DRAMAS yr T T TRNNTSON ■ I i «iiii llifomia konal llity &\ / THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES DRAMAS * ♦ ♦ * * 9- DRAMAS BY ALFRED LORD TENNYSON POET LAUREATE LONDON : M ACM ILL AN AND CO., LIMl'IKD NKW YORK : TIIK MACMILLAN COMPANY 1906 PK ^ ssss CONTENTS Queen Mary . Harold Bkcket Thk Cui' . The Faixon The Promise of Ma'. The Foresters I'AGE I 217 354 374 424 QUEEN MARY A DRAMA DRAMATIS PERSONAL Queen Maky. Philip, King of Naples and Sicily, afterwards King of Spaiti. TnK Princess Elizabeth. Reginald Pole, Cardinal and Papal Legate. Simon Renard, Spanisk Ambassador. Le Sieur de Noailles, French Ambassador. Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. Sir Nicholas Heath, Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner. EiJVVARD CoUKTENAY, Earl of Devon. I.OKD William Howard, afterwards Lord Hoivard, and Lord High Admiral. Lord Williams OK Thame. Lukd Paget. Lord I'ktre. .Stei'HEN Gardiner, IHshop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor. llDMLTND Bonner, Bishop of London. Thomas Thirlby, Bishop of Ely. .Sir 'rH().MAS WVATT 'k ... . . !- Insurrectionary Leaders. .MR I iiomas Stafford J -^ Sir Rali'H Bagenhall. Sir Robert Southwell. Sir Henry Mki)i.n(;kield. Sir William Cecil. Sir Thomas Whitk, Lord Mayor of London. The Duke of Alva •» ,,, ,. ,. > attendini; on I'hilib. I HE COINT DE I'ERIA / I'eter Martyr. Father Cole. Paiher P.111 k\k. Villa (Jarcia. Soto. Caitain Brett ) , ,, / .-idherents of VVyalt. Anthony Knyvett / ■' -^ Peters, Gentleman of lAjrd J/o^uhinl. V E n 2 QUEEN MARY act i Roger, Servant to Noailles. Wii.mam, Servant to Wyatt. Steward ov Household to the Princess Elizabeth. Old Xokks aud Nokes. Marchioness ok Exeter, Mother of Courtenay. Lady Clarence \ Lady Magdalen Dacres \ Ladies in Waiting to the Queen. Alice J Maid of Honour to the Princess Elizabeth. JO-\N "k i, > two Country Wives. Tib J Lords and other Attendants, Members of the Privy Council, Members of Parliament, Two Gentlemen, Aldermen, Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards, Pages, Gospellers, Marshalmen, etc. ACT I SCENE I. — Aldgate richly decorated Crowd. Marshalmen 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 ! Cilizcns. 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 Citizeft. Why, didn't the Parliament make her a bastard ? Secottd Citizen. No ; it was the Lady Elizabeth. Third Citizen. That was after, man ; that was after. First Citizen. Then which is the bastard ? SCENE I QUEEN MARY 3 Second Citizen. Troth, they be both bastards b)' 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 {dreamily^. 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 ! \Falls on his knees. 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. Marshal/nan. 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. Wiiew ! Second Citizen. Hark ! the trumpets. \The Troccssion passes, Mary and Elizabeth riding side by side, and disappears under the gate. Citizens. Long live Queen Mary! down with all traitors ! God save her Grace ; and death to Northumber- land ! \Excunt. QUEEN MARY act i Mancnt Two Gentlemen. First Gentleiiuvi. By God's light a noble creature, right royal ! Second Genf/e/nan. She looks conielier than ordinary to-day; but to my mind the Lady Elizabeth is the more noble and royal. First Gentk/nati. 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 nmch 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 ])()uncc 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 Plot Gospellers will go mad upon it. SCENE I QUEEN MARY 5 Secmid Gentlemaii. Was she not betroth'd in her baby- hood to the Great Emperor himself? First Getitleman. 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 Gejjtleman. 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 Gentletnan. 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. \^Exeiint. SCENE II. — A Room in Lambeth Palace 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 Ijullingham, and hundreds more ; So they report : I shall be left alone. No : Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not fly. Enter 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 j)ronounced That our young Edward might bequeath the crown QUEEN MARY act i Of England, putting by his father's will. Yet I stood out, till l^Mward 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, ^Vhisper'd me, if I loved him, not to yield His Church of England to the Papal wolf And Mary ; then I could no more — sign'd. Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency. She cannot pass her traitor Council by, To make me headless. Peter Mariyr. 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. 1 cannot help it. The Canonists and Schoolmen were with me. 'Thou shalt not wed thy brother's wife.' — ''I'is 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. Tetcr, Fll swear for him He did believe the bond incestuous. But wherefore am I trenching on the time SCENE II QUEEN MARY 7 That should already have seen your steps a mile From me and Lambeth ? God be with you ! Go. Peter Mcviyr. 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 mc die the death. \Exit Peter Martyr. Enter 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. \Exeunt. SCENE in.— St. Paul'.s Cro.s.s Fathkk Bourne in the pulf>it. A mnvd. Marchioness OK I'vXETER, COURTENAV. The SlEUR OE NOAII.LES and his man RofiEK in fr07tt of the sta^^e. Jhibbul). Noail/es. Hast thou let fall tliose pajiers in the palace? Roj^er. Ay, sir. Noaillcs. ' 'I'here will be no peace for Mary till Elizabeth lose her head.' 8 QUEEN MARY act i Roger. Ay, sir. Noailles. And the other, ' Long hve Elizabeth the Queen ! ' Roger. Ay, sir ; she needs must tread upon them. Noailles. W'ell. 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. Cro7vd. 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- Croivd. No pope ! no pope ! Roger (to those about him, mimicking 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 ! \^Hul}bub. Bourne. — and now that your good bishop, Bonner, who hath lain so long under bonds for the faith — {Hubbub. 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 (goes). 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. I'oices of the crozvd. Peace! hear him; let his own words damn the Papist. From thine own mouth I judge thee — tear him down ! SCENE III QUEEN MARY 9 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 ! \Swords are drawn, a knife is hurJed and sticks in the pulpit. The mob throng to the pulpit stairs. 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 {in the pulpit). Shame, shame, my masters ! are you English-born, And set yourselves by hundreds against one ? Crowd. A Courtenay ! a Courtenay ! [A train of Spanish servants crosses at the hack of the stage. 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. yrhey seize stones and follow the Spaniards. Exeunt on the other side Marchioness of Exeter and Attendants. Noailles {to Roger). Stand from mc. If l':iizabeth lose her head — That makes for France. And if her jjeoplc, angcr'd thereupon, Arise against her and dethrone the Queen — That makes for France. And if I breed confusion anyway — 'I'hat makes for France. Cood-day, my Lord of Devon ; A bold heart yours to beard that raging mob ! Courtenay. My mother said, Co \.\\i ; and up I went. lO QUEEN MARY act i I knew they would not do me any wrong, For I am mighty popular with them, Noailles. NoaiUes. 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 ? Courteftay. 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 1 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. \Vhy, 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, SCENE III QUEEN MARY ii And so you well attend to the king's moves, I think you may. Courtenay. When do you meet ? NoaiUes. To-night. Courtenay {aside). I will be there ; the fellow's at his tricks — Deep— I shall fathom him. {Aloud.) Good morning, NoaiUes. [Exit Courtenay. NoaiUes. 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. NoaiUes. No ! the disguise was perfect. Let's away. \_Exeit)if. SCENE IV. — London. A Room in thk Palace Elizabeth. Enter Courtenay. Courtenay. So yet am I, Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me, A goodlier-looking fellow tlian tliis I'liilip. I'ah ! 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 (^ueen, tho' by your age, And by your looks you are not worth the having, 12 QUEEN MARY act i Vet by your crown you are. [Seci'/zj^ Elizabeth. The Princess there ? If I tried her and la — she's amorous. Have we not heard of her in Edward's time, Mer 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? Coitrtenay. 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 1 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 chry.salis. 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. SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 13 1 love not to be called a butterfly : Why do you call me butterfly ? Elizabeth. AVhy 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 wear- ing 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. My heart, my Lord, Is no great party in the state as yet. Courtenay. (ireat, 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 P>ance, 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 — 14 QUEEN MARY act i 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. Enter Mary, behind. Mary. Whispering — leagued together To bar me from my Philip. Courtenay. Pray — consider — Elizabeth {seeing the Queen). Well, that's a noble horse of yours, my T^ord. 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 {aside to Courtenay). Are you blind ? [Courtenay sees the Queen and exit. Exit Mary. Enter Lord William Howard. Hoivard. Was that my I>ord 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. SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 15 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 ov.-n 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. Ho7vard. 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 CKardiner — 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 Planlagenct (Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the people C!laim 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 l)e plain and open with me, niece. You should not play upon me. Elizabeth. No, good uncle. i(. QUEEN MARY act i Kntcr Gar DIN KR. Gardiner. The Queen would see ynur (iiucc upon llie moment. Elizahcth. \\'hy, my lord iiishop? Gardiner. I think she means to eounsel your with drawing To Ashridge, or some other country house. Elizabeth. ^Vhy, my lord Hishop ? Gardiner. I do but bring the message, know no more. Your Grace will hear her reasons from herself. Elizabetli. '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 ( hiecn 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. Elizabetli. My Lord, I have the jewel of a loyal heart. Gardiner. I doubt it not. Madam, most loyal. \^Boivs low and exit. Howard. See, This comes of parleying with my f^ord 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 quel I'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. SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 17 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. Hoivard. But why say that ? what have you done to lose her ? Come, come, I will go with you to the Queen. [Exeunt. SCENE v. — A Room in the Palack Mary jvith l'nii,ii''s miniature. Alice. Mary {kissing the miniature). Most goodly, Kinglike and an I'hnperor's son, — A king to be, — is he not noble, girl ? Alice, (loodly enough, your (kace, and yet, mcthinks, I have seen goodlier. Mary. Ay ; some waxen doll 'J"hy baby eyes have rested on, belike ; All red and white, the fashion of our land. But my good mother came ((lod rest her soul) Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself, And in my likings. V c ,8 QUEEN MARY a- i i A/ice. r>y your (Irace'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, bctray'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 s/ie 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 — ])ray 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. {Exit 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 r)f grace and beauty ! would that mine SCENE V QUEEN MARY 19 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 ! Enter Usher. Who waits, sir ? Usher. Madam, the Lord Chancellor. Mary. Bid him come in. (^wA-r Gardinkr.) Good morning, my good Lord. \Exit Usher. Gardiner. That every morning of your Majesty May be most good, is every morning's jirayer 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 j)ay King Edward's debts, Your lavish household ciirb'd, and the remission Of half that subsidy levied on the people, Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat for you. 20 QUEEN MARY act i I'd have you yet more loved : the leahii is poor, The exchecjuer at neap-tide : we might withdraw I'art of our garrison at Calais. Mary. Calais ! Our one point on the main, the gate of France ! I am Queen of Jingland ; take mine eyes, mine heart, But do not lose mc Calais. Gardiner. Do not fear it. Of that hereafter. I say your Cracc 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 (luard 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. SCENE V QUEEN MARY 21 Gardiner. I will help you, IMadam, 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 {showing the picture). 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 {aside). Mary. What is that you mutter ? Gardiner. Oh, Madam, take it bluntly ; marry I'hilip, 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 Ijody and blood of Christ I'll none but Phili[). Gardiner. Math your Grace so sworn ? Mary. Ay, Simon Renard knows it. Gardiner. News tf) nu- ! It then remains for your poor Gardiner, So you still care to trust hirn 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 In- fouiul n scandal. 22 QUEEN MARY act i Mary. You offend us. Gardiner (aside). 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. [£xit Enter Usher. Mary. Who waits ? Usher. The Ambassador from France, your Grace. Mary {sifs down). Bid him come in. Good morning, Sir de Noailles. [^Exit Usher. Noailles {entering). 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, .\y, 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 {going, returns). 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. SCENE V QUEEN MARY 23 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 I'hilip? 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 n.ikcd initli. 24 QUERN MARY act i 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. \Vhy {smiling), no, indeed. Alary. Sayst thou ? Noailles. A very wanton life indeed {smili?ig). Mary. Your audience is concluded, sir. \Exii Noailles. You cannot Learn a man's nature from his natural foe. Enter Usher. Who waits ? Usher. The Ambassador of Spain, your Grace, \^Exit. Enter Simon Renard. Mary {rising to meet him). 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? Renai-d. 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 pebl)le which his kingly foot I'^irst presses into some more costly stone 'I'han ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd lirelike ; I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond. SCENE V QUEEN MARY 25 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, W^e'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold. I do believe, I have dusted some already. That, soon or late, your ]\ar]iament is ours. Mary. Why du they talk so foully of your Prince, Renard ? Renard. 'I'he lot of I'riiices. 'I'o sil high Is to be lied about. Mary. They call him cold, Haughty, ay, worse. Renard. ^^ by, doubtless, Philij) shows Some of the bearing of your blue blood — still All within measure — nay, il well becoiucs him. 26 QUEEN MARY act i Mary. Hath he the large abihty of his father ? Renard. Nay, some beheve that lie 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. SCENE V QUEEN MARY 27 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. Alary. 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. Alary. 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 nie full of foolish doubts, and leaves m.e As hopeful. Renard (aside). Whew — the folly of all follies Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (Aloud) Madam, This chains me to your service, not with gold. But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me, Philip is yours. \Exit. Alary. Mine — but not yet all mine. Etiter U.SHKR. Usher. Your Council is in Session, please your Majesty. Mary. Sir, let them sit. I must have time to breathe. No, say I come. {Exit Usher.) I won by l)oldness once. The Emperor counsell'd nie to fly to I'landers. I would not ; but a hundred miles I rode. Sent out my letters, call'd my friends together, 28 QUEEN MARY act i 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. Enter Alice. Girl ; hast thou ever heard Slanders against Prince Philip in our Court } Alice. What slanders ? I, your Grace ; no. never. ^^P'- Nothing ? Alice. Never, your Grace. Mary. See that you neither hear them nor repeat ! Alice {aside). Good Lord! but I have heard a thousand such. Ay, and repeated them as often — mum ! Why comes that old fox-Fleming back again ? Enter 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 Philijj's hand. It craves an instant answer. Ay or No. Mary. An instant Ay or No ! the Council sits. Give it me quick. Alice {stepping before her). Your Highness is all trembling. Mary. Make way. \Exit into the Council Chamber. 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. SCENE V QUEEN MARY 29 It breaks my heart to hear her moan at night As tho' the nightmare never left her bed. Re?iard. 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. Enter Mary. Alice. How deathly pale! — a chair, y(jur Highness. \_B ringing one to the (^uecn. Renard. Madam, The Council ? Alary. Ay ! My Philip is all mine. \^Sinks into chair, half fainting. 32 QUEEN MARY mi ii It lies tlicrc in six pii-cx's at your feet ; F(ir all th;il I (uiii cany il in my head. Knyvctt. 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. ^Vhy, good Lord, Write you as many sonnets as you will. Ay, but not now ; what, have you eyes, ears, brains ? This I'hili]) 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 frcjm Carew and the Duke. I fear the mine is fired before the lime. Knyvett {shoivinjs^ a paper). 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 1 Courtenay's cipher. [Reads. ' Sir Peter Carew fled to France : it is thought the Duke will be taken. I am with you still ; Ijut, for appearance sake, stay with the Queen. Gardiner knovts, but the SCENE I QUEEN MARY 33 Council are all at odds, and the Queen halh no force for resiblance. 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 foUow'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 ()ueen, 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 tin; parliament ; Spain in the i)iil[)it and on the law-bench ; Sp;iin in all liic great offices of state ; Sjjaiii in our ships, in our fdiis, in our houses, in our beds ? Crmvd. No! no! no Sjiaiii ! William. No S[)ain in our beds — that were worse ih.in all. I have been there with old Sir 'I'honias, and \\\v beds I know. I hate Spain. -/ I'easttiit. Ikit, Sir 'I'homas, must we levy war against till- (Queen's Grace ? W'yutl. N(;, my friend ; wax for the (^)ueeirs Crace — to v D 34 QUEEN MARY a<t ii save her from herself and Philip — war against Spain. And think not we shall be alone — thousands will Hock to us. The Council, the Court itself, is on our side. Tiie 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 \\7att ! a ^Vyatt ! 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. Wyalt. 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, .'\nd pour along the land, and swoU'n and fed With indraughts and side-currents, in full force Roll upon London. Crowd. A Wyatt ! a Wyatt ! Forward ! Knyvett. \Vyatt, shall we proclaim l-Llizabeth ? Wyatt. I'll think upon it, Knyvett. Knyvett. Or Lady Jane ? Wyatt. No, poor soul ; no. Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field SCENE I QUEEN MARY 35 Beside the brimming Medway, it may chance That I shall never look upon you more. Knyvett. Come, now, you're sonneting again. Wyait. Not I. I'll have my head set higher in the state ; Or — if the Lord God will it — on the stake. {Exeunt. SCENE II.— Guildhall Sir Thomas White (The Lord Mayor), Lord Willl\m Howard, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, Aldermen and Citizens. Wiiie. I trust the Queen comes hither with her guards. Ho'ivard. Ay, all in arms. {Several of the citizens move hastily out of the hall. 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 ? Hoivard. In some few minutes. She will address your guilds and companies. I have striven in vain to raise a man for her. lUii help her in this exigency, make Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man This day in England. White. I am 'I'homas White. P'ew things have fail'd to which I set my will. I do my most and best. Ilinvard. You kncjw that after The Captain I'.rett, who went with your train bands 'i'o fight with Wyatt, had gone over t(i him With all his men, the Queen in that distress J 6 QUEEN MARY act n Scat Cornwallis and Hastings to the traitor, Feigning to treat with him about her marriage — Know tt)o 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. Hoivard. And four of her poor Council too, my Lord, As hostages. Wliite. 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 \\\ 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 i)rayers Heaven and earth's Maries ; over his bow'd shoulder Scowl'd that world-hated and world-hating beast. SCENE II QUEEN MARY 37 A haggard Anabaptist. Many such groups. The names of \Vyatt, 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 })ulse 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. IV/ii/e. 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. Enter Guards, Mary, and Gardiner. Sir Thomas Willi i: leads her to a raised seat on the dais. White. I, the Lord Mayor, and these our coiiipaiiies And guilds of London, gathered here, beseech Your Highness to accept our lowliest thanks For your mf)St princely presence; and wc i)ray That we, your true and loyal citizens, I'rom your own royal lips, at once may know The wherefore of this coming, and so learn 38 QUEEN MARY act ii Your royal will, and do it — I, Lord Mayor Of London, and our guilds and companies. Mary. \n mine own [lerson am I come lo y(;u, 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 AVyatt, who hath tamper'd with A public ignorance, and, under colour Of such a cause as hath no colour, seeks To Vjend 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 SCENE II QUEEN MARY 39 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 40 QUEEN MARY act ii Stand fast against t)ur enemies and yours, And fear them not. I fear them not. My Loid, 1 lea\e I-ord 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 Si)ain. Voices. Long live Queen Mary ! Down with Wyatt ! The Queen ! White. Three voices from our guilds and companies ! Vou 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 lingland — 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 Acdamatiflu. 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 fiea That might have leapt upon us unawares. Swear with mc, noble fellow-citizens, all, With all your trades, and guilds, and companies. Citizens. We swear ! SCENE II QUEEN MARY 41 Mary. We thank your Lordship and your loyal city. [Exit Mary attended. White. I trust this day, thro' God. I have saved the crown. First Alderman. Ay, so my Lord of Tenibroke in command Of all her force be safe ; but there arc doubts. Second Alderman. I liear that Gardiner, coming with the Queen, And meeting Pembroke, bent to his saddle-bow, • As if to win the man by flattering him. Is he so safe to fight upon her .side ? First Alderman. If not, there's no man safe. White. Yes, Thomas ^^'hite. 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 VI 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 nevur seen her So queenly or so goodly. White. Courage, sir, That 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. Mcthinks most men are but poor-hearted, else Should we so doat on courage, were it commoner? 'I'he 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. G()<;dly? 1 feel most goodly heart and hand. And strong to throw ten Wyatts and all Kent. 11a! ha ! sir ; but you jest ; I love it : a jest 42 QUEEN MARY act m 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 jiroven by the hour. White. The man should make the hour, not this the man ; .\nd Thomas White will i)rove 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. \ExU 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. Hoivard. It may be. Bagenhall. I have heard One of your Council fleer and jeer at him. Harvard. 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. SCENE II QUEEN MARY 43 Howard. I must set The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well, Sir Ralph. Bagoihall. ' 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 ? \Exeitnt. SCENE III.— London Bridge Enter Sir Thomas Wyatt and 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, Bretl, 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 roird 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 l{y torchlight, and his guard ; four guns gaped at me, Black, silent mouths : had Howard spied me there And made them S])eak, as well he mighl have done. Their voice had left me none to tell you this. What shall we do ? Ih-ett. On somehow. To go back Were to lose all. Wyatt. On ovlt London I'.ridge We cannot : stay we cannot ; there is ordnance On the White Tower and on ihe Devil's Tower, 44 QUEEN MARY act ii And pointed full al Southwnrk : we must round By Kingston Bridge. B7'ett. Ten miles about. ]]yatl. I'>v'n so. But I have notice from our partisans Within tiic city that they will stand by us If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to-morrow. Enter one of W'v' ait's men. Man. Sir Thoma.s, I've found this paper; pray your worship read it ; I know nt^t my letters ; the old priests taught me nothing. Wyatt {reads). '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 ! [ JVr/tes ' Thoma.s Wyatt ' /ar,i^e. There, any man can read that. [St/eh it in his cap. Brett. But that's foolhardy. Wyatt. No ! boldness, which will give my followers boldness. Enter Man zvith a prisoner. Man. We found him, your worship, a-plundering o' Bishop Winchester's house ; he says he's a poor gentle- man. Wyatt. (ientleman ! a thief! Go hang him. Sliall 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. SCENE III QUEEN MARY 45 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 ! Enter a Crowd r?/" Women and Children. First IVoman. 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 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 conic to kill the Queen, and we'll pray for you all on our bended knees. Put 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 friend.s, I have not come to kill the Queen Or here or there : I come to save you all. And I'll go further off. Croutd. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be beholden to you, and we'll |)ray for you on our bended knees till (nii lives' end. Wyatt. lie happy, 1 am your fririid. Td Kingston, forward ! \Exetint. 46 QUEEN MARY act ii SCENE IV. — Room in the Gatehouse ok West- minster Palace Mary, Alice, Gardiner, Renard, Ladies. Gardiner. Their cry is, Philip never shall be king. Man'. 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. Enter Messenger. Messenger. Wyatt, your Grace, hath broken thro' the guards And gone to Ludgate. Gardiner. Madam, I much fear That all is lost ; but wc can save your Grace. The river still is free. I do l)eseech 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 without. The traitor ! treason ! Pembroke ! Ladies. Treason I 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 — blow.s — Hark, there is battle at the palace gates, And 1 will out upon the gallery. SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 47 Ladies. No, no, your Grace; see there the arrows flying. Mary. I am Harry's daughter, Tudor, and not Fear. \Goes out on the gallery. 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 ! Enter 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. \Exit Southwell. Enter Courtenav. 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 hitlier 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 (led ; and thou that would'st be King, And hast nor heart nor honour. I myself \\\\\ down into the battle and there bide The upshot of my cjiiarrcl, or die with those That are no cowards and no Courtenay.s. Coi/rtefiay. I do not love your Grace should (■all me coward. 48 QUEEN MARY aci n Etiter another Messenger. Messenger. Over, your (Iracc, all crush'd ; the brave Lurd William Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor flying To Temple Bar, there l)y Sir Maurice Berkeley Was taken prisoner. Mary. To the Tower with him ! 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 /?/>« .'' 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 wail. Remove him ! Courtenay. La, to whistle out my life, And carve ray coat upon the walls again ! \Exit Courtenay guarded. 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 her ! My foes are at my feet and I am Queen. [dardiner and her Ladies kneel to her. Gardiner {rising). There let them lie, your footstool ! {Aside.) 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. {A/oud.) Madam, What Wyatt said, or what they said he said. Cries of the moment and the street — Mary. He said it. SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 49 Gardiner. Your courts of justice will determine thot. Renard {advaiicing). 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 (luildford Dudley and the Duke of Suffolk, And Lady Jane had left us. Afary. They shall die. Renard. And your so loving sister ? Mary. She shall die. My foes are at my feet, and Philip King. [Exeunt. ACT III SCENE I. — The Conduit in (^racechurch Painted with the Nine JVorthies, anions^ them Kin^^ Henry 171/. holdin^^ a book, on it inscri!>ed ' Verbum Dei.' Enter ^\n Rai.imi Bagenhall and 'mk Thomas Stafford. Baxenha//. A hundred here and hundreds haiig'd in Kent, 'i'hc tigress had unsheath'd her nails at last, And Renard and the Chancellor sharpenVl ihcm. In every London street a gibbet stood. I'hey are down to-day. Here by this house was one ; The traitor husband dangled at the door, And when the traitor wife came out fi^r bread To still the petty treason therewithin, Her cap would brush his heels. Stajfnrd. It is Sir Ralph, .\nd muttering to himself as heretofore. Sir, see you aught up yonder ? Bai^enhall. I miss something. I'he tree that only bears dead finil is g<jnc. 50 QUEEN MARY act iu Stifford. Whal tree, sir? Bagenhall. Well, ihe tree in Virgil, sir, That bjars not its own apples. Stajford. 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. Bagathatl. 1 believe Sir Tiiomas Stafford ? Stafford. I am ill disguised. Bagenhall. Well, are you not in peril here? Stafford. T think so. I came to feel the pulse of England, whether It beats hard at this marriage. Did you see it ? Bagenhall. Stafford, 1 am a sad man and a serious. Far liefer had I in my country hall Been reading some old book, with mine old huund Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old flask of wine Beside me, than have seen it : yet I saw it. Stafford. Ciood, was it splendid ? Bagenhall. Ay, if Dukes, and I'^arls, And Counts, and sixty Spanish cavaliers. Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, pearls. That royal commoni)lacc too, clolh of gold, Could make it so. Stafford. And wh;it was Mary's dress? Bagenhall. (lood faith, 1 was too sorry for the woman To mark the dress. She wore red shoes I Stafford. Red shoes ! Bagenhall. Scarlet, as if her feet were wash'd in blood, As if she had waded in it. Stafford. ^^■ere >our eyes So bashful that you look'd no higher ? Bagenhall. A diamond, And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's love, SCENE I QUEEN MARY 51 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 (lolden 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 witii you. The King of France will help to break it. Bagenhall. France ! We 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 t(jttering throne to stand, Gould Harry have foreseen that all our nobles Would perisli on the civil slaughter-fK-ld, And leave the people naked to the crown. And the crown naked to the people ; the crown I''emale, too ! Sir, no woman's regimen C:in save us. We an- f.illi-n, and as I think, Never to rise again. 52 QUEEN iMARV act m Stajford. You are too l)lack blooded. I'd make a move myself to hinder that: I know some lusty fellows there in France. Bagenhai/. 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? Bagciihall. 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 ttj Rome. Stafford. I swear you do your country wrong. Sir Ralph. I know a set of exiles over there, iJare-devils, that would eat fire and spit it out At Philip's beard : they j)illage Spain already. The French King winks at it. An hour will come When they will sweep her from the seas. No men ? Did not Ford Suffolk die like a true man ? Fs not Ford William Floward a true man? Yea, you yourself, altho' you are black-blooded : .A.nd I, by ( Jod, 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. Bagenhai I. Ay ; if it hold. Crowd incoming on), (iod save their Graces ! SCENE I QUEEN MARY 53 Stajford. Bagenhall, I see The Tudor green and white. {Trumpets.) They are coming now. And here's a crowd as thick as herring-shoals. Bagenhall. Be Hmpets to this pillar, or we are torn Down the strong wave of brawlers. Crmvd. God save their Graces ! \Procession of Trumpeters., Javelhi-men^ etc. ; then Spanish and Flemish Nobles intermingled. Stafford. Worth seeing, Bagenhall ! These black dog- Dons Garb themselves bravely. Who's the long-face there. Looks very Spain of very Spain ? Bageniiall. Tiie 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. l)Ul tlicn he looks so merry. Bagenhall. I cannot tell you why they call him so. [IVie King and' Queen pass, attended l>y Peers of the Realm, Officers of State, etc. Cannon shot off. Cnnvd. I'hili]) 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. j King and Queen pass on. Procession. First Citizen. I thought this Philip had been one of those black devils of Spain, but he hath a yellow l)eard. S'cond 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 bca.st. 54 QUEEN MARY ACT II I Third Citizen. Certain 1 had heard that every Spaniard carries a, tail like a devil under his trunk-hose. Tailor. Ay, hut sec what tniiik-hoses ! ]A)rd! they be line ; I never stitch'd none such. They make amends for the tails. Fourth Citizen. Tut I every Spanish priest will icU you that all English heretics have tails. Fifth Citizen. Death aiul 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. Enter Gardiner {turning:; back from the procession). Gardiner. Knave, will thou wear thy caj) 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 I See there be others that can use their hands. Thou art one of AVyatt's men ? Afan. No, my Lord, no. Gardiner. Thy name, tiiou knave? Man. I am nobody, my Lord. Garditier (shoutini^. Cod'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 {to 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. [ Co/nin;:^ before tlie Conduit. The conduit painted — the nine worthies — ay ! But then what's here? King Harry with a scroll. Ha — Verbum Dei — verbum — word of Cod ! Cod's passion ! do you kntjw the knave that painted it? SCENE I QUEEN MARY 55 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, niy 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 (jod 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. Ell 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. Eong live Queen Mary ! Gardiner. Knave, there be two. There be both King and Queen, I'hilip and Mary. Shout ! Man. Nay, but, my Lord, The Queen comes first, Mary and Philip. Gardiner. Shoul, llun. Mary and Philij) ! Man. Mary and I'hilip I Gardiner. Now, Thou hast shouted for lliy jilcasure, shout for mine! I'hilip and Mary ! Man. Must it be so, my Lord? Gardiner. Ay, knave. Man. I'hili]) and .Mary I Gardiner. I distrust thee, i hinc is a half voice and a lean assent. What is thy name ? JA/;/. Sanders. Gardiner. What else ? 56 QUEEN MARY act hi Man. Zcriibhal)cl. Gardiner. Where dosl lliou live? Afan. In Coniliill. Gardiner. Where, knave, where ? Alan. Sign of ihc Talhol. Gardiner. (.'onic lo me lo-niorrow. — 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 Ho\\ard, 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. \Exit. The croivd foUflwi)!^^. Bagenhall. As proud as Becket. Stafford. You would not have him murdcr'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 {^going off), (iod save their (iraces ! Stafford. Did you see her die ? Bagenhall. No, no ; her innocent blood hnd blinded mc. \ou 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 rnine \\\\\ 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 SCENE I QUEEN MARY 57 Mismatch'd with her for policy ! T 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 ! (iirl never breathed to rival such a rose ; Rose never blew that equalled 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 kiii : she thought they knew the laws. Hut 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 knell and said the Miserere Mei — Hut 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, Hut do it quickly ; ' then all wept but she, Wlio changed not colour when she saw the block, liut ask'd him, childlike : ' Will you take it <.){'i Heforc I lay me down ? ' ' No, madam,' he said, (lasping ; 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 {in the distance). (l(jd save tlieir (traces ! Stafford. Tlnir Graces, our disgraces! dod confound them ! Why, she's grown liloodier ! when I last was here, 'J'his was against her conscience — would be murder I Bagenhall. 'I'l)e 'Thou shalt do no nuirfler.' which (lod's hand Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubbd out pale — 5S QUEEN MARY a<t m She could nol make it white — and over that, Traced in the blackest text of Hell — 'Thou shalt !' 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. 'I'he Lords and Commons will bow down before him — You are of the house ? what will you do, Sir Ralph ? Bagenliall. And why should I be bolder than the rest, Or honester than all ? Stafford. Put, 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, x\nd 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. Bagenliall. No ; you would fling your lives into the gulf. Stafford. But if this Philip, as he's like to do. Left ISLiry 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 ? Bagaihall. 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, Vou'll hear of me again. Bagenhall. Upon the scaffold. [Exeunt. SCENE II QUEEN MARY 59 SCENE II. — Room in Whitehall Palace Mary. Enter Philip atid Cardinal Pole. 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 Paradi.se. My foreign friends, who dream'd us blanketed In ever-closing fog, were much amazed To find as fair a sun as might have fiash'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), Seeni'd as a happy miracle to make glide — in quiet — home your banish'd countryman. Mary. Wc heard that you were sick in Flanders, cousin. Pole. A dizziness. ,]rary. And how came you round again ? Pole. The scarlet tlircad of Rahab saved her life ; Ami mine, a little letting of the bli)od. Mary. Well ? now ? J\)le. Ay, cousin, as the heathen giant Mad but to touch the ground, his force reliirn'd — Thus, after twenty years of banishment, l-eeling my native land beneath my foot, I said thereto : ' Ah, native land of mine, 6o QUEEN MARY act hi 'I'nou art much iKholdcii lu this foot of mine, That hastes with full commission from the i'ope To absolve thee from thy guilt of heres)'. Thou hast disgraced me and attainted me, And mark'd mc ev'n as Cain, and I return As Peter, but to bless thee : make me well.' Methinks the good lantl 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 liouse Who wt)uld not have il. Alary. J'rue, good cousin Pole ; And there were also those without the house Who would not have it. Pole. I beheve 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. \V'ho, waiting till the time had rii)en'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 SCENE II QUEEN MARY 6i 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 Cods, 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. Enter Paoet, who presents t/ie Council. JJiunb shotv. Pole. I am an old man wearied with my journey, Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to withdraw. To Lambeth ? I'hili/y. Ay, Lambeth has ousted Crannicr. It was not meet the heretic swine should live In Lair.ljcth. Mary. There or anywhere, or at all. /'l/iiip. We have had it svve[)t and garnish'd after him /'ole. Not for the seven devils to enter in ? I'tiilip. No, for wc trust they ])arti(l in tlie swine. J'ole. True, and I am the Angel of the Pope. Farewell, your (iraces. Philip. Nay, not here— to me; 1 will go with you to the watersi<lc. Pole. Not be my Charon to the counter si(!< ? JViilip. No, my Lord Legate, the Lord riKuicellor goes. 62 QUEEN MARY act m Pole. And uiilu no eload world ; Inil Lanihctli palace, Henceforth a centre of the living faith. \Exfunt Philip, I'ole, Paget, elc. Manet Mary. Mary. He hath awaked ! he hath awaked ! He stirs within the darkness! Oh, Philip, husband ! now thy love to mine \Vill cling more close, and those bleak manners thaw, 'J'hat 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 iier 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 I His faith shall clothe the world that will be his. Like universal air and sunshine ! Open, Ve everlasting gates I The King is here ! — My star, my son ! Enter Piiii.d', Dukk of Alva, etc. Oil, l'liili|i, 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 {to Alva). More than that: There was one here of late — William the Silent They call him — he is free enough in talk, SCENE U QUEEN MARY 63 But tells me nothing. You will be, we trust, Sometime the viceroy of those provinces- He must deserve his surname better. A/va. Ay, sir; Inherit the Great Silence. Phiiip. True ; the j:)r()vinces 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 {proud/j). The first. P/ii/ip. ( ',ood ! Well, Madam, this new hapj)iness of mine ? \Exeunt. Enter Three Pages. First Pui^'e. 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, l^irkon. I found it Ikiltering at the palace gates : — 'The Queen of England is delivered of a dead dog ! ' lliird Page. 'I'hese are the things that madden her. Kie upon it ! First Page. Ay; but I hear she lialli a dioiJS)', lad. Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it. I'liird Page. l'"ie on her dropsy, so she have a dropsy ! I kiiDw tliat she was ever sweet to me. I'irst Page. I-'or thou and thine are Ruiuan t(j the core. Tliird Page. So thou and tliine must be. Take heed ! First Pa.',. Not I. And wlicther lliis flash c)f news Ije false or true, So the wine run, and there be revelry, Content am I. lx,-t all the steeples clash, 'lill the sun dance, as upon Easter Day. \Exeunt. 64 QUEEN MARY act m SCENE III. — (Jricat Half, in W^imtkhaix At the far out a dais. On f/iis three chairs, tivo under one canopy for Mak\- and Philip, another on the right of these for Poi.k. Under the dais on 1*ole's side, ranged along the 7vall, 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 betiveoi them. In the foreground, Sir Ralph BAGRNirALi, and other Members of the Commons. First Member. St. Andrew's day ; sit close, sit close, we are friends. Is reconciled the word ? the Pope again ? It must 1)0 thus; and yet, cocksbody ! ho\v strange That Cardincr, 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 Afendter. This dardiner turn'd his coat in Henry's lime ; 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 fur Gardiner ! being English citizen. How should he bear a bridegroom out of Spain? The (Jiueen 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 iht'ir own model. Second Member. Statesmen that are wise Take truth herself for model. What say you ? [To Sir Ralph Bagenhall. SCENE HI QUEEN MARY 65 Bagenhall. We talk and talk. First Member. A)-, 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 the.se articles is bound From stirring hand or foot to wrong the realm. Secoftd Member. By bonds of beeswax, like your creeping thing ; But your wise bees had stung him first to death. Third Member. Hush, hush ! V(ju wrong the Chancellor : the clauses added I o that same treaty which the emperor sent us U'ere mainly (Gardiner's : that no foreigner Hold office in the household, fleet, forts, army; i'hat if the Queen should die without a child. The bond between the kingdoms be dis.solved ; That Philip should not mix us any way U'itli his J'rench wars — Second Member. Ay, ay, but what .security, (iood sir, for this, if I'hilip Third Member. Peace — the Queen, I'liilip, and Pole. {All rise, and sfaitd. Enter Marv, 1'iiii,i)>, and I'oi.i;. [(iardiner conducts them to the three chairs of state. I'hilip sits on the (Queen's left, l*ole on her n\^ht. Gardiner. Our short-lived sun, before his winter plunge. Laughs at the last red leaf, and Andrew's Day. 66 QUEEN MARY act in Mary. Sliould not this duy 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' ; {aside) 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. ^Ve 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. \^Aside. \He draws a paper from under his robes and presents it to the King and Queen, who look throu^j^h it and return it to him ; then ascends a tribune., and reads. 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, SCENE III QUEEN MARY 67 Or else by doing or by speaking aught Which might impugn or prejudice the same ; By this our supphcation 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 (iod and both your Majesties. Voices. Amen. [All sif. [He again presents the petition to the King and Queen, who hand it reverentially to Pole. Pole (sitting). This is the loveliest day that ever smiled On England. All her breath should, incenselike, Kise to the heavens in grateful [)raise of Him Who now recalls her to His ancient fold. Lo ! once again Ciod to this realm hath given A token of Fiis more especial Orace ; I'or as this people were the first of all The islands call'd into the dawning church Out of the dead, deep night of iieaihendom. So now arc these the first whom (iod hath given Grace to repent and sorrow for their schism ; 68 QUEEN MARY a< i m And if your iiciiik'ncc he niH mockery, Oh how ihe blessed angels who rejoice Over one saved do triumph at this hour In the reborn salvation of a land So noble. [yl pause. 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 cjuestion things already done ; These are forgiven — matters of the past — And range with jetsam and with offal thrown Into the blind sea of forgetful n ess. \_A pause. 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. \_Risini:; and strefchim^forthhis hands. All kneel but '$i\x Ralph Bagenhall, wJw rises a?id remains standins;. 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 ! [.4 pause. And we by that authority Apostolic Oiven 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 ; SCENE III QUEEN MARY 69 And also we restore you to the bosom And unity of Universal Church. \Ttirniiig to Gardiner. Our letters of commission will declare this plainlier. [Queen heard sobbing. Cries of Amen ! Amen ! Some of the Members ef/ibrace one another. All but Sir Ralph Bagenhall pass out into the neighbouring chapel, whence is heard the Te Deum. Bagenhall. We strove against the papacy from the first, In William's time, in our first Edward's lime, 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 Pojje, 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 l5orn Spaniard ! I had held my head up then. I am ashamed that I am Bagenhall, linglish. Enter Officer. Officer. Sir Ralph P.agcnhall ! Bagenhall. What of that? Officer. You were the one sole man in cilhcr house Who stood upright when both the houses fell. Bagenhall. The houses fell ! Officer. I mean the houses kntll iJefore the Legate. Jlagenliall. Do not srrini|) your |)lirase, lint stretch it wider; say when i^ngland fell. Ojfice?: I say you were the one solr man who sltnid. 70 QUEEN MARY act hi Bdi^YN/ia/l. 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. BagenhaU. 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. \\\\:\X ! will she have my head ? Officer. A round fine likelier. Your i)ardon. \Calliiii:!; to Atte)tda)it. By the river to the Tower. [Exeii/i/. SCENE IV. — Whitehai.t,. A Room in the Palace Mary, Gardiner, Pole, Paget, Bonner, etc. Mary. The King and I. my Lords, now that all traitors Against our royal state ha\e lost the heads Wherewith they plotted in their treasonous malice, Have talk'd together, and are w^ell 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 Onmcil. Why, what hath flusterd 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 bt,- heat — there must be heat enough 'I'o scorch and wither heresy to the root. For what saith Christ? 'Compel them to come in.' And what saith Paul ? ' I would they w-ere cut off SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 7^ 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 amphisbrena. 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. Man'. 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 Crace. 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 their life to be, And cruel at it, killing helpless flies ; Such is our time — all times for aught T 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 ; liille children ! They kiil'd but for their pleasure and the power They felt in killing. Gardiner. A spice of Satan, ha ! Why, good ! what then ? granted ! — wc are fallen creatures; Look to your IJible, Paget ! we arc fallen. Paget. I am but of the laity, my Lord Bishop, And may not read your Bible, yet I fomid 72 QUEEN MARY a.tiii 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, \'()u stand up here to light 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 I have seen SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 73 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. \'ou see, my Lords, It was the shadow of the Church that trembled ; Vour church was but the shadow of a church, Wanting the Papal mitre. Gardiner {muttering). 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, .\x\ overmuch severeness, I repeat, \Vhen 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 lUirn ! and we cannot burn whole towns; they are many, As my Lord Paget says. Gardiner. Yet my L(jrd Cardinal — J\jle. I am your Ixgate ; please you let me finish. Methinks that under our Queen's regimen We might go sofilicr than with crimson rowel .\nd streaming lash, ^\'hc•n Herod-Henry first P>cgan to batter at your English Church, This was the cau.se, and hence the judgment on her. She seethed with such adulteries, and the lives 74 QUEEN MARY act n, 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, Eike 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 {ange?'ed). 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 Catharine'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 ! SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 75 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 appealed to, but you still preferrd 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, Cod'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. Tliou Christian Bishop, thou Lord Chanceihjr Of I'^ngland ! no more rein upon thine anger Tlian 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, 76 QUEEN MARY act m Like dogs that set to vvatcli 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 Li 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. [Exeioit Queen a?id Pole, etc. Gardiner. Pole has the Plantagenet face. But not the force made them our mightiest kings. Kine eyes — but melancholy, irresolute — A fine beard, Bonner, a very full fine beard. But a weak mouth, an indeterminate — ha? Botiner. Well, a weak mouth, perchance. Gardiner. And not like thine To gorge a heretic whole, roasted or raw. Botiner. I'd do my best, my Lord ; but yet the Legate Is here as Pope and Master of the Church, And if he go n(jt 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 fiu 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. SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 77 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 ! W^hat 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. Enter Usher. Us/ier. 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 ! Hid you hear 'em? were you by? Usher. I cannot tell you, His bearing is so courtly-delicate ; And yet methinks he falters : their two Craces 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 (iod, we change and change; Men now are bow'd and (jld, 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 jiaticncc, As I have shown to-day. I am sorry for it If Pole be like to turn. Our old friend Crannier, \ owx more especial love, hath turn'd so often, lie knows not where he stands, which, if this pass, 78 QUEEN MARY act m We two shall have to teach him ; let 'em look to it, Cranmer aiul Hooper, Ridley and Latimer, Rogers and Ferrar, for their time is come, Their hour is liard at hand, their 'dies Irre,' Their 'dies Ilia,' 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, I'apal Legate-cousin. [Exeunt. SCENE V. — \VooDSTOCK Elizabeth, Lady in Waiting. 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. [ Writes on the window with a diamond. 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. SCENE V QUEEN INIARY 79 Elizabeth. I'rutli, a word ! The very Truth and very ^^'ord 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. Ladx. I do not follow. Elizabeth. How many names in the long s\veep 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 (Jrace, I5ut one that pares his nails; to me? the clown ! Elizabet/i. Out, girl ! you wrong a noble gentleman. Lady. I'or, like his cloak, his manners want the nap .'\nd gloss of court; but of this fire he says, N'ay 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 rail it nature. Nay, I know So QUEEN MARY ACT 111 They luinl my Ijlood. 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. [Exif Lady. Alilhnaid {singing wiihout). 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, scENKv QUEEN MARY 8i 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, bhick, 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 .\ffrighted me, and then delighted me, I'or there was life — And there was life in death — The little murder'd princes, in a pale light, Ro.se hand in hand, and whisper'd, 'come away I '{'he civil wars are gone for evermore : Thou last of all tlie 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 r.olh happy ! a fox may filch a hen by night. And make a morning outcry in the yard ; I!ut 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 aw:iy at once Out of the flulter. 'I'he gray rogue, (lardincr, Went on his knees, and pray'd mc to confess In Wyalt's busine.ss, and to cast myself Upon the good (^u^C'^'^ mercy; ay, when, my Lord? (led save the Queen ! .My jailor — AV/Z^rSlK HkNKV J'.IiDINClllKI.I). nedinf^field. One, whose bolts, That jail y(ni from free life, bnr you from death. V O 82 QUEEN MARY act m There haunt some Papist ruffians hereabout Would murder you. Elizabeth. 1 thank you heartily, sir, But I am royal, tho' your prisoner, And (lod hath blest or cursed me with a nose — Your boots are from the horses. Bediui^ field. 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 (irace. 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 ; ^Laying down the letter. 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? Bediiii^field. \Vill I ? \Vith most exceeding willingness, I will ; You know I never come till I be call'd. \Exit. Elizabeth. It lies there folded : is there venom in it ? .\ snake — and if I touch it, it may sting. Come, come, the worst ! Best wisdom is to know the worst at once. \_Reads : SCENE V QUEEN MARY 83 ' It is the King's wish, that you should wed Prince PhiUbert 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 ; 1 think there may be birdhme 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 [iriest Should fill my throne, myself upon the steps. I think I will not marry anyone. Specially not this landless PhiUbert 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. Enter Lady. Lady. O Lord ! your Orace, your (irace, I feel so happy: it seems that we shall fly These bald, blank fields, and dance into the sun That shines on princes. Elizaheth. 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. JJut 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 si)iU. Your Highness such a milkmnid? Elizaheth. 1 had kcjit My Robins and my cows in sweeter order Had I been such. L^dy {slyly). And had your Orace a Robin ? 84 QUEEN MARY ACT III Elizabeth. C'onie, come, you arc chill here ; you want the sun That shines at court ; make ready for the journey. Pray God, we 'scape the sunstroke. Ready at once. \_Exeunt. SCENE VI. — London. A Room in thk Palack Lord Petre and Lor]:> William Howard. 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. Hoivard. I must see her. Enter 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, Oardiner 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 ? SCENE VI QUEEN MARY 85 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. [jExeunt Petre and Howard. Eiiter Philip {imising) 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 she 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 tc^ld my Lord He should not vex her Highness ; she wc)uld say These arc the means (iod works with, that His church May flourish. Philip. Ay, sir, but in statesmanship icj strike too soon is oft to miss the blow. I'hou knowest I bad my chaj)lain, (Castro, preach Against these burnings. Renard. And the I'^mperor .'\|)provcd you, and when last he wrote, declared Ills (:f)mfort in your (Irace that you were bland .\nd affable to men of all estates, 111 hope to charm them from their hate of Spain. J'hilip. In hope to crush all heresy under Spain. I'.ul, Renard, 1 am sicker staying here Than any sea could make me passim' hcn( r, Iho' I be ever deadly sick at sea. 86 QUEEN MARY |^^Wi in So sick am I wilh biding for this child. s .\v.'.. Is it the fashion in this clime for women '^J Hx: rii To go twelve months in bearing of a child ? '/'R.^O! ^ ^''' ^^ The nurses yawn'd, the cradle gaped, they ledol e>qo1 Jo/^ 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 ? '"^^ Reiiard. 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. Rettard. 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. Enter Mar v. Mary (aside). With Renard. Still Parleying with Renard, all the day with Renard, And scarce a greeting all the day for me — And goes to-morrow. \_E.xit Mary. Philip {to Renard, 7vko advances to hi/ii). Well, sir, is there more ? Renard {7vho has perceived the Queen). May Simon Renard speak a single word ? Philip. Ay. Roiard. 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. SCENE VI QUEEN MARY 87 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, \\'ith 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 .\ point to her demand ? Philip. AV'ell, I am going. Renard. For should her love when you are gone, my liege. Witness these papers, there will not be wanting 'I'hose that will urge her injury — should her love — And I have known such women more tluin 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 C.'ouncil, And these again u])on her Parliament — We are not loved here, and would be then perhaps Not .so well holpcn in our wars with France. As else we might be — here she comes. 88 QUEEN MARY aci m Enter 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? P'ltilip. 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 dreenwich, 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, witii my prayers for you. Philip. And doubtless I shall profit by your prayers. Maiy. 