, Ridley and Latimer, + Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is come, + Their hour is hard at hand, their 'dies Irae' + Their 'dies Illa,' which will test their sect. + I feel it but a duty—you will find in it + Pleasure as well as duty, worthy Bonner,— + To test their sect. Sir, I attend the Queen + To crave most humble pardon—of her most + Royal, Infallible, Papal Legate-cousin. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE V.—WOODSTOCK. + + ELIZABETH, LADY IN WAITING. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ELIZABETH. So they have sent poor Courtenay over sea. + + LADY. And banish'd us to Woodstock, and the fields. + The colours of our Queen are green and white, + These fields are only green, they make me gape. + + ELIZABETH. There's whitethorn, girl. + + LADY. Ay, for an hour in May. + But court is always May, buds out in masques, + Breaks into feather'd merriments, and flowers + In silken pageants. Why do they keep us here? + Why still suspect your Grace? + + ELIZABETH. Hard upon both. + [<i>Writes on the window with a diamond</i>. + + Much suspected, of me + Nothing proven can be. + Quoth Elizabeth, prisoner. + + LADY. What hath your Highness written? + + ELIZABETH. A true rhyme. + + LADY. Cut with a diamond; so to last like truth. + + ELIZABETH. Ay, if truth last. + + LADY. But truth, they say, will out, + So it must last. It is not like a word, + That comes and goes in uttering. + + ELIZABETH. Truth, a word! + The very Truth and very Word are one. + But truth of story, which I glanced at, girl, + Is like a word that comes from olden days, + And passes thro' the peoples: every tongue + Alters it passing, till it spells and speaks + Quite other than at first. + + LADY. I do not follow. + + ELIZABETH. How many names in the long sweep of time + That so foreshortens greatness, may but hang + On the chance mention of some fool that once + Brake bread with us, perhaps: and my poor chronicle + Is but of glass. Sir Henry Bedingfield + May split it for a spite. + + LADY. God grant it last, + And witness to your Grace's innocence, + Till doomsday melt it. + + ELIZABETH. Or a second fire, + Like that which lately crackled underfoot + And in this very chamber, fuse the glass, + And char us back again into the dust + We spring from. Never peacock against rain + Scream'd as you did for water. + + LADY. And I got it. + I woke Sir Henry—and he's true to you + I read his honest horror in his eyes. + + ELIZABETH. Or true to you? + + LADY. Sir Henry Bedingfield! + I will have no man true to me, your Grace, + But one that pares his nails; to me? the clown! + + ELIZABETH. Out, girl! you wrong a noble gentleman. + + LADY. For, like his cloak, his manners want the nap + And gloss of court; but of this fire he says. + Nay swears, it was no wicked wilfulness, + Only a natural chance. + + ELIZABETH. A chance—perchance + One of those wicked wilfuls that men make, + Nor shame to call it nature. Nay, I know + They hunt my blood. Save for my daily range + Among the pleasant fields of Holy Writ + I might despair. But there hath some one come; + The house is all in movement. Hence, and see. + + [<i>Exit</i> LADY. + + MILKMAID (<i>singing without</i>). + + Shame upon you, Robin, + Shame upon you now! + Kiss me would you? with my hands + Milking the cow? + Daisies grow again, + Kingcups blow again, + And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. + + Robin came behind me, + Kiss'd me well I vow; + Cuff him could I? with my hands + Milking the cow? + Swallows fly again, + Cuckoos cry again, + And you came and kiss'd me milking the cow. + + Come, Robin, Robin, + Come and kiss me now; + Help it can I? with my hands + Milking the cow? + Ringdoves coo again, + All things woo again. + Come behind and kiss me milking the cow! + + ELIZABETH. Right honest and red-cheek'd; Robin was violent, + And she was crafty—a sweet violence, + And a sweet craft. I would I were a milkmaid, + To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake, and die, + Then have my simple headstone by the church, + And all things lived and ended honestly. + I could not if I would. I am Harry's daughter: + Gardiner would have my head. They are not sweet, + The violence and the craft that do divide + The world of nature; what is weak must lie; + The lion needs but roar to guard his young; + The lapwing lies, says 'here' when they are there. + Threaten the child; 'I'll scourge you if you did it:' + What weapon hath the child, save his soft tongue, + To say 'I did not?' and my rod's the block. + I never lay my head upon the pillow + But that I think, 'Wilt thou lie there to-morrow?' + How oft the falling axe, that never fell, + Hath shock'd me back into the daylight truth + That it may fall to-day! Those damp, black, dead + Nights in the Tower; dead—with the fear of death + Too dead ev'n for a death-watch! Toll of a bell, + Stroke of a clock, the scurrying of a rat + Affrighted me, and then delighted me, + For there was life—And there was life in death— + The little murder'd princes, in a pale light, + Rose hand in hand, and whisper'd, 'come away! + The civil wars are gone for evermore: + Thou last of all the Tudors, come away! + With us is peace!' The last? It was a dream; + I must not dream, not wink, but watch. She has gone, + Maid Marian to her Robin—by and by + Both happy! a fox may filch a hen by night, + And make a morning outcry in the yard; + But there's no Renard here to 'catch her tripping.' + Catch me who can; yet, sometime I have wish'd + That I were caught, and kill'd away at once + Out of the flutter. The gray rogue, Gardiner, + Went on his knees, and pray'd me to confess + In Wyatt's business, and to cast myself + Upon the good Queen's mercy; ay, when, my Lord? + God save the Queen! My jailor— + + <i>Enter</i> SIR HENRY BEDINGFIELD. + + BEDINGFIELD. One, whose bolts, + That jail you from free life, bar you from death. + There haunt some Papist ruffians hereabout + Would murder you. + + ELIZABETH. I thank you heartily, sir, + But I am royal, tho' your prisoner, + And God hath blest or cursed me with a nose— + Your boots are from the horses. + + BEDINGFIELD. Ay, my Lady. + When next there comes a missive from the Queen + It shall be all my study for one hour + To rose and lavender my horsiness, + Before I dare to glance upon your Grace. + + ELIZABETH. A missive from the Queen: last time she wrote, + I had like to have lost my life: it takes my breath: + O God, sir, do you look upon your boots, + Are you so small a man? Help me: what think you, + Is it life or death. + + BEDINGFIELD. I thought not on my boots; + The devil take all boots were ever made + Since man went barefoot. See, I lay it here, + For I will come no nearer to your Grace; + + [<i>Laying down the letter</i>. + + And, whether it bring you bitter news or sweet, + And God hath given your Grace a nose, or not, + I'll help you, if I may. + + ELIZABETH. Your pardon, then; + It is the heat and narrowness of the cage + That makes the captive testy; with free wing + The world were all one Araby. Leave me now, + Will you, companion to myself, sir? + + BEDINGFIELD. Will I? + With most exceeding willingness, I will; + You know I never come till I be call'd. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + ELIZABETH. It lies there folded: is there venom in it? + A snake—and if I touch it, it may sting. + Come, come, the worst! + Best wisdom is to know the worst at once. [<i>Reads:</i> + + 'It is the King's wish, that you should wed Prince Philibert of Savoy. + You are to come to Court on the instant; and think of this in your + coming. 'MARY THE QUEEN.' + + Think I have many thoughts; + I think there may be birdlime here for me; + I think they fain would have me from the realm; + I think the Queen may never bear a child; + I think that I may be some time the Queen, + Then, Queen indeed: no foreign prince or priest + Should fill my throne, myself upon the steps. + I think I will not marry anyone, + Specially not this landless Philibert + Of Savoy; but, if Philip menace me, + I think that I will play with Philibert, + As once the Holy Father did with mine, + Before my father married my good mother,— + For fear of Spain. + + <i>Enter</i> LADY. + + LADY. O Lord! your Grace, your Grace, + I feel so happy: it seems that we shall fly + These bald, blank fields, and dance into the sun + That shines on princes. + + ELIZABETH. Yet, a moment since, + I wish'd myself the milkmaid singing here, + To kiss and cuff among the birds and flowers— + A right rough life and healthful. + + LADY. But the wench + Hath her own troubles; she is weeping now; + For the wrong Robin took her at her word. + Then the cow kick'd, and all her milk was spilt. + Your Highness such a milkmaid? + + ELIZABETH. I had kept + My Robins and my cows in sweeter order + Had I been such. + + LADY (<i>slyly</i>). And had your Grace a Robin? + + ELIZABETH. Come, come, you are chill here; you want the sun + That shines at court; make ready for the journey. + Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. Ready at once. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE VI.—LONDON. A ROOM IN THE PALACE. + + LORD PETRE <i>and</i> LORD WILLIAM HOWARD. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + PETRE. You cannot see the Queen. Renard denied her, + Ev'n now to me. + + HOWARD. Their Flemish go-between + And all-in-all. I came to thank her Majesty + For freeing my friend Bagenhall from the Tower; + A grace to me! Mercy, that herb-of-grace, + Flowers now but seldom. + + PETRE. Only now perhaps. + Because the Queen hath been three days in tears + For Philip's going—like the wild hedge-rose + Of a soft winter, possible, not probable, + However you have prov'n it. + + HOWARD. I must see her. + + <i>Enter</i> RENARD. + + RENARD. My Lords, you cannot see her Majesty. + + HOWARD. Why then the King! for I would have him bring it + Home to the leisure wisdom of his Queen, + Before he go, that since these statutes past, + Gardiner out-Gardiners Gardiner in his heat, + Bonner cannot out-Bonner his own self— + Beast!—but they play with fire as children do, + And burn the house. I know that these are breeding + A fierce resolve and fixt heart-hate in men + Against the King, the Queen, the Holy Father, + The faith itself. Can I not see him? + + RENARD. Not now. + And in all this, my Lord, her Majesty + Is flint of flint, you may strike fire from her, + Not hope to melt her. I will give your message. + + [<i>Exeunt</i> PETRE <i>and</i> HOWARD. + + <i>Enter</i> PHILIP <i>(musing)</i> + + PHILIP. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy, + I talk'd with her in vain—says she will live + And die true maid—a goodly creature too. + Would <i>she</i> had been the Queen! yet she must have him; + She troubles England: that she breathes in England + Is life and lungs to every rebel birth + That passes out of embryo. + Simon Renard! + This Howard, whom they fear, what was he saying? + + RENARD. What your imperial father said, my liege, + To deal with heresy gentlier. Gardiner burns, + And Bonner burns; and it would seem this people + Care more for our brief life in their wet land, + Than yours in happier Spain. I told my Lord + He should not vex her Highness; she would say + These are the means God works with, that His church + May flourish. + + PHILIP. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship + To strike too soon is oft to miss the blow. + Thou knowest I bad my chaplain, Castro, preach + Against these burnings. + + RENARD. And the Emperor + Approved you, and when last he wrote, declared + His comfort in your Grace that you were bland + And affable to men of all estates, + In hope to charm them from their hate of Spain. + + PHILIP. In hope to crush all heresy under Spain. + But, Renard, I am sicker staying here + Than any sea could make me passing hence, + Tho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. + So sick am I with biding for this child. + Is it the fashion in this clime for women + To go twelve months in bearing of a child? + The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, they led + Processions, chanted litanies, clash'd their bells, + Shot off their lying cannon, and her priests + Have preach'd, the fools, of this fair prince to come; + Till, by St. James, I find myself the fool. + Why do you lift your eyebrow at me thus? + + RENARD. I never saw your Highness moved till now. + + PHILIP. So weary am I of this wet land of theirs, + And every soul of man that breathes therein. + + RENARD. My liege, we must not drop the mask before + The masquerade is over— + + PHILIP. —Have I dropt it? + I have but shown a loathing face to you, + Who knew it from the first. + + <i>Enter</i> MARY. + + MARY (<i>aside</i>). With Renard. Still + Parleying with Renard, all the day with Renard, + And scarce a greeting all the day for me— + And goes to-morrow. + [<i>Exit</i> MARY. + + PHILIP (<i>to</i> RENARD, <i>who advances to him</i>). + Well, sir, is there more? + + RENARD (<i>who has perceived the QUEEN</i>). + May Simon Renard speak a single word? + + PHILIP. Ay. + + RENARD. And be forgiven for it? + + PHILIP. Simon Renard + Knows me too well to speak a single word + That could not be forgiven. + + RENARD. Well, my liege, + Your Grace hath a most chaste and loving wife. + + PHILIP. Why not? The Queen of Philip should be chaste. + + RENARD. Ay, but, my Lord, you know what Virgil sings, + Woman is various and most mutable. + + PHILIP. She play the harlot! never. + + RENARD. No, sire, no, + Not dream'd of by the rabidest gospeller. + There was a paper thrown into the palace, + 'The King hath wearied of his barren bride.' + She came upon it, read it, and then rent it, + With all the rage of one who hates a truth + He cannot but allow. Sire, I would have you— + What should I say, I cannot pick my words— + Be somewhat less—majestic to your Queen. + + PHILIP. Am I to change my manners, Simon Renard, + Because these islanders are brutal beasts? + Or would you have me turn a sonneteer, + And warble those brief-sighted eyes of hers? + + RENARD. Brief-sighted tho' they be, I have seen them, sire, + When you perchance were trifling royally + With some fair dame of court, suddenly fill + With such fierce fire—had it been fire indeed + It would have burnt both speakers. + + PHILIP. Ay, and then? + + RENARD. Sire, might it not be policy in some matter + Of small importance now and then to cede + A point to her demand? + + PHILIP. Well, I am going. + + RENARD. For should her love when you are gone, my liege, + Witness these papers, there will not be wanting + Those that will urge her injury—should her love— + And I have known such women more than one— + Veer to the counterpoint, and jealousy + Hath in it an alchemic force to fuse + Almost into one metal love and hate,— + And she impress her wrongs upon her Council, + And these again upon her Parliament— + We are not loved here, and would be then perhaps + Not so well holpen in our wars with France, + As else we might be—here she comes. + + <i>Enter</i> MARY. + + MARY. O Philip! + Nay, must you go indeed? + + PHILIP. Madam, I must. + + MARY. The parting of a husband and a wife + Is like the cleaving of a heart; one half + Will flutter here, one there. + + PHILIP. You say true, Madam. + + MARY. The Holy Virgin will not have me yet + Lose the sweet hope that I may bear a prince. + If such a prince were born and you not here! + + PHILIP. I should be here if such a prince were born. + + MARY. But must you go? + + PHILIP. Madam, you know my father, + Retiring into cloistral solitude + To yield the remnant of his years to heaven, + Will shift the yoke and weight of all the world + From off his neck to mine. We meet at Brussels. + But since mine absence will not be for long, + Your Majesty shall go to Dover with me, + And wait my coming back. + + MARY. To Dover? no, + I am too feeble. I will go to Greenwich, + So you will have me with you; and there watch + All that is gracious in the breath of heaven + Draw with your sails from our poor land, and pass + And leave me, Philip, with my prayers for you. + + PHILIP. And doubtless I shall profit by your prayers. + + MARY. Methinks that would you tarry one day more + (The news was sudden) I could mould myself + To bear your going better; will you do it? + + PHILIP. Madam, a day may sink or save a realm. + + MARY. A day may save a heart from breaking too. + + PHILIP. Well, Simon Renard, shall we stop a day? + + RENARD. Your Grace's business will not suffer, sire, + For one day more, so far as I can tell. + + PHILIP. Then one day more to please her Majesty. + + MARY. The sunshine sweeps across my life again. + O if I knew you felt this parting, Philip, + As I do! + + PHILIP. By St. James I do protest, + Upon the faith and honour of a Spaniard, + I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty. + Simon, is supper ready? + + RENARD. Ay, my liege, + I saw the covers laying. + + PHILIP. Let us have it. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT IV. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE. + + MARY, CARDINAL POLE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARY. What have you there? + + POLE. So please your Majesty, + A long petition from the foreign exiles + To spare the life of Cranmer. Bishop Thirlby, + And my Lord Paget and Lord William Howard, + Crave, in the same cause, hearing of your Grace. + Hath he not written himself—infatuated— + To sue you for his life? + + MARY. His life? Oh, no; + Not sued for that—he knows it were in vain. + But so much of the anti-papal leaven + Works in him yet, he hath pray'd me not to sully + Mine own prerogative, and degrade the realm + By seeking justice at a stranger's hand + Against my natural subject. King and Queen, + To whom he owes his loyalty after God, + Shall these accuse him to a foreign prince? + Death would not grieve him more. I cannot be + True to this realm of England and the Pope + Together, says the heretic. + + POLE. And there errs; + As he hath ever err'd thro' vanity. + A secular kingdom is but as the body + Lacking a soul; and in itself a beast. + The Holy Father in a secular kingdom + Is as the soul descending out of heaven + Into a body generate. + + MARY. Write to him, then. + + POLE. I will. + + MARY. And sharply, Pole. + + POLE. Here come the Cranmerites! + + <i>Enter</i> THIRLBY, LORD PAGET, LORD WILLIAM HOWARD. + + HOWARD. Health to your Grace! Good morrow, my Lord Cardinal; + We make our humble prayer unto your Grace + That Cranmer may withdraw to foreign parts, + Or into private life within the realm. + In several bills and declarations, Madam, + He hath recanted all his heresies. + + PAGET. Ay, ay; if Bonner have not forged the bills. [<i>Aside</i>. + + MARY. Did not More die, and Fisher? he must burn. + + HOWARD. He hath recanted, Madam. + + MARY. The better for him. + He burns in Purgatory, not in Hell. + + HOWARD. Ay, ay, your Grace; but it was never seen + That any one recanting thus at full, + As Cranmer hath, came to the fire on earth. + + MARY. It will be seen now, then. + + THIRLBY. O Madam, Madam! + I thus implore you, low upon my knees, + To reach the hand of mercy to my friend. + I have err'd with him; with him I have recanted. + What human reason is there why my friend + Should meet with lesser mercy than myself? + + MARY. My Lord of Ely, this. After a riot + We hang the leaders, let their following go. + Cranmer is head and father of these heresies, + New learning as they call it; yea, may God + Forget me at most need when I forget + Her foul divorce—my sainted mother—No!— + + HOWARD. Ay, ay, but mighty doctors doubted there. + The Pope himself waver'd; and more than one + Row'd in that galley—Gardiner to wit, + Whom truly I deny not to have been + Your faithful friend and trusty councillor. + Hath not your Highness ever read his book. + His tractate upon True Obedience, + Writ by himself and Bonner? + + MARY. I will take + Such order with all bad, heretical books + That none shall hold them in his house and live, + Henceforward. No, my Lord. + + HOWARD. Then never read it. + The truth is here. Your father was a man + Of such colossal kinghood, yet so courteous, + Except when wroth, you scarce could meet his eye + And hold your own; and were he wroth indeed, + You held it less, or not at all. I say, + Your father had a will that beat men down; + Your father had a brain that beat men down— + + POLE. Not me, my Lord. + + HOWARD. No, for you were not here; + You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's throne; + And it would more become you, my Lord Legate, + To join a voice, so potent with her Highness, + To ours in plea for Cranmer than to stand + On naked self-assertion. + + MARY. All your voices + Are waves on flint. The heretic must burn. + + HOWARD. Yet once he saved your Majesty's own life; + Stood out against the King in your behalf. + At his own peril. + + MARY. I know not if he did; + And if he did I care not, my Lord Howard. + My life is not so happy, no such boon, + That I should spare to take a heretic priest's, + Who saved it or not saved. Why do you vex me? + + PAGET. Yet to save Cranmer were to serve the Church, + Your Majesty's I mean; he is effaced, + Self-blotted out; so wounded in his honour, + He can but creep down into some dark hole + Like a hurt beast, and hide himself and die; + But if you burn him,—well, your Highness knows + The saying, 'Martyr's blood—seed of the Church.' + + MARY. Of the true Church; but his is none, nor will be. + You are too politic for me, my Lord Paget. + And if he have to live so loath'd a life, + It were more merciful to burn him now. + + THIRLBY. O yet relent. O, Madam, if you knew him + As I do, ever gentle, and so gracious, + With all his learning— + + MARY. Yet a heretic still. + His learning makes his burning the more just. + + THIRLBY. So worshipt of all those that came across him; + The stranger at his hearth, and all his house— + + MARY. His children and his concubine, belike. + + THIRLBY. To do him any wrong was to beget + A kindness from him, for his heart was rich, + Of such fine mould, that if you sow'd therein + The seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. + + POLE. 'After his kind it costs him nothing,' there's + An old world English adage to the point. + These are but natural graces, my good Bishop, + Which in the Catholic garden are as flowers, + But on the heretic dunghill only weeds. + + HOWARD. Such weeds make dunghills gracious. + + MARY. Enough, my Lords. + It is God's will, the Holy Father's will, + And Philip's will, and mine, that he should burn. + He is pronounced anathema. + + HOWARD. Farewell, Madam, + God grant you ampler mercy at your call + Than you have shown to Cranmer. + [<i>Exeunt</i> LORDS. + + POLE. After this, + Your Grace will hardly care to overlook + This same petition of the foreign exiles + For Cranmer's life. + + MARY. Make out the writ to-night. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—OXFORD. CRANMER IN PRISON. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CRANMER. Last night, I dream'd the faggots were alight, + And that myself was fasten'd to the stake, I + And found it all a visionary flame, + Cool as the light in old decaying wood; + And then King Harry look'd from out a cloud, + And bad me have good courage; and I heard + An angel cry 'There is more joy in Heaven,'— + And after that, the trumpet of the dead. + [<i>Trumpets without</i>. + Why, there are trumpets blowing now: what is it? + + <i>Enter</i> FATHER COLE. + + COLE. Cranmer, I come to question you again; + Have you remain'd in the true Catholic faith + I left you in? + + CRANMER. In the true Catholic faith, + By Heaven's grace, I am more and more confirm'd. + Why are the trumpets blowing, Father Cole? + + COLE. Cranmer, it is decided by the Council + That you to-day should read your recantation + Before the people in St. Mary's Church. + And there be many heretics in the town, + Who loathe you for your late return to Rome, + And might assail you passing through the street, + And tear you piecemeal: so you have a guard. + + CRANMER. Or seek to rescue me. I thank the Council. + + COLE. Do you lack any money? + + CRANMER. Nay, why should I? + The prison fare is good enough for me. + + COLE. Ay, but to give the poor. + + CRANMER. Hand it me, then! + I thank you. + + COLE. For a little space, farewell; + Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. + [<i>Exit</i> COLE. + + CRANMER. It is against all precedent to burn + One who recants; they mean to pardon me. + To give the poor—they give the poor who die. + Well, burn me or not burn me I am fixt; + It is but a communion, not a mass: + A holy supper, not a sacrifice; + No man can make his Maker—Villa Garcia. + + <i>Enter</i> VILLA GARCIA. + + VILLA GARCIA. Pray you write out this paper for me, Cranmer. + + CRANMER. Have I not writ enough to satisfy you? + + VILLA GARCIA. It is the last. + + CRANMER. Give it me, then. + [<i>He writes</i>. + + VILLA GARCIA. Now sign. + + CRANMER. I have sign'd enough, and I will sign no more. + + VILLA GARCIA. It is no more than what you have sign'd already, + The public form thereof. + + CRANMER. It may be so; + I sign it with my presence, if I read it. + + VILLA GARCIA. But this is idle of you. Well, sir, well, + You are to beg the people to pray for you; + Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life; + Declare the Queen's right to the throne; confess + Your faith before all hearers; and retract + That Eucharistic doctrine in your book. + Will you not sign it now? + + CRANMER. No, Villa Garcia, + I sign no more. Will they have mercy on me? + + VILLA GARCIA. Have you good hopes of mercy! + So, farewell. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + CRANMER. Good hopes, not theirs, have I that I am fixt, + Fixt beyond fall; however, in strange hours, + After the long brain-dazing colloquies, + And thousand-times recurring argument + Of those two friars ever in my prison, + When left alone in my despondency, + Without a friend, a book, my faith would seem + Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam heavily + Against the huge corruptions of the Church, + Monsters of mistradition, old enough + To scare me into dreaming, 'what am I, + Cranmer, against whole ages?' was it so, + Or am I slandering my most inward friend, + To veil the fault of my most outward foe— + The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh? + O higher, holier, earlier, purer church, + I have found thee and not leave thee any more. + It is but a communion, not a mass— + No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast! + (<i>Writes</i>.) So, so; this will I say—thus will I pray. + [<i>Puts up the paper</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> BONNER. + + BONNER. Good day, old friend; what, you look somewhat worn; + And yet it is a day to test your health + Ev'n at the best: I scarce have spoken with you + Since when?