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. Afarv. A day may save a heart from breaking too. I'hiiip. 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. SCENE VI QUEEN MARY 89 Philip. Then one day more to please her Majestv Marx. The sunshine sweeps across my hfe again. 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, 1 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. \Exeunt. ACT IV SCENE I.— A Room in the Palace Mary, Cardinal Polk. 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, Trave, in the same cause, hearing of your ('.race, llath he not written himself — infatuated — To sue you for his life ? Mary. His life ? Oh, no ; \ot sued for that — he knows it were in vain, liut so much of the anti-pai)al leaven Works in him yet, he hath j)ray'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, 'I'o whom he owes his loyalty after (lod, Shall these accuse him to a foreign prince ? go QUEEN MARY act iv 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 ! Enter Thirlby, Lord Paoet, Lord William Howard. Hoivard. Health to your Orace ! (rOod 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. \Aside. Mary. Did not More die, and Pisher? he must burn. Hotvard. He hath recanted, ALidam. 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, Icjw upon my knees. To reach the hand of mercy to my friend. I have err'd with him ; with him I have recanted. SCENE I QUEEN MARY 91 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, I'>xcept 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. ffotvard. No, for you were not here ; You sit upon this fallen Cranmer's throne ; And it would more become you, my Lord Legate, 'I'o join a voice, so potent with her Highness, To ours in plea for Cranmer than to stand On naked self-assertion. Afary. AH your voices Are waves on flint. The heretic must burn. Ho7vard. Yet once he saved your Majesty's own life ; 92 QUEEN MARY act iv Stood out against the King in your behalf, At his own peril. Maty. 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 ; Hut 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 nie, my Lord Paget. And if he have to Hve so loath'd a life. It were more merciful to burn him now. Thirlhy. 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 tho.se 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 'l"he seed of Hate, it blossom'd Charity. Pole. ' .Xfter 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. Maty. Enough, my Lords. SCENE I QUEEN MARY 93 Ii 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. \Exeunt 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. \Exeunt. SCENE II. — Oxford. Cranmer in Prison Cranmer. Last night, I dream'd the faggots were alight. And that myself was fasten'd to the stake, And found it all a visionary fiame. 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. [^Trumpets tvithout. Why, there are trumi)ets blowing now : what is it ? Rritcr I'AiiiKK Com:. Cole. Cranmer, I come to (juestion you again ; Have you remain'd in the true Catholic faith I left you in ? Cranmer. In the true Catholic faith, I'.y Heaven's grace, I am more and more confirm'd. \\'hy are the trumpets blowing, Father Cole? Cole. Cranmer, it is decided by the Council That you to-day should read your recantation Before the peo[)le in St. Mary's Church. 94 QUEEN MARY act iv 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. Craiimer. 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. Craii/iier. Hand it me, then ! I thank you. Cole. For a little space, farewell ; Until I see you in St. Mary's Church. \^Exi/ 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. Enter ViLi.a Garcia. Villa Garcia. Pray you write out this paper for me, Cranmer. CrauDier. Have I not writ enough to satisfy you? Villa Garcia. It is the last. Cranmer. (jive it me, then. \^He writes. 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 s<j ; I sign It with my presence, if I read it. Villa Garcia. But this is idle of you. Well, sir, well, SCENE II (^UEEiX MARY 95 You are to beg the people to pray for )oii ; Exhort them to a pure and virtuous hfe ; 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 ? Cninmer. No, Yilla ( Garcia, I sign no more. Will they have mercy on me ? Villa Garcia. Have you good hopes of mercy ! So, farewell. [£xi/. Crantner. Good hopes, not theirs, have I that I am fixt, Mxt 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 mc 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? higher, holier, earlier, purer church, 1 have found thee and not leave thee any more. It is but a communion, not a mass — .\o sacrifice, but a life-giving feast ! (Writes.) So, so; this will 1 say — thus will I pray. \Puts up the paper. Enter Bonnkr. Bonner. Clood day, old friend ; what, you look some- what wurn : And yet it is a day to test your health 96 QUEEN MARY act iv l'A''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 ; .\nd worse than all, you had to kneel to me ; 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 ? [^Aside. 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 ? 1 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. Cranmer. This hard coarse man of old hath crouch 'd to me Till I myself was half ashamed for him. SCENE 11 QUEEN MARY 97 Enter Thirley. Weep not, good Thirlby. Thirlby. Oh, my Lord, my Lord ! My heart is no such block as Bonner's is : \\\\o 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 Clod bless you, Thirlby : Well, they shall hear my recantation there. {Exit Thirlby. Disgraced, dishonour'd ! — not by them, indeed, Hy mine own self — by mine own hand ! O ihin-skiiin'd hand and jutting veins, 'twas you That sign'd the burning of ])oor Joan oi Kent ; but then she was a wilcli. Vou have written hhk h, but you were never raised to plead for Frith, Whose dogmas I have rcach'd : he was deliver'd To the secular arm to burn ; and there was ],:iiiii)crt ; Who can foresee himself? truly these Inirnings, As Thirlby says, are profitless to the burners. And help the other side. You shall burn too, I'.urn first wlien I am burnt. Fire — inch by inch to die in agony ! Latimer V H 98 QUEP:N MARY a< r iv 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. Enter Soto aiid Villa Garcia. Villa Garcia. We are ready To take you to St. Mary's, Master Cranmer. Crantner. And I : lead on ; ye loose me from my bonds. \Exeunt. SCENE ni.— St. Mary's Church Cole in the Pulpit, Lord Williams of Thame presiding. Lord William Howard, Lord Paget, and others. Cranmer enters between Soto and Villa Garcia, and t/ie whole Choir strike up ' Nunc Dimittis.' Cranmer is set upon a Scaffold before the people. Cole. Behold him — [A pause : people in the foreground. 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, SCENE III QUEEN MARY 99 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 ? Protestatit mur?nurs. Ay, tell us that. Co/e. 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. Oilier reasons 'I'here be for this man's ending, which our Queen And Council at this present deem it not I'-xpedient to be known. J'rdteslaut murmurs. I warrant you. Cole. Take therefore, all, example l)y iliis man, I'or if our Holy Queen not pardon him, Much less shall others in like cause escajje, 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, loo QUEEN MARY act iv 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 down fallen 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 (}od. 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, (iod will beat down the fury of the flame, Or give thee saintly strength to undergo. .A.nd 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 'I'he 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. C) (iod, Father of Heaven ! O Son of God, Redeemer of the world ! O Holy C}host ! proceeding from them both, SCENE III QUEEN MARY loi 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 I O God the Son, Not for slight faults alone, when thou becamcsi 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. I'orgive me. Father, for no merit of mine, ]kit that Thy name by man be glorified. And 'l"hy most blessed Son's, who died for man. Go(k1 ])eople, 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 lo live, And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain .After the vanish'd voire, 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 lircik 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, T02 QUEEN MARY act iv 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 murmurs. What sort of brothers then be those that lust To burn each other? Williams. Peace among you, there ! Cran/iier. 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 Iain 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 [^Pointinji^ tipwards. Heaven or else hell ready to swallow mc, \Poinling dowtnvards. SCENE 111 QUEEN MARY 103 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 \Holdi7ig out his right hand. Written and sign'd — I here renounce them all ; And, since my hand offended, having written .Xgainst my heart, my hand shall first be burnt, So I may come to the fire. \Dead silence. Protestant murmurs. First Protestant. I knew it would be so. Second /'rotes tiinf. Our prayers arc heard ! Third Protestant. Cod bless him ! Catholic murmurs. Out upon him ! (Jut upon him ! Liar ! dissembler ! traitor ! to the fire ! Williams {raising his voice). You know that y(ju recanted all you said 'I'ouching the sacrament in that same book You wrote against my Lord of Winchester ; l)i.sscml)le not; play the plain Christian man. Cranmer. Alas, my Lord, I have been a man loved plainness all my life ; I did dissemble, but the hour has come For utter truth and plainness ; wherefore, I say, I04 QUEEN MARY act iv 1 hold !))• all I wrote witliin llial 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. [Cries on all sides, ' Pull him down ! Away with him ! ' Cole. Ay, slop the heretic's miuith ! Hale him away ! Williams. Harm him not, harm him not, have him tcj the fire ! [Cranmer goes out hetiveen Two Friars., smiling : hands arc reached to him from the croivd. Lord William Howard and Lord Paget are left alone in the church. Paget. The nave and aisles all empty as a fool's jest ! No, here's Lord William Howard. What, my Lord, Vou have not gone to see the burning ? Hoivard. 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, Vox the pure honour of our common nature, Hear what 1 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 jjikes and dies. Jloivard. Yet that he might not after all those papers Of recantation yield again, who knows? Paget. Papers of recantation ! 'Jhink you then That Cranmer read all papers that he .sign'd ? Or sign'd all those they tell us that he sign'd ? SCENE III QUEEN MARY 105 Nay, I trow nol : 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 eight)', 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 starling 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 \\\\\ teach her something. Pallet. Your miki Legale I'olc Will tell you that the devil helpt them thro' ii. [/4 murmur of (he Croivd in the dishiiicc. II ark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl and bay him ! Howard. Might il not be the other side rejoicing In his brave end ? Pa^ct. 'I'hey are too crush'd, too broken, They can but weep in silence. Ho-tvard. Ay, ay, Paget, They have brouglit it in large measure on themselves. Have I not heard them mock the blcs.scd Host In songs so lewd, the beast might roar his claim To being in Clod's imnge, more than they? Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the gnKim, (iardener, and huntsman, in the parson's ])Iace, The parson from his own spire swung out dead, And Ignorance crying in the streets, and all men io6 QUEEN MARY act iv Regarding her ? I say they have drawn the fire On their own heads : yet, Paget, 1 do hold The Catholic, if he have the greater right, Hath been the crueller. Paget. Action and rc-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. Hoivard. 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. Hoivard. 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, (ione narrowing down and darkening to a clo.se. There will be more conspiracies, I fear. SCENE III QUEEN MARY 107 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 chained 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. Pai^et. Nay, you sicken inc To hear you. Howard. Fancy-sick ; these things arc done, Done right against the promise of this (Hiccn Twice given. Pa\::;ct. No faith with heretics, my Lord ! Hist ! there be two old gossips- gospellers, I take it 3 stand behind the pillar here; I warrant you they talk about the burning. Eiifcr Twf) Oi,i) \Vomi;n. Joan, and after her 'I'm Joint. Why, it be Tib ! TUk I cum l)ehind tha, gall, and (-.(jukhrt make tha hear. Kh, the wind and the wet ! What a day, what a day ! nigh u])o' judgement daay loike. Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lord's cheer o' that ilaay. Joan. T must set down myself, Tib; it be a var waay VI ir my owld legs up vro' Islip. I-li, my rheumatizy be that bad howivcr be 1 to win to the burnin' ? Tib. I should saay 'twur ower by now. Id ha' been here avore, but Dimible wur blow'd wi' the wind, and Dumble's the best milcher in Islip. foan. Our Daisy's as good 'z her. io8 QUEEN MARY aci iv Tib. Noa, Joan. Joan. Our Daisy's butter's as good 'z hern. Tib. Noa, Joan. Joan. Our Daisy's cheeses be better. lib. Noa, Joan. Joan. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, 'i'ib ; cz 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 i)easen i' the outfield — and barrin' the wind, Dumijle wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z we was forced to slick 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. 1 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 Bisho]) Gardiner's end ; there wur an owld lord a-curn 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 (jn 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 Bishoj), says he, 'we'll gwo to dinner;' and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, (iod bless un I but (lardiner 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. Pa^s;et. 'i'he 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. SCENE III QUEEN MARY 109 Joan. Thank the Lord, therevore. Piv^et. 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 '11 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 ! {If omen hin-i-y out.) 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. Horvard. 1 think that in some sort we may. But see, Entei- Pkters. Peters, my genllemnn, an honest Catholic, Who follow'd with the crowd l(j Oanmer's fire. One that would neither misreport nor lie, Not to gain i)aradise: 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. /'(f<rs. 'I'wice or lluice 'I"he smoke of Tlranmer's burning wra])t nic rcnind. Ilo'ivard. Peters, you know me Catholic, but iMi^lisli. Did he die bravely? Tell me that, or leave All else untold. /'(•fcrs. My Lord, he died most bravely. Jhnvard. Then tell uk- all. no QUEEN MARY act iv Fa^ef. Ay, Master Peters, tell us. Peters. You saw him how he past among tlic 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 tjurn'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, (iave up the ghost ; and so past martyr-like — Martyr I may not call him — past — but whither? Pa^et. To purgatory, man, to purgatory. Peters. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory, Pa^et. Why then to heaven, and Cod ha' mercy on him. Himiard. Paget, despite his fearful heresies, SCENE III QUEEN MARY iii 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. \Exeu7it. ACT V SCENE I. — London. Hall in the Palace Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath. 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 P'rench 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. \Rxit Heath. Enter Philip. Phi/ip. Sir Nicholas tells you true. And you must look to Calais when I go. Marv. Co ? 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. xMarv. O, will you? will you? I am faint with fear that you will come no more. Philip. Ay, ay ; but many voices call nu- hence. Afarv. Voices — I hear unhappy rumours - -nay, I say not, I believe. ^Vh:lt voices call you 112 QUEEN MARY a<tv Dearer than mine that siiould he 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. Marv {ad/iiiri/ii:;/]'). 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. Put 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 Sjjaniard — there an Englishman ; The peoples are unlike as their complexion ; Yet will T be your swallow and return — But now I cannot bide. Mar}'. Not to help tnel s.F.NEi QUEEN MARY ii o They hate ?ne 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 v.ill : 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 pe.steringly fond ! \Aside. Kut, 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 featherhcad ! J'hilip. Ay, but they use his name. In hritT. 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, Scolkind, Into one sword to hack at S[)ain and mc. Mary. Anfl yet the I^ope is nf)w colleagued witli France ; \'ou make your wars upr)n him down in Italy: I'hili]), can that be well? Philip. Content you. Madam ; \'ou must abide my judgment, and my father's. Who deems it a most just and holy war. 'i'hc Pope would cast the Spaniard out of Naples : He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Saracens. 114 QUEEN MARY mt v 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 (iod 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, Vou 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. Il 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 ! Mar\. What, not one day ? p/iijip. You beat upon the rock. Marv. And I am broken there. SCENE I QUEEN MARY 115 Philip. Is this a place To wail in, Madam ? what I 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. \^Exit Mary. Enter Count de Feri.\ Feria {aside). 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 1. 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. GockJ, now; mclhinks my Queen is like enough To leave me by and by. Feria. To leave you, sire? JViitip. 1 mean not like to live. l''Jizal)eth — To l^hilibert 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 I'rince l^hilibert of Savoy. Feria. No, sire. Philip. 1 have to pray you, sonu; odd lime, To sound the Princess carelessly on this ; Not as from me, but as your phantasy ; And tell me how she takes it. ii6 QUEEN MARY act v Feria. Sire, T will. Philip. I am not ccrUiin hut that Philihert Shall be the man ; and 1 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 French- man. She is none of those who loathe the honeycomb. \Exit Feria. Enter Renard. Renard. My liege, I bring you goodly tidings. Philip. ^Vell ? Renard. There rvill be war with I'rance, 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 f'ouncil (I have talk'd with .some already) are for war. This is the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in France ; They show their teeth upon it ; and your (Jrace, So you will take advice of mine, should stay Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the event. Philip. Ciood ! 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 [Hit it so. [Exeunt. SCENE II QUEEN MARY ii SCENE II. — A Room in the Palace Mar\', sitting : a rose in her hand. Ladv Clarence. Alice in the hackgi'ound. Mary. Look ! I have pby'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 'I'hat should have fallen, and may rise again. J/ary. There were not many hang'd for Wyatt's rising. Aady 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 ? Enter Usher. Usher. The Cardinal. Enter Cardinal Pole. (Mary rises.) M(u\. Reginald Pole, what news hath ])lagued thy heart ? Whnt makes thy favour liki: the blooflless head I'aH'n on the Mork, and held uj) by the hair? i'hilip?— /'olc. No, I'iiili]) is as warm in life .\s ev( r. Mary. .\y, and then as cold as ever, is Calais taken ? Lotc. Cousin, there hath chanced A sharjier harm to Englnnd nnd to Rome, ihan Calais tnkcn. Julius the Third Was ever just, and mild, and father-like ; I'.ut this new Pope Caraffa, I'aul the Fourth, Not only reft me of that legateship TiS QUEEN MARY act v Which Julius gave nie, and the Icgateship Annex'd to Canterbury — nay, but worse — And yet I must obey the Holy Ivather, And so must you, good cousin ; — worse than all, A passing bell toH'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 thai 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 /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 I He drew this shaft against me to the head, When it was thought I might be chosen Pope, Rut 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 ? SCENE II QUEEN MARY 119 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. Fo/e. Have done my best, and as a faithful son, That all day long hath wrought his fiither'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 'I'o sleep, to die- I shall die of it, cousin. Mary. I pray you be not so disconsolate ; I siill will do mine utmost with the Pope. Poor cousin ! Have not I been llie 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, 1 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 cc>ckbont ; 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 Itridemaids are not lovely — Disapponitmenl, t^o QUEEN ^fARY acj v Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, Labour-in-vaiii. 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 Oroom, And there is one Death stands behind the Bride — . Mary. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'.? Po/e. 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 ! — ' W^e pray continually for the death Of our accursed (^ueen and Cardinal Pole.' This last — I dare not read it her. [/IstWe. Mary. Away ! Why do you bring me these ? I thought you knew me 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 l''amishing 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 tnjuble you. Your jjardon, .Sweet cousin, and farewell ! 'O bubble world, Whose colours in a moment break and fly ! ' Why, who said that ? I know not — true enough ! yPiits up the papers., all but the last, which falls. Exit Pole. Alice. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one, .\nd heard these two, there might be sport for him. \Aside. Afary. Clarence, they hate me ; even while I speak There lurks a silent dagger, listening SCENE II QUEEN MARY 121 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, ^\'ould see your Highness. Mary. Wherefore should I see him ? Lady Clarence. Well, Madam, he may bring you news from Philip. Jfary. So, Clarence. /.ady Clarence. Let me first put up your hair ; It tumbles all abroad. Mary. And the gray dawn Of an old age that never will he mine Is all the clearer seen. No, no ; what matters ? Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn. Enter Sir Nicholas Heath. Ifcalh. I bring your Majesty such grievous news I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken. Mary. What traitur spoke? Here, let my cousin Pole Seize him an'l burn him for a Lutheran. Lleath. Her Highness is unwell. 1 will retiri-. f.ddy Clarence. Madam, your (Chancellor, Sir Nicholas Heath. Mary. Sir Nicholas! I am stunn'd — Nicholas Heatii ? .VIethought some traitor smote mc on the head. What snid you, my good Lord, that our brave ICnglish Had sallied out from Calais and driven back 'i'he Frenchmen from their trenches? Heafh. .Mas ! no. That gateway !o the mainland over which Our flag hath floated for two hundred years Is France again. Mary. So ; but it is not lost — 122 QUEEN MARY a,-, v Not yet. Send out : let England as oi' 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 eounties ; 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. Alary. 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 ! \^Exit 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 ii])on 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? SCENE II QUEEN MARY 123 Or you, for heretic cries ? And I believe, Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas, Your England is as loyal as myself. Mary {seeing the paper dropt by 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. C;od pardon me ! I have never yet found one. [Aside. Alary (reads). ' Your people hate you as your husband hates you.' Clarence, Clarence, what have I done ? what sin Beyond all grace, all pardon ? Mother of Cod, Thou knowest never woman meant so well, .\nd 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. LMdy Clarence. No, Madam ; these are libels. Afary. I hate myself, and I desire my dcatii. Lady Clarence. Long live your Majesty! Shall Alice sing you One of her pleasant songs? Alice, my cl)il(l, Hring us your lute (Alice goes). They say the gloom of Saul Was lighu,-n"(l by young David's harp. Mary. Too young ! And never knew a Philip. Re-enter Alice. ( live nic llie lute. He hates me ! {She sings.) 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 ! 124 QUEEN MARY Ad v Love will hover round ihe liowers when they first awaken , Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken ; Low, my Iu'lc ! 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 ! {Sitting on the grotmd.) 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 v.as open'd, and ihe dead were found Sitting, and in this fashion ; she looks a corpse. Enter Lady Magdalen Dacres. Lady Magdalen. Madam, the Count de Fcria waits without, III hopes to see your Highness. f.ady Clarence {pointing to 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 {in tlie foreground with Lady Magdalen). And all along Of Philip. Lady Afagdalen. Not so loud I 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 — SCENE U QUEEN MARY 125 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 stateHest deer in all the herd — Beyond his aim — but I am small and scandalous, And love to hear bad tales of Philip. Lady Magdalen. ^Vhy ? 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 ? iMdy 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. I low dared he ? LMdy Magdalen. Stupid soldiers oft are bold. Poor lads, they see not what the general sees, A risk of utter ruin. I am twt Beyond his aim, or was not. Alice. Who? Not you? Tell, tell nie ; save my credit with myself. Lady Magdalen. I never breathed it to a bird in llie eaves. Would not for all the stars and maiden moon Our drooping f^)ueen should know ! In Hampton Court My windfjw hjok'd upon the corridor ; .And I was robing; — this poor throat <jf mini, iJarer than I should wish a man to sec it, — When he we speak (jf drove the window back, .\nd, like a thief, ])ush'd in his royal hand ; but by (iods providence a good stout staff Lay near me ; and you know mc strong of arm ; 1 do believe I lamed his Majesty's 126 QUEEN MARY act v For a day or two, iho', give the Devil his due, I never found he bore me any spite. A/ice. I would she couid 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 — hut 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. L.ady 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 {looki?ij^ up suddenly). I )ied in the true faith ? Lady Clarence. Ay, Madam, happily. Mary. Happier he than I. L.ady Magdalen. It seems her Highness hath awaken'd. Think you 'I'hat I liiight dare to tell her that the Count SCENE II QUEEN MARY 127 Man: I will see no man hence for evermore, Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole. Ladv Magdalen. It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady. Marv. 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. Enter Count de Feria {kneels). Feria. I trust your Grace is well. {Aside) How her hand burns I Afary. I am not well, but it will better me. Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring. Feria. Madam, I bring no letter. J\/ar\. Mow! no letter? Feria. His Highness is so vex'd with strange affairs- - Alary. 'I'hat his own wife is no affair of his. Leria. Nay, Madam, nay ! he sends his veriest love. And says, he will come quickly. Mary. Dolli he, indeed? Vou, sir, i\i) \('ii u;memVjer what ivw said When last you canic to PLngland ? Feria. Matlam, 1 brought My King's congratulations; it was hoped Your Highness was once more in h.'qjpy state To give him an heir male. Marv. Sir. you said more ; Vou said he would come (juickly. I had horses 128 QUEEN MARY act v 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 (]uickly. . . Thou hast learnt Thy lesson, and I mine. Tliere 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 commi.ssion'd to Elizabeth, And not to me ! Feria. Mere compliments and wishes. But shall I take some message from your (irace ? 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 Crace will see your sister ? Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and sunshine. I would we had you. Madam, in our warm Spain. You droo]j in your dim London. Mary. Have him away ! I sicken of his readiness. Lady Clarence. My Lord Count, Pier Highness is too ill fcjr collocjuy. Feria {kneels, and kisses her hand). I wish her Highness better. {Aside) How her hand burns I \^ExeuNl. SCENE HL — A Housk nkak London Eliz.abetm, Stevvaki) of iiii; Ilorsi-iioi.n, Attp:ndant.s. Elizabeth. There's half an angel wrong'd in your account ; Melhinks 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. \Exit Steward. Attendant. The Count de Feria, from the King of Spain. SCENE III QUEEN MARY 129 Elizabeth. Ah! — let him enter. Nay, you need not go: \To her Ladies. Remain within the chamber, but apart. We'll have no private conference. Welcome to England ! Enter Feria. Ferta. 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. W^herefore pause you — what ? Feria. Nay, but I speak from mine own self, not him ; Your rrjyal sister cannot last ; your hand Will be much C(;vetcd ! What a delicate one ! Our Si)anish 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. /'('ria. — would be deemed a miracle. Elizabeth. Your Pliilip hath gold hair and golden beard; There must l)c ladies many with hair like mine. /■',/ia. Some few of Gothic blood have golden hair, liut none like yours. V K I30 QUEEN MARY act v 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 ! \Exit i^lizabeth, etc. Feria. So from a clear sky falls the thunderbolt ! Don Carlos ? Madam, if you marry Philip, SCENE IV QUEEN MARY 131 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. [Exit. SCENE IV. — London. Before the Palace A light burning within. Voices of the night passitig. 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. [jExeunt. Two Others. J'irst. There's the Queen's light. I hear she cannot live. Second, (iod 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 u[)on 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 'i'o yield them their deserts. First. Amen to all Your wish, and further. A JViird Joice. Deserts! Amen to what? \Vhosc 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 132 QUEEN MARY act v 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 my.self on being moderate. Good night ! Go home. Besides, you curse so loud, The watch will hear you. Get you home at once. \Exeunl. SCENE V. — London. A Room in the Palace A Gallery on one side. The nioonlif^ht streamin,^ throu^^h a ratline of windows on the wall opposite. AL-vrv, Lady Clarence, Lady Magdalen Dacres, Alice. Queen pacing tJie Gallery. A writing-table in front. Queen C07nes to the table and writes and goes again, pacing the Gallery. 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 SCENE V QUEEN MARY 133 The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall, Following her like her sorrow. She turns again. [Queen sits and writes, and goes again. Lady Claretice. What hath she written now ? A/ice. Nothing; but 'come, come, come,' and all awry, And blotted by her tears. This cannot last. [Queen ret2cr7is. Mary. I whistle to the bird has broken cage, And all in vain. {^Sitting down. 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. [/'ointing to t lie portrait of Philip on the wail. Mary. Doth he not look noble? I had heard of him in battle over seas, .'\nd 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, Aliho' you'll not believe me. How he smiles As if he loved me yet I Lady Clarence. .\nd 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 bo)' : [Weep. Alice. That was a lusty boy of twenty-seven ; [Aside. Poor enough in (Jod's grace ! Mary. A?k1 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 ; .\n(l in a moment I shall follow him. 134 QUEEN MARY act v Lady CIare?!ce. 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, .•\nd 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 SCENE V QUEEN MARY 135 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, (Irant it me here : and see, he smiles and goes, (jentle as in life. Alice. Madam, who goes? King Philip? Afary. No, Philij^ comes and goes, l)Ul 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 ! i'oul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice ! .\dulterf)US tf) the very heart of Hell. I last thou a knife ? A/ice. Ay, Madam, but o' (lod's mercy — Mafv. Fool, think'st thou I would jjcril mine own soul P.y slaughter of the body ? I could not, girl, 136 QUEEN MARY act v 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. \Cnts out the picture and throivs it down. Lie there. ( Wails) 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. \Cries of ' Elizabeth ' in the street. A cry ! What's that 1 Elizabeth ? revolt ? A new Northumberland, another \Vyatt ? I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave. Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you. Mary. \ will not see her. Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister ? I will see none except the priest. Your arm. \1)) Lady Clarence. O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile Among thy patient wrinkles — Help me hence. [^Exeunt. The Priest /a j-^^i-. Enter Elizabeth and Sir Wiij.iAM 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. \Exit Elizabeth. SCENE V QUEEN MARY 137 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, (ilancing across the Tudor — not so well. Enter Alice. How is the good Queen now ? Alice. Away from Philip. Back in her childhood — j^rattling 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 W^ere 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 I^>iblc, rich and [)oor. Alice. The Queen is dying, or ycni dare not say it. Enter Elizafjei H. Elizabeth. The Queen is dead. Cecil. 'I'lu n here she stands! my homage. Elizn/'ftli. She knew me, and acknowledged inc lur heir, Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the Faith ; Then rlaspt the cross, and pass'd away in peace. I kft her lying still and beautiful, 138 QUEEN MARY act v 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. Enter Paget, and other Lords of the Council, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, etc. Lords. God save Elizabeth, the Queen of England ! Bagenhall. God save the Crown ! the Papacy is no more. Paget {aside). Are we so sure of that ? Acclamation. God save the Queen ! HAROLD A DRAMA 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 Free- man's History of the Nonnan Conquest, and your father's Historical Romance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me in writing this Urama. Your father dedicated his 'Harold' to my father's brother; allow nie to dcdirate my ' Harold' to yourself. A. TENNYSON. SHOW-DAY AT TiATTLE AHBEY, 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 liarness, and that deathftil arrow sing. And Saxon battleaxe clang on Norman lieliii. Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm : Here fought, here fell, our Norman-slander'd king. '39 MO HAROLD 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. DRAMATIS PEKSONM King Euwakd the Confessor. Stigand, created Arclibishop of Canterbury by the Antifope Benedict. Aldred, Archbishop of York. The Nokman Bishop ok London. Harold, Earl of VVessex, afterwards King of England^ TosTiG, Earl of Northmnbria GURTH, Earl of East Anglia I *^'''" '^f Leofwin, Earl of Kent and Essex ' Godwin. wulfnotii Count William ok Normandy. William Rukus. WiLLlA.M Malet, a Norman Noble.'^ liDVVlN, Earl of Mercia \ Sons of Alfgar of Morcar, Earl of Northumbria after Tostig ) Mercia. Gamel, a Northumbrian I'harie. GuY, Count of Ponthieu. Rolf, a Ponthieu Fisherman. Hugh Margot, a Norman Monk. OSGOD and .Athelric, Canons frojn Wallham. The Queen, Edward the Confessors Wife, Daughter of Godwin. Aldwyth, Daughter of Alfgar and Widow of Griffyth, King of Wales. Edith, I ( 'nn/ of King Edward. Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-.\rm.s, Canons of Waltham, Fishermen, etc. 1 . . . quidam partim Normannus et Anglus Compater Heraldi. (Guy of Amiens, 587.) SCENE I HAROLD 141 ACT I SCENE I. — London. The King's Palace {A comet seen through the open, window) Aldwyth, Gamel, Courtiers talking together. 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 un- descendible Abysm. First Courtier. Or floated downward from the throne Of God Almighty. Aldivytli.. Gamel, son of Orm, What thinkest thou this means? Gamel. War, my dear lady ! Ald7vyth. Doth this affright thee ? Game/. Mightily, my dear lady ! Ald'ivyth. Stand by me then, and look u|)on my face, Not on the comet. Fnter Morcar. Brother ! why so pale ? Alorcar. 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 ; 142 HAROLD ACT i 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. Enter Leofwin, after him Gurth. Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks of this ! iMorcar. 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 {passing). 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 ? Leofivin. 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. \Exit Bishop of London. Enter Archbishop Stigand. Ask our Archbishop. Stigand should know the purposes of Heaven. Stigand. Not L I cannot read the face of heaven ; Perhaps our vines will grow the better for it. Leofwin {laughing). He can but read the king's face on his coins. Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, tliere the king's face is power. Gurth. O father, mock not at a public fear. SCENE I HAROLD 143 But tell us, is this pendent hell in heaven A harm to England ? Stigand. Ask it of King Edward ! And he may tell thee, / am a harm to England. Old uncanonical Stigand — ask of me 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. [Poifiting to Harold, who enters. Harold {seeing Camel). 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 ? ffarold. 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 ICarl. Jfarolil. Is the North quiet, Gamel.' Gamel. Nay, there be murmurs, for liiy brcjthcr breaks us With over-taxing — cjuiet, ay, as yet — Nothing as yet. ' J/arold. Stand by him, mine old friend. Thou art a great voice in Northumberland ! Advise him : speak him sweetly, he will hear thee. He is j)assionate but hom.st. Stand thou by hini ! More talk of this to-morrow, if yon weird sign Not blast us in our dreams. — Well, father Stigand — \To Stigand, it'lio advances to him. Stigand (f^innting to the comet). \Var there, my son ? is that the doom of I'>ngland ? Harold. Why not the doom of all the world as well ? For all the world sees it as well as England. 144 HAROLD ACT I These meteors came and went before our day, Not harming any : it threatens us no more Than French or Norman. War ? tlie 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. Leofwiii. And he 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. Leqf7vin. 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 ! Enter King, Queen, and Tostig. Edward. In heaven signs ! Signs upon earth ! signs everywhere ! your Priests dross, 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 rfot 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 — SCENE I HAROLD 145 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 ^^'oe, woe to England ! I have had a vision ; The seven sleepers in the cave at Ephcsus Have turn'd from right to left. Harold. My most dear Master, ^Vhat 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 (aside). Sees he into thine, That thou vvouldst 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. Ifarold. Nay, I trust not, I-'or 1 have served thee long and honestly. Edward. I know it, son ; 1 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 f(jr it. Thou art the man t(j rule her 1 Ahhvyth {aside). So, not Tostig! Jlaridd. 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 h(jrror overhead? Ifarold. Well, when it passes then. Edward. Ay if it pass, (io not to Normandy — go not to Normandy. Ifarold. And wherefore not, my king, to Normandy ^ v L 146 HAROLD ACT I Is not my brother W'ulfnoth hostage there For my dead father's loyalty to thee ? I pray thee, let me hence and bring him home. Edivard. 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. Edtvard. 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, 1 will in and pray for thee. \^Exit, leaning on Tostig, aiid followed by Stigand, Morcar, and 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. Re-enter Tostig. Well, brother. When didst thou hear from thy Northumbria? Tostig. When did I hear aught but this ' Wlien ' from thee? Leave me alone, brother, with my Northumbria : She is my mistress, let me look to her ! The King hath made me Earl ; make me not fool ! Nor make the King a fool, who made me Earl ! SCENE I HAROLD 147 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 — .'\y, ay and wise in peace and great in war— Pray Ood the peoj)le 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 ICngland, envy. Like the rough bear beneath the tree, good brother. Waits till the man let go. Tostig. ( iood coun.sel truly ! I heard from my Norlhumbria yesterday. Ifarold. How goes it then willi thy Noilliiiinbria ? 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. W'd have made them milder by just government. 148 HAROLD act i Tosfi.i^. Ay, ever give yourselves your own good word. Leaf win. 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. Tosflc^. From spies of thine to spy my nakedness In my poor North ! Harold. There is a movement there, A blind one — nothing yet. Tostii!;. 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 must 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. (lood again ! Cood 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. Leofivin. To the deaf adder thee, that wilt not dance However wi.sely 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. SCENE I HAROLD 149 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 shalt thou never be If I can thwart thee. Harold. Brother, brother ! Tostig Away ! {Exit Tostig. Queen. Spite of this grisly star ye three must gall Poor Tostig. Leofivin. 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 Yc hate him Harold always hated him. Why — how they fought when boys — and, Holy Mary ! H(nv Harold used to beat him ! Harold. Why, L»(jys will fight. Leofwin would often figh.t me, and I beat him. Even old ( lurth would light. I had much ado To hold mine own against old (iurth. Old (iurth, 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. I50 HAROLD act i 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. 1 leave thee, brother. Harold. Nay, my good sister — \Exeunt Queen, Harold, Gurth, and Leofwin. AMwyth. Ciamel, son of Orni, What thinkest thou this means? \Pointi7i^^ to the comet. Gainel. War, my dear lady. War, waste, plague, famine, all malignities. Aldwyfh. 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 ! Gaviel. 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. SCENE II. — In the Garden. The King's House NEAR London. Sunset Edith. Mad for thy mate, passionate nightingale . . I love thee for it — ay, but stay a moment ; He 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. SCENE II HAROLD 151 {Singing.) Love is come with a song and a smile, Welcome Love witli 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. Enter Harold. Harold. The nightingales in Havering-atte-Bower Sang out their loves so loud, that Edward's prayers Were deafen'd and he pray'd them dumb, and thus 1 dumb thee too, my wingless nightingale ! [^Klsslng her. 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 'I'o 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 lidward. At least methought she held with holy ICdward, 'I'hat marriage was half sin. Harold. A lesson worth Finger and thumb — thus (snaf>s his fingers). And my answer to it — See here — an interwoven H and ¥j ! 152 HAROLD ACT I Take thou this ring ; I will demand his ward From Edward whc-n I come again. Ay, would she ? She to shut up my blossom in the dark ! Thou art my nun, thy cloister in mine arms. Edith (tali'uigthe ring). Yea, but liarl 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 wort not going I 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 ; .\nd 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 I'or dead men's ghosts. True, that the battle-axe Was out of place ; it should have been the bow. — ''!ome, 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 SCENE II HAROLD 153 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. \Exeii7if. Enter Aldwyth from the thicket. Aldtvyth. 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 ; (iriffyth I hated : why not hate the foe Of England? Oriffyth when I saw him flee, Chased deer-like up his mountains, all the blood That should have only pulsed for Grifiyth, beat For his jjursuer. I love him or think I love him. If he were King of ICngland, 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!' 154 HAROLD ACT I ) 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 (lamel, 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 wholenes.s — 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 {coming from the thicket). 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 ? Aldtvyth. Thou shalt flash it secretly Among the good Northumbrian folk, that I — That Harold loves me — yea, and presently SCENE II HAROLD 155 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. Aldzuyth. 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 .\nd redden'd with his people's blood the teeth That shall be broken by us — yea, and thou fjhair'd in his place. Good-night, and dream thyself Their chosen Earl. {Exit Aldwyth. Morcar. Earl first, and after that Who knows I may not dream myself their king ! ACT II srF,\K T. — Sf.n'^mork. I'dntiiteu. Ni(;iit Haroi.ii a)id his Men, wrecked. Harold. Friends, in that last inhospitable plunge Our boat hath burst her ribs ; but ours arc 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. 156 HAROLD act.. 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 ! Enter Fishermen with torches, Harold going up to one of them, Roi>F 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 ! Ro/f. 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 ; they 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 ? \To his Men — goes apart with them.- Fisherman. Rolf, what fish did swallow Jonah ? Rolf A whale ! Fis/ierman. 'I'hcn 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, she 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. Fislierman. I thank thee, Rolf. Run thou to Count Ouy ; 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 SCENE I HAROLD 157 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 ! \Exit. Harold {to Fisherman). Fellow, dost thou catch crabs ? Fishervia7i. 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. Juslierma?i. How ? Harold. I have a mind to brain thee with mine axe. Fisliervian. 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 ! Enter Guv, Count of Ponthieu. Harold, (luy. 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. (juy. Thou art a mighty man In thine own earldom ! Harold. Were such murderous liars In Wessex — if I caught them, they sjioiild hang C!liff-gibbeted for sea-marks; our sea-mew Winging their only wail ! (juy. Ay, but my men Hold that the shipwreckt are accursed of Cod ; — What hinders me to hold with mine own men ? Harold. The Christian manhood of the man who reigns ! 158 HAROLD ACT II Guy. Ay, rave thy worst, but in our oubliettes Thou shalt or rot or ransom. Hale him hence ! \^To otte of his Attendants. Fly thou to William ; tell him we have Harold. SCENE n.— Bayeux. Palace Count William and William Malet. William. We hold our Saxon woodcock in the springe, pjut 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 pot to see me, had past me by To hunt and hawk elsewhere, save for the fate Which hunted him 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 stept between and purchased him, Translating his captivity from Guy To mine own hearth at Bayeux, where he sits My ransom'd prisoner. SCENE II HAROLD 159 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 me. Malet. A marvel, how He from the li(]uid 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. Williain. Simple ! let fiy 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. 'I 'hen let them meet ! Malet. I can Init love this noble, honest Harold. William. Love him! why n(;t ? thine is a loving office, I have commission'd thee to save the man : Helj) the good ship, showing the sunken rock, Or he is wrcckt for ever. i6o HAROLD Enter William Rufus. ACT u William Rufus. Father. William. Well, boy. William Rufus. They have taken away the toy thou gavest me, The Norman knight. William. ^^l^X) 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 I William Rufus. I'll tell them I have had my way with thee. {Exit. Malet. I never knew thee check thy will for ought Save for the prattling of thy little ones. William. \Vho shall be kings of England. 1 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 l)e . . . kinglike . . . Tho' scarce at ease ; for, save our meshes break, More kinglike he than like to prove a king. Enter Harold, musing., with his eyes on the ground. 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. SCENE II HAROLD i6i Harold {looking itp sudJe?j/y, having caught but the last 'word.) iriiich 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 I But lest we turn the scale of courtesy By too ipuch 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, WvX 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 Willi laughter. Harold. Count, I thank tiiee, 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 shall. 'I'hat were a graceless hospitality 'I'o chain the free guest to the banquet-board ; To-morrow we will ride with thee to HarHeur, And see thee shipt, and i)ray in thy behalf For ha])pier hoineward winds than that which i lack'd Thy bark at I'onthieu, -yet to us, in faith, A happy one — whereby we came to know Thy valour and thy value, noble earl. V M 1 62 HAR(3L1) ALT 11 Ay, and perchance a hap[)y one for ihec, Provided — I will go with thee to-morrow — Nay — but there be conditions, easy ones, So thou, fair friend, will take them easily. Efiter Page. Pa§:;e. My lord, there is a post from over seas With news for thee. \Exit Page. William. Come, Malet, let us hear ! \Exeunt Count William and Malet. Harold. Conditions ! What conditions ? pay ^im 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 ? Wliat 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 liinders half the heaven. Free air ! free field ! \^Moves to go out. A Man-at-arms T^j/^y^/i- ///;//. Ha7-old (to the Man at-arms). I need thee not. Why dost thou foll(jw me ? .Man at-arms. I have the C(junt's commands to follow thee. Harold. ^Vhat then? Am T 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. [ Withdraws. 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 ! SCENE II HAROLD 163 Enter Malet. Why am I follow'd, haunted, harass'd, watch'd ? See yonder ! \Pointing to the 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. AVell — 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, Oljcy the Count's conditions, my good friend. Harold. How, Malet, if they be not honourable ! Malet. Seem to obey them. Harold. liclter 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 ? A/alct. .Morcar and Edwin have stirr'd up the 'I'iianes ;\gainst thy brother Tostig's governance ; And all the North of H umber is one storm. Harold. T should be there, Malet, 1 should be there ! Afalct. And Tostig in his own hall on sus])icion Hath massacred the Thane that was his guest, i64 HAROLD act ii Gamel, the son of Orm : and tlicro 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 Clod, 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 aboul 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 Wulfnolh ! I leave thee to thy talk with him alone ; How wan, poor lad ! how sick and sad for home ! [Exit Malet. Harold {f/ii(tteri?ig). Go nut to Normandy- go not to Normandy ! Enter WULKNOTH. Poor brother ! still a hostage ! Wulfnolh. 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 Tlayeux bishop, and I hid myself SCENE II HAROLD 165 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. ]VuIfnoth. 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 him. ffarold. Is it not better still to speak the truth ? Wulfnoth. Not here, or thou wilt never hence nor I : I'or in the racing toward this golden goal He turns not right or left, but tramples flat Whatever thwarts him ; hast thou never heard His savngery at Alencon, — the town Hung out raw hides along their walls, and cried ' Work for the tanner.' Harold. That had angcr'd iiic Had I bren 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. \()Vlx Welshman says, 'The Truth against the \\'orld,' Much more the truth against myself. Wulfnoth. Thyself.? Ikit ff)r my sake, oh brother ! oh ! for my sake ! Harold. Poor Wulfnoth! do they not entreat thee well ? i66 HAROLD ACT II IVulfnoth. I sec 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 mc 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 tliy 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, .\nd 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. SCENE II HAROLD 167 ]Vulf}wth. 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. IVul/noth. 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 T spake with thee. [Moves azvay to t/ie back 0/ the stage. Enter William, Malet, atid 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 iiini into prison. Officer. It shall be done. \Exit Officer. William. Look not amazed, fair earl I lietter leave undone IMian do by halves— tonguelcss and eyelcs.s, prison'd — flarold. Better methinks have slain the man at once ! William. We have respect for man's innnorLil soul, We seldom take man's life, except in war ; It frights the traitor more to maim and l)lind. flarold. In mine own land I should have scorii'd the man. Or lash'd his ra.scal back, and let him go. William. And let him go? To slander thee again ! Yet in thine own land in thy father's day i68 HAROLD ACT 11 They blinded my young kinsman, Alfred — ay, Sonne said ii 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. Archbishoj) Robert ! Robert th.e 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 fiU'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 t(j 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 (iod and the .sea have given thee to our hands — To plunge thee into life-long pri.son here : — Yet I hold out against them, as I may, Yea — would hold out, yea, tho' they should revolt — Yox 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. SCENE 11 HAROLD 169 I Harold. Then let me hence With AVulfnoth to King Edward. William. So we will. We hear he hath not long to live. Harold. It may be. William. \\'hy then the heir of England, who is he ? Harold. The Atheling is nearest to the throne. Williavi. 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. Ifnrold. 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, .\nd that my wife descends from Alfred ? Harold. A>'. William. Who hath a belter claim then to the cr(jwn So that ye will not crown the Atheling ? Harold. None that 1 know ... if that but hung upon King Ivlward's will. William. \\'ilt I lion uphold my claim ? A/alcf (aside to Harold). Be careful of thine answer, my good friend. W'ulfmith (aside to Harold). Oh! Harold, for my sake, and for thine own ! llandd. Ay ... if the king have not revoked his promise. I70 HAROLD ACT II Williaiii. But hath he done it then ? Haro/d. Not that I know. WilliiiDi. (jood, 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 ? Wiclfnoth {aside to Harold). Oh ! Harold, if thou love thine lulith, ay Harold. Ay, if— Makt {aside to 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, I''oremost in England and in Normandy ; • Thou shalt be verily king — all but the name — I'or 1 shall most sojourn in Normandy ; And thou be my vice-king in England. Speak. Wulfnoth {aside to Harold). Ay, brother —for the sake of England — ay. Harold. My lord — Malet {aside to Harold). Take heed now. Harold. Ay. William. I am content, Fcjr thou art truthful, and thy word thy bond. To-morrow will we ride with thee to Harfleur. \Exit 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. \_Exit Malet. Harold. For having lost myself to save myself. Paid '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 — Ts ' ay ' an oath ? is ' ay ' strong as an oath ? Or IS it the same sin to break my word SCENE U HAROLD 171 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. \_Siiddenly doors are flung open ^ discovering in an inner hall Count William in his state robes, seated npon his throne, between two Bishops, Odo of Bayeux being one : in the centre of the hall an ark covered with cloth of gold ; and on cither side of it the Norman baro?is. Eiiter a Jailor before William's throne. IVilliain {to Jailor). Knave, hast thou let thy prisoner scape ? Jailor. Sir Count, He hud but one foot, he must have hopt away, Vca, some familiar spirit must have hel[)'d him. William. Woe knave to thy familiar and to thee ! (live me thy keys. Ylhey fall clashing. Nay let them lie. Stand there and wait my will. \^The Jailor stands aside. William {to 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 ! confirni it now. I'efore our gather'd Norman baronage, For they will not believe thee — as I believe. [Descends from his throne and stands by the ark. Let all men here bear witness of our l)ond ! [Beckons to Harold, who advances. 172 HAROLD Eiifer Mai.I'.t behind Iii ACJ- 1 1 ///. Lay thou thy hand upon this golden pall ! Behold the jewel of St. Pancratius \Voven into the gold. Swear thou on this ! Harold. What should I swear? Why sliould 1 swear on this ? William (savagely). Swear thou to help me to the crown of England. Malet {whispering Harold). My friend, thou hast gone too far to palter now. Wulfnoth {whis/>eri/ig Harold). Swear thou to-day, to-morrow is thine own. Harold. I swear to helj) thee to the crown of England . . . According as King Edward promises. \Villiai)t. Thou must swear absolutely, noble Earl. Malet {7vhispering). Delay is death to thee, ruin to England. Wulfnoth {whisper i7ig). Swear, dearest brother, I beseech thee, swear ! Harold {putting his hand on the jewel). I swear to lielp thee to the crown of England. William. Thanks, truthful Earl ; I did not doubt thy word, iJut 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, 1 made thee swear. — Show him by whom he hath sworn. \The two Bishops advance., and raise the cloth of gold. The bodies and bones of Saints are seett lying in the ark. The holy bones of all the Canonised From all the holiest shrines in Normandy ! Harold. Horrible ! [They let the cloth fall again. William. Ay, for thou hast sworn an cwih \\'hich, if not kept, would make the hard earth rive SCENE II HAROLD 173 I 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 Ii:ngland now . . . To-night we will be merry. To-morrow will I ride with thee to Harfleur. \Excunt William mid all the Nor//inn barons, etc. J /avoid. l"o-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 ! Ood, that I were in some wide, waste field With nothing but my battle-axe and him 'l"o spatter his brains ! Why let earth rive, gulf in 'I'hese cursed Normans — yea and mine own self. Cleave heaven, and send thy saints that I may say ICv'n to their faces, ' If ye side with William Ye are not noble.' How their pointed fingers (ilared at me! Am I Harold, Harold, son Of our great Oodwin ? I>o! I touch mine arms, My limbs — they are not mine — they are a liar's — 1 mean to be a liar — I am not bound — Stigand shall give me absolution for it — Did the chest move? did it move? I ;ini niter craven ! () Wiilfnoth, Wulfnoth, brolh< r, thuu hast l.