—your degradation. At your trial + Never stood up a bolder man than you; + You would not cap the Pope's commissioner— + Your learning, and your stoutness, and your heresy, + Dumbfounded half of us. So, after that, + We had to dis-archbishop and unlord, + And make you simple Cranmer once again. + The common barber dipt your hair, and I + Scraped from your finger-points the holy oil; + And worse than all, you had to kneel to <i>me</i>; + Which was not pleasant for you, Master Cranmer. + Now you, that would not recognise the Pope, + And you, that would not own the Real Presence, + Have found a real presence in the stake, + Which frights you back into the ancient faith: + And so you have recanted to the Pope. + How are the mighty fallen, Master Cranmer! + + CRANMER. You have been more fierce against the Pope than I; + But why fling back the stone he strikes me with? + [<i>Aside</i>. + O Bonner, if I ever did you kindness— + Power hath been given you to try faith by fire— + Pray you, remembering how yourself have changed, + Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone, + To the poor flock—to women and to children— + That when I was archbishop held with me. + + BONNER. Ay—gentle as they call you—live or die! + Pitiful to this pitiful heresy? + I must obey the Queen and Council, man. + Win thro' this day with honour to yourself, + And I'll say something for you—so—good-bye. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + CRANMER. This hard coarse man of old hath crouch'd to me + Till I myself was half ashamed for him. + + <i>Enter</i> THIRLBY. + + Weep not, good Thirlby. + + THIRLBY. Oh, my Lord, my Lord! + My heart is no such block as Bonner's is: + Who would not weep? + + CRANMER. Why do you so my—lord me, + Who am disgraced? + + THIRLBY. On earth; but saved in heaven + By your recanting. + + CRANMER. Will they burn me, Thirlby? + + THIRLBY. Alas, they will; these burnings will not help + The purpose of the faith; but my poor voice + Against them is a whisper to the roar + Of a spring-tide. + + CRANMER. And they will surely burn me? + + THIRLBY. Ay; and besides, will have you in the church + Repeat your recantation in the ears + Of all men, to the saving of their souls, + Before your execution. May God help you + Thro' that hard hour! + + CRANMER. And may God bless you, Thirlby! + Well, they shall hear my recantation there. + + [<i>Exit</i> THIRLBY. + + Disgraced, dishonour'd!—not by them, indeed, + By mine own self—by mine own hand! + O thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 'twas you + That sign'd the burning of poor Joan of Kent; + But then she was a witch. You have written much, + But you were never raised to plead for Frith, + Whose dogmas I have reach'd: he was deliver'd + To the secular arm to burn; and there was Lambert; + Who can foresee himself? truly these burnings, + As Thirlby says, are profitless to the burners, + And help the other side. You shall burn too, + Burn first when I am burnt. + Fire—inch by inch to die in agony! Latimer + Had a brief end—not Ridley. Hooper burn'd + Three-quarters of an hour. Will my faggots + Be wet as his were? It is a day of rain. + I will not muse upon it. + My fancy takes the burner's part, and makes + The fire seem even crueller than it is. + No, I not doubt that God will give me strength, + Albeit I have denied him. + + <i>Enter</i> SOTO <i>and</i> VILLA GARCIA. + + VILLA GARCIA. We are ready + To take you to St. Mary's, Master Cranmer. + + CRANMER. And I: lead on; ye loose me from my bonds. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III.—ST. MARY'S CHURCH. + + COLE <i>in the Pulpit</i>, LORD WILLIAMS OF THAME <i>presiding</i>. LORD WILLIAM + HOWARD, LORD PAGET, <i>and others</i>. CRANMER <i>enters between</i> SOTO <i>and</i> + VILLA GARCIA, <i>and the whole Choir strike up</i> 'Nunc Dimittis.' CRANMER + <i>is set upon a Scaffold before the people</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + COLE. Behold him— + [<i>A pause: people in the foreground</i>. + + PEOPLE. Oh, unhappy sight! + + FIRST PROTESTANT. See how the tears run down his fatherly face. + + SECOND PROTESTANT. James, didst thou ever see a carrion crow Stand + watching a sick beast before he dies? + + FIRST PROTESTANT. Him perch'd up there? I wish some thunderbolt Would + make this Cole a cinder, pulpit and all. + + COLE. Behold him, brethren: he hath cause to weep!— + So have we all: weep with him if ye will, + Yet— + It is expedient for one man to die, + Yea, for the people, lest the people die. + Yet wherefore should he die that hath return'd + To the one Catholic Universal Church, + Repentant of his errors? + + PROTESTANT <i>murmurs</i>. Ay, tell us that. + + COLE. Those of the wrong side will despise the man, + Deeming him one that thro' the fear of death + Gave up his cause, except he seal his faith + In sight of all with flaming martyrdom. + + CRANMER. Ay. + + COLE. Ye hear him, and albeit there may seem + According to the canons pardon due + To him that so repents, yet are there causes + Wherefore our Queen and Council at this time + Adjudge him to the death. He hath been a traitor, + A shaker and confounder of the realm; + And when the King's divorce was sued at Rome, + He here, this heretic metropolitan, + As if he had been the Holy Father, sat + And judged it. Did I call him heretic? + A huge heresiarch! never was it known + That any man so writing, preaching so, + So poisoning the Church, so long continuing, + Hath found his pardon; therefore he must die, + For warning and example. + Other reasons + There be for this man's ending, which our Queen + And Council at this present deem it not + Expedient to be known. + + PROTESTANT <i>murmurs</i>. I warrant you. + + COLE. Take therefore, all, example by this man, + For if our Holy Queen not pardon him, + Much less shall others in like cause escape, + That all of you, the highest as the lowest, + May learn there is no power against the Lord. + There stands a man, once of so high degree, + Chief prelate of our Church, archbishop, first + In Council, second person in the realm, + Friend for so long time of a mighty King; + And now ye see downfallen and debased + From councillor to caitiff—fallen so low, + The leprous flutterings of the byway, scum + And offal of the city would not change + Estates with him; in brief, so miserable, + There is no hope of better left for him, + No place for worse. + Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad. + This is the work of God. He is glorified + In thy conversion: lo! thou art reclaim'd; + He brings thee home: nor fear but that to-day + Thou shalt receive the penitent thief's award, + And be with Christ the Lord in Paradise. + Remember how God made the fierce fire seem + To those three children like a pleasant dew. + Remember, too, + The triumph of St. Andrew on his cross, + The patience of St. Lawrence in the fire. + Thus, if thou call on God and all the saints, + God will beat down the fury of the flame, + Or give thee saintly strength to undergo. + And for thy soul shall masses here be sung + By every priest in Oxford. Pray for him. + + CRANMER. Ay, one and all, dear brothers, pray for me; + Pray with one breath, one heart, one soul for me. + + COLE. And now, lest anyone among you doubt + The man's conversion and remorse of heart, + Yourselves shall hear him speak. Speak, Master Cranmer, + Fulfil your promise made me, and proclaim + Your true undoubted faith, that all may hear. + + CRANMER. And that I will. O God, Father of Heaven! + O Son of God, Redeemer of the world! + O Holy Ghost! proceeding from them both, + Three persons and one God, have mercy on me, + Most miserable sinner, wretched man. + I have offended against heaven and earth + More grievously than any tongue can tell. + Then whither should I flee for any help? + I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven, + And I can find no refuge upon earth. + Shall I despair then?—God forbid! O God, + For thou art merciful, refusing none + That come to Thee for succour, unto Thee, + Therefore, I come; humble myself to Thee; + Saying, O Lord God, although my sins be great, + For thy great mercy have mercy! O God the Son, + Not for slight faults alone, when thou becamest + Man in the Flesh, was the great mystery wrought; + O God the Father, not for little sins + Didst thou yield up thy Son to human death; + But for the greatest sin that can be sinn'd, + Yea, even such as mine, incalculable, + Unpardonable,—sin against the light, + The truth of God, which I had proven and known. + Thy mercy must be greater than all sin. + Forgive me, Father, for no merit of mine, + But that Thy name by man be glorified, + And Thy most blessed Son's, who died for man. + + Good people, every man at time of death + Would fain set forth some saying that may live + After his death and better humankind; + For death gives life's last word a power to live, + And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain + After the vanish'd voice, and speak to men. + God grant me grace to glorify my God! + And first I say it is a grievous case, + Many so dote upon this bubble world, + Whose colours in a moment break and fly, + They care for nothing else. What saith St. John: + 'Love of this world is hatred against God.' + Again, I pray you all that, next to God, + You do unmurmuringly and willingly + Obey your King and Queen, and not for dread + Of these alone, but from the fear of Him + Whose ministers they be to govern you. + Thirdly, I pray you all to live together + Like brethren; yet what hatred Christian men + Bear to each other, seeming not as brethren, + But mortal foes! But do you good to all + As much as in you lieth. Hurt no man more + Than you would harm your loving natural brother + Of the same roof, same breast. If any do, + Albeit he think himself at home with God, + Of this be sure, he is whole worlds away. + + PROTESTANT <i>murmurs</i>. What sort of brothers then be those that lust + To burn each other? + + WILLIAMS. Peace among you, there! + + CRANMER. Fourthly, to those that own exceeding wealth, + Remember that sore saying spoken once + By Him that was the truth, 'How hard it is + For the rich man to enter into Heaven;' + Let all rich men remember that hard word. + I have not time for more: if ever, now + Let them flow forth in charity, seeing now + The poor so many, and all food so dear. + Long have I lain in prison, yet have heard + Of all their wretchedness. Give to the poor, + Ye give to God. He is with us in the poor. + + And now, and forasmuch as I have come + To the last end of life, and thereupon + Hangs all my past, and all my life to be, + Either to live with Christ in Heaven with joy, + Or to be still in pain with devils in hell; + And, seeing in a moment, I shall find + [<i>Pointing upwards</i>. + Heaven or else hell ready to swallow me, + [<i>Pointing downwards</i>. + I shall declare to you my very faith + Without all colour. + + COLE. Hear him, my good brethren. + + CRANMER. I do believe in God, Father of all; + In every article of the Catholic faith, + And every syllable taught us by our Lord, + His prophets, and apostles, in the Testaments, + Both Old and New. + + COLE. Be plainer, Master Cranmer. + + CRANMER. And now I come to the great cause that weighs + Upon my conscience more than anything + Or said or done in all my life by me; + For there be writings I have set abroad + Against the truth I knew within my heart, + Written for fear of death, to save my life, + If that might be; the papers by my hand + Sign'd since my degradation—by this hand + [<i>Holding out his right hand</i>. + Written and sign'd—I here renounce them all; + And, since my hand offended, having written + Against my heart, my hand shall first be burnt, + So I may come to the fire. + [<i>Dead silence</i>. + + PROTESTANT <i>murmurs</i>. + + FIRST PROTESTANT. I knew it would be so. + + SECOND PROTESTANT. Our prayers are heard! + + THIRD PROTESTANT. God bless him! + + CATHOLIC <i>murmurs</i>. Out upon him! out upon him! + Liar! dissembler! traitor! to the fire! + + WILLIAMS (<i>raising his voice</i>). + You know that you recanted all you said + Touching the sacrament in that same book + You wrote against my Lord of Winchester; + Dissemble not; play the plain Christian man. + + CRANMER. Alas, my Lord, + I have been a man loved plainness all my life; + I <i>did</i> dissemble, but the hour has come + For utter truth and plainness; wherefore, I say, + I hold by all I wrote within that book. + Moreover, + As for the Pope I count him Antichrist, + With all his devil's doctrines; and refuse, + Reject him, and abhor him. I have said. + + [<i>Cries on all sides</i>, 'Pull him down! Away with him!' + + COLE. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth! Hale him away! + + WILLIAMS. Harm him not, harm him not! have him to the fire! + + [CRANMER <i>goes out between Two Friars, smiling; hands are + reached to him from the crowd</i>. LORD WILLIAM HOWARD <i>and</i> + LORD PAGET <i>are left alone in the church</i>. + + PAGET. The nave and aisles all empty as a fool's jest! + No, here's Lord William Howard. What, my Lord, + You have not gone to see the burning? + + HOWARD. Fie! + To stand at ease, and stare as at a show, + And watch a good man burn. Never again. + I saw the deaths of Latimer and Ridley. + Moreover, tho' a Catholic, I would not, + For the pure honour of our common nature, + Hear what I might—another recantation + Of Cranmer at the stake. + + PAGET. You'd not hear that. + He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd upright; + His eye was like a soldier's, whom the general + He looks to and he leans on as his God, + Hath rated for some backwardness and bidd'n him + Charge one against a thousand, and the man + Hurls his soil'd life against the pikes and dies. + + HOWARD. Yet that he might not after all those papers + Of recantation yield again, who knows? + + PAGET. Papers of recantation! Think you then + That Cranmer read all papers that he sign'd? + Or sign'd all those they tell us that he sign'd? + Nay, I trow not: and you shall see, my Lord, + That howsoever hero-like the man + Dies in the fire, this Bonner or another + Will in some lying fashion misreport + His ending to the glory of their church. + And you saw Latimer and Ridley die? + Latimer was eighty, was he not? his best + Of life was over then. + + HOWARD. His eighty years + Look'd somewhat crooked on him in his frieze; + But after they had stript him to his shroud, + He stood upright, a lad of twenty-one, + And gather'd with his hands the starting flame, + And wash'd his hands and all his face therein, + Until the powder suddenly blew him dead. + Ridley was longer burning; but he died + As manfully and boldly, and, 'fore God, + I know them heretics, but right English ones. + If ever, as heaven grant, we clash with Spain, + Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer-sailors + Will teach her something. + + PAGET. Your mild Legate Pole + Will tell you that the devil helpt them thro' it. + [<i>A murmur of the Crowd in the distance</i>. + Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl and bay him! + + HOWARD. Might it not be the other side rejoicing + In his brave end? + + PAGET. They are too crush'd, too broken, + They can but weep in silence. + + HOWARD. Ay, ay, Paget, + They have brought it in large measure on themselves. + Have I not heard them mock the blessed Host + In songs so lewd, the beast might roar his claim + To being in God's image, more than they? + Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the groom. + Gardener, and huntsman, in the parson's place, + The parson from his own spire swung out dead, + And Ignorance crying in the streets, and all men + Regarding her? I say they have drawn the fire + On their own heads: yet, Paget, I do hold + The Catholic, if he have the greater right, + Hath been the crueller. + + PAGET. Action and re-action, + The miserable see-saw of our child-world, + Make us despise it at odd hours, my Lord. + Heaven help that this re-action not re-act + Yet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth, + So that she come to rule us. + + HOWARD. The world's mad. + + PAGET. My Lord, the world is like a drunken man, + Who cannot move straight to his end—but reels + Now to the right, then as far to the left, + Push'd by the crowd beside—and underfoot + An earthquake; for since Henry for a doubt— + Which a young lust had clapt upon the back, + Crying, 'Forward!'—set our old church rocking, men + Have hardly known what to believe, or whether + They should believe in anything; the currents + So shift and change, they see not how they are borne, + Nor whither. I conclude the King a beast; + Verily a lion if you will—the world + A most obedient beast and fool—myself + Half beast and fool as appertaining to it; + Altho' your Lordship hath as little of each + Cleaving to your original Adam-clay, + As may be consonant with mortality. + + HOWARD. We talk and Cranmer suffers. + The kindliest man I ever knew; see, see, + I speak of him in the past. Unhappy land! + Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanish in herself, + And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock of Spain— + Her life, since Philip left her, and she lost + Her fierce desire of bearing him a child, + Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's day, + Gone narrowing down and darkening to a close. + There will be more conspiracies, I fear. + + PAGET. Ay, ay, beware of France. + + HOWARD. O Paget, Paget! + I have seen heretics of the poorer sort, + Expectant of the rack from day to day, + To whom the fire were welcome, lying chain'd + In breathless dungeons over steaming sewers, + Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon the tongue, + And putrid water, every drop a worm, + Until they died of rotted limbs; and then + Cast on the dunghill naked, and become + Hideously alive again from head to heel, + Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel vomit + With hate and horror. + + PAGET. Nay, you sicken <i>me</i> + To hear you. + + HOWARD. Fancy-sick; these things are done, + Done right against the promise of this Queen + Twice given. + + PAGET. No faith with heretics, my Lord! + Hist! there be two old gossips—gospellers, + I take it; stand behind the pillar here; + I warrant you they talk about the burning. + + <i>Enter</i> TWO OLD WOMEN. JOAN, <i>and after her</i> TIB. + + JOAN. Why, it be Tib! + + TIB. I cum behind tha, gall, and couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the wind + and the wet! What a day, what a day! nigh upo' judgement daay loike. + Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lord's cheer + o' that daay. + + JOAN. I must set down myself, Tib; it be a var waay vor my owld legs + up vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that bad howiver be I to win to + the burnin'. + + TIB. I should saay 'twur ower by now. I'd ha' been here avore, but + Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and Dumble's the best milcher in + Islip. + + JOAN. Our Daisy's as good 'z her. + + TIB. Noa, Joan. + + JOAN. Our Daisy's butter's as good'z hern. + + TIB. Noa, Joan. + + JOAN. Our Daisy's cheeses be better. + + TIB. Noa, Joan. + + JOAN. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, Tib; ez thou hast wi' thy owld + man. + + TIB. Ay, Joan, and my owld man wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree hard + eggs for a good pleace at the burnin'; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 'ud + ha' been a-harrowin' o' white peasen i' the outfield—and barrin' the + wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z we was forced to stick + her, but we fetched her round at last. Thank the Lord therevore. + Dumble's the best milcher in Islip. + + JOAN. Thou's thy way wi' man and beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', it + beats me! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps and vires be bad things; tell + 'ee now, I heerd summat as summun towld summun o' owld Bishop + Gardiner's end; there wur an owld lord a-cum to dine wi' un, and a wur + so owld a couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had to bide howsomiver, + vor 'I wunt dine,' says my Lord Bishop, says he, 'not till I hears ez + Latimer and Ridley be a-vire;' and so they bided on and on till vour + o' the clock, till his man cum in post vro' here, and tells un ez the + vire has tuk holt. 'Now,' says the Bishop, says he, 'we'll gwo to + dinner;' and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, God bless un! + but Gardiner wur struck down like by the hand o' God avore a could + taste a mossel, and a set un all a-vire, so 'z the tongue on un cum + a-lolluping out o' 'is mouth as black as a rat. Thank the Lord, + therevore. + + PAGET. The fools! + + TIB. Ay, Joan; and Queen Mary gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to get + her baaby born; but all her burnin's 'ill never burn out the hypocrisy + that makes the water in her. There's nought but the vire of God's hell + ez can burn out that. + + JOAN. Thank the Lord, therevore. + + PAGET. The fools! + + TIB. A-burnin', and a-burnin', and a-makin' o' volk madder and madder; + but tek thou my word vor't, Joan,—and I bean't wrong not twice i' ten + year—the burnin' o' the owld archbishop'll burn the Pwoap out o' + this 'ere land vor iver and iver. + + HOWARD. Out of the church, you brace of cursed crones, Or I will have + you duck'd! (<i>Women hurry out</i>.) Said I not right? For how should + reverend prelate or throned prince Brook for an hour such brute + malignity? Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther brew'd! + + PAGET. Pooh, pooh, my Lord! poor garrulous country-wives. + Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side with you; + You cannot judge the liquor from the lees. + + HOWARD. I think that in some sort we may. But see, + + <i>Enter</i> PETERS. + + Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic, + Who follow'd with the crowd to Cranmer's fire. + One that would neither misreport nor lie, + Not to gain paradise: no, nor if the Pope, + Charged him to do it—he is white as death. + Peters, how pale you look! you bring the smoke + Of Cranmer's burning with you. + + PETERS. Twice or thrice + The smoke of Cranmer's burning wrapt me round. + + HOWARD. Peters, you know me Catholic, but English. + Did he die bravely? Tell me that, or leave + All else untold. + + PETERS. My Lord, he died most bravely. + + HOWARD. Then tell me all. + + PAGET. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. + + PETERS. You saw him how he past among the crowd; + And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friars + Still plied him with entreaty and reproach: + But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm + Steers, ever looking to the happy haven + Where he shall rest at night, moved to his death; + And I could see that many silent hands + Came from the crowd and met his own; and thus + When we had come where Ridley burnt with Latimer, + He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mind + Is all made up, in haste put off the rags + They had mock'd his misery with, and all in white, + His long white beard, which he had never shaven + Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to the chain, + Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he stood + More like an ancient father of the Church, + Than heretic of these times; and still the friars + Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his head, + Or answer'd them in smiling negatives; + Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry:— + 'Make short! make short!' and so they lit the wood. + Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven, + And thrust his right into the bitter flame; + And crying, in his deep voice, more than once, + 'This hath offended—this unworthy hand!' + So held it till it all was burn'd, before + The flame had reach'd his body; I stood near— + Mark'd him—he never uttered moan of pain: + He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a statue, + Unmoving in the greatness of the flame, + Gave up the ghost; and so past martyr-like— + Martyr I may not call him—past—but whither? + PAGET. To purgatory, man, to purgatory. + + PETERS. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory. + + PAGET. Why then to heaven, and God ha' mercy on him. + + HOWARD. Paget, despite his fearful heresies, + I loved the man, and needs must moan for him; + O Cranmer! + + PAGET. But your moan is useless now: + Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT V. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—LONDON. HALL IN THE PALACE. + + QUEEN, SIR NICHOLAS HEATH. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HEATH. Madam, + I do assure you, that it must be look'd to: + Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes + Are scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet + Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd to, + If war should fall between yourself and France; + Or you will lose your Calais. + + MARY. It shall be look'd to; + I wish you a good morning, good Sir Nicholas: + Here is the King. + [<i>Exit</i> HEATH. + + <i>Enter</i> PHILIP. + + PHILIP. Sir Nicholas tells you true, + And you must look to Calais when I go. + + MARY. Go? must you go, indeed—again—so soon? + Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the swallow, + That might live always in the sun's warm heart, + Stays longer here in our poor north than you:— + Knows where he nested—ever comes again. + + PHILIP. And, Madam, so shall I. + + MARY. O, will you? will you? + I am faint with fear that you will come no more. + + PHILIP. Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence. + + MARY. Voices—I hear unhappy rumours—nay, + I say not, I believe. What voices call you + Dearer than mine that should be dearest to you? + Alas, my Lord! what voices and how many? + + PHILIP. The voices of Castille and Aragon, + Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,— + The voices of Franche-Comte, and the Netherlands, + The voices of Peru and Mexico, + Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines, + And all the fair spice-islands of the East. + + MARY (<i>admiringly</i>). + You are the mightiest monarch upon earth, + I but a little Queen: and, so indeed, + Need you the more. + + PHILIP. A little Queen! but when + I came to wed your majesty, Lord Howard, + Sending an insolent shot that dash'd the seas + Upon us, made us lower our kingly flag + To yours of England. + + MARY. Howard is all English! + There is no king, not were he ten times king, + Ten times our husband, but must lower his flag + To that of England in the seas of England. + + PHILIP. Is that your answer? + + MARY. Being Queen of England, + I have none other. + + PHILIP. So. + + MARY. But wherefore not + Helm the huge vessel of your state, my liege, + Here by the side of her who loves you most? + + PHILIP. No, Madam, no! a candle in the sun + Is all but smoke—a star beside the moon + Is all but lost; your people will not crown me— + Your people are as cheerless as your clime; + Hate me and mine: witness the brawls, the gibbets. + Here swings a Spaniard—there an Englishman; + The peoples are unlike as their complexion; + Yet will I be your swallow and return— + But now I cannot bide. + + MARY. Not to help <i>me?</i> + They hate <i>me</i> also for my love to you, + My Philip; and these judgments on the land— + Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, plague— + + PHILIP. The blood and sweat of heretics at the stake + Is God's best dew upon the barren field. + Burn more! + + MARY. I will, I will; and you will stay? + + PHILIP. Have I not said? Madam, I came to sue + Your Council and yourself to declare war. + + MARY. Sir, there are many English in your ranks + To help your battle. + + PHILIP. So far, good. I say + I came to sue your Council and yourself + To declare war against the King of France. + + MARY. Not to see me? + + PHILIP. Ay, Madam, to see you. + Unalterably and pesteringly fond! [<i>Aside</i>. + But, soon or late you must have war with France; + King Henry warms your traitors at his hearth. + Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there. + Courtenay, belike— + + MARY. A fool and featherhead! + + PHILIP. Ay, but they use his name. In brief, this Henry + Stirs up your land against you to the intent + That you may lose your English heritage. + And then, your Scottish namesake marrying + The Dauphin, he would weld France, England, Scotland, + Into one sword to hack at Spain and me. + + MARY. And yet the Pope is now colleagued with France; + You make your wars upon him down in Italy:— + Philip, can that be well? + + PHILIP. Content you, Madam; + You must abide my judgment, and my father's, + Who deems it a most just and holy war. + The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of Naples: + He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Saracens. + The Pope has pushed his horns beyond his mitre— + Beyond his province. Now, + Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns, + And he withdraws; and of his holy head— + For Alva is true son of the true church— + No hair is harm'd. Will you not help me here? + + MARY. Alas! the Council will not hear of war. + They say your wars are not the wars of England. + They will not lay more taxes on a land + So hunger-nipt and wretched; and you know + The crown is poor. We have given the church-lands back: + The nobles would not; nay, they clapt their hands + Upon their swords when ask'd; and therefore God + Is hard upon the people. What's to be done? + Sir, I will move them in your cause again, + And we will raise us loans and subsidies + Among the merchants; and Sir Thomas Gresham + Will aid us. There is Antwerp and the Jews. + + PHILIP. Madam, my thanks. + + MARY. And you will stay your going? + + PHILIP. And further to discourage and lay lame + The plots of France, altho' you love her not, + You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. + She stands between you and the Queen of Scots. + + MARY. The Queen of Scots at least is Catholic. + + PHILIP. Ay, Madam, Catholic; but I will not have + The King of France the King of England too. + + MARY. But she's a heretic, and, when I am gone, + Brings the new learning back. + + PHILIP. It must be done. + You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir. + + MARY. Then it is done; but you will stay your going + Somewhat beyond your settled purpose? + + PHILIP. No! + + MARY. What, not one day? + + PHILIP. You beat upon the rock. + + MARY. And I am broken there. + + PHILIP. Is this a place + To wail in, Madam? what! a public hall. + Go in, I pray you. + + MARY. Do not seem so changed. + Say go; but only say it lovingly. + + PHILIP. You do mistake. I am not one to change. + I never loved you more. + + MARY. Sire, I obey you. + Come quickly. + + PHILIP. Ay. + [<i>Exit</i> MARY. + + <i>Enter</i> COUNT DE FERIA. + + FERIA (<i>aside</i>). The Queen in tears! + + PHILIP. Feria! + Hast thou not mark'd—come closer to mine ear— + How doubly aged this Queen of ours hath grown + Since she lost hope of bearing us a child? + + FERIA. Sire, if your Grace hath mark'd it, so have I. + + PHILIP. Hast thou not likewise mark'd Elizabeth, + How fair and royal—like a Queen, indeed? + + FERIA. Allow me the same answer as before— + That if your Grace hath mark'd her, so have I. + + PHILIP. Good, now; methinks my Queen is like enough + To leave me by and by. + + FERIA. To leave you, sire? + + PHILIP. I mean not like to live. Elizabeth— + To Philibert of Savoy, as you know, + We meant to wed her; but I am not sure + She will not serve me better—so my Queen + Would leave me—as—my wife. + + FERIA. Sire, even so. + + PHILIP. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy. + + FERIA. No, sire. + + PHILIP. I have to pray you, some odd time, + To sound the Princess carelessly on this; + Not as from me, but as your phantasy; + And tell me how she takes it. + + FERIA. Sire, I will. + + PHILIP. I am not certain but that Philibert + Shall be the man; and I shall urge his suit + Upon the Queen, because I am not certain: + You understand, Feria. + + FERIA. Sire, I do. + + PHILIP. And if you be not secret in this matter, + You understand me there, too? + + FERIA. Sire, I do. + + PHILIP. You must be sweet and supple, like a Frenchman. + She is none of those who loathe the honeycomb. + + [<i>Exit</i> FERIA. + + <i>Enter</i> RENARD. + + RENARD. My liege, I bring you goodly tidings. + + PHILIP. Well? + + RENARD. There <i>will</i> be war with France, at last, my liege; + Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass, + Sailing from France, with thirty Englishmen, + Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of York; + Proclaims himself protector, and affirms + The Queen has forfeited her right to reign + By marriage with an alien—other things + As idle; a weak Wyatt! Little doubt + This buzz will soon be silenced; but the Council + (I have talk'd with some already) are for war. + This the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in France; + They show their teeth upon it; and your Grace, + So you will take advice of mine, should stay + Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the event. + + PHILIP. Good! Renard, I will stay then. + + RENARD. Also, sire, + Might I not say—to please your wife, the Queen? + + PHILIP. Ay, Renard, if you care to put it so. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE. + + MARY, <i>sitting: a rose in her hand</i>. LADY CLARENCE. ALICE <i>in the + background</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MARY. Look! I have play'd with this poor rose so long + I have broken off the head. + + LADY CLARENCE. Your Grace hath been + More merciful to many a rebel head + That should have fallen, and may rise again. + + MARY. There were not many hang'd for Wyatt's rising. + + LADY CLARENCE. Nay, not two hundred. + + MARY. I could weep for them + And her, and mine own self and all the world. + + LADY CLARENCE. For her? for whom, your Grace? + + <i>Enter</i> USHER. + + USHER. The Cardinal. + + <i>Enter</i> CARDINAL POLE. (MARY <i>rises</i>.) + + MARY. Reginald Pole, what news hath plagued thy heart? + What makes thy favour like the bloodless head + Fall'n on the block, and held up by the hair? + Philip?— + + POLE. No, Philip is as warm in life + As ever. + + MARY. Ay, and then as cold as ever. + Is Calais taken? + + POLE. Cousin, there hath chanced + A sharper harm to England and to Rome, + Than Calais taken. Julius the Third + Was ever just, and mild, and father-like; + But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Fourth, + Not only reft me of that legateship + Which Julius gave me, and the legateship + Annex'd to Canterbury—nay, but worse— + And yet I must obey the Holy Father, + And so must you, good cousin;—worse than all, + A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear— + He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy, + Before his Inquisition. + + MARY. I knew it, cousin, + But held from you all papers sent by Rome, + That you might rest among us, till the Pope, + To compass which I wrote myself to Rome, + Reversed his doom, and that you might not seem + To disobey his Holiness. + + POLE. He hates Philip; + He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard; + He cannot dream that <i>I</i> advised the war; + He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself. + Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too; + So brands me in the stare of Christendom + A heretic! + Now, even now, when bow'd before my time, + The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out; + When I should guide the Church in peace at home, + After my twenty years of banishment, + And all my lifelong labour to uphold + The primacy—a heretic. Long ago, + When I was ruler in the patrimony, + I was too lenient to the Lutheran, + And I and learned friends among ourselves + Would freely canvass certain Lutheranisms. + What then, he knew I was no Lutheran. + A heretic! + He drew this shaft against me to the head, + When it was thought I might be chosen Pope, + But then withdrew it. In full consistory, + When I was made Archbishop, he approved me. + And how should he have sent me Legate hither, + Deeming me heretic? and what heresy since? + But he was evermore mine enemy, + And hates the Spaniard—fiery-choleric, + A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines, + That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic? + Your Highness knows that in pursuing heresy + I have gone beyond your late Lord Chancellor,— + He cried Enough! enough! before his death.— + Gone beyond him and mine own natural man + (It was God's cause); so far they call me now, + The scourge and butcher of their English church. + + MARY. Have courage, your reward is Heaven itself. + + POLE. They groan amen; they swarm into the fire + Like flies—for what? no dogma. They know nothing; + They burn for nothing. + + MARY. You have done your best. + + POLE. Have done my best, and as a faithful son, + That all day long hath wrought his father's work, + When back he comes at evening hath the door + Shut on him by the father whom he loved, + His early follies cast into his teeth, + And the poor son turn'd out into the street + To sleep, to die—I shall die of it, cousin. + + MARY. I pray you be not so disconsolate; + I still will do mine utmost with the Pope. + Poor cousin! + Have not I been the fast friend of your life + Since mine began, and it was thought we two + Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other + As man and wife? + + POLE. Ah, cousin, I remember + How I would dandle you upon my knee + At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once + With your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry, + You but his cockboat; prettily you did it, + And innocently. No—we were not made + One flesh in happiness, no happiness here; + But now we are made one flesh in misery; + Our bridemaids are not lovely—Disappointment, + Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, + Labour-in-vain. + + MARY. Surely, not all in vain. + Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself. + + POLE. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay, + Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond; + And there is one Death stands behind the Groom, + And there is one Death stands behind the Bride— + + MARY. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'? + + POLE. No; but these libellous papers which I found + Strewn in your palace. Look you here—the Pope + Pointing at me with 'Pole, the heretic, + Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself, + Or I will burn thee;' and this other; see!— + 'We pray continually for the death + Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole.' + This last—I dare not read it her. [<i>Aside</i>. + + MARY. Away! + Why do you bring me these? + I thought you knew better. I never read, + I tear them; they come back upon my dreams. + The hands that write them should be burnt clean off + As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them + Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie + Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats + Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these? + Do you mean to drive me mad? + + POLE. I had forgotten + How these poor libels trouble you. Your pardon, + Sweet cousin, and farewell! 'O bubble world, + Whose colours in a moment break and fly!' + Why, who said that? I know not—true enough! + + [<i>Puts up the papers, all but the last, which falls. + Exit</i> POLE. + + ALICE. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one, + And heard these two, there might be sport for him. [<i>Aside</i>. + + MARY. Clarence, they hate me; even while I speak + There lurks a silent dagger, listening + In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn, + And panting for my blood as I go by. + + LADY CLARENCE. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too, + And I have often found them. + + MARY. Find me one! + + LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam; but Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor, + Would see your Highness. + + MARY. Wherefore should I see him? + + LADY CLARENCE. Well, Madam, he may bring you news from Philip. + + MARY. So, Clarence. + + LADY CLARENCE. Let me first put up your hair; + It tumbles all abroad. + + MARY. And the gray dawn + Of an old age that never will be mine + Is all the clearer seen. No, no; what matters? + Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. + + <i>Enter</i> SIR NICHOLAS HEATH. + + HEATH. I bring your Majesty such grievous news + I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken. + + MARY. What traitor spoke? Here, let my cousin Pole + Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran. + + HEATH. Her Highness is unwell. I will retire. + + LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your Chancellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. + + MARY. Sir Nicholas! I am stunn'd—Nicholas Heath? + Methought some traitor smote me on the head. + What said you, my good Lord, that our brave English + Had sallied out from Calais and driven back + The Frenchmen from their trenches? + + HEATH. Alas! no. + That gateway to the mainland over which + Our flag hath floated for two hundred years + Is France again. + + MARY. So; but it is not lost— + Not yet. Send out: let England as of old + Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into + The prey they are rending from her—ay, and rend + The renders too. Send out, send out, and make + Musters in all the counties; gather all + From sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet; + Let every craft that carries sail and gun + Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken yet? + + HEATH. Guisnes is not taken yet. + + MARY. There yet is hope. + + HEATH. Ah, Madam, but your people are so cold; + I do much fear that England will not care. + Methinks there is no manhood left among us. + + MARY. Send out; I am too weak to stir abroad: + Tell my mind to the Council—to the Parliament: + Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold thyself + To babble of their coldness. O would I were + My father for an hour! Away now—Quick! + + [<i>Exit</i> HEATH. + + I hoped I had served God with all my might! + It seems I have not. Ah! much heresy + Shelter'd in Calais. Saints I have rebuilt + Your shrines, set up your broken images; + Be comfortable to me. Suffer not + That my brief reign in England be defamed + Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter + By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip, + We have made war upon the Holy Father + All for your sake: what good could come of that? + + LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, not against the Holy Father; + You did but help King Philip's war with France, + Your troops were never down in Italy. + + MARY. I am a byword. Heretic and rebel + Point at me and make merry. Philip gone! + And Calais gone! Time that I were gone too! + + LADY CLARENCE. Nay, if the fetid gutter had a voice + And cried I was not clean, what should I care? + Or you, for heretic cries? And I believe, + Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, + Your England is as loyal as myself. + + MARY (<i>seeing the paper draft by</i> POLE). + There! there! another paper! Said you not + Many of these were loyal? Shall I try + If this be one of such? + + LADY CLARENCE. Let it be, let it be. + God pardon me! I have never yet found one. [<i>Aside</i>. + + MARY (<i>reads</i>). 'Your people hate you as your husband hates you.' + Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what sin + Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of God, + Thou knowest never woman meant so well, + And fared so ill in this disastrous world. + My people hate me and desire my death. + + LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, no. + + MARY. My husband hates me, and desires my death. + + LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam; these are libels. + + MARY. I hate myself, and I desire my death. + + LADY CLARENCE. Long live your Majesty! Shall Alice sing you + One of her pleasant songs? Alice, my child, + Bring us your lute (ALICE <i>goes</i>). They say the gloom of Saul + Was lighten'd by young David's harp. + + MARY. Too young! + And never knew a Philip. + + <i>Re-enter</i> ALICE. + + Give <i>me</i> the lute. + He hates me! + (<i>She sings</i>.) + + Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing! + Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in loathing: + Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing— + Low, lute, low! + + Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken; + Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken; + Low, my lute! oh low, my lute! we fade and are forsaken— + Low, dear lute, low! + + Take it away! not low enough for me! + + ALICE. Your Grace hath a low voice. + + MARY. How dare you say it? + Even for that he hates me. A low voice + Lost in a wilderness where none can hear! + A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea! + A low voice from the dust and from the grave + (<i>Sitting on the ground</i>). + There, am I low enough now? + + ALICE. Good Lord! how grim and ghastly looks her Grace, + With both her knees drawn upward to her chin. + There was an old-world tomb beside my father's, + And this was open'd, and the dead were found + Sitting, and in this fashion; she looks a corpse. + + <i>Enter</i> LADY MAGDALEN DACRES. + + LADY MAGDALEN. Madam, the Count de Feria waits without, + In hopes to see your Highness. + + LADY CLARENCE (<i>pointing to</i> MARY). + Wait he must— + Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears, + And may not speak for hours. + + LADY MAGDALEN. Unhappiest + Of Queens and wives and women! + + ALICE (<i>in the foreground with</i> LADY MAGDALEN). + And all along + Of Philip. + + LADY MAGDALEN. Not so loud! Our Clarence there + Sees ever such an aureole round the Queen, + It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace, + Who stands the nearest to her. + + ALICE. Ay, this Philip; + I used to love the Queen with all my heart— + God help me, but methinks I love her less + For such a dotage upon such a man. + I would I were as tall and strong as you. + + LADY MAGDALEN. I seem half-shamed at times to be so tall. + + ALICE. You are the stateliest deer in all the herd— + Beyond his aim—but I am small and scandalous, + And love to hear bad tales of Philip. + + LADY MAGDALEN. Why? + I never heard him utter worse of you + Than that you were low-statured. + + ALICE. Does he think + Low stature is low nature, or all women's + Low as his own? + + LADY MAGDALEN. There you strike in the nail. + This coarseness is a want of phantasy. + It is the low man thinks the woman low; + Sin is too dull to see beyond himself. + + ALICE. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as well as dull. + How dared he? + + LADY MAGDALEN. Stupid soldiers oft are bold. + Poor lads, they see not what the general sees, + A risk of utter ruin. I am <i>not</i> + Beyond his aim, or was not. + + ALICE. Who? Not you? + Tell, tell me; save my credit with myself. + + LADY MAGDALEN. I never breathed it to a bird in the eaves, + Would not for all the stars and maiden moon + Our drooping Queen should know! In Hampton Court + My window look'd upon the corridor; + And I was robing;—this poor throat of mine, + Barer than I should wish a man to see it,— + When he we speak of drove the window back, + And, like a thief, push'd in his royal hand; + But by God's providence a good stout staff + Lay near me; and you know me strong of arm; + I do believe I lamed his Majesty's + For a day or two, tho', give the Devil his due, + I never found he bore me any spite. + + ALICE. I would she could have wedded that poor youth, + My Lord of Devon—light enough, God knows, + And mixt with Wyatt's rising—and the boy + Not out of him—but neither cold, coarse, cruel, + And more than all—no Spaniard. + + LADY CLARENCE. Not so loud. + Lord Devon, girls! what are you whispering here? + + ALICE. Probing an old state-secret—how it chanced + That this young Earl was sent on foreign travel, + Not lost his head. + + LADY CLARENCE. There was no proof against him. + + ALICE. Nay, Madam; did not Gardiner intercept + A letter which the Count de Noailles wrote + To that dead traitor Wyatt, with full proof + Of Courtenay's treason? What became of that? + + LADY CLARENCE. Some say that Gardiner, out of love for him, + Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost + When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's house in Southwark. + Let dead things rest. + + ALICE. Ay, and with him who died + Alone in Italy. + + LADY CLARENCE. Much changed, I hear, + Had put off levity and put graveness on. + The foreign courts report him in his manner + Noble as his young person and old shield. + It might be so—but all is over now; + He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice, + And died in Padua. + + MARY (<i>looking up suddenly</i>). + Died in the true faith? + + LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam, happily. + + MARY. Happier he than I. + + LADY MAGDALEN. It seems her Highness hath awaken'd. Think you + That I might dare to tell her that the Count— + + MARY. I will see no man hence for evermore, + Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole. + + LADY MAGDALEN. It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady. + + MARY. What Count? + + LADY MAGDALEN. The Count de Feria, from his Majesty + King Philip. + + MARY. Philip! quick! loop up my hair! + Throw cushions on that seat, and make it throne-like. + Arrange my dress—the gorgeous Indian shawl + That Philip brought me in our happy days!— + That covers all. So—am I somewhat Queenlike, + Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth? + + LADY CLARENCE. Ay, so your Grace would bide a moment yet. + + MARY. No, no, he brings a letter. I may die + Before I read it. Let me see him at once. + + <i>Enter</i> COUNT DE FERIA (<i>kneels</i>). + + FERIA. I trust your Grace is well. (<i>Aside</i>) How her hand burns! + + MARY. I am not well, but it will better me, + Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring. + + FERIA. Madam, I bring no letter. + + MARY. How! no letter? + + FERIA. His Highness is so vex'd with strange affairs— + + MARY. That his own wife is no affair of his. + + FERIA. Nay, Madam, nay! he sends his veriest love, + And says, he will come quickly. + + MARY. Doth he, indeed? + You, sir, do <i>you</i> remember what <i>you</i> said + When last you came to England? + + FERIA. Madam, I brought + My King's congratulations; it was hoped + Your Highness was once more in happy state + To give him an heir male. + + MARY. Sir, you said more; + You said he would come quickly. I had horses + On all the road from Dover, day and night; + On all the road from Harwich, night and day; + But the child came not, and the husband came not; + And yet he will come quickly.... Thou hast learnt + Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no need + For Philip so to shame himself again. + Return, + And tell him that I know he comes no more. + Tell him at last I know his love is dead, + And that I am in state to bring forth death— + Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth, + And not to me! + + FERIA. Mere compliments and wishes. + But shall I take some message from your Grace? + + MARY. Tell her to come and close my dying eyes, + And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave. + + FERIA. Then I may say your Grace will see your sister? + Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and sunshine. + I would we had you, Madam, in our warm Spain. + You droop in your dim London. + + MARY. Have him away! + I sicken of his readiness. + + LADY CLARENCE. My Lord Count, + Her Highness is too ill for colloquy. + + FERIA (<i>kneels, and kisses her hand</i>). + I wish her Highness better. (<i>Aside</i>) How her hand burns! + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III.—A HOUSE NEAR LONDON. + + ELIZABETH, STEWARD OF THE HOUSEHOLD, ATTENDANTS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ELIZABETH. There's half an angel wrong'd in your account; + Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it + Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again. + + STEWARD. I were whole devil if I wrong'd you, Madam. + [<i>Exit</i> STEWARD. + + ATTENDANT. The Count de Feria, from the King of Spain. + + ELIZABETH. Ay!—let him enter. Nay, you need not go: + [<i>To her</i> LADIES. + Remain within the chamber, but apart. + We'll have no private conference. Welcome to + England! + + <i>Enter</i> FERIA. + + FERIA. Fair island star! + + ELIZABETH. I shine! What else, Sir Count? + + FERIA. As far as France, and into Philip's heart. + My King would know if you be fairly served, + And lodged, and treated. + + ELIZABETH. You see the lodging, sir, + I am well-served, and am in everything + Most loyal and most grateful to the Queen. + + FERIA. You should be grateful to my master, too. + He spoke of this; and unto him you owe + That Mary hath acknowledged you her heir. + + ELIZABETH. No, not to her nor him; but to the people, + Who know my right, and love me, as I love + The people! whom God aid! + + FERIA. You will be Queen, + And, were I Philip— + + ELIZABETH. Wherefore pause you—what? + + FERIA. Nay, but I speak from mine own self, not + him; + Your royal sister cannot last; your hand + Will be much coveted! What a delicate one! + Our Spanish ladies have none such—and there, + Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer gold— + Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty dawn— + That hovers round your shoulder— + + ELIZABETH. Is it so fine? + Troth, some have said so. + + FERIA. —would be deemed a miracle. + + ELIZABETH. Your Philip hath gold hair and golden beard; + There must be ladies many with hair like mine. + + FERIA, Some few of Gothic blood have golden hair, + But none like yours. + + ELIZABETH. I am happy you approve it. + + FERIA. But as to Philip and your Grace—consider, + If such a one as you should match with Spain, + What hinders but that Spain and England join'd, + Should make the mightiest empire earth has known. + Spain would be England on her seas, and England + Mistress of the Indies. + + ELIZABETH. It may chance, that England + Will be the Mistress of the Indies yet, + Without the help of Spain. + + FERIA. Impossible; + Except you put Spain down. + Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's dream. + + ELIZABETH. Perhaps; but we have seamen. + Count de Feria, + I take it that the King hath spoken to you; + But is Don Carlos such a goodly match? + + FERIA. Don Carlos, Madam, is but twelve years old. + + ELIZABETH. Ay, tell the King that I will muse upon it; + He is my good friend, and I would keep him so; + But—he would have me Catholic of Rome, + And that I scarce can be; and, sir, till now + My sister's marriage, and my father's marriages, + Make me full fain to live and die a maid. + But I am much beholden to your King. + Have you aught else to tell me? + + FERIA. Nothing, Madam, + Save that methought I gather'd from the Queen + That she would see your Grace before she—died. + + ELIZABETH. God's death! and wherefore spake you not before? + We dally with our lazy moments here, + And hers are number'd. Horses there, without! + I am much beholden to the King, your master. + Why did you keep me prating? Horses, there! + + [<i>Exit</i> ELIZABETH, <i>etc</i>. + + FERIA. So from a clear sky falls the thunderbolt! + Don Carlos? Madam, if you marry Philip, + Then I and he will snaffle your 'God's death,' + And break your paces in, and make you tame; + God's death, forsooth—you do not know King Philip. + + [<i>Exit</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE IV.—LONDON. BEFORE THE PALACE. + + <i>A light burning within</i>. VOICES <i>of the night passing</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + FIRST. Is not yon light in the Queen's chamber? + + SECOND. Ay, + They say she's dying. + + FIRST. So is Cardinal Pole. + May the great angels join their wings, and make + Down for their heads to heaven! + + SECOND. Amen. Come on. + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + + TWO OTHERS. + + FIRST. There's the Queen's light. I hear she cannot live. + + SECOND. God curse her and her Legate! Gardiner burns + Already; but to pay them full in kind, + The hottest hold in all the devil's den + Were but a sort of winter; sir, in Guernsey, + I watch'd a woman burn; and in her agony + The mother came upon her—a child was born— + And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire, + That, being but baptized in fire, the babe + Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good neighbour, + There should be something fierier than fire + To yield them their deserts. + + FIRST. Amen to all + Your wish, and further. + + A THIRD VOICE. Deserts! Amen to what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have a + gold ring on your finger, and soft raiment about your body; and is not + the woman up yonder sleeping after all she has done, in peace and + quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, with light, fire, physic, + tendance; and I have seen the true men of Christ lying famine-dead by + scores, and under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not for + them. + + FIRST. Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe to preach. + You had best go home. What are you? + + THIRD. What am I? One who cries continually with sweat and tears to + the Lord God that it would please Him out of His infinite love to + break down all kingship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; to + cancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, all the magistracy, + all the nobles, and all the wealthy; and to send us again, according + to His promise, the one King, the Christ, and all things in common, as + in the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was King. + + FIRST. If ever I heard a madman,—let's away! + Why, you long-winded—Sir, you go beyond me. + I pride myself on being moderate. + Good night! Go home. Besides, you curse so loud, + The watch will hear you. Get you home at once. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE V.—LONDON. A ROOM IN THE PALACE. + + <i>A Gallery on one side. The moonlight streaming through a range of + windows on the wall opposite</i>. MARY, LADY CLARENCE, LADY MAGDALEN + DACRES, ALICE. QUEEN <i>pacing the Gallery. A writing table in front</i>. + QUEEN <i>comes to the table and writes and goes again, pacing the + Gallery</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LADY CLARENCE. Mine eyes are dim: what hath she written? read. + + ALICE. 'I am dying, Philip; come to me.' + + LADY MAGDALEN. There—up and down, poor lady, up and down. + + ALICE. And how her shadow crosses one by one + The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall, + Following her like her sorrow. She turns again. + + [QUEEN <i>sits and writes, and goes again</i>. + + LADY CLARENCE. What hath she written now? + + ALICE. Nothing; but 'come, come, come,' and all awry, + And blotted by her tears. This cannot last. + + [QUEEN <i>returns</i>. + + MARY. I whistle to the bird has broken cage, + And all in vain. [<i>Sitting down</i>. + Calais gone—Guisnes gone, too—and Philip gone! + + LADY CLARENCE. Dear Madam, Philip is but at the wars; + I cannot doubt but that he comes again; + And he is with you in a measure still. + I never look'd upon so fair a likeness + As your great King in armour there, his hand + Upon his helmet. + [<i>Pointing to the portrait of Philip on the wall</i>. + + MARY. Doth he not look noble? + I had heard of him in battle over seas, + And I would have my warrior all in arms. + He said it was not courtly to stand helmeted + Before the Queen. He had his gracious moment, + Altho' you'll not believe me. How he smiles + As if he loved me yet! + + LADY CLARENCE. And so he does. + + MARY. He never loved me—nay, he could not love me. + It was his father's policy against France. + I am eleven years older than he, + Poor boy! [<i>Weeps</i>. + + ALICE. That was a lusty boy of twenty-seven; [<i>Aside</i>. + Poor enough in God's grace! + + MARY. —And all in vain! + The Queen of Scots is married to the Dauphin, + And Charles, the lord of this low world, is gone; + And all his wars and wisdoms past away: + And in a moment I shall follow him. + + LADY CLARENCE. Nay, dearest Lady, see your good physician. + + MARY. Drugs—but he knows they cannot help me—says + That rest is all—tells me I must not think— + That I must rest—I shall rest by and by. + Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he springs + And maims himself against the bars, say 'rest': + Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest— + Dead or alive you cannot make him happy. + + LADY CLARENCE. Your Majesty has lived so pure a life, + And done such mighty things by Holy Church, + I trust that God will make you happy yet. + + MARY. What is the strange thing happiness? Sit down here: + Tell me thine happiest hour. + + LADY CLARENCE. I will, if that + May make your Grace forget yourself a little. + There runs a shallow brook across our field + For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five, + And doth so bound and babble all the way + As if itself were happy. It was May-time, + And I was walking with the man I loved. + I loved him, but I thought I was not loved. + And both were silent, letting the wild brook + Speak for us—till he stoop'd and gather'd one + From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, + Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me. + I took it, tho' I did not know I took it, + And put it in my bosom, and all at once + I felt his arms about me, and his lips— + + MARY. O God! I have been too slack, too slack; + There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards— + Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt + The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children. + Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,— + We have so play'd the coward; but by God's grace, + We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up + The Holy Office here—garner the wheat, + And burn the tares with unquenchable fire! + Burn!— + Fie, what a savour! tell the cooks to close + The doors of all the offices below. + Latimer! + Sir, we are private with our women here— + Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow— + Thou light a torch that never will go out! + 'Tis out—mine flames. Women, the Holy Father + Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole— + Was that well done? and poor Pole pines of it, + As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, + I have no power.—Ah, weak and meek old man, + Seven-fold dishonour'd even in the sight + Of thine own sectaries—No, no. No pardon! + Why that was false: there is the right hand still + Beckons me hence. + Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason, + Remember that! 'twas I and Bonner did it, + And Pole; we are three to one—Have you found mercy there, + Grant it me here: and see, he smiles and goes, + Gentle as in life. + + ALICE. Madam, who goes? King Philip? + + MARY. No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes. + Women, when I am dead, + Open my heart, and there you will find written + Two names, Philip and Calais; open his,— + So that he have one,— + You will find Philip only, policy, policy,— + Ay, worse than that—not one hour true to me! + Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice! + Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. + Hast thou a knife? + + ALICE. Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy— + + MARY. Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine own soul + By slaughter of the body? I could not, girl, + Not this way—callous with a constant stripe, + Unwoundable. The knife! + + ALICE. Take heed, take heed! + The blade is keen as death. + + MARY. This Philip shall not + Stare in upon me in my haggardness; + Old, miserable, diseased, + Incapable of children. Come thou down. + [<i>Cuts out the picture and throws it down</i>. + Lie there. (<i>Wails</i>) O God, I have kill'd my Philip! + + ALICE. No, + Madam, you have but cut the canvas out; + We can replace it. + + MARY. All is well then; rest— + I will to rest; he said, I must have rest. + [<i>Cries of</i> 'ELIZABETH' <i>in the street</i>. + A cry! What's that? Elizabeth? revolt? + A new Northumberland, another Wyatt? + I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave. + + LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you. + + MARY. I will not see her. + Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister? + I will see none except the priest. Your arm. + [<i>To</i> LADY CLARENCE. + O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile + Among thy patient wrinkles—Help me hence. + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + + <i>The</i> PRIEST <i>passes. Enter</i> ELIZABETH <i>and</i> SIR WILLIAM CECIL. + + ELIZABETH. Good counsel yours— + No one in waiting? still, + As if the chamberlain were Death himself! + The room she sleeps in—is not this the way? + No, that way there are voices. Am I too late? + Cecil ... God guide me lest I lose the way. + [<i>Exit</i> ELIZABETH. + + CECIL. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones, + At last a harbour opens; but therein + Sunk rocks—they need fine steering—much it is + To be nor mad, nor bigot—have a mind— + Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be, + Miscolour things about her—sudden touches + For him, or him—sunk rocks; no passionate faith— + But—if let be—balance and compromise; + Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her—a Tudor + School'd by the shadow of death—a Boleyn, too, + Glancing across the Tudor—not so well. + + <i>Enter</i> ALICE. + + How is the good Queen now? + + ALICE. Away from Philip. + Back in her childhood—prattling to her mother + Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles, + And childlike—jealous of him again—and once + She thank'd her father sweetly for his book + Against that godless German. Ah, those days + Were happy. It was never merry world + In England, since the Bible came among us. + + CECIL. And who says that? + + ALICE. It is a saying among the Catholics. + + CECIL. It never will be merry world in England, + Till all men have their Bible, rich and poor. + + ALICE. The Queen is dying, or you dare not say it. + + <i>Enter</i> ELIZABETH. + + ELIZABETH. The Queen is dead. + + CECIL. Then here she stands! my homage. + + ELIZABETH. She knew me, and acknowledged me her heir, + Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the Faith: + Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away in peace. + I left her lying still and beautiful, + More beautiful than in life. Why would you vex yourself, + Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no heart + To be your Queen. To reign is restless fence, + Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with the dead. + Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt: + And she loved much: pray God she be forgiven. + + CECIL. Peace with the dead, who never were at peace! + Yet she loved one so much—I needs must say— + That never English monarch dying left + England so little. + + ELIZABETH. But with Cecil's aid + And others, if our person be secured + From traitor stabs—we will make England great. + + <i>Enter</i> PAGET, <i>and other</i> LORDS OF THE COUNCIL, + SIR RALPH BAGENHALL, <i>etc</i>. + + LORDS. God save Elizabeth, the Queen of England! + + BAGENHALL. God save the Crown! the Papacy is no more. + + PAGET (<i>aside</i>). + Are we so sure of that? + + ACCLAMATION. God save the Queen! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + END OF QUEEN MARY. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HAROLD: A DRAMA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON, VICEROY AND + GOVERNOR-GENERAL OF INDIA. + + My Dear Lord Lytton,—After old-world records—such as the Bayeux + tapestry and the Roman de Rou,—Edward Freeman's History of the Norman + Conquest, and your father's Historical Romance treating of the same + times, have been mainly helpful to me in writing this Drama. Your + father dedicated his 'Harold' to my father's brother; allow me to + dedicate my 'Harold' to yourself. + + A. TENNYSON. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876. + + A garden here—May breath and bloom of spring— + The cuckoo yonder from an English elm + Crying 'with my false egg I overwhelm + The native nest:' and fancy hears the ring + Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing, + And Saxon battleaxe clang on Norman helm. + Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm: + Here fought, here fell, our Norman-slander'd king. + O Garden blossoming out of English blood! + O strange hate-healer Time! We stroll and stare + Where might made right eight hundred years ago; + Might, right? ay good, so all things make for good— + But he and he, if soul be soul, are where + Each stands full face with all he did below. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</i> + + KING EDWARD THE CONFESSOR. + STIGAND, <i>created Archbishop of Canterbury by the Antipope Benedict</i>. + ALDRED, <i>Archbishop of York</i>. + THE NORMAN BISHOP OF LONDON. + HAROLD, <i>Earl of Wessex, afterwards King of England, Son of Godwin</i> + TOSTIG, <i>Earl of Northumbria, Son of Godwin</i> + GURTH, <i>Earl of East Anglia, Son of Godwin</i> + LEOFWIN, <i>Earl of Kent and Essex, Son of Godwin</i> + WULFNOTH + COUNT WILLIAM OF NORMANDY. + WILLIAM RUFUS. + WILLIAM MALET, <i>a Norman Noble</i>.[1] + EDWIN, <i>Earl of Mercia, Son of Alfgar of Mercia</i> + MORCAR, <i>Earl of Northumbria after Tostig, Son of Alfgar of Mercia</i> + GAMEL, <i>a Northumbrian Thane</i>. + GUY, <i>Count of Ponthieu</i>. + ROLF, <i>a Ponthieu Fisherman</i>. + HUGH MARGOT, <i>a Norman Monk</i>. + OSGOD <i>and</i> ATHELRIC, <i>Canons from Waltham</i>. + THE QUEEN, <i>Edward the Confessor's Wife, Daughter of Godwin</i>. + ALDWYTH, <i>Daughter of Alfgar and Widow of Griffyth, King of Wales</i>. + EDITH, <i>Ward of King Edward</i>. + Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms, Canons of Waltham, + Fishermen, etc. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Footnote 1: ... quidam partim Normannus et Anglus + Compater Heraldi. (<i>Guy of Amiens</i>, 587.)] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HAROLD +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT I. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—LONDON. THE KING'S PALACE. + + (<i>A comet seen through the open window</i>.) + + ALDWYTH, GAMEL, COURTIERS <i>talking together</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + FIRST COURTIER. Lo! there once more—this is the seventh night! + Yon grimly-glaring, treble-brandish'd scourge Of England! + + SECOND COURTIER. Horrible! + + FIRST COURTIER. Look you, there's a star + That dances in it as mad with agony! + + THIRD COURTIER. Ay, like a spirit in Hell who skips and flies + To right and left, and cannot scape the flame. + + SECOND COURTIER. Steam'd upward from the undescendable + Abysm. + + FIRST COURTIER. Or floated downward from the throne + Of God Almighty. + + ALDWYTH. Gamel, son of Orm, + What thinkest thou this means? + + GAMEL. War, my dear lady! + + ALDWYTH. Doth this affright thee? + + GAMEL. Mightily, my dear lady! + + ALDWYTH. Stand by me then, and look upon my face, + Not on the comet. + + <i>Enter</i> MORCAR. + + Brother! why so pale? + + MORCAR. It glares in heaven, it flares upon the Thames, + The people are as thick as bees below, + They hum like bees,—they cannot speak—for awe; + Look to the skies, then to the river, strike + Their hearts, and hold their babies up to it. + I think that they would Molochize them too, + To have the heavens clear. + + ALDWYTH. They fright not me. + + <i>Enter</i> LEOFWIN, <i>after him</i> GURTH. + + Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks of this! + + MORCAR. Lord Leofwin, dost thou believe, that these + Three rods of blood-red fire up yonder mean + The doom of England and the wrath of Heaven? + + BISHOP OF LONDON (<i>passing</i>). + Did ye not cast with bestial violence + Our holy Norman bishops down from all + Their thrones in England? I alone remain. + Why should not Heaven be wroth? + + LEOFWIN. With us, or thee? + + BISHOP OF LONDON. Did ye not outlaw your archbishop Robert, + Robert of Jumieges—well-nigh murder him too? + Is there no reason for the wrath of Heaven? + + LEOFWIN. Why then the wrath of Heaven hath three tails, + The devil only one. + + [<i>Exit</i> BISHOP OF LONDON. + + <i>Enter</i> ARCHBISHOP STIGAND. + + Ask <i>our</i> Archbishop. + Stigand should know the purposes of Heaven. + + STIGAND. Not I. I cannot read the face of heaven; + Perhaps our vines will grow the better for it. + + LEOFWIN (<i>laughing</i>). + He can but read the king's face on his coins. + + STIGAND. Ay, ay, young lord, <i>there</i> the king's face is power. + + GURTH. O father, mock not at a public fear, + But tell us, is this pendent hell in heaven + A harm to England? + + STIGAND. Ask it of King Edward! + And he may tell thee, <i>I</i> am a harm to England. + Old uncanonical Stigand—ask of <i>me</i> + Who had my pallium from an Antipope! + Not he the man—for in our windy world + What's up is faith, what's down is heresy. + Our friends, the Normans, holp to shake his chair. + I have a Norman fever on me, son, + And cannot answer sanely.... What it means? + Ask our broad Earl. + [<i>Pointing to</i> HAROLD, <i>who enters</i>. + + HAROLD (<i>seeing</i> GAMEL). + Hail, Gamel, son of Orm! + Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend Gamel, + Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy life at home + Is easier than mine here. Look! am I not + Work-wan, flesh-fallen? + + GAMEL. Art thou sick, good Earl? + + HAROLD. Sick as an autumn swallow for a voyage, + Sick for an idle week of hawk and hound + Beyond the seas—a change! When camest thou hither? + + GAMEL. To-day, good Earl. + + HAROLD. Is the North quiet, Gamel? + + GAMEL. Nay, there be murmurs, for thy brother breaks us + With over-taxing—quiet, ay, as yet— + Nothing as yet. + + HAROLD. Stand by him, mine old friend, + Thou art a great voice in Northumberland! + Advise him: speak him sweetly, he will hear thee. + He is passionate but honest. Stand thou by him! + More talk of this to-morrow, if yon weird sign + Not blast us in our dreams.—Well, father Stigand— + [<i>To</i> STIGAND, <i>who advances to him</i>. + + STIGAND (<i>pointing to the comet</i>). + War there, my son? is that the doom of England? + + HAROLD. Why not the doom of all the world as well? + For all the world sees it as well as England. + These meteors came and went before our day, + Not harming any: it threatens us no more + Than French or Norman. War? the worst that follows + Things that seem jerk'd out of the common rut + Of Nature is the hot religious fool, + Who, seeing war in heaven, for heaven's credit + Makes it on earth: but look, where Edward draws + A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tostig. + He hath learnt to love our Tostig much of late. + + LEOFWIN. And <i>he</i> hath learnt, despite the tiger in him, + To sleek and supple himself to the king's hand. + + GURTH. I trust the kingly touch that cures the evil + May serve to charm the tiger out of him. + + LEOFWIN. He hath as much of cat as tiger in him. + Our Tostig loves the hand and not the man. + + HAROLD. Nay! Better die than lie! + + <i>Enter</i> KING, QUEEN, <i>and</i> TOSTIG. + + EDWARD. In heaven signs! + Signs upon earth! signs everywhere! your Priests + Gross, worldly, simoniacal, unlearn'd! + They scarce can read their Psalter; and your churches + Uncouth, unhandsome, while in Normanland + God speaks thro' abler voices, as He dwells + In statelier shrines. I say not this, as being + Half Norman-blooded, nor as some have held, + Because I love the Norman better—no, + But dreading God's revenge upon this realm + For narrowness and coldness: and I say it + For the last time perchance, before I go + To find the sweet refreshment of the Saints. + I have lived a life of utter purity: + I have builded the great church of Holy Peter: + I have wrought miracles—to God the glory— + And miracles will in my name be wrought + Hereafter.—I have fought the fight and go— + I see the flashing of the gates of pearl— + And it is well with me, tho' some of you + Have scorn'd me—ay—but after I am gone + Woe, woe to England! I have had a vision; + The seven sleepers in the cave at Ephesus + Have turn'd from right to left. + + HAROLD. My most dear Master, + What matters? let them turn from left to right + And sleep again. + + TOSTIG. Too hardy with thy king! + A life of prayer and fasting well may see + Deeper into the mysteries of heaven + Than thou, good brother. + + ALDWYTH (<i>aside</i>). Sees he into thine, + That thou wouldst have his promise for the crown? + + EDWARD. Tostig says true; my son, thou art too hard, + Not stagger'd by this ominous earth and heaven: + But heaven and earth are threads of the same loom, + Play into one another, and weave the web + That may confound thee yet. + + HAROLD. Nay, I trust not, + For I have served thee long and honestly. + + EDWARD. I know it, son; I am not thankless: thou + Hast broken all my foes, lighten'd for me + The weight of this poor crown, and left me time + And peace for prayer to gain a better one. + Twelve years of service! England loves thee for it. + Thou art the man to rule her! + + ALDWYTH (<i>aside</i>). So, not Tostig! + + HAROLD. And after those twelve years a boon, my king, + Respite, a holiday: thyself wast wont + To love the chase: thy leave to set my feet + On board, and hunt and hawk beyond the seas! + + EDWARD. What, with this flaming horror overhead? + + HAROLD. Well, when it passes then. + + EDWARD. Ay if it pass. + Go not to Normandy—go not to Normandy. + + HAROLD. And wherefore not, my king, to Normandy? + Is not my brother Wulfnoth hostage there + For my dead father's loyalty to thee? + I pray thee, let me hence and bring him home. + + EDWARD. Not thee, my son: some other messenger. + + HAROLD. And why not me, my lord, to Normandy? + Is not the Norman Count thy friend and mine? + + EDWARD. I pray thee, do not go to Normandy. + + HAROLD. Because my father drove the Normans out + Of England?