<lr.iy'd imr Wiitfiioth. Forgive me, brother, 1 will live here and die. 174 HAROLD Enter Page. ACT III Page. My lord ! the Duke awaits thee at the ban(]uet. 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. \^Exeunt. ACT III SCENE I. — The King's P.\lace. London King Edwari:) dying on a io/uii, and by him standing the Queen, Harold, Archblshop Stigand, Gurih, LeOFWIN, ArCHHISHOI' Ai.DRED, Ai.DWYTII, (Did Edith. Stigand. Sleeping or dying there ? If this be death, Then our great Council wait to crown thee King — Come hither, I have a power; \To Harold. They call me near, for I am clo.se to thee .■\nd 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 loo hard for thee, A.sk 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 SCENE I HAROLD T75 I To chink against the Norman, I do believe My old crooked 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. Sfigand. 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 ! — [Poinii?tg to King Edward, sleeping. 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, I'he brows unwrinkled as a summer mere. — Sti}^and. A summer mere with sudden wreckful gusts From a side-gorge. Passionless? How he flamed When Tostig's anger'd earldom flung him, nay, Fie fain had calcined all Norlhumbria 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. Jfarold. 'I'hat sun may Clod sjiecd ! .Sfi^i^aitd. Come, Harold, shake the cloud off! f/arold <'-»" ^< f:>tlH.M? 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. 176 HAROLD ACT III For when I rode with William down to Harfleur, ' Wulfnolh 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 AVulfnoth I that so prized plain word and naked truth Have sinn'd against it — all in vain. Leoftviti. 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 Oodwin, That, were a man of state nakedly true, Men would but take him for the craftier liar. Leofiviu. lie men less delicate than the Devil himself.^ I thought that naked Truth would shame the Devil The Devil is so modest. Gitrtli. He never said it ! Leof'ivin. Be thou not stupid-honest, brother Ourth ! 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. J-^dward wakes ! — Dazed — he hath seen a vision. Edward. The green tree ! Then a great Angel past along the highest CJrying 'the doom of England,' and at once He stood beside me, in his grasp a sword SCENE I HAROLD 177 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 drcnch'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 drew 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 ! [Jui//s back senseless. Harold {raisin^t; him). Let Harold serve for Tostig ! Queen. Harold served Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tostig ! Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid it low ! 'liie sickness of our saintly king, for whom My prayers go u[) as fast as my tears fall, I well believe, hath mainly drawn itself I'rom lack of Tostig — thou hast banish'd him. Harold. Nay — but the council, and the king himself. Queen. Thou hutest him, hatest him. J Jarold {coldly). Ay — Stigand, unriddle I'his vision, canst thou? Stii^and. Dotage ! Ed'ward {shirlin;.^ up). Il is Hnisli'd. I have built the Lord a house — the Lord halh dwell In darkness. I have built the Lord a house — I'nlnis, flrjwers, pomegranates, gcjlden 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, luicst ! I-'all, cloud, and fill the house — lo ! my two jjillnrs, Jachin and Boaz ! — [Seeini^ Harold and (hnlh. Harold, (lurth, — where am I ? Where is the charter of our Westminster? .Sfiiuuid. It lies beside thee, king, upon thy bid. V N lyS HAROLD a. r im Edward. Sign, sign at once — take, sign it, Sligand, Aldred ! Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, and Lcofwin, Sign it, my queen ! AIL 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 1 }Iast thou had absolution for thine oath ? \T() Harold. liaj'old. Sligand hath given me absolution for it. Edward. Stigand is not canonical enough To save thee from the wrath of Norman Saints. S/iga?id. Norman enough ! Be there no Saints of England To help us from their brethren yonder? Edivard. J^rulate, The Saints are one, but those of Normanland Are mightier than our own. Ask it of Aldred. [7^' Plarold. 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. EdiiHird. O friends, I shall not overlive the day. Stigand. Why then the throne is empty. Who inhe-rits ? 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 f)ur England Norman. SCENE I HAROLD 179 Edward. There spake Godwin, Who hated all the Normans : but their Saints Have heard thee, Harold. Edith. Oh ! my lord, m)' king I 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. Edivard. \Vhy then, thou must not wed him. JIarold. ^\'herefore, wherefore ? Edzvard. O son, when thou didst tell me of thine oath, 1 sorrow'd for my random promise given To yon fox-lion. 1 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 my.self a virgin ; and I sware To consecrate my virgin here to heaven — The silent, cloister'd, solitary life, A life of life-long i)rayer agninst the curse Thai lies on llice and lOngland. Jfnndd. No, no, lu). I'ldward. 'IVeble denial of the tongue of flesh, I, ike Peter's when he fell, and thou wilt have To wail for it like I^eter. O my s(;n ! Are all oaths to be broken then, all promi.ses Made in our agony f(;r 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 : (lod bless thee, wedded daughter. \Layiit^ his //and on the (^)neen's head. Qi/ceii. Bless thou too That brother whom I love beyond the rest, My banish'd Tostig. i8o HAROLD ACT III Edward. All the sweet Saints bless him ! Spare and forbear him, Harold, if he comes I And let him pass unscathed ; he loves me, Harold ! Be kindly to the Normans left among us, Who foUow'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. Edtvard. Thou wilt not swear ? Harold. I cannot. Ed7uard. Then on thee remains the curse, Harold, if thou embrace her: and on thee, Edith, if thou abide it, — \Tiie King swoons ; Edith yr?/A and kneels by the couch. Stii!;and. He hath swoon 'd I Death ? . . . no, as yet a breath. Harold. Look up I look u[j ! Edith ! Aldred. Confuse her not ; she hath begun Her life-long i)rayer for thee. Ald7vyth. () lu^ble Harold, I would thou couldst have sworn. Harold. Yox thine own pleasure ? Aldtvyth. No, but to please our dying king, and tho.se Who make thy good their own — all England, Earl. Aldred. /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, His 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 — SCENE I HAROLD i8i 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 ; \ good entrenchment for a perilous hour ! Aldred. Pray God that come not suddenly ! 'Jliere is one \\\\o passing by that hill three nights ago — Me shook so that he scarce could out with it — Heard, heard — Harold. The wind in his hair? Aldred. A ghostly horn lilowing continually, and faint battle-hymns, .\nd 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 — I J amid. .\\. Senlac? Aldred. Senlac. Edward {'wakin}^). Senlac ! Sanguelac, The Lake of Blood : Slij^and. This lightning before death riays on the word, — and Nornianizes too! Harold. Hush, father, hush ! Ed7vard. Thou uiu:anonicaI fool, Wilt tlmu play with the thunder? North and South i'hunder together, .showers of blood are blown liefore 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 i82 HAROTJ) Al"T III Has fiird tlie quiver, and Deatli has drawn the bow — Sanguelac ! Sanguelac ! tlie arrow ! the arrow ! \7J/cs. Sfi\i^a?id. It is the arrow of death in his own heart — And our great Council wait to crown thee King. SCENE II. — In the Gardkn. The King's House NEAR London Edith. Crown'd, crown'd and lost, crown'd King — and lost to me ! 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 they were lost, Where all good things are lost, where Tostig lost The good hearts of his people. It is Harold ! I SCENE II HAROLD 183 Enter Harold. Harold the King ! Harold. Call mc not King, but Harold. Edith. Nay, thou art King ! Harold. Thine, thine, or King or cluul My girl, thou hast been weeping : turn not thou Thy face away, but rather let me be Kins 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 lo.st Somewhat of upright stature thro' mine oath. Vet thee I would not Icjse, and sell not thou Our living passion for a dead man's dream ; Stigand believed he knew not what he spake. Oh Crod ! I cannot helf) it, but at times They seem to me too narrcnv, all the faiths Of this grown world of ours, wh(;se baby eye Saw tiieiii sufficient. Fool and wise, I fear This curse, and scorn it. Lut a little light !— And on it falls the shadow of the jjriest ; 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 i84 HAROLD A' -I' II! There might be more thati brother in my kiss, And more than sister in lliine own. Edith. 1 dare not. Harold. Scared by the church — ' Love for a wliole life long ' When was that sung ? Edith. Here to the nightingales. Harohi. 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. flarold. 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. 'I'hey 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. Giirth {calling). Harold, Harold ! Harold. The voice of Clurth ! {Eiiteri^MKiw.) Ciood even, my good brother ! Gurth. Good even, gentle Edith. Edith. Good even, (iurth. 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 ])ackt with carnage that the dykes and brooks Were bridged and damm'd with dead, have overthrown Morcar and Edwin. SCKNE II HAROLD 185 Harold. \Vell 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 .\nd shadowing (jf this double thunder-cloud That lours on England — laughter ! Harold. No, not strange ! 'I'his was old human laughter in old Rome licfore a Pojje was born, when that which reign'd C'all'd itself Ood. — A kindly rendering Of 'Render unto Cfesar.' The (iocxl ShcplicKl I Take this, .-ind render that. Gurth. They liave taken \'ork. Harold. Tiie Lord was Ood and came as man — tiie 1 'ope Is man and comes as God. — York taken ? Gurth. Yea, 'i'ostig hath taken York ! Harold. To York then. ICdith, Iladst tliou been braver, I had better braved .Ml — 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. i86 HAROLD ACT IV It burns my hand — a curse to thee and me. I dare not wear it. \Proffers Harold the ring, whicli he takes. Harold. But I dare. God with thee ! \^Exeunt Harold atid 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, .•\ breath that fleets beyond this iron world. And touches Him that made it. ACT IV SCENE I. — In Nokthumbria Archbishop Aldred, Morcar, Edwin, and Forces. Enter Harold. The standard <>f the golden Dragon of IVessex preceding him. JIarold. What ! are thy people sullen from defeat ? Our VVessex dragon flies beyond the Humber, No voice to greet it. Edwin. Let not our great king Believe us sullen — only shamed to the cjuick Before the king — as having been so bruised By Harold, king of Norway ; but our help Is Harold, king of England. I^ardon us, thou ! Our silence is our reverence for the king ! JIarold. 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 cr>' thy people on thy sister's name ? Alorcar. She hath won upon our people thro' her beauty, And pleasantness among them. SCENE T HAROLD 187 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. NV'hat would ye, men ? Voice. Our old Northumbrian crown, And kings of our own choosing. Harold. Your old crown Were little help without uur 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 ! \Aside. Voice. Lie 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 ICmpire. Voice. ^'et 'I'hou art Init a West Saxon : 7ve arc Danes ! Harold. My mother is a Dane, and T ;ini l.nglish ; There is a pleasant fable in old books, V'e take a stick, and break it ; bind a score All in one faggot, snap it over knee, Ye cannot. Voire. Hear King Harold! he says true! Harold. Would ye be Norsemen ? Voices. No ! Harold. Or Norman ? I'oiii-s. No! Harold. Snap not the faggot-band then. I'flicc. That is true I Voice, .^y, but thou art not kingly, only grandson To Wulfnoth, a poor cow-herd. i88 HAROLD A( 'I IV Harold. This old W'uHiiotli Would take me on his knees and tell me tales Of Alfred and of Athelstan the Great ^\'ho 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, "W'ho 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. ^'oice. J'^ing ! 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 treasurc-hou.se And slew two hundred of his following. And now, when Tostig hath come back with power. Are frighted back to Tostig. Old Thane. Ugh ! JMots 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 SCENE I HAROLD 189 Hates nothing ; not his fault, if our two houses Be less than brothers. Voices. Aldwyth, Harold, Aldwyth ! Harold. Again ! Morcar ! Edwin ! What do they mean ? Edivin. 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 (juarrcl. Harold. \Vho sow'd this fancy here among the peoi)Ic? iVIorcar. ^V'ho knows what sows itself among liie people ? A goodly flower at times. Harold. The Queen of ^\'ales ? Why, Morcar, it is all but duty in her 'I'o hate me ; I have heard she hates me. Morcar. No ! l-'or I can swear to that, bui cannot swear That these will follow thee against the Nonsemen, If thou deny them this. //arold. Morcar and ICdwin, Wiien will ye cease to plot against my liouse ? Edwin. The king can .scarcely dream that we, who know ilis prowess in the mounlains 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 evni now. A/orcar. Tin- ci.ucm ! There is a faction risen again for T(jsiig, Since Tostig came with Norway — fright not love. Harofd. Morcar and Edwin, will ye, if 1 yield. Follow against liie Norseman .^ T90 HAROLD ACT IV ATonar. 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 liand. Call and she comes. \One goes out, then otter Aldwyth. Harold. I doubt not but thou knowest Why thou art summon'd. Aldivyth. 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 ? Aldivyth. Oh ! my lord, The nimble, wild, red, wiry, savage king — That was, my lord, a match of policy. Ha?-old. Was it ? I knew him brave : he loved his land : he fain Had made her great : his finger on lier 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. Aldivyth. Oh, ay — all ^Velsh — 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. Jfarold. Co(jdly news ! Morcar. Doubt it not ihou ! .Since (jriffyth'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? ■iCEN'E I HAROLD « 19T Aldivyth. 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 ? Aldivyth. 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 >/«^ the hands ^Harold and Aldwyth and blesses them. Voices. Harold, Harold and Aldwyth ! Harold. Set forth our golden Dragon, let him flap The wings that bjat 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 tho.se Who read their doom and die. Where lie the Norsemen ? on the Derwenl ? ay At Stamford-bridge. Morcar, collect thy men ; Edwin, my friend - 'I'hou lingercst. — (iurth,- Last night King Edward came to me in dreams — The rosy face and long down-silvering beard — He told me I should ronrjuer: — T am no wDin.in to ]»ut faith in dreams. {To his army.) last night King Edward came to me in dreams, .And told me we should conquer. Voices. I'orward ! I'orward ! Harold and Holy C'ross ' Ald'iVxth. The d.iv is won ' 192 ' HAROLD ACT IV SCENE II. — A Plain. Bickork tuk IJaitlk of Stamfok l)-Bridge Harold a;id his Guard. Harold. Who is it comes tliis way? Tostig ? {Eufcr TosTiG ivith a small force.) O brothci-, What art thou doing here ? Toslig. I am foraging For Norway's army. Harold. I could take and slay thee. Thou art in arms against us. Tosfig. I'ake and slay me, For Edward loved me. Harold. Edward bad me S[)arc thee. Tos/ig. 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 (ree thee, Free thee or slay thee, Norway will have war ; No man would strike with Tostig, save for Norway. Thou art nothing in thine I'^ngland, save for Norway, Who loves not thee but war. ^Vhat dost thou here, 'i'rampling thy mother's bosom into blood ? Tostig. She hath wean'd me from it with suci> bitter- ness. I come for mine own Earldom, my Northumbria; Thou hast given it to the enemy of our house. Harold. Norlhumljria threw thee off, she will not iiave thee, Thou hast misused her: and, O crowning crime ! Hast murder'd thine own guest, the son of Orm, Oarnel, at thine own hearth. Tostig. The slow, fat foc^l ! He drawl'd and prated so, I smote him suddenl)-, I knew not what I did. He held with iMorcar. — I hate myself for all things that I do. SCENE II HAROLD 193 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. \Vhat 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 (turns azvay). O brother, brother, Harold— Harold [laying his hand oti Tostig's shoulder). Nay then, come thou back to us ! Tostig {after a pause turning to him). 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 ! — 'i'hou hast no passion for the House of Godwin — Thou hast but cared l(j make thyself a king — Thou hast sold me for a cry. — 'J'hou gavest thy voice against me in the (Council — 1 hate thee, and despise thee, and defy ihee. Farewell for ever ! S^Exit. Harold. On to Stamford-bridge ! SCENl- ill. AlTKK THK PjATI'].!', OK S lA.M I-ORD- BkIIKIK. P).\NOrKI Harold rt«</ Aldwyth. Gurth, Lkofwin, Morcar, Edwin, and other Pearls and Thanes. Voices. Hail ! Harold ! Aldwylh I hail, bridegroom and bride ! V o 194 HAROLD ACT IV Aldwyth {ta/kint; with 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 was a moment When being forced aloof from all my guard, And striking at Hardrada and his madmen I had wish'd for any weapon. Aldivyth. 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 I thy victories Over our own poor Wales, when at thy side He conquer'd with thee. Harold. No — the childish lisl 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 ? Aldiiyth. Yea, am I not thy wife ? Voices. Hail, Harold, Aldwyth! Bridegroom and bride ! Aldwyth. Answer them ! [To Harold. Harold {to all). 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 l'>dward his great son. Or Athelstan, or English Ironside Who fought with Knut, or Knut who coming Dane SCENE III HAROLD 195 Died English. Every man about his king Fought Hke a king ; the king hke 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 Iter voice Die with the world. Hail — hail ! Morcar. May all invaders perish like Hardrada ! All traitors fail like Tostig ! {All drink but Harold. Ald7vyth. 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 prickVl the lion 'I'o make him spring, that sigiil of Danish blood .Might serve an end not English — peace with them Likewise, \{ they can be at peace with what (iod gave us to divide us from the wolf! Ald'wyth {aside to 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 T/iafie. How ran that answer which King Harold gave To his dead namesake, when he ask'd for England ? Leo/7vin. ' Seven feet of English earth, or something more, Seeing he is a giant ! ' 196 HAROLD AC'J' IV First Thane. Then for the bastard Six feet and nothing more ! Leofzvin. 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 ! \Drinks. Second Thane. Cj-od sink him ! First Ihane. 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 Slam ford-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 Thatie. 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 ! SCENE m HAROLD 197 First Thajte. Down with William ! Third Thane. The washerwoman's brat ! Fourth TJiam. The tanner's bastard ! Fifth Tha?ie. The Falaise byblow ! Enter a Thane, fro?fi Peve?isey, spatter d with mud. 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 frotn Pevensey. My lord the King ! William the Norman, for the wind had changed — JIarohi. I felt it in the middle of that fierce light At Stamford-bridge, ^\'illiam hath landed, ha? Thane from Pevensey. Landed at Pevensey — I am from I'cvensey — 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 shif)S — a hundred thousand n)en — Thousands of horses, like as many lions Neighing and roaring as they leapt to land — Ifarold. How oft in coming hast thou broken bread ? Tliane from /\'tiensey. Some thrice, or so. Harold. IJring not thy hollowness On our full feast. Famine is fear, were it but Of being starved. Sit df)wn, sit down, and eai. And, when again red-bl(jodcd, sy)cak again ; (Aside.) The men that guarded ICngland to the South Were scatter'd to the harvest. ... No power mine To hold their force together. . . . Many are fallen At Stamford-l)ridge . . . the j)en|)le stu{)id-sure Sleep like their swine ... in Sfjuth and North at once I could not be. {Aloud.) Ciurth, Leofwin, Morcar, Edwin ! {Tointin^ to the revellers.) The curse of I'^ngland ! these are drown'd in wassail. 198 HAROLD ACT V 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. {Turning round to his 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. \Exit Harold. ACT V SCENE L — A Tent on a Mound, from which CAN BE SEEN THE FlELU OF SeNLAC Harold, sitting ; by him standing Hugh M argot the Monk, (iuRTH, Leofwin. 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 Csesar 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. SCENE 1 HAROLD 199 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 mes.'^enger of God, His Norman Daniel I Mene, Mene, Tekel ! Is thy wrath Hell, that I should spare to cry, Yon heaven is wroth with thee'^ 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 i7iy part therein — Back to that juggler, [Rising. 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 ( lod. Margot. Hear il 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 jjlowest thy field is cursed, The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is cursed, .And thou, usurper, liar — Harold. Out, beast monk ! [Lifting his hand to strike him. GuRTH stops the blow. I evt-r hated monks. A/argiif. I am but a voice Among you : murder, martyr me if ye will — Harold. Thanks, Gurth I 'I'he simjjle, silent, selfless man Is worth a world of tonguesters. {Jo Margot.) Get thee gone ! He means the thing he says. See him out safe ! 200 HAROLD ACT V Leofivin. 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 — T may give that egg-bald head Tlie tap that silences. Harold. See him out safe. \Exeunt Leofwin and Margot. Giirf/i. Thou hast lost thine even temper, brother Harold ! Harold. (lurth, 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 weakend, and the Rood itself were bound To that necessity whicli 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. Gurtli. 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 — /have not sworn If the king fall, may not the kingdom fall ? But if I fall, I fall, and thou art king ; .\nd, if I win, T win, and thou art king : Draw thou to London, there make strength to breast Whatever chance, but leave this day to me. Leoftvin {efitering). And waste the land about thee as thou goest. And be thy hand as winter on the field, 'i'o leave the foe no forage. Harold. Noble Gurth ! Best son of (Jodwin 1 If I fall, T fall — SCENE I HAROLD 201 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 ? Leofivin. No, but a shual 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, The' we have pierced thro' all her practices : And that is well. Leo/'ivin. I saw her even now : She hath not left us. Harold. Nought of Morcar then ? Gurtk. Nor seen, nor heard ; thine, William's or his own As wind blow.s, or tide flows : belike he watches. If this war-storm in one of its rough rolls Wash up that old crown of Northumberland. flarold. I married her for Morcar — a sin against The truth r)f love. Iwil for good, it seems, Is oft as childless of the good as evil Yfix evil. Leofwin. ('ior)d for good hath borne at times .'\ bastard false as William. JIarold. Ay, if Wisdom Pair'd not with (jood. Rut 1 am somewhat worn, A snatch of sleep were like the peace of (lod. (airth, Leofwin. go once more about the hill — What did the dead man call it — Sanguelac, The lake of blood ? J,eofu<iv. A lake that di])s in William .-Xs well ;is FL'irold. Harold. Like enough. I have seen The trenches dug, the palisades uprear'd And wattled thick with ash and willow-wands; 202 HAROLD ACT V Yea, wrought at them myself. Cio 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. 1 will, good brother. Harold. Our guardsman hath but toil'd his hand and foot, I hand, foot, heart and head. Some wine ! {One pours wine into a goblet ivhich he hands to 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 l^runanburg 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 — [Exeu?it all, but Harold. No horse — thousands of horses — our shield wall — Wall — break it not — break not— break — [Sleeps. 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 thou shalt die on Senlac hill — Sanguelac ! SCENE I HAROLD 203 Vision of Widfnoth. O brother, from my ghastly oubhette 1 send my voice across the narrow seas — No more, no more, dear brother, nevermore — Sanguelac ! Visio7i 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 {starting up, battle-axe in hand). 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 t/u)u so anger'd ? P'ain had I kei)t thine earldom in thy hands Save for thy wild and violent will that wrench'd .\11 hearts of freemen from thee. I could do No other than this way advise the king Against the race of Codwin. 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 ICngland naked to the South To meet thee in the North. The Norseman's raid Hath hdpt 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 204 HAROLD act v 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 — Enter Edith. Edith, Edith, Get thou into thy cloister as the king Willd it ; be safe : the perjury-mongering Count Hath made too good an use of Holy Church To break her close I There the great (iod 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. Enter Aldvvyth. . lldivyth {to Edith). Away from him ! Edith. I will ... I have not spoken to the king One word ; and one I must. Farewell ! \Goini^. Ifarold. Not yet. Stay. Edith. To what use? Ifnrnld. The king commands thee, woman ! {To Aldwyth.) Have thy two brethren sent their forces in ? Aldwyth. Nay, I fear not. Harold. Then there's no force in thee ! SCENE I HAROLD 205 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 {bitterly). With a love Passing thy love for Griffyth ! wherefore now Obey my first and last commandment. Go ! Aldivytli. O Harold : husband ! Shall we meet again ? Harold. After the battle — after the battle. Go. Aldwyth. I go. {Aside.) That I could stab her standing there ! {Exit Aldwyth. Edith. Alas, my lord, she loved thee. Harold. Never! never! Edith. I saw it in her eyes ! Harold. I see it in thine. .\nd not on thee — nor England — fall (iod's doom ! Edith. On theel 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 I'ope's Anathema — the Holy Rood That bow'd to me at VValtham — Edith, if I, the last English King of England— Edith. No, First of a line that coming from thf people, Anfl chosen by the people- Jlarold. And fighting for And dying for the people — Edith. Living! living ! Harold. Yea so, good cheer \ thou art Harold, I ;mi Edith ! Look not thus wan ! 2o6 HAROLD ACT V Edith. What mattt-rs how 1 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. \^He is going, but turns back. The ring thou darest not wear, I have had it fashion'd, .see, to meet my hand. [Harold sho2VS the ring which is on his finger. Farewell ! \He is going, but turns back again. 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 ! \_T/iey embrace. Look, I will bear thy blessing into the battle And front the doom of f kjd. Norman cries {Iteard in tlu^ distance). Ha Rou ! Ha Rou! Enter Gurth. Gurth. The Norman moves ! Harold. Harold and Holy Cross ! \Exeunt Harold and Gurth. SCENE I HAROLD 20; Enter 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 ! .Stigatid. 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 I Canons from Walt ham {singing witliout). Salva patriam Sancte Pater, Salva Fili, Salva Spiritus, Salva patriam, Sancta Mater.' Edith. Are those the blessed angels quiring, father? Stigand. \o, daughter, but the canons oul of Walthani, The king's foundation, that have follow'd him. Edith. O Ood of battles, make their wall of shields Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their pali.sades I What is that whirring sound ? Stigand. The Norman arrow ! ' The a throughout thcs'- I.ntin hymns should hv sounded broad, as in • father." 2o8 HAROLD ACT V 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 (loliath 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 Clurth hath smitten him to the death. Edith. So perish all the enemies of Harold ! Canons {singing). Hostis in Angliam Ruit i)r;udator, lUorum, Domine, Scutum scindatur ! Hostis per Angliae Flagas bacchatur ; Casa crematur, Pastor fugatur Grex trucidatur — .Stigand. Illos trucida, Domine. Edith. Ay, good father. Canons {singing). Illorum scelera Poena sequatur ! Eng/ish cries Harold and Holy Cross ! Out ! out ! SCENE I HAROLD 209 Stizi-ind. 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 {singing). Eques cum pedite Prsepediatur ! lUorum in lacrymas Cruor fundatur ! Pereant, pcreant, Anglia precatur. Stigand. Look, daughter, look. Edith. Nay, father, look for me! Stigand. Our a.xes lighten with a single flash About the summit of the hill, and heads .\nd arms are sliver'd off and splintur'd by Their lightning — and they fiy — the Norman flies. Edith. Stigand, O father, have we won the day ? Stigand. No, daughter, no — they fall behind the horse — Their hor.se are thronging to the barricades ; I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter floating aljove their helmets- -ha ! he is down ! Edith. He down ! Who down ? Stigand. The Norman Count is dcjwn. 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 Ood of batlles, 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 ! 2IO HAROLD ACT V Ciifions (sifigi/ig). J acta 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 {^singing). Equus cum equite Dejiciatur ! Acies, Acies Prona sternatur ! lUorum 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 ! lUorum 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. SCENE I HAROLD 211 Edith. Have mercy on us ! Stiga/td. Hot-headed fools — to burst the wall of shields ! 'rhey 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 forswaro himself for all he loved, Me, me and all ! Look out upon the batde ! Stigand. They thunder again upon the barricades. My sight is eagle, but the strife so thick — This is the hottest of it : hold, ash 1 hold, willow ! English cries. Out, out ! Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Stigand. Ha ! C.urth hath leapt upon him And slain him : he hath fallen. Edith. And I am heard. Glory to Ood in the Highest ! fallen, fallen ! Stigand. No, no, his horse — he mounts another — wields His war-club, dashes it on (iurth, and (iurth, 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, Ijccause I love The husband of an(;ther I Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! Edith. I do not hear our ICnglish war-cry. Stigand. No. Edith. Look out ujxm the battle — is he safe? Stigand. He stands between the banners witli the dead So piled about him he can hardly move. Edith {takes up the 7uar-cry). i)\\\. ! out ! Norman cries. I la Rou! Edith (cries out). Harold and 1 loly Cross ! Norman cries. Ha Rou ! Ha Rou ! Edith. What is that whirring sound ? 12 HAROLD ACT V Sfii^iiNd. The Norman sends his arrows up to Heaven, They fall on those within the jjalisade ! Edith. Look out upon the hill — is Harold there ? Stigand. Sanguelac — Sanguelac — the arrow — the arrow ! -away ! SCENE n. — Field of the Dead. Night Aldwyth and Edith. Aidwyfh. 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 ! Aldivyth. The king is slain, the kingdom overthrown ! Edith. No matter ! Aldivyth. How no matter, Harold slain ? — I cannot find his body. O help me thou ! 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. Aldivyth. I say it now, forgive me ! Edith. Cross me not ! 1 am Seeking one who wedded me in secret. Whisper ! (iod'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 ! Aldivyth. O ICdith, Edith, I have lost both crown And husband. Edith. So have L SCENE U HAROLD 213 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. Aldivyth. 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. Enter tivo Canons, Osgod and Athelric, with torches. T/iey turn over the dead bodies and examine them as they pass. Os^od. I think that this is Thurkill. Athelric. More likely Oodric. Osi^'od. I am sure this body Is .Mfwig, the king's uncle. Athelric. So it is ! No, no — brave (nirth, one gash from brow tf) knee ! Osi^od. And here is Leofwin. Edith. \nd here is I/c .' Aldwyth. Harold? Oh no — nay, if it were — myOod, 'I'hey have so maim'd and murder'd all his fare There is no man can swear to him. Edith. l''iit one woman ! Look you, we never mean to j)art again. I have found him, \ 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. 2 14 HAROLD ACTv Enter Count William «//^ 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 ! \^Pointitig out Aldwyth. William {to Aldwyth). Wast thou his Queen ? Aldwyth. I was the Queen of ^^^1les. William. A\'hy then of England. Madam, fear us not. {To 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 ! / am his wife ! and she — For look, our marriage ring ! \^She draws it off the fi^iger of Harold. I lost it somehow — I lost it, playing with it when I was wild. That 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 ? \She puts it on. And thou, Thy wife am I for ever and evermore. [Ealls on the body and dies. William. Death 1 — 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. SCENE II HAROLD 215 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. Williavi. 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. Wrajj 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 (kxl —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 ; 2i6 HAROLD ACT \- 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. {To Aldwyth). Madam, we will entreat thee with all honour. Aldwyth. My punishment is more than I can bear. BECKET To THE Lord Chancellor THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EARL OF SELBORNE My dear Selborne — To you, the honoured Chancellor of our own day, I dedicate this dramatic memorial of your great predecessor ; — \\ hich, altho' not intended in its present form to meet the exigencies of our modern theatre, has nevertheless — for so you have assured me — won your approbation. — Ever yours, TENNYSON. DRAMATIS PERSON Ai Hknrv \\. {son of the Karl of Aiijou). 'J"noMAS Beckkt, Chancellor of England, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury. Gil. BERT Koi.iOT, Bishop of London. kor.KK, Archbishop of York. Bishop of Hereford. llii.AKV, Bishop of Chichester. J(x;ei,yn, Bishop of Salisbury. John ok Sai.isbukv 1 , . , , ,, , , > fncnds of Bcckcl. Hkkbf.rt of Hosiiam j Walter Map. reputed author of • Golias.' Latin poems nguins/ the priest- hood. King Louis of Francf.. '»F.f>FFKEV, son of Rosamund and Henrv. (iRiM, a .Monk of Cambridge. Sir Reginald Fitzurse-v Sir RiniAKii df Hrito | the four knights of the King's household, Sir W'ii.LIA.M DE Tracy I mnnie^ «f Hrrkct. sii; High de Morville 217 2i8 HECKET PROLOGUE De Broc of Saltvvood Castlk. Lord Leicester. Philip de Eleemosyna. Two Knight Templars. John of Oxford {called the Swearer). Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen of England [divorced from Louis of France). rosa.mund de clifford. Margery. Knights, Monks, Beggars, etc. PROLOGUE A Castle in Normandy, hiterior of the flail. Roofs of a City seen thro'' Windows. Henry and Becket at cJiess. Henry. So then our good Archbishop Theobald Lies dying. Becket. I am grieved to know as much. ffenry. But we must have a mightier man than he For his successor. Becket. Have you thought of one ? Henry. A cleric lately jjoison'd his own mother, And being brought before the courts of the Church, They but degraded him. I hope they whipt him. I would have hang'd him. Becket. It is your move. Henry. Well — there. \^Moves. The Church in the pell-mell of Stephen's time Hath climb'd the throne and almost clutch'd the crown ; But by the royal customs of our realm The Church should hold her baronies of me, Like other lords amenable to law. I'll have them written down and made the law. Becket. My liege, I move my bishop. PROLOGUE BECKET 219 Henry. And if I live, No man without my leave shall excommunicate My tenants or my household. Becket. Look to your king. Henry. No man without my leave shall cross the seas To set the Pope against me — I pray your pardon. Becket. Well — will you move ? He7iry. There. [Jfoves. Becket. Check— you move so wildly. Henry. There then ! \Moves. Becket. Why — there then, for you see my bishop Hath brought your king to a standstill. You are beaten. Henry {kicks over tlie hoard). \\'hy, there then — down go bishop and king together. I loathe being beaten ; had I fixt my fancy Upon the game I should have beaten thee, But that was vagabond. Becket. ^^'here, my liege ? With Phryne, Or Lais, or thy Rosamund, or another ? Hetiry. My Rosamund is no Lais, Thomas Becket ; And yet she plagues me too— no fault in her — But that I fear the (^ueen would have her life. Becket. Put her away, put her away, my liege! Put her away into a nunnery ! Safe enough there from her t(j wlioni thou art bound By Holy Church. And wherefore siiould she seek The life of Rosamund de Chfford more Than that of other paramours of thine ? Ifenry. How dost thou know I am not wedded to her? Becket. How should 1 know? Henry. That is my secret, Thomas. Becket. State secrets should be patent to the statesman Who serves and loves his king, and whom the king Loves not as statesman, but true lover and friend. Henry. Come, come, thou art but deacon, not yet bishop, No, nor archbishop, nor my confessor _yet. 2 20 BECKET I'KOl.OCUR 1 would to God thou wcrt, for I should lind An easy father confessor in thee. Becket. St. Denis, that thou shouldst not. I should beat Thy kingship as my bishop hath beaten it. He7iry. Hell take thy bishop then, and my kingship too! Come, come, I love thee and I know thee, I know thee, A doter on white pheasant-flesh at feasts, A sauce-deviser for thy days of fish, A dish-designer, and most amorous (3f good old red sound liberal (lascon wine: Will not thy body rebel, man, if thou flatter it? Becket. That palate is insane which cannot tell A good dish from a bad, new wine from old. He?iry. A\'ell, who loves wine loves woman. Becket. So I do. Men are God's trees, and women are God's flowers ; And when the Gascon wine mounts to my head. The trees are all the statelier, and the flowers Are all the fairer. Henry. And thy thoughts, thy fancies ? Becket. Good dogs, my liege, well train'd, and easily call'd Off from the game. Henry. Save for some once or twice, When they ran down the game and worried it. Becket. No, my liege, no ! — not once — in (iod's name, no ! Henry. Nay, then, I take thee at thy word — believe thee The veriest Galahad of old Arthur's hall. And so this Rosamund, my true heart-wife. Not Eleanor — she whom I love indeed As a woman should be loved — Why dost thou smile So dolorously ? Becket. My good liege, if a man Wastes himself among women, how should he love A woman, as a woman should be loved ? Henry. How shouldst thou know that never hast loved one? PROLOCUK BECKET 221 Come, I would give her to thy care in England When I am out in Normandy or Anjou. Becket. My lord, I am your subject, not your Henry. Pander, (iod's eyes ! I know all that — not my j)urveyor Of pleasures, but to save a life — her life ; Ay, and the soul of Eleanor from hell-fire. I have built a secret bower in England, Thomas, A nest in a bush. Becket. And where, my liege ? Henry {ivhispers). Thine ear. Becket. That's lone enough. Henry {laying paper on table). This chart here mark'd ' Her Boiver,' Take, keep it, friend. See, first, a circling wood, .\ hundred pathways running everyway, .\nd then a brook, a bridge ; and after that This labyrinthine brickwork maze in maze. And then another wood, and in the midst .\ garden and my Rosamund. Look, this line — The rest you see is colour'd green — but this Draws thro' the chart to her. Becket. This blood-red line? Henry. .\y I blood, perchance, except thou see to her. Becket. .\nd where is she? There in lier I'.nglish nest ? Henry. W^ould (j<jd she were — no, here within the city. We take her from her secret bower in Anjou And pass her to her secret bower in Engl.ind. She is ignorant of ail but that I love her. Becket. My liege, I pray thee let me hence : a widow .■\nd orphan child, whom one of thy wild barons Henry. Ay, ay, but swear to see to her in ICngland. Becket. Well, well, I swear, but not to please myself. Henry. Whatever come between us ? Becket. What should come Between us, Henry ^ 222 BECKET PROLOGUE Henry. Nay — I know not, Thomas. Becket. What need then? ^Vell — whatever come between us. \Going. Henry. A moment ! thou didsi help me to my throne In Theobald's time, and after by thy wisdom Hast kept it firm from shaking ; but now I, For my realm's sake, myself must be the wizard To raise that tempest which will set it trembling Only to base it deeper. I, true son Of Holy Church — no croucher to the Gregories That tread the kings their children underheel — Must curb her ; and the Holy Father, while This Barbarossa butts him from his chair. Will need my help — be facile to my hands. Now is my time. Yet — lest there should be flashes And fulminations from the side of Rome, An interdict on England — I will have My young son Henry crown'd the King of England, That so the Papal bolt may pass by England, .\s seeming his, not mine, and fall abroad. I'll have it done — and now. Becket. Surely too young Even for this shadow of a crown ; and tho' I love him heartily, I can spy already A strain of hard and headstrong in him. Say, The Queen should play his kingship against thine! Henry. I will not think so, Thomas. \Vho shall crown him ? Canterbury is dying. Becket. The next Canterbury. flenry. And who shall he be, my friend Thomas ? Who ? Becket. Name him ; the Holy Father will confirm him. Henry {lays his hand on Becket's shoulder). Here ! Becket. Mock me not. I am not even a monk. Thy jest — no more. Why — look — is this a sleeve For an archbishop ? Henry. But the arm within Is Becket's, who hath beaten down my foes. PROLOGUE BECKET 223 Becket. A soldier's, not a spiritual arm. Henry. I lack a spiritual soldier, Thomas — A man of this world and the next to boot. Becket. There's Gilbert Foliot. Henry. ' He ! too thin, too thin. Thou art the man to fill out the Church robe ; Your Foliot fasts and fawns too much for me. Becket. Roger of York. Henry. Roger is Roger of York. King, Church, and State to him but foils wherein To set that precious jewel, Roger of York. No. Becket. Henry of Winchester ? Henry. Him who crown'd Stephen — King Stephen's brother ! No ; too royal for me. And I'll have no more Anselms. Becket. Sire, the business Of thy whole kingdom waits me : let me go. Henry. Answer me first. Becket. Then for thy barren jest Take thou mine answer in bare commonplace — Nolo episcopari. Henry. Ay, but Nolo Archiepiscopari, my good friend. Is quite another matter. Becket. A more awful one. Make me archbishop ! Why, my liege, I know Some three or four poor priests a thousand times Fitter for this grand function. Me archbishop I God's favour and king's favour might so clash That thou and I That were a jest indeed ! Henry. Thou angerest me, man : I do not jest. Enter Eleanor and '6\k Reginald Itizurse. Eleanor {singini^). Over ! the sweet summer closes. The reign of the roses is done- 2 24 BECKET PRoi.oGuic Henry {to Bccket, ivho is goin^i^^). Thou shalt not go. I have not ended with thee. Eleanor {seeing chart on table). This chart with the red line ! her bower ! whose bower ? Hetiry. The chart is not mine, but Beckct's : take il, Thomas. Eleanor. Becket ! O— ay — and these chessmen on the floor -the king's crown broken ! Becket hath beaten thee again — and thou hast kicked down the board. I know thee of old. Henry. True enough, my mind was set upon other matters. Eleanor. What matters ? State matters ? love matters ? Henry. My love for theu, and thine for me. Eleanor. Over ! the sweet summer closes, The reign of the roses is done ; Over and gone with the roses, And over and gone with the .sun. Here ; but our sun in Aquitaine lasts longer. I would I were in Aquitaine again — your north chills me. Over ! the sweet summer closes, And never a flower at the close ; Over and gone with the roses, And winter again and the snows. That was not the way I ended it first — but un- symmetrically, preposterously, illogically, out of passion, without art — like a song of the people. Will you have it ? The last Parthian shaft of a forlorn Cupid at the King's left breast, and all left-handedness and under-handedness. And never a flower at the close. Over and gone with the roses. Not over and gone with the rose. True, one rose will outblossom the rest, one rose in a bower. I speak after my fancies, for I am a Troubadour, PROLOGUE BECKET 225 you know, and won the violet at Toulouse ; but my voice is harsh here, not in tune, a nightingale out of season ; for marriage, rose or no rose, has killed the golden violet. Becket. Madam, you do ill to scorn wedded love. Eleanor. So I do. Louis of France loved me, and I dreamed that I loved Louis of France : and I loved Henry of England, and Henry of England dreamed that he loved me ; but the marriage-garland withers even with the putting on, the bright link rusts with the breath of the first after-marriage kiss, the harvest moon is the ripening of the harvest, and the honeymoon is the gall of love ; he dies of his honeymoon. I could pity this poor world myself that it is no better ordered. Henry. Dead is he, my. Queen ? What, altogether? l^t me swear nay to that by this cross on thy neck. (iod's eyes ! what a lovely cross ! what jewels ! Eleanor. Doth it please you ? Take it and wear it on that hard heart of yours — there. \Gives it to hint. Henry {puts it on). On this left breast before so hard a heart, To hide the scar left by thy Parthian dart. E/ea?ior. Has my simple song set you jingling? Nay, if I took and translated that hard htarl into our Provencj-al facilities, I could so play about it witli the rhyme — Henry. That the heart were lost in the rhyme and the matter in the metre. May we not pray you. Madam, to spare us the hardness of your facility ? Eleanor. 'I'he wells of Castaly are not wasted upon tlie desert. We did but jest. Henry. 'I'here's no jest on the brows of Ilerbert there. What is it, Herbert? Enter Herbert of Bosham. Herbert. My liege, the good Archbishoi) is no more. Henry. Peace to his soul ! HerlH-rl. I left him with peace on his face — that sweet V Q 126 BECKET PROLOGUE Other-world smile, which will be reflected in the spiritual body among the angels. But he longed much to see your Grace and the Chancellor ere he past, and his last words were a commendation of Thomas Becket to your Grace as his successor in the archbishoprick. Henry. Ha, Becket ! thou rememberest our talk ! Becket. My heart is full of tears — I have no answer. Henry. Well, well, old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again. Come to me to-morrow. Thou hast but to hold out thy hand. Meanwhile the revenues are mine. A-hawking, a-hawking ! If I sit, I grow fat. '[Leaps over the table., and exit. Becket. He did prefer me to the chancellorship, Believing I should ever aid the Church — But have I done it ? He commends me now From out his grave to this archbishoprick. Herbert. A dead man's dying wish should be of weight. Becket. His should. Come with me. Let me learn at full The manner of his death, and all he said. [Exeunt Herbert atid Becket. Eleanor. Fitzurse, that chart with the red line — thou sawest it — her bower. Fitzurse. Rosamund's ? Eleatwr. Ay — there lies the secret of her whereabouts, and the King gave it to his Chancellor. Fitzurse. To this son of a London merchant — how your Grace must hate him. Eleanor. Hate him ? as brave a soldier as Henry and a goodlier man : but thou — dost thou love this Chancellor, that thou hast sworn a voluntary allegiance to him ? Fitzurse. Not for my love toward him, but because he had the love of the King. How should a baron love a beggar on horseback, with the retinue of three kings behind him, outroyalling royalty ? Besides, he holp the King to break down our castles, for the which I hate him. PROLOGUE BECKET 227 Eleanor. For the which I honour him. Statesman not Churchman he. A great and sound poUcy that : I could embrace him for it : you could not see the King for the kinglings. Fitzurse. Ay, but he speaks to a noble as tho' he were a churl, and to a churl as if he were a noble. Eleanor. Pride of the plebeian ! Fitzurse. And this plebeian like to be Archbishop ! Eleanor. True, and I have an inherited loathing of these black sheep of the Papacy. Archbishop ? I can see further into a man than our hot-headed Henry, and if there ever come feud between Church and Crown, and I do not then charm this secret out of our loyal Thomas, I am not Eleanor. Fitzurse. Last night I followed a woman in the city here. Her face was veiled, but the back methought was Rosamund — his paramour, thy rival. I can feel for thee. Eleanor. Thou feel for me I — paramour — rival ! King Louis had no paramours, and I loved him none the more. Henry had many, and I loved him none the less — now neither more nor less — not at all ; the cup's empty. I would she were but his paramour, for men tire of their fancies ; but I fear this one fancy hath taken root, and borne blossom too, and she, whom the King loves indeed, is a power in the State. Rival ! — ay, and when the King passes, there may come a crash and embroilment as in Stephen's time ; and her children- — canst thou not — that secret matter which would heat the King against thee i^vhispers him and he starts). Nay, that is safe with me as with thyself: but canst thou not — thou art drowned in debt — tiiou shalt have our love, our silence, and our gold — canst thou not — if thou light upon her — free me from her? Fitzurse. Well, Madam, I have loved lirr in riiy time. Eleanor. No, my Ijcar, thou hast not. My Courts of Love would have held thee guiltless of love — the fine attractions and repulses, the delicacies, the subtleties. 228 BECKET ACT I Fitzurse. Madam, I loved according to the main pur- pose and intent of nature. Eleanor. I warrant thee ! thou wouldst hug thy Cupid till his ribs cracked — enough of this. Follow me this Rosamund day and night, whithersoever she goes ; track her, if thou canst, even into the King's lodging, that I may {clenches her fist) — may at least have my cry against him and her, — and thou in thy way shouldst be jealous of the King, for thou in thy way didst once, what shall I call it, affect her thine own self Fitzurse. Ay, but the young colt winced and whinnied and flung up her heels ; and then the King came honeying about her, and this Becket, her father's friend, like enough staved us from her. Eleanor. Us ! Fitzurse. Yea, by the Blessed Virgin ! There were more than I buzzing round the blossom — De Tracy — even that flint De Brito. Eleanor. Carry her off among you; run in upon her and devour her, one and all of you ; make her as hateful to herself and to the King, as she is to me. Fitzurse. I and all would be glad to wreak our spile on the rosefaced minion of the King, and bring her to the level of the dust, so that tiie King Eleanor. Let her eat it like the serpent, and be driven out of her ])aradisc. ACT I SCENE I. — Becket'.s House in London C/iamber barely furnished. Becket unrobing. Herbert OF BosHAM and Servant. Servant. Shall I not help your lordship to your rest? Becket. Friend, am I so much better than thyself That thou shouldst help me ? Thou art wearied out SCENE I BECKET 229 With this day's work, get thee to thine own bed. l>eave me with Herbert, friend. [£xi^ Servant. Help me off, Herbert, with this— and this. Herbert. Was not the people's blessing as we past - Heart-comfort and a balsam to thy blood ? Becket. The people know their Church a tower of strength, A bulwark against Throne and Baronage. Too heavy for me, this ; off with it, Herbert ! Herbert. Is it so much heavier than thy Chancellor's robe ? Becket. No ; but the Chancellor's and the Archbishop's Together more than mortal man can bear. Herbert. Not heavier than thine armour at Thoulouse ? Becket. O Herbert, Herbert, in my chancellorship I more than once have gone against the Church. Herbert. To please the King ? Becket. Ay, and the King of kings. Or justice ; for it seem'd to me but just The Church should pay her scutage like the lords. I'>ut hast thou heard this cry of (iilbert Foliot That I am not the man to be your Primate, I'or Henry could not work a miracle — Make an Archbishop of a soldier ? I/crbcrt. Ay, I'or ("iilbert Foliot iield himself the man. Becket. Am I the man? My mother, err she bnn nie, Dream'd that twelve stars fell glittering out of heaven Into her bosom. Herbert. Ay, tiie fire, the light, The spirit of the twelve Apostles rntcn'd Into thy making. Becket. And when I was a child. The Virgin, in a vision of my sleep, ( iave me the golden keys of l';ir;idisc. I )ream. Or prophecy, that ? Herbert. Well, dream and ]>rophccy both. Becket. And when I was of Tlieobald's household, once — 230 BECKET act i The good old man would sometimes have his jest — He took his mitre off, and set it on me, And said, ' My young Archbishop — thou wouldst make A stately Archbishop ! ' Jest or prophecy there ? Herbert. Both, Thomas, both. Becket. Am I the man ? That rang Within my head last night, and when I slept Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster, And spake to the Lord God, and said, ' O Lord, I have been a lover of wines, and delicate meats, And secular splendours, and a favourer Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and lions, and lynxes. Am / the man ? ' And the Lord answer'd me, 'Thou art the man, and all tlic more the man.' And then I asked again, ' O Lord my God, Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother. And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me For this thy great archbishoprick, believing That I should go against the Church with him. And I shall go against him with the Church, And I have said no word of this to him : Am / the man ? ' And the Lord answer'd me, 'Thou art the man, and all the more the man.' And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me, And smote me down upon the Minster floor. I fell. Herbert. God make not thee, but thy foes, fall. Becket. I fell. Why fall? Why did He smite me? What ? Shall I fall off — to please the King once more ? Not fight — tho' somehow traitor to the King — My truest and mine utmost for the Church ? Herbert. Thou canst not fall that way. Let traitor be ; For how have fought thine utmost for the Church, Save from the throne of thine archbishoprick ? And how been made Archbishop hadst thou told him. SCENE I BECKET 231 ' I mean to fight mine utmost for the Church, Against the King ' ? Becket. But dost thou think the King Forced mine election ? Herbert. I do think the King Was potent in the election, and why not ? Why should not Heaven have so inspired the King? Be comforted. Thou art the man — be thou A mightier Anselm. Becket. I do believe thee, then. I am the man. And yet I seem appall'd — on such a sudden At such an eagle-height I stand and see The rift that runs between me and the King. I served our Theobald well when I was with him ; I served King Henry well as Chancellor ; I am his no more, and I must serve the Church. This Canterbury is only less than Rome, And all my doubts I fling from me like dust. Winnow and scatter all scruples to the wind. And all the puissance of the warrior. And all the wisdom of the Chancellor, And all the heap'd experiences of life, I cast upon the side of Canterbury — Our holy mother Canterbury, who .sits With tatter'd robes. Laics and barons, thro' The random gifts of careless kings, have graspt Her livings, her advowsons, granges, farms. And goodly acres — we will make her whole ; Not one rood lost. And for these Royal customs, These ancient Royal customs — they arc Royal, Not of the Church — and let them Ijc anathema, And all that speak for them anathema. Herbert. Thomas, thou art moved too much. Becket. llerijert, here I gash myself asunder from the King, Tho' leaving each, a wound ; mine own, a grief 'I'o show the scar for ever — his, a hate Not ever to be heal'd. 232 BECKET ACT i Enter Rosamund de C\.\'e'eo'RT), flyhig fro/n Sir Reginald Fi rzuRSE. Drops her veil. Becket. Rosamund de Clifford ! Rosamund. Save me, father, hide me — they follow me — and I must not be known. Becket. Pass in witli Plerbert there. \Exeunt Rosamund and Herbert by side door. Enter Fitzurse Fitzurse. The Archbishop ! Becket. Ay ! what wouldst thou, Reginald ? Fitzurse. Why — why, my lord, I follow'd — follow'd one- Becket. And then what follows? Let me follow thee. Fitzurse. It much imports me I should know her name. Becket. What her? Fitzurse. The woman that 1 follow'd hither. Becket. Perhaps it may import her all as much Not to be known. Fitzurse. And what care I for that ? Come, come, my lord Archbishop ; I saw that door Close even now upon the woman. Becket. Well ? Fitzurse {making for the door). Nay, let me pass, my lord, for I must know. Becket. Back, man ! Fitzurse. Then tell me who and what she is. Becket. Art thou so sure thou followedst anything ? Go home, and sleep thy wine off, for thine eyes Glare stupid-wild with wine. Fitzurse {making to the door). I must and will. I care not for thy new archbishoprick. Becket. Back, man, I tell thee ! What 1 Shall I forget my new archbishoprick SCENE I BECKET 233 And smite thee with my crozier on the skull ? 'Fore God, I am a mightier man than thou. Fitziirse. It well befits thy new archbishoprick To take the vagabond woman of the street Into thine arms ! Becket. O drunken ribaldry ! Out, beast I out, bear ! Fitzurse. I shall remember this. Becket. Do, and begone ! \Exit Fitzurse. \Going to the door, sees De Tracy. Tracy, what dost thou here ? De Tracy. My lord, I follow'd Reginald Fitzurse. Becket. Follow him out ! De Tracy. I shall remember this Discourtesy. \_Exit. Bec/ict. Do. These be those baron-brutes That havock'd all the land in Stephen's day. Rosamund de Clifford. Re-enter Rosamund and Herbert. Rosamund. Here am I. Bec/iet. Why here ? Wc gave thee to the charge of John of Salisbury, To pass thee to thy secret bower to-morrow. Wast ihou not told to keep thyself from sight ? Rosamund. Poor bird of passage I so I was ; but, father, They say that you arc wise in winged things, And know the ways of Nnture. 15ar the bird From following the fled summer — a chink — he's out, (ione ! And there stole into the city a i)reath I'ull of the meadow.s, and it minded mc Of the sweet woods of Clifford, and the walks Where I could move at pleasure, and I thought Lo! I must out or die. Beclwt. Or out and die. And what hast thou to do with this Fitzurse ? 