—That was many a summer gone— + Forgotten and forgiven by them and thee. + + EDWARD. Harold, I will not yield thee leave to go. + + HAROLD. Why then to Flanders. I will hawk and hunt + In Flanders. + + EDWARD. Be there not fair woods and fields + In England? Wilful, wilful. Go—the Saints + Pilot and prosper all thy wandering out + And homeward. Tostig, I am faint again. + Son Harold, I will in and pray for thee. + + [<i>Exit, leaning on</i> TOSTIG, <i>and followed by</i> + STIGAND, MORCAR, <i>and</i> COURTIERS. + + HAROLD. What lies upon the mind of our good king + That he should harp this way on Normandy? + + QUEEN. Brother, the king is wiser than he seems; + And Tostig knows it; Tostig loves the king. + + HAROLD. And love should know; and—be the + king so wise,— + Then Tostig too were wiser than he seems. + I love the man but not his phantasies. + + <i>Re-enter</i> TOSTIG. + + Well, brother, + When didst thou hear from thy Northumbria? + + TOSTIG. When did I hear aught but this '<i>When</i>' from thee? + Leave me alone, brother, with my Northumbria: + She is <i>my</i> mistress, let <i>me</i> look to her! + The King hath made me Earl; make me not fool! + Nor make the King a fool, who made me Earl! + + HAROLD. No, Tostig—lest I make myself a fool + Who made the King who made thee, make thee Earl. + + TOSTIG. Why chafe me then? Thou knowest I soon go wild. + + GURTH. Come, come! as yet thou art not gone so wild + But thou canst hear the best and wisest of us. + + HAROLD. So says old Gurth, not I: yet hear! thine earldom, + Tostig, hath been a kingdom. Their old crown + Is yet a force among them, a sun set + But leaving light enough for Alfgar's house + To strike thee down by—nay, this ghastly glare + May heat their fancies. + + TOSTIG. My most worthy brother, + Thou art the quietest man in all the world— + Ay, ay and wise in peace and great in war— + Pray God the people choose thee for their king! + But all the powers of the house of Godwin + Are not enframed in thee. + + HAROLD. Thank the Saints, no! + But thou hast drain'd them shallow by thy tolls, + And thou art ever here about the King: + Thine absence well may seem a want of care. + Cling to their love; for, now the sons of Godwin + Sit topmost in the field of England, envy, + Like the rough bear beneath the tree, good brother, + Waits till the man let go. + + TOSTIG. Good counsel truly! + I heard from my Northumbria yesterday. + + HAROLD. How goes it then with thy Northumbria? + Well? + + TOSTIG. And wouldst thou that it went aught else than well? + + HAROLD. I would it went as well as with mine earldom, + Leofwin's and Gurth's. + + TOSTIG. Ye govern milder men. + + GURTH. We have made them milder by just government. + + TOSTIG. Ay, ever give yourselves your own good word. + + LEOFWIN. An honest gift, by all the Saints, if giver + + And taker be but honest! but they bribe + Each other, and so often, an honest world + Will not believe them. + + HAROLD. I may tell thee, Tostig, + I heard from thy Northumberland to-day. + + TOSTIG. From spies of thine to spy my nakedness + In my poor North! + + HAROLD. There is a movement there, + A blind one—nothing yet. + + TOSTIG. Crush it at once + With all the power I have!—I must—I will!— + Crush it half-born! Fool still? or wisdom there, + My wise head-shaking Harold? + + HAROLD. Make not thou + The nothing something. Wisdom when in power + And wisest, should not frown as Power, but smile + As kindness, watching all, till the true <i>must</i> + Shall make her strike as Power: but when to strike— + O Tostig, O dear brother—If they prance, + Rein in, not lash them, lest they rear and run + And break both neck and axle. + + TOSTIG. Good again! + Good counsel tho' scarce needed. Pour not water + In the full vessel running out at top + To swamp the house. + + LEOFWIN. Nor thou be a wild thing + Out of the waste, to turn and bite the hand + Would help thee from the trap. + + TOSTIG. Thou playest in tune. + + LEOFWIN. To the deaf adder thee, that wilt not dance + However wisely charm'd. + + TOSTIG. No more, no more! + + GURTH. I likewise cry 'no more.' Unwholesome talk + For Godwin's house! Leofwin, thou hast a tongue! + Tostig, thou look'st as thou wouldst spring upon him. + St. Olaf, not while I am by! Come, come, + Join hands, let brethren dwell in unity; + Let kith and kin stand close as our shield-wall, + Who breaks us then? I say, thou hast a tongue, + And Tostig is not stout enough to bear it. + Vex him not, Leofwin. + + TOSTIG. No, I am not vext,— + Altho' ye seek to vex me, one and all. + I have to make report of my good earldom + To the good king who gave it—not to you— + Not any of you.—I am not vext at all. + + HAROLD. The king? the king is ever at his prayers; + In all that handles matter of the state + I am the king. + + TOSTIG. That shall thou never be + If I can thwart thee. + + HAROLD. Brother, brother! + + TOSTIG. Away! + + [<i>Exit</i> TOSTIG. + + QUEEN. Spite of this grisly star ye three must gall + Poor Tostig. + + LEOFWIN. Tostig, sister, galls himself; + He cannot smell a rose but pricks his nose + Against the thorn, and rails against the rose. + + QUEEN. I am the only rose of all the stock + That never thorn'd him; Edward loves him, so + Ye hate him. Harold always hated him. + Why—how they fought when boys—and, Holy Mary! + How Harold used to beat him! + + HAROLD. Why, boys will fight. + Leofwin would often fight me, and I beat him. + Even old Gurth would fight. I had much ado + To hold mine own against old Gurth. Old Gurth, + We fought like great states for grave cause; but + Tostig— + On a sudden—at a something—for a nothing— + The boy would fist me hard, and when we fought + I conquer'd, and he loved me none the less, + Till thou wouldst get him all apart, and tell him + That where he was but worsted, he was wrong'd. + Ah! thou hast taught the king to spoil him too; + Now the spoilt child sways both. Take heed, take heed; + Thou art the Queen; ye are boy and girl no more: + Side not with Tostig in any violence, + Lest thou be sideways guilty of the violence. + + QUEEN. Come fall not foul on me. I leave thee, brother. + + HAROLD. Nay, my good sister— + + [<i>Exeunt</i> QUEEN, HAROLD, GURTH, <i>and</i> LEOFWIN. + + ALDWYTH. Gamel, son of Orm, + What thinkest thou this means? [<i>Pointing to the comet</i>. + + GAMEL. War, my dear lady, + War, waste, plague, famine, all malignities. + + ALDWYTH. It means the fall of Tostig from his earldom. + + GAMEL. That were too small a matter for a comet! + + ALDWYTH. It means the lifting of the house of Alfgar. + + GAMEL. Too small! a comet would not show for that! + + ALDWYTH. Not small for thee, if thou canst compass it. + + GAMEL. Thy love? + + ALDWYTH. As much as I can give thee, man; + This Tostig is, or like to be, a tyrant; + Stir up thy people: oust him! + + GAMEL. And thy love? + + ALDWYTH. As much as thou canst bear. + + GAMEL. I can bear all, + And not be giddy. + + ALDWYTH. No more now: to-morrow. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—IN THE GARDEN. THE KING'S HOUSE NEAR LONDON. SUNSET. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + EDITH. Mad for thy mate, passionate nightingale.... + I love thee for it—ay, but stay a moment; + <i>He</i> can but stay a moment: he is going. + I fain would hear him coming!... near me ... near. + Somewhere—To draw him nearer with a charm + Like thine to thine. + (<i>Singing</i>.) + + Love is come with a song and a smile, + Welcome Love with a smile and a song: + Love can stay but a little while. + Why cannot he stay? They call him away: + Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong; + Love will stay for a whole life long. + + <i>Enter</i> HAROLD. + + HAROLD. The nightingales in Havering-at-the-Bower + Sang out their loves so loud, that Edward's prayers + Were deafen'd and he pray'd them dumb, and thus + I dumb thee too, my wingless nightingale! + [<i>Kissing her</i>. + + EDITH. Thou art my music! Would their wings were mine + To follow thee to Flanders! Must thou go? + + HAROLD. Not must, but will. It is but for one moon. + + EDITH. Leaving so many foes in Edward's hall + To league against thy weal. The Lady Aldwyth + Was here to-day, and when she touch'd on thee, + She stammer'd in her hate; I am sure she hates thee, + Pants for thy blood. + + HAROLD. Well, I have given her cause— + I fear no woman. + + EDITH. Hate not one who felt + Some pity for thy hater! I am sure + Her morning wanted sunlight, she so praised + The convent and lone life—within the pale— + Beyond the passion. Nay—she held with Edward, + At least methought she held with holy Edward, + That marriage was half sin. + + HAROLD. A lesson worth + Finger and thumb—thus (<i>snaps his fingers</i>). And my answer to it— + See here—an interwoven H and E! + Take thou this ring; I will demand his ward + From Edward when I come again. Ay, would she? + She to shut up my blossom in the dark! + Thou art <i>my</i> nun, thy cloister in mine arms. + + EDITH (<i>taking the ring</i>). + Yea, but Earl Tostig— + + HAROLD. That's a truer fear! + For if the North take fire, I should be back; + I shall be, soon enough. + + EDITH. Ay, but last night + An evil dream that ever came and went— + + HAROLD. A gnat that vext thy pillow! Had I been by, + I would have spoil'd his horn. My girl, what was it? + + EDITH. Oh! that thou wert not going! + For so methought it was our marriage-morn, + And while we stood together, a dead man + Rose from behind the altar, tore away + My marriage ring, and rent my bridal veil; + And then I turn'd, and saw the church all fill'd + With dead men upright from their graves, and all + The dead men made at thee to murder thee, + But thou didst back thyself against a pillar, + And strike among them with thy battle-axe— + There, what a dream! + + HAROLD. Well, well—a dream—no more! + + EDITH. Did not Heaven speak to men in dreams of old? + + HAROLD. Ay—well—of old. I tell thee what, my child; + Thou hast misread this merry dream of thine, + Taken the rifted pillars of the wood + For smooth stone columns of the sanctuary, + The shadows of a hundred fat dead deer + For dead men's ghosts. True, that the battle-axe + Was out of place; it should have been the bow.— + Come, thou shalt dream no more such dreams; I swear it, + By mine own eyes—and these two sapphires—these + Twin rubies, that are amulets against all + The kisses of all kind of womankind + In Flanders, till the sea shall roll me back + To tumble at thy feet. + + EDITH. That would but shame me, + Rather than make me vain. The sea may roll + Sand, shingle, shore-weed, not the living rock + Which guards the land. + + HAROLD. Except it be a soft one, + And undereaten to the fall. Mine amulet ... + This last ... upon thine eyelids, to shut in + A happier dream. Sleep, sleep, and thou shalt see + My grayhounds fleeting like a beam of light, + And hear my peregrine and her bells in heaven; + And other bells on earth, which yet are heaven's; + Guess what they be. + + EDITH. He cannot guess who knows. + Farewell, my king. + + HAROLD. Not yet, but then—my queen. + [<i>Exeunt</i>. + <i>Enter</i> ALDWYTH <i>from the thicket</i>. + + ALDWYTH. The kiss that charms thine eyelids into sleep, + Will hold mine waking. Hate him? I could love him + More, tenfold, than this fearful child can do; + Griffyth I hated: why not hate the foe + Of England? Griffyth when I saw him flee, + Chased deer-like up his mountains, all the blood + That should have only pulsed for Griffyth, beat + For his pursuer. I love him or think I love him. + If he were King of England, I his queen, + I might be sure of it. Nay, I do love him.— + She must be cloister'd somehow, lest the king + Should yield his ward to Harold's will. What harm? + She hath but blood enough to live, not love.— + When Harold goes and Tostig, shall I play + The craftier Tostig with him? fawn upon him? + Chime in with all? 'O thou more saint than king!' + And that were true enough. 'O blessed relics!' + 'O Holy Peter!' If he found me thus, + Harold might hate me; he is broad and honest, + Breathing an easy gladness ... not like Aldwyth ... + For which I strangely love him. Should not England + Love Aldwyth, if she stay the feuds that part + The sons of Godwin from the sons of Alfgar + By such a marrying? Courage, noble Aldwyth! + Let all thy people bless thee! + Our wild Tostig, + Edward hath made him Earl: he would be king:— + The dog that snapt the shadow, dropt the bone.— + I trust he may do well, this Gamel, whom + I play upon, that he may play the note + Whereat the dog shall howl and run, and Harold + Hear the king's music, all alone with him, + Pronounced his heir of England. + I see the goal and half the way to it.— + Peace-lover is our Harold for the sake + Of England's wholeness—so—to shake the North + With earthquake and disruption—some division— + Then fling mine own fair person in the gap + A sacrifice to Harold, a peace-offering, + A scape-goat marriage—all the sins of both + The houses on mine head—then a fair life + And bless the Queen of England. + + MORCAR (<i>coming from the thicket</i>). + Art thou assured + By this, that Harold loves but Edith? + + ALDWYTH. Morcar! + Why creep'st thou like a timorous beast of prey + Out of the bush by night? + + MORCAR. I follow'd thee. + + ALDWYTH. Follow my lead, and I will make thee earl. + + MORCAR. What lead then? + + ALDWYTH. Thou shalt flash it secretly + Among the good Northumbrian folk, that I— + That Harold loves me—yea, and presently + That I and Harold are betroth'd—and last— + Perchance that Harold wrongs me; tho' I would not + That it should come to that. + + MORCAR. I will both flash + And thunder for thee. + + ALDWYTH. I said 'secretly;' + It is the flash that murders, the poor thunder + Never harm'd head. + + MORCAR. But thunder may bring down + That which the flash hath stricken. + + ALDWYTH. Down with Tostig! + That first of all—And when doth Harold go? + + MORCAR. To-morrow—first to Bosham, then to Flanders. + + ALDWYTH. Not to come back till Tostig shall have shown + And redden'd with his people's blood the teeth + That shall be broken by us—yea, and thou + Chair'd in his place. Good-night, and dream thyself + Their chosen Earl. + [<i>Exit</i> ALDWYTH. + + MORCAR. Earl first, and after that + Who knows I may not dream myself their king! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT II. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—SEASHORE. PONTHIEU. NIGHT. + + HAROLD <i>and his</i> MEN, <i>wrecked</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HAROLD. Friends, in that last inhospitable plunge + Our boat hath burst her ribs; but ours are whole; + I have but bark'd my hands. + + ATTENDANT. I dug mine into + My old fast friend the shore, and clinging thus + Felt the remorseless outdraught of the deep + Haul like a great strong fellow at my legs, + And then I rose and ran. The blast that came + So suddenly hath fallen as suddenly— + Put thou the comet and this blast together— + + HAROLD. Put thou thyself and mother-wit together. + Be not a fool! + + <i>Enter</i> FISHERMEN <i>with torches</i>, HAROLD <i>going + up to one of them</i>, ROLF. + + Wicked sea-will-o'-the-wisp! + Wolf of the shore! dog, with thy lying lights + Thou hast betray'd us on these rocks of thine! + + ROLF. Ay, but thou liest as loud as the black herring-pond behind + thee. We be fishermen; I came to see after my nets. + + HAROLD. To drag us into them. Fishermen? devils! + Who, while ye fish for men with your false fires, + Let the great Devil fish for your own souls. + + ROLF. Nay then, we be liker the blessed Apostles; <i>they</i> were fishers + of men, Father Jean says. + + HAROLD. I had liefer that the fish had swallowed me, + Like Jonah, than have known there were such devils. + What's to be done? + [<i>To his</i> MEN—<i>goes apart with them</i>. + + FISHERMAN. Rolf, what fish did swallow Jonah? + + ROLF. A whale! + + FISHERMAN. Then a whale to a whelk we have swallowed the King of + England. I saw him over there. Look thee, Rolf, when I was down in the + fever, <i>she</i> was down with the hunger, and thou didst stand by her and + give her thy crabs, and set her up again, till now, by the patient + Saints, she's as crabb'd as ever. + + ROLF. And I'll give her my crabs again, when thou art down again. + + FISHERMAN. I thank thee, Rolf. Run thou to Count Guy; he is hard at + hand. Tell him what hath crept into our creel, and he will fee thee as + freely as he will wrench this outlander's ransom out of him—and why + not? for what right had he to get himself wrecked on another man's + land? + + ROLF. Thou art the human-heartedest, Christian-charitiest of all + crab-catchers. Share and share alike! + [<i>Exit</i>. + + HAROLD (<i>to</i> FISHERMAN). + Fellow, dost thou catch crabs? + + FISHERMAN. As few as I may in a wind, and less than I would in a calm. + Ay! + + HAROLD. I have a mind that thou shalt catch no more. + + FISHERMAN. How? + + HAROLD. I have a mind to brain thee with mine axe. + + FISHERMAN. Ay, do, do, and our great Count-crab will make his nippers + meet in thine heart; he'll sweat it out of thee, he'll sweat it out of + thee. Look, he's here! He'll speak for himself! Hold thine own, if + thou canst! + + <i>Enter</i> GUY, COUNT OF PONTHIEU. + + HAROLD. Guy, Count of Ponthieu? + + GUY. Harold, Earl of Wessex! + + HAROLD. Thy villains with their lying lights have wreck'd us! + + GUY. Art thou not Earl of Wessex? + + HAROLD. In mine earldom + A man may hang gold bracelets on a bush, + And leave them for a year, and coming back + Find them again. + + GUY. Thou art a mighty man + In thine own earldom! + + HAROLD. Were such murderous liars + In Wessex—if I caught them, they should hang + Cliff-gibbeted for sea-marks; our sea-mew + Winging their only wail! + + GUY. Ay, but my men + Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed of God;— + What hinders me to hold with mine own men? + + HAROLD. The Christian manhood of the man who reigns! + + GUY. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our oubliettes + Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale him hence! + [<i>To one of his</i> ATTENDANTS. + Fly thou to William; tell him we have Harold. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—BAYEUX. PALACE. + + COUNT WILLIAM <i>and</i> WILLIAM MALET. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + WILLIAM. We hold our Saxon woodcock in the springe, + But he begins to flutter. As I think + He was thine host in England when I went + To visit Edward. + + MALET. Yea, and there, my lord, + To make allowance for their rougher fashions, + I found him all a noble host should be. + + WILLIAM. Thou art his friend: thou know'st my claim on England + Thro' Edward's promise: we have him in the toils. + And it were well, if thou shouldst let him feel, + How dense a fold of danger nets him round, + So that he bristle himself against my will. + + MALET. What would I do, my lord, if I were you? + + WILLIAM. What wouldst thou do? + + MALET. My lord, he is thy guest. + + WILLIAM. Nay, by the splendour of God, no guest of mine. + He came not to see me, had past me by + To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for the fate + Which hunted <i>him</i> when that un-Saxon blast, + And bolts of thunder moulded in high heaven + To serve the Norman purpose, drave and crack'd + His boat on Ponthieu beach; where our friend Guy + Had wrung his ransom from him by the rack, + But that I slept between and purchased him, + Translating his captivity from Guy + To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where he sits + My ransom'd prisoner. + + MALET. Well, if not with gold, + With golden deeds and iron strokes that brought + Thy war with Brittany to a goodlier close + Than else had been, he paid his ransom back. + + WILLIAM. So that henceforth they are not like to league + With Harold against <i>me</i>. + + MALET. A marvel, how + He from the liquid sands of Coesnon + Haled thy shore-swallow'd, armour'd Normans up + To fight for thee again! + + WILLIAM. Perchance against + Their saver, save thou save him from himself. + + MALET. But I should let him home again, my lord. + + WILLIAM. Simple! let fly the bird within the hand, + To catch the bird again within the bush! + No. + Smooth thou my way, before he clash with me; + I want his voice in England for the crown, + I want thy voice with him to bring him round; + And being brave he must be subtly cow'd, + And being truthful wrought upon to swear + Vows that he dare not break. England our own + Thro' Harold's help, he shall be my dear friend + As well as thine, and thou thyself shalt have + Large lordship there of lands and territory. + + MALET. I knew thy purpose; he and Wulfnoth never + Have met, except in public; shall they meet + In private? I have often talk'd with Wulfnoth, + And stuff'd the boy with fears that these may act + On Harold when they meet. + + WILLIAM. Then let them meet! + + MALET. I can but love this noble, honest Harold. + + WILLIAM. Love him! why not? thine is a loving office, + I have commission'd thee to save the man: + Help the good ship, showing the sunken rock, + Or he is wreckt for ever. + + <i>Enter</i> WILLIAM RUFUS. + + WILLIAM RUFUS. Father. + + WILLIAM. Well, boy. + + WILLIAM RUFUS. They have taken away the toy thou gavest me, + The Norman knight. + + WILLIAM. Why, boy? + + WILLIAM RUFUS. Because I broke + The horse's leg—it was mine own to break; + I like to have my toys, and break them too. + + WILLIAM. Well, thou shalt have another Norman knight! + + WILLIAM RUFUS. And may I break his legs? + + WILLIAM. Yea,—get thee gone! + + WILLIAM RUFUS. I'll tell them I have had my way with thee. + [<i>Exit</i>. + + MALET. I never knew thee check thy will for ought + Save for the prattling of thy little ones. + + WILLIAM. Who shall be kings of England. I am heir + Of England by the promise of her king. + + MALET. But there the great Assembly choose their king, + The choice of England is the voice of England. + + WILLIAM. I will be king of England by the laws, + The choice, and voice of England. + + MALET. Can that be? + + WILLIAM. The voice of any people is the sword + That guards them, or the sword that beats them down. + Here comes the would-be what I will be ... king-like ... + Tho' scarce at ease; for, save our meshes break, + More kinglike he than like to prove a king. + + <i>Enter</i> HAROLD, <i>musing, with his eyes on the ground</i>. + + He sees me not—and yet he dreams of me. + Earl, wilt thou fly my falcons this fair day? + They are of the best, strong-wing'd against the wind. + + HAROLD (<i>looking up suddenly, having caught but the last word</i>). + <i>Which</i> way does it blow? + + WILLIAM. Blowing for England, ha? + Not yet. Thou hast not learnt thy quarters here. + The winds so cross and jostle among these towers. + + HAROLD. Count of the Normans, thou hast ransom'd us, + Maintain'd, and entertain'd us royally! + + WILLIAM. And thou for us hast fought as loyally, + Which binds us friendship-fast for ever! + + HAROLD. Good! + But lest we turn the scale of courtesy + By too much pressure on it, I would fain, + Since thou hast promised Wulfnoth home with us, + Be home again with Wulfnoth. + + WILLIAM. Stay—as yet + Thou hast but seen how Norman hands can strike, + But walk'd our Norman field, scarce touch'd or tasted + The splendours of our Court. + + HAROLD. I am in no mood: + I should be as the shadow of a cloud + Crossing your light. + + WILLIAM. Nay, rest a week or two, + And we will fill thee full of Norman sun, + And send thee back among thine island mists + With laughter. + + HAROLD. Count, I thank thee, but had rather + Breathe the free wind from off our Saxon downs, + Tho' charged with all the wet of all the west. + + WILLIAM. Why if thou wilt, so let it be—thou shalt. + That were a graceless hospitality + To chain the free guest to the banquet-board; + To-morrow we will ride with thee to Harfleur, + And see thee shipt, and pray in thy behalf + For happier homeward winds than that which crack'd + Thy bark at Ponthieu,—yet to us, in faith, + A happy one—whereby we came to know + Thy valour and thy value, noble earl. + Ay, and perchance a happy one for thee, + Provided—I will go with thee to-morrow— + Nay—but there be conditions, easy ones, + So thou, fair friend, will take them easily. + + <i>Enter</i> PAGE. + + PAGE. My lord, there is a post from over seas + With news for thee. [<i>Exit</i> PAGE. + + WILLIAM. Come, Malet, let us hear! + + [<i>Exeunt</i> COUNT WILLIAM <i>and</i> MALET. + + HAROLD. Conditions? What conditions? pay him back + His ransom? 'easy '—that were easy—nay— + No money-lover he! What said the King? + 'I pray you do not go to Normandy.' + And fate hath blown me hither, bound me too + With bitter obligation to the Count— + Have I not fought it out? What did he mean? + There lodged a gleaming grimness in his eyes, + Gave his shorn smile the lie. The walls oppress me, + And yon huge keep that hinders half the heaven. + Free air! free field! + [<i>Moves to go out. A</i> MAN-AT-ARMS <i>follows him</i>. + + HAROLD (<i>to the</i> MAN-AT-ARMS). + I need thee not. Why dost thou follow me? + + MAN-AT-ARMS. I have the Count's commands to follow thee. + + HAROLD. What then? Am I in danger in this court? + + MAN-AT-ARMS. I cannot tell. I have the Count's commands. + + HAROLD. Stand out of earshot then, and keep me still + In eyeshot. + + MAN-AT-ARMS. Yea, lord Harold. [<i>Withdraws</i>. + + HAROLD. And arm'd men + Ever keep watch beside my chamber door, + And if I walk within the lonely wood, + There is an arm'd man ever glides behind! + + <i>Enter</i> MALET. + + Why am I follow'd, haunted, harass'd, watch'd? + See yonder! [<i>Pointing to the</i> MAN-AT-ARMS. + + MALET. 