234 BECKET ACT 1 Rosai/iuiid. Nothing. He sued my hand. I sliook at him. He found me once alone. Nay — nay — I cannot Tell you : my father drove him and his friends, De Tracy and De Brito, from our castle. I was but fourteen and an Aj)ril then. I heard him swear revenge. Becket. ^\'hy will you court it By self-exposure ? flutter out at night? Make it so hard to save a moth from the fue ? Rosamund. I have saved many of 'em. You catch 'em, so, Softly, and fling them out to the free air. They burn themselves wifhin-Aoox. Becket. Our good John Must speed you to your l)Ower at once. The child Is there already. Rosamund. Yes — the child — the child — O rare, a whole long day of open field. Becket. Ay, but you go disguised. Rosamund. O rare again ! We'll baffle them, I warrant. What shall it be ? I'll go as a nun. Becket. No. Rosamund. What, not good enough Even to play at nun ? Becket. Dan Jcjhn with a nun, That Map, and these new railers at the Church May plaister his clean name with scurrilous rhymes ! No! Go like a monk, cowling and clouding uj) That fatal star, thy Beauty, from the squint Of lust and glare of malice. Good night ! good night ! Rosamund. Father, I am so tender to all hardness ! Nay, father, first thy blessing. Becket. Wedded ? Rosamund. Father ! Becket. Well, well ! I ask no more. Heaven bless thee ! hence ! SCENE I BECKET 235 Rosamund. O, holy father, when thou seest him next, Commend me to thy friend. Becket. ^\' hat friend ? Rosamund. The King. Becket. Herbert, take out a score of armed men To guard this bird of passage to her cage ; And watch Fitzurse, and if he follow thee. Make him thy prisoner. I am Chancellor yet. \Exeunt Herbert and Rosamund. Poor soul ! poor soul ! My friend, the King ! . . . O thou Great Seal of England, Given me by my dear friend the King of England — We long have wrought together, thou and I — Now must I send thee as a common friend To tell the King, my friend, I am against him. We are friends no more : he will say that, not I. The worldly bond between us is dissolved, Not yet the love : can I be under him As Chancellor ? as Archbishop over him ? (}o therefore like a friend slighted by one That hath climb'd up to nobler company. Not slighted — all but moan'd for: thou must go. I have not dishonour'd thee — I tru.st 1 have not ; Not mangled justice. May the hand that next Inherits thee be but as true to thee As mine hath been ! O, my dear friend, the King ! brother ! — I may come to martyrdom. 1 am martyr in myself already. — Herbert ! Herbert {reentering;). My lord, the town is quiet, and the moon Divides the whole long street with light nnd shade. No footfall — no Fit/.urse. We have seen her home. Becket. The hog hath tumbled himself into some corner, Some ditch, to snore away his drunkenness Into the sober headache, — Nature's moral Against excess. Let the Great Seal be sent Back to the King to-morrow. 2 36 BECKET act i Herbert Must thai be? The King may rend the bearer limb from limb. Think on il again. Becket. Against the moral excess No physical ache, but failure it may be Of all we aini'd at. John of Salisbury Hath often laid a cold hand on my heats, And Herbert hath rebuked me even now. I will be wise and wary, not the soldier As Foliot swears it. — John, and out of breath ! Enter ]Q)W^ of Salisbury. John of Salisbury. Thomas, thou wast not happy taking charge Of this wild Rosamund to please the King, Nor am I happy having charge of her— The included Danae has escaped again Her tower, and her Acrisius — where to seek ? I have been about the city. Becket. Thou wilt find her Back in her lodging. Go with her — at once — To-night — my men will guard you to the gates. Be sweet to her, she has many enemies. Send the Great Seal by daybreak. Both, good night ! SCENE H. — Street in Northampton leading TO THE Castle Eleanor's Retainers and Becket's Retainers fighting. Enter Eleanor and Bkckkt from opposite streets. E/eanor. Peace, fools ! Becket. J'eace, friends! what idle brav/1 is this? Retainer of Becket. They said — her Grace's people — thou wast found — SCENE H BECKET 237 Liars ! I shame to quote 'em — caught, my lord, With a wanton in thy lodging — Hell requite 'em ! Retainer of Eleanor. My liege, the Lord Fitzurse reported this In passing to the Castle even now. Retainer of Becket. And then they mock'd us and we fell upon 'em, For we would live and die for thee, my lord. However kings and queens may frown on thee. Becket to his Retainers. Go, go — no more of this ! Eleanor to her Retainers. Away ! — {Exeunt Retainers) Fitzurse Becket. Nay, let him be. Eleanor. No, no, my Lord Archbishop, 'Tis known you are midwinter to all women. But often in your chancellorship you served The follies of the King. Becket. No, not these follies ! Eleanor. My lord, Fitzurse beheld her in your lodging. Becket. Whom ? Eleanor. Well — you know — the minion, Rosa- mund. Becket. He had good eyes ! Eleanor. Then hidden in ihe street He watch'd her pass with John of .Salisbury ,'\nd heard her cry 'Where is this bower of mine?' Becket. ( lood ears too ! Eleanor. You are going to the Castle, Will you subscribe the customs ? Becket. I leave tliat, Knowing how much you reverence Holy Church, My liege, to your conjecture. Eleanor. I and mine — And many a baron holds along with me — .■\rc not so much at feud with H(;ly Church Ikit we might take your side against the customs — So that you grant me one slight favour. Becket. What ? 2-, 8 BECKET ACT 1 ■o Ekatw7'. A sight of that same chart which Henry gave you. With the red Hne — 'her bower.' Becket. And to what end ? Eleanor. That Church must scorn herself whose fearful Priest Sits winking at the license of a king, Altho' we grant when kings are dangerous The Church must play into the hands of kings ; Look ! I would move this wanton from his sight And take the Church's danger on myself. Becket. For which she should be duly grateful. Eleanor. True ! Tho' she that binds the bond, herself should see That kings are faithful to their marriage vow. Becket. Ay, Madam, and queens also. Eleanor. And queens also ! What is your drift ? Becket. My drift is to the Castle, Where I shall meet the Barons and my King. \Exit. De Broc, Dk Tracy, De Brito, De Morville {passing). Eleanor. To the Casde ? De Broc. Ay ! Eleanor. Stir up the King, the Lords ! Set all on fire against him ! De Brito. Ay, good Madam ! [Exeunt. Eleanor. Fool ! I will make thee hateful to thy King. Churl: I will have thee frightened int<j Trance, And I shall live to trample on thy grave. SCENE 111 BECKET 239 SCENE III. — The Hall in Northampton Castle On one side of the stage the doors of an inner Coiincil-Chamlm\ half open. At the bottom, the great doors of the Hall. Roger Archbishop of York, Foliot Bishop of London, Hilary of Chichester, Bishop of Here- ford, Richard de Hastings (Grand Prior of Templars), Philip de Eleemosyna {the Pope's Almoner), and others. De Broc, Fitzurse, De Brito, De Morville. De Tracy, and other Baro^^s assem/>/ed — a table before them. John of Oxford, President of the Council. Enter Becket and Herbert of Bosham. Becket. Where is the King ? Roger of York. Cone hawking on tlie Nene, His heart so gall'd with thine ingratitude. He will not see thy face till ihou hast sign'd These ancient laws and customs of the realm. Thy sending back the Great Seal madden'd him, He all but pluck'd the bearer's eyes away. Take heed, lest he destroy thee utterly. Becket. Then shalt thou slcf) into my place and sign. Roger of York. Didst thou not promise Henry to obey These ancient laws and customs of the realm ? Becket. Saving the honour of my order — ay. Customs, traditions, — ch^nds that come and go; The customs of the Church are Peter's rock. Roger of York. Saving thine order! But King iknry sware That, saving his King's kingship, he would gniiiL ihee The crown itself. Saving tliine order, Thomas, Is black and white at once, and comes to nought. O bolster'd u[) with stubbornness and pride, Wilt thou destroy the Churt h in fighting for it, And bring us all to shame? Becket. Rf>ger of York, 240 BECKET ACT I When I and thou were youths in Theobald's house, Twice did thy mahce and thy calumnies Exile me from the face of Theobald. Now I am Canterbury and thou art York. Roger of York. And is not York the peer of Canter- bury ? Did not Great Gregory bid St. Austin here Found two archbishopricks, London and York? Becket. What came of that ? The first archbishop fled, And York lay barren for a hundred years. Why, by this rule, Foliot may claim the pall For London too. Foliot. And with good reason too, For London had a temple and a priest When Canterbury hardly bore a name. Becket. The pagan temple of a pagan Rome ! The heathen priesthood of a heathen creed ! Thou goest beyond thyself in petulancy ! Who made thee Ix)ndon ? Who, but Canterbury ? Joh7i of Oxford. Peace, peace, my lords I these customs are no longer As Canterbury calls them, wandering clouds, But by the King's command are written down, And by the King's command I, John of Oxford, The President of this Council, read them. Becket. Read ! John of Oxford (reads). ' All causes of advowsons and presentations, whether between laymen or clerics, shall be tried in the King's court.' Becket. But that I cannot sign : for that would drag The cleric before the civil judgment-seat. And on a matter wholly spiritual. John of Oxford. ' If any cleric be accused of felony, the Church shall not protect him ; but he shall answer to the summons of the King's court to be tried therein.' Becket. And that I cannot sign. Is not the Church the visible Lord on earth ? SCENE III BECKET 241 Shall hands that do create the Lord be bound Behind the back like laymen-criminals ? The Lord be judged again by Pilate ? No ! John of Oxford. ' When a bishoprick falls vacant, the King, till another be appointed, shall receive the revenues thereof.' Becket. And that I cannot sign. Ls the King's treasury A fit place for the monies of the Church, That be the patrimony of the poor ? Joh7i of Oxford. ' And when the vacancy is to be filled up, the King shall summon the chapter of that church to court, and the election shall be made in the Chapel Royal, with the consent of our lord the King, and by the advice of his Government.' Becket. And that I cannot sign : for that would make Our island-Church a schism from Christendom, And weight down all free choice beneath the throne. Foliot. And was thine own election so canonical, (Jood father? Becket. If it were not, Cilbert Foliot, I mean to cross the sea to France, and lay My cro7,ier in the Holy Father's hand.s, .\nd bid liini re-create me, Cilbcrt Foliot. Foliot. Nay ; by another of the.se customs ihou Wilt not be suffer'd so to cross the seas Without the license of our lord the King. Becket. 'I'hat, too, I cannot sign. I)K Broc, I)i; Bkito, Dk Ti<.\( \, Imtzursk, Dk MoK VILLI;., start up — a clash (f s'words. Sign and obey ! Becket. My lords, is liiis a (;r)iiibat or a council ? .'\re ye my masters, or my lord the King? Ye make this clashing for no love o' the customs Or constitutions, or whate'er ye call them, }kit that there be among you those that hold Lands reft frf)m Canterbury. \ K BECKET Ai r 1 De Broc. And mean to keep tlieni, In spite of thee ! Lords i^shoutitig). Sign, and obey the crown ! Becket. The crown ? Shall I do less for Canterbury Than Henry for the crown ? King Stephen gave Many of the crown lands to those that helpt him ; So did Matilda, the King's mother. Mark, When Henry came into his own again, Then he took back not only Stephen's gifts. But his own mother's, lest the crown should be Shorn of ancestral splendour. This did Henry. Shall I do less for mine own Canterbury? And thou, De Broc, that boldest Saltwood Castle De Broc. And mean to hold it, or Becket. To have my life. De Broc. 'I'lie King is quick to anger; if thou anger him. We wait but the King's word to strike thee dead. Becket. Strike, and I die the death of martyrdom ; Strike, and ye set these customs by my death Ringing their own death-knell thro' all the realm. Herbert. And I can tell you, lords, ye are all as like To lodge a fear in Thomas Becket's heart As find a hare's form in a lion's cave. John of Oxford. Ay, sheathe your swords, ye will displease the King. Dc Broc. Why down tlien thou I but an he come to Saltwood, By Cod's death, thou shalt stick him like a calf! \Sheathing his sword. Hilary. O my good lord, I do entreat thee — sign. Save the King's honour here before his barons. He hath sworn that thou shouldst sign, and now but shuns The semblance of defeat ; I have heard him say He means no more ; so if thou sign, my lord. That were but as the shadow of an assent. Becket. 'Twould seem too like the substance, if I sign'd. SCENE III BECKET 243 Philip de Eleemosyna. My lord, thine ear ! I have the ear of the Pope. As thou hast honour for the Pope our n,aster, Have pity on him, sorely prest upon By the fierce Emperor and his Antipope. Thou knowest he was forced to fly to France ; He pray'd me to pray thee to pacify Thy King ; for if thou go against thy King, Then must he likewise go against thy King, And then thy King might join the Antipope, And that would shake the Papacy as it stands. Besides, thy King swore to our cardinals He meant no harm nor damage to the Church. Smooth thou his pride — thy signing is but form ; Nay, and should harm come of it, it is the Pope Will be to blame — not thou. Over and over He told me thou shouldst pacify the King, Lest there be battle between Heaven and Earth, And Earth should get the better — for the time. Cannot the Pope absolve thee if thou sign ? Becket. Piave I the orders of the Holy Father? Philip de FJeemosyna. Orders, my lord — why, no ; for what am I ? The secret whisi)er of the Holy l-'athur. Thou, that hast been a statesuKin, couldst thou always Blurt thy free mind to the air? Becket. If Rome be feeble, then should I be firm. Philip, 'i'ake it not that way — balk not the i'ope's will. When he hath shaken off the Emperor, lie heads the Church again.st the King witli thee. Richard de If aslini^s {kneeling). Becket, I am I he oldest of the Tc'ni[)lars ; I knew thy father ; he would be mine age Had he lived now ; think of me as thy father ! Behcjld thy father kneeling to thee, Becket. Submit ; I promise thee on my salvation That thou wilt hear no more o' the customs. 244 BECKET act i Becket. What ! Hath Henry told thee? hast thou talk'd with him? Aiiof/ier Templar [kfiee/ini(). l'"ather, I am the youngest of the Templars, Look on me as I were thy bodily son, For, like a son, I lift my hands to thee. Philip. Wilt thou hold out for ever, Thomas Becket? Dost thou not hear ? Becket {si^^ns). ^^'hy — there then — there — I sign, And swear to obey the customs. Foliot. Is it thy will. My lord Archbishop, that we too should sign ? Becket. O ay, by that canonical obedience Thou still hast owed thy father, Gilbert Foliot. Foliot. Loyally and with good faith, my lord Archbishop? Becket. O ay, with all that loyalty and good faitli Thou still hast shown thy [)rimate, Gilbert Foliot. [Becket draws apart with Herbert. Herbert, Herbert, have I betray'd the Church ? ril have the paper back — blot out my name. IPerbert. Too late, my lord : you see they are signing there. Becket. False to myself — it is the will of God To break me, prove me nothing of myself! This Almoner hath tasted Henry's gold. The cardinals have finger'd Henry's gold. And Rome is venal ev'n to rottenness. I see it, I see it. I am no soldier, as he said — at least No leader. Herbert, till I hear from the Pope I will .suspend myself from all niy functions. If fast and prayer, the lacerating scourge Foliot {from the table). My lord Archbishop, thou hast yet to seal. Becket. First, Foliot, let me see what I have slgn'd. \Goes to the table. What, this ! and this ! — what ! new and old together ! Seal ? If a seraph shouted from the sun. SCENE III BECKET 245 And bad me seal against the rights of the Church, I would anathematise him. I will nut seal. \Exit zvith Herbert. Enter King Henry. Henry. Where's Thomas ? hath he sign'd ? show me the papers ! Sign'd and not seal'd I How's that ? John of Oxford. He would not seal. And when he sign'd, his face was stormy-red — Shame, wrath, I know not what. He sat down there And dropt it in his hands, and then a paleness, Like the wan twilight after sunset, crept Up even to the tonsure, and he groan'd, ' False to myself! It is the will of God ! ' Henry. God's will be what it will, the man shall seal. Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's son — Nay, if I cannot break him as the prelate, I'll crush him as the subject. Send for him back. [ .Sits on his throne. Barons and bishops of our realm of luigland, After the nineteen winters of King Stephen — .\ reign which was no reign, when none could sit By his own hearth in peace ; when murder common As nature's death, like ICgypt's plague, had fill'd All things with blood ; when every doorway blush'd, Dash'd red with that unhallow'd j)a.ssovcr ; When every baron prf)und his blade in blood ; The houschf)ld dough was kneaded uj) with blood ; The millwheel turn'd in blood ; the wholesome plow Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow weeds, Till famine dwarft the race — I came, your King! Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of the Ivast, In mine own hall, and sucking thro' fools' ears The flatteries of corruption — went abroad Thro' all my counties, spied my people's ways ; Vea, heard the churl against the l)aron — yea, 246 BECKET A( T I And did him justice ; sat in mine own courts Judging my judges, that had found a King Who ranged confusions, made the twilight day. And struck a shape from out the vague, and law From madness. And the event — our fallows till'd. Much corn, repeoplcd towns, a realm again. So far my course, albeit not glassy-smooth, Had prosper'd in the main, but suddenly Jarr'd on this rock. A cleric violated The daughter of his host, and murder'd him. Bishops — York, London, Chichester, Westminster — Ye haled this tonsured devil into your courts ; But since your canon will not let you take Life for a life, ye but degraded him Where I had hang'd him. What doth hard murder care For degradatif)ii ? and that made me muse, Being bounden by my coronation oath To do men justice. Look to it, your own selves ! Say that a cleric murder'd an archbishop, What could ye do ? 1 )egrade, imprison him — Not death for death. Jolni of Oxford. I'ut I, my liege, could swear, To death for death. Henry. .\nd, looking thro' my reign, I found a hundred ghastly murders done By men, the .scum and offal of the Church ; Then, glancing thro' the story of this realm, I came on certain wholesome usages, Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's day. Good royal customs — had them written fair For John of Oxford here to read to you. John of Oxford. And I can easily swear to these as being The King's will and (iod's will and justice ; yet I could but read a part to-day. because Fitzurse. Because my lord of Canterbury De Tracy. Ay, This lord of Canterbury SCKNE III BECKET 247 De Brito. As is his wont Too much of late whene'er your royal rights Are mooted in our councils Fitziirse. — made an uproar. Henry. And Becket had my bosom on all this ; If ever man by bonds of gratefulness— I raised him from the puddle of the gutter, I made him porcelain from the clay of the city — Thought that I knew him, crr'd thro' love of him. Hoped, were he chosen archbishop, Church and Crown, Two sisters gliding in an equal dance. Two rivers gently flowing side by side — But no ! The bird that moults sings the same song again, The snake that sloughs comes out a snake again. Snake — ay, but he that lookt a fangless one. Issues a venomous adder. For he, when having dofft the Chancellor's robe — Flung the (ireat Seal of England in my face — Claim'd some of our crown lands for Canterbury — My comrade, boon companion, my co-reveller. The master of his master, the King's king.— God's eyes! I had meant to make iiim all but king. Chancellor-Archbishop, he might well have sway'd .Ml England under Menry, the young King, When I was hence. What did the traitor say? False to himself, but ten-fold false to me ! The will of Cod — why, then it is my will Is he coming ? Afessaii^er {entering). With a crowd of worshipi)ers. And holds his cross before him thro' the crowd, As one that puts himself in sanctuary. ffenry. His cross ! Ro}:;cr of York. His cfi^s ' I'll Ironl hiin, cross to cross. \Exit Roger of York. Ifcnrv. His cross ! it is the traitor that imputes Treachery to his King ! 248 BECKET ACT I It is not safe for mc to look upon him. j Away — with me ! I [Goes IN with his Barons to the Council-Ghm/ii'cr, the m door of which is left of en. * Enter Bix'Klt, Iiolding his cross of silver before hint. The Bishops come round him. Hereford. The King will not abide thee with thy cross. Permit me, my good lord, to bear it for thee. Being thy chaplain. Becket. No : it must protect me. Herherf. As once he bore the standard of the Angles, So now he bears the standard of the angels. Foliot. I ani the Dean of the province : let me bear it. Make not thy King a traitorous murderer. Becket. Did not your barons draw their swords against me ? Enter Rogi:r of York, 7vith his cross, advancing to Becket. Becket. Wherefore dost thou presume to bear thy cross. Against the solemn ordinance from Rome, Out of thy province ? Roger of York. Why dost thou presume, Arm'd with thy cross, to come before the King? If Canterbury bring his cross to court, Let Yfjrk bear his to mate with Canterbury. Fo!>''f {seizing hold of Becket' s cross). Nay, nay, my lord, thou must not brave the King. Nay, let me have it. I will have it ! Becket. Away ! [Flinging him off. Foliot. He fasts, they say, this mitred Hercules ! He fast ! is that an arm of fast? My lord, Hadst thou not sign'd, I had gone along with thee ; But thou the shepherd hast Ijctray'd the sheep, fi SCENE III BECKET 249 And thou art perjured, and thou wilt not seal. As Chancellor thou wast against the Church, Now as Archbishop goest against the King ; For, like a fool, thou know'st no middle way. Ay, ay I but art thou stronger than the King ? Becket. Strong — not in mine own self, but Heaven ; true To either function, holding it ; and thou Fast, scourge thyself, and mortify thy flesh. Not spirit — thou remainest Gilbert Foliot, A worldly follower of the worldly strong. I, bearing this great ensign, make it clear Under what Prince I fight. Foliot. My lord of York, Let us go in to the Council, where our bishojjs And our great lords will sit in judgment on him. Becket. Sons sit in judgment on their father ! — then 'I'he spire of Holy Church may prick the graves — Her crypt among the stars. Sign ? seal ? I promised The King to obey these customs, not yet written, Saving mine order ; true too, that when written I sign'd them — being a fool, as Foliot call'd me, I hold not by my signing. Get ye hence, Tell what I say to the King. [Exeunt Hereford, Foliot, and other Bishops. J^o^i^er of York. 'J'he Church will hate thee. \Exit. Becket. Serve my best friend and make him my worst foe ; Fight for the Church, and set the Church against me I Jlcrhert. To be honest is to set all knaves against thee. Ah I Thomas, excommunicate them all ! Jhrcford {re-en teriu}^). 1 cannot brook the turmoil thou hast raised. I would, my lord Thomas of Canterl)ury, Tiiou WLTt plain Thomas and not Canterbury, Or that thou wouldst deliver Canterbury To our King's hands again, and be at peace. Hilary (^re-entering). For hath not thine ambition set the Church '5° BECKET ACT I This day between tlie hammer and ihe anvil — Fealty to the King, obedience to thyself? Herbert. What say the bishops ? Hilary. Some have pleaded for him, But the King rages — most are with the King ; And some are reeds, that one time sway to the current, And to the wind another. But we hold Thou art forsworn ; and no forsworn Archbishop Shall helm the Church. We therefore place ourselves Under the shield and .safeguard of the Pope, And cite thee to appear before the Pope, And answer thine accusers. . . . Art thou deaf? Becket. I hear you. [Clash of arms. Hilary. Dost thou hear those others ? Becket. Ay ! Roger of York {re-entering). The King's ' Ood's eyes ! ' come now so thick and fast, We fear that he may reave thee of thine own. Come on, come on ! it is not fit for us To see the proud Archbishop mutilated. Say that he blind thee and tear out thy tongue. Becket. So be it. He begins at to[) with me : They crucified St. Peter downward. Roger of York. Nay, But for their sake who stagger betwixt thine Appeal, and Henry's anger, yield. Becket. Hence, Satan ! [Exit Roger of York. Fitzurse {re-entering). My lord, the King demands three hundred marks, Due from his castles of Berkham.stead and Eye When thou thereof wast warden. Becket. 'I'ell the King I spent thrice that in fortifying his castles. De Tracy {re-entering). My lord, the King demands seven hundred marks, Lent at the siege of Thoulouse by the King. Becket. I led seven hundred knights and fought his wars. SCENE 111 BECKET 251 De Brito (re-entering). My lord, the King demands five hundred marks, Advanced thee at his instance by the Jews, For which the King was bound security. Becket. I thought it was a gift ; I thought it was a gift. Ei7ter Lord. Leicester {folloived by Barons and Bishops). Leicester. My lord, I come unwillingly. The King Demands a strict account of all those revenues Erom all the vacant sees and abbacies. Which came into thy hands when Chancellor. Becket. How much might that amount lo, my lord Leicester? Leicester. Some thirty — forty thousand silver marks. Becket. Are these your customs ? C) my good lord Leicester, The King and I were brothers. All T hnd I lavish'd for the glory of the King ; I shone from him, for him, his glory, his Reflection : now the glory of the Church Hath swallow'd u]) the glory of the King; I am his no more, but hers. Grant me one day To ponder these demands. I^eicester. Hear first thy sentence ! The King and all his lords Becket. Son, first hear ///r .' Leicester. Nay, nay, canst thou, that boldest thine estates In fee and barony of the King, decline The judgment of the King? Jhcket. The King! I hold Nothing in fee and. barony of the King. Whatever the Church owns — she holds it in I'Vcc and perpetual alm.s, unsubject to One earthly sceptre. L^eicester. Nay, but hear thy judgment. The King and all his barons 252 BECKET ACT , Beckct. ' Judgment! J^aions ! Who but the bridegroom dares to judge the bride, Or he the bridegroom may appoint ? Not he That is not of the house, but from the street Stain'd with the mire thereof. I had been so true To Henry and mine office that the King Would throne me in the great Archbishoprick :' And I, that knew mine own infirmity, For the King's pleasure rather than God's cause Took it upon me — err'd thro' love of him. Now therefore God from me withdraws Himself, And the King too. What ! forty thousand marks ! Why thou, the King, the Pope, the Saints, the world. Know that when made Archbishop I was freed, Before the Prince and chief Justiciary, From every bond and debt and obligation Incurr'd as Chancellor. Hear me, son. As gold Outvalues dross, light darkness, Abel Cain, The soul the body, and the Church the Throne, I charge thee, upon pain of mine anathema, That thou obey, not me, but (iod in me. Rather than Henry. I refuse to stand By the King's censure, make my cry to the Pope, By whom I will be judged ; refer myself. The King, these cu.stoms, all the Church, to him. And under his authority — I depart. [Goini:!;. [Eeicester looks at him doubtingly. Am I a prisoner? Leicester. By St. Lazarus, no ! . I am confounded by thee. Go in peace. De Broc. In peace now — but after. Take that for earnest. \Flinf^s a bone at him from the rushes. De Brito, Fitzurse, De Tracy, and others {/liiigin^i^ ivisps of riisJies). Ay, go in peace, caitiff, caitiff! And that too, SCENE III BECKET 253 perjured prelate — and that, turncoat shaveling ! There, there, there ! traitor, traitor, traitor ! Becket. Mannerless wolves. \Turni7ig and facing fhem. Herbert. Enough, my lord, enough ! Becket. Barons of England and of Normandy, When what ye shake at doth but seem to fly, True test of coward, ye follow with a yell. But I that threw the mightiest knight of France, Sir Engclram de Trie, Herbert. Enough, my lord. Becket. More than enough. I play the fool again. Enter Her.ald. Herald. The King commands you, upon pain of death, That none should wrong or injure your Archbishop. Foliot. Deal gently with the young man Absalom. \Great doors of the Hall at the back ope?i, and discover a crowd. They shout : Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord ! SCENE IV. — Refectory ok the Monastery /\t Northampton A bam/uet on the Tables. Enter Becket. Bicckki's Ki:iainkrs. i.<-/ Retainer. Do thou speak first. 2nd Retainer. Nay, thou ! Nay, lluni ! Hast not thou drawn the short straw ? \st I tainer. My lord .'\rchbish(^|), wilt thou permit us Becket. 'JV) speak without stammering and like a free man ? Ay. \st Retainer. My lord, permit us then to leave thy service. Becket. When ? 2 54 BECKET act i isV Retainer. Now. Bccket. To-nigh I ? \st Retainer. To-night, my lord. Becket. And why ? \st Retaifier. My lord, \vc leave thee not without tears. Becket. Tears? AV'hy not stay with me then? ist Retainer. My lord, we cannot yield thee an answer altogether to thy satisfaction. Becket. I warrant you, or your own either. Shall I find you one ? The King hath frowned upon me. ist Retainer. That is not altogether our answer, my lord. Becket. No ; yet all but all. Go, go ! Ye have eaten of my dish and drunken of my cup for a dozen years. ist Retainer. And so we have. We mean thee no wrong. Wilt thou not saj', ' Ood bless you,' ere we go ? Becket. (jod bless you all ! God redden your pale blood ! But mine is human-red ; and when ye shall hear it is poured out upon earth, and see it mounting to Heaven, my God bless you, that seems sweet to you now, will blast and blind you like a curse. ist Retainer. We hope not, my lord. Our humblest thanks for your blessing. Farewell ! [Exeutit Retainers. Becket. I-'arcwell, friends ! farewell, swallows ! I wrong the bird ; she leaves only the nest she built, they leave the builder. Why ? Am I to be murdered to-nighi ? \_Knocking at tJie door. Attendant. Here is a missive left at the gate by one from the castle. Becket. Cornwall's hand or Leicester's : they write marvellously alike. [Reading. ' Fly at once to France, to King Louis of France : there be those about our King who would have thy blood.' Was not my lord of Leicester bidden to our supper? Attendant. Ay, my lord, and divers other earls and barons. But the hour is past, and our brother. Master Cook, he makes moan that all be a-getting cold. SCENE IV BECKET 255 Becket. And I make my moan along with him. Cold after warm, winter after summer, and the golden leaves, these earls and barons, that clung to me, frosted off me by the first cold frown of the King. Cold, but look how the table steams, like a heathen altar ; nay, like the altar at Jerusalem. Shall God's good gifts be wasted ? None of them here ! Call in the poor from the streets, and let them feast. Herbert. That is the parable of our blessed Lord. Becket. And why should not the parable of our blessed Lord be acted again ? Call in the poor ! The Church is ever at variance with the kings, and ever at one with the poor. I marked a group of lazars in the marketplace — half-rag, half-sore — beggars, poor rogues (Heaven bless 'em) who never saw nor dreamed of such a banquet. I will amaze them. Call them in, I say. They shall hence- forward be my earls and barons — our lords and masters in Christ Jesus. {Exit Herbert. If the King hold his purpose, I am myself a beggar. Forty thousand marks I forty thousand devils — and these craven bishops ! A Poor M.\n {entering) with his dog. My lord Archbishop, may I come in with my poor friend, my dog? The King's verdurer caught hini a-hunt- ing in the forest, and cut off his paws. The dog followed his calling, my lord. I ha' carried him ever so many miles in my arms, and he licks my face and moans and cries out against the King. Becket. Better thy dog than thee. 'I'he King's ( ourts would use thee worse than thy dog — lliey are too bloody. Were the Church king, it would be otherwise. Poor beast 1 poor beast ! set him down. I will bind u]) his wounds with my napkin. Give liini a bone, give him a bone ! Who misu.ses a dog would misuse a child — they cannot speak for themselves. Past hel]) ! his jiaws arc past help. God help him ! 2 56 BECKET ACT 1 Enter the Beggars {and scaf themselves at ttic Tables). Becket and Herbert 7vait i/p(>i! t'lcin. ist Beggar. Swine, sheep, ox — here's a French supper. When thieves fall out, honest men 2nd Beggar. Is the Archbishop a thief who gives thee thy supper? \st Beggar. Well, then, how does it go? When honest men fall out, thieves — no, it can't be that. 2nd Beggar. Who stole the widow's one sitting hen o' Sunday, when she was at mass ? isf Beggar. Come, come ! thou hadst thy share on her. Sitting hen ! Our Lord Becket's our great sitting-hen cock, and we shouldn't ha' been sitting here if the barons and bishops hadn't been a-sitting on the Archbishop. Becket. Ay, the princes sat in judgment against me, and the Lord hath prepared )Our table — Sederunt priiicipcs, ederimt pauperes. A Voice. Becket, beware of the knife ! Becket. ^\' ho spoke ? ird Beggar. Nobody, my lord. \Vhat's that, my lord ? Becket. Venison. T^rd Beggar. Venison ? Becket. Buck ; deer, as you call it. ird Beggar. King's meal I By the Lord, won't we pray for your lordship ! Becket. And, my children, your prayers will do more for me in the day of peril that dawns darkly and drearily over the house of God — yea, and in the day of judgment also, than the swords of the craven sycophants would have done had they remained true to me whose bread they have partaken. I must leave you to your banquet. Feed, feast, and be merry. Herbert, for the sake of the Church itself, if not for my own, I must fly to France to-night. Come with me. [/i-wV with Herbert. T,rd Begi^ar. Here — all of you — my lord's health {they drink). Well — if that isn't goodly wine \st Beggar. 'I'hen there isn't a goodly wench to serve him with it : they were fighting for her to-day in the street. SCENE IV BECKET 257 3/-^ Beggar. Peace ! \st Beggar. The black sheep baaed to the miller's ewe lamb, The miller's away for to-night. Black sheep, quoth she, too black a sin for me. And what said the black sheep, my masters ? We can make a black sin white. T^rd Beggar. Peace ! \st Beggar. ' Ewe lamb, ewe lamb, I am here by the dam.' But the miller came home that night. And so dusted his back with the meal in his sack, 'I'hat he made the black sheep white. ■^rd Beggar. Be we not of the family ? be we not a-supping with the head of the family ? be we not in my lord's own refractory.? Out from among us; thou art our black sheep. Enter t lie four Knights. Fitzurse. Sheep, said he? And sheep without the shepherd, too. Where is my lord Archbishop? 'J'hou the lustiest and lousiest of this Cain's brotherhood, answer. ^rd Begi^ar. With Cain's answer, my lord. Am I his keeper ? Thou shouldst call him (^lin, not me. Fitzurse. So I do, for he would murder his brother the State. T,rd Beggar {rising and advancing). No, my lord ; but because the Lord hath set his mark upon him that lu) man should nmrder him. Fitzurse. Where is he ? where is he ? T,rd liegi^ar. With Cain belike, in the land of Nod, or in the land of France for aught I knf)w. Fitzurse. I'rance ! Ha! Dc Morville, Tracy, Biilo — fied is he ? Cross swords all of you ! swear to follow him ! Remember the Qui;eii ! \llie four Knights cross their swords. V .s 258 BRCKET ACT I De Brito. They mock us; he is here. \All the Beggars i-ise and advance upon them. Fitzurse. Come, you filthy knaves, let us jiass. ■T^rd Beggar. Nay, my lord, let us pass. We be a-going home after our supper in all humbleness, my lord ; for the Archbishop loves humbleness, my lord ; and though we be fifty to four, we daren't fight you with our crutches, my lord. There now, if thou hast not laid hands upon me ! and my fellows know that I am all one scale like a fish. 1 pray God I haven't given thee my leprosy, my lord. [Fitzurse shrinks from him and atiot/ier presses upon De Brito. De Brito. Away, dog ! ^th Beggar. And I was bit by a mad dog o' Friday, an' I be half dog already by this token, that tho' I can drink wine I cannot bide water, my lord ; and I want to bite, I want to bite, and they do say the very breath catches. De Brito. Insolent clown. Shall I smite him with the edge of the sword ? De Morville. No, nor with the fiat of it either. Smite the shepherd and the sheep are scattered. Smite the sheep and the shepherd will excommunicate thee. De Brito. Yet my fingers itch to beat him into nothing. 5//? Beggar. So do mine, my lord. I was born with it, and sulphur won't bring it out o' me. But for all that the Archbishop washed my feet o' Tuesday. He likes it, my lord. dth Begi^ar. And see here, my lord, this rag fro' the gangrene i' my leg. It's humbling — it smells o' human natur'. Wilt thou smell it, my lord ? for the Archbishop likes the smell on it, my lord ; for I be his lord and master i' Christ, my lord. De Morville. Faugh ! we shall all be poisoned. Let us go. [7%<?l' drn7v bach, VttggdLX?, following. 1th Beggar. My lord, I ha' three sisters a-dying at home o' the sweating sickness. They be dead while I be a-.supping. %th Beggar. And I ha' nine darters i' the spital that be SCENE IV BECKET 259 dead ten times o'er i' one day wi' the putrid fever ; and I bring the taint on it along wi' me, for the Archbishop likes it, my lord. \^Pressing upon t/ie Knights //// they disappear t/i7-(i the door. 2,rd Beggar. Crutches, and itches, and leprosies, and ulcers, and gangrenes, and running sores, praise ye the Lord, for to-night ye have saved our Archbishop ! ist Beggar. I'll go back again. I hain't half done }et. Herbert of Boshatfi {e7itering). My friends, the Arch- bishop bids you good-night. He hath retired to rest, and being in great jeopardy of his life, he hath made his bed between the altars, from whence he sends me to bid you this night pray for him who hath fed you in the wilderness. T^rd Beggar. So we will — so we will, I warrant thee. Becket shall be king, and the Holy Father shall be king, and the world shall live by the King's venison and the bread o' the Lord, and there shall be no more poor for ever. Hurrah ! Vive le Roy ! That's the English of it. ACT II SCENE L— RosAMUNry.s Bower A Garden of F/o7vers. In the midst a bank of wild-flowers 7vith a bench before it. Voices heard singing among the trees Piict 1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine overhead ? 2. No ; but the voice of the deep as it hollows the cliffs of the land. 2 6o BECKET ACT II 1. Is there a voice coming up with the voice of the deep from the strand, One coming up with a song in the flush of the gHmmering red? 2. Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea. 1. Love that can shape or can shatter a Hfe till the life shall have fled ? 2. Nay, let us welcome him, Love that can lift up a life from the dead. 1. Keep him away from the lone little isle. Let us be, let us be. 2. Nay, let him make it his own, let him reign in it — he, it is he, Love that is born of the deep coming up with the sun from the sea. Enter Henry and Rosamund. Rosamund. Be friends with him again — I do beseech thee. Henry. With Becket ? I have but one hour with thee — Sceptre and crozier clashing, and the mitre Grappling the crown — and when I flee from this I^or a gasp of freer air, a breathing-while To rest upon thy bosom and forget him — Why thou, my bird, thou pipest Becket, Becket — Yea, thou my golden dream of Love's own bower. Must be the nightmare breaking on my peace With 'Becket.' Rosamund. O my life's life, not to smile Is all but death to me. My sun, no cloud ! Let there not be one frown in this one hour. Out of the many thine, let this be mine ! Look rather thou all-royal as when first I met thee. IIe7iry. Where was that ? Rosamund. Forgetting that Forgets me too. SCENE I BECKET 261 Henry. Nay, I remember it well. There on the moors. Rosamund. And in a narrow path. A plover flew before thee. Then I saw Thy high black steed among the flaming furze, Like sudden night in the main glare of day. And from that height something was said to me I knew not what. Henry. I ask'd the way. Rosamund. I think so. So I lost mine. Henry. Thou wast too shamed to answer. Rosamund. Too scared — so young ! Henry. The rosebud of my rose ! — Well, well, no more of him — I have sent his folk, His kin, all his belongings, overseas ; Age, orphans, and babe-breasting mothers — all By hundreds to him — there to beg, starve, die — So that the fool King Louis feed them not. The man shall feel that I can strike him yet. Rosamund. Babes, orphans, mothers I is that royal. Sire 1 Henry. And I have been as royal with the Church. He shelter'd in the Abbey of Pontigny. There wore his time studying the canon law To work it against me. But since he cursed My friends at Vcselay, I have let them know, That if they keep him longer as their guest, I scatter all their cowls to all the hells. Rosamund. ,\iul is that altogether royal ? Henry. I'm i tress ! Riisamund. A faithful traitress to thy royal fame. f/enry. Fame ! what care 1 for fame ? Spite, ignorance, envy. Yea, honesty too, paint her what way they will. Fame of to-day is infamy to-morrow ; Infamy of to-day is fame to-morrow ; And round and round again. What matters ? Royal — 262 BECKET ACT II I mean to leave the royalty of my crown Unlessen'd to mine heirs. Rosamund. Still — thy fame too : I say that should be royal. Hejiry. And I say, •I care not for thy saying. Rosamund. And I say, I care not for thy saying. A greater King Than thou art. Love, who cares not for the word. Makes ' care not ' — care. There have I spoken true ? Henty. Care dwell with me for ever, when I cease To care for thee as ever ! Rosamund. No need ! no need ! . . . There is a bench. Come, wilt thou sit ? . . . My bank Of wild-flowers \he sits\ At thy feet ! \She sits at his feet. Henry. I had them clear A royal pleasaunce for thee, in the wood, Not leave these countryfolk at court. Rosamund. I brought them In from the wood, and set them here. I love them More than the garden flowers, that seem at most Sweet guests, or foreign cousins, not half speaking The language of the land. I love t/u;fn too, Yes. But, my liege, I am sure, of all the roses — Shame fall on those who gave it a dog's name — This wild one {pickini^ a briar-rose) — nay, I shall not prick my.self — Is sweetest. Do but smell I Henry. Thou rose of the world ! Thou rose of all the roses ! [^Muttering. I am not worthy of her — this beast-body That Cod has plunged my soul in — I, that taking The Fiend's advantage of a throne, so long Have wander'd among women, — a foul stream Thro' fever-breeding levels, — at her side, Among these happy dales, run clearer, drop SCENE I BECKET 263 The mud I carried, like yon brook, and glass The faithful face of heaven — [^Looking at her, and u nconsciottsly aloud, — thine I thine ! Rosamund. I know it. Henry {muttering). Not hers. We have but one bond, her hate of Becktt. Rosamuftd {ha/f hearing). Nay! nay! what art thou muttering ? / hate Becket ? Henry {muttering). A sane and natural loathing for a soul Purer, and truer and nobler than herself; And mine a bitterer illegitimate hate, A bastard hate born of a former love. Rosatnund. My fault to name him ! O let the hand of one To whom thy voice is all her music, stay it But for a breath. [^Puts lier hand before his lips. Speak only of thy love. Why there— like some loud beggar at thy gate — The happy boldness of this hand hath won it Love's alms, thy kiss {looking at her hand) — Sacred! I II kiss it too. \^Kissing it. There ! wherefore dost thou so peruse it ? Nay, There may be crosses in my line of life. Henry. Not half her hand — no hand to mate with her. If it should come to that. Rosamund. Willi her? witii whom? Jlenry. IJfe on the hand is naked gipsy-stuff; Life on the face, the brows — clear innocence I Vein'd marble — not a furrow yet — and hers [A/uttering. Crost and rccrost, a venomous spickr's web Rosamund {springing up). Out of the cloud, my Sun out of the eclipse Narrowing my golden hour ! fffury. O Rosamund, I would be true —would tell thee all — and something I had to say — I love thee none the less — Which will so vex thee. 264 BECKET ACT It Rosamund. Something against me} Henry. No, no, against myself. Rosamund. I will not hear it. Come, come, mine hour ! I bargain for mine hour. I'll call thee little Geoffrey. Henry. Call him ! Rosaniutid. Ceoffrey ! Enter Geoffrey. Henry. How the boy grows ! Rosamund. Ay, and his brows are thine ; The mouth is only Clifford, my dear father. Geoffrey. My liege, what hast thou brought me ? Henry. Venal imp ! What say'st thou to tlie Chancellorship of England ? Geoffrey. O yes, my liege. Henry. ' O yes, my liege ! ' He speaks As if it were a cake of gingerbread. Dost thou know, my boy, what it is to be Chancellor of England ? Geoffrey. Something good, or thou wouldst not give it me. Henry. It is, my boy, to side with the King when Chancellor, and then to be made Archbishoj) and go against the King who made him, and turn the world upside down. Geoffrey. I won't have it then. Nay, but give it me, and I promise thee not to turn the world upside down. Henry {j^iving him a ball). Here is a ball, my boy, thy world, to turn anyway and play with as thou wilt^which is more than I can do with mine. Go try it, play. \_Exit Geoffrey. A pretty lusty boy. Rosafnund. So like to thee ; Like to be likcr. Henry. Not in my chin, I hope ! That threatens double. SCENE I BECKET 265 Rosamund. Thou art manlike perfect. Henry. Ay, ay, no doubt ; and were I humpt behind, Thou'dst say as much — the goodly way of women Who love, for which I love them. May God grant No ill befall or him or thee when I Am gone. Rosamund. Is he thy enemy ? Henry. He? who? ay! Rosaf/iund. Thine enemy knows the secret of my bower. Henry. And I could tear him asunder with wild horses Before he would betray it. Nay — no fear ! More like is he to excommunicate me. Rosamund. And I would creep, crawl over knife-edge flint Barefoot, a hundred leagues, to stay his hand Before he flash'd the bolt. Henry. And when he flash'd it Shrink from me, like a daughter of the Church. Rosamund. Ay, but he will not. Henry. Ay ! but if he did ? Rosamund. O then ! O then ! I almost fear to say That my poor heretic heart would excommunicate His excommunication, clinging to thee Closer than ever. Henry {raisin}^ Rosamund and h'ss/nx' lier). My brave- hearted Rf)se ! Hath he ever been to see thee? Rosamund. Here ? not he. And it is so lonely here — no confessf)r. Jfeurv. Thou shalt confess all thy sweet sins to me. Rosamund. Besides, we came away in such a heat, I brought not ev'n my crucifix. Henry. Take this. \Givin!^ her (he Crucifix which Eleanor i^aTc him. Rosamund. O beautiful ! May I have it as mine, till mine Be mine again ? 266 BECKET act n Henry {thrmving it round her neck). Thine — as I am — till death ! Rosamund. Death? no! I'll have it with me in my shroud, And wake with it, and show it to all the Saints. Henry. Nay — I must go ; but when thou layest thy lip To this, remembering One who died for thee, Remember also one who lives for thee Out there in France ; for I must hence to brave The Pope, King Louis, and this turbulent priest. Rosamund {kneeling). O by thy love for me, all mine for thee, Fling not thy soul into the flames of hell : I kneel to thee — be friends with him again. Henry. Look, look I if little Geoffrey have not tost His ball into the brook ! makes after it too To find it. Why, the child will drown himself. Rosanumd. Geoffrey 1 Geoffrey ! \Exeunt. SCENE IL— MONTMIRAIL ' The Meeting of the Kings.' John of Oxford and Henry. Crowd in the distafice. John of Oxford. You have not crown'd young Henry yet, my liege ? Henry. Crown'd ! by God's eyes, we will not have him crown'd. I spoke of late to the boy, he answer'd me, As if he wore the crown already — No, We will not have him crown'd. 'Tis true what Becket told me, that the mother Would make him play his kingship against mine. John of Oxford. Not have him crown'd ? Henry. Not now — not yet ! and J^ecket — Becket should crown him were he crown'd at all : But, since we would be lord of our own manor, t SCENE II BECKET 267 This Canterbury, like a wounded deer, Has fled our presence and our feeding-grounds. John of Oxford. Cannot a smooth tongue lick him whole again To serve your will ? Henry. He hates my will, not me. John of Oxford. There's York, my liege. Henry. But England scarce would hold Young Henry king, if only crown'd by York, And that would stilt up York to twice himself. There is a movement yonder in the crowd — See if our pious — what shall I call him, John ? — Husband-in-law, our smooth-shorn suzerain, Be yet within the field. John of Oxford. I will. \]^xit. Henry. Ay ! Ay ! Mince and go back ! his politic Holiness Hath all but climb'd the Roman perch again. And we shall hear him presently with clapt wing Crow over Barbarossa — at last tongue-free To blast my realms with excommunication And interdict. I must patch up a peace — !K piece in this long-tugged-at, threadbare-worn (Quarrel of Crown and Church — to rend again. His Holiness cannot steer straight thro' shoals, Nor I. The citizen's heir hath conquer'd me I''(;r the moment. So we make our peace with liim. Enter Louis. Brother of France, what shall be done with Jieckct ? Louis. The holy Thomas ! Brother, you have traffick'd Between the Kmpcror and tin- I'o|)i-, between 'i'hc Pope and Antipojjc — a perilous game For men to play with (»od. Henry. Ay, ay, good brother, They call you the Monk-King. 268 BECKET ACT II Louis. Who calls me ? she That was my wife, now yours ? You have her Duchy, The point you aim'd at, and pray God she prove True wife to you. You have had the better of us In secular matters. Henry. Come, confess, good brother, You did your l)est or worst to keep her Duchy. Only the golden Leopard printed in it Such hold-fast claws that you perforce again Shrank into France. Tut, tut ! did we convene This conference but to babble of our wives ? They are plagues enough in-door. Louis. We fought in the East, .\nd felt the sun of Antioch scald our mail. And push'd our lances into Saracen hearts. We never hounded on the State at home To spoil the Church. Henry. How should you see this rightly ? Louis. Well, well, no more ! I am proud of my ' Monk-King,' Whoever named me ; and, brother. Holy Church May rock, but will not wreck, nor our Archbishop Stagger on the slope decks for any rough sea Blown by the breath of kings. We do forgive you For aught you wrought against us. [Henry holds up his hand. Nay, I pray you, Do not defend yourself. You will do much To rake out all old dying heats, if you, .\t my requesting, will but look inlo The wrongs you did him, and restore his kin. Reseat him on his throne of Canterbury, Be, both, the friends you were. Henry. The friends we were I Co-mates we were, and had our s[)ort together, Co-kings we were, and made the laws together. The world had never seen the like before. You are too cold to know the fashion of it. SCENE II BECKET 269 Well, well, we will be gentle with him, gracious — Most gracious. Enter Becket, after him, John of Oxford, Roger of York, Gilbert Foliot, De Broc, Fitzurse, etc. Only that the rift he made May close between us, here I am wholly king, The word should come from him. Becket {kneeling). Then, my dear liege, I here deliver all this controversy Into your royal hands. Henry. Ah, Thomas, Thomas, Thou art thyself again, Thomas again. Becket (risiftg). Saving God's honour ! Henry. Out upon thee, man ! Saving the Devil's honour, his yes and no. Knights, bishops, earls, this London spawn — by Mahound, I had sooner have been born a Mussulman — Less clashing with their priests — I am half-way down the slope — will no man stay me? I dash myself to ])ieces — I stay myself— Puff — it is gone. You, Master Becket, yuu That owe to me ycnir power over me — Nay, nay — Brother of France, you have taken, cherish'd him Who thief-like (led from his own church by night, No man pursuing. I would have had him back. Take heed he do not turn and rend you too : For whatsoever may displease him — th.it Is clean against God's honour — a shift, a trick Whereby to challenge, face me out of all My regal rights. Yet, yet — that noiK; may dream I go against God's honour — ay, or himself In any reason, choose A hundred of the wisest heads from England, A hundred, too, from Normandy and Anjoii : Let these decide on what was customary 270 BECKET ACT II In olden days, and all the Church of France Decide on their decision, 1 am content. More, what the mightiest and the holiest Of all his predecessors may have done Ev'n to the least and meanest of my own, Let him do the same to me — I am content, Louis. Ay, ay ! the King humbles himself enough. Becket. {Aside) Words ! he will wriggle out of them like an eel When the time serves. [Aloud.) My lieges and my lords. The thanks of Holy Church are due to those That went before us for their work, which we Inheriting reap an easier harvest. Yet Louis. My lord, will you be greater than the Saints, More than St. Peter ? whom what is it you doubt ? Behold your peace at hand. Becket. I say that those Who went before us did not wholly clear The deadly growths of earth, which Hell's own heat So dwelt on that they rose and darken'd Heaven. Yet they did much. Would (jod they had torn up all By the hard root, which shoots again ; our trial Had so been less ; but, seeing they were men Defective or excessive, must we follow All that they overdid or underdid ? Nay, if they were defective as St. Peter Denying Christ, who yet defied the tyrant. We hold by his defiance, not his defect. good son Louis, do not counsel me, No, to suppress Cod's honour for the sake Of any king that breathes. No, (iod forbid! Henry. No I Cod forbid ! and turn me Mussulman ! No God but one, and Mahound is his prophet. But for your Christian, look you, you shall have None other Cod but me — me, Thomas, son Of Gilbert Becket, London merchant. Out! 1 hear no more. [^Exit. Louis. Our brother's anger puts him, SCENE II BECKET 271 Poor man, beside himself— not wise. My lord, We have daspt your cause, believing that our brother Had wrong'd you ; but this day he proffer'd peace. You will have war; and tho' we grant the Church King over this world's kings, yet, my good lord. We that are kings are something in this world, And so we pray you, draw yourself from under The wings of France. We shelter you no more. \Exit. John of Oxford. I am glad that France hath scouted him at last : I told the Pope what manner of man he was. \Exit. Roger of York. Yea, since he flouts the will of either realm. Let either cast him away like a dead dog ! \Exit. Fallot. Yea, let a stranger spoil his heritage, And let another take his bishoprick ! \Exlt. De Broc. Our castle, my lord, belongs to Canterbury. I pray you come and take it. \ILxlL Fltzurse. When you will. \Exlt. Becket. Cursed be John of Oxford, Roger of York, .\nd Ciilbert l-'oliot ! cursed those De Brocs That hold our Saltwood Castle from our see ! Cursed Fitzurse, and all the rest of them That sow this hate between my lord and me ! Voices from the Crowd. Blessed be the Lord Arch- bishop, who hath withstood two Kings to their faces for the honour of Cod. Becket. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, praise ! I thank you, sons ; when kings but hold by crowns. The crowd that hungers for a crown in Heaven Is my true king. Ifcrlh'rt. Thy true King bad tine be A fisher of men ; thou hast them in thy net. Becket. I am too like the King here; both of us Too headlong for our office. Better have been A fisherman at P.osham, my good Herbert, Thy birthplace — the sea-creek — the petty rill 272 BECKET /UT II That falls into it — the green field— the gray church — The simple lobster-basket, and the mesh — The more or less of daily labour done — The pretty gaping bills in the home-nest Piping for bread — the daily want sup[)lied — The daily pleasure to supply it. Herbert. Ah, Thomas, You had not borne it, no, not for a day. Becket. Well, maybe, no. Herbert. But bear with Walter Map, For here he comes to comment on the time. Enter Walter Map. Walter Map. Pity, my lord, that you have quenched the warmth of France toward you, tho' His Holiness, after much smouldering and smoking, be kindled again upon your quarter. Becket. Ay, if he do not end in smoke again. Walter Map. My lord, the fire, when first kindled, said to the smoke, 'Go up, my son, straight to Heaven.' And the smoke said, ' I go ; ' but anon the North-east took and turned him South-west, then the South-west turned him North-east, and so of the other winds ; but it was in him to go up straight if the time had been quieter. Your lordship affects the unwavering perpendicular ; but His Holiness, pushed one way by the Empire and another by England, if he move at all. Heaven stay him, is fain to diagonalise. Herbert. Diagonalise ! thf)U art a word-monger. Our Thomas never will diagonalise. Thou art a jester and a verse-maker. Diagonalise ! Walter Map. Is the world any the worse for my verses if the Latin rhymes be rolled out from a full mouth ? or any harm done to the people if my jest be in defence of the Truth ? Becket Ay, if the jest be so done that the people SCENE II BECKET 273 Delight to wallow in the grossness of it, Till Truth herself be shamed of her defender. Non defensoribus isfis, Walter Map. Walter Map. Is that my case? so if the city be sick, and I cannot call the kennel sweet, your lordsliij) would suspend me from verse-writing, as you suspended yourself after sub-writing to the customs. Becket. I pray God pardon mine infirmity. Walter Map. Nay, my lord, take heart ; for tho' you suspended yourself, the Pope let you down again ; and tho' you suspend Foliot or another, the Pope will not leave them in suspense, for the Pope himself is always in suspense, like Mahound's coffin hung between heaven and earth — always in suspense, like the scales, till the weight of Germany or the gold of England brings one of them down to the dust — always in suspense, like the tail of the horologe — to and fro — tick-tack — we make the time, we keep the time, ay, and we serve the time ; for I have heard say that if you boxed the Pope's ears with a purse, you might stagger him, but he would pocket the purse. No saying of mine — Jocelyn of Salisbury. But the King hath bought half the College of Redhats. He warmed to you to-day, and you have chilled him again. Yet you both love God. Agree with him (juickly again, even for the sake of the Church. My one grain of good counsel which you will not swallow. I hate a split between old friendships as I hate the dirty gap in the face of a (Jistcrcian monk, that will swallow anything. Farewell. \K.xit. Jh'cket. Map scoffs at Rome. I nil Init hold with Map. Save for myself \w Rome were left in England, All had been his. Why should this Rome, this Rome, Still choose Barabbas rather than the Christ, Absolve the left hand thief and damn the right ? Take fees of tyranny, wink at sacrilege, ^Vhich even Peter had not dared ? condemn The blameless exile ? — 2 74 BECKET ACT II Herbert. Thee, thou holy Thomas ! I would that thou hadst been the Holy Father. Becket. I would have done my most to keep Rome holy, I would have made Rome know she still is Rome — Who stands aghast at her eternal self And shakes at mortal kings — her vacillation, Avarice, craft — O God, how many an innocent Has left his bones upon the way to Rome Unwept, uncared for. Yea — on mine own self The King had had no power except for Rome. 'Tis not the King who is guilty of mine exile, But Rome, Rome, Rome ! Herbert. My lord, I see this Louis Returning, ah ! to drive thee from his realm. Becket. He said as much before. Thou art no prophet, Nor yet a prophet's son. Herbert. AV'hatever he say, Deny not thou (rod's honour for a king. The King looks troubled. Re-enter King Louis. Louis. My dear lord Archbishop, I learn but now that those poor Poitevins, That in thy cause were stirr'd against King Henry, Have been, despite his kingly i)romise given To our own self of pardon, evilly used And put to pain. I have lost all trust in him. The Church alone hath eyes — and now I see That I was blind — suffer the phrase — surrendering God's honour to the pleasure of a man. Forgive me and absolve me, holy father. \^Kneels. Becket. Son, I absolve thee in the name of (iod. Louis {rising). Return to Sens, where we will care for you. The wine and wealth of all our P>ance are yours ; Rest in our realm, and be at peace with all. \Exeunt. SCENE II BECKET 275 Voices from t/ie Croivd. Long live the good King Louis ! God bless the great Archbishop ! Re-enter Henry and John of Oxford. Henry {looking after V^\x\g Louis a«^ Becket). Ay, there they go — both backs are turn'd to me — Why then I strike into my former path For England, crown young Henry there, and make Our waning Eleanor all but love me ! John, Thou hast served me heretofore with Rome — and well. They call thee John the Swearer. John of Oxford. For this reason, That, being ever duteous to the King, I evermore have sworn upon his side, And ever mean to do it. Henry (claps him on the shoulder). Honest John ! To Rome again ! the storm begins again. .Spare not thy tongue ! be lavish with our coins, Threaten our junction with the Emperor — flatter And fright the Pope — bribe all the Cardinals — leave I^teran and Vatican in one dust of gold — Swear and unswear, state and misstate thy best ! I go to have young Henry crown'd by York. ACT III SCENE L— Tm T'.-.wki^ Hrnrv and Rosamund. Ifenry. All that you say is just. I cannot answer it Till better limes, when I shall put away Rosamund. What will you put away ? 76 BECKET Acr III Henry. That which you ask me Till better times. Let it content you now There is no woman that I love so well. Rosamund. No woman but should be content with that— Henry. And one fair child to fondle ! Rosamund. O yes, the child We waited for so long — heaven's gift at last — And how you doated on him then I To-day I almost fear'd your kiss was colder — yes — But then the child is such a child. What chance That he should ever spread into the man Here in our silence ? I have done my best I am not learn'd. Henry. I am the King, his father, And I will look to it. Is our secret ours? Have you had any alarm? no stranger? Rosamund. No. The warder of the bower hath given himself Of late to wine. I sometimes think he sleeps When he should watch ; and yet what fear? the people Believe the wood enchanted. No one come.s,. Nor foe nor friend ; his fond excess of wine Springs from the loneliness of my poor bower, Which weighs even on me. Henry. Yet these tree-towers, Their long bird-echoing minster-aisles,-— the voice Of the perpetual brook, these golden slopes Of Solomon-shaming flowers — that was your saying, All pleased you so at first. Rosamund. Not now so much. My Anjou bower was .scarce as beautiful. But you were oftener there. I have none but you. The brook's voice is not yours, and no flower, not The sun himself, should he be changed to one, Could shine away the darkness of that gap Left by the lack of love. Henry. The lack of love ! SCENE I BECKET 277 Rosamutid. Of one we love. Nav, I would not be bold, Yet hoped ere this you might \Looks earnestly at him. Henry. Anything further ? Kusamiind. Only my best bower-maiden died of late, And that old priest whom John of Salisbury trusted Hath sent another. Henry. Secret ? Kosamiifid. I but ask'd her One question, and she primm'd her mouth and put Her hands together — thus — and said, God help her, That she was sworn to silence. Henry. What did you ask her ? Rosamund. Some daily something-nothing. Henry. Secret, then ? Rosamund. I do not love her. Must you go, my liege. So suddenly ? Henry. I came to England suddenly, And on a great occasion sure to wake As great a wrath in Becket Rosamund. Always Becket ! He always comes between us. Henry. — And to meet it I needs must leave as suddenly. It is raining. Put on your hood and see me to the bounds. \Exeunt. Margery {singing behind scene). Babble in bower Under the rose ! Bee mustn't buzz, Whoop — but lie know.s. Kiss me, little one, Nobody near ! (irasshopper, grasshopper. Whoop — you can liear. 278 , BECKET act in Kiss in the bower, Tit on the tree ! Bird mustn't tell, Whoop — he can see. Enter Margery. I ha' been but a week here and I ha' seen what I ha' seen, for to be sure it's no more than a week since our old Father Philip that has confessed our mother for twenty years, and she was hard put to it, and to speak truth, nigh at the end of our last crust, and that mouldy, and she cried out on him to put me forth in the world and to make me a woman of the world, and to win my own bread, whereupon he asked our mother if I could keep a quiet tongue i' my head, and not speak till I was spoke to, and I answered for myself that I never spoke more than was needed, and he told me he would advance me to the service of a great lady, and took me ever so far away, and gave me a great pat o' the cheek for a pretty wench, and said it was a pity to blindfold such eyes as mine, and such to be sure they be, but he blinded 'em for all that, and so brought me no-hows as I may say, and the more shame to him after his promise, into a garden and not into the world, and bad me whatever I saw not to speak one word, an' it 'ud be well for me in the end, for there were great ones who would look after me, and to be sure I ha' seen great ones to-day — and then not to speak one word, for that's the rule o' the garden, tho' to be sure if I had been Eve i' the garden I shouldn't ha' minded the apple, for what's an apple, you know, save to a child, and I'm no child, but more a woman o' the world than my lady here, and I ha' seen what I ha' seen — tho' to be sure if I hadn't minded it we should all on us ha' had to go, bless the Saints, wi' bare backs, but the backs 'ud ha' countenanced one another, and belike it 'ud ha' been always summer, and anyhow I am as well-shaped as my lady here, and I ha' seen what I ha' seen, and what's the good SCENE I BECKET 279 of my talking to myself, for here comes my lady {e77ter Rosamund), and, my lady, tho' I shouldn't speak one word, I wish you joy o' the King's brother. Rosamund. \\\\a.\. is it you mean ? Margery. I mean your goodman, your husband, my lady, for I saw your ladyship a-parting wi' him even now i' the coppice, when I was a-getting o' bluebells for your ladyship's nose to smell on— and I ha' seen the King once at Oxford, and he's as like the King as fingernail to finger- nail, and I thought at first it was the King, only you know the King's married, for King Louis Rosamund. Married ! Margery. Years and years, my lady, for her husband, King Louis Rosamund. Hush ! Margery. — And I thought if it were the King's brother he had a better bride than the King, for the people do say that his is bad beyond all reckoning, and Rosamund. The people lie. Margery. Very like, my lady, but most on 'em know an honest woman and a lady when they see her, and besides they say, she makes songs, and that's against her, for I never knew an honest woman that could make songs, tho' to be sure our mother 'ill sing mc old songs by the hour, but then, (lod help her, she had 'cm from her mother, and her mother from her mother back and back for ever so long, but none on 'em ever made songs, and they were all honest. Rosamund. Co, you shall tell me of her some other timf. Margery. There's none sf) nuich tf) tell on her, my lady, only she kept the seventh commandment better than some I know on, or I couldn't look your ladyship i' the face, and she brew'd the best ale in all (ilo'ster, that is to say in her time when she had the 'Crown.' Rosamund. The crown I wIkj ? Margery. Mother. 2 So BECKET ACT HI Rosamund. I mean her whom you call — fancy — my husband's brother's wife. Mar^^ery. Oh, Queen Eleanor. Yes, my lady ; and tho' I be sworn not to speak a word, I can tell you all about her, if Rosa//ii(/id. No word now. I am faint and sleepy. Leave me. Nay — go. What ! will you anger me ? \_Exit Margery. He charged me not to question any of those About me. Have I ? no ! she question'd fue. Did she not slander him ? Should she stay here ? May she not tempt me, being at my side. To question her? Nay, can I send her hence Without his kingly leave ? I am in the dark. I have lived, poor bird, from cage to cage, and known Nothing but him — happy to know no more, So that he loved me — and he loves me — yes. And bound me by his love to secrecy Till his own time. Eleanor, Eleanor, have I Not heard ill things of her in France ? Oh, she's The Queen of France. I see it — some confusion, Some strange mistake. I did not hear aright, Myself confused with parting from the King. Margery {behind scene). Bee mustn't buzz, Whoop — but he knows. Rosamund. Yet her — what her? he hinted of some her — When he was here before — Something that would displease me. Hath he stray'd From love's clear path into the common bush. .\nd, being scratch'd, returns to his true rose. Who hath not thorn enough to prick him for it, Ev'n with a word ? Margery {behind scene). Bird mustn't tell. Whoop — he can see. Rosamund. I would not hear him. Nay — there's more — he frown'd SCENE I BECKET 281 ' No mate for her, if it should come to that ' — To that — to what ? Margery {behind scene). Whoop — but he knows, Whoop — but he knows. Rosamund. O God 1 some dreadful truth is breaking on me — Some dreadful thing is coming on me. [Enter Geoffrey. Geoffrey ! Geoffrey. ^Vhat are you crying for, when the sun shines ? Rosamund. Hath not thy father left us to ourselves ? Geoffrey. Ay, but he's taken the rain with him. I hear Margery : I'll go play with her. [Exit Geoffrey. Rosamund. Rainbow, stay. Gleam upon gloom, Bright as my dream. Rainbow, stay ! But it passes away, Gloom upon gleam, Dark as my doom — O rainbow stay. SCI'^NE II. — OursiuE thk Woods near Rosamund's BOWKK Eleanor. Fitzurse. EleaJior. Up from the .salt lips of the land wc two Have track'd the King to this dark inland wood ; And somewhere hereabouts he vanish 'd. Here His turtle builds ; his exit is our adit : Watch ! he will out again, and presently, .Seeing he must to Westminster and crown Young Henry there to-morrow. Jutzurse. W'c have watch'd 282 BECKET ACT 111 So long in vain, he hath pass'd out again, And on the other side. [J great horn ivinded. Hark ! Madam ! Eleanor. Ay, How ghostly sounds that horn in the black wood ! \A coiaitry man flying. Whither away, man ? what are you flying from ? Countryman. The witch ! the witch ! she sits naked by a great heap of gold in the middle of the wood, and when the horn sounds she comes out as a wolf. Ciet you hence ! a man passed in there to-day : I holla'd to him, but he didn't hear me : he'll never out again, the witch has got him. I daren't stay — I daren't stay ! Eleanor. Kind of the witch to give thee warning tho'. \^Man flies. Is not this wood-witch of the rustic's fear Our woodland Circe that hath witch'd the King? \_Horn sounded. Another flying. Fitzurse. Again ! stay, fool, and tell me why thou fliest. Countryman. Fly thou too. The King keeps his forest head of game here, and when that horn sounds, a score of wolf-dogs are let loose that will tear thee piece- meal. Linger not till the third horn. Fly ! \Exit. Eleanor. This is the likelier tale. We have hit the place. Now let the King's fine game look to itself. \Horn. Fitzurse. Again ! — .•\nd far on in the dark heart of the wood I hear the yelping of the hounds of hell. Eleanor. I have my dagger here to still their throats. Fitzurse. Nay, Madam, not to-night — the night is falling. What can be done to-night ? Eleanor. Well — well — away. SCENE III BECKET 2S3 SCENE III. — Traitor's Meadow at Freteval. Pavilions and Tents of the English and French Baronage. Becket and Herbert of Bosham. Becket. See here ! Herbert. What's here ? Becket. A notice from the priest, To whom our John of Salisbury committed The secret of the bower, that our wolf-Queen Is prowling round the fold. I should be back In England ev'n for this. Herbert. These are by-things In the great cause. Becket. The by-things of the Lord Are the wrong'd innocences that will cry From all the hidden by-ways of the world In the great day against the wronger. I know Thy meaning. Perish she, I, all, before The Church should suffer wrong ! Herbert. Do you see, my lord, There is the King talking with Waller Map? Becket. He hath the Pope's last letters, and they threaten The immediate thunder-blast of interdict : Yet he can scarce be touching upon those, Or scarce would smile that fashion. Herbert. Winter sunshine ! Beware f>f opening out thy bosom to it, Lest thou, myself, and all thy flock should catch An after ague-fit of trembling. Look ! He bows, he bares his head, he is coming hither. Still with a smile. 284 BECKET act hi Enter King Henry rt«^ Walter Map. Henry. We have had so many hours together, Thomas, So many happy hours alone together. That I would speak with you once more alone. Becket. My liege, your will and happiness are mine. \Exeutit King and Becket. Herbert. The same smile still. Walter Map. Do you see that great black cloud that hath come over the sun and cast us all into shadow ? Herbert. And feel it too. Walter Map. And see you yon side -beam that is forced from under it, and sets the church-tower over there all a-h ell-fire as it were ! Herbert. Ay. Walter Map. It is this black, bell -silencing, anti- marrying, burial-hindering interdict that hath squeezed out this side-smile upon Canterbury, whereof may come conflagration. Were I Thomas, I wouldn't trust it. Sudden change is a house on sand ; and tho' I count Henry honest enough, yet when fear creeps in at the front, honesty steals out at the back, and the King at last is fairly scared by this cloud — this interdict. I have been more for the King than the Church in this matter — yea, even for the sake of the Church : for, truly, as the case stood, you had safelier have slain an archbishop than a she-goat : but our recoverer and upholder of customs hath in this crowning of young Henry by York and T>ondon so violated the immemorial usage of the Church, that, like the gravedigger's child I have heard of, trying to ring the bell, he hath half-hanged himself in the rope of the Church, or rather pulled all the Church with the Holy Father astride of it down upon his own head. Herbert. Were you there ? Walter Map. In the church rope? — no. I was at the crowning, for I have pleasure in the pleasure of crowds, and to read the faces of men at a great show. SCENE III BECKET 28^ Herbert. And how did Roger of York comport him- self? Walter Map. As magnificently and archiepiscopally as our Thomas would have done : only there was a dare- devil in his eye — I should say a dare-Becket. He thought less of two kings than of one Roger the king of the occasion. Foliot is the holier man, perhaps the better. Once or twice there ran a twitch across his face as who should say what's to follow ? but Salisbury was a calf cowed by Mother Church, and every now and then glancing about him like a thief at night when he hears a door open in the house and thinks ' the master.' Herbert. And the father-king ? Walter Map. The father's eye was so tender it would have called a goose off the green, and once he strove to hide his face, like the Greek king when his daughter was sacrificed, but he 'thought better of it : it was but the sacrifice of a kingdom to his son, a smaller matter; but as to the young crownling himself, he looked so malapert in the eyes, that had I fathered him I had given him more of the rod than the sceptre. Then followed the thunder of the captains and the shouting, and so we came on to the banquet, from whence there puffed out such an incen.se of unctuosity into the nostrils of our (iods of Cluircli and State, that Lucullus or Apicius might have sniffed it in their Hades of heathenism, so that the smell of their own roast had not come across it Herbert. Map, tho' you make your butt too big, you overshoot it. Walter Map. — Kor as to the fish, they de-miracled the miraculous draught, and might have sunk a navy Herbert. There again, Ooliasing and (ioliathising ! Walter Map. — .And as for the flesh at table, a whole Peter's sheet, with all manner of game, and four-footed things, and fowls Jlerbert. And all manner of creeping things too? Walter Afap. — Well, there were Abbots— but they did not bring their women ; and so we were dull enough at 286 BECKET ACT III first, but in the end we flourished out into a merriment ; for the old King would act servitor and hand a dish to his son ; whereupon my Lord of York — his fine-cut face bowing and beaming with all that courtesy which hath less loyalty in it than the backward scrape of the clown's heel — 'great honour,' says he, 'from the King's self to the King's son.' Did you hear the young King's quip ? Herbert. No, what was it ? Walter Map. Glancing at the days when his father was only Earl of Anjou, he answered : — ' Should not an earl's son wait on a king's son ? ' And when the cold corners of the King's mouth began to thaw, there was a great motion of laughter among us, part real, part childlike, to be freed from the dulness — part royal, for King and kingling both laughed, and so we could not but laugh, as by a royal necessity — part childlike again — when we felt we had laughed too long and could not stay ourselves — many midriff- shaken even to tears, as springs gush out after earthquakes — but from those, as I said before, there may come a conflagration — tho', to keep the figure moist and make it hold water, I should say rather, the lacrymation of a lamentation ; but look if Thomas have not flung himself at the King's feet. They have made it up again— for the moment. Herbert. Thanks to the blessed Magdalen, whose day it is. Re-enter Henry and Becket. {Durifig their conference tfie B.vRONS and Bi.shops of Fr.\nce and England come in at hack of stage.) Becket. Ay, King! for in thy kingdom, as thou knowest, The .spouse of the Great King, thy King, hath fallen — The daughter of Zion lies beside the way — The priests of Baal tread her underfoot — The golden ornaments are stolen from her Henry. Have I not promised to restore her, Thomas, And send thee back again to Canterbury ? SCENE III BECKET 287 Becket. Send back again those exiles of my kin Who wander famine-wasted thro' the world. Henry. Have I not promised, man, to send them back ? Becket. Yet one thing more. Thou hast broken thro' the pales Of privilege, crowning thy young son by York, London and Salisbury — not Canterbury. Henry. York crown'd the Conqueror — not Canterbury. Becket. There was no Canterbury in William's time. Henry. But Hereford, you know, crown'd the first Henry. Becket. But Anselm crown'd this Henry o'er again. Henry. And thou shalt crown my Henry o'er again. Becket. And is it then with thy good-will that I Proceed against thine evil councillors. And hurl the dread ban of the Church on those Who made the second mitre play the first, And acted me ? Henry. Well, well, then — have thy way ! It may be they were evil councillors. What more, my lord Archbishop ? What more, Thomas ? I make thee full amends. Say all thy say, But blaze not out before the Frenchmen here. Becket. More ? Nothing, so thy promise be thy deed. Henry {/lo/dins^ nut his hand). Cive nie tliy hand. My I/)rds of France and ICngland, My friend of Canterbury and myself .•\re now once more at perfect amity. Unkingly should I be, and most unknightly, Not striving still, however much in vain. To rival him in Christian charily. Herbert. All praise to Heaven, and sweet St. Magdalen ! //enrv. And so farewell until wc meet in Ijigland. Becket. \ fear, iny liege, wc may not meet in luigland. Henry. How, do you make me a traitor ? Becket. No, indeed ! That be far from thee. 288 BECKET ACT III Henry. Come, slay with us, then. Before you part for England. Becket. I am bound For that one hour to stay with good King Louis, Who heipt me when none else. Herbert. He said thy life Was not one hour's worth in England save King Henry gave thee first the kiss of peace. Henry. He said so ? Louis, did he ? look you, Herbert, When I was in mine anger with King Louis, I sware I would not give the kiss of peace, Not on French ground, nor any ground but English, Where his cathedral stands. Mine old friend, Thomas, I would there were that perfect trust between u.s. That health of heart, once ours, ere Pope or King Had come between us! Even now — who knows? — I might deliver all things to thy hand — If . . . but I say no more . . . farewell, my lord. Becket. Farewell, my liege ! \Exit Henry, then the Barons and Bishops. U alter Map. There again ! when the full fruit of the royal promise might have dropt into thy mouth hadst thou but opened it to thank him. Becket. He fenced his royal promise with an if. II alter Map. And is the King's // too high a stile for your lordship to overstep and come at all things in the next field ? Becket. Ay, if this // be like the Devil's ' // Thou wilt fall down and worship me.' Herbert. Oh, Thomas, I could fall down and worship thee, my Thomas, For thou hast trodden this wine-press alone. Becket. Nay, of the people there are many with me. Walter Map. I am not altogether with you, my lord, the' I am none of those that would raise a .storm between you, lest ye should draw together like two ships in a calm. SCENE III BECKET 289 You wrong the King : he meant what he said to-day. Who shall vouch for his to-morrows ? One word further. Doth not the /e7e'fiess of anything make the fulness of it in estimation ? Is not virtue prized mainly for its rarity and great baseness loathed as an exception : for were all, my lord, as noble as yourself, who would look up to you ? and were all as base as — who shall I say — Fitzurse and his following — who would look down upon them ? My lord, you have put so many of the King's household out of communion, that they begin to smile at it. Becket. At their peril, at their peril Walter Map. — For tho' the drop may hollow out the dead stone, doth not the living skin thicken against perpetual whippings ? This is the second grain of good counsel I ever proffered thee, and so cannot suffer by the rule of frequency. Have I sown it in salt ? I trust not, for before God I promise you the King hath many more wolves than he can tame in his woods of England, and if it suit their purpose to howl for the King, and you still move against him, you may have no less than to die for it ; but God and his free wind grant your lordship a happy home-return and the King's kiss of peace in Kent. I'^are- well ! I must follow the King. \Exit. Herbert. Ay, and I warrant the customs. Did the King Speak of the customs ? Becket. No ! — 'I'o die for it — I live to die for it, I die to live for it. The State will die, the Church can never die. The King's not like to die for that which dies; Hut I must die for that which never dies. It will be so— my visions in the Lord: It must be so, my friend ! th(j wolves of England Must murder her one shepherd, that the shec[) May feed in peace. False figure, Maj) would say. Earths falses are heaven's truths. And uhen my voice Is martyr'd mute, and this man disappeans, That perfect trust may come again between us, V u 290 BECKET A( T IV And there, tliere, there, not here I shall rejoice To find my stray sheep back within the fold. The crowd are scattering, let us move away ! And thence to England. [Exeunt. ACT IV SCENE I. — The Outskirts of the Bower Geojfrey (comittg out of the wood). Light again ! light again ! Margery ? no, tliat's a finer thing there. How it glitters ! Eleanor (efttering). Come to me, little one. How camest thou hither ? Geoffrey. On iny legs. Eleanor. And mighty pretty legs too. Thou art the prettiest child I ever saw. Wilt thou love me ? Geoffrey. No ; I only love mother. Eleanor. Ay ; and who is thy mother ? Geoffrey. They call her But she lives secret, you see. Eleanor. Why ? Geoffrey. Don't know why. Eleanor. Ay, but some one comes to see her now and then. Who is he ? Geoffrey. Can't tell. Eleanor. What does she call him ? Geoffrey. My liege. Eleanor. Pretty one, how camest thou ? Geoffrey. There was a bit of yellow silk here and there, and it looked pretty like a glowworm, and I thought if I followed it I should find the fairies. Eleanor. I am the fairy, pretty one, a good fairy to thy mother. Take me to her. Geoffrey. There are good fairies and bad fairies, and sometimes she cries, and can't sleep sound o' nights because of the bad fairies. SCENE I BECKET 291 Ekatior. She shall cry no more ; she shall sleep sound enough if thou wilt take me to her. I am her good fairy. Geoffrey. But you don't look like a good fairy. Mother does. You are not pretty, like mother. Eleanor. We can't all of us be as pretty as thou art — (aside) little bastard. Come, here is a golden chain I will give thee if thou wilt lead me to thy mother. Geoffrey. No — no gold. Mother says gold spoils all. Love is the only gold. Eleanor. I love thy mother, my pretty boy. Show me where thou earnest out of the wood. Geoffrey. By this tree ; but I don't know if I can find the way back again. Eleanor. Where's the warder ? Geoffrey. Very bad. Somebody struck Iiini. Eleanor. Ay ? who was that ? Geoffrey. Can't tell. But I heard say he had had a stroke, or you'd have heard his horn before now. Come along, then ? we shall see the silk here and there, and I want my supper. [Exeunt. SCENE II.— Rosamund'.s Bower Rosamund. 'i"he boy so late; pray Cod, lie Ijc nol lust. I sent this Margery, and she comes not back ; I sent another, and she comes not back. I go myself — .so many alley.s, crossings, Paths, avenues — nay, if I lost him, now The folds have fallen from the mystery, And left all naked, I were lost indeed. Enter (iKOFFRKV and IClkanok. Ceoffrey, the i)ain tliou hast put me to ! [Seeinfr Eleanor. Ha, y(ni ! How came you hither? 292 BECKET ACT IV Eleanor. Your own child brought me liithcr ! Geoffrey. You said you couldn't trust Margery, and 1 watched her and followed lior into the woods, and I lost her and went on and on till I found the light and the lady, and she says she can make you sleep o' nights. Rosamund. How dared you ? Know you not this bower is secret, Of and belonging to the King of England, More sacred than his forests for the chase ? Nay, nay. Heaven help you ; get you hence in haste Lest worse befall you. Eleanor. Child, I am mine own self Of and belonging to the King. The King Hath divers ofs and ons, ofs and belongings, Almost as many as your true Mussulman — Belongings, paramours, whom it pleases him To call his wives ; but so it chances, child. That I am his main paramour, his sultana. But since the fondest pair of doves will jar, Ev'n in a cage of gold, we had words of late, And thereupon he call'd my children bastards. Do you believe that you are married to him ? Rosamund. I should believe it. Eleanor. You must not believe it, Because I have a wholesome medicine here Puts that belief asleep. Your answer, beauty ! Do you believe that you are married to him ? Rosamund. Geoffrey, my boy, I saw the ball you lost in the fork of the great willow over the brook. Clo. Sec that you do not fall in. Go. Geoffrey. And leave you alone with the good fairy. She calls you beauty, but I don't like her looks. Well, you bid me go, and I'll have my ball anyhow. Shall I find you asleep when I come back ? Rosamujid. Go. \_Exit (ieoffrey. Eleanor. He is easily found again. Do you believe it? I pray you then to take my sleeping-draught ; But if you should not care to take it — see ! [Draws a da^^er. SCENE 11 BECKET 293 What ! have I scared the red rose from your face Into your heart ? But this will find it there, And dig it from the root for ever. Rosatnund. Help ! help ! Eleanor. They say that walls have cars ; l)ut these, it seems, Have none ! and I have none — to pity thee. Rosatnund. I do beseech you — my child is so young, So backward too ; I cannot leave him yet. I am not so happy I could not die myself. But the child is so young. You have children — his ; And mine is the King's child ; so, if you love him — Nay, if you love him, there is great wrong done vSomchow ; but if you do not — there are those Who say you do not love him — let me go With my young boy, and I will hide my face, Blacken and gipsyfy it ; none shall know me ; The King shall never hear of me again, But I will beg my bread along the world With my young boy, and God will be our guide. I never meant you harm in any way. See, I can say no more. Eleanor. W ill you not say you are not married to him ? Rosamund. Ay, Madam, I can say it, if you will. Eleanor. 'I'hen is th) i)rctty boy a bastard ? Rosamund. No. Eleanor. And thou thyself a proven wanton ? Rosatnund. No. I am nr)ne such. I never loved but one. 1 have heard of such that range from love to love, Like the wild beast — if you can call it love. I have heard of such — yea, even among those Who sit on thrones— I never saw any such, Never knew any sucli, and howsoever You do misname me, match'd with any such, I am snow to mud. Eleanor. The more the pity then 294 BECKET Arr iv That thy true home — the heavens — cry out for thee ^Vho art too pure for earth. Enter Fitzurse. Fitzurse. Give her to me. Eleanor. The judas-lover of our passion-play Hath track'ci us hitlicr. Fitzurse. Well, why not ? I follow'd You and the child : he babbled all the way. Give her to me to make my honeymoon. Eleanor. Ay, as the bears love honey. Could you keep her Indungeon'd from one whisper of the wind, Dark even from a side glance of the moon, And oublietted in the centre — No ! I follow out my hate and thy revenge. Fitzurse. You bad me take revenge ancjthcr way — To bring her to the dust. . . . Come with me, love, And I will love thee. . . . Madam, let her live. I have a far-off burrow where the King Would miss her and for ever. Eleanor. How sayst thou, sweelhcarl ? Wilt thou go with him ? he will marry thee. Rosamund. Give me the poison ; set me free of him I [Eleanor offers the vial. No, no ! I will not have it. Eleajior. Then this other, The wiser choice, because my sleeping-draught May bloat thy beauty out of shape, and make Thy body loathsome even to thy child ; While this but leaves thee with a broken heart, A doll-face blanch'd and bloodless, over which If pretty Cieoffrey do not break his own. It must be broken for him. Rosanmnd. O I see now Your purpo.se is to fright me — a troubadour You play with words. You had never used so many. SCENE II BECKET 295 Not if you meant it, I am sure. The child . . . No . . . mercy ! No ! [Kneels.) Eleanor. Play ! . . . that bosom never Heaved under the King's hand with such true passion As at this loveless knife that stirs the riot, Which it will quench in blood ! Slave, if he love thee, Thy life is worth the wrestle for it : arise, And dash thyself against me that I may slay thee ! The worm ! shall I let her go ? But ha ! what's here ? By very God, the cross I gave the King ! His village darling in some lewd caress Has wheedled it off the King's neck to her own. By thy leave, beauty. Ay, the same ! I warrant Thou hast sworn on this my cross a hundred times Never to leave him — and that merits death. False oath on holy cross — for thou must leave him To-day, but not (}uite yet. My good Fitzurse, The running down the chase is kindlier sport Ev'n than the death. Who knows but that thy lover May plead so pitifully, that I may spare thee? Come hither, man ; stand there. {To Rosamund) Take thy one chance ; Catch at the last straw. Kneel to thy lord Fitzurse ; Crouch even because thou hatest him; fawn upon him For thy life and thy son's. Rosami/nd (risifig). I am a Clifford, My son a Clifford and Plantagenct. I am to die then, llio' there stand beside thee One who might grajiple with thy dagger, if he Had aught of man, or thou of woman ; or I Would bow to such a baseness as would make mc Most worthy of it : both of us will die, And I will fly with my sweet boy to heaven, And shriek to all the saints among the stars: ' Eleanor of Afjuitaine, Eleanor (;( England ! Murder'd by that adulteress Eleanor, Whose doings arc a horror to the east, A hi.ssing in the west ! ' Have we not heard 296 BECKET ACT IV Raymond of Poitou, ihinc own uncle— nay, Geoffrey Plantagenet, thine own husband's father — Nay, ev'n the accursed heathen Saladdeen Strike ! I challenge ihee to meet me before God. Answer me there. Eleanor {raising the dagger). This in thy bosom, fool. And after in thy bastard's ! Enter ^^CKYn: fro/ii behind. CatcJies hold of her arm. Becket. Murderess ! \The dagger falls ; they stare at one another. After a pause. Eleanor. My lord, we know you proud of your fine hand, But having now admired it long enough, We find that it is mightier than it seems — At least mine own is frailer : you are laming it. Becket. And lamed and maim'd to dislocation, better Than raised to take a life which Henry bad me Guard from the stroke that dooiTis thee after death To wail in deathless flame. Eleanor. Nor you, nor I Have now to learn, my lord, that our good Henry Says many a thing in sudden heats, which he Gainsays by next sun rising — often ready To tear himself for having said as much. My lord, Fitzurse Becket. He too ! w^hat dost thou here ? Dares the bear slouch into the lion's den ? One downward plunge of his paw would rend away Eyesight and manhood, life itself, from thee. Go, lest I blast thee with anathema, And make thee a world's horror. Fitzurse. My lord, 1 shall Remember thi.s. Becket. I do remember thee ; SCENE 11 BECKET 297 Lest I remember thee to the lion, go. [Exit Fitzurse. Take up your dagger ; put it in the sheath. Eleanor. Might not your courtesy stoop to hand it me ? But crowns must bow when mitres sit so high. Well — well — too costly to be left or lost. \Picks tip the dagger. I had it from an Arab soldan, who, When I was there in Antioch, marvell'd at Our unfamiliar beauties of the west ; But wonder'd more at my much constancy To the monk-king, Louis, our former burthen. From whom, as being too kin, you know, my lord, Ood's grace and Holy Church deliver'd us. I think, time given, I could have talk'd him out of His ten wives into one. Look at the hilt. What excellent workmanship. Li our poor west We cannot do it so well. Becket. ^^'e can do worse. Madam, I saw your dagger at her throat ; I heard your savage cry. Eleanor. ^\'ell acted, was it ? .\ comedy meant to seem a tragedy — A feint, a farce. My honest lord, you are known Thro' all the courts of Christendom as one That mars a cause with over-violence. Vou have wrong'd Fitzurse. I speak not of myself. We thought to scare this minion of tlie King Back from her churchless commerce with the King To the fond arms of her first love, Fitzurse, Who swore to marry her. You have spoilt ihe farce. My savage cry? ^^'hy, she — she— when I strove To work against her license for her good, Bark'd out at me such monstrous charges, that The King himself, for love of his own sons. If hearing, would have spurn'd her ; whereuj)on I menaced her with this, as when we threaten A yelper with a stick. Nay, I deny not That I was somewhat anger'd. Do you hear me ? 298 BECKET ACT IV Believe or no, I care not. You have lost The car of the King. I have it. . . . My lord J'aramount, Our great High-priest, will not your Holiness Vouchsafe a gracious answer to your Queen ? Beckct. Rosamund hath not answer'd you one word ; Madam, I will not answer you one word. Daughter, the world hath trick'd thee. Leave it, daughter ; Come thou with me to Godstow nunnery, And live what may be left thee of a life Saved as by miracle alone with Him ^\'ho gave it. Re-enter Oeoffrey. Geoffrey. Mother, you told me a great fib : it wasn't in the willow. Becket. Follow us, my son, and we will find it for thee — Or something manlier. [Exeunt Becket, Rosamund, and Geoffrey. Eleanor. The world hath trick'd her — that's the King ; if so. There was the farce, the feint — not mine. And yet I am all hut sure my dagger was a feint Till the worm turn'd — not life shot up in blood, But death drawn in ; — (^looking at the vial) this was no feint then ? no. But can I swear to that, had she but given Plain answer to plain query? nay, methinks Had she but bow'd herself to meet the wave Of humiliation, worshipt whom she loathed, I should have let her be, scorn'd her too much To harm her. Henry — Becket tells him this — To take my life might lose him Aquitaine. Too politic for that. Imprison me? No, for it came to nothing — only a feint. Did she not tell me I was ])]aying on her? I'll swear to mine own self it was a feint. ^Vhy should I swear, Eleanor, who am, or was, A sovereign power ? The King plucks out their eyes SCENE II BECKET 299 Who anger him, and shiill not I, the Queen, Tear out her heart — kill, kill with knife or venom One of his slanderous harlots ? ' None of such ' ? I love her none the more. Tut, the chance gone, She lives — but not for him ; one point is gain'd. O I, that thro' the Pope divorced King Louis, Scorning his monkery, — I that wedded Henry, Honouring his manhood — will he not mock at me The jealous fool balk'd of her will — with him ? But he and he must never meet again. Reginald Fitzurse ! Re-enter Fitzurse. Fitzurse. Here, Madam, at your pleasure. Eleanor. My pleasure is to have a man about me. Why did you shnk away so like a cur ? Fitzurse. Madam, I am as much man as the King. Madam, I fear Church-censures like your King. Eleanor. He grovels to the Church when he's black- blooded, r>ut kinglike fought the proud archbishop, — kinglike Defied the Pope, and, like his kingly sires, The Normans, striving still to break or bind The spiritual giant with rnir island laws And customs, made me for the moment proud Ev'n of that stale Church-bond which link'd nic with him To bear him kingly sons. I am not so sure lUit that I love him still, 'i'hou as much man ! No more of that ; we will to I'rance and be Btfr)rehand with the King, and brew from out This Godstow-Becket intermeddling such A strong hate-j)hiltrc as may madden him — madden Against his priest beyond all hellebore. 300 BECKET ACT V ACT V SCENE I. — Castle in Normandy. King's Chamber Henry, Roger ok York, Foliot, Jocelyn OF Salisbury. Rosier of York. Nay, nay, my liege. He rides abroad with armed followers, Hath broken all his promises to thyself. Cursed and anathematised us right and left, Stirr'd up a party there against your son — Henry. Roger of York, you always hated him, Even when you both were boys at Theobald's. Roger of York. I always hated boundless arrogance. In mine own cause I strove against him there. And in thy cause I strive against him now. Henry. I cannot think he moves against my son. Knowing right well with what a tenderness He loved my son. Roger of York. Before you made him king. But Becket ever moves against a king. The Church is all — the crime to be a king. We trust your Royal Grace, lord of more land Than any crown in Europe, will not yield To lay your neck beneath your citizen's heel. Henry. Not to a Gregory of my throning ! No. Foliot. My royal liege, in aiming at your love, It may be sometimes I have overshot My duties to our Holy Mother Church, Tho' all the world allows I fall no inch Behind this Becket, rather go beyond In scourgings, macerations, mortifyings. Fasts, disciplines that clear the spiritual eye. And break the soul from earth. Let all that be. I boast not : but you know thro' all this quarrel SCENE 1 BECKET 301 I still have cleaved to the crown, in hope the crown A\'ould cleave to me that but obey'd the crown, Crowning your son ; for which our loyal service. And since we likewise swore to obey the customs, York and myself, and our good Salisbury here. Are push'd from out communion of the Church. Jocelyn of Salisbury. Becket hath trodden on us like worms, my liege ; Trodden one half dead ; one half, but half-alive, Cries to the King. Heyiry {aside). Take care o' thyself, O King. Jocelyn of Salisbury. Being so crush'd and so humiliated We scarcely dare to bless the food we eat Because of Becket. • Henry. What would ye have me do ? Roger of York. Summon your barons ; take their counsel : yet I know — could swear — as long as Becket l)reathes. Your Crace will never have one quiet hour. Jlenry. \Vhat ? . . . Ay . . . but pray you do not work upon me. I see your drift ... it may be so . . . and yet You know me easily anacr'd. Will you hence ? He shall absolve you . . . you shall have redress. I have a dizzying headache. Let me rest, rii call you by and by, [Exeunt Roger of \'<>xV. I'oliot, a>i</ jocelyn of Salisbury. Would he were dead ! I have lost all love for him. If Ood would take him in some sudden way — Would lie were dead. [I^it's down. Pai^e {enferivi^). My liege, the Queen of England. Jlenry. God's eyes ! [.S/,ir/ini,- up. Enter Elkanor. Eleanor. Of England ? Say of Aquilaine. I am no Queen of England. I had dream'd 1 was the bride of England, and a queen. 302 BECKET ACT v Henry. And, — while you drcam'd you were the bride of Enghmd, — Stirring her baby-king against me ? ha ! Eleanor. The brideless Becket is tliy king and mine : I will go live and die in Aquitaine. Henry. Except I clap thee into prison here, Lest thou shouldst play the wanton there again. Ha, you of Aquitaine ! O you of Aquitaine ! You were but Aquitaine to Louis — no wife ; You are only Aquitaine to me — no wife. Eleanor. And why, my lord, should I be wife to one That only wedded me for Aquitaine ? Yet this no wife- her six and thirty sail Of Provence blew you to your English throne ; And this no wife has born you four brave sons, And one of them at least is like to prove Bigger in our small world than thou art. Henry. Ay — Richard, if he be mine — I hope him mine. But thou art like enough to make him thine. Eleanor. Becket is like enough to make all his. Henry. Methought I had recover'd of the Becket, That all was planed and bevell'd smooth again, Save from some hateful cantrip of thine own. Eleanor. I will go live and die in Aquitaine. I dream'd I was the consort of a king, Not one whose back his priest has Ijroken. //enty. What ! Is the end come? You, will you crown my foe My victor in mid-battle? I will be Sole master of my house. The end is mine. What game, what juggle, what devilry are you playing? Why do you thrust this Bucket on me again ? Eleanor. \V'hy ? for I a/n true wife, and have my fears I^st Becket thrust you even from your throne. Do you know this cross, my liege ? Henry {turning his liead). Av/ay I Not L SCENE I BECKET 303 Eleanor. Not ev'n the central diamond, worth, I think. Half of the Antioch whence I had it. Henry. That ? Eleanor. I gave it you, and you your paramour ; She sends it back, as being dead to earth, So dead henceforth to you. Henry. Dead ! you have murder'd her. Found out her secret bower and murder'd her. Eleanor. Your Becket knew the secret of your bower. Henry {callhig out). Ho there ! thy rest of life is hope- less prison. Eleanor. And what would my own Aquitaine say to that ? First, free thy captive from her hopeless prison. Henry. O devil, can I free her from the grave ? Eleanor. You are too tragic : both of us are players In such a comedy as our court of Provence Had laugh"d at. That's a delicate Latin lay Of Walter Map : the lady holds the cleric Lovelier than any soldier, his poor tonsure A crown of Empire. Will you have it again ? ( Offering the cross. He dashes it doivn. ) St. Cupid, that is too irreverent. Then mine once more. {Puts it on.) Your cleric hath your lady. Nay, what uncomely faces, could he see you ! I''(;am at the mouth because King Thomas, lord Not only of your vassals but amours, Thro' chastest honour of the Decalogue Hath used the full authority of his Church To put her into (lodstow nunnery. Hcnty. To put her into Godstow nunnery ! He dared not — liar ! yet, yet I remember — I do remember. He bad mc put her into a nunnery — Into Crodslow, into Hellstow, Devilstow! The Church ! the Church ! God's eyes ! I would the Church were down in hell ! [Exit. Eleanor. Aha ! 304 BECKET ACT V Enter the four Knights. Fitzurse. What made the King cry out so furiously? Eleanor. Our Becket, who will not absolve the Bishops. I think ye four have cause to love this Becket. Fitzurse. I hate him for his insolence to all. De Tracy. And I for all his insolence to thee. De Brito. I hate him for I hate him is my reason, And yet I hate him for a hypocrite. De Morville. I do not love him, for he did his best To break the barons, and now braves the King. Eleanor. Strike, then, at once, the King would have him — See ! Re-enter Henry. Henry. No man to love me, honour me, obey me ! Sluggards and fools ! The slave that eat my bread has kick'd his King ! The dog I cramm'd with dainties worried me ! I'he fellow that on a lame jade came to court, A ragged cloak for saddle — he, he, he. To shake my throne, to push into my chamber — My bed, where ev'n the slave is private — he — I'll have her out again, he shall absolve The bishops — they but did my will — not you — Sluggards and fools, why do you stand and stare ? You are no King's men — you — you — you are Becket's men. Down with King Henry ! up with the Archbishop ! Will no man free me from this j)estilent priest ? \Exit. yrhe Knights draw tfwir swords. Eleanor. Are ye king's men ? I am king's woman, 1. The Knights. King's men ! King's men ! SCENE II BECKET 305 SCENE II. — A Room in Canterbury Monastery Becket and John of Salisbury. Becket. York said so ? John of Salislmry. Yes : a man may take good counsel Ev'n from his foe. Becket. York will say anything. What is he saying now ? gone to the King And taken our anathema with him. York ! Can the King de-anathematise this York ? John of Salisbury. Thomas, I would thou hadst return'd to England, Like some wise prince of this world from his wars, With more of olive-branch and amnesty For foes at home — thou hast raised the world against thee. Becket. Why, John, my kingdom is not of this world. John of Salisbury. If it were more of this world it might be More of the next. A policy of wise pardon Wins here as well as there. To bless thine enemies Becket. Ay, mine, not Heaven's. John of Salislmry. And may there not be somri Of this world's leaven in thee too, when crying On H(;ly Church to thunder out her rights And thine own wrong so jMtilessIy? Ah, Thomas, The lightnings that we think are only Heaven's Flash s(;nictimes out of earth against the heavens. The soldier, when he lets his whole self go Lost in the common good, the common wrong. Strikes truest ev'n for his own self. I crave 'I'hy pardon — I have still thy leave to s])eak. Thou hast waged Cod's war against the King : and yet We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may, Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our deftnre of Flcavcn. V X IIIU' 3o6 BECKET act v Enter Edward Grim. Becket. TIkhi art but yesterday from Cambridge, Grim; What say ye there of Becket ? Grim. /believe him The bravest in our roll of Primates down From Austin — there are some — for there are men Of canker'd judgment everywhere Becket. Who hold With York, with York against mc. Griin. Well, my lord, A stranger monk desires access to you. Becket. York against Canterbury, York against God ! T am open to him. \_Exit Grim. Enter Rosamund as a Monk. Jiosafmmd. Can I speak with you Alone, my father ? Becket. Come you to confess? Rosamund. Not now. Becket. Then speak ; this is my other self. Who like my conscience never lets me be. Rosamund {thnnvini:; hack the cowl). I know liim ; (nir good John of Salisbury. Becket. Breaking already from thy noviciate To plunge into this bitter world again — IMiese wells of Marah. I am grieved, my daughter. I thought that I had made a peace for thte. Rosafnund. Small peace was mine in my noviciate, father. Thro' all closed doors a drendful whisper crept That thou wouldst excommunicate the King. I could not cat, sleep, pray : I had with me The monk's disguise thou gavest me for my bower : I think our Abbess knew it and allow'd it. I fled, and found thy name a charm to get me SCENE 11 BECKET 307 Food, roof, and rest. I met a robber once, I told him I was bound to see the Archbishop : ' Pass on,' he said, and in thy name I pass'd From house to house. In one a son stone-bHnd Sat by his mother's hearth : he had gone too far Into the King's own woods ; and the poor mother, Soon as she learnt I was a friend of thine, Cried out against the cruelty of the King. I said it was the King's courts, not the King ; But she would not believe me, and she wish'd The Church were king : she had seen the Archbishop once, So mild, so kind. The people love thee, father. Becket. Alas ! when I was Chancellor to the King, I fear I was as cruel as the King. Rosamund. Cruel ? Oh, no — it is the law, not he ; The customs of the realm. Becket. The customs ! customs ! Rosamund. My lord, you have not excommunicated him ? (^h, if you have, absolve hin 1 ! Becket. Daughter, daughter, Deal not with things you know iioi. Rosamund. I know //////. Then you have done it, and I (yaW you cruel. Jokn of Salisbury. No, daughter, you mistake our good Archbishop ; For once in France the King had been so harsh, He thought to excommunicate him — Thomas, You could not — old affection niaster'd you, You falter'd into tears. Rosamund. Cod bless him for it. Becket. Nay, make me not a woman, John of Salisbury, Nor make me traitor to my holy office. Did not a man's voice ring along the aisle, 'The King is sick and almost unto death.' How could I exconmuinirate him then ? Rosamund. And wilt thou excommunicate him now? 3o8 BECKET act v Becket. Daughter, my tiiiic is short, I shall not do il. And were it longer — well — I should not do it. Rosamund. Thanks in this life, and in the life to come. Becket. Get thee back to tliy nunnery with all haste ; Let this be thy last trespass. But one question — How fares thy pretty boy, the little Geoffrey ? No fever, cough, croup, sickness ? Rosaiiiitiid. No, but saved Yxom all that by our solitude. The plagues That smite the city spare the solitudes. Becket. God save him from all sickness of the soul ! Thee too, thy solitude among thy nuns, May that save thee ! Doth he remember me ? Rosamund. I warrant him. Becket. He is marvellously like thee. Rosamund. Liker the King. Becket. No, daughter. Rosamund. Ay, but wait Till his nose rises ; he will be very king. Becket. Ev'n so : but think not of the King : farewell ! Rosamund. My lord, the city is full of armed men. Becket. Ev'n so : farewell ! Rosamund. I will but ])ass to vespers, And breathe one prayer for my liege-lord the King, His child and mine own soul, and so return. Becket. Pray for me too : much need of prayer have I. [Rosamund kneels a7id goes. Dan fohn, how much we lose, we celibates. Lacking the love of woman and of child. John of Salisbury. More gain than loss ; for of your wives you shall Find one a slut whose fairest linen seerns Foul as her dust-cloth, if she used it one So charged with tongue, that every thread of thought Is broken ere it joins — a shrew to boot. Whose evil song far on into the night Thrills to the topmost tile — no hope but death ; One slow, fat, white, a burthen of the hearth ; SCENE II BECKET 309 And one that being thwarted ever swoons And weeps herself into the place of power ; And one an uxor pauperis Ibyci. So rare the household honeymaking bee, Man's help ! but we, we have the Blessed Virgin For worship, and our Mother Church for bride ; And all the souls we saved and father'd here Will greet us as our babes in Paradise. What noise was that ? she told us of arm'd men Here in the city. Will you not withdraw ? Becket. I once was out with Henry in the days When Henry loved me, and we came upon A wild-fowl sitting on her nest, so still I reach 'd my hand and touch'd ; she did not stir; The snow had frozen round her, and she sat Stone-dead upon a heap of ice-cold eggs. Look ! how this love, this mother, runs thro' all The world God made — even the beast — the bird ! John of Salisbury. Ay, still a lover of the beast and bird? But these arm'd men — will you not hide yourself? I'erchance the fierce De Brocs from Saltwood Castle, To as.sail our Holy Mother lest she brood Too long o'er this hard egg, the world, and send Her whole heart's heat into it, till it break Into young angels. Pray you, hide yourself. Becket. There was a little fair-hair'd Norman ni.iid Lived in my mother's house : if Rosamund is The world's rose, ns her name imports her — she Was the world's lily. John of Salisbury. Ay, and what of her ? Becket. She died of leprosy. fnhn of Salisbury. I know not why You call these old things back again, my lord. Becket. The drowning man, they say, remembers all The chances of his life, just ere he dies. John of Salisbury. Ay — but these arm'd men — \s\\\ you drown Yourself? lo BECKRT ACT V He loses half the meed of martyrdom Who will be martyr when he might escape. Becket. ^^'hat day of the week ? Tuesday ? John of Salisbury. Tuesday, my lord. Becket. On a Tuesday was I born, and on a Tuesday Baptized j and on a Tuesday did I fly Forth from Northampton ; on a Tuesday pass'd From England into bitter banishment ; On a Tuesday at Pontigny came to me The ghostly warning of my martyrdom ; On a Tuesday from mine exile I return'd, And on a Tuesday- [Tracy enters^ then Fitzurse, De Brilo, and De Morville. Monks fo/lo7i)ing. — on a Tuesday Tracy ! {A loni^ silence broken by Fitzurse saying, contemptuously), God help thee ! John of Salisbury {aside). How the good Archbishop reddens ! He never yet could brook the note of scorn. Fitzu}'se. My lord, we bring a message from the King Beyond the water ; will you have it alone, Or with these listeners near you ? Becket. As you will. Fitzurse. Nay, as you will. Becket. Nay, zi'-i you will. John of Salisbury. Why then Better perhaps to speak with them apart. Let us withdraw. \_All go out except the four Knights and Becket. Fitzurse. We are all alone with him. Shall I not smite him with his own cross-staff? De Morville. No, look ! the door is open : let him be. Fitzurse. The King condemns your excommunicat- ing Becket. This is no secret, but a public matter. In here again ! [John of Salisbury and Monks return. Now, sirs, the King's commands ! SCENE II BECKET 3Tt Fitziirse. The King beyond the water, thro' our voices, Commands you to be dutiful and leal To your young King on this side of the water, Not scorn him for the foibles of his youth. What ! you would make his coronation void By cursing those who crown'd him. Out upon you ! Becket. Reginald, all men know I loved the Prince. His father gave him to my care, and I Became his second father : he had his faults. For which I would have laid mine own life down To help him from them, since indeed I loved him. And love him next after my lord his father. Rather than dim the splendour of his crown I fain would treble and quadruple it With revenues, realms, and golden provinces So that were done in equity. Fitzurse. You have broken Your bond of peace, your treaty with the King — Wakening such brawls and loud disturbances In England, that he calls you oversea To answer for it in his Norman courts, Becket. Prate not of bonds, for never, oh, never again Shall the waste voice of the bond-breaking sea Divide me from the mother church of ICngland, My Canterbury. Loud disturbances ! Oh, ay — the bells rang out even to deafening, Organ and pipe, and dulcimer, chants and hymns In all the churches, trumpets in the halls, Sobs, laughter, cries: they spread their raiment down Before me — would have made my pathway flowers, Save that it was mid-winter in the street, TUit full mid-summer in those honest hearts. Fitzurse, The King commands you to absolve the bishops Whom you have excommunicated. Becket. • I? Not 1, the Pope. Ask ///;// ff)r absolution. Fitzurse. But you advi.sed the Poi)e. 312 BECKET ACT V Becket. And so I did. They have but to submit. The four Knights. The King commands you. We are all King's men. Becket. King's men at least should know That their own King closed with me last July That I should pass the censures of the Church On those that crown'd young Henry in this realm, And trampled on the rights of Canterbury. Fitzurse. What ! dare you charge the King with treachery ? He sanction thee to excommunicate The prelates whom he chose to crown his son ! Becket. I spake no word of treachery, Reginald. But for the truth of this I make appeal To all the archbishops, bishops, prelates, barons, Monks, knights, five hundred, that were there and heard. Nay, you yourself were there : you heard yourself. Fitzurse. I was not there. Becket. I saw you there. Fitzurse. I was not. Becket. You were. I never forget anything. Fitzurse. He makes the King a traitor, me a liar. How long shall we forbear him ? John of Salisbury {^drawing Becket aside). O my good lord. Speak with them privately on this hereafter. You see they have been revelling, and I fear Are braced and brazen'd up with Christmas wines For any murderous brawl. Becket. And yet they prate Of mine, my brawls, when those, that name themselves Of the King's part, have broken down our barns. Wasted our diocese, outraged our tenants, Lifted our produce, driven our clerics out — Why they, your friends, those ruffians, the De Brocs, They stood on Dover beach to murder me. They slew my stags in mine own manor here. SCENE 11 BECKET 313 Mutilated, poor brute, my sumpter-mule, Plunder'd the vessel full of Gascon vdne, The old King's present, carried off the casks, Kiird half the crew, dungeon'd the other half In Pevensey Castle De Morville. Why not rather then, If this be so, complain to your young King, Not punish of your own authority ? Becket. Mine enemies barr'd all access to the boy. They knew he loved me. Hugh, Hugh, how proudly you exalt your head ! Nay, when they seek to overturn our rights, 1 ask no leave of king, or mortal man. To set them straight again. Alone I do it. ("live to the King the things that are the King's, And those of Ciod to (iod. Fitzurse. Threats ! threats ! ye hear him. W' hat I will he e-xcommunicate all the world ? \The Knights come round Becket. Dc Tracy. He shall not. De Brito. Well, as yet — I should be grateful — He hath not excommunicated me. Becket. Because thou wast horn excommunicate. T never spied in thee one gleam of grace. De Brito. Your Christian's Christian charity ! Beckd. By St. Denis Dc Brito. Ay, by St. Denis, now will he flame out, And lose his head as old St. Denis did. Becket. Ye think to scare nic from my loyalty 'I'o Cod and to the Holy Father. No ! Tho' all the swords in^Cngland flash'd above mc Kcady to fall at Henry's word or yours — Tho' all the loud-lung'd trumpets upon earth I'llared from the heights of all the thrones of her kings, F.lowing the world against me, I would stand Clothed with the full nuthrjrity of Rome, Mail'd in the perfect panoply of faith, ;,i4 BRCKRT A<"l" V First of the foremost of their files, who die For God, to people heaven in the great day When (iod makes up his jewels. Once I fled — Never again, and you — I marvel at you — Ye know what is between us. Ye have sworn Yourselves my men when I was Chancellor — My vassals — and yet threaten your Archbi.shop In his own house. Knights. Nothing can be between us That goes against our fealty to the King. Fitzurse. And in his name we charge you that ye keep This traitor from escaping. Beckef. Rest you easy, For I am easy to keep. I shall not fly. Here, here, here will you find me. De Morville. Know you not You have spoken to the peril of your life ? Beckef. As I shall speak again. Fitzurse, De Tracy, and De Brito. To arms ! [They rush nut, De Morville lingers. Becket. De Morville, I had thought so well of you ; and even now You seem the least assassin of the four. Oh", do not damn yourself for company ! Is it too late for me to save your soul ? I pray you for one moment stay and speak. De Morville. Becket, it is too late. \Exit. Becket. Is it too late ? Too late on earth may be too soon in hell. Knights {in tlu distance). Close the great gate — ho, there — upon the town. * Beckef s Retainers. Shut the hall-doors. [A pause. Becket. You hear them, brother John; Why do you stand so silent, brother John ? John of Salisbury. For I was musing on an ancient saw, Suaviter in nwdo, fnrtiter in re, Is strength less strong when hand-in-hand with grace? SCENE II BECKET 315 Gratior in pulchro corpore virtus. Thomas, Why should you heat yourself for such as these ? Becket. Methought I answer'd moderately enough. John of Salislniry. As one that blows the coal to cool the fire. My lord, I marvel why you never lean On any man's advising but your own. Becket. Is it so, Dan John ? well, what should I have done? John of Salisbury. You should have taken counsel with your friends Before these bandits brake into your presence. They seek — you make — occasion for your death. Becket. My counsel is already taken, John. I am prepared to die. John of Salisbury. We are sinners all, The best of all not all-prepared to die. Becket. God's will be done ! John of Salisbury. Ay, well, (iod's will be done ! Grim {recnterin<f). My lord, the knights are arming in the garden Beneath the sycamore. Becket. Good I let them arm. Grim. And one of the De Brocs is with them, Robert, 'i"he apostate uKink that was with Rnndulf here. He knows the twists and turnings of the place. Becket. No fear ! Grim. No fear, my lord. [^Cras/ics on the hall doors. The Monks /Ar. Becket (risini^). Our dovecote flown ! I cannot tell why monks should all be cowards. John of Salisbury. Take refuge in your own cathedral, Thomas. Becket. Do they not fight the (ireat ]''iciid day by day? Valour and holy life should go together. Why should all monks be cowards ? John of Salisbury. Arc they so? 1 say, take refuge in your own cathedral. 