'Tis the good Count's care for thee! + The Normans love thee not, nor thou the Normans, + Or—so they deem. + + HAROLD. But wherefore is the wind, + Which way soever the vane-arrow swing, + Not ever fair for England? Why but now + He said (thou heardst him) that I must not hence + Save on conditions. + + MALET. So in truth he said. + + HAROLD. Malet, thy mother was an Englishwoman; + There somewhere beats an English pulse in thee! + + MALET. Well—for my mother's sake I love your England, + But for my father I love Normandy. + + HAROLD. Speak for thy mother's sake, and tell me true. + + MALET. Then for my mother's sake, and England's sake + That suffers in the daily want of thee, + Obey the Count's conditions, my good friend. + + HAROLD. How, Malet, if they be not honourable! + + MALET. Seem to obey them. + + HAROLD. Better die than lie! + + MALET. Choose therefore whether thou wilt have thy conscience + White as a maiden's hand, or whether England + Be shatter'd into fragments. + + HAROLD. News from England? + + MALET. Morcar and Edwin have stirr'd up the Thanes + Against thy brother Tostig's governance; + And all the North of Humber is one storm. + + HAROLD. I should be there, Malet, I should be there! + + MALET. And Tostig in his own hall on suspicion + Hath massacred the Thane that was his guest, + Gamel, the son of Orm: and there be more + As villainously slain. + + HAROLD. The wolf! the beast! + Ill news for guests, ha, Malet! More? What more? + What do they say? did Edward know of this? + + MALET. They say, his wife was knowing and abetting. + + HAROLD. They say, his wife!—To marry and have no husband + Makes the wife fool. My God, I should be there. + I'll hack my way to the sea. + + MALET. Thou canst not, Harold; + Our Duke is all between thee and the sea, + Our Duke is all about thee like a God; + All passes block'd. Obey him, speak him fair, + For he is only debonair to those + That follow where he leads, but stark as death + To those that cross him.—Look thou, here is Wulfnoth! + I leave thee to thy talk with him alone; + How wan, poor lad! how sick and sad for home! + [<i>Exit</i> MALET. + + HAROLD (<i>muttering</i>). + Go not to Normandy—go not to Normandy! + + <i>Enter</i> WULFNOTH. + + Poor brother! still a hostage! + + WULFNOTH. Yea, and I + Shall see the dewy kiss of dawn no more + Make blush the maiden-white of our tall cliffs, + Nor mark the sea-bird rouse himself and hover + Above the windy ripple, and fill the sky + With free sea-laughter—never—save indeed + Thou canst make yield this iron-mooded Duke + To let me go. + + HAROLD. Why, brother, so he will; + But on conditions. Canst thou guess at them? + + WULFNOTH. Draw nearer,—I was in the corridor, + I saw him coming with his brother Odo + The Bayeux bishop, and I hid myself. + + HAROLD. They did thee wrong who made thee hostage; thou + Wast ever fearful. + + WULFNOTH. And he spoke—I heard him— + 'This Harold is not of the royal blood, + Can have no right to the crown,' and Odo said, + 'Thine is the right, for thine the might; he is here, + And yonder is thy keep.' + + HAROLD. No, Wulfnoth, no. + + WULFNOTH. And William laugh'd and swore that might was right, + Far as he knew in this poor world of ours— + 'Marry, the Saints must go 'along with us, + And, brother, we will find a way,' said he— + Yea, yea, he would be king of England. + + HAROLD. Never! + + WULFNOTH. Yea, but thou must not this way answer <i>him</i>. + + HAROLD. Is it not better still to speak the truth? + + WULFNOTH. Not here, or thou wilt never hence nor I: + For in the racing toward this golden goal + He turns not right or left, but tramples flat + Whatever thwarts him; hast thou never heard + His savagery at Alencon,—the town + Hung out raw hides along their walls, and cried + 'Work for the tanner.' + + HAROLD. That had anger'd <i>me</i> + Had I been William. + + WULFNOTH. Nay, but he had prisoners, + He tore their eyes out, sliced their hands away, + And flung them streaming o'er the battlements + Upon the heads of those who walk'd within— + O speak him fair, Harold, for thine own sake. + + HAROLD. Your Welshman says, 'The Truth against the World,' + Much more the truth against myself. + + WULFNOTH. Thyself? + But for my sake, oh brother! oh! for my sake! + + HAROLD. Poor Wulfnoth! do they not entreat thee well? + + WULFNOTH. I see the blackness of my dungeon loom + Across their lamps of revel, and beyond + The merriest murmurs of their banquet clank + The shackles that will bind me to the wall. + + HAROLD. Too fearful still! + + WULFNOTH. Oh no, no—speak him fair! + Call it to temporize; and not to lie; + Harold, I do not counsel thee to lie. + The man that hath to foil a murderous aim + May, surely, play with words. + + HAROLD. Words are the man. + Not ev'n for thy sake, brother, would I lie. + + WULFNOTH. Then for thine Edith? + + HAROLD. There thou prick'st me deep. + + WULFNOTH. And for our Mother England? + + HAROLD. Deeper still. + + WULFNOTH. And deeper still the deep-down oubliette, + Down thirty feet below the smiling day— + In blackness—dogs' food thrown upon thy head. + And over thee the suns arise and set, + And the lark sings, the sweet stars come and go, + And men are at their markets, in their fields, + And woo their loves and have forgotten thee; + And thou art upright in thy living grave, + Where there is barely room to shift thy side, + And all thine England hath forgotten thee; + And he our lazy-pious Norman King, + With all his Normans round him once again, + Counts his old beads, and hath forgotten thee. + + HAROLD. Thou art of my blood, and so methinks, my boy, + Thy fears infect me beyond reason. Peace! + + WULFNOTH. And then our fiery Tostig, while thy hands + Are palsied here, if his Northumbrians rise + And hurl him from them,—I have heard the Normans + Count upon this confusion—may he not make + A league with William, so to bring him back? + + HAROLD. That lies within the shadow of the chance. + + WULFNOTH. And like a river in flood thro' a burst dam + Descends the ruthless Norman—our good King + Kneels mumbling some old bone—our helpless folk + Are wash'd away, wailing, in their own blood— + + HAROLD. Wailing! not warring? Boy, thou hast forgotten + That thou art English. + + WULFNOTH. Then our modest women— + I know the Norman license—thine own Edith— + + HAROLD. No more! I will not hear thee—William comes. + + WULFNOTH. I dare not well be seen in talk with thee. + Make thou not mention that I spake with thee. + [<i>Moves away to the back of the stage</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> WILLIAM, MALET, <i>and</i> OFFICER. + + OFFICER. We have the man that rail'd against thy birth. + + WILLIAM. Tear out his tongue. + + OFFICER. He shall not rail again. + He said that he should see confusion fall + On thee and on thine house. + + WILLIAM. Tear out his eyes, And plunge him into prison. + + OFFICER. It shall be done. + [<i>Exit</i> OFFICER. + + WILLIAM. Look not amazed, fair earl! Better leave undone + Than do by halves—tongueless and eyeless, prison'd— + + HAROLD. Better methinks have slain the man at once! + + WILLIAM. We have respect for man's immortal soul, + We seldom take man's life, except in war; + It frights the traitor more to maim and blind. + + HAROLD. In mine own land I should have scorn'd the man, + Or lash'd his rascal back, and let him go. + + WILLIAM. And let him go? To slander thee again! + Yet in thine own land in thy father's day + They blinded my young kinsman, Alfred—ay, + Some said it was thy father's deed. + + HAROLD. They lied. + + WILLIAM. But thou and he—whom at thy word, for thou + Art known a speaker of the truth, I free + From this foul charge— + + HAROLD. Nay, nay, he freed himself + By oath and compurgation from the charge. + The king, the lords, the people clear'd him of it. + + WILLIAM. But thou and he drove our good Normans out + From England, and this rankles in us yet. + Archbishop Robert hardly scaped with life. + + HAROLD. Archbishop Robert! Robert the Archbishop! + Robert of Jumieges, he that— + + MALET. Quiet! quiet! + + HAROLD. Count! if there sat within the Norman chair + A ruler all for England—one who fill'd + All offices, all bishopricks with English— + We could not move from Dover to the Humber + Saving thro' Norman bishopricks—I say + Ye would applaud that Norman who should drive + The stranger to the fiends! + + WILLIAM. Why, that is reason! + Warrior thou art, and mighty wise withal! + Ay, ay, but many among our Norman lords + Hate thee for this, and press upon me—saying + God and the sea have given thee to our hands— + To plunge thee into life-long prison here:— + Yet I hold out against them, as I may, + Yea—would hold out, yea, tho' they should revolt— + For thou hast done the battle in my cause; + I am thy fastest friend in Normandy. + + HAROLD. I am doubly bound to thee ... if this be so. + + WILLIAM. And I would bind thee more, and would myself + Be bounden to thee more. + + HAROLD. Then let me hence With Wulfnoth to King Edward. + + WILLIAM. So we will. We hear he hath not long to live. + + HAROLD. It may be. + + WILLIAM. Why then the heir of England, who is he? + + HAROLD. The Atheling is nearest to the throne. + + WILLIAM. But sickly, slight, half-witted and a child, + Will England have him king? + + HAROLD. It may be, no. + + WILLIAM. And hath King Edward not pronounced his heir? + + HAROLD. Not that I know. + + WILLIAM. When he was here in Normandy, + He loved us and we him, because we found him. + A Norman of the Normans. + + HAROLD. So did we. + + WILLIAM. A gentle, gracious, pure and saintly man! + And grateful to the hand that shielded him, + He promised that if ever he were king + In England, he would give his kingly voice + To me as his successor. Knowest thou this? + + HAROLD. I learn it now. + + WILLIAM. Thou knowest I am his cousin, + And that my wife descends from Alfred? + + HAROLD. Ay. + + WILLIAM. Who hath a better claim then to the crown + So that ye will not crown the Atheling? + + HAROLD. None that I know ... if that but hung upon + King Edward's will. + + WILLIAM. Wilt thou uphold my claim? + + MALET (<i>aside to</i> HAROLD). + Be careful of thine answer, my good friend. + + WULFNOTH (<i>aside to</i> HAROLD). + Oh! Harold, for my sake and for thine own! + + HAROLD. Ay ... if the king have not revoked his promise. + + WILLIAM. But hath he done it then? + + HAROLD. Not that I know. + + WILLIAM. Good, good, and thou wilt help me to the crown? + + HAROLD. Ay ... if the Witan will consent to this. + + WILLIAM. Thou art the mightiest voice in England, man, + Thy voice will lead the Witan—shall I have it? + + WULFNOTH (<i>aside to</i> HAROLD). + Oh! Harold, if thou love thine Edith, ay. + + HAROLD. Ay, if— + + MALET (<i>aside to</i> HAROLD). + Thine 'ifs' will sear thine eyes out—ay. + + WILLIAM. I ask thee, wilt thou help me to the crown? + And I will make thee my great Earl of Earls, + Foremost in England and in Normandy; + Thou shalt be verily king—all but the name— + For I shall most sojourn in Normandy; + And thou be my vice-king in England. Speak. + + WULFNOTH (<i>aside to</i> HAROLD). + Ay, brother—for the sake of England—ay. + + HAROLD. My lord— + + MALET (<i>aside to</i> HAROLD). + Take heed now. + + HAROLD. Ay. + + WILLIAM. I am content, + For thou art truthful, and thy word thy bond. + To-morrow will we ride with thee to Harfleur. + [<i>Exit</i> WILLIAM. + + MALET. Harold, I am thy friend, one life with thee, + And even as I should bless thee saving mine, + I thank thee now for having saved thyself. + [<i>Exit</i> MALET. + + HAROLD. For having lost myself to save myself, + Said 'ay' when I meant 'no,' lied like a lad + That dreads the pendent scourge, said 'ay' for 'no'! + Ay! No!—he hath not bound me by an oath— + Is 'ay' an oath? is 'ay' strong as an oath? + Or is it the same sin to break my word + As break mine oath? He call'd my word my bond! + He is a liar who knows I am a liar, + And makes believe that he believes my word— + The crime be on his head—not bounden—no. + + [<i>Suddenly doors are flung open, discovering in an + inner hall</i> COUNT WILLIAM <i>in his state robes, + seated upon his throne, between two</i> BISHOPS, + ODO OP BAYEUX <i>being one: in the centre of + the hall an ark covered with cloth of gold; + and on either side of it the</i> NORMAN BARONS. + + <i>Enter a</i> JAILOR <i>before</i> WILLIAM'S <i>throne</i>. + + WILLIAM (<i>to</i> JAILOR). + Knave, hast thou let thy prisoner scape? + + JAILOR. Sir Count, + He had but one foot, he must have hopt away, + Yea, some familiar spirit must have help'd him. + + WILLIAM. Woe knave to thy familiar and to thee! + Give me thy keys. [<i>They fall clashing</i>. + Nay let them lie. Stand there and wait my will. + + [<i>The</i> JAILOR <i>stands aside</i>. + + WILLIAM (<i>to</i> HAROLD). + Hast thou such trustless jailors in thy North? + + HAROLD. We have few prisoners in mine earldom there, + So less chance for false keepers. + + WILLIAM. We have heard + Of thy just, mild, and equal governance; + Honour to thee! thou art perfect in all honour! + Thy naked word thy bond! confirm it now + Before our gather'd Norman baronage, + For they will not believe thee—as I believe. + [<i>Descends from his throne and stands by the ark</i>. + Let all men here bear witness of our bond! + [<i>Beckons to</i> HAROLD, <i>who advances</i>. + + <i>Enter</i> MALET <i>behind him</i>. + + Lay thou thy hand upon this golden pall! + Behold the jewel of St. Pancratius + Woven into the gold. Swear thou on this! + + HAROLD. What should I swear? Why should I swear on this? + + WILLIAM (<i>savagely</i>). + Swear thou to help me to the crown of England. + + MALET (<i>whispering</i> HAROLD). + My friend, thou hast gone too far to palter now. + + WULFNOTH (<i>whispering</i> HAROLD). + Swear thou to-day, to-morrow is thine own. + + HAROLD. I swear to help thee to the crown of England ... + According as King Edward promises. + + WILLIAM. Thou must swear absolutely, noble Earl. + + MALET (<i>whispering</i>). + Delay is death to thee, ruin to England. + + WULFNOTH (<i>whispering</i>). + Swear, dearest brother, I beseech thee, swear! + + HAROLD (<i>putting his hand on the jewel</i>). + I swear to help thee to the crown of England. + + WILLIAM. Thanks, truthful Earl; I did not doubt thy word, + But that my barons might believe thy word, + And that the Holy Saints of Normandy + When thou art home in England, with thine own, + Might strengthen thee in keeping of thy word, + I made thee swear.—Show him by whom he hath sworn. + + [<i>The two</i> BISHOPS <i>advance, and raise the cloth of gold. + The bodies and bones of Saints are seen lying in the ark</i>. + + The holy bones of all the Canonised + From all the holiest shrines in Normandy! + + HAROLD. Horrible! [<i>They let the cloth fall again</i>. + + WILLIAM. Ay, for thou hast sworn an oath + Which, if not kept, would make the hard earth rive + To the very Devil's horns, the bright sky cleave + To the very feet of God, and send her hosts + Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of plague + Thro' all your cities, blast your infants, dash + The torch of war among your standing corn, + Dabble your hearths with your own blood.—Enough! + Thou wilt not break it! I, the Count—the King— + Thy friend—am grateful for thine honest oath, + Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, now, + But softly as a bridegroom to his own. + For I shall rule according to your laws, + And make your ever-jarring Earldoms move + To music and in order—Angle, Jute, + Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a throne + Out-towering hers of France.... The wind is fair + For England now.... To-night we will be merry. + To-morrow will I ride with thee to Harfleur. + + [<i>Exeunt</i> WILLIAM <i>and all the</i> NORMAN BARONS, <i>etc</i>. + + HAROLD. To-night we will be merry—and to-morrow— + Juggler and bastard—bastard—he hates that most— + William the tanner's bastard! Would he heard me! + O God, that I were in some wide, waste field + With nothing but my battle-axe and him + To spatter his brains! Why let earth rive, gulf in + These cursed Normans—yea and mine own self. + Cleave heaven, and send thy saints that I may say + Ev'n to their faces, 'If ye side with William + Ye are not noble.' How their pointed fingers + Glared at me! Am I Harold, Harold, son + Of our great Godwin? Lo! I touch mine arms, + My limbs—they are not mine—they are a liar's— + I mean to be a liar—I am not bound— + Stigand shall give me absolution for it— + Did the chest move? did it move? I am utter craven! + O Wulfnoth, Wulfnoth, brother, thou hast betray'd me! + + WULFNOTH. Forgive me, brother, I will live here and die. + + <i>Enter</i> PAGE. + + PAGE. My lord! the Duke awaits thee at the banquet. + + HAROLD. Where they eat dead men's flesh, and drink their blood. + + PAGE. My lord— + + HAROLD. I know your Norman cookery is so spiced, + It masks all this. + + PAGE. My lord! thou art white as death. + + HAROLD. With looking on the dead. Am I so white? + Thy Duke will seem the darker. Hence, I follow. + + [<i>Exeunt</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT III. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—THE KING'S PALACE. LONDON. + + KING EDWARD <i>dying on a couch, and by him standing the</i> QUEEN, HAROLD, + ARCHBISHOP STIGAND, GURTH, LEOFWIN, ARCHBISHOP ALDRED, ALDWYTH, <i>and</i> + EDITH. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STIGAND. Sleeping or dying there? If this be death, + Then our great Council wait to crown thee King— + Come hither, I have a power; [<i>To</i> HAROLD. + They call me near, for I am close to thee + And England—I, old shrivell'd Stigand, I, + Dry as an old wood-fungus on a dead tree, + I have a power! + See here this little key about my neck! + There lies a treasure buried down in Ely: + If e'er the Norman grow too hard for thee, + Ask me for this at thy most need, son Harold, + At thy most need—not sooner. + + HAROLD. So I will. + + STIGAND. Red gold—a hundred purses—yea, and more! + If thou canst make a wholesome use of these + To chink against the Norman, I do believe + My old crook'd spine would bud out two young wings + To fly to heaven straight with. + + HAROLD. Thank thee, father! + Thou art English, Edward too is English now, + He hath clean repented of his Normanism. + + STIGAND. Ay, as the libertine repents who cannot + Make done undone, when thro' his dying sense + Shrills 'lost thro' thee.' They have built their castles here; + Our priories are Norman; the Norman adder + Hath bitten us; we are poison'd: our dear England + Is demi-Norman. He!— + [<i>Pointing to</i> KING EDWARD, <i>sleeping</i>. + + HAROLD. I would I were + As holy and as passionless as he! + That I might rest as calmly! Look at him— + The rosy face, and long down-silvering beard, + The brows unwrinkled as a summer mere.— + + STIGAND. A summer mere with sudden wreckful gusts + From a side-gorge. Passionless? How he flamed + When Tostig's anger'd earldom flung him, nay, + He fain had calcined all Northumbria + To one black ash, but that thy patriot passion + Siding with our great Council against Tostig, + Out-passion'd his! Holy? ay, ay, forsooth, + A conscience for his own soul, not his realm; + A twilight conscience lighted thro' a chink; + Thine by the sun; nay, by some sun to be, + When all the world hath learnt to speak the truth, + And lying were self-murder by that state + Which was the exception. + + HAROLD. That sun may God speed! + + STIGAND. Come, Harold, shake the cloud off! + + HAROLD. Can I, father? + Our Tostig parted cursing me and England; + Our sister hates us for his banishment; + He hath gone to kindle Norway against England, + And Wulfnoth is alone in Normandy. + For when I rode with William down to Harfleur, + 'Wulfnoth is sick,' he said; 'he cannot follow;' + Then with that friendly-fiendly smile of his, + 'We have learnt to love him, let him a little longer + Remain a hostage for the loyalty + Of Godwin's house.' As far as touches Wulfnoth + I that so prized plain word and naked truth + Have sinn'd against it—all in vain. + + LEOFWIN. Good brother, + By all the truths that ever priest hath preach'd, + Of all the lies that ever men have lied, + Thine is the pardonablest. + + HAROLD. May be so! + I think it so, I think I am a fool + To think it can be otherwise than so. + + STIGAND. Tut, tut, I have absolved thee: dost thou scorn me, + Because I had my Canterbury pallium, + From one whom they dispoped? + + HAROLD. No, Stigand, no! + + STIGAND. Is naked truth actable in true life? + I have heard a saying of thy father Godwin, + That, were a man of state nakedly true, + Men would but take him for the craftier liar. + + LEOFWIN. Be men less delicate than the Devil himself? + I thought that naked Truth would shame the Devil, + The Devil is so modest. + + GURTH. He never said it! + + LEOFWIN. Be thou not stupid-honest, brother Gurth! + + HAROLD. Better to be a liar's dog, and hold + My master honest, than believe that lying + And ruling men are fatal twins that cannot + Move one without the other. Edward wakes!— + Dazed—he hath seen a vision. + + EDWARD. The green tree! + Then a great Angel past along the highest + Crying 'the doom of England,' and at once + He stood beside me, in his grasp a sword + Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft the tree + From off the bearing trunk, and hurl'd it from him + Three fields away, and then he dash'd and drench'd, + He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with human blood, + And brought the sunder'd tree again, and set it + Straight on the trunk, that thus baptized in blood + Grew ever high and higher, beyond my seeing, + And shot out sidelong boughs across the deep + That dropt themselves, and rooted in far isles + Beyond my seeing: and the great Angel rose + And past again along the highest crying + 'The doom of England!'—Tostig, raise my head! + [<i>Falls back senseless</i>. + + HAROLD (<i>raising him</i>). + Let Harold serve for Tostig! + + <i>QUEEN</i>. Harold served + Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tostig! + Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid it low! + The sickness of our saintly king, for whom + My prayers go up as fast as my tears fall, + I well believe, hath mainly drawn itself + From lack of Tostig—thou hast banish'd him. + + HAROLD. Nay—but the council, and the king himself. + + QUEEN. Thou hatest him, hatest him. + + HAROLD (<i>coldly</i>). + Ay—Stigand, unriddle + This vision, canst thou? + + STIGAND. Dotage! + + EDWARD (<i>starting up</i>). + It is finish'd. + I have built the Lord a house—the Lord hath dwelt + In darkness. I have built the Lord a house— + Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden cherubim + With twenty-cubit wings from wall to wall— + I have built the Lord a house—sing, Asaph! clash + The cymbal, Heman! blow the trumpet, priest! + Fall, cloud, and fill the house—lo! my two pillars, + Jachin and Boaz!— [<i>Seeing</i> HAROLD <i>and</i> GURTH. + Harold, Gurth,—where am I? + Where is the charter of our Westminster? + + STIGAND. It lies beside thee, king, upon thy bed. + + EDWARD. Sign, sign at once—take, sign it, Stigand, Aldred! + Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, and Leofwin, + Sign it, my queen! + + ALL. We have sign'd it. + + EDWARD. It is finish'd! + The kingliest Abbey in all Christian lands, + The lordliest, loftiest minster ever built + To Holy Peter in our English isle! + Let me be buried there, and all our kings, + And all our just and wise and holy men + That shall be born hereafter. It is finish'd! + Hast thou had absolution for thine oath? [<i>To</i> HAROLD. + + HAROLD. Stigand hath given me absolution for it. + + EDWARD. Stigand is not canonical enough + To save thee from the wrath of Norman Saints. + + STIGAND. Norman enough! Be there no Saints of England + To help us from their brethren yonder? + + EDWARD. Prelate, + The Saints are one, but those of Normanland + Are mightier than our own. Ask it of Aldred. + [<i>To</i> HAROLD. + + ALDRED. It shall be granted him, my king; for he + Who vows a vow to strangle his own mother + Is guiltier keeping this, than breaking it. + + EDWARD. O friends, I shall not overlive the day. + + STIGAND. Why then the throne is empty. Who inherits? + For tho' we be not bound by the king's voice + In making of a king, yet the king's voice + Is much toward his making. Who inherits? + Edgar the Atheling? + + EDWARD. No, no, but Harold. + I love him: he hath served me: none but he + Can rule all England. Yet the curse is on him + For swearing falsely by those blessed bones; + He did not mean to keep his vow. + + HAROLD. Not mean + To make our England Norman. + + EDWARD. There spake Godwin, + Who hated all the Normans; but their Saints + Have heard thee, Harold. + + EDITH. Oh! my lord, my king! + He knew not whom he sware by. + + EDWARD. Yea, I know + He knew not, but those heavenly ears have heard, + Their curse is on him; wilt thou bring another, + Edith, upon his head? + + EDITH. No, no, not I. + + EDWARD. Why then, thou must not wed him. + + HAROLD. Wherefore, wherefore? + + EDWARD. O son, when thou didst tell me of thine oath, + I sorrow'd for my random promise given + To yon fox-lion. I did not dream then + I should be king.