3ifi BECKET ACT V Beckef. Ay, but 1 told them I would wait them here. Grim. May they not say you dared not show yourself In your old place? and vespers are beginning. \Bell ri/igs for vespers till end of scene. Vou should attend the office, give them heart. They fear you slain : they dread they know not what. Becket. Ay, monks, not men. Grim. I am a monk, my lord. Perhaps, my lord, you wrong us. Some would stand by you to the death. Becket. Your pardon. John of Salisbury. He said, 'Attend the office.' Becket. Attend the office ? Why then — The Cross ! — who bears my Cross before me? Methought they would have brain'd me with it, John. [Crim takes it. Grim. I ! \\'ould that I could bear thy cross indeed ! Becket. The Mitre ! Jolvi of Salislmry. Will you wear it ? — there ! [Becket /?<f/j- on the mitre. Becket. The Pall ! I go to meet my King ! \Puts on the pall. Grim. To meet the King ? \Cr ashes on the doors as they ,i^o out. John of Salisbury. Why do you move with such a stateliness ? Can you not hear them yonder like a storm. Battering the doors, and breaking thro' the walls? Becket. Why do the heathen rage ? My two good friends, What matters murder'd here, or murder'd there ? And yet my dream foretold my martyrdom In mine own church. It is Cod's will. Co on. Nay, drag me not. We must not seem to fiiy. SCENE III BECKET 317 SCENE III. — North Transept of Canterbury Cathedral On the right hand a flight of steps leading to tJie Choir, another flight on the left, leading to the North Aisle. Winter afternoon slowly darkening. Lotv thunder now and then of an approaching storm. Monks heard chanting the service. Rosamund kneeling. Rosamund. O blessed saint, O glorious Benedict, — These arm'd men in the city, these fierce faces — Thy holy follower founded Canterbury — Save thai dear head which now is Canterbury, Save him, he saved my life, he saved my child, Save him, his blood would darken Henry's name ; Save him till al! as saintly as thyself He miss the searching flame of purgatory, And pass at once perfect to Paradise. \^Noise of steps and voices in the cloister's. Hark ! Is it they? Coming ! He is not here — Not yet, thank heaven. O save him ! [Goes up steps leading to choir. Jiecket {entering, forced along by John of Salislntry and Grim). No, I tell you ! ! cannot bear a hand upon my person. Why do you force me thus against my will ? (Jrim. My lord, we force you from your enemies. Becket. As you would force a king from being crown'd. John of Salisbury. We must not force the crown of martyrdom. [.Service stops. Monks come down from the stairs that lead to the choir. Monks. Here is the great Archbishop ! He lives! he lives ! Die with him, and be glorified together. fiecket. Together? ... get you bark ' go on with the office. 3t8 BECKET act v Monks. Come, tlien, with us to vespers. Becket. How can I come When you so block the entry ? Back, I say ! Go on with tlie office. Shall not Heaven be served The' earth's last earthquake clash'd the minster-belLs, And the great deeps were broken up again, And hiss'd against the sun ? \Nolse in the cloisters. Monks. The murderers, hark ! Let us hide ! let us hide ! Becket. What do these people fear? Monks. Those arm'd men in the cloister. Becket. Be not such cravens ! I will go out and meet them. Grim and others. Shut the doors ! We will not have him slain before our face. \They close the doors of the transept. Knocking. Fly, fly, my lord, before they burst the doors ! \K710cking. Becket. ^Vhy, these are our own monks who follow'd us ! And will you bolt them out, and have them slain ? Undo the doors : the church is not a castle : Knock, and it shall be open'd. Are you deaf? What, have I lost authority among you ? Stand by, make way ! \Opcns the doors. Enter Monks /^y;;;/ cloister. Come in, my friends, come in ! Nay, faster, faster ! Monks. Oh, my lord Archbishop, A score of knights all arm'd with swords and axes — To the choir, to the choir ! [Monks divide, part flying by the stairs on the rights part by those on the left. The rush of these last bears Becket along with them some 7vay np the steps, w/iere he is left standing alone. Becket. Shall I too pass to the choir, .^.nd die upon the Patriarchal throne Of all my predecessors ? John of Salisbury. No, to the crypt ! SCENE III BECKET 319 Twenty steps down. Stunible not in the darkness, Lest they should seize thee. Grim. To the crypt ? no — no, To the chapel of St. Blaise beneath the roof I John of Salisbury (^pointifig upivard and downward^ That way, or this ! Save thyself either way. Becket. Oh, no, not either way, nor any way Save by that way which leads thro' night to light. Not twenty steps, but one. And fear not I should stumble in the darkness. Not tho' it be their hour, the power of darkness. But my hour too, the power of light in darkness ! I am not in the darkness but the light. Seen by the Church in Heaven, the Church on earth — The power of life in death to make her free ! \Enter the four Knights. John of Salisbury y7/(?j' to the altar of St. Benedict. Fitzurse. Here, here, King's men ! \Catches hold of the last flying Monk. Where is the traitor Becket ? Monk. I am not he ! I am not he, my lord. I am not he indeed .' Fitzurse. Hence to the fiend ! \Pushes him aivax. Where is this treble traitor to the King? De Tracy. Where is the Archbishop, Thomas Becket? Becket. Here. \o traitor to the King, but I'ritst of Cod, i'riniate of England. [^Descending info the transept. I am he ye seek. What would ye have of me? /'itzurse. Your life. Ue Tracy. Your life. De Mori'ille. Save that you will absolve the bishops. Becket. Never, — Excc|)t they make submission to the Church. \ ou had my answer to that cry bcf<jre. De Alorvillc. ^^ hy, then you arc a dead man ; flee ! 320 BECKET Acr V Becket. 1 will not. I am readier to be slain, than ihou to slay. Hugh, I know well thou hast but half a heart To bathe this sacred pavement with my blood. God pardon thee and these, but God's full curse Shatter you all to pieces if ye harm One of my flock I Fitzurse. Was not the great gate shut ? They are thronging in to vespers — -half the town. We shall be overwhelm'd. Seize him and carry him ! Come with us — nay — thou art our prisoner — come ! De Monnlle. Ay, make him prisoner, do not harm the man. [Fitzurse lays hold of the Archbishop's /«;//. Becket. Touch me not ! De Brito. How the good priest gods himself I He is not yet ascended to the Father. Fitzurse. I will not only touch, but drag thee hence. Becket. Thou art my man, thou art my vassal. Away ! . \_Fliiigs him off till lie reels, almost to falling. De Tracy {Jays hold of the pall). Come ; as he said, thou art our prisoner. Becket. Down ! \Throws him headlotig. Fitzurse {advances 7vitli drawn sword). T told thee that I should remember' thee ! Becket. Profligate pander ! Fitzurse. Do you hear that ? strike, strike. \^Strikes off the Archbishop's mitre, and woufids him in the forehead. Becket {covers his eyes with his hand). I do commend my cause to God, the Virgin, St. Denis of France and St. Alphege of England, And :i.ll the tutelar Saints of Canterbury. [Grim wraps his arms about the Archbishop. Spare this defence, dear brother. [Tracy has arisen, and approaches, hesitatingly, 7vifh his sword raised. SCENE III BECKET 321 Fitzurse. Strike him, Tracy ! Rosamund {rushing down steps from the choir). No, No, No, No : Fitzurse. This wanton here. Ue Morville, Hold her away. De Morville. I hold her. Rosafnund [held back by De Morville, and stretching out her arms). Mercy, mercy, As you would hope for mercy. Fitzurse. Strike, I say. Grim. O (iod, O noble knights, O sacrilege ! Strike our Archbishop in his own cathedral ! The Pope, the King, will curse you — the whole world Abhor you ; ye will die the death of dogs ! Nay, nay, good Tracy. [Lifts his arm. Fitzurse. Answer not, but strike. De Tracy. There is my answer then. [^Sword falls on Grim's ar/n, and glances from it, wounding Becket. Grim. Mine arm is sever'd. I can no more — fight out the good fight — die Conc^ueror. [^Staggers into the chapel of St. Benedict. Becket {falling on his knees). At the right hand of I'ower — Tower and great glory — for thy Church, O Lord — Into Thy hands, O Lord — into Thy hands ! \^Sinks prone. JJc Jirito. 'I'his last t(j rid thee of a world of brawls ! {Kills him.) The traitor's dead, and will arise no more. Fitzurse. Nay, have we still'd him ? Wiiat ! the great Archbishop I iJoes he breathe ? No .•* Dc Tracy. No, Reginald, he is dead. \^Storm bursts.^ De Morville. Will the earth gape and swalhjw us ? ' . / trcmtndcui IhitnJerstortn actually broke over the Cathedral as the murderers were leaving it. V Y 322 BRCKET ACT V De Brito. The deed's done — Away ! [De Brito, De Tracy, Fitzurse, rush out, cryifis: ' Kini^s MCJi ! ' De Morville follows shnvly. Flashes of lii::htning thro' the Cathedral. Rosa- mund seen kneeling by the body of Becket, THE CUP A TRAGEDY DRAMATIS PERSONS GALATIANS Synorix, an ex-Tetrarch. Attendant. SiNNATUS, a Tetrarch. Boy. I'HCEBE. Maid. Camma, wife of Sinnatus, afterwards Priestess in the Temple of Artemis. ROMANS Antonius, a Roman General. Nobleman. PUBLIUS. Messenger. ACT I SCENE I. — Distant Vikw ok a Cnv oi- Galatia As the curlain rises., Priestesses are heard sif/xi't^ in the Temple. Boy disc(n)ered on a pathway anions:; Rocks., pickin^^ }^rapes. . I party of Roman Soldiers., i^iia?-diii^i^ a prisoner in chains, come doivn the pathway and exeunt. Enter Synorix {lookini^ round). .S'/V/!,7V/;'' ceases. Synorix. Pine, beech and j)lane, oak, walnut, apricot. Vine, cypress, poplar, myrtle, bowering-in The city where she dwells. She jiast me here 323 324 THE CUP ACT I Three years ago when I was flying from My Tetrarchy to Rome. I almost touch'd her — A maiden slowly moving on to music Among her maidens to this Temple — O Gods ! She is my fate — else wherefore has my fate Brought me again to her own city ? — married Since — married Sinnatus, the Tetrarch here — But if he be consj)irator, Rome will chain, Or slay him. I may trust to gain her then When I shall have my tetrarchy restored By Rome, our mistress, grateful that I show'd her The weakness and the dissonance of our clans, And how to crush them easily. Wretched race ! And once I wish'd to scourge them to the bones. But in this narrow breathing-time of life Is vengeance for its own sake worth the while, If once our ends are gain'd ? and now this cup — I never felt such passion for a woman. [Brin}^s out a cup and scroll from under his cloak. What have I written to her ? . [Reading the scroll. ' To the admired Camma, wife of Sinnatus, the Tetrarch, one who years ago, himself an adorer of our great goddess, Artemis, beheld you afar off worshipping in her Temple, and loved you for it, sends you this cup rescued from the burning of one of her shrines in a city thro' which he past with the Roman army : it is the cup we use in our marriages. Receive it from one who cannot at present write himself other than 'A Galatian serving by force in the ROiMAN Legion.' \Turns and looks up to Boy. Boy, dost thou know the house of Sinnatus ? Boy. These grapes are for the house of Sinnatus — Close to the Temple. Synorix. Yonder ? Boy. Yes. SCENE I THE CUP 325 Sytwrix {aside). That I With all my range of women should yet shun To meet her face to face at once ! My boy, \^Boy cofiies down rocks to Jiini. Take thou this letter and this cup to Camma, The wife of Sinnatus. Boy. Going or gone to-day To hunt with Sinnatus. Syfiorix. That matters not. Take thou this cup and leave it at her doors. \Gives the cup and scroll to the Boy. Boy. I will, my lord. [ Takes his basket of grapes and exit. Efiter Antonius. Antonius {meeting the Boy as he goes out). \\'hy, whither runs the boy ? Is that the cup you rescued from the fire ? Synorix. I send it to the wife of Sinnatus, One half besotted in religious rites. \'ou come here with your soldiers to enforce The long-withholden tribute : you suspect I'his Sinnatus of playing patriotism, Which in your sense is treason, ^'ou have yet No proof against him : now this pious cup Is passport to their house, and open arms To him who gave it ; and once there 1 warrant 1 worm ihro' all their windings. Antonius. If you prosper, r)ur Senate, wearied of their tetrarchies, Their quarrels with themselves, their spites at Rome, Is like enough to cancel them, and throne One king above them all, who shall be true 'I'o the Roman : and from what 1 heard in Rome, This tributary crown may fall to you. Synorix. 'I'he king, the crown ' their talk in Rome? is it so? [Antonius nods. 32b THE CUP ACT I Well — I shall serve Galatia taking it, And save her from herself, and be to Rome More faithful than a Roman. [Turns ajid sees Camma coming. Stand aside. Stand aside ; here she comes ! [ Watching Camma as she enters with her Maid. Camma {to Maid). Where is he, girl ? Maid. You know the waterfall That in the summer keeps the mountain side, P>ut after rain o'erleaps a jutting rock And shoots three hundred feet. Camma. The stag is there ? Maid. Seen in the thicket at the bottom there But yester-even. Camma. Good then, we will climb The mountain opposite and watch the chase. [ They descend the rocks a7id exeunt. Synorix {ivatchitig her). {Aside.) The bust of Juno and the brows and eyes Of Venus ; face and form unmatchable ! Antotiius. W^iy do you look at her so lingeringly ? Synorix. To see if years have changed her. Antonius {sarcastically). Love her, do you ? Synorix. I envied Sinnatus when he married her. Antonius. She knows it ? Ha ! .Synorix. She — no, nor ev'n my face. Antonius. Nor Sinnatus either ? Synorix. No, nor Sinnatus. Antonius. Hot-blooded ! I have heard them .say in Rome, That your own people cast you from their bounds, For some unprincely violence to a woman. As Rome did Tarquin. Synorix. W ell, if this were so I here return like Tarquin — for a crown. Antonius. And may be foil'd like Tarquin, if you follow SCENE I THE CUP 327 Not the dry light of Rome's straight-going policy, But the fool-fire of love or lust, which well May make you lose yourself, may even drown you In the good regard of Rome. Synorix. Tut — fear me not ; I ever had my victories among women. I am most true to Rome. Antfl)iius {iiside). 1 hate the man ! What filthy tools our Senate works with ! Still I must obey them. {Aloud.) Fare you well. \Goini:;. Synorix. Farewell ! A)itonius {stopping). A moment ! If you track this Sinnatus In any treason, I give you here an order \^Prodiices a paper. To seize upon him. Let me sign it. (Signs it.) There 'Antonius leader of the Roman Legion.' \Hands the paper to Synorix. Goes up pathway and exit. Synorix. Woman again ! — but I am wiser now. No rushing on the game — the net, — the net. [.Shouts of ' Sinnatus ! Sinnatus ! ' Then horn. Looking off stage.^^ He comes, a rough, bluff, simple- looking fellow. If we may judge the kernel by tlic husk, N'(;t one to keep a woman's fealty when Assailed by Craft and Love. I'll join with him : I may reap something from him — come upon her Again, perhaps, to-day — her. Who are with him ? I see no face that knows me. Shall I risk it? I am a Roman now, they dare ncjl touch uk-. I Will. [AV/A'/- Sinnalus, Huntsmen and hounds. Fair Sir, a happy day to you ! You reck but little of the Roman here, While you can take your pastime in the woods. Sinnatus. Ay, ay, why not .•' What w(juld y<ju wiih me, man ? 328 THE CUP ACT I Synorix. 1 am a life long lover of the chase, And tho' a stranger fain would be allow'd To join the hunt. Sinnatiis. Your name ? Synorix. Strato, my name. Sinnatiis. No Roman name ? Synorix. A Greek, my lord ; you know- That we (ialatians are both (Ireek and Gaul. yS/iouts and horns in the distance. Sinnatiis. Hillo, the stag ! {To Synorix.) What, you are all unfurnish'd ? Give him a bow and arrows — follow— follow. \Exit., folloived by Huntsmen. Synorix. Slowly but surely — till I see my way. It is the one step in the dark beyond Our expectation, that amazes us. ^Distant shouts and horns. Hillo ! Hillo ! \Exit Synorix. Slwuts and horns. SCENE II. — A Room in thk Tetrarch's House Frescoed fii^iires on the walls Evening. Moonlii^ht outside. A couch 7vith cushions on it. A small table with a flagon of wine., cups., plate of grapes., etc., also the cup of Scetie I. A chair with drapery on it. Cam MA enters., and opens curtains of window. Canmia. No Sinnatus yet — and there the rising moon. \Takes up a cithern and sits on couch. J'lays and sings. Moon on the field and the foam, Moon on the waste and the wold. Moon bring him home, bring him home Safe from the dark and the cold, Home, sweet moon, bring him home, Home with the fiock to the fold- - Safe from the wolf SCENE II THE CUP 329 {Listening.) Is he coming? I thought I heard A footstep. No not yet. They say that Rome Sprang from a wolf. I fear my dear lord mixt With some conspiracy against the wolf. This mountain shepherd never dream'd of Rome. {Sings.) Safe from the wolf to the fold And that great break of precipice that runs Thro' all the wood, where twenty years ago Huntsman, and hound, and deer were all neck-broken ! Nay, here he comes. Enter Si^NATVS foi/owed by Synorix. Sinnatus {ajigrily). 1 tell thee, my good fellow. My arrow struck the stag. Synorix. But was it so ? Nay, you were further off: besides the wind Went with wv arrow. Sinnatus. I am sure / struck him. Synorix. And I am just as sure, my lord, /struck him. (Aside.) And I may strike your game when you are gone. Camma. C'ome, come, we will not quarrel about the st;jg. I have had a weary day in watching you. Yours must have been a wearier. Sit and eat, And take a hunter's vengeance on the meats. Sinnatus. No, no — we have eaten — we arc heated. Wine : Camnia. Who is our guest ? Sinnatus. Stralo he en lis himself [C'amma offers wine to Synorix, -it'/ii/c Siiinalus /ie/f>s himself. Sinnatus. I pledge ycni, Slratf). | l)rinl<s. Svnori.x. And I yw. my lord. [ Drin/cs. Sinnatus {seeing the cup sent to Camma). What's here ? Camma. A strange gift sent to me to-day. v.o THE CUP ACT I oo A sacred cup saved from a blazing shrine Of our great Goddess, in some city where Antonius past. I had beUeved that Rome Made war upon the peoples not the (lods. Sy?iorix. Most like the city rose against Antonius, Whereon he fired it, and the sacred shrine By chance was burnt along with it. Sinnafi/s. Had you then No message with tiie cup ? Gamma. Why, yes, see here. \Gives Iiim the scroll. Sinna/its {reads). 'To the admired Camma, — beheld you afar off — loved you — sends you this cup — the cup we use in our marriages — cannot at present write himself other than 'A GaLATIAN SERVINtT BY FORCE IN THE Roman Legion.' Serving by force ! Were there no boughs to hang on. Rivers to drown in ? Serve by force? No force Could make me serve by force. Synorix. How then, my lord ? The Roman is encampt without your city — The force of Rome a thousand fold our own. Must all Galatia hang or drown herself? And you a Prince and Tctrarch in this province — Si?inatus. Province ! Synorix. WeW, well, they call it so in Rome. Sinnattis {angrily). Province ! Synorix. A noble anger ! but Antonius To-morrow will demand your tribute — you, Can you make war ? Have you alliances ? Piithynia, Pontus, Paphlagonia? Wc have had our leagues of old with Eastern kings. There is my hand — if such a league there be. What will you do ? Sinnatus. Not set myself abroach And run my mind out to a random guest Who join'd me in the hunt. \'ou saw my hounds SCENE II THE CUP 331 True to the scent ; and we have two-legg'd dogs Among us who can smell a true occasion, And when to bark and how. Synorix. My good Lord Sinnatus, I once was at the hunting of a hon. Roused by the clamour of the chase he woke, Came to the front of the wood — his monarch mane Bristled about his quick ears — he stood there Staring upon the hunter. A score of dogs Clnaw'd at his anklt-s : at the last he felt The trouble of his feet, put forth one paw, Slew four, and knew it not, and so remain'd Staring upon the hunter : and this Rome Will crush you if you wrestle with her ; then Save for some slight report in her own Senate Scarce know what she has done. {Aside.) \Vould I could move him. Provoke him any way ! {Aloud.) The Lady Camma, Wise I am sure as she is beautiful, Will close with me that to submit at once Is better than a wholly-hopeless war. Our gallant citizens murdcr'd all in vain. Son, husband, brother gash'd to death in vain, And the small state more cruelly trampled on Than had she never moved. Camma. Sir, I had once A boy who died a babe ; but were he living And grown to man and Sinnatus will'd it, I Would set him in the front rank of the fight With scarce a pang. {Rises.) Sir, if a state submit At once, she may be blotted out at once And swallow'd in the conqueror's chronicle. Whereas in wars of freedom and defence The glory and grief of battle won or lost Solders a race together— yea — tho' they fail. The names of those who fought and fell are like A bank'd-up fire that flashes out again l*rom century to century, and at last 332 THE CUP ACT 1 May lead them on to victory — I hope so — Like phantoms of the (iods. Sinnatus. Well spoken, wife. Syriorix {Iwiviui:^). Madam, so well I yield. Sinnatus. I should not wonder If Synorix, who has dwelt three years in Rome And wrought his worst against his native land, Returns with this Antonius. Synorix. What is Synorix ? Sinnatus. Galatian, and not know ? This Synorix Was Tetrarch here, and tyrant also — did Dishonour to our wives. Synorix. Perhaps you judge him With feeble charity : being as you tell me Tetrarch, there might be willing wives enough To feel dishonour, honour. Cam/na. Do not say so. I know of no such wives in all (ialatia. There may be courtesans for aught I know Whose life is one dishonour. Enter Attendant. Attendant {aside). My lord, the men ! Sinnatus (aside). Our anti-Roman faction ? Attendant (aside). Ay, my lord. Synorix (overhearing). (Aside.) I have enough — their anti-Roman faction. Sinnatus (aloud). Some friends of mine would speak with me without. Vou, Strato, make good cheer till I return. \Exit. Synorix. I have much to say, no time to say it in. ]"'irst, lady, know myself am that (ialatian Who sent the cuj). Cainma. I thank you from my heart. Synorix. Then that I serve with Rome to serve Galatia. That is my secret : keep it, or you sell me To torment and to death. \C0mi71g closer. scENK 11 THE CUP T,:,:, JJO For your ear only — I love you — for your love to the great Goddess. The Romans sent me here a spy upon you, To draw you and your husband to your doom. I'd sooner die than do it. [ Takes out paper given him by Antonius. This paper sign'd Antonius — will you take it, read it ? there ! Camma. (^Reads.) 'You are to seize on Sinnatus, — ■ if ' Synorix. {Snatches paper.) No more. What follows is for no wife's eyes. O Camma, Rome has a glimpse of this conspiracy ; Rome never yet hath spar'd conspirator. Horrible ! flaying, scourging, crucifying Camma. I am tender enough, ^^'hy do you practise on me ? Synorix. Why should I practi.se on you ? How you wrong me ! I am sure of being cverj' way malign "d. And if you should betray me to your husband Camma. \\\\\ you betray him by this order? Synorix. See, I tear it all to pieces, never dreani'd Of acting on it. [^'J'cars the paper. Camma. I owe you thanks for ever. Synorix. Hath Sinnatus never told you of this plot ? Camma. What plot ? Synorix. A child's sandcaslle on ihe beach For the next wave — all seen, — all calculated, All known by Rome. No chance for Sinnatus. Camma. Why said you not as much to my brave Sinnatus ? Synorix. Urave — ay — too brave, too ovcr-ronfidcnt, Too like to ruin himself, and you, and ine ! Who else, with this black thunderbolt of Rome .\bove him, would have chased the stag to day In the full face of all the Roman camp ? 334 'I'HE CUP ACT 1 A miracle that they let him home again, Not caught, maim'd, blinded him. [Camma shiiddei's. {Aside.) I have made her tremble. {Aloud.) I know they mean to torture him to death. I dare not tell him how 1 came to know it ; I durst not trust him with — my serving Rome To serve Galatia : you heard him on the letter. Not say as much ? I all but said as much. I am sure I told him that his plot was folly. I say it to you — you are wiser — Rome knows all, "But you know not the savagery of Rome. Camma. O — have you power with Rome ? use it for him ! Synorix. Alas ! I have no such power with Rome. All that Lies with Antonius. \_As if struck by a sudden thought. Cotnes over to her. He will pass to-morrow In the gray dawn before the Temple doors. You have beauty, — O great beauty, — and Antonius, So gracious toward women, never yet Flung back a woman's prayer. Plead to him, I am sure you will prevail. Caiiuna. Still — I should tell My husband. Synorix. Will he lei you plead for him To a Roman ? Catnma. 1 fear not. Synorix. Then do not tell him. Or tell him, if you will, when you return. When you have charm'd our general into mercy, And all is safe again. O dearest lady, \Murmurs of ' Synorix ! Synorix ! ' heard outside. Think, — torture, — death, — and come. Camma. I will, I will. And I will not betray you. Synorix (aside). {As Sinnatus enters.) Stand apart. SCENE II THE CUP 335 Enter Sinnatus and Attendant. Sinnatus. Thou art that Synorix ! One whom thou hast wrong'd Without there, knew thee with Antonius. They howl for thee, to rend thee head from limb. Synorix. I am much malign'd. I thought to serve Galatia. Sinnatus. Serve thyself first, villain ! They shall not harm My guest within my house. There! {points to door) there ! this door Opens upon the forest ! Out, begone ! Henceforth I am thy mortal enemy. Synorix. However I thank thee {draws his szvord) ; thou hast saved my life. [^Exit. Sinnatus. {To Attendant.) Return and tell them Synorix is not here. \^Exit Attendant. What did that villain Synorix say to you ? Camma. Is he — tliat — Synorix ? Sinnatus. Wherefore should you doubt it ? One of the men there knew him. Camma. Only one, And he perhaps mistaken in the face. Sinnatus. Come, come, could he deny it ? What did he say ? Camma. What should he say ? Sinnatus. What should he say, my wife ! He should say this, that being Tetrarch once His own true people cast him from their doors Like a base coin. Camma. Not kindly to them ? Sinnatus. K i ndly ? O the most kindly Prince in all the world ! Would clap his honest citizens on the l)ark, P>andy their own rude jests with them, be curious About the welfare of their babes, their wives, :,S(> THE CUP ACT O ay — iheir wives — their wives. What should he say ? He should say nothing to my wife if I Were by to throttle him ! He steep'd himself In all the lust of Rome. How should jou guess What manner of beast it is ? Caimna. Yet he seem'd kindly, And said he loathed the cruelties that Rome Wrought on her vassals. Sinnatus. Did he, /wnest man ? Camma. And you, that seldom brook the stranger here, Have let him hunt the stag with you to-day. Sinnatus. I warrant you now, he said he struck the stag. Camma. Why no, he never touch'd upon the stag. Sinnatus. Why so I said, my arrow. W^ell, to sleep. \Goes to close door. Camma. Nay, close not yet the door upon a night That looks half day. .Sinnatus. True ; and my friends may sj)y him And slay him as he runs. Camma. He is gone already. O look, — yon grove upon the mountain, — white In the sweet moon as with a lovelier snow ! But what a blotch of blackness underneath ! Sinnatus, you remember — yea, you must. That there three years ago — the vast vine-bowers Ran to the summit of the trees, and dropt Their streamers earthward, which a breeze of May Took ever and anon, and open'd out The purple zone of hill and heaven ; there You told your love; and like the swaying vines — Yea, — with our eyes, — our hearts, our prophet hopes Let in the happy distance, and that all But cloudless heaven which we have found together In our three married years ! You kiss'd me there For the first time. .Sinnatus, kiss me now. SCENE II THE CUP 337 Simiatus. First kiss. {Kisses ke?'.) There then. You talk almost as if it Might be the last. Camma. \\'ill you not eat a little ? Sinnatus. No, no, we found a goat-herd's hut and shared His fruits and milk. Liar ! You will believe Now that he never struck the stag — a brave one Which you shall see to-morrow. Camma. I rise to-morrow In the gray dawn, and take this holy cup To lodge it in the shrine of Artemis. Sinnatus. Good ! Camma. If I be not back in half an hour, Come after me. Sinnatus. What I is there danger ? Camma. Nay, None that I know : 'tis but a step from here To the Temple. Sinnatus. All my brain is full of sleep. Wake me before you go, I'll after you — After me now I \C loses door and exit. Camma {drawing curtains). Your shadow. Synorix — His face was not malignant, and he said I'hat men malign'd him. Sliall I g(; ? Sliall I go? I )eath, torture — • I Ic never yet flung back a woman's prayer ' — i go, but I will have my dagger with me. YExit. SCENE III. — Samk as Scene I. I)\w\ Afusic and Sinfrint:; in the Temple. Enter SvNrtRix ivatc/i/ully, after liiin I'l r.i n> cud SOLDIER.S. Synorix. Publius ! Pul'lius. Here ! Synorix. \)o you remember what I told you ? V z 338 'I'lll': CUP ACT I ri//)/iiis. When you cry ' Rome, Rome,' to seize On whomsoever may be talking with you, Or man, or woman, as traitors unto Rome. Synorix. Riglit. Back again. How many of you are there ? Pnblius. Some half a score. \_Exeunt Soldiers and Publius, Synorix. I have my guard about me. I need not fear the crowd that hunted me Across the woods, last night. I hardly gain'd The camp at midnight. Will she come to mc Now that she knows me Synorix ? Not if SinnaLus Has told her all the truth about me. Well, I cannot help the mould that I was cast in. I fling all that upon my fate, my star. I know that I am genial, I would be Happy, and make all others happy so They did not thwart me. Nay, she will not come. Vet if she be a true and loving wife She may, perchance, to save this husband. Ay ! See, see, my white bird stepping toward the snare. Why now I coiiiil it all but miracle, That this brave heart of mine should shake me so. As helplessly as some unbearded boy's When first he meets his maiden in a bower. \Enter Camma {jvith cup). The lark first takes the sunlight on his wing, But you, twin sister of the morning star, Forelead the sun. Camma. Where is Antonius ? Synorix. Not here as yet. You are too early for him. \^She crosses towards Temple. Sxnorix. Nay, whilher go you now? Camma. To lodge this cup Within the holy shrine of Artemis, And so return. Synorix. To find Antonius here. \^Slie goes into the Temple, he looks after her. 3CENE III THE CUP .339 The loveliest life that ever drew tlie light From heaven to brood upon her, and enrich Earth with her shadow ! I trust she 7vill return. These Romans dare not violate the Temple. No, I must lure my game into the camp. A woman I could live and die for. What ! Die for a woman, what new faith is this ? I am not mad, not sick, not old enough To doat on one alone. Yes, mad for her, Camma the stately, Camma the great-hearted, .So mad, I fear some strange and evil chance Coming upon me, for by the Gods I seem Strange to myself. Reenter Camma, Canuna. Where is Antonius ? Synorix. Where ? As 1 said before, you are still too early. Camma. Too early to be here alone with thee ; l-'or whether men malign thy name, or no, It bears an evil savour among women. Where is Antonius? {Loud.) Synorix. Madam, as you know The camp is half a league without the city ; If you will walk with me we needs must meet Antonius coming, or at least shall Hnd'him There in the camp. Camma. No, not one slejt with thee. Where is Antonius? {Louder.) Synorix {advancini( tmvards her). Then for your own sake. Lady, I say it with all gintlencss. And for the sake of Sinnatus your husband, I must compel you. Camma {drawinf^ her daf^f^er). Stay ! — too near is death. Synorix {disarmini^ her). Is it not easy to disarm a woman ? 340 THE CUP ACT J Efifer SiNNATUS (seizes liim from behind by the throat). Synori.x {throttled and scarce audible). Rome ! Rome ! Sinnatus. Adulterous dog ! Synorix {stabbini:^ him with Gamma's dagg;er). ^Vhat ! will you have it ? [Canima utters a. cry and runs to Sinnatus. Sinnatus {falls backward). I have it in my heart — to the Temple — fly — For jny sake^or they seize on thee. Remember ! Away — farewell ! [Dies. Camma {runs up the steps into the Temple., looki?ig bach). Farewell ! Synorix {seeing her escape). The women of the Temple drag her in. I'ublius ! Publius ! No, Antonius would not suffer me to break Into the sanctuary. She hath escaped. [Looking doivn at Sinnatus. ' Adulterous dog ! ' that red-faced rage at me ! Then with one quick short stab eternal peace. So end all passions. Then what use in passions ? To warm the cold bounds of our dying life And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy, I'Lmploy us, heat us, quicken us, help us, keep us I'rom seeing all too* near that urn, those ashes Which all must be. Well used, they serve us well. I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambition Is like the sea wave, which the more you drink, The more you thirst — yea — drink too much, as men Have done on rafts of wreck — it drives you mad. I will be no such wreck, am no such gamester .^s, having won the stake, would dare the chance Of double, or losing all. The Roman Senate, For I have always piay'd into their hands, Means me the crown. And Camma for my bride — The people love her — if I win her love, SCENE III THE CUP 341 They too will cleave to me, as one with her. There then I rest, Rome's tributary king. \Looking down oti Sinnatus. \\'hy did I strike him ? — having proof enough Against the man, I surely should have left That stroke to Rome. He saved my life too. Did he ? It seem'd so. I have play'd the sudden fool. And that sets her against me — for the moment. Camma — well, well, I never found the woman I could not force or wheedle to my will. She will be glad at last to wear my crown. And I will make Galatia prosperous too. And we will chirp among our vines, and smile .\l bygone things till that {pointing to Sinnatus) eternal peace. Rome ! Rome ! [Enter Publius and Soldiers. Twice I cried Rome. Why came ye not before ? Publius. Why come we now ? Whom shall we seize upon ? Synorix (pointing to the body of Sinnatus). The body of that dead traitor Sinnatus. Ik-ar him away. Music and Singing in Temple. 342 THE CUP ACT II ACT II SCENE. — Interior of the Temple of Artemis S>nall gold j^ates on platjoi-m i?i front of the veil before the colossal statue of the Goddess, and in the centre of the Tei}iple a tripod altar, on which is a lighted lamp. Lamps (lighted) suspended between each pillar. Tripods, vases, garlands of flowers, etc., about stage. Altar at back close to Goddess, with two cups. Solemn music. Priestesses decorating the Temple. {The Chorus ^Priestesses sing as they enter.) . Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother, hear us, and bless us ! Artemis, thou that art Hfe to the wind, to the wave, to the glebe, to the fire ! Hear thy people who praise thee ! O help us from all that oppress us ! Hear thy priestesses hymn thy glory ! O yield them all thdir desire ! Priestess. Phcebe, that man from Synorix, who has been So oft to see the Priestess, waits once more Before the Temple. Pha'be. We will let her know. [^Signs to one of the Priestesses, who goes out. Since Camma fled from Synorix to our Temple, And for her beauty, stateliness, and power, Was chosen Priestess here, have you not mark'd Her eyes were ever on the marble floor? To-day they are fixt and bright — they look straight out. Hath she made w\) her mind to marry him ? Priestess. To marry him who stabb'd her Sinnatus. You will not easily make me credit that. Phcebe. .\sk her. ACT ir THE CUP 343 Enter Camma as Priestess {i 71 front of the curtains^. Priestess. You will not marry Synorix ? Cavwia. My girl, I am the bride of Death, and only Marry the dead. Priestess. Not Synorix then ? Camma. My girl, At times this oracle of great Artemis Has no more power than other oracles To speak directly. Phoebe. Will you speak to him, The messenger from Synorix who waits Before the Temple ? Camma. Why not ? Let him enter. \Comes forward on to step hy tripod. Enter a Messenger. Messenger {kneels). Greeting and health from Synorix ! More than once You have refused his hand. When last I saw you, You all but yielded. He entreats you now For your last answer. When he struck at Sinnatus — As I have many a time declared to you — He knew not at the moment who had fastcn'd About his throat — he begs you to forget it As scarce his act : — a random stroke : all else Was love for you : he prays you to believe him. Camma. I pray him to believe — that I believe him. Messeni^er. Why that is well. You mean to marry him ? Camma. I mean to marry him — if that be well. Afesseni;er. 'I'his very day the Romans crown him king For all his faithful .services to Rome. He wills you then this day to marry him, And so be throned together in the sight Of all the people, that the world may know 344 THE CUP ACT II You twain are reconciled, and no more feuds Disturb our peaceful vassalage to Rome. Cam ma. To-day? Too sudden. I will brood upon it. When do they crown him ? Messetiger. Even now. Camvia. And where 1 Messeiii^er. Here by your temple. Camma. Come once more to me Before the crowning, — I will answer you. [Exit Messenger. Phabe. Great Artemis ! O Camma, can it be well, Or good, or wise, that you should clasp a hand Red with the sacred blood of Sinnatus.? Camma. Good ! mine own dagger driven by Synorix found All good in the true heart of Sinnatus, And quench'd it there for ever. Wise ! Life yields to death and wisdom bows to Fate, Is wisest, doing so. Did not this man Speak well ? AVe cannot fight imperial Rome, But he and 1 are both Galatian-born, .\nd tributary sovereigns, he and I Might teach this Rome — from knowledge of our people — Where to lay on her tribute — heavily here .\nd lightly there. Might I not live for that, And drown all poor self-passion in the sense Of public good ? P/uybe. I am sure you will not marry him. Camma. Are you so sure? I pray you wait and see. [Shotifs {from the distance), ' Synorix I Synorix ! ' Camma. Synorix, Synorix ! So they cried Sinnatus Not .so long since — they sicken me. The One Who shifts his policy suffers something, must Accu.se himself, excuse himself; the Many Will feel no shame to give themselves the lie. Pho-be. Most like it was the Roman soldier shouted. Camma. 'J'heir shield-borne patriot of the morning star Hang'd at mid-day, their traitor of the dawn ACT II THE CUP 345 The clamour'd darling of their afternoon ! And that same head they would have play'd at ball with And kick'd it featureless — they now would crown. [^Flourish of trumpets. Enter a Galatian Nobleman ivith crotvn on a cushion. Noble {kneels). Greeting and health from Synorix. He sends you This diadem of the first Galatian Queen, That you may feed your fancy on the glory of it, And join your life this day with his, and wear it Beside him on his throne. He waits your answer. Camma. Tell him there is one shadow among the shadows, One ghost of all the ghosts — as yet so new, So strange among them — such an alien there, So much of husband in it still — that if The shout of Synorix and Camma sitting Upon one throne, should reach it, // would rise — //<?/. . . He, with that red star between the ribs, .'Xnd my knife there — and blast the king and me, And blanch the crowd with horror. I dare not, sir ! Tlirone him — and then the marriage — ay and tell him That I accept the diadem of Galatia — \All are amazed. Yea, that ye saw me crown myself withal. \Puts on lite crown. I wait him his crown'd queen. Noble. So will 1 tell iiini. \E.\it. Music. Two Priestesses j^o up the steps be/ore the shri/ie, dra-iV the curtains on either side {discot'erinx the Cioddess), then open the f^ates mid remain on steps, one on either side, and kneel. A priestess };;oes ojf and returns 7vith a Teil of marriai^e, then assists Pha-be to veil Camma. At the same time Priestesses enter and stand on either side of the Tctnple. Camma and all the Priestesses kneel, raise their hands to the Goddess, and bo7v do'ivn. [.Shouts, 'Syjiorix! Synorix!' All rise. 346 THE CUP aci ii Caiitina. Fling wide the doors and let the new-made children Of our imperial mother see the show. [SiDi/ii^/if pours throi/!^h the doors. I have no heart to do it. {To Pha-he). Look for nie ! \Crouches. Phcebe looks out. \Shouts, ' Synorix ! Synorix ! ' Phoebe. He climbs the throne. Hot blood, ambition, pride So bloat and redden his face — O would it were His third last apoplexy ! O bestial ! O how unlike our goodly Sinnatus. Camma {on the ground). You wrong him surely ; far as the face goes A goodlier-looking man than Sinnatus. Phcebe {aside). How dare she say it? I could hate her for it But that she is distracted. [A flourish of trumpets. Camma. Is he crown'd ? PJioebe. Ay, there they crown him. \Croivd without shout, ' Synorix ! Synorix ! ' \A Priestess brings a box of spices to Camma, ivho throws them on the altarfiame. Camma. Rouse the dead altar-flame, fling in the spices, Nard, Cinnamon, amomum, benzoin. Let all the air reel into a mist of odour, As in the midmost heart of Paradise. Lay down the Lydian carpets for the king. The king should pace on inirplc to his bride, And music there to greet my lord the king. [Music. {To Plwbe). Dost thou remember when I wedded Sinnatus ? ,\y, thou wast there — whether from maiden fears Or reverential love for him I loved, Or some strange second-sight, the marriage cup Wherefrom we make libation to the Goddess So shook within my hand, that the red wine Ran down the marble and lookt like bl(;od, like bkiod. ACT II THE CUP 347 Pheebe. I do remember your fir^^t-marriage fears. Camvia. I have no fears at this my second marriage. See here — I stretch my hand out — hold it there. How steady it is ! Phcebe. Steady enough to stab him ! Camma. O hush! O peace! This violence ill becomes The silence of our Temple. Gentleness, Losv words best chime with this solemnity. Enter a procession of Priestesses and Children bearing garlands and golden goblets, and strewing flowers. Enter Svnorix {as King, with gold laurel wreath crowK. and purple robes), follotved by Antonius, Publius Noblemen, Guards, and the Populace. Camma. Hail, King ! Synorix. Hail, Queen ! The wheel of Fate has roU'd me to the top. I would that happiness were gold, that I Might cast my largess of it to the crowd ! I would that every man made feast to-day Ueneath the shadow of our pines and planes ! For all my truer life begins to-day. The past is like a travell'd land now sunk ]?elow the horizon — like a barren shore That grew salt weeds, but now all drown'd in love And glittering at full tide — the bounteous bays And havens filling with a blissful sea. Nor speak I now too mightily, being King And happy! happiest, I,ady, in niy power To make you happy. Camma. Yes, sir. Synorix. ^^ur Antonius, Our faithful friend of Rome, tho' Rome may set .\ free foot where she will, yet of his courtesy Entreats he may be present at our marriage. 348 THE CUP ACT 11 Camilla. Let him come — a legion with him, if he will. {To Antonius.) Welcome, my lord Antonius, to our Temple. {To Synorix.) You on this side the altar. {To Antonius.) You on that. Call first upon the Goddess, Synorix. \Allface the Goddess. Priestesses, Children, Populace, and Guards kneel — tJie others remain standing. Synorix. O Thou, that dost inspire the germ with life, The child, a thread within the house of birth, .\nd give him limbs, then air, and send him forth I'he glory of his father — Thou whose breath Is balmy wind to robe our hills with grass. And kindle all our vales with myrtle-blossom, And roll the golden oceans of our grain. And sway the long grape-bunches of our vines, And fill all hearts with fatness and the lust Of plenty — make me happy in my marriage ! C/wrus {chanting). Artemis, Artemis, hear him, Ionian Artemis ! Cainina. O Thou that slayest the babe within the womb Or in the being born, or after slayest him As boy or man, great Goddess, whose storm-voice Unsockets the strong oak, and rears his root Beyond his head, and strows our fruits, and lays Our golden grain, and runs to sea and makes it Foam over all the fleeted wealth of kings And peoples, hear. Whose arrow is the plague — whose quick flash splits The mid sea mast, and rifts the tower to the rock, .\nd hurls the victor's column down with him That crowns it, hear. Who causest the safe earth to shudder and gape, .■\nd gulf and flatten in her closing chasm Domed cities, hear. Whose lava-torrents blast and blacken a province To a cinder, hear. Whose winter-cataracts find a realm and leave it ACT II THE CUP 349 A waste of rock and ruin, hear. I call thee To make my marriage prosper to my wish ! . Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Ephesian Artemis ! Cam ma. Artemis, Artemis, hear me, Galatian Artemis ! I call on our own Goddess in our own Temple. Chorus. Artemis, Artemis, hear her, Galatian Artemis ! \Thunder. All rise. Synorix {aside). Thunder ! Ay, ay, the storm was drawing hither Across the hills when I was being crown'd. I wonder if I look as pale as she? Camma. Art thou — still bent — on marrying? Synori.x. Surely — yet These are strange words to speak to Artemis. Camma. Words are not always what they seem, my King. 1 will be faithful to thee till thou die. Synorix. I thank thee, Camma, — I thank thee. Camma (turniti,^ to Antonius). Antonius, Much graced are we that our Queen Rome in you Deigns to look in upon our barbarisms. \^Tur>ts, ,i^oes up steps to altar /'c/ore the Goddess. Takes a cup from off the altar. J /olds it towards Antonius. Antonius ^oes up to the foot of the steps opposite to Synorix. Vou see this cup, my lord. [Gives it to him. Antonius. Most curious ! The many-breasted mother Artemis l'>ml)f)ss'd upon it. Camma. It is old, I know not How many hundred years. Give it me again. It is the cuj) belonging our own Tem[)lc. \/'uts if t'Oth on altar, and takes up the cup cf Act I. S/unvin^ it to Antonius. Here is another sacred to the Cioddess, The gift of Synorix ; and the Goddess, being I'or this most grnteful, wills, thro' me her Priestess, In honour of his gift and of our marriage. That Synorix should drink from his own cup. 350 THE CUP ACT II Syiiorix. I thank tlice, Camma, — I thank thee. Camilla. For — my lord — It is our ancient custom in (ialatia That ere two souls be knit for life and death, They two should drink together from one cup, In symbol of their married unity, Making libation to the Goddess. Bring mc The costly wines we use in marriages. \They bring in a large jar of zvine. Caiuma pours wine into cup. {To Synorix.) See here, I lill it. (To Antonius.) Will you drink, my lord ? Antonius. I ? Why should I ? I am not to be married. Camilla. But that might bring a Roman blessing on us. Antonius {refusing cup). Thy pardon, Priestess ! Camma. Thou art in the right. This blessing is f(jr Synorix and for me. See first I make libation to the Goddess, [Ma/ies libation. And now I drink. [^Drinks and fills the cup again. Thy turn, Galatian King. Drink and drink deep — our marriage will be fruitful. Drink and drink deep, and thou wilt make me happy. [Synorix goes up to her. She hands him the cup. He drinks. Synorix. There, Camma ! 1 have almost drain'd the cup — A few drops left. Camilla. Libation to the Goddess. [//(? throws the remaining drops on the altar and gives Camma the cup. Camma {placing the cup on the altar). Why then the Goddess hears. \Comes down and fonvard to tripod. Antonius/c'/Zt'zw. Antonius, Where wast thou on that morning when I came To plead to thee for Sinnatus's life, Beside this temple half a year ago ? Antonius. I never heard of this request of thine. ACT II THE CUP 351 Synorix {coming fonvard Juistily to foot of tripod steps). I sought him and I could not find him. Pray you, Go on with the marriage rites. Ca>/ima. Antonius ' Camnia ! ' who spake ? Antonius. Not I. Flmbe. Nor any here. Camma. I am all but sure that some one spake. Antoniu.s, If you had found him plotting against Rome, Would you have tortured Sinnatus to death ? Antonius. No thought was mine of torture or of death, But had I found him plotting, I had counsell'd him To rest from vain resistance. Rome is fated To rule the world. Then, if he had not listen'd, I might have st^nt him prisoner to Rome. Synorix. Why do you palter with the ceremony ? Go on with the marriage rites. Camma. They are finish 'd. Syfwrix. How ! Camma. Thou hast drunk deep enough to make me happy. Dost thou not feel the hnx- T bear to thee (ilow thro' thy veins ? Synorix. The love I bear to thee Glows thro' my veins since first I look'd on thee. P>ut wherefore slur tlie perfect ceremony ? Tiie sovereign of (ialatia weds his (^)ueen. Let all be done to the fullest in the sight Of all the Ciods. Nay, rather than so clip I'he flowery robe of Hymen, we would add Some golden fringe of gorgeousness beyond Old use, to make the day memorial, when Synorix, first King, Camma, first Queen o' the Realm, Drew here the richest lot from I'ale, to live And die together. This pain— what is it ? again ? 352 THE CUP ACI' II I had a touch of this last year — in — Rome. Yes, yes. {To Antonius.) Your arm — a moment — It will pass. I reel beneath the weight of utter joy — This all too happy day, crown— queen at once. \Staggers. all ye Gods — Jupiter ! — Jupiter ! {^Falls backward. Cami)ia. Dost thou cry out upon the Ciods of Rome ? Thou art Galatian-born. Our Artemis Has vanquish'd their Diana. Synorix {on the ground). T am poison'd. She — close the Temple door. Let her not fly. Canima {leaning on tripod). Have I not drunk, of the same cup with thee ? Synorix. Ay, by the Gods of Rome and all the world. She too — she too — the bride ! the Queen ! and 1 — Monstrous ! I that loved her. Canima. I loved ///;;/. Synorix. O murderous mad -woman ! I pray you lift me And make me walk awhile. 1 have heard these poisons May be walk'd down. [Antonius and Publius raise him up. My feet are tons of lead, They will break in the earth — I am sinking — hold me — Let me alone. [7//^' leai^e hint : he sinks down on ground. Too late — thought myself wise — A woman's dupe. Antonius, tell the Senate 1 have been most true to Rome — would have been true To her — if — if [Falls as if dead. Canima {coming and leaning over him). S<j falls the throne of an hour. Synorix {half rising). Throne? is it thou? the Fates are throned, not we — Not guilty of ourselves — thy doom and mine — Thou — coming my way too — Camma— good-night. [Dies. Catnma {upheld by zveeping Priestesses). Thy way? poor worm, crawl down thine own black hole To the lowest Hell. Antonius, is he there ? I meant thee to have folio w'd -better thus. ACT II THE CUP 353 Nay, if my people must be thralls of Rome, He is gentle, tho' a Roman. [Si'/iAs back into the arms of the Priestesses. Antonius. Thou art one With thine own people, and though a Roman I Forgive thee, Cam ma. Camma {raisinj^ herself). ' Camma ! ' — why there again I am most sure that some one call'd. O women, Ye will have Roman masters. I am glad I shall not see it. Did not some old Greek Say death was the chief good ? He had my fate for it, Poison'd. {Sinks back ai^^ain.) Have I the crown on ? I will go To meet him, crown'd ! crown'd victor of my will — On my last voyage — but the wind has fail'd — (Irowing dark too — but light enough to row. Row to the blessed Isles ! the blessed Isles ! — Sinnatus ! Why comes he not to meet me ? It is the crown Offends him — and my hands are too sleepy To lift it off. [Phoebe takes the crown off. Who touch'd me then ? I thank you. \Iiises with outspread arms. There — league on league of ever-shining shore Beneath an ever-rising sun — I see him — '(lamina, Camma ! ' Sinnatus, Sinnatus ! ^Dies. •/. s 2 A THE FALCON DRAMATIS PERSONS The Count Federigo degli Alberighi. FiLiPPO, Count' s foster-brother. The Lady Giovanna. Elisabetta, the Count's nurse. SCENE. — An Italian Cottage. Castle and Mountains seen through Window Elisabetta discovered seated o?i stool in window darning. The Count with Falcon on his hand comes down through the door at back. A zvithered w7-eath on the wall. Elisabetta. So, my lord, the Lady Ciiovanna, who hath been away so long, came back last night with her son to the castle. Count. Hear that, my bird ! Art thou not jealous of her? ;;„V My princess of the cloud, my plumed purveyoi, My far-eyed queen of the winds — thou that canst soar Beyond the morning lark, and howsoe'er Thy quarry wind and wheel, swoop down upon him Eagle-like, lightning-like — strike, make his feathers Glance in mid heaven. \Crosses to chair. I would thou hadst a mate ! Thy breed will die with thee, and mine with me : I am as lone and loveless as thyself. \Sits in chair. Giovanna here ! Ay, ruffle thyself — be jealous ! 354 THE FALCON 355 Thou should'st be jealous of her. Tho' I bred thee The full-train 'd marvel of all falconry, And love thee and thou me, yet if Giovanna Be here again — No, no ! Buss me, my bird ! The stately widow has no heart for me. Thou art the last friend left me upon earth — No, no again to that. [/^ises and turns. My good old nurse, I had forgotten thou wast sitting there. Elisabetta. Ay, and forgotten thy foster-brother too. Count. Bird-babble for my falcon ! Let it pass. What art thou doing there ? Elisabetta. Darning, your lordship. We cannot flaunt it in new feathers now : Nay, if we will buy diamond necklaces To please our lady, we must darn, my lord. This old thing here {points to necklace round her neck\ they are but blue beads — my Piero, God rest his honest soul, he bought 'em for me. Ay, but he knew I meant to marry him. How couldst thou do it, my son ? How couldst thou do it ? Count. She saw it at a dance, upon a neck Less lovely than her own, and long'd for it. Elisabetta. She told thee as much ? Count. No, no — a friend of hers. Elisabetta. Shame on her that she took it at thy hands, She rich enough to have bought it for herself! Count. She would have robb'd me then of a great pleasure. Elisabetta. But hath she yet return'd thy love? Count. Not }cl ! Elisabetta. She should return tliy necklace then. Count. Ay, if She knew the giver ; but I bound the seller To silence, and I left it privily ,At Florence, in her palace. Elisabetta. And sold thine own 1 tj buy it for her. She not know? She knows There's none such other 356 THE FALCON Count. Madman anywhere. Speak freely, tho' to call a madman mad Will hardly hel[) lo make him sane again. Enter Filippo. F Hippo. Ah, the women, the women ! Ah, Monna Giovanna, you here again ! you that have the face of an angel and the heart of a — that's too positive ! You that have a score of lovers and have not a heart for any of them — that's positive -negative : you that have not the head of a toad, and not a heart like the jewel in it — that's too negative ; you that have a cheek like a peach and a heart like the stone in it — that's positive again — that's better ! Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo ! Filippo (turns half round). Here has our master been a-glorifying and a-velveting and a-silking himself, and a-peacocking and a-spreading to catch her eye for a dozen year, till he hasn't an eye left in his own tail to flourish among the peahens, and all along o' you, Monna Giovanna, all along o' you ! Elisabetta. Sh — sh — Filippo ! Can't you hear that you are saying behind his back what you see you arc saying afore his face ? Count. Let him — he never spares me to my face ! Filippo. No, my lord, 1 never spare your lordship to your lordship's face, nor behind your lordship's back, nor to right, nor to left, nor to round about and back to your lordship's face again, for I'm honest, your lordship. Count. Come, come, Filippo, what is there in the larder ? [Elisabetta crosses to fireplace and puts on wood. Filippo. Shelves and hooks, shelves and hooks, and when I see the shelves I am like to hang myself on the hooks. Couttt. No bread ? Filippo. Half a breakfast for a rat ! THE FALCON 357 Count. Milk ? Filippo. Three laps for a cat ! Count. Cheese ? Filippo. A supper for twelve mites. Count. Eggs ? Filippo. One, but addled. Count. No bird ? Filippo. Half a tit and a hern's bill. Count. Let be thy jokes and thy jerks, man ! Any- thing or nothing? Filippo. Well, my lord, if all-but-nothing be anything, and one plate of dried prunes be all-but-nothing, then there is anything in your lordship's larder at your lordship's service, if your lordship care to call for it. Count. Cxood mother, happy was the prodigal son, For he rcturn'd to the rich father ; T But add my poverty to thine. And all Thro' following of my fancy. Pray thee make Thy slender meal out of those scraps and shreds Filippo spoke of. As for him and me, There sprouts a salad in the garden still. {To the Falcon.) Why didst thou miss thy quarry yester- even ? To-flay, my beauty, thou must dash us down Our dinner from the skies. Away, Filii)po ! [TiAvV, followed by Filippo. Elisabetta. I knew it would come to this. She has beggared him. I always knew it would come to this ! {Goes uf> to tnhlc as if to resume darnint^, and looks out of window.) ^Vhy, as I live, there is Monna (liovanna coming down the hill from the castle. Stops and stares at our cottage. Ay, ay ! stare at it : it's nil you have left us. Shame on you ! She beautiful : sleek as a miller's mouse ! Meal enough, meat enough, well fed ; but beautiful — bah ! Nay, sec, why she turns down the path through our little vineyard, and I sneezed three times this morning. Coming to visit my lord, for the first time in her life loo! Why, bless the saints! I'll be bound to 358 TME Fy\LCON confess lur love to liini at last. I forgive her, I forgive her ! I knew it would conic to this — I always knew it must come to this ! {Goiui^ up to door Jiiritii:; latter part of speech and opens it.) Come in, Madonna, come in. {Retires to front of table and curtseys as the Lady Giovanna enters, then moves chair towards the hearth.) Nay, let me place this chair for your ladyship. [Lady Giovanna moves slowly doivn stage, then crosses to chair, looking about her, bows as she sees the Madonna over fireplace, then sits in chair. Lady Giovanna. Can I speak with the Count? Elisabetta. Ay, my lady, but won't you speak with the old woman first, and tell her all about it and make her happy ? for I've been on my knees every day for these half-dozen years in hope that the saints would send us this blessed morning ; and he always took you so kindly, he always took the world so kindly. When he was a little one, and I put the bitters on my breast to wean him, he made a wry mouth at it, but he took it so kindly, and your lady- ship has given him bitters enough in this world, and he never made a wry mouth at you, he always took you so kindly — which is more than 1 did, my lady, more than I did — and he so handsome — and bless your sweet face, you look as beautiful this morning as the very Madonna her own self — and better late than never- — but come when they will — then or now — it's all for the best, come when they will — they are made by the blessed saints — these marriages. \Jiaises her hands. Lady Giovanna. Marriages ? I shall never marry again ! Elisabetta {rises and turns). Shame on her then ! Lady Giovanna. Where is the Count ? Elisabetta. Just gone To fly his falcon. Lady Giovanna. Call him back and say I come to breakfast with him. Elisabetta. Holy mother ! To breakfast ! Oh sweet saints ! one plate of prunes ! Well, Madam, I will give your message to him. \_Exit. THE FALCON 359 Lady Giovanna. His falcon, and I come to ask for his falcon, The pleasure of his eyes — boast of his hand — Pride of his heart — the solace of his hours — His one companion here — nay, I have heard That, thro' his late magnificence of living And this last costly gift to mine own self, yShozvs diamond necklace. He hath become so beggar"d, that his falcon Ev'n wins his dinner for him in the field. That must be talk, not truth, but truth or talk, iiuw can I ask for his falcon ? \Iiises and moves as she speaks. O my sick boy ! My daily fading Florio, it is thou Hath set me this hard task, for when I say What can I do — what can I get for thee ? lie answers, 'Get the Count to give me his falcon, And that will make me well.' Yet if I ask. He loves me, and he knows I know he loves me ! Will he not pray me to return his love — 'i'o marry him ? — {pause) — I can never marry him. His grandsire struck my grandsire in a brawl At Florence, and my grandsire stabb'd him there. The feud between our houses is the bar I cannot cross ; I dare not brave my brother. Break with my kin. My brother hates him, scorns 'i'he noblest-natured man alive, and I — Who have that reverence for him that I scarce Dare beg him to receive his diamonds back — How can I, dare I, ask him for his falcon ? \Puts diainonds in Iter casket. Re-enter Count and Fii.irr'O. Counj' turns to l-iui'i-o. Count. Do what 1 said ; I cannot do it myself. Filippo. Why then, my lord, we arc pauper'd out and out. 36o THE FALCON Coujit. Do what I said ! [Advances and Ixrtus low. Welcome to this poor cottage, my dear lady. Lady Giovanna. And welcome turns a cottage to a palace. Count. 