—My son, the Saints are virgins; + They love the white rose of virginity, + The cold, white lily blowing in her cell: + I have been myself a virgin; and I sware + To consecrate my virgin here to heaven— + The silent, cloister'd, solitary life, + A life of life-long prayer against the curse + That lies on thee and England. + + HAROLD. No, no, no. + + EDWARD. Treble denial of the tongue of flesh, + Like Peter's when he fell, and thou wilt have + To wail for it like Peter. O my son! + Are all oaths to be broken then, all promises + Made in our agony for help from heaven? + Son, there is one who loves thee: and a wife, + What matters who, so she be serviceable + In all obedience, as mine own hath been: + God bless thee, wedded daughter. + [<i>Laying his hand on the</i> QUEEN'S <i>head</i>. + + QUEEN. Bless thou too + That brother whom I love beyond the rest, + My banish'd Tostig. + + EDWARD. All the sweet Saints bless him! + Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he comes! + And let him pass unscathed; he loves me, Harold! + Be kindly to the Normans left among us, + Who follow'd me for love! and dear son, swear + When thou art king, to see my solemn vow + Accomplish'd. + + HAROLD. Nay, dear lord, for I have sworn + Not to swear falsely twice. + + EDWARD. Thou wilt not swear? + + HAROLD. I cannot. + + EDWARD. Then on thee remains the curse, + Harold, if thou embrace her: and on thee, + Edith, if thou abide it,— + + [<i>The</i> KING <i>swoons;</i> EDITH <i>falls and kneels by the couch</i>. + + STIGAND. He hath swoon'd! + Death?... no, as yet a breath. + + HAROLD. Look up! look up! + Edith! + + ALDRED. Confuse her not; she hath begun + Her life-long prayer for thee. + + ALDWYTH. O noble Harold, + I would thou couldst have sworn. + + HAROLD. For thine own pleasure? + + ALDWYTH. No, but to please our dying king, and those + Who make thy good their own—all England, Earl. + + ALDRED. <i>I</i> would thou couldst have sworn. Our holy king + Hath given his virgin lamb to Holy Church + To save thee from the curse. + + HAROLD. Alas! poor man, + <i>His</i> promise brought it on me. + + ALDRED. O good son! + That knowledge made him all the carefuller + To find a means whereby the curse might glance + From thee and England. + + HAROLD. Father, we so loved— + + ALDRED. The more the love, the mightier is the prayer; + The more the love, the more acceptable + The sacrifice of both your loves to heaven. + No sacrifice to heaven, no help from heaven; + That runs thro' all the faiths of all the world. + And sacrifice there must be, for the king + Is holy, and hath talk'd with God, and seen + A shadowing horror; there are signs in heaven— + + HAROLD. Your comet came and went. + + ALDRED. And signs on earth! + Knowest thou Senlac hill? + + HAROLD. I know all Sussex; + A good entrenchment for a perilous hour! + + ALDRED. Pray God that come not suddenly! There is one + Who passing by that hill three nights ago— + He shook so that he scarce could out with it— + Heard, heard— + + HAROLD. The wind in his hair? + + ALDRED. A ghostly horn + Blowing continually, and faint battle-hymns, + And cries, and clashes, and the groans of men; + And dreadful shadows strove upon the hill, + And dreadful lights crept up from out the marsh— + Corpse-candles gliding over nameless graves— + + HAROLD. At Senlac? + + ALDRED. Senlac. + + EDWARD (<i>waking</i>). + Senlac! Sanguelac, + The Lake of Blood! + + STIGAND. This lightning before death + Plays on the word,—and Normanizes too! + + HAROLD. Hush, father, hush! + + EDWARD. Thou uncanonical fool, + Wilt <i>thou</i> play with the thunder? North and South + Thunder together, showers of blood are blown + Before a never-ending blast, and hiss + Against the blaze they cannot quench—a lake, + A sea of blood—we are drown'd in blood—for God + Has fill'd the quiver, and Death has drawn the bow— + Sanguelac! Sanguelac! the arrow! the arrow! [<i>Dies</i>. + + STIGAND. It is the arrow of death in his own heart— + And our great Council wait to crown thee King. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—IN THE GARDEN. THE KING'S HOUSE NEAR LONDON. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + EDITH. Crown'd, crown'd and lost, crown'd King—and lost to me! + + (<i>Singing</i>.) + + Two young lovers in winter weather, + None to guide them, + Walk'd at night on the misty heather; + Night, as black as a raven's feather; + Both were lost and found together, + None beside them. + + That is the burthen of it—lost and found + Together in the cruel river Swale + A hundred years ago; and there's another, + + Lost, lost, the light of day, + + To which the lover answers lovingly + + 'I am beside thee.' + Lost, lost, we have lost the way. + 'Love, I will guide thee.' + Whither, O whither? into the river, + Where we two may be lost together, + And lost for ever? 'Oh! never, oh! never, + Tho' we be lost and be found together.' + + Some think they loved within the pale forbidden + By Holy Church: but who shall say? the truth + Was lost in that fierce North, where <i>they</i> were lost, + Where all good things are lost, where Tostig lost + The good hearts of his people. It is Harold! + + <i>Enter</i> HAROLD. + + Harold the King! + + HAROLD. Call me not King, but Harold. + + EDITH. Nay, thou art King! + + HAROLD. Thine, thine, or King or churl! + My girl, thou hast been weeping: turn not thou + Thy face away, but rather let me be + King of the moment to thee, and command + That kiss my due when subject, which will make + My kingship kinglier to me than to reign + King of the world without it. + + EDITH. Ask me not, + Lest I should yield it, and the second curse + Descend upon thine head, and thou be only + King of the moment over England. + + HAROLD. Edith, + Tho' somewhat less a king to my true self + Than ere they crown'd me one, for I have lost + Somewhat of upright stature thro' mine oath, + Yet thee I would not lose, and sell not thou + Our living passion for a dead man's dream; + Stigand believed he knew not what he spake. + Oh God! I cannot help it, but at times + They seem to me too narrow, all the faiths + Of this grown world of ours, whose baby eye + Saw them sufficient. Fool and wise, I fear + This curse, and scorn it. But a little light!— + And on it falls the shadow of the priest; + Heaven yield us more! for better, Woden, all + Our cancell'd warrior-gods, our grim Walhalla, + Eternal war, than that the Saints at peace + The Holiest of our Holiest one should be + This William's fellow-tricksters;—better die + Than credit this, for death is death, or else + Lifts us beyond the lie. Kiss me—thou art not + A holy sister yet, my girl, to fear + There might be more than brother in my kiss, + And more than sister in thine own. + + EDITH. I dare not. + + HAROLD. Scared by the church—'Love for a whole life long' + When was that sung? + + EDITH. Here to the nightingales. + + HAROLD. Their anthems of no church, how sweet they are! + Nor kingly priest, nor priestly king to cross + Their billings ere they nest. + + EDITH. They are but of spring, + They fly the winter change—not so with us— + No wings to come and go. + + HAROLD. But wing'd souls flying + Beyond all change and in the eternal distance + To settle on the Truth. + + EDITH. They are not so true, + They change their mates. + + HAROLD. Do they? I did not know it. + + EDITH. They say thou art to wed the Lady Aldwyth. + + HAROLD. They say, they say. + + EDITH. If this be politic, + And well for thee and England—and for her— + Care not for me who love thee. + + GURTH (<i>calling</i>). Harold, Harold! + + HAROLD. The voice of Gurth! (<i>Enter</i> GURTH.) + Good even, my good brother! + + GURTH. Good even, gentle Edith. + + EDITH. Good even, Gurth. + + GURTH. Ill news hath come! Our hapless brother, Tostig— + He, and the giant King of Norway, Harold + Hardrada—Scotland, Ireland, Iceland, Orkney, + Are landed North of Humber, and in a field + So packt with carnage that the dykes and brooks + Were bridged and damm'd with dead, have overthrown + Morcar and Edwin. + + HAROLD. Well then, we must fight. + How blows the wind? + + GURTH. Against St. Valery + And William. + + HAROLD. Well then, we will to the North. + + GURTH. Ay, but worse news: this William sent to Rome, + Swearing thou swarest falsely by his Saints: + The Pope and that Archdeacon Hildebrand + His master, heard him, and have sent him back + A holy gonfanon, and a blessed hair + Of Peter, and all France, all Burgundy, + Poitou, all Christendom is raised against thee; + He hath cursed thee, and all those who fight for thee, + And given thy realm of England to the bastard. + + HAROLD. Ha! ha! + + EDITH. Oh! laugh not!... Strange and ghastly in the gloom + And shadowing of this double thunder-cloud + That lours on England—laughter! + + HAROLD. No, not strange! + This was old human laughter in old Rome + Before a Pope was born, when that which reign'd + Call'd itself God.—A kindly rendering + Of 'Render unto Caesar.' ... The Good Shepherd! + Take this, and render that. + + GURTH. They have taken York. + + HAROLD. The Lord was God and came as man—the Pope + Is man and comes as God.—York taken? + + GURTH. Yea, + Tostig hath taken York! + + HAROLD. To York then. Edith, + Hadst thou been braver, I had better braved + All—but I love thee and thou me—and that + Remains beyond all chances and all churches, + And that thou knowest. + + EDITH. Ay, but take back thy ring. + It burns my hand—a curse to thee and me. + I dare not wear it. + [<i>Proffers</i> HAROLD <i>the ring, which he takes</i>. + + HAROLD. But I dare. God with thee! + + [<i>Exeunt</i> HAROLD <i>and</i> GURTH. + + EDITH. The King hath cursed him, if he marry me; + The Pope hath cursed him, marry me or no! + God help me! I know nothing—can but pray + For Harold—pray, pray, pray—no help but prayer, + A breath that fleets beyond this iron world, + And touches Him that made it. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT IV. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—IN NORTHUMBRIA. + + ARCHBISHOP ALDRED, MORCAR, EDWIN, <i>and</i> FORCES. <i>Enter</i> HAROLD. + <i>The standard of the golden Dragon of Wessex preceding him</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HAROLD. What! are thy people sullen from defeat? + Our Wessex dragon flies beyond the Humber, + No voice to greet it. + + EDWIN. Let not our great king + Believe us sullen—only shamed to the quick + Before the king—as having been so bruised + By Harold, king of Norway; but our help + Is Harold, king of England. Pardon us, thou! + Our silence is our reverence for the king! + + HAROLD. Earl of the Mercians! if the truth be gall, + Cram me not thou with honey, when our good hive + Needs every sting to save it. + + VOICES. Aldwyth! Aldwyth! + + HAROLD. Why cry thy people on thy sister's name? + + MORCAR. She hath won upon our people thro' her beauty, + And pleasantness among them. + + VOICES. Aldwyth, Aldwyth! + + HAROLD. They shout as they would have her for a queen. + + MORCAR. She hath followed with our host, and suffer'd all. + + HAROLD. What would ye, men? + + VOICE. Our old Northumbrian crown, + And kings of our own choosing. + + HAROLD. Your old crown + Were little help without our Saxon carles + Against Hardrada. + + VOICE. Little! we are Danes, + Who conquer'd what we walk on, our own field. + + HAROLD. They have been plotting here! [<i>Aside</i>. + + VOICE. He calls us little! + + HAROLD. The kingdoms of this world began with little, + A hill, a fort, a city—that reach'd a hand + Down to the field beneath it, 'Be thou mine, + Then to the next, 'Thou also!' If the field + Cried out 'I am mine own;' another hill + Or fort, or city, took it, and the first + Fell, and the next became an Empire. + + VOICE. Yet + Thou art but a West Saxon: <i>we</i> are Danes! + + HAROLD. My mother is a Dane, and I am English; + There is a pleasant fable in old books, + Ye take a stick, and break it; bind a score + All in one faggot, snap it over knee, + Ye cannot. + + VOICE. Hear King Harold! he says true! + + HAROLD. Would ye be Norsemen? + + VOICES. No! + + HAROLD. Or Norman? + + VOICES. No! + + HAROLD. Snap not the faggot-band then. + + VOICE. That is true! + + VOICE. Ay, but thou art not kingly, only grandson + To Wulfnoth, a poor cow-herd. + + HAROLD. This old Wulfnoth + Would take me on his knees and tell me tales + Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great + Who drove you Danes; and yet he held that Dane, + Jute, Angle, Saxon, were or should be all + One England, for this cow-herd, like my father, + Who shook the Norman scoundrels off the throne, + Had in him kingly thoughts—a king of men, + Not made but born, like the great king of all, + A light among the oxen. + + VOICE. That is true! + + VOICE. Ay, and I love him now, for mine own father + Was great, and cobbled. + + VOICE. Thou art Tostig's brother, + Who wastes the land. + + HAROLD. This brother comes to save + Your land from waste; I saved it once before, + For when your people banish'd Tostig hence, + And Edward would have sent a host against you, + Then I, who loved my brother, bad the king + Who doted on him, sanction your decree + Of Tostig's banishment, and choice of Morcar, + To help the realm from scattering. + + VOICE. King! thy brother, + If one may dare to speak the truth, was wrong'd. + Wild was he, born so: but the plots against him + Had madden'd tamer men. + + MORCAR. Thou art one of those + Who brake into Lord Tostig's treasure-house + And slew two hundred of his following, + And now, when Tostig hath come back with power, + Are frighted back to Tostig. + + OLD THANE. Ugh! Plots and feuds! + This is my ninetieth birthday. Can ye not + Be brethren? Godwin still at feud with Alfgar, + And Alfgar hates King Harold. Plots and feuds! + This is my ninetieth birthday! + + HAROLD. Old man, Harold + Hates nothing; not <i>his</i> fault, if our two houses + Be less than brothers. + + VOICES. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth! + + HAROLD. Again! Morcar! Edwin! What do they mean? + + EDWIN. So the good king would deign to lend an ear + Not overscornful, we might chance—perchance— + To guess their meaning. + + MORCAR. Thine own meaning, Harold, + To make all England one, to close all feuds, + Mixing our bloods, that thence a king may rise + Half-Godwin and half-Alfgar, one to rule + All England beyond question, beyond quarrel. + + HAROLD. Who sow'd this fancy here among the people? + + MORCAR. Who knows what sows itself among the people? + A goodly flower at times. + + HAROLD. The Queen of Wales? + Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in her + To hate me; I have heard she hates me. + + MORCAR. No! + For I can swear to that, but cannot swear + That these will follow thee against the Norsemen, + If thou deny them this. + + HAROLD. Morcar and Edwin, + When will you cease to plot against my house? + + EDWIN. The king can scarcely dream that we, who know + His prowess in the mountains of the West, + Should care to plot against him in the North. + + MORCAR. Who dares arraign us, king, of such a plot? + + HAROLD. Ye heard one witness even now. + + MORCAR. The craven! + There is a faction risen again for Tostig, + Since Tostig came with Norway—fright not love. + + HAROLD. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, if I yield, + Follow against the Norseman? + + MORCAR. Surely, surely! + + HAROLD. Morcar and Edwin, will ye upon oath, + Help us against the Norman? + + MORCAR. With good will; + Yea, take the Sacrament upon it, king. + + HAROLD. Where is thy sister? + + MORCAR. Somewhere hard at hand. + Call and she comes. + + [<i>One goes out, then enter</i> ALDWYTH. + + HAROLD. I doubt not but thou knowest + Why thou art summon'd. + + ALDWYTH. Why?—I stay with these, + Lest thy fierce Tostig spy me out alone, + And flay me all alive. + + HAROLD. Canst thou love one + Who did discrown thine husband, unqueen thee? + Didst thou not love thine husband? + + ALDWYTH. Oh! my lord, + The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage king— + That was, my lord, a match of policy. + + HAROLD. Was it? + I knew him brave: he loved his land: he fain + Had made her great: his finger on her harp + (I heard him more than once) had in it Wales, + Her floods, her woods, her hills: had I been his, + I had been all Welsh. + + ALDWYTH. Oh, ay—all Welsh—and yet + I saw thee drive him up his hills—and women + Cling to the conquer'd, if they love, the more; + If not, they cannot hate the conqueror. + We never—oh! good Morcar, speak for us, + His conqueror conquer'd Aldwyth. + + HAROLD. Goodly news! + + MORCAR. Doubt it not thou! Since Griffith's + head was sent + To Edward, she hath said it. + + HAROLD. I had rather + She would have loved her husband. Aldwyth, Aldwyth, + Canst thou love me, thou knowing where I love? + + ALDWYTH. I can, my lord, for mine own sake, for thine, + For England, for thy poor white dove, who flutters + Between thee and the porch, but then would find + Her nest within the cloister, and be still. + + HAROLD. Canst thou love one, who cannot love again? + + ALDWYTH. Full hope have I that love will answer love. + + HAROLD. Then in the name of the great God, so be it! + Come, Aldred, join our hands before the hosts, + That all may see. + + [ALDRED <i>joins the hands of</i> HAROLD <i>and</i> ALDWYTH + <i>and blesses them</i>. + + VOICES. Harold, Harold and Aldwyth! + + HAROLD. Set forth our golden Dragon, let him flap + The wings that beat down Wales! + Advance our Standard of the Warrior, + Dark among gems and gold; and thou, brave banner, + Blaze like a night of fatal stars on those + Who read their doom and die. + Where lie the Norsemen? on the Derwent? ay + At Stamford-bridge. + Morcar, collect thy men; Edwin, my friend— + Thou lingerest.—Gurth,— + Last night King Edward came to me in dreams— + The rosy face and long down-silvering beard— + He told me I should conquer:— + I am no woman to put faith in dreams. + (To his army.) + Last night King Edward came to me in dreams, + And told me we should conquer. + + VOICES. Forward! Forward! + Harold and Holy Cross! + + ALDWYTH. The day is won! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II.—A PLAIN. BEFORE THE BATTLE OF STAMFORD-BRIDGE. + + HAROLD <i>and his</i> GUARD. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HAROLD. Who is it comes this way? Tostig? + (<i>Enter</i> TOSTIG <i>with a small force</i>.) O brother, + What art thou doing here? + + TOSTIG. I am foraging + For Norway's army. + + HAROLD. I could take and slay thee. + Thou art in arms against us. + + TOSTIG. Take and slay me, + For Edward loved me. + + HAROLD. Edward bad me spare thee. + + TOSTIG. I hate King Edward, for he join'd with thee + To drive me outlaw'd. Take and slay me, I say, + Or I shall count thee fool. + + HAROLD. Take thee, or free thee, + Free thee or slay thee, Norway will have war; + No man would strike with Tostig, save for Norway. + Thou art nothing in thine England, save for Norway, + Who loves not thee but war. What dost thou here, + Trampling thy mother's bosom into blood? + + TOSTIG. She hath wean'd me from it with such bitterness. + I come for mine own Earldom, my Northumbria; + Thou hast given it to the enemy of our house. + + HAROLD. Northumbria threw thee off, she will not have thee, + Thou hast misused her: and, O crowning crime! + Hast murder'd thine own guest, the son of Orm, + Gamel, at thine own hearth. + + TOSTIG. The slow, fat fool! + He drawl'd and prated so, I smote him suddenly, + I knew not what I did. He held with Morcar.— + I hate myself for all things that I do. + + HAROLD. And Morcar holds with us. Come back with him. + Know what thou dost; and we may find for thee, + So thou be chasten'd by thy banishment, + Some easier earldom. + + TOSTIG. What for Norway then? + He looks for land among us, he and his. + + HAROLD. Seven feet of English land, or something more, + Seeing he is a giant. + + TOSTIG. That is noble! + That sounds of Godwin. + + HAROLD. Come thou back, and be + Once more a son of Godwin. + + TOSTIG (<i>turns away</i>). O brother, brother, + O Harold— + + HAROLD (<i>laying his hand on</i> TOSTIG'S <i>shoulder</i>). + Nay then, come thou back to us! + + TOSTIG (<i>after a pause turning to him</i>). Never + shall any man say that I, that Tostig + Conjured the mightier Harold from his North + To do the battle for me here in England, + Then left him for the meaner! thee!— + Thou hast no passion for the House of Godwin— + Thou hast but cared to make thyself a king— + Thou hast sold me for a cry.— + Thou gavest thy voice against me in the Council— + I hate thee, and despise thee, and defy thee. + Farewell for ever! + [<i>Exit</i>. + + HAROLD. On to Stamford-bridge! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE III. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AFTER THE BATTLE OF STAMFORD-BRIDGE. BANQUET. + + HAROLD <i>and</i> ALDWYTH. GURTH, LEOFWIN, MORCAR, EDWIN, + <i>and other</i> EARLS <i>and</i> THANES. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VOICES. Hail! Harold! Aldwyth! hail, bridegroom and bride! + + ALDWYTH (<i>talking with</i> HAROLD). + Answer them thou! + Is this our marriage-banquet? Would the wines + Of wedding had been dash'd into the cups + Of victory, and our marriage and thy glory + Been drunk together! these poor hands but sew, + Spin, broider—would that they were man's to have held + The battle-axe by thee! + + HAROLD. There <i>was</i> a moment + When being forced aloof from all my guard, + And striking at Hardrada and his madmen + I had wish'd for any weapon. + + ALDWYTH. Why art thou sad? + + HAROLD. I have lost the boy who play'd at ball with me, + With whom I fought another fight than this + Of Stamford-bridge. + + ALDWYTH. Ay! ay! thy victories + Over our own poor Wales, when at thy side + He conquer'd with thee. + + HAROLD. No—the childish fist + That cannot strike again. + + ALDWYTH. Thou art too kindly. + Why didst thou let so many Norsemen hence? + Thy fierce forekings had clench'd their pirate hides + To the bleak church doors, like kites upon a barn. + + HAROLD. Is there so great a need to tell thee why? + + ALDWYTH. Yea, am I not thy wife? + + VOICES. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth! + Bridegroom and bride! + + ALDWYTH. Answer them! [<i>To</i> HAROLD. + + HAROLD (<i>to all</i>). Earls and Thanes! + Full thanks for your fair greeting of my bride! + Earls, Thanes, and all our countrymen! the day, + Our day beside the Derwent will not shine + Less than a star among the goldenest hours + Of Alfred, or of Edward his great son, + Or Athelstan, or English Ironside + Who fought with Knut, or Knut who coming Dane + Died English. Every man about his king + Fought like a king; the king like his own man, + No better; one for all, and all for one, + One soul! and therefore have we shatter'd back + The hugest wave from Norseland ever yet + Surged on us, and our battle-axes broken + The Raven's wing, and dumb'd his carrion croak + From the gray sea for ever. Many are gone— + Drink to the dead who died for us, the living + Who fought and would have died, but happier lived, + If happier be to live; they both have life + In the large mouth of England, till <i>her</i> voice + Die with the world. Hail—hail! + + MORCAR. May all invaders perish like Hardrada! + All traitors fail like Tostig. [<i>All drink but</i> HAROLD. + + ALDWYTH. Thy cup's full! + + HAROLD. I saw the hand of Tostig cover it. + Our dear, dead, traitor-brother, Tostig, him + Reverently we buried. Friends, had I been here, + Without too large self-lauding I must hold + The sequel had been other than his league + With Norway, and this battle. Peace be with him! + He was not of the worst. If there be those + At banquet in this hall, and hearing me— + For there be those I fear who prick'd the lion + To make him spring, that sight of Danish blood + Might serve an end not English—peace with them + Likewise, if they can be at peace with what + God gave us to divide us from the wolf! + + ALDWYTH (<i>aside to</i> HAROLD). + Make not our Morcar sullen: it is not wise. + + HAROLD. Hail to the living who fought, the dead who fell! + + VOICES. Hail, hail! + + FIRST THANE. How ran that answer which King Harold gave + To his dead namesake, when he ask'd for England? + + LEOFWIN. 'Seven feet of English earth, or something more, + Seeing he is a giant!' + + FIRST THANE. Then for the bastard + Six feet and nothing more! + + LEOFWIN. Ay, but belike + Thou hast not learnt his measure. + + FIRST THANE. By St. Edmund + I over-measure him. Sound sleep to the man + Here by dead Norway without dream or dawn! + + SECOND THANE. What is he bragging still that he will come + To thrust our Harold's throne from under him? + My nurse would tell me of a molehill crying + To a mountain 'Stand aside and room for me!' + + FIRST THANE. Let him come! let him come. + Here's to him, sink or swim! [<i>Drinks</i>. + + SECOND THANE. God sink him! + + FIRST THANE. Cannot hands which had the strength + To shove that stranded iceberg off our shores, + And send the shatter'd North again to sea, + Scuttle his cockle-shell? What's Brunanburg + To Stamford-bridge? a war-crash, and so hard, + So loud, that, by St. Dunstan, old St. Thor— + By God, we thought him dead—but our old Thor + Heard his own thunder again, and woke and came + Among us again, and mark'd the sons of those + Who made this Britain England, break the North: + + Mark'd how the war-axe swang, + Heard how the war-horn sang, + Mark'd how the spear-head sprang, + Heard how the shield-wall rang, + Iron on iron clang, + Anvil on hammer bang— + + SECOND THANE. Hammer on anvil, hammer on anvil. Old dog, + Thou art drunk, old dog! + + FIRST THANE. Too drunk to fight with thee! + + SECOND THANE. Fight thou with thine own double, not with me, + Keep that for Norman William! + + FIRST THANE. Down with William! + + THIRD THANE. The washerwoman's brat! + + FOURTH THANE. The tanner's bastard! + + FIFTH THANE. + The Falaise byblow! + + [<i>Enter a</i> THANE, <i>from Pevensey, spattered with mud</i>. + + HAROLD. Ay, but what late guest, + As haggard as a fast of forty days, + And caked and plaster'd with a hundred mires, + Hath stumbled on our cups? + + THANE <i>from Pevensey</i>. My lord the King! + William the Norman, for the wind had changed— + + HAROLD. I felt it in the middle of that fierce fight + At Stamford-bridge. William hath landed, ha? + + THANE <i>from Pevensey</i>. Landed at Pevensey—I am from Pevensey— + Hath wasted all the land at Pevensey— + Hath harried mine own cattle—God confound him! + I have ridden night and day from Pevensey— + A thousand ships—a hundred thousand men— + Thousands of horses, like as many lions + Neighing and roaring as they leapt to land— + + HAROLD. How oft in coming hast thou broken bread? + + THANE <i>from Pevensey</i>. + Some thrice, or so. + + HAROLD. Bring not thy hollowness + On our full feast. Famine is fear, were it but + Of being starved. Sit down, sit down, and eat, + And, when again red-blooded, speak again; + (<i>Aside</i>.) The men that guarded England to the South + Were scatter'd to the harvest.... No power mine + To hold their force together.... Many are fallen + At Stamford-bridge ... the people stupid-sure + Sleep like their swine ... in South and North at once + I could not be. + (<i>Aloud</i>.) Gurth, Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin! + (<i>Pointing to the revellers</i>.) + The curse of England! these are drown'd in wassail, + And cannot see the world but thro' their wines! + Leave them! and thee too, Aldwyth, must I leave— + Harsh is the news! hard is our honeymoon! + Thy pardon. (<i>Turning round to his</i> ATTENDANTS.) + Break the banquet up ... Ye four! + And thou, my carrier-pigeon of black news, + Cram thy crop full, but come when thou art call'd. + + [<i>Exit</i> HAROLD. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ACT V. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE I.—A TENT ON A MOUND, FROM WHICH CAN BE SEEN THE FIELD OF + SENLAC. + + HAROLD, <i>sitting; by him standing</i> HUGH MARGOT <i>the Monk</i>, GURTH, + LEOFWIN, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HAROLD. Refer my cause, my crown to Rome!... The wolf + Mudded the brook and predetermined all. + Monk, + Thou hast said thy say, and had my constant 'No' + For all but instant battle. I hear no more. + + MARGOT. Hear me again—for the last time. Arise, + Scatter thy people home, descend the hill, + Lay hands of full allegiance in thy Lord's + And crave his mercy, for the Holy Father + Hath given this realm of England to the Norman. + + HAROLD. Then for the last time, monk, I ask again + When had the Lateran and the Holy Father + To do with England's choice of her own king? + + MARGOT. Earl, the first Christian Caesar drew to the East + To leave the Pope dominion in the West + He gave him all the kingdoms of the West. + + HAROLD. So!—did he?—Earl—I have a mind to play + The William with thine eyesight and thy tongue. + Earl—ay—thou art but a messenger of William. + I am weary—go: make me not wroth with thee! + + MARGOT. Mock-king, I am the messenger of God, + His Norman Daniel! Mene, Mene, Tekel! + Is thy wrath Hell, that I should spare to cry, + Yon heaven is wroth with <i>thee?</i> Hear me again! + Our Saints have moved the Church that moves the world, + And all the Heavens and very God: they heard— + They know King Edward's promise and thine—thine. + + HAROLD. Should they not know free England crowns herself? + Not know that he nor I had power to promise? + Not know that Edward cancell'd his own promise? + And for my part therein—Back to that juggler, + [<i>Rising</i>. + Tell him the saints are nobler than he dreams, + Tell him that God is nobler than the Saints, + And tell him we stand arm'd on Senlac Hill, + And bide the doom of God. + + MARGOT. Hear it thro' me. + The realm for which thou art forsworn is cursed, + The babe enwomb'd and at the breast is cursed, + The corpse thou whelmest with thine earth is cursed, + The soul who fighteth on thy side is cursed, + The seed thou sowest in thy field is cursed, + The steer wherewith thou plowest thy field is cursed, + The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is cursed, + And thou, usurper, liar— + + HAROLD. Out, beast monk! + [<i>Lifting his hand to strike him</i>. GURTH <i>stops the blow</i>. + I ever hated monks. + + MARGOT. I am but a voice + Among you: murder, martyr me if ye will— + + HAROLD. Thanks, Gurth! The simple, silent, selfless man + Is worth a world of tonguesters. (<i>To</i> MARGOT.) Get thee gone! + He means the thing he says. See him out safe! + + LEOFWIN. He hath blown himself as red as fire with curses. + An honest fool! Follow me, honest fool, + But if thou blurt thy curse among our folk, + I know not—I may give that egg-bald head + The tap that silences. + + HAROLD. See him out safe. + [<i>Exeunt</i> LEOFWIN <i>and</i> MARGOT. + + GURTH. Thou hast lost thine even temper, brother Harold! + + HAROLD. Gurth, when I past by Waltham, my foundation + For men who serve the neighbour, not themselves, + I cast me down prone, praying; and, when I rose, + They told me that the Holy Rood had lean'd + And bow'd above me; whether that which held it + Had weaken'd, and the Rood itself were bound + To that necessity which binds us down; + Whether it bow'd at all but in their fancy; + Or if it bow'd, whether it symbol'd ruin + Or glory, who shall tell? but they were sad, + And somewhat sadden'd me. + + GURTH. Yet if a fear, + Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange Saints + By whom thou swarest, should have power to balk + Thy puissance in this fight with him, who made + And heard thee swear—brother—<i>I</i> have not sworn— + If the king fall, may not the kingdom fall? + But if I fall, I fall, and thou art king; + And, if I win, I win, and thou art king; + Draw thou to London, there make strength to breast + Whatever chance, but leave this day to me. + + LEOFWIN (<i>entering</i>). And waste the land about thee as thou goest, + And be thy hand as winter on the field, + To leave the foe no forage. + + HAROLD. Noble Gurth! + Best son of Godwin! If I fall, I fall— + The doom of God! How should the people fight + When the king flies? And, Leofwin, art thou mad? + How should the King of England waste the fields + Of England, his own people?—No glance yet + Of the Northumbrian helmet on the heath? + + LEOFWIN. No, but a shoal of wives upon the heath, + And someone saw thy willy-nilly nun + Vying a tress against our golden fern. + + HAROLD. Vying a tear with our cold dews, a sigh + With these low-moaning heavens. Let her be fetch'd. + We have parted from our wife without reproach, + Tho' we have dived thro' all her practices; + And that is well. + + LEOFWIN. I saw her even now: + She hath not left us. + + HAROLD. Nought of Morcar then? + + GURTH. Nor seen, nor heard; thine, William's or his own + As wind blows, or tide flows: belike he watches, + If this war-storm in one of its rough rolls + Wash up that old crown of Northumberland. + + HAROLD. I married her for Morcar—a sin against + The truth of love. Evil for good, it seems, + Is oft as childless of the good as evil + For evil. + + LEOFWIN. Good for good hath borne at times + A bastard false as William. + + HAROLD. Ay, if Wisdom + Pair'd not with Good. But I am somewhat worn, + A snatch of sleep were like the peace of God. + Gurth, Leofwin, go once more about the hill— + What did the dead man call it—Sanguelac, + The lake of blood? + + LEOFWIN. A lake that dips in William + As well as Harold. + + HAROLD. Like enough. I have seen + The trenches dug, the palisades uprear'd + And wattled thick with ash and willow-wands; + Yea, wrought at them myself. Go round once more; + See all be sound and whole. No Norman horse + Can shatter England, standing shield by shield; + Tell that again to all. + + GURTH. I will, good brother. + + HAROLD. Our guardsman hath but toil'd his hand and foot, + I hand, foot, heart and head. Some wine! + (<i>One pours wine into a goblet which he hands to</i> HAROLD.) + Too much! + What? we must use our battle-axe to-day. + Our guardsmen have slept well, since we came in? + + LEOFWIN. Ay, slept and snored. Your second-sighted man + That scared the dying conscience of the king, + Misheard their snores for groans. They are up again + And chanting that old song of Brunanburg + Where England conquer'd. + + HAROLD. That is well. The Norman, + What is he doing? + + LEOFWIN. Praying for Normandy; + Our scouts have heard the tinkle of their bells. + + HAROLD. And our old songs are prayers for England too! + But by all Saints— + + LEOFWIN. Barring the Norman! + + HAROLD. Nay, + Were the great trumpet blowing doomsday dawn, + I needs must rest. Call when the Norman moves— + + [<i>Exeunt all, but</i> HAROLD. + + No horse—thousands of horses—our shield wall— + Wall—break it not—break not—break— [<i>Sleeps</i>. + + VISION OF EDWARD. Son Harold, I thy king, who came before + To tell thee thou shouldst win at Stamford-bridge, + Come yet once more, from where I am at peace, + Because I loved thee in my mortal day, + To tell thee them shalt die on Senlac hill— + Sanguelac! + + VISION OF WULFNOTH. O brother, from my ghastly oubliette + I send my voice across the narrow seas— + No more, no more, dear brother, nevermore— + Sanguelac! + + VISION OF TOSTIG. O brother, most unbrotherlike to me, + Thou gavest thy voice against me in my life, + I give my voice against thee from the grave— + Sanguelac! + + VISION OF NORMAN SAINTS. O hapless Harold! + King but for an hour! + Thou swarest falsely by our blessed bones, + We give our voice against thee out of heaven! + Sanguelac! Sanguelac! The arrow! the arrow! + + HAROLD (<i>starting up, battle-axe in hand</i>.) Away! + My battle-axe against your voices. Peace! + The king's last word—'the arrow!' I shall die— + I die for England then, who lived for England— + What nobler? men must die. + I cannot fall into a falser world— + I have done no man wrong. Tostig, poor brother, + Art <i>thou</i> so anger'd? + Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy hands + Save for thy wild and violent will that wrench'd + All hearts of freemen from thee. I could do + No other than this way advise the king + Against the race of Godwin. Is it possible + That mortal men should bear their earthly heats + Into yon bloodless world, and threaten us thence + Unschool'd of Death? Thus then thou art revenged— + I left our England naked to the South + To meet thee in the North. The Norseman's raid + Hath helpt the Norman, and the race of Godwin + Hath ruin'd Godwin. No—our waking thoughts + Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the pools + Of sullen slumber, and arise again + Disjointed: only dreams—where mine own self + Takes part against myself! Why? for a spark + Of self-disdain born in me when I sware + Falsely to him, the falser Norman, over + His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by whom + I knew not that I sware,—not for myself— + For England—yet not wholly— + + <i>Enter</i> EDITH. + + Edith, Edith, + Get thou into thy cloister as the king + Will'd it: be safe: the perjury-mongering Count + Hath made too good an use of Holy Church + To break her close! There the great God of truth + Fill all thine hours with peace!—A lying devil + Hath haunted me—mine oath—my wife—I fain + Had made my marriage not a lie; I could not: + Thou art my bride! and thou in after years + Praying perchance for this poor soul of mine + In cold, white cells beneath an icy moon— + This memory to thee!—and this to England, + My legacy of war against the Pope + From child to child, from Pope to Pope, from age to age, + Till the sea wash her level with her shores, + Or till the Pope be Christ's. + + <i>Enter</i> ALDWYTH. + + ALDWYTH (<i>to</i> EDITH). Away from him! + + EDITH. I will.... I have not spoken to the king + One word; and one I must. Farewell! [<i>Going</i>. + + HAROLD. Not yet. + Stay. + + EDITH. To what use? + + HAROLD. The king commands thee, woman! + (<i>To</i> ALDWYTH.) + Have thy two brethren sent their forces in? + + ALDWYTH. Nay, I fear not. + + HAROLD. Then there's no force in thee! + Thou didst possess thyself of Edward's ear + To part me from the woman that I loved! + Thou didst arouse the fierce Northumbrians! + Thou hast been false to England and to me!— + As ... in some sort ... I have been false to thee. + Leave me. No more—Pardon on both sides—Go! + + ALDWYTH. Alas, my lord, I loved thee. + + HAROLD (<i>bitterly</i>). With a love + Passing thy love for Griffyth! wherefore now + Obey my first and last commandment. Go! + + ALDWYTH. O Harold! husband! Shall we meet again? + + HAROLD. After the battle—after the battle. Go. + + ALDWYTH. I go. (<i>Aside</i>.) That I could stab her standing there! + [<i>Exit</i> ALDWYTH. + + EDITH. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. + + HAROLD. Never! never! + + EDITH. I saw it in her eyes! + + HAROLD. I see it in thine. + And not on thee—nor England—fall God's doom! + + EDITH. On <i>thee?</i> on me. And thou art England! Alfred + Was England. Ethelred was nothing. England + Is but her king, and thou art Harold! + + HAROLD. Edith, + The sign in heaven—the sudden blast at sea— + My fatal oath—the dead Saints—the dark dreams— + The Pope's Anathema—the Holy Rood + That bow'd to me at Waltham—Edith, if + I, the last English King of England— + + EDITH. No, + First of a line that coming from the people, + And chosen by the people— + + HAROLD. And fighting for + And dying for the people— + + EDITH. Living! living! + + HAROLD. Yea so, good cheer! thou art Harold, I am Edith! + Look not thus wan! + + EDITH. What matters how I look? + Have we not broken Wales and Norseland? slain, + Whose life was all one battle, incarnate war, + Their giant-king, a mightier man-in-arms + Than William. + + HAROLD. Ay, my girl, no tricks in him— + No bastard he! when all was lost, he yell'd, + And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the ground, + And swaying his two-handed sword about him, + Two deaths at every swing, ran in upon us + And died so, and I loved him as I hate + This liar who made me liar. If Hate can kill, + And Loathing wield a Saxon battle-axe— + + EDITH. Waste not thy might before the battle! + + HAROLD. No, + And thou must hence. Stigand will see thee safe, + And so—Farewell. [<i>He is going, but turns back</i>. + The ring thou darest not wear. + I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet my hand. + [HAROLD <i>shows the ring which is on his finger</i>. + + Farewell! [<i>He is going, but turns back again</i>. + I am dead as Death this day to ought of earth's + Save William's death or mine. + + EDITH. Thy death!—to-day! + Is it not thy birthday? + + HAROLD. Ay, that happy day! + A birthday welcome! happy days and many! + One—this! [<i>They embrace</i>. + Look, I will bear thy blessing into the battle + And front the doom of God. + + NORMAN CRIES (<i>heard in the distance</i>). + Ha Rou! Ha Rou! + + <i>Enter</i> GURTH. + + GURTH. The Norman moves! + + HAROLD. Harold and Holy Cross! + + [<i>Exeunt</i> HAROLD <i>and</i> GURTH. + + <i>Enter</i> STIGAND. + + STIGAND. Our Church in arms—the lamb the lion—not + Spear into pruning-hook—the counter way— + Cowl, helm; and crozier, battle-axe. Abbot Alfwig, + Leofric, and all the monks of Peterboro' + Strike for the king; but I, old wretch, old Stigand, + With hands too limp to brandish iron—and yet + I have a power—would Harold ask me for it— + I have a power. + + EDITH. What power, holy father? + + STIGAND. Power now from Harold to command thee hence + And see thee safe from Senlac. + + EDITH. I remain! + + STIGAND. Yea, so will I, daughter, until I find + Which way the battle balance. I can see it + From where we stand: and, live or die, I would + I were among them! + + CANONS <i>from Waltham (singing without)</i>. + + Salva patriam + Sancte Pater, + Salva Fili, + Salva Spiritus, + Salva patriam, + Sancta Mater [1] + + [Footnote 1: The <i>a</i> throughout these Latin hymns should be + sounded broad, as in 'father.'] + + EDITH. Are those the blessed angels quiring, father? + + STIGAND. No, daughter, but the canons out of Waltham, + The king's foundation, that have follow'd him. + + EDITH. O God of battles, make their wall of shields + Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their palisades! + What is that whirring sound? + + STIGAND. The Norman arrow! + + EDITH. Look out upon the battle—is he safe? + + STIGAND. The king of England stands between his banners. + He glitters on the crowning of the hill. + God save King Harold! + + EDITH. —chosen by his people + And fighting for his people! + + STIGAND. There is one + Come as Goliath came of yore—he flings + His brand in air and catches it again, + He is chanting some old warsong. + + EDITH. And no David + To meet him? + + STIGAND. Ay, there springs a Saxon on him, + Falls—and another falls. + + EDITH. Have mercy on us! + + STIGAND. Lo! our good Gurth hath smitten him to the death. + + EDITH. So perish all the enemies of Harold! + + CANONS (<i>singing</i>). + + Hostis in Angliam + Ruit praedator, + Illorum, Domine, + Scutum scindatur! + Hostis per Angliae + Plagas bacchatur; + Casa crematur, + Pastor fugatur + Grex trucidatur— + + STIGAND. Illos trucida, Domine. + + EDITH. Ay, good father. + + CANONS (<i>singing</i>). + + Illorum scelera + Poena sequatur! + + ENGLISH CRIES. Harold and Holy Cross! Out! out! + + STIGAND. Our javelins + Answer their arrows. All the Norman foot + Are storming up the hill. The range of knights + Sit, each a statue on his horse, and wait. + + ENGLISH CRIES. Harold and God Almighty! + + NORMAN CRIES. Ha Rou! Ha Rou! + + CANONS (<i>singing</i>). + + Eques cum pedite + Praepediatur! + Illorum in lacrymas + Cruor fundatur! + Pereant, pereant, + Anglia precatur. + + STIGAND. Look, daughter, look. + + EDITH. Nay, father, look for me! + + STIGAND. Our axes lighten with a single flash + About the summit of the hill, and heads + And arms are sliver'd off and splinter'd by + Their lightning—and they fly—the Norman flies. + + EDITH. Stigand, O father, have we won the day? + + STIGAND. No, daughter, no—they fall behind the horse— + Their horse are thronging to the barricades; + I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter + Floating above their helmets—ha! he is down! + + EDITH. He down! Who down? + + STIGAND. The Norman Count is down. + + EDITH. So perish all the enemies of England! + + STIGAND. No, no, he hath risen again—he bares his face— + Shouts something—he points onward—all their horse + Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming up. + + EDITH. O God of battles, make his battle-axe keen + As thine own sharp-dividing justice, heavy + As thine own bolts that fall on crimeful heads + Charged with the weight of heaven wherefrom they fall! + + CANONS (<i>singing</i>). + + Jacta tonitrua + Deus bellator! + Surgas e tenebris, + Sis vindicator! + Fulmina, fulmina + Deus vastator! + + EDITH. O God of battles, they are three to one, + Make thou one man as three to roll them down! + + CANONS (<i>singing</i>). + + Equus cum equite + Dejiciatur! + Acies, Acies + Prona sternatur! + Illorum lanceas + Frange Creator! + + STIGAND. Yea, yea, for how their lances snap and shiver + Against the shifting blaze of Harold's axe! + War-woodman of old Woden, how he fells + The mortal copse of faces! There! And there! + The horse and horseman cannot meet the shield, + The blow that brains the horseman cleaves the horse, + The horse and horseman roll along the hill, + They fly once more, they fly, the Norman flies! + + Equus cum equite + Praecipitatur. + + EDITH. O God, the God of truth hath heard my cry. + Follow them, follow them, drive them to the sea! + + Illorum scelera + Poena sequatur! + + STIGAND. Truth! no; a lie; a trick, a Norman trick! + They turn on the pursuer, horse against foot, + They murder all that follow. + + EDITH. Have mercy on us! + + STIGAND. Hot-headed fools—to burst the wall of shields! + They have broken the commandment of the king! + + EDITH. His oath was broken—O holy Norman Saints, + Ye that are now of heaven, and see beyond + Your Norman shrines, pardon it, pardon it, + That he forsware himself for all he loved, + Me, me and all! Look out upon the battle! + + STIGAND. They thunder again upon the barricades. + My sight is eagle, but the strife so thick— + This is the hottest of it: hold, ash! hold, willow! + + ENGLISH CRIES. Out, out! + + NORMAN CRIES. Ha Rou! + + STIGAND. Ha! Gurth hath leapt upon him + And slain him: he hath fallen. + + EDITH. And I am heard. + Glory to God in the Highest! fallen, fallen! + + STIGAND. No, no, his horse—he mounts another—wields + His war-club, dashes it on Gurth, and Gurth, + Our noble Gurth, is down! + + EDITH. Have mercy on us! + + STIGAND. And Leofwin is down! + + EDITH. Have mercy on us! + O Thou that knowest, let not my strong prayer + Be weaken'd in thy sight, because I love + The husband of another! + + NORMAN CRIES. Ha Rou! Ha Rou! + + EDITH. I do not hear our English war-cry. + + STIGAND. No. + + EDITH. Look out upon the battle—is he safe? + + STIGAND. He stands between the banners with the dead + So piled about him he can hardly move. + + EDITH (<i>takes up the war-cry</i>). + Out! out! + + NORMAN CRIES. Ha Rou! + + EDITH (<i>cries out</i>). Harold and Holy Cross! + + NORMAN CRIES. Ha Rou! Ha Rou! + + EDITH. What is that whirring sound? + + STIGAND. The Norman sends his arrows up to Heaven, + They fall on those within the palisade! + + EDITH. Look out upon the hill—is Harold there? + + STIGAND. Sanguelac—Sanguelac—the arrow—the arrow!—away! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SCENE II—FIELD OF THE DEAD. NIGHT. + + ALDWYTH <i>and</i> EDITH. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ALDWYTH. O Edith, art thou here? O Harold, Harold— + Our Harold—we shall never see him more. + + EDITH. For there was more than sister in my kiss, + And so the saints were wroth. I cannot love them, + For they are Norman saints—and yet I should— + They are so much holier than their harlot's son + With whom they play'd their game against the king! + + ALDWYTH, The king is slain, the kingdom over-thrown! + + EDITH. No matter! + + ALDWYTH. How no matter, Harold slain?— + I cannot find his body. O help me thou! + O Edith, if I ever wrought against thee, + Forgive me thou, and help me here! + + EDITH. No matter! + + ALDWYTH. Not help me, nor forgive me? + + EDITH. So thou saidest. + + ALDWYTH. I say it now, forgive me! + + EDITH. Cross me not! + I am seeking one who wedded me in secret. + Whisper! God's angels only know it. Ha! + What art thou doing here among the dead? + They are stripping the dead bodies naked yonder, + And thou art come to rob them of their rings! + + ALDWYTH. O Edith, Edith, I have lost both crown + And husband. + + EDITH. So have I. + + ALDWYTH. I tell thee, girl, + I am seeking my dead Harold. + + EDITH. And I mine! + The Holy Father strangled him with a hair + Of Peter, and his brother Tostig helpt; + The wicked sister clapt her hands and laugh'd; + Then all the dead fell on him. + + ALDWYTH. Edith, Edith— + + EDITH. What was he like, this husband? like to thee? + Call not for help from me. I knew him not. + He lies not here: not close beside the standard. + Here fell the truest, manliest hearts of England. + Go further hence and find him. + + ALDWYTH. She is crazed! + + EDITH. That doth not matter either. Lower the light. + He must be here. + + <i>Enter two</i> CANONS, OSGOD <i>and</i> ATHELRIC, <i>with + torches. They turn over the dead bodies and + examine them as they pass</i>. + + OSGOD. I think that this is Thurkill. + + ATHELRIC. More likely Godric. + + OSGOD. I am sure this body + Is Alfwig, the king's uncle. + + ATHELRIC. So it is! + No, no—brave Gurth, one gash from brow to knee! + + OSGOD. And here is Leofwin. + + EDITH. And here is <i>He!</i> + + ALDWYTH. Harold? Oh no—nay, if it were—my God, + They have so maim'd and murder'd all his face + There is no man can swear to him. + + EDITH. But one woman! + Look you, we never mean to part again. + I have found him, I am happy. + Was there not someone ask'd me for forgiveness? + I yield it freely, being the true wife + Of this dead King, who never bore revenge. + + <i>Enter</i> COUNT WILLIAM <i>and</i> WILLIAM MALET. + + WILLIAM. Who be these women? And what body is this? + + EDITH. Harold, thy better! + + WILLIAM. Ay, and what art thou? + + EDITH. His wife! + + MALET. Not true, my girl, here is the Queen! + [<i>Pointing out</i> ALDWYTH. + + WILLIAM (<i>to</i> ALDWYTH). + Wast thou his Queen? + + ALDWYTH. I was the Queen of Wales. + + WILLIAM. Why then of England. Madam, fear us not. + (<i>To</i> MALET.) Knowest thou this other? + + MALET. When I visited England, + Some held she was his wife in secret—some— + Well—some believed she was his paramour. + + EDITH. Norman, thou liest! liars all of you, + Your Saints and all! I am his wife! and she— + For look, our marriage ring! + [<i>She draws it off the finger of</i> HAROLD. + I lost it somehow— + I lost it, playing with it when I was wild. + <i>That</i> bred the doubt! but I am wiser now ... + I am too wise.... Will none among you all + Bear me true witness—only for this once— + That I have found it here again? [<i>She puts it on</i>. + And thou, + Thy wife am I for ever and evermore. + [<i>Falls on the body and dies</i>. + + WILLIAM. Death!—and enough of death for this one day, + The day of St. Calixtus, and the day, + My day when I was born. + + MALET. And this dead king's + Who, king or not, hath kinglike fought and fallen, + His birthday, too. It seems but yestereven + I held it with him in his English halls, + His day, with all his rooftree ringing 'Harold,' + Before he fell into the snare of Guy; + When all men counted Harold would be king, + And Harold was most happy. + + WILLIAM. Thou art half English + Take them away! + Malet, I vow to build a church to God + Here on the hill of battle; let our high altar + Stand where their standard fell ... where these two lie. + Take them away, I do not love to see them. + Pluck the dead woman off the dead man, Malet! + + MALET. Faster than ivy. Must I hack her arms off? + How shall I part them? + + WILLIAM. Leave them. Let them be! + Bury him and his paramour together. + He that was false in oath to me, it seems + Was false to his own wife. We will not give him + A Christian burial: yet he was a warrior, + And wise, yea truthful, till that blighted vow + Which God avenged to-day. + Wrap them together in a purple cloak + And lay them both upon the waste sea-shore + At Hastings, there to guard the land for which + He did forswear himself—a warrior—ay, + And but that Holy Peter fought for us, + And that the false Northumbrian held aloof, + And save for that chance arrow which the Saints + Sharpen'd and sent against him—who can tell?— + Three horses had I slain beneath me: twice + I thought that all was lost. Since I knew battle, + And that was from my boyhood, never yet— + No, by the splendour of God—have I fought men + Like Harold and his brethren, and his guard + Of English. Every man about his king + Fell where he stood. They loved him: and, pray God + My Normans may but move as true with me + To the door of death. Of one self-stock at first, + Make them again one people—Norman, English; + And English, Norman; we should have a hand + To grasp the world with, and a foot to stamp it ... + Flat. Praise the Saints, It is over. No more blood! + I am king of England, so they thwart me not, + And I will rule according to their laws. + (<i>To</i> ALDWYTH.) Madam, we will entreat thee with all honour. + + ALDWYTH. My punishment is more than I can bear. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Queen Mary and Harold, by Alfred Lord Tennyson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUEEN MARY AND HAROLD *** + +***** This file should be named 9176-h.htm or 9176-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/9/1/7/9176/ + +Etext produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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