'Tis long since we have met ! Lady Giovanna. To make amends I come this day to break my fast with you. Count. I am much honour'd — yes — \Tur7is to Filippo. Do what I told thee. Must I do it myself? Filippo. I will, I will. {Sighs.) Poor fellow ! [Exit. Count. Lady, you bring your light into my cottage Who never deign'd to shine into my palace. My palace wanting you was but a cottage ; My cottage, while you grace it, is a palace. Lady Gioj'anna. In cottage or in palace, being still Beyond your fortunes, you are still the king Of courtesy and liberality. Count. I trust I still maintain my courtesy ; My liberality perforce is dead Thro' lack of means of giving. Lady Giovanna. Yet I come To ask a gift. [Moves toivard him a little. Count. It will be hard, I fear. To find one shock upon the field when all The harvest has been carried. Lady Giovanna. But my boy — {Aside.) No, no ! not yet — I cannot ! Count. Ay, how is he. That bright inheritor of your eyes — your boy? I^ady Giovanna. Alas, my Lord Federigo, he hath fallen Into a sickness, and it troubles me. Coutit. Sick ! is it so ? why, when he came last year To see me hawking, he was well enough : And then I taught him all our hawking-phrases. Lady Giovanna. Oh yes, and once you let him fly your falcon. THE FALCON 361 Count. How charm'd he was! what wonder? — A gallant boy, A noble bird, each perfect of the breed. Lady Giovaiina {sinks in c/iair). What do you rate her " at? Count. My bird ? a hundred Crold pieces once were offer"d by the Duke. I had no heart to part with her for money. Lady Giovatina. No, not for money. [Count ti/rns away and si,i^hs. Wherefore do you sigh ? Count. I have lost a friend of late. Lady Giovanna. I could sigh with you For fear of losing more than friend, a son ; And if he leave me — all the rest of life — That wither'd wreath were of more worth to me. \Looking at 7vreath on wall. Count. That wither'd wreath is of more worth to me Than all the blossom, all the leaf of this Xew-wakening year. [Goes and takes down 7vreath. Lady Giovanna. And yet I never saw 'ihe land so rich in blossom as this year. Count (ho/din^ wreath toivard her). \\'as not the year when this was gather'd richer ? L.ady Giovanna. How long ago was that ? Count. Alas, ten summers ! A lady that was beautiful as day Sat by nie at a rustic festival With other beauties on a mountain meadow. And she was the most beautiful of all ; Then but fifteen, and still as beautiful. The mountain flowers grew thickly round about. I made a wreath with some of these ; I ask'd A ribbon from hir hair to bind it with ; I whisper'd, lx:t me crown you Queen of Beauty, And softly placed the chaplet on her head. A colour, whirl) has coloiir'd all my life, Flush'd in her face ; then I was call'd away; 362 THE FALCON x\nd presently all rose, and so departed. Ah ! she had thrown i«y chaplet on the grass, And there I found it. \Lets his hands fa//, /lo/ding ivreath desponding/y. Lady Giova,nna {after pause). How long since do you say ? Couvf. That was the very year before you married. Lady Giova/iua. When I was married you were at the wars. Count. Had she not thrown my chaplet on the grass. It may be I had never seen the wars. \_Rep/aces wreath whence he had ta/cen it. Lady Giovanna. Ah, but, my lord, there ran a rumour then That you were kill'd in battle. I can tell you True tears that year were shed for you in Florence. Count. It might have been as well for me. Unhappily I was but wounded by the enemy there And then imprison'd. Lady Giovanna. Happily, however, I see you quite recover'd of your wound. Count. No, no, not quite. Madonna, not yet, not yet. Re-enter Filippo. Filippo. My lord, a word with you. Count. Pray, pardon me ! [Lady Oiovanna crosses, and passes be/iind cliair and takes down ivreath ; tlien goes to chair by ta/)ie. Count (to Filippo). What is it, Filippo? Fitippo. Spoons, your lordship. Count. Spoons ! Fitippo. Yes, my lord, for wasn't my lady born with a golden spoon in her ladyship's mouth, and we haven't never so much as a silver one for the golden lips of her ladyship. Count. Have we not half a score of silver spoons ? THE FALCON 363 Filippo. Half o' one, my lord ! Count. How half of one ? Filippo. I trod upon him even now, my lord, in my hurry, and broke him. Count. And the other nine? Filippo. Sold ! but shall I not mount with your lord- ship's leave to her ladyship's castle, in your lordship's and her ladyship's name, and confer with her ladyship's seneschal, and so descend again with some of her lady- ship's own appurtenances ? Count. Why — no, man. Only see your cloth be clean. \Exit Filippo. Lady Giovanna. Ay, ay, this faded ribbon was the mode In Florence ten years back. What's here? a scroll Pinned to the wreath. My lord, you have said so much Of this poor wreath that I was bold enough To take it down, if but to guess what flowers Had made it ; and I find a written scroll That seems to run in rhymings. Might I read ? Count. Ay, if you will. Lady Giovanna. It should be if you can. {Reads.) ' Dead mountain.' Nay, for who could trace a hand So wild and staggering ? Count. This was penn'd. Madonna, Close to the grating on a winter morn In the perpetual twilight of a prison. When he that made it, having his right hand Lamed in the battle, wrote it with his left. Lady Giovanna. O heavens ! the very letters seem to shake With cold, with pain perhaps, poor prisoner ! Well, Tell me the words — or better — for I see There goes a musical score along with them, Repeat them to their music. Count. You can touch No chord in me that would not answer you In music. 364 THE FAT.CON Lady Giovaiiiia. That is musically said. \(Zovl.w\. takes gtiitm-. Lady (Jiovanna sits /isteniiij::; wit/i wreatJi in Iter hand, and quietly removes sc7-oll and places it on table at the end of the soni^. Count {sings, playing guitar). ' Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow flowers, Dearer than w^hen you made your mountain gay, Sweeter than any violet of to-day, Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, To me, tho' all your bloom has died away, You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.' Enter Elisabetta with cloth. Elisabetta. A word with you, my lord ! Count {singing). ' O mountain flowers ! ' Elisabetta. A word, my lord ! {Louder). Count {sings). ' Dead flowers ! ' Elisabetta. A word, my lord ! {Louder). Count. I pray you pardon me again ! [Lady (liovanna looking at wreath. Count {to Elisabetta). A\'hat is it ? Elisabetta. My lord, we have but one piece of earthen- ware to serve the salad in to my lady, and that cracked ! Count. Why then, that flower'd bowl my ancestor Fetch'd from the farthest east — we never use it For fear of breakage — but this day has brought A great occasion. You can take it, nurse ! Elisabetta. I did take it, my lord, but what with my lady's coming that had so flurried me, and what with the fear of breaking it, I did break it, my lord : it is broken ! Count. My one thing left of value in the world ! No matter ! see your cloth be white as snow ! Elisabetta {pointing thro' 7vindo7v). \\' hite ? I warrant thee, my son, as the snow yonder on the very ti])-top o' the mountain. THE FALCON 365 Count. And yet to speak white truth, my good old mother, I have seen it Hke the snow on the moraine. Elisabetta. How can your lordship say so ? There my lord ! \Lays cloth. my dear son, be not unkind to me. And one word more. \Going — returns. Count {touching guitar). Good ! let it be but one. Elisabetta. Hath she return'd thy love ? Count. Not yet ! Elisabetta. And will she? Count {looking at Lady Giovanna). I scarce believe it ! Elisabetta. Shame upon her then ! [Exit. Count {sings). ' Dead mountain flowers ' Ah well, my nurse has broken The thread of my dead flowers, as she has broken My china bowl. My memory is as dead. [Goes and replaces guitar. Strange that the words at home with me so long Should fly like bosom friends when needed most. So by your leave if you would hear the rest, The writing. Lady Giovanna {holding wreath toivard him). There ! my lord, you are a poet. And can you not imagine that the wreath. Set, as you say, so lightly on her head, I'ell with her motion as she rose, and she, A girl, a child, then but fifteen, however Klutter'd or flatter'd by your notice of her. Was yet too bashful to return for it? Count. Was it so indeed? was it so? was it so? [Leans forunird to take wreath, and touches Lad)' Giovanna's hand, 'ivhich she ivithdra^vs hastily , lie places wreath on corner of chair. L^ady Giovanna {ivith dignity). I did not say, my lord, that it was so ; 1 said you might imagine it was so. 366 THE FALCON Enter Filippo with bowl of salad^ which he places on tabic. Filippo. Here's a fine salad for my lady, for tho' we have been a soldier, and ridden by his lordship's side, and seen the red of the battle-field, yet are we now drill- sergeant to his lordship's lettuces, and profess to be great in green things and in garden-stuff. Lady Giovanna. I thank thee, good Filippo. \Exit Filippo. Enter Elisabetta with bird on a dish whicJi she places on table. Elisabetta {close to table). Here's a fine fowl for my lady ; I had scant time to do him in. I hope he be not underdone, for we be undone in the doing of him. Lady Giovanna. I thank you, my good nurse. Pilippo {re-entering 7vith plate of prunes). And here are fine fruits for my lady — prunes, my lady, from the tree that my lord himself planted here in the blossom of his boyhood — and so I, Filippo, being, with your ladyship's pardon, and as your ladyship knows, his lordshi})'s own foster-brother, would commend them to your ladyship's most peculiar appreciation. \Piits plate on table. Elisabetta. Filippo ! L^ady Giovanna (Count leads her to table), ^\'ill you not eat with me, my lord ? Count. I cannot. Not a morsel, not one morsel. I have broken My fast already. I will pledge you. Wine ! Filippo, wine ! ySits near table ; Filippo brings flask.^ fills the Count's goblet., then Lady (iiovanna's ; Elisabetta j-/'rt«^5' at the back of Lady (iiovanna's chair. Count. It is but thin and cold. Not like the vintage blowing round your castle. THE FALCON 367 We lie too deep down in the shadow here. Your ladyship lives higher in the sun. [They pledge each other and drwk. Lady Giovanna. If I might send you down a flask or two Of that same vintage ? There is iron in it. It has been much commended as a medicine. I give it my sick son, and if you be Not quite recover'd of your wound, the wine Might help you. None has ever told me yet The story of your battle and your wound. Filippo {coming fortvard). I can tell you, my lady, I can tell you. Elisabetta. Filippo ! will you take the word out of your master's own mouth ? Filippo. Was it there to take ? Put it there, my lord. Count. Giovanna, my dear lady, in this same battle We had been beaten — they were ten to one. The trumpets of the fight had echo'd down, I and Filippo here had done our best, And, having passed unwounded from the field. Were seated sadly at a fountain side, Our horses grazing by us, when a troop. Laden with booty and with a flag of ours Ta'en in the fight J'llippo. Ay, Ijul we fcnight for it back, And kill'd Elisabetta. Filippo ! Count. A troop of horse- P'ilippa. Five hundred ! Count. Say fifty ! Pilippn. And we kHl'd 'em by the score ! Elisabetta. I'"ilip[)0 ! /''Hippo. Well, well, well ! 1 Ijite my tongue. Count. We may have left their fifty less by five. However, staying not to count how many, But anger'd at their flaunting of our flag. We mounted, and we dashVl into the heart of 'em. 368 THE FALCON I wore the lady's chaplet round my neck ; It served me for a blessed rosary. I am sure that more than one brave fellow owed His death to the charm in it. EUsabetta. Hear that, my lady ! Count. I cannot tell how long we strove before Our horses fell beneath us ; down we went Crush'd, hack'd at, trampled underfoot. The night, As some cold-manner'd friend may strangely do us The truest service, had a touch of frost That help'd to check the flowing of the blood. My last sight ere I swoon 'd was one sweet face Crown 'd with the wreath. That seem'd to come and go. They left us there for dead ! EUsabetta. Hear that, my lady ! Filippo. Ay, and I left two fingers there for dead. See, my lady! {^Showing his hand.) Lady Giovanna. I see, Filippo ! Filippo. And I have small hope of the gentleman gout in my great toe. Lady Giovanna. And why, I'ilippo ? [^Smi/ing absently. Filippo. I left him there for dead too ! EUsabetta. She smiles at him — how hard the woman is! My lady, if your ladyship were not Too proud to look upon the garland, you Would find it stain'd Count {rising). Silence, Elisabetta ! EUsabetta. Stain'd with the blood of the best heart that ever Beat for one woman. \_Poitits to wreath on chair. Lady Giovanna {rising s/o7v/y). I can eat no more ! Count. You have but trifled with our homely salad, But dallied with a single lettuce-leaf; Not eaten anything. Lady Giovanna. Nay, nay, I cannot. You know, my lord, I told you I was troubled My one child Florio lying still so sick, THE FALCON 369 I bound myself, and by a solemn vow, That I would touch no flesh till he were well Here, or else well in Heaven, where all is well. [Elisabetta clears table of bird and salad: Filippo snatches up the plate of pruties and holds them to Lady Giovanna. Filippo. But the prunes, my lady, from the tree that his lordship Lady Giovaufia. Not now, Filippo. My lord Federigo, Can I not speak with you once more alone ? Coitnt. You hear, Filippo ? My good fellow, go ! Filippo. But the prunes that your lordship Elisabetta. Filippo ! Count. Ay, prune our company of thine own and go ! Elisabetta. Filippo ! Filippo {turning). Well, well ! the women I \_Exit. Count. And thou too leave us, my dear nurse, alone. Elisabetta {folding up cloth and going). And me too ! Ay, th(j dear nurse will leave you alone ; but, for all that, she that has eaten the yolk is scarce like to swallow the .shell. \Turns and curtseys stiffly to Lady Giovanna, then exit. Lady Giovanna takes out dianwnd necklace from casket. Lady Giovanna. I have anger'd your good nurse; these old-world servants Are all but flesh and blood with those they serve. My lord, I have a present to return you, And afterwards a boon to crave o'i you. Count. No, my most honour'd and long-worshipt lady, Poor Federigo dcgli Alberighi Takes nothing in return from you except Return of his affection — can deny Nothing to you that you reciuirc of him. Lady CJioTanna. Then I re([uire yon to lake back your diamonds — [Offering necklace. I doubt not they arc yours. No other heart Of such magnificence in courtesy V 2 n 370 THE FALCON Beats— out of heaven. They seem'd too rich a prize To trust with any messenger. I came In person to return them. \Count draws back. If the phrase ' Return ' displease you, we will say — exchange them For your — for your Count {takes a step toward her and then back). For mine — and what of mine? Lady Giovanua. \\(t\\ shall we say this wreath and your sweet rhymes ? Count. But have you ever worn my diamonds ? Lady Giovanna. No ! For that would seem accepting of your love. I cannot brave my brother — but be sure That I shall never marry again, my lord ! Count. Sure ? Lady Giovanna. Yes ! Count. Is this your brother's order ? Lady Giovanna. No ! For he would marry me to the richest man In Florence ; but I think you know the saying — 'Better a man without riches, than riches without a man.' Count. A noble saying — and acted on would yield A nobler breed of men and women. Lady, I find you a shrewd bargainer. The wreath That once you wore outvalues twentyfold The diamonds that you never deign'd to wear. But lay them there for a moment ! [Points to table. Lady Giovanna places necklace on table. And be you Gracious enough to let me know the boon By granting which, if aught be mine to grant, I should be made more happy than I hoped Ever to be again. Lady Giovanna. Then keej) your wreath, But you will find me a shrewd bargainer still. I cannot keep your diamonds, for the gift THE FALCON 371 I ask for, to my mind and at this present Outvalues all the jewels upon earth. Count. It should be love that thus outvalues all. You speak like love, and yet you love me not. I have nothing in this world but love for you. Lady Giovanna. Love ? it is love, love for my dying boy, Moves me to ask it of you. Count. What ? my time ? Is it my time ? Well, I can give my time To him that is a part of you, your son. Shall I return to the castle with you ? Shall I Sit by him, read to him, tell him my tales. Sing him my songs ? You know that I can touch The ghittern to some purpose. Lady Giovanna. No, not that ! I thank you heartily for that— and you, I d(jubt not from your nobleness of nature, Will pardon me for asking what I ask. Count. Giovanna, dear Giovanna, I that once The wildest of the random youth of Florence Before I saw you — all my nobleness Of nature, as you deign to call it, draws From you, and from my constancy to you. No more, but S[)eak. Lady Giovanna. I will. You know sick people, More specially sick children, have strange fancies. Strange longings; and to thwart them in their mood May w(jrk them grievous harm at times, may even Hasten their end. I would you had a son I It might be easier then for you to make Allowance for a mother — her — who comes To rob you of your one delight on earth. How often has my sick boy yearn'd for this ! I have put him off as often ; but to day I dared not — so much weaker, so much worse For last day's journey. I was wee])ing for him ; He gave me his hand : ' I should be well again If the good Count would give me ' 372 THE FALCON Count. Give me. Lady Giovatuia. His falcon. Count {starts back). My falcon ! Lady Giovanna. Yes, your falcon, Federigo ! Count. Alas, I cannot ! Lady Giovanna. Cannot ? Even so ! I fear'd as much. O this unhappy world ! How shall I break it to him ? how shall I tell him ? The boy may die : more blessed were the rags Of some pale beggar-woman seeking alms For her sick son, if he were like to live. Than all my childless wealth, if mine must die. I was to blame — the love you said you bore me — My lord, we thank you for your entertainment. [ With a stately curtsey. And so return — Heaven help him ! — to our son. [7}/;7/i-. Count {rushes forivard). Stay, stay, I am most unlucky, most unhappy. You never had look'd in on me before. And when you came and dipt your sovereign head Thro' these low doors, you ask'd to eat with me. I had but emptiness to set before you, No not a draught of milk, no not an egg. Nothing but my brave bird, my noble falcon, My comrade of the house, and of the field. She had to die for it — she died for you. Perhaps I thought with those of old, the nobler The victim was, the more acceptable Might be the sacrifice. I fear you scarce Will thank me for your entertainment now. Lady Giovanna {returning). I bear with him no longer. Count. No, Madonna ! And he will have to bear with it as he may. Lady Giovantia. I break with him for ever! Count. Yes, Giovanna, But he will keep his love to you for ever ! Lady Giovanna. You ? you ? not you ! Al)- brother ! my hard brother ! THE FALCON 373 Federigo, Federigo, I love you ! Spite of ten thousand brothers, Federigo. \^FaIls at his feet. Count {impetuously). Why then the dying of my noble bird Hath served me better than her living — then [Takes diamonds from table. These diamonds are both yours and mine — have won Their value again — beyond all markets — there 1 lay them for the first time round your neck. [Lays necklace round her neck. And then this chaplet — No more feuds, but ]ieace, Peace and conciliation ! I will make Your brother love me. See, I tear away The leaves were darken'd by the battle — [Pulls leaves off atid throrvs them down. — crown you Again with the same crown my Queen of Beauty. [Places ivreath on her head. Rise — I could almost think that the dead garland Will break once more into the living blossom. Nay, nay, I pray you rise. [Raises her 7vith both hands. We two together Will help to heal your .son — your son and mine — We shall do it — we shall do it. [Embraces her. The purpose of my being is accomplish'd, And I arn ha])py ! Lady Giovanna. And I too, Federigo. THE PROMISE OE MAY ' A surface man of theories, true to none.' DRAMATIS PERSONyE Farmek Dobson. Mr. Philip Edgar {afterwards Mr. Harold). Farmer Steek (Ddra mid Eva'.s Father). Mr. Wil.son [a Schoolmaster). H1GGIN.S Jamics Dan S.mitii I luum. Labourers. Jackson Allen Dora Steer. Eva Steer. Sally Allen "| „ ,, !■ Farm Semants. MiLLY ) Farm Servants, Labourers, etc. ACT I SCENE. — Before Farmhou.se. Farming Men and Women. Farming Men carrying forms, etc., Women carrying baskets of knives and forks., etc. ist Farming Man. Be thou a-gawin' to the long barn ? 2nd Farming Man. Ay, to be sewer ! Be thou ? \st Farming Man. Why, o' coor.se, fur it be the owd man's birthdaay. He be heighty this very daiiy, and. 'e 374 ACT I THE PROMISE OF MAY 375 telled all on us to be i' the long barn by one o'clock, fur he'll gie us a big dinner, and haafe th' parish '11 be theer, an' Miss Dora, an' Miss Eva, an' all 1 2nd. Fanning Afan. Miss Dora be coomed back, then ? \st Farming Man. Ay, haiife an hour ago. She be in theer now. {^Pointing to house.) Owd Steer wur afeard she wouldn't be back i' time to keep his birthdaay, and he wur in a tew about it all the murnin'; and he sent me wi' the gig to Littlechester to fetch 'er ; and 'er an' the owd man they fell a-kissin' o' one another like two sweet'arts i' the poorch as soon as he clapt eyes of 'cr. 2nd Fanning Man. Foiilks says he likes Miss Eva the best. isi Farming Man. Naiiy, I knaws nowt o' what foalks says, an' I caares nowt neither. P'oalks doesn't hallus knaw thessens ; but sewer I be, they be two o' the purtiest gels ye can see of a summer murnin'. 2nd Farming Man. Bciint Miss Eva gone off a bit of 'er good looks o' laate ? isi Farming Man. Noa, not a bit. 2nd Farming Man. \Vhy coom awaiiy, then, to the long barn. \^ExciiHt. DoKA looks out of window. Enter DonsoN. Dora {singing). The town lay still in the low sun-light, 'I'he hen cluckt late by the while farm gate, The maid to her dairy came in from the cow, 'I'he stock-dove coo'd at the fail of night, The blossom had open'd on every bough ; O joy for the promise of May, of May, O joy for the promise of May. {Xodding at Dobson.) I'm coming down, Mr. Dobson. I haven't seen l"2va yet. Is she anywhere in tlie garden ? Dobson. No.'i, Miss. I ha'n't seed 'er neither. 376 THE PROMISE OF MAY act i Dora {enters singing). But a red fire woke in the heart of the town, And a fox from the glen ran away with the hen, And a cat to the cream, and a rat to the cheese ; And the stock-dove coo'd, till a kite dropt down, And a salt wind burnt the blossoming trees ; O grief for the promise of May, of May, O grief for the promise of May. I don't know why I sing that song ; I don't love it. Dobson. Blessings on your prctly voice. Miss Dora. Wheer did they larn ye that ? Dora. In Cumberland, Mr. Dobson. Dobson. An' how did ye leave the owd uncle i' Coomberland ? Dora. Getting better, Mr. Doiison. But he'll never be the same man again. Dobson. An' how d'ye find the owd man 'ere ? Dora. As well as ever. I came back to kee]) his birthday. Dobson. Well, I be coomed to keep his birthdaiiy an' all. The owd man be heighty to-daily, beiint he ? Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson. And the day's bright like a friend, but the wind east like an enemy. Help me to move this bench for him into the sun. {They move bench.') No, not that way — here, under the apple tree. Thank you. Look how full of rosy blossom it is. [Pointing to apple tree. Dobson. Theer be redder blossoms nor them. Miss Dora. Dora. Where do they blow, Mr. Dobson ? Dobson. Under your eyes, Miss Dora. Dora. Do they ? Dobson. And your eyes be as blue as Dora. What, Mr. Dobson? A butcher's frock? Dobson. Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue as Dora. Bluebell, harebell, speedwell, bluebottle, succory, forget-me-not ? ACT I THE PROMISE OF MAY 377 Dobson. Noa, Miss Dora ; as blue as Dora. The sky ? or the sea on a blue day ? Dobson. Naay then. I meiin'd they be as blue as violets. Dora. Are the)' ? Dobson. Theer ye goas ageiin, Miss, niver believing owt I says to j'e — hallus a-fobbing ma off, tho' ye knaws I love ye. I warrants ye'll think moor o' this young Squire Edgar as ha' coomed among us — the Lord knaws how — ye'll think more on 'is little finger than hall my hand at the haltar. Dora. Perhaps, Master Dobson. I can't tell, for I have never seen him. But my sister wrote that he was mighty pleasant, and had no pride in him. Dobson. He'll be arter you now, Miss Dora. Dora. Will he? How can I tell? Dobson. He's been arter Miss Eva, haan't he ? Dora. Not that I know. Dobson. Didn't I spy 'em a-sitting i' the woodbine harbour togither ? Dora. What of that ? Eva told me that he was taking her likenes.s. He's an artist. Dobson. What's a hartist ? 1 doiint believe he's iver a 'cart under his waistcoat. And I tells ye what. Miss Dora: he's no respect for the Queen, or the parson, or the justice o' peace, or owt. I ha' heard 'im a-gawin' on 'ud make your 'air — Clod bless it ! — stan' on end. And wuss nor that. When theer wur a meeting o' farmers at ],ittlechestcr t'other daay, and they was all a-crying out at the bad times, he cooms up, and he calls out among our oiin men, ''J'hc land belongs to the people !' Dora. And what did jw/ say to that ? Dobson. Well, I says, s'pose my pig's the land, and you says it belongs to the parish, and theer be a thousand i' the parish, taakin' in the women and childer ; and s'pose I kills my pig, and gi'es it among 'em, why there wudn't be a dinner for nawbody, and I should ha' lost the pig. 378 THE PROMISE OF MAY ACl I Dora. And what did he say to that ? Dobson. Novvt — what could he saay ? But I taakcs "im fur a bad lot and a burn fool, and I haiites the very sight on him. Dora {/ooki?iir at Dobson). Master Dobson, you are a comely man to look at. Dobson. I thank you for that, Miss Dora, onyhow. Dora. Ay, but you turn right ugly when you're in an ill temj^er ; and I promise you that if you forget yourself in your behaviour to this gentleman, my father's friend, I will never change word with you again. Enter Farming Ma-^ from barn. Farmmjr Man. Miss, the farming men 'ull hev their dinner i' the long barn, and the master 'ud be straiinge an' pleased if you'd step in fust, and see that all be right and reg'lar fur 'em afoor he coom. [Exit. Dora. I go. Master Dobson, did you hear what 1 said } Dobson. Yeas, yeas ! Fll not meddle wi' 'im if he doant meddle wi' mea. {Exit Dora.) Coomly, says she. I niver thowt o' mysen i' that waiiy ; but if she'd taake to ma i' that waiiy, or ony waiiy, Fd slaave out my life fur 'er. 'Coomly to look at,' says she — but she said it spiteful -like. To look at — yeas, 'coomly'; and she mayn't be so fur out theer. But if that be nowt to she, then it be nowt to me. {Lookin;::; off stage.) Schoolmaster! Why if Steer han't haxed schoolmaster to dinner, thaw 'e knaws I was hallus agean heving schoolmaster i' the parish ! fur him as be handy wi' a book bean't but haiife a hand at a pitchfork. Enter Wilson. Well, Wilson. I seed that one cow o' thine i' the pinfold agean as I wur a-coomin' 'ere. Wilson. Very likely, Mr. Dobson. She ivill break fence. I can't keep her in order. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MAY 379 Dobson. An' if tha can't keep thy one cow i' border, how can tha keep all thy scholards i' border? But let tbat goa by. What dost a knaw o' this Mr. Hedgar as be a-lodgin' wi' ye ? I coom'd upon "im I'otber daay lookin' at the coontry, then a-scrattin' upon a bit o' paaper, then a-lookin' agean ; and I taaked 'im fur soom sort of a land-surveyor — but a beiint. JPl/son. He's a Somersetshire man, and a very civil- spoken gentleman. Dobson. Gentleman 1 What be he a-doing here ten mile an' moor fro' a raail ? Wo. laays out o' the waay fur gentlefoiilk altogither — leastwaiiys they niver cooms 'ere but fur the trout i' our beck, fur they be knaw'd as far as Litllechester. But 'e doiint fish neither. Wilson. Well, it's no sin in a gentleman not to fish. Dobson. Noa, but I haates 'im. Wilson. Better step out of his road, then, for he's walking to us, and with a book in his hand. Dobson. An' I haates boooks an' all, i'ur they puts foiilk off the owd waays. Enter Edgar, rcndini^ — not seeing Dobson and Wilson. Edgar. This author, with his charm of simple style And close dialectic, all but proving man An automatic series of sensations, Has often nunib'd me into apathy Against the unpleasant jolts of this rough road I'hat breaks off short into the abysses — made me A Quietist taking all things easily. Dobson. (Aside.) There mun be summut wrong tliccr, Wilson, fur I doant understan' it. Wilson. {Aside.) Nor I either, Mr. Dobson. Dobson (scornfully). An' thou doiint understan' it neither — and thou schoolmaster an' ail. Edgar. What can a man, then, live for but sensations, Pleasant ones? men of old would undergo Unpleasant for the sake of pleasant ones 380 THE PROMISE OF MAY a.t i Hereafter, like the Moslem beauties waiting To clasp their lovers by the golden gates. For me, whose cheerless Houris after death Are Night and Silence, pleasant ones — the while- If possible, here ! to crop the flower and pass. Dobson. Well, 1 never 'eard the likes o' that afoor. Wilson. {Aside.) But I have, Mr. Dobson. It's the old Scripture text, ' Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.' I'm sorry for it, for, tho' he never comes to church, I thought better of him. Edgar. 'What are we,' says the blind old man in Lear ? ' As flies to the Gods ; they kill us for their sport.' Dobson. {Aside.) Then the owd man i' Lear should be shaiimed of hissen, but noan o' the parishes goas by that naame 'ereabouts. Edgar. The Gods ! but they, the shadows of our- selves. Have past for ever. It is Nature kills, And not for her sport either. She knows nothing. Man only knows, the worse for him ! for why Cannot he take his pastime like the flies ? And if my pleasure breed another's pain, Well — is not that the course of Nature too. From the dim dawn of Being — her main law Whereby she grows in beauty — that her flies Must massacre each other ? this poor Nature ! Dobson. Natur ! Natur ! Well, it be i' my natur to knock 'im o' the 'ead now ; but I wc;int. Edgar. A Quietist taking all things easily — why — Have I been dipping into this again To steel myself against the leaving her ? \^Closes book, seeing Wilson. Good day I JVi/son. (}ood day, sir. [Dobson /oohs hard at Edgar. Edgar {to Dobson). Have I the pleasure, friend, of knowing you ? Dobson. Dobson. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MAY 381 Edi^ar. Good clay, then, Dobson. [^Exif. Dobsofi. ' Good daily then, Dobson ! ' Civil-spoken i'deed ! Why, Wilson, tha 'eiird 'im thysen — the feller couldn't find a Mister in his mouth fur me, as farms five hoonderd hacicre. IVilsoti. You never find one for me, Mr. Dobson. Dobson. Noii, fur thou be nobbut schoolmaster • but I taiikes 'im for a Lunnun swindler, and a l)urn fool. ]Vilso7i. He can hardly be both, and he pays me regular every Saturday. Dobson. Yeas ; but I haiites 'im. Enter Steer, Farm Men and Women. Steer {goes and sits under apple tree). Hev' on)' o' )e seen Eva ? Dobson. Noa, Mr. Steer. Steer. Well, I reckons they'll hev' a fine cider-crop to- year if the blossom 'owds. Good murnin', neighbours, and the saame to you, my men. 1 taiikes it kindly of all o' you that you be coomed — wliat's the ncwspaaper word, Wilson? — celebrate to celebrate my birthdaiiy i' this fashion. Niver man 'ed better friends, and I will saiiy niver master 'ed better men : fur thaw I may lui' fallen out wi' ye sometimes, the fault, mebbe, wur as much mine as yours; and, thaw I says it mysen, niver men 'cd a better master — and I knaws what men be. and what masters be, fur I wur noi)but a laiibourer, and now I be a landlord — liurn a plowman, and now, as far as money goiis, 1 l)e a gentleman, thaw I beiint naw scholard, fur I 'cdnl naw time to maiike mysen a scholard wliile I wur maiikin' mysen a gentleman, but I lia ta.ii-n gtjod care to turn out boiith my darters right d<jwn fine laiidies. Dobson. An' soil they be. \st h'arniin;.; Man. Soil they be ! soii they Ijc ! 2nd Farming A/an. 'I'he l^ord bless boiith on 'em ! yd J'arniing Man. An" the saiime to you, Master. 382 THE PROMISE OF MAY act i ^th Farming Man. And long life to boiith on 'em. An' the saiime to you, Master Steer, likewise. Steer. Thank ye ! Enter Eva. Wheer 'asta been ? Eva {timidly). Many happy returns of the day, father. Steer. They can't be many, my dear, but I 'oiipes they'll be 'appy. Dobson. AN'hy, tha looks haiile anew to last to a hoonderd. Steer. An' why shouldn't I last to a hoonderd ? Haiile ! why shouldn't I be haiile ? fur tliaw I be heighty this very daily, I niver 'es sa much as one pin's prick of paiiin ; an' I can taiike my glass along wi' the youngest, fur I nivcr touched a drop of owt till my oiin wedding-daay, an' then I wur turned huppads o' sixty. Why shouldn't I be haiile? I ha' plowed the ten-aiicre — it be mine now — afoor ony o' ye wur burn — ye all knaws the ten-aiicre — I mun ha' plowed it moor nor a hoonderd times ; hallus hup at sunrise, and I'd drive the plow straiiight as a line right i' the faiice o' the sun, then back ageiin, a-follering my oiin shadder — then hup ageiin i' the faiice o' the sun. Eh ! how the sun 'ud shine, and the larks 'ud sing i' them daiiys, and the smell o' the mou'd an' all. Eh ! if I could ha' gone on wi' the j)lowin' nnbbut the smell (/ the mou'd 'ud ha' maiide ma live as long as Jerusalem. Eva. Methusaleh, father. Steer. Ay, lass, but when thou be as owd as me ihou'U put one word fur another as I does. Dobson. But, Steer, thaw thou be haiile anew I seed tha a-limpin' up just now wi' the roomatics i' the knee. Steer. Roomatics ! Noii ; I laiime't my knee last night running arter a thief. Beant there house-breiikers down i' Eitllechester, Dobson — doiint ye hear of ony? Dobson. Ay, that there be. Immanuel Ooldsmiths was broke into o' Monday night, and ower a hoonderd pounds worth o' rings stolen. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MAY 383 Steer. So I thowt, and I heard the winder — that's the winder at the end o' the passage, that goiis by thy chaumber. {Tumi fig to Eva.) Why, lass, what maakes tha sa red ? Did 'e git into thy chaumber ? Eva. Father ! Steer. Well, I runned arter thief i' the dark, and fell agean coalscuttle and my kneea gev waay or I'd ha' cotched 'im, but afoor I coomed up he got thruff tlie winder agean. Eva. Got thro' the window again ? .Steer. Ay, but he left the mark of 'is foot i' the flower- bed : now theer be noan o' my men, thinks I to mysen, 'ud ha' done it 'cep' it were Dan Smith, fur I cotched 'im once a-stcalin' coals, an' I sent fur 'im, an' I measured his foot wi' the mark i' the bed, but it wouldn't fit— seeiims to me the mark wur maade by a Lunnun boot. {Looks at Eva). Why, now, what maakes tha sa white ? Eva. Fright, father ! Steer. Maiike thysen eiisy. I'll hev the winder naailcd up, and put 'I'owser under it. Eva {clasping her hands). No, no, father ! Towser'll tear him all to pieces. Steer. Let him keep awaiiy, tlien ; but coom, coom I let's be gawin'. They ha' broached a barrel of aiile i' the long barn, and the fiddler be theer, and the lads and lasses 'ull hev a dance. I'lva. {Aside.) Dane*.- ! Miiall heart have 1 to dance. 1 should seem to be dancing upon a grave. Steer. Wheer be Mr. Edgar? about the premises? Dobson. Hallus about the premises ! Steer. So much the l)etter, so much the belter. I likes 'im, and li,va likes 'im. Eva cnn do owt wi' 'im ; Icjok for 'im, Eva, and bring 'im to the ham. He 'ant naw pride in 'im, and we'll git 'im to speechify for us arter dinner. Eva. \'es, father \ {Exit. Steer. Coom along then, all the rest o' ye ! Church- warden be a-coomin', thaw me and 'im we niver 'grees 384 THE PROMISE OF MAY act 1 about the tithe ; and Parson mebl^e, thaw he nivcr mended that gap i" the glebe fenee as I telled 'im ; and Black- smith, thaw he niver shoes a herse to my likings ; and Baaker, thaw I sticks to hoam-maiide — but all on 'em welcome, all on 'em welcome ; and I've hed the long barn cleared out of all the machines, and the sacks, and the taaters, and the mangles, and theer'U be room anew for all o' ye. FoUer me. All. Yeas, yeas ! Three cheers for Mr. Steer ! \^lll exeunt except Dobson into barn. Enter Edgar. Dobson {iclio is x^oiz/^'; fi/rns). Squire ! — if so be you be a squire. Edgar. Dobbins, I think. Dobson. Dobbins, you thinks ; and I think ye wears a Lunnun boot. Ed^ar. Well? Dobson. And I thinks I'd like to taiike the measure o' your foot. Edgar. .\y, if you'd like to measure your own length upon the grass. Dobson. Coom, coom, that"s a good un. \Vhy, I could throw four o' ye ; but I promised one of the Misses I wouldn't meddle wi' ye, and I w^eant. [Exit into barn. Edgar. Jealous of me with Eva ! Is it so ? Well, tho' I grudge the pretty jewel, that I Have worn, to such a clod, yet that might be The best way out of it, if the child could keep Her counsel. I am sure I wish her happy. But I must free myself from this entanglement. I have all my life before me — so has she — Give her a month or two, and her affections Will flower toward the light in some new face. Still I am half-afraid to meet her now. She will urge marriage on me. I hate tears. Marriage is but an old tradition. I hate Traditions, ever since my narrow father, ACT I THE PROMISE OF MAY 385 After my frolic with his tenant's girl, Made younger elder son, violated the whole Tradition of our land, and left his heir, Born, happily, with some sense of art, to live - By brush and pencil. By and by, when Thought Comes down among the crowd, and man perceives that The lost gleam of an after-life but leaves him A beast of prey in the dark, why then the crowd May wreak my wrongs upon my wrongers. Marriage ! 'i'hat fine, fat, hook-nosed uncle of mine, old Harold, Who leaves me all his land at Littlechester, He, too, would oust me from his will, if I Made such a marriage. And marriage in itself — The storm is hard at hand will sweep away Thrones, churches, ranks, traditions, customs, marriage One of the feeblest ! Then the man, the woman, P'ollowing their best affinities, will each Bid their old bond farewell with smiles, not tears ; Good wishes, not reproaches ; with no fear Of the world's gossiping clamour, and no need Of veiling their desires. Conventionalism, Who shrieks by day at what she does by night, Would call this vice ; but one time's vice may be The virtue of another ; and Vice and Virtue Are but two masks of self; and what hereafter Shall mark r)ut Vice from Virtue in the gulf Of never-dawning darkness ? Enter 1'>va. My sweet I'^va, Where have you lain in ambush nil the morning? 'f'hcy say your sister, Dora, has return'd, And that should make you happy, if you love her! But you look troubled. Eva. Oh, I love her so, I was afraid of her, and I hid myself v 2 c 386 THE PROMISE OF MAY act i We never kept a secret from each other ; She would have seen at once into my trouble, And ask'd me what I could not answer. Oh, riiilip. Father heard you last night. Our savage maslilT, That all but kill'd the beggar, will be placed Beneath the window, Philip. Edgar. Savage, is he ? What matters ? Come, give me your hand and kiss me This beautiful May-morning. . Eva. The most beautiful May we' have had for many years ! Edmr. And here Is the most beautiful morning of this May. Nay, you must smile upon me ! There — you make The May and morning still more beautiful, You, the most beautiful blossom of the May. Eva. Dear Philip, all the world is beautiful If we were happy, and could chime in with it. Edgar. True ; for the senses, love, are for the world ; That for the sen.ses. Eva. Yes. Edgar. And when the man, The child of evolution, flings aside His swaddling-bands, the morals of the tribe. He, following his own instincts as his (iod, Will enter on the larger golden age ; No pleasure then taboo'd : for when the tide Of full democracy has overwhelni'd This Old world, from that Hood will rise the New, Like the Love-goddess, with no bridal veil, Ring, trinket of the Church, but naked Nature In all her loveliness. Eva. What are you saying ? Edgar. That, if we did not strain to make ounselves Better and higher than Nature, we might be As happy as the bees there at their honey In these sweet blossoms. Eva. \'es ; how sweet they smell ! ACT I THE PROMISE OF MAY 387 Edgar. There ! let mc break some off for you. \Breaking branch off. Eva. My thanks. But, look, how wasteful of the blossom you are ! One, two, three, four, five, six — you have robb'd poor father Of ten good apples. Oh, I forgot to tell you He wishes you to dine along with us. And speak for him after — you that are so clever ! Edgar. I grieve I cannot ; but, indeed Eva. What is it ? Edgar. Well, business. I must leave you, love, to-day. Eva. Leave me, to-day ! And when will you return ? Edgar. I cannot tell precisely ; but- Eva. But what? Edgar. I trust, my dear, we shall be always friends. Eva. After all that has gone between us — friends ! What, only friends ? [Drops branch. Edgar. All that has gone between us Should surely make us friends. Eva. But keep us lovers. Edgar. Child, do you love me now ? E7)a. Yes, now and ever. Edgar. 'I'iicn you should wish us both to love for ever. But, if you nii// Ijind love to one for ever, Altho' at first he lake his bonds for flowers, A.S years go on, he feels them press upon him, Begins to flutter in them, and at last Breaks thro' them, and so flies away for ever ; While, had you left him free use of his wings, Who knows that he had ever dream'd of flying? E7'a. But afl that sounds so wicked and so strange ; 'Till death us |)art ' — those are the only words. The true ones — nay, and those not true enough. Vox they that love do not believe that death Will part them. Why do you jest with me, and try To fright me? Tho' you are a gentleman, I but a farmer's daughter 388 THE PROMISE OF MAY act i Edgar. Tut ! you talk Old feudalism. When the great Democracy Makes a new world Eva. And if you be not jesting, Neither the old world, nor the new, nor father, Sister, nor you, shall ever see me more. Edgar ijnoved). Then — {aside) Shall I say it ? — {aloud) fly with me to-day. Eva. No ! Philip, Philip, if you do not marry me, I shall go mad for utter shame and die. Edgar. Then, if we needs must be conventional. When shall your parish-parson bawl our banns Before your gaping clowns ? Eva. Not in our church — I think I scarce could hold my head up there. Is there no other way ? Edgar. Yes, if you cared To fee an over-opulent superstition. Then they would grant you what they call a licence To marry. Uo you wish it ? Eva. Do I wish it ? Edgar. In London. Eva. You will write to me ? Edgar. I will. Eva. And I will fly to you thro' the night, the storm — Yes, tho' the fire should run along the ground, As once it did in Egypt. Oh, you see, I was just out of school, I had no mother — My sister far away — and you, a gentleman, Told me to trust you : yes, in everything — That was the only true love ; and I trusted — Oh, yes, indeed, I would have died for you. How could you — Oh, how could you? — nay, how could I ? But now you will set all right again, and I Shall not be made the laughter of the village, And poor old father not die miserable. ACT I THE PROMISE OF MAY 389 Dora {singing in t/ie distatice). O joy for the promise of May, of May, O joy for the promise of May. Edgar. Speak not so loudly ; that must be your sister. You never told her, then, of what has past Between us. E7'a. Never ! Edgar. Do not till I bid you. Eva. No, Philip, no. [Turns away. Edgar {tnoved). How gracefully there she stands Weeping — the little Niobe ! What ! we prize The statue or the picture all the more When we have made them ours ! Is she less loveable, Less lovely, being wholly mine ? To stay — Follow my art among these quiet fields, Live with these honest folk And play the fool ! No I she that gave herself to me so easily Will yield herself as easily to another. Faui. Did you speak, Philip? Edgar. Nothing more, farewell. \71iey end'race. JJora [coming nearer). O grief for the promise of May, of May, O grief for the promise of May. Edgar {still embracing her). Keep up yinir heart until we meet again. F.vd. If that should break beftjre we meet again ? Edgar. Break ! nay, but call for lliili]) when you will, And he returns. E7<a. Heaven hears you, Philip Edgar ! Edgar {moved). And lie would hear you even from the grave. Heaven curse him if he come not at your ( all ! [/s.w/. 390 THE PROMISE OF MAY act i Enter Dora. Dora. Well, Eva ! Eva. Oh, Dora, Dora, how long you have been away from home ! Oh, how often I have wished for you ! It seemed to me that we were parted for ever. Dora. For ever, you foolish child ! What's come over you ? We parted like the brook yonder about the alder island, to come together again in a moment and to go on together again, till one of us be married. But where is this Mr. Edgar whom you praised so in your first letters ? You haven't even mentioned him in your last ? Eva. He has gone to London. Dora. Ay, child; and you look thin and pale. Is it for his absence? Have you fancied yourself in love with him ? That's all nonsense, you know, such a baby as you are. But you shall tell me all about it. Eva. Not now — presently. Yes, I have been in trouble, but I am happy — I tliink, (juite happy now. Dora {taking Eva's hand). Come, then, and make them happy in the long barn, for father is in his glory, and there is a piece of beef like a house-side, and a ])lum- pudding as big as the round haystack. But see they are coming out for the dance already. Well, my child, let us join them. \Enter all from barn laughing. Ev.\ sits reluctantly under apple tree. Steer enters smoking., sits by Eva. Dance. ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 391 ACT II Five years have elapsed between Acts I. and II. SCENE. — A Meadow. On oxe side a Pathway going OVER A RUSTIC BRIDGE. At BACK THE FaRMHOUSE AMONG TREES. In THE DISTANCE A ChURCH SpIRE. DoESON and Dora. Dobson. So the owd uncle i' Coomberland be dead, Miss Dora, beiint he ? Dora. Yes, Mr. Dobson, I've been attending on his deathbed and his burial. Dobson. It be five year sin' ye went afoor to him, and it seems to me nobbut t'other day. Hesn't he left ye nowt ? Dora. No, Mr. Dobson. Dobson. But he were mighty fond o' ye, warn't he ? Dora. Fonder of poor Eva - like everybody else. Dobson {kandin^i; Dora basket of roses). Not like me, ' Miss Dora ; and I ha' browt these roses to ye — I forgits what they calls 'em, Ijut I hallus gi'ed soom on 'cm to Miss Eva at this time o' year. Will ya taake 'em ? fur Miss Eva, she set the bush by my dairy winder afoor she went to school at Littlechester — so I alius browt soom on 'em to her ; and now she be gone, will ye taiike 'em. Miss Dora? Dora. I thank you. They tell me that yesterday you mentioned her name too suddenly before my father. See that you do not do so again ! Dobson. Noii ; I knaws a deal better now. T seed how the owd man wur vext. Dora. I take them, then, for ICva's sake. [ lakes basket, places some in her dress. Dobson. Eva's saake. Yeas. Poor gel, poor gel ' I can't abeiir to think on 'er now, fur I'd ha' done owl fur 392 THE PROMISE OF MAY act n 'er mysen ; an' ony o' Steer's men, an' ony o' my men 'ud ha' done out fur 'cr, an' all the parish 'ud ha' done owt fur 'er, fur we was all on us proud on 'er, an' them theer be soom of her oan roses, an' she wur as sweet as ony on 'em — the Lord bless 'er — 'er oan sen ; an' weant ye taake 'em now, Miss Dora, fur 'er saake an' fur my saake an' all ? Dora. Do you want them back again ? Dobson. Noa, noji ! Keep 'em. But I hed a word to saiiy to ye. Dora. Why, Farmer, you should be in the hayfield looking after your men ; you couldn't have more splendid weather. Dobson. I be a-going theer; but I thowt Fd bring tha them roses fust. The weather's well anew, but the glass be a bit shaaky. S'iver we've led moast on it. Dora. Ay ! but you must not be too sudden with it either, as you were last year, when you put it in green, and your stack caught fire. Dobson. I were insured. Miss, an' I lost nowt by it. But I weiint be too sudden wi' it ; and I feel sewer, Miss Dora, that I ha' been noiin too sudden wi' you, fur I ha' •sarved for ye wellnigh as long as the man sarved for 'is sweet'art i' Scriptur'. Weiint ye gi'e me a kind answer at last ? Dora. I have no thought of marriage, my friend. We have been in such grief these five years, not only on my sister's account, but the ill success of the farm, and the debts, and my father's breaking down, and his blindness. How could I think of leaving him ? Dobson. Eh, but I be well to do ; and if ye would nobbut hev me, I would taake the owd blind man to my oan fireside. You should hev him alius wi' ye. Dora. You are generous, but it cannot be. I cannot love you ; nay, I think I never can be brought to love any man. It seems to me that I hate men, ever since my sister left us. Oh, see here. {Pulls out a letter^ I wear it next my heart. Poor sister, I had it five years ago. ' Dearest Dora, — I have lost myself, and am lo.st for ever ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 393 to you and my poor father. I thought Mr. Edgar the best of men, and he has proved himself the worst. Seek not for me, or you may find me at the bottom of the river. — Eva.' Dobso7i. Be that my fault ? Dora. No ; but how should I, with this grief still at my heart, take to the milking of your cows, the fatting of your calves, the making of your butter, and the managing of your poultry ? Dobson. Naay, but I hev an owd woman as 'ud see to all that ; and you should sit i' your oan parlour quite like a laiidy, ye should ! Dora. It cannot be. Dobso)i. And plaiiy the pianner, if ye liked, all daay long, like a laiidy, ye should an' all. Dora. It cannot be. Dobson. And I would loove tha moor nor ony gentle- man 'ud loove tha. Dora. No, no ; it cannot be. Dobson. And p'raps ye hears 'at I soomtimcs taakes a drop too much ; but that be all along o' you. Miss, because ye weant hev me ; but, if ye would, I could put all that o' one side easy anew. Dora. Cannot you understand plain words, Mr. ])obson? I tell you, it cannot be. Dobson. Eh, lass ! Thy fcythcr eddicatcd his darters to marry gentlefoiilk, and see what's coomed on it. Dora. Thnt is enough. Farmer Dobson. You have shown me that, though fortune had born you into the estate of a gentleman, you would still have been Farmer Dobson. You had better attend to your hayfield. Good afternoon. \R.\it. Dobson. ' I'armcr Dobson!' Well, I be I'arnier Dobson ; but I thinks Farmer Dobson's dog 'ud ha' knaw'd better nor to cast her sister's misfortin inter 'cr teeth arter she'd been a-reiidin' me the letter wi' 'cr vfdce a-sliaiikin', and the drop in 'er eye. Theer she goiis ! Shall I foller 'cr and ax 'cr to maiikc it up? Noii, not 394 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii yet. Let 'er cool upon it ; I likes 'cr all the better fur taakin' me down, like a laady, as she be. Farmer Dobson ! I be Farmer Dobson, sewer anew ; but if iver I cooms upo' Gentleman Hedgar agcan, and doant laay my cart- whip athurt 'is shou'ders, why then I beiint Farmer Dobson, but sunniiun else — blaame't if I beant ! Enter Haymakers with a load of hay. The last on it, eh ? If/ Hay/fiaker. Yeas. Dobson. Hoiim wi' it, then. \E.\it siirlilx. ist Haymaker. Well, it be the last load hoiim. 2nd Haymaker. Yeas, an' owd Dobson should be glad on it. What maakes 'im alius sa glum ? Sally Allen. Olum ! he be wuss nor glum. He coom'd up to me yisterdaiiy i' the haiiyfield, when mea and my sweet'art was a-workin' along o' one side wi' one another, and he sent 'im awaay to t'other end o' the field ; and when I axed 'im why, he telled me 'at swcet'arts niver worked well togither ; and I telled 'im 'at sweet'arts alius worked best togither ; and then he called me a rude naiime, and I can't abide 'im. James. \\'hy, lass, doant tha knaw he be sweet upo' Dora Steer, and she weant sa much as look at 'im ? And wheniver 'e sees two sweet'arts togither like thou and me, Sally, he be fit to bust hissen wi' spites and jalousies. Sally. Let 'im bust hissen, then, for owt /cares. \st Haymaker. \Vell but, as I said afoor, it be the last loiid hoiim ; do thou and thy sweet'art sing us hoiim to supper -'The Last Load Hoiim.' All Ay! 'The Last Loiid Hoiim.' Song. What did ye do, and what did ye saiiy, Wi' the wild white rose, an' the woodbine sa gaiiy, An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue - What did ye saiiy, and what did ye do, ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 395 When ye thowt there were nawbody watchin' o' you, And you an' your Sally was forkin' the haiiy, At the end of the daily, For the last load hoiim ? What did we do, and what did we saay, Wi' the briar sa green, an' the wilier sa graay, An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue — Do ye think I be gawin' to tell it to you. What we mowt saay, and what we mowt do, When me an' my Sally was forkin' the haiiy, At the end of the daiiy, For the last load hoam ? Hut what did ye saiiy, and what did ye do,^ Wi' the butterflies out, and the swallers at plaiiy, An' the midders all mow'd, an' the sky sa blue ? ^\■hy, coom then, owd feller, I'll tell it to you ; For me an' my Sail)' we swear'd to be true. To be true to each other, let 'appen what rnaiiy, Till the end of the daily And the last load hoiim. All. Well sung ! James. Fanny be the naiime i' the song, but 1 swopt it fur she. [Poititifi.i,^ to Sally. Sally. Let ma aloan afoor foalk, wilt tha ? \st' Haymaker. Ye shall sing that ageiin to-night, fur owd Dobson '11 gi'e us a bit o' supper. Sally. I weiint goii to owd Dobson ; he wur rude to me i' tha haiiyfield, and he'll be rude to me ageiin to-night. Owd Steers gotten all his grass down and wants a hand, and I'll goii to him. If/ Ilaymaker. Owd Steer gi'cs nubbut cowd tea to 'is men, and owd Dobson gi'es beer. Sally. I5ut Fd like owd Steer's cowd tea better nor i )obson's bf-er. Ckjod-bye. [Goiti};. [ames. (ii'e us a buss fust, lass. Sallx. T tell'd tha to let ma aloiin ! 396 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii James. Why, wasn't thou and nie a-bussin' o' one another t'other side o' the haiiycock, when owd I){)bst)n coom'd upo' us? I can't let tha aloiin if I would, Sally. \Ojfering; to kiss her. Sally. Git along wi' ye, do ! \Exit. [All laugh ; exeunt singing. To be true to each other, let 'appen what maiiy, Till llie end o' the daay An' the last load hoam. Enter Harold. Harold. Not Harold ! ' Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar ! ' Her phantom call'd me by the name she loved. I told her I should hear her from the grave. Ay ! yonder is her casement. I remember Her bright face beaming starlike down upon me Thro' that rich cloud of blossom. Since I left her Here weeping, I have ranged the world, and sat Thro' every sensual course of that full feast That leaves but emptiness. Song. To be true to each other, let 'appen what maay, To the end o' the daily An' the last load hoiim. Harold. Poor Eva ! O my God, if man be only A willy-nilly current of sensations — Reaction needs must follow revel — yet — Why feel remorse, he, knowing that he must have Moved in the iron grooves of Destiny ? Remorse then is a part of Destiny, Nature a liar, making us feel guilty Of her own faults. ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 397 My grandfather — of him They say, that women — O this mortal house, Which we are born into, is haunted by The ghosts of the dead passions of dead men ; And these take flesh again with our own flesh, And bring us to confusion. He was only A poor philosopher who call'd the mind Of children a blank page, a tabula rasa. There, there, is written in invisible inks ' Lust, Prodigality, Covetousness, Craft, Cowardice, Murder' — and the heat and fire Of Hfe will bring them out, and black enough. So the child grow to manhood : better death With our first wail than life — Son^ (^further off). Till the end o' the daay An' the last loiid hoam. Load hoiim. This bridge again ! {Steps on the bridge.) How often have 1 stood With Eva here ! The brook among its flowers ! Forget-me-not, meadowsweet, willow-herb. I had some smattering of science then. Taught her the learned names, anatomized The flfjwers for her — and now I only wish This pool were deej) enough, that I might plunge And lose myself for ever. Enter Dan Smiiii (sint^inif). Gee oop I whoa ! Oee oop ! whoa ! Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa Thruf slush an' squad When roads was bad, 398 THE PR0MIS1<: OF MAY act ii But hallus 'ud stop at the Vine-an'-the-Hop, Fur boiith on 'em knawcd as well as mysen That beer be as good fur 'erses as men. Ciee oop ! whoii ! (ice oop ! whoa ! Scizzars an' Pumpy was good uns to goa. The beer's gotten oop into my 'eiid. S'iver I mun git along back to the farm, fur she tell'd ma to taake the cart to Littlechester. Enter Dora. Half an hour late ! why are you loitering here ? Away with you at once. \Exit Dan Smith. [Seeing Harold on bridge.) Some madman, is it, Gesticulating there upon the bridge ? I am half afraid to pass. Harold. Sometimes I wonder, When man has surely learnt at last that all His old-world faith, the blossom of his youth, Has faded, falling fruitless — whether then All of us, all at once, may not be seized With some fierce passion, not so much for Death x\s against Life! all, all, into the dark — No more ! — and science now could drug and balm us Back into nescience with as little pain .\s it is to fall asleep. This beggarly life. This poor, flat, hedged-in field— no distance — this Hollfjw Pandora-box, With all the pleasures flown, not even Hope Left at the bottom ! Superstitious fool. What brought me here ? To see her grave ? her ghost ? Her ghost is everyway about me here. Dora (coming forward). Allow me, sir, to pass you. Harold. Eva ! Dora. Eva ! ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 399 Harold, ^^■hat are you ? V.'here do you come from ? j)Qra. From the farm Here, close at hand. Harold. Are you — you are — that Dora, The sister. I have heard of you. The hkeness Is very striking. Dora. You knew Eva, then ? Harold. Yes — I was thinking of her when — O yes, Many years back, and never since have met Her equal for pure innocence of nature, And loveliness of feature. Dora. No, nor I. Harold. Except, indeed, I have found it once again In your own self. Dora. You flatter me. Dear Eva Was always thought the prettier. Harold. And her charm Of voice is also yours ; and I was brooding Upon a great unhappiness when you spoke. Dora. Indeed, you seem'd in trouble, sir. JIarold ''^"cl you Seem my good angel who may help me from it. Dora {aside). How worn he U^oks, poor man ! who is it, I wonder. How can I hcl]) him ? {Aloud.) Might I ask your name ? JIarold. Harold. Dora. I never heard lu-r mention you. JIarold. I met her first at a farm in ( 'uiiil)crlan(l — Her uncle's. Dora. She was there six years ago. Harold. And if she never mcntion'd me, perhaps The painful circumstances which I heard — I will n(;t vex you by repeating them — Only last week at Littlechestcr, drove me From out her memory. She has disappear'd. They told me, from the farm — and darker news. Dora. She has disappear'd, pf)or darling, from the world— 400 THE PROMISE OF MAY a< r ii Left but one dreadful line to say, that we Should find her in the river ; and we dragg'd The Littlechestcr river all in vain : Have sorrow'd for her all these years in vain. And my poor father, utterly broken down By losing her — she was his favourite child — Has let his farm, all his affairs, I fear, But for the slender help that I can give, Fall into ruin. Ah ! that villain, Edgar, If he should ever show his face among us, Our men and boys would hoot him, stone him, hunt him With pitchforks off the farm, for all of them Loved her, and she was worthy of all love. Harold. They say, we should forgive our enemies. Dora. Ay, if the wretch were dead I might forgive him ; We know not whether he be dead or living. Harold. What Edgar? Dora. Philip Edgar of Toft Hall In Somerset. Perhaps you know him ? Harold. Slightly. [Aside.) Ay, for how slightly have I known myself. Dora. This Edgar, then, is living? Harold. Living ? well — One Philip Edgar of Toft Hall in Somerset Is lately dead. Dora. Dead ! — is there more than one ? Harold. Nay — now — not one, {aside) for I am Pliilip Harold. Dora. That (jne, is he then — dead ! Harold. {Aside.) My father's death. Let her believe it mine; this, for the moment, Will leave me a free field. Dora Dead ! and this world Is brighter for his absence as that other Is darker for his presence. Harold. Is not this To speak too pitilessly of the dead ? ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 401 Dora. My five-years' anger cannot die at once, Not all at once with death and him. I trust I shall forgive him — by-and-by — not now O sir, you seem to have a heart ; if you Had seen us that wild morning when we found Her bed unslept in, storm and shower lashing Her casement, her poor spaniel wailing for her, That desolate letter, blotted with her tears, Which told us we should never see her more — Our old nurse crying as if for her own child, My father stricken with his first paralysis. And then w^ith blindness — had you been one of us And seen all this, then you would know it is not So easy to forgive — even the dead. Harold. But sure am I that of your gentleness You will forgive him. She, you mourn for, seem'd A miracle of gentleness — would not blur A moth's wing by the touching ; would not crush The fly that drew her blood ; and, were she living, Would not — if penitent — have denied him her Forgiveness. .-\nd pi'rha[)S the man himself, When hearing of that piteous death, has suffcr'd More than we know. But wherefore waste your heart In looking on a chill and changeless Past? Iron will fuse, and marble melt; the Past Remains the i'ast. But you are young, and — pardon me — As lovely as your sister. Who can tell What golden hours, with what full hands, may be Waiting you in the distance? Migiit I call Upon your father — I have seen the world — And cheer his blindness with a traveller's tales ? Dora. Clall if you will, and when you will. I cannot Well answer for my father; but if you ('an tell me anything of our sweet Eva When in her brighter girlhood, I at least Will bid you welcome, and will listen to you. N(jw I must go. \' 20 402 THE PROMISE OF MAY act h Harold. But give me lirst your hand : I do not dare, like an old friend, to shake it. I kiss it as a prelude to that privilege When you shall know nie better. Dora, {Aside.) How beautiful His manners are, and how unlike the farmer's 1 You are staying here ? Harold. Yes, at the wayside inn Close by that alder-island in your brook, 'The Angler's Home.' Dora. Are jwi! one? Harold. No, but 1 Take some delight in sketching, and the country Has many charms, altho' the inhabitants Seem semi-barbarous. Dora. I am glad it i)leases you ; Yet I, born here, not only love the country. But its inhabitants too ; and you, I doubt not, Would take to them as kindly, if you cared To live some time among them. Harold. If 1 J id, Then one at least of its inhabitants Might have more charm for me than all the country. Dora. That one, then, should be grateful for your preference. Harold. I cannot tell, tho' standing in her presence. {Aside.) She colours ! Dora. Sir ! Harold. Be not afraid (jf me. For these are no conventional flourishes. I do most earnestly assure you that Your likeness \^S/ioiits and cries witliout. Dora. What was that ? my poor blind father — Enter F.\k.mixg Man. Farming Man. Miss Dora, Dan Smith's cart hes runned ower a laady i' the holler laiine, and they ha' ta'en ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 403 the body up inter your chaumber, and they be all a-callin' for ye. Dora. The body ! — Heavens 1 I come ! Harold. But you are trembling. Allow me to go with you to the farm. \Exeimt. Enter Dobson. Dobson. What feller wur it as 'a been a-talkin' fur hajife an hour wi' my Dora ? {^Looking after him.') Seeams I ommost knaws the back on 'im — drest like a gentleman, too. Damn all gentlemen, says I ! I should ha' thowt they'd hed anew o' gentlefoiilk, as I telled 'er to-daay when she fell foul upo' me. Minds ma o' summun. I could sweiir to that ; but that be all one, fur I haates 'im afoor I knaws what 'e be. Theer ! he turns round. Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset ! Philip Hedgar o' Soomerset ! — Noii — yeas — thaw the feller's gone and maiide such a litter of his faace. Eh lad, if it l)e thou, I'll Philip tha ! a-plaiiyin' the saiime gaame wi' my Dora — Pll Soomerset tha. I'd like to drag 'im thruff the herse-pond, and she to be a-lookin' at it, I'd like to leather 'im black and blue, and she to be a-laughin' at it. I'd like to fell 'im as dead as a bullock ! {Cienchhig his fist.) But what 'ud she saiiy to that ? She tcllcd me once not to meddle wi' 'im, and now she be fallen out wi' ma, and I can't coom at "er. It mun be him. Noii ! Fur she'd niver 'a been talkin' haiife an hour wi' the divil 'at killed her oiin sister, or she beant Dora Steer. Yeas ! Fur she niver knawed 'is faace when 'e wur 'ere afoor: but I'll maiike 'er knaw ! I'll maiike 'er knaw ! Enter Haroi.d. Naiiy, bui I mun git out on 'is waiiy now, or I shall be the death on 'im. [Exit. Harold. How the clown glared at me ! that Dobbins, is it, 404 THE PROMISE OF MAY act ii With whom I used to jar? hut can he trace me Thro' five years' absence, and my change of name, The tan of southern summers and the beard ? I may as well avoid him. Ladylike ! Lilylike in her stateliness and sweetness ! How came she by it ? — a daughter of the fields. This Dora ! She gave her hand, unask'd, at the farm-gate ; I almost think she half return'd the pressure Of mine. What, I that held the orange blossom Dark as the yew ? but may not those, who march Before their age, turn back at times, and make Courtesy to custom ? and now the stronger motive, Misnamed free-will — the crowd would call it conscience — Moves me — to what ? I am dreaming ; for the past Look'd thro' the present, Eva's eyes thro' hers — A spell upon me ! Surely I loved Eva More than I knew ! or is it but the past That brightens in retiring ? Oh, last night. Tired, pacing my new lands at Littlechester, I dozed upon the bridge, and the black river Flow'd thro' my dreams — if dreams they were. She rose From the foul flood and pointed toward the farm, And her cry rang to me across the years, 'I call you, Philip Edgar, Philip Edgar! Come, you will set all right again, and father Will not die miserable.' I could make his age A comfort to him — so be more at peace With mine own self. Some of my former friends Would find my logic faulty ; let them. Colour Flows thro' my life again, and I have lighted On a new pleasure. Anyhow we must Move in the line of least resistance when The stronger motive rules. But she hates Edgar. May not this Dobbins, or some other, spy Edgar in Harold ? Well then, I must make her ACT II THE PROMISE OF MAY 405 Love Harold first, and then she will forgive Edgar for Harold's sake. She said herself She would forgive him, by-and-by, not now — For her own sake then, if not for mine — not now — But by-and-by. Enter DoBSON behind. Dobson. By-and-by — eh, lad, dosta knaw this paaper ? Ye dropt it upo' the road. 'Philip Edgar, Esq.' Ay, you be a pretty squire. I ha' fun' ye out, I hev. Eh, lad, dosta knaw what tha means wi' by-and-by ? Fur if ye be goin' to sarve our Dora as ye sarved our Eva — then, by-and-by, if she weant listen to me when I be a-tryin' to saave 'er — if she weant — look to thysen, for, by the Lord, I'd think na moor o' maakin' an end o' tha nor a carrion craw — noa — thaw they hanged ma at 'Size fur it. Harold. Dobbins, I think ! Dobson. I beant Dobbins. Harold. Nor am I Edgar, my good fellow. Dobson. Tha lies ! What hasta been saayin' to 7ny Dora? Harold. I have been telling her of the death of one Philip Edgar of Toft Hall, Somerset. Dobson. 'J'ha lies ! Harold {pi/llini( out a neivsfiaper). Well, my man, it seems that you can read. Look there — under the deaths. Dobson. 'O' the 17th, Philip Edgar, o' 'i'oft Hall, Soomersct.' How coom thou to be sa like 'im, then ? Harold. Naturally enough ; for I am closely related to the dead man's family. Dobson. An' 'ow coom thou by the letter to 'im ? Ifarold. Naturally again ; ff)r as I used to transact all his business for him, I had to look over his letters. Now then, see these {takes out letters). Half a score of them, all directed to me — Harold. Dobson. 'Arold ! 'Aroid ! 'Arold, so they be. Harold. My name is Harold ! (".ood-day, i)ol)l)ins ! {li.xit. 4o6 THE PROMISE OF MAY m-t n Dobson. 'Arold ! The feller's clean daiized, an' maazed, an' maated, an' muddled ma. Dead ! It mun be true, fur it wur i' print as black as owt. Naiiy, but ' Good daay, Dobbins.' Why, that wur the very twang on 'im. Eh, lad, but whether thou be Medgar, or Hedgar's business man, thou hesn't naw business 'ere wi' my Dora, as I knaws on, an' whether thou calls thysen Hedgar or Harold, if thou stick to she I'll stick to thee — stick to tha like a weasel to a rabbit, I will. Ay ! and I'd like to shoot tha like a rabbit an' all. 'Good daiiy, Dobbins.' Dang tha! ACT III SCENE. — A Room in Steer's House. Door leading INTO Bedroom at the b.ack Dora (ringing a hatidbell). Milly ! Enter Milly. Milly. The little 'ymn ? Yeas, Miss ; but I wur so ta'en up wi' leiidin' the owd man about all the blessed nnirnin' 'at I ha' nobbut lamed mysen haafe on it. O man, forgive thy mortal foe. Nor ever strike him blow for blow; For all the souls on earth that live To be forgiven must forgive. Forgive him seventy times and seven ; For all the blessed souls in Heaven Are both forgivers and forgiven. But I'll git the book agean, and larn mysen the rest, and .saay it to ye afoor dark ; ye ringed fur that. Miss, didn't ye? Dora. No, Milly ; but if the farming men be come for their wages, to send them up to me. Milly. Yeas, Miss. \_Exit. ACT III THE PROMISE OF MAY 407 Dora {sitting at desk counting money). Enough at any rate for the present. {Enter Farming Men.) Good after- noon, my friends. I am sorry Mr. Steer still continues too unwell to attend to you, but the schoolmaster looked to the paying you your wages when I was away, didn't he ? Men. Yeas ; and thanks to ye. Dora. Some of our workmen have left us, but he sent me an alphabetical list of those that remain, so, Allen, I may as well begin with you. Aiien {with his hand to his ear). Halfabitical ! Taake one o' the young 'uns fust, Miss, fur I be a bit deaf, and I wur hallus scaared by a big word ; leastwaiiys, I should be wi' a lawyer. Dora. I spoke of your names, Allen, as they are arranged here {sho7vs hook) — according to their first letters. Allen. I^etters ! Yeas, I sees now. Them be what they larns the childer' at school, but I were burn afoor schoolin-time. Dora. But, Allen, tho' you can't read, you could white- wash that cottage of yours where your grandson had the fever. Allen. I'll hev it done o' Monday. Dora. Else if the fever spread, the parish will have to thank you for it. Allen. Meii? why, it be the Lord's doin', noan o' mine; d'ye think Fd ^x'k:. 'em the fever? But I thanks yc all the saame, Miss. {Takes money.) Dora {calling out names). Higgins, Jackson, I-uscombe, Nokes, Oldham, Skijjworth ! {All take money.) Did you find that you worked at all the worse upon the cold tea than you would have done upon ihe beer? Higgins. Noa, Miss ; we worked naw wuss upo' the cowd tea ; but we'd ha' worked better upo' the beer. Dora. Come, come, you worked well enough, and I am much obliged to all of you. There's for you, and you, and you. Count the money and see if it's all right. A/en. All right. Miss; and thank ye kindly. \^Exeunt Luscombe, Nokes, Oldham, Skipworth. 4oS THE PROMISE OF MAY act hi Dora. Dan Smith, my father and I forgave you stealing our coals. [Dan Smith advances to Dora. Dafi Smith {l>e//o2ving). Whoy, O lor, Miss ! that wur sa long back, and the walls sa thin, and the winders brokken, and the weather sa cowd, and my missus a-gittin' ower 'er lyin'-in. Dora. Didn't I say that we had forgiven you ? But, Dan Smith, they tell me that you — and you have six children — spent all your last Saturday's wages at the ale- house ; that you were stupid drunk all Sunday, and so ill in consequence all Monday, that you did not come into the hayfield. Why should I pay you your full wages ? Dan Smith. I be ready to taake the pledge. Dora. And as ready to break it again. Besides it was you that were driving the cart — and I fear you were tipsy then, tog — when you lamed the lady in the hollow lane. Da?i Smith {bellowing). O lor. Miss ! noa, noii, noa ! Ye sees the holler laiine be hallus sa dark i' the arternoon, and wheere the big eshtree cuts athurt it, it gi'es a turn like, and 'ow should I see to laiime the laady, and mea coomin' along pretty sharp an' all ? Dora. \\c\\, there are your wages ; the next time you waste them at a pot-house you get no more from me. {Exit Dan Smith.) Sally Allen, you worked for Mr. Dobson, didn't you ? Sally {advancing). Yeas, Miss ; but he wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't abide 'im. Dora. Why should he be rough with you ? You are as good as a man in the liayfield. What's become of your brother ? Sally. 'Listed for a soiidger. Miss, i' the Queen's Real Hard Tillery. Dora. And your sweetheart — when are you and he to be married ? .Sally. At Michaelmas, Miss, please Ood. Dora. You are an honest pair. I will come to your wedding. ACT III THE PROMISE OF MAY 409 Sally. An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur the waage. {Going — returns.) 'A cotched ma about the waaist, Miss, when 'e wur 'ere afoor, an' axed ma to be 'is little sweet-'art, an soa I knaw'd 'im when I seed 'im agean an I tailed feyther on 'im. Dora. What is all this, Allen ? Alien. Why, Miss Dora, mea and my maiites, us three, we wants to hev three words wi' ye. Higgins, That be 'im, and mea, Miss. Jackson. An' mea, Miss. Aiien. An' we weant mention naw naiimes, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil afoor ye as 'im, fur they says the master goas clean off his 'ead when he 'ears the naame on 'im ; but us three, arter Sally 'd telled us on 'im, we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock, upo' Tuesday murnin', and all on us, wi' your leave, we wants to leather 'im. Dora. Who ? Aiien. Him as did the mischief here, five year' sin'. Dora. Mr. Edgar? Aiien. Thecr, Miss ! You ha' naiimed 'im — not me. Dora. He's dead, man — dead ; gone to his account — dead and l)uried. Aiien. I beiint sa sewer o' tliat, fur Sally knaw'd 'im ; Now then ? J)ora. Yes ; it was in the Somersetshire papers. Aiien. Then yon mun be his brother, an' we'll leather 'int. Dora. I never heard that he had a brother. Some foolish mistake of Sally's ; but what ! would you Ijeat a man for his brother's fault? That were a wild justice indcerl. Let bygones be bygones, (io home! Good- night I {Aii exeunt.) I have onre more paid them all. The work of the farm will go on still, but for how long ? We are almost at the bottom of the well : little more to be drawn from it — and whnt then? Isnrumbcrcd as we are, who would lend us anything ? We sliall have to 410 THE PROMISE OF MAY act hi sell all the land, which Father, for a whole Ufe, has been getting together, again, and that, I am sure, would be the death of him. What am I to do ? Farmer Dobson, were I to marry him, has promised to keep our heads above water ; and the man has doubtless a good heart, and a true and lasting love for me : yet — though I can be sorry for him — as the good Sally says, ' I can't abide him ' — almost brutal, and matched with my Harold is like a hedge thistle by a garden rose. But then, he, too — will he ever be of one faith with his wife? which is my dream of a true marriage. Can I fancy him kneeling with me, and uttering the same prayer ; standing up side by side with me. and singing the same hymn ? I fear not. Have I done wisely, then, in accepting him ? But may not a girl's love-dream have too much romance in it to be realised all at once, or altogether, or anywhere but in Heaven ? And yet I had once a vision of a pure and perfect marriage, where the man and the woman, only differing as the stronger and the weaker, should walk hand in liand together down this valley of tears, as they call it so truly, to the grave at the bottom, and lie down there together in the darkness which would seem but for a moment, to be wakened again together by the light of the resurrection, and no more partings for ever and for ever. ( Jla/Zcs up and down. She sl7i^<(s.) () hapi)y lark, that warblest high Above thy lowly nest, O brook, that brawlest merrily by Thro' fields that once were blest, O tower spiring to the sky, O graves in daisies drest, O Love and Life, how weary am I, And how T long for rest. There, there, I am a fool ! Tears ! I have sometimes been moved to tears by a chapter of fine writing in a novel ; but what have I to do with tears now ? All depends on me — Father, this poor girl, the farm, every- ACT III THE PROMISE OF MAY 411 thing ; and they both love me — I am all in all to both ; and he loves me too, I am quite sure of that. Courage, courage! and all will go well. {Goes to bedroom door; opens it.) How dark your room is ! Let me bring you in here where there is still full daylight. {Brings Eva for- ward.) Why, you look better. Eva. And I feel so much better, that I trust I may be able by-and-by to help you in the business of the farm ; but I must not be known yet. Has anyone found me out, Dora ? Dora. Oh, no ; you kept your veil too close for that when they carried you in ; since then, no one has seen you but myself. Eva. Yes — this Milly. Dora. Poor blind Father's little guide, Milly, who came to us three years after you were gone, how should she know you ? But now that you have been brought to us as it were from the grave, dearest Eva, and have been here so long, will you not speak with Father to-day? Eva. Do you think that I may ? No, not yet. I am not equal to it yet. Dora. Why ? Do you still suffer from your fail in the hollow lane ? Eva. I'ruised ; but no bones broken. Dora. I have always told leather that the huge old ashtree there would cause an accident some day ; but he would never cut it down, because one of the Steers had planted it there in former times. Eva. If it had killed one of the Steers there the other day, it might have been better for her, for him, and for you. Dora. Come, come, keep a good heart ! Belter for me ! That's good. How better for me? E7)a. You tell me you have a lover. ^VilI he not fly from you if he learn the story of my shame and that I am .still living ? Dora. No ; I am sure that when wc arc married he will be willing that you and Father should live with us ; for, indeed, he tells me that he met you once in the old times, and was much taken with you, my dear. 412 THE PROMISE OF MAY act m Eva. Taken with me; who was he? Have you told him lam here ? Dora. No ; do you wish it ? Eva. See, Dora ; you yourself are ashamed of me {weeps\ and I do not wonder at it. Dora. But I should wonder at myself if it were so. Have we not been all in all to one another from the time when we first peeped into the bird's nest, waded in the brook, ran after the butterflies, and prattled to each other that we would marry fine gentlemen, and played at being fine ladies ? Eva. That last was my Father's fault, poor man. And this lover of yours — this Mr. Harold — is a gentleman ? Dora. That he is, from head to foot. I do believe T lost my heart to him the very first time we met, and I love him so much — Eva. Poor Dora ! Dora. That I dare not tell him how much I love him. Eva. Better not. Has he offered you marriage, this gentleman ? Dora. Could I love him else? Eva. And are you quite sure that after marriage this gentleman will not be shamed of his poor farmer's daughter among the ladies in his drawing-room ? Dora. Shamed of me in a drawing-room! Wasn't Mi.ss Vavasour, our schoolmistress at Littlechester, a lady born? Were not our fellow-pupils all ladies? Wasn't dear mother herself at least by one side a lady ? Can't I speak like a lady; pen a letter like a lady; talk a little French like a lady ; play a little like a lady ? Can't a girl when she loves her husband, and he her, make herself anything he wishes her to be? Shamed of me in a draw- ing-room, indeed ! See here ! ' I hope your Lordship is quite recovered of your gout?' {Curtsies.) 'Will your Ladyship ride to cover to-day? {Curtsies.) I can recom- mend our Voltigeur.' 'I am sorry that we could not attend your Grace's party on the lothi' {Curtsies.) There, I am glad my nonsense has made you smile ! ACT III THE PROMISE OF MAY 413 Eva. I have heard that 'your Lordship,' and 'your Ladyship,' and 'your Grace ' are all growing old-fashioned ! Dora. But the love of sister for sister can never be old-fashioned. I have been unwilling to trouble you with questions, but you seem somewhat better to-day. We found a letter in your bedroom torn into bits. I couldn't make it out. What was it ? Eva. From him ! from him ! He said we had been most happy together, and he trusted that some time we should meet again, for he had not forgotten his promise to come when I called him. But that was a mockery, you know, for he gave me no address, and there was no word of marriage; and, O Dora, he signed himself 'Yours gratefully ' — fancy, Dora, ' gratefully ' ! ' Yours gratefully ' ! Dora. Infamous wretch ! (^Aside.) Shall I tell her he is dead ? No ; she is still too feeble. Eva. Hark ! Dora, some one is coming. I cannot and I will not see anybody. Dora. It is only Milly. Enter Milly, with basket of roses. Dora. Well, Milly, why do you come in so roughly ? The sick lady here might have been asleep. Milly. Please, Miss, Mr. Dob.son telled me to saay he's browt some of Miss Eva's roses for the sick laady to smell on. Dora. Take them, dear. Say that the sick lady thanks him ! Is he here? Milly. ^'cas, Miss; and he wants to speak to ye partic'lar. Dora. Tell him I cannot leave the sick lady just yet. Afilly. Yeas, Miss ; hut he says he wants to tell ye summut very partic'lar. Dora. Not to-day. What are you staying for ? Afilly. Why, Miss, I be afeard I shall set him a-swcar- ing like onythink. Dora. And what harm will that do you, so that you 414 THE PROMISE OK MAY aci in do not copy his bad manners? Go, child. {Exit Milly.) But, Eva, why did you write 'Seek nie at the bottom of the river ' ? Eva. Why ? because I meant it ! — that dreadful night ! that lonely walk to Littlechester, the rain beating in my face all the way, dead midnight when I came upon the l)ridge ; the river, black, slimy, swirling under me in the lamplight, by the rotten wharfs — but 1 was so mad, that I mounted upon the parapet Dora. You make me shudder ! Eva. To fling myself over, when I heard a voice, ' Oirl, what are you doing there ? ' It was a Sister of Mercy, come from the death-bed of a pauper, who had died in his misery blessing (iod, and the Sister took me to her house, and bit by bit — for she promised secrecy — I told her all. Dora. And what then ? Eva. She would have persuaded me to come back here, but I couldn't. Then she got me a place as nursery governess, and when the children grew too old for me, and I asked her once more to help me, once more she said, '(io home;' but I hadn't the heart or face to do it. And then — what would Father say ? I sank so low that I went into service — the drudge of a lodging-house — and when the mistress died, and I appealed to the Sister again, her answer — I think I have it about me — yes, there it is! Dora {reads). 'My dear Child, — I c;in do no more for you. I have done wrong in keeping your secret ; your Father must be now in extreme old age. Go back lo him and ask his forgiveness before he dies. — Slster Ag.\tha.' Sister Agatha is right. Don't you long for Father's forgiveness ! Eva. I would almost die to have it ! Dora. And he may die before he gives it ; may drop off any day, any hour. You must .see him at once. {Kings bell. Enter Alilly.) Milly, my dear, how did you leave Mr. Steer? ACT III THE PROxMISJ': OF MAY 415 Mill}'. He's been a-moanin' and a-groanin' in 'is sleep, but I thinks he be wakkenin' oop. Dora. Tell him that I and the lady here wish to see him. You see she is lamed, and cannot go down to him. Milly. Yeas, Miss, I will. \Exit Milly. Dora. I ought to prepare you. You must not expect to find our Father as he was five years ago. He is much altered ; but I trust that your return — for you know, my dear, you were always his favourite — will give him, as they .say, a new lease of life. Eva {clinging to Dora). Oh, Dora, Dora ! Enter Steer led l>y Milly. Steer. Hes the cow cawved ? Dora. No, Father. Steer. Be the colt dead ? Dora. No, Father. Steer. He wur sa bellows'd out wi' the wind this murnin', 'at I tell'd 'em to gallop 'im. Be he dead } Dora. Not that I know. Steer. What hasta sent fur me, then, fur? Dora {taking Steer's nr/n). Well, Father, I have a surprise for you. Steer. I ha' niver been surprised but once i' my life, and I went blind upon it. Dora. Eva has come home. .Steer. Hoiim ? fro' the bottom o' the river? Dora. No, Father, that was a mistake. She's here again. .Steer. The Steers was all gentlefoiilks i' the owd times, an' I worked early an' laate to niaiike 'em all gentlefoiilks agean. The land belonged to the Steers i' the owd times, an' it belongs to the Steers ageiin : I bowt it back ageiin ; but I couldn't buy my darter back ageiin when she lost ht rsen, could I ? I eddicated boiith on 'em l(; marry gentlemen, an' one on 'em went an' lost hersen i' the river. 4i6 THE PROMISE OF MAY act m Dora. No, Father, she's here. Steer. Here ! she nioiint coom here. What would her mother saciy ? If it be her ghoast, we mun abide it. We can't keep a ghoast out. Eva {falling at his feet). O forgive me ! forgive me ! Steer. Who said that ? Taake me awaay, little gell. It be one o' my bad daays. \ILxit Steer led by Milly. Dora {snKwthing Iwa's forehead). Be not so cast down, my sweet Eva. You heard him say it was one of his bad days. He will be sure to know you to-morrow. Eva. It is almost the last of my bad days, I think. I am very faint. I must lie down. Give me your arm. Lead me back again. [Dora takes Eva into inner room. Enter Millv. Milly. Miss Dora ! Miss Dora ! Dora {returning and leaving the bedroom door ajar). Quiet ! quiet ! What is it ? Milly. Mr. 'Arold, Miss. Dora. Below ? Milly. Yeas, Miss. He be saayin' a word to the owd man, but he'll coom up if ye lets 'im. Dora. Tell him, then, that I'm waiting for him. Milly. Yeas, Miss. \_Exit. Dora sits pensively and waits. Enter Harold. Harold. You are pale, my Dora ! but the ruddiest cheek That ever charm'd the plowman of your wolds Might wish its rose a lily, could it look But half as lovely. I was speaking with Your father, asking his consent — you wish'd me — That we should marry : he would answer nothing, I could make nothing of him ; but, my flower, You look so weary and so worn ! What is it Has put you out of heart ? ACT III THE PROMISE OF MAY 417 Dora. It puts me in heart Again to see you ; but indeed the state Of my poor father puts me out of heart. Is yours yet living ? Harold. No — I told you. Dora. When ? Harold. Confusion ! — Ah well, well ! the state we all Must come to in our spring-and-winter world If we live long enough ! and poor Steer looks The very type of Age in a picture, bow'd To the earth he came from, to the grave he goes to. Beneath the burthen of years. Dora. More like the picture Of Christian in my ' Pilgrim's Progress ' here, Bow'd to the dust beneath the burthen of sin. Harold. Sin \ What sin ? Dora. Not his own. Harold. That nursery-tale Still read, then ? Dora. Yes ; our carters and our shepherds Still fmd a comfort there. Harold. Carters and shepherds ! Dora. Scorn ! I hate scorn. A soul with no religion — .My mother used to say that such a one Was without rudder, anchor, compass — might be Blown everyway with every gust and wreck On any rock : and tho' you are good and gentle. Yet if thro' any want — Harold. Of this religion? Child, read a little history, you will liiid The common brcjtherhood of man lias been Wrong'd by th(; cruelties of his religions More than ccjuld ever have happend thru' liie want Of any or all of them. Dora. — But, O dear friend, If thro' the want of any — I mean the true one — And pardon me for saying it — you should ever Be tempted into doing what might seem V 2 li 4i8 THE PROMISE OF MAY act m Not altogether worthy of you, I think That I should break my heart, for you have taught me To love you. Harold. What is this ? some one been stirring Against me ? he, your rustic amourist, The polish'd Damon of your pastoral here, This Dobson of your idyll ? Dora. No, Sir, no ! Did you not tell me he was crazed with jealousy. Had threaten'd ev'n your life, and would say anything ? Did / not promise not to listen to him, Nor ev'n to sec the man ? Harold. Good ; then what is it That makes you talk so dolefully ? Dora. I told you — My father. Well, indeed, a friend just now. One that has been much wrong'd, whose griefs are mine, \Vas warning me that if a gentleman Should wed a farmer's daughter, he would be Sooner or later shamed of her among The ladies, born his ecjuals. Harold. More fool he ! What I that have been call'd a Socialist, A Communist, a Nihilist — what you will ! Dora. What are all these ? Harold. Utopian idiotcies. They did not last three Junes. Such rampant weeds Strangle each (jther, die, and make the soil For Catsars, Cromwells, and Napoleons To root their power in. I have freed myself From all such dreams, and some will say because I have inherited my Uncle. T>et them. But — shamed of you, my Empress ! I should prize The pearl of Beauty, even if I found it Dark with the soot of slums. Dora. But I can tell you, We Steers are of old blood, tho' we be fallen. See there our shield. i^Foinltfig lo arms ofi nin7itelpiece.) ACT III THE PROMISE OF MAY 419 For I have heard the Steers Had land in Saxon times ; and your own name Of Harold sounds so English and so old I am sure you must be proud of it. Harold. Not I ! As yet I scarcely feel it mine. I took it For some three thousand acres. I have land now And wealth, and lay both at your feet. Dora. And what was Your name before ? Harold. Come, come, my girl, enough Of this strange talk. I love you and you me. True, I have held opinions, hold some still, Which you would scarce approve of : for all that, I am a man not prone to jealousies. Caprices, humours, moods; but very ready To make allowances, and mighty slow To feel offences. Nay, I do believe I could forgive — well, almost anything — And that more freely than your formal priest. Because I know more fully than he can What j)Oor earthworms are all and each of us, Here crawling in this boundless Nature. Dora, If marriage ever brought a woman happiness I doubt not I can make you happy. Dora. You make me Hapi)y already. Harold. And I never said As much before to any woman living. Dora. No ? JIarold. No ! by this true kiss, you are the first I ever have loved truly. \They kiss each other. Eva {with a wild cry), i'hilip Edgar ! Harold. The phantom cry ! You — did you hear a cry? Dora. She must l»e crying out ' lodgar ' in her sleeji. Harold. Who must be crying out 'Edgar' in her sleep? Dora. \'our pardon for a minute. She must be waked. 420 THE PROMISE OF MAY act hi Harold. Who must be waked? Dora. I am not deaf: you fright me. What ails you ? Harold. Speak. Dora. You know her, Eva. Harold. Eva ! \Eva opens tlie door and stands in the entry. She! Eva. Make her happy, then, and I forgive you. \_J''alls dead. Dora. Happy ! What ? Edgar ? Is it so ? Can it be ? They told me so. Yes, yes ! I see it all now. she has fainted. Sister, Eva, sister ! He is yours again — he will love you again ; 1 give him back to you again. Look up ! One word, or do but smile ! Sweet, do you hear me ? \^Futs her hand on Eva's heart. There, there — the heart, O (lod ! — the poor young heart Broken at last — all still — and nothing left To live for. \^Juills on body of her sister. Harold. Living . . . dead . . . She said ' all still. Nothing to live for.' She — she knows me — now . . . {A pause.) She knew me from the first, she juggled with me, She hid this sister, told me she was dead — I have wasted pity on her — not dead now — No ! acting, playing on me, both of them. They drag the river for her I no, not they ! Playing on me — not dead now — a swoon — a scene — Yet — how she made her wail as for the dead ! Enter Milly. Millv. Please, Mister 'Arold. Harold {roughly). Well ? Milly. The owd man's coom'd ageiin to 'issen, an' wants To hev a word wi' yc about the marriage. ACT in THE PROMISE OF MAY 421 Harold. The Avhat ? Mill}'. The marriage. Harold. The marriage ? Milly. Yeas, the marriage. Granny says marriages be maade i' 'eaven. Harold. She Hes ! They are made in Hell. Child, can't you see ? Tel! them to fly for a doctor. Milly. O law — yeas, Sir ! I'll run fur 'im mysen. \Exit. Harold. All silent there, Yes, deathlike ! Dead ? I dare not look : if dead, Were it best to steal away, to spare myself, And her too, pain, pain, pain ? My curse on all This world of mud, on all its idiot gleams Of pleasure, all the foul fatalities That blast our natural passions into pains ! Enter DoBSON. Dobsoti. You, Master Hedgar, Harold, or w'hativer 'I'hey calls ye, for I warrants that ye goiis ]>y haiife a scoor o' naiimes — out o' the chaumbcr. \Drag^i7ig him past the body. Harold. Not that way, man ! Curse on your brutal strength ! I cannot pass that way. Dobson. Out ()' the chaumbcr ! I'll mash tha into nowt. Harold. The mere wild-beasl ! J)o/>son. Out o' the chauniber, dang tha ! J/arold. Lout, ( liiiil, < lown 1 yWhile they are shout in,!^ and striii^j^linjt^ Dora rises and comes bet'ivcen them. Dora {to Dobson). Peace, let him l)e : it is the chamber of Death ! 422 THE PROMISE OF MAY act hi Sir, you are tenfold more a gentleman, A hundred limes more worth a woman's love, Than this, this — but I waste no words upon him : His wickedness is like my wretchedness — Beyond all language. {To Harold.) You — you see her there ! Only fifteen when first you came on her. And then the sweetest flower of all the .wolds, So lovely in the promise of her May, So winsome in her grace and gaiety, So loved by all the village people here, So happy in herself and in her home Dobson {agitated). Theer, theer ! ha' done. I can't abear to see her. \^Exif. Dora. A child, and all as trustful as a child ! Five years of shame and suffering broke the heart That only beat for you ; and he, the father. Thro' that dishonour which you brought upon us. Has lost his health, his eyesight, even his mind. Harold {covering his face). Enough ! Dora. It seem'd so ; only there was left A second daughter, and to her you came Veiling one sin to act another. Harold No ! You wrong me there ! hear, hear me ! I wish'd, if you \^Pauses. Dora. If I Harold. Could love me, could be brought to love me As I loved you Dora. What then ? Harold. I wish'd, I hoped To make, to make Dora. What did you hope to make ? Harold. 'Twere best to make an end of my lost life. O Dora, Dora! Dora. What did you hope to make ? ACT III THE PROMISE OF MAY 423 Harold. Make, make ! I cannot find the word — forgive it — Amends. Dora. For what ? to w horn ? Harold. To him, to you ! S^Falling at her feet. Dora. To hitn ! to me ! No, not with all your wealth, Your land, your life ! Out in the fiercest storm That ever made earth tremble — he, nor I — The shelter oA your roof — not for one moment — Nothing from you I Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, Push'd from all doors as if we bore the plague. Smitten with fever in the open field. Laid famine-stricken at the gates of Death — Nothing from you ! But she there — her last word Forgave — and I forgive you. If you ever Forgive yourself, you are even lower and baser Than even I can well believe you. Go ! \He lies at her feet. Curtain, falls. THE FORESTERS ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN DRAMA TIS PERSONA^. Robin Hood, Earl of Huntingdon. King Richard, Caeur de Lion. Prince John. Ol 1 ll^t, JUHI\ ^ Will Scarlet | Friar Tuck " i'^'^^'^"'''-' "/ ^''^'« '-^o^d- Much -' a justiciakv. Sheriff of Nottingham. .■\bbot of St. Mary's. Sir Richard Lea. Walter Lea, son of Sir Richard Lea. Maid Marlon, daughter of Sir Richard Lea. Kate, attendant on Marian. Old Woman. Retainers, Messengers, Merry Men, Mercenaries, Friars, Beggars, Sailors, Peasants (men a/id wofnen), etc. 424 ACT I THE FORESTERS 425 ACT I Scene i.—THE BOND Scenes ii. hi.— THE OUTLAWRY SCENE I. — The Garden before Sir Richard Lea's Castle Kate {gathering floivers). These roses for my Lady >Lirian ; these HHes to lighten Sir Richard's black room, where he sits and eats his heart for want of money to pay the Abbot. S^Sings. The warrior Earl of Allendale, He loved the Lady Anne ; The lady loved the master well. The maid she loved the man. All in the castle garden, Or ever the day began. The lady gave a rose to the Earl, The maid a rose to the man. ' I go to fight in Scotland With many a savage clan ; ' The lady gave her hand to the Earl, The maid her hand to the man. ' Farewell, farewell, my warrior Earl ! ' And ever a tear down ran. She gave a weeping kiss to the Earl, And the maid a kiss to the man. Enter four ragged Kkiaineks. /'/>.v/ Retainer. You do well, Mistress Kate, to sing and to gather roses. You l)e fed with tit-bits, you, and we be dogs that have only the Ijone.s, till we be only bones our own selves. 436 THE FORESTERS act i Kate. I am fed with lit-bits no more than you are, hut I keep a good heart and make the most of it, and, truth to say, Sir Richard and my Lady Marian fare weUnigh as sparely as their people. Second Retainer. And look at our suits, out at knee, out at elbow. We be more like scarecrows in a field than decent serving-men ; and then, I pray you, look at Robin Earl of Huntingdon's men. First Retainer. She hatli looked well at one of 'em, Little John. Third Retainer. Ay, how fine they be in their liveries, and each of 'em as full of meat as an egg, and as sleek and as round-about as a mellow codlin. Fourth Retainer. But I be worse off than any of you, for I be lean by nature, and if you cram me crop-full I be little better than P'amine in the picture, but if you starve me I be Gaffer Death himself. I would like to show you. Mistress Kate, how bare and spare I be on the rib : I be lanker than an old horse turned out to die on the common. Kate. Sparc me thy spare ribs, I pray thee ; but now 1 ask you all, did none of you love young Walter Lea ? First Retainer. Ay, if he had not gone to fight the king's battles, we should have better battels at home. Kate. Right as an Oxford scholar, but the boy was taken prisoner by the Moors. First Retainer. Ay. Kate. And Sir Richard was told he might be ransomed for two thousand marks in gold. First Retainer. Ay. Kate. Then he borrowed the monies from the Abbot of York, the Sheriff's brother. And if they be not paid back at the end of the year, the land goes to the Abbot. First Retainer. No news of young Walter ? Kate. None, nor of the gold, nor the man who took out the gold : but now ye know why we live so stintedly, and why ye have so few grains to peck at. Sir Richard must scrape and scrape till he get to the land again. SCENE I THE FORESTERS 427 Come, come, why do ye loiter here ? Carry fresh rushes into the dining-hall, for those that are there, they be so greasy, and smell so vilely that my Lady Marian holds her nose when she steps across it. Fourth Retainer. \\'hy there, now ! that very word ' greasy ' hath a kind of unction in it, a smack of relish about it. The rats have gnawed "em already. I pray Heaven we may not have to take to the rushes. \Exeunt. Kate. Poor fellows ! The lady gave her hand to the Earl, The maid her hand to the man. Enter Little John. Little John. My master, Robin the Earl, is always a-telling us that every man, for the sake of the great blessed Mother in heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all honour, and speak small to 'em, and not scare 'em, but go about to come at their love with all manner of homages, and ob-servances, and circum- bendibuses. Kate. The lady gave a rose to the Earl, The maid a rose to the man. Little John {seeing her). O the sacred little thing I What a shape ! what lovely arms ! .\ rose to the man ! Ay, the man had given her a rose and she gave him another. Kate. Shall I keep one little rose for Little John ? No. LJttlc John. There, there! You see I was right. She hath a tenderness toward me, but is too shy to show it. It is in her, in the woman, and the man must bring it out of her. Kate. She gave a weeping kiss to the Earl, The maid a kiss to the man. Little John. Did she? But there I am sure the ballad 428 THE FORESI^KRS act t is ai fault. It should have told us how the man first kissed the maid. She doesn't see me. Shall I be bold? shall I touch her ? shall I give her the first kiss ? O sweet Kate, my first love, the first kiss, the first kiss ! Kate {turns and kisses him). ^^'hy lookest thou so amazed ? Little John. 1 cannot tell ; but I came to give thee the first kiss, and thou hast given it me. Kate. But if a man and a maid care for one another, does it matter so much if the maid give the first kiss ? Little John. I cannot tell, but I had sooner have given thee the first kiss. I was dreaming of it all the way hither. Kate. Dream of it, then, all the way back, for now I will have none of it. LJttle John. Nay, now thou hast given me the man's kiss, let me give thee the maid's. Kate. If thou draw one inch nearer, I will give thee a buffet on the face. Little John. \W\\i thou not give me rather the little rose for Little John ? Kate {throws it down and t?-amples on if). There ! [Kate, seeing Marian, exit hurriedly. Enter Marian {singing). Love flew in at the window As Wealth walk'd in at the door. 'You have come for you saw Wealth coming,' said L But he flutter'd his wings with a sweet little cry, I'll fleavc to you rich or poor. Wealth dropt out of the window, Poverty crept thro' the door. 'Well now you would fain follow Wealth,' said I, But he flutter'd his wings as he gave me the lie, I cling to you all the more. Little John. Thanks, my lady — inasmuch as 1 am a SCENE I THE FORESTERS 429 true believer in true love myself, and your Ladyship hath sung the old proverb out of fashion. Marian. Ay but thou hast ruffled my woman, Little John. She hath the fire in her face and the dew in her eyes. I believed thee to be too solemn and formal to be a ruffler. Out upon thee ! Little John. I am no ruffler, my lady ; but I pray you, my lady, if a man and a maid love one another, may the maid give the first kiss ? Marian. It will be all the more gracious of her if she do. Little John. I cannot tell. Manners be so corrupt, and these are the days of Prince John. \Exit. Enter Sir Richard Lea {reading a bond). Sir Richard. Marian ! Marian. Father ! Sir Richard. W^ho parted from thee even now ? Marian. That strange starched stiff creature. Little John, the Earl's man. He would grapple with a lion like the King, and is flustered by a girl's kiss. Sir Richard. There never was an Earl so true a friend of the jjeoijle as Lord Robin of Huntingdon. Marian. A gallant Earl. I love him as I hale John. Sir Richard. I fear me he hath wasted his revenues in the service of our good king Richard against the party of John, as I have done, as I have done : and wliere is Richard? Marian, ('leave to liim, father I he will come home at last. Sir Richard. I trust he will, but if he do not I and thou are but beggars. Marian. W'e will be beggar'd then and be true to llie King. Sir Richard. 'I'liou speakest like a fool or a woni.in. (janst thou endure to be a beggar whose whole life hath been folded like a blossom in the sheath, like a careless 430 THE FORESTERS act i sleeper in the down ; who never hast felt a want, to whom all things, up to this present, have come as freely as heaven's air and mother's milk? j\Tariaii. Tut, father ! I aju none of your delicate Norman maidens who can only broider and mayhap ride a-ha\vking with the help of the men. I can bake and I can brew, and by all the saints I can shoot almost as closely with the bow as the great Earl himself. I have played at the foils too with Kate : but is not to-day his birthday ? Sir Richard. Dost thou love him indeed, that thou keepest a record of his birthdays ? Thou know'est that the Sheriff of Nottingham loves thee. Marian. The Sheriff dare to love me ? me who worship Robin the great Earl of Huntingdon ? I love him as a damsel of his day might have loved Harold the Saxon, or Hereward the Wake. They both fought against the tyranny of the kings, the Normans. But then your Sheriff, your little man, if he dare to fight at all, would fight for his rents, his leases, his houses, his monies, his oxen, his dinners, himself. Now your great man, your Robin, all England's Robin, fights not for himself but for the people of England. This John — this Norman tyranny — the stream is bearing us all down, and our little Sheriff will ever swim with the stream I but our great man, our Robin, against it. And how often in old histories have the great men striven against the stream, and how often in the long sweep of years to come must the great man strive against it again to save his country, and the liberties of his people! (iod bless our wxdl- beloved Robin, Earl of Huntingdon. Sir Richard. Ay, ay. He wore thy colours once at a tourney. I am old and forget. Was Prince John there? Marian. The Sheriff of Nottingham was there — not John. Sir Richard. Beware of John and the Sheriff of Not- tingham. They hunt in couples, and when they look at a maid they blast her. SCENE I THE FORESTERS 431 Alarian. Then the maid is not high-hearted enough. Sir Richard. There — there — be not a fool again. Their aim is ever at that which flies highest — but O girl, girl, I am almost in despair. Those two thousand marks lent me by the Abbot for the ransom of my son Walter — I believed this Abbot of the party of King Richard, and he hath sold himself to that beast John- — they must be paid in a year and a month, or I lose the land. There is one that should be grateful to me overseas, a Count in Brittany — he lives near Quimper. I saved his life once in battle. He has monies. I will go to him. I saved him. I will try him. I am all but sure of him. I will go to him. Marian. And I will follow thee, and God help us both. Sir Richard. Child, thou shouldst marry one who will pay the mortgage. This Robin, this Earl of Huntingdon — he is a friend of Richard — I know not, but he may save the land, he may save the land. Marian {showings; a cross hunt^ rotind her tieck). Father, you see this cross ? Sir Richard. Ay the King, thy godfather, gave it thee when a baby. Marian. And he said that whenever I married he would give me away, and on this cross I have sworn [kisses it] that till I myself pass away, there is no other man that shall give me away. Sir Richard. Lo there — thou art fool again — I am all as loyal as thyself, but what a vow ! what a vow ! Reenter I-irn.K John. Little John. My Lady Marian, your wo.iiaii so flustered me that I forgot my message from the Earl. Today he hath accomplished his thirtieth birthday, and he prays your ladyship and your ladyship's father to be present at his banquet to-night. Marian. Say, we will come. 432 THE FORESTERS act i Little John. And I pray you, my lady, to stand between me and your woman, Kate. Marian. I will speak with her. Little John. I thank you, my lady, and I wish you and your ladyship's father a most exceedingly good morning. {ILxit. Sir Richard. Thou hast answered for nie, but I know not if I will let thee go. Marian. I mean to go. Sir Richard. Not if I barred thee up in thy chamber, like a bird in a cage. Marian. Then 1 would drop from the casement, like a spider. Sir Richard. But I would hoist the drawbridge, like thy master. Marian. And I would swim the moat, like an otter. Sir Richard. But I would set my men-at-arms to oppose thee, like the Lord of the Castle. Alarian. And 1 would break througli them all, like the King of England. Sir Richard. Well, thou shalt go, but O the land ! the land ! my great great great grandfather, my great great grandfather, my great grandfather, my grandfather and my own father — they were born and bred on it — it was their mother — they have trodden it for half a thousand years, and whenever I set my own foot on it I say to it, 'I'hou art mine, and it answers, I am thine to the very heart of the earth — but now I have lost my gold, I have lost my son, and I shall lose my land also. Down to the devil with this bond that beggars me ! \^Flini;s dotvn the bond. Marian. Take it again, dear father, be not wroth at the dumb parchment. Sufficient for the day, dear father ! let us be merry to-night ai the banquet. SCENE II THE FORESTERS 433 SCENE II. A HALL IN THE HOUSE OF ROBIN HoOD THE Earl of Huntingdon. Doors open into a banqueting-hall where he is at feast with his Friends. Drinking Song. Long live Richard, Robin and Richard ! Long live Richard ! Down with John ! Drink to the Lion-heart Every one ! Pledge the Plantagenet, Him that is gone. Who knows whither? God's good Angel Help him back hither, And down with John ! Long live Robin, Robin and Richard ! Long live Robin, And down with John ! Enter Prince John disguised as a monk and the Sheriff OF Nottingham. Cries 0/ ^ Doivn 7vith John,' 'Long live King Richard,' '■ Do7vn with John.' Prince John. Down with John ! ha. Sliall I be known ? is my disguise perfect ? Sheriff. Perfect — who should know you for Prince John, so thnt you keep the cowl down and speak not ? [Shouts from the hancjuet-room. Prince John. Thou and I will still these revelries presently. [Shouts, 'Long live King Richard!' I come here to see this daughter of Sir Richard of the Lea and if her beauties answer their report. If so — v 2 t' 434 THE FORESTERS act i Sheriff. If so — \^Shouts, ' Down with John ! ' Priiice John. You hear ! Sheriff. Yes, my lord, fear not. I will answer for you. Enter Little John, Scarlet, Much, etc., from the banijiiet singing a snatch of t/ie Drinking Song. Little John. I am a silent man myself, and all the more wonder at our Earl. What a wealth of words — O Lord, I will live and die for King Richard — not so much for the cause as for the Earl. O Lord, I am easily led by words, but I think the Earl hath right. Scarlet, hath not the Earl right ? What makes thee so down in the mouth ? Scarlet. I doubt not, I doubt not, and though I be down in the mouth, I will swear by the head of the Earl. Little John. Thou Much, miller's son, hath not the Earl right ? Much. More water goes by the mill than the miller wots of, and more goes to make right than I know of, but for all that I will swear the Earl hath right. But they are coming hither for the dance — Enter Friar Tuck. be they not, Friar Tuck ? Thou art the Earl's confessor and shouldst know. Tuck. Ay, ay, and but that I am a man of weight, and the weight of the church to boot on my shoulders, I would dance too. Fa, la, la, fa, la, la. [Capering. Much. But doth not the weight of the flesh at odd times overbalance the weight of the church, ha friar ? Tuck. Homo sum. I love my dinner but I can fast, I can fast ; and as to other frailties of the ilesh — out upon thee ! Homo sum, sed virgo sum, I am a virgin, my masters, I am a virgin. Much. And a virgin, my masters, three yards about the waist is like to remain a virgin, for who could embrace such an armful of joy ? SCENE II THE FORESTERS 435 Tuck. Knave, there is a lot of wild fellows in Sherwood Forest who hold by King Richard. If ever I meet thee there, I will break thy sconce with my quarterstaff. Enter from the banqueting-hall Sir Richard Lea, Robin Hood, etc. Robin. My guests and friends, Sir Richard, all of you Who deign to honour this my thirtieth year. And some of you were prophets that I might be Now that the sun our King is gone, the light Of these dark hours ; but this new moon, I fear, Is darkness. Nay, this may be the last time When I shall hold my birthday in this hall : I may be outlaw'd, I have heard a rumour. All. God forbid ! Robin. Nay, but we have no news of Richard yet, And ye did wrong in crying ' Down with John ; ' For be he dead, then John may be our King. All. God forbid ! Robin. Ay God forbid. But if it be so we must bear with John. The man is able enough — no lack of wit, And apt at arms and shrewd in policy. Courteous enough too when he wills ; and yet I hate him for his want of chivalry. He that can |)Iuck the flower of maidenhood From off the stalk and trample it in the mire, And boast that he hath trampled it. I hate liim, I hate the man. I may not hate the King For aught I know. So that our Barons bring his baseness under. I think they will be mightier than the king. [Dance music. Marian enters with other damsels. Robin. The high Heaven guard thee from his wantonness, 436 THE FORESTERS act i Who art the fairest flower of maidenhood That ever blossom'd on this Enc-Hsh isle. Marian. Cloud not thy birthday with one fear for me. My lord, myself and my good father pray Thy thirtieth summer may be thirty-fold As happy as any of those that went before. Robin. My Lady Marian you can make it so If you will deign to tread a measure with me. Marian. Full willingly, my lord. \They dance. Robin {after dance). My Lady, will you answer me a question ? Marian. Any that you may ask. Robin. A question that every true man asks of a woman once in his life. Marian. I will not answer it, my lord, till King Richard come home again. Prince John {to Sheriff). How she looks up at him, how she holds her face ! Now if she kiss him, I will have his head. Sheriff. Peace, my lord ; the Earl and Sir Richard come this way. Robin. Must you have these monies before the year and the month end ? Sir Richard. Or I forfeit my land to the Abbot. I must pass overseas to one that I trust will help me. Robin. Leaving your fair Marian alone here. Sir Richard. Ay, for she hath somewhat of the lioness in her, and there be men-at-arms to guard her. [Robin, Sir Richard, and Marian />ass on. Prince John {to Sheriff). Why that will be our opportunity When I and thou will rob the nest of her. Sfieriff. Oood Prince, art thou in need of any gold? Prince John, (jold ? why? not now. Stieriff. I would give thee any gold So that myself alone might rob the nest. Prince John. Well, well then, thou shalt rob the nest alone. SCENE II THE FORESTERS 437 Sheriff. Swear to me by that relic on thy neck. Prince John . I swear then by this relic on my neck — No, no, I will not swear by this ; I keep it For holy vows made to the blessed Saints Not pleasures, women's matters. Dost thou mistrust me ? Am I not thy friend ? Beware, man, lest thou lose thy faith in me. I love thee much ; and as I am thy friend, I promise thee to make this Marian thine. Go now and ask the maid to dance with thee, And learn from her if she do love this Earl. Sheriff (advancing toward Marian and Robin). Pretty mistress ! Robin. What art thou, man ? Sheriff of Nottingham ? Sheriff. Ay, my lord. I and my friend, this monk, were here belated, and seeing the hospitable lights in your castle, and knowing the fame of your hospitality, we ventured in uninvited. Robin. You are welcome, though I fear you be of those who hold more by John than Richard. Sheriff. True, for through John I had my sheriffship. I am John's till Richard come back again, and then I am Richard's. Pretty mistress, will you dance? \Thcy dance. Robin {talking to Prince John). \Vhat monk of what convent art thou ? Why wearest thou thy cowl to hide thy face ? [Prince John sJiakes his head. Is he deaf, or dumb, or daft, or drunk belike? [Prince John shakes his head. Why comest thou like a death's head at my feast ? [Prince John points to the Sheriff, 7vho is dancing with Marian. Is he thy mouthpiece, thine interpreter? [Prince John nods. S/ieriff {to Marian as they pass). Beware of John ! Marian. I hate him. Slieriff. Would you cast An eye of favour on me, I would pay My brother all his debt and save the land. 438 THE FORESTERS ACT I Marian. I cannot answer thee till Richard come. Sheriff. And when he comes ? Marian. Well, you must wait till then. Little John {dancing with Kate). Is it made up ? AVill you kiss me ? Kate. You shall give me the first kiss. Little John. There {kisses her). Now then. Kate. You shall wait for mine till Sir Richard has paid the Abbot. [They pass on. [The Sheriff /m^w Marian 7vith her father and amies toward Robin. Robin {to Sheriff, Prince John standing by). Sheriff, thy friend, this monk, is but a statue. Sheriff. Pardon him, my lord : he is a holy Palmer, bounden by a vow not to show his face, nor to speak word to anyone, till he join King Richard in the Holy Land. Robin. Going to the Holy Land to Richard ! Give me thy hand and tell him Why, what a cold grasp is thine — as if thou didst repent thy courtesy even in the doing it. That is no true man's hand. I hate hidden faces. Sheriff. Pardon him again, I pray you : but the twilight of the coming day already glimmers in the east. We thank you, and farewell. Robin. Farewell, farewell. I hate hidden faces. [Exeunt Prince John and Sheriff. Sir Richard {coming fonvard with Maid Marian). How close the Sheriff peer'd into thine eyes ! What did he say to thee ? Marian. Bade me beware Of John : what maid but would beware of John ? Sir Richard. AVhat else ? Marian. I care not what he said. Sir Richard. What else ? Marian. That if I cast an eye of favour on him, Himself would pay this mortgage to his brother, And save the land. Sir Richard. Did he say so, the Sheriff? SCENE II THE FORESTERS 439 Robiti. I fear this Abbot is a heart of flint, Hard as the stones of his abbey. good Sir Richard, 1 am sorry my exchequer runs so low I cannot help you in this exigency ; For though my men and I flash out at times Of festival like burnish'd summer-flies, We make but one hour's buzz, are only like The rainbow of a momentary sun. I am mortgaged as thyself. Sir Richard. Ay ! I warrant thee — thou canst not be sorrier than I am. Come away, daughter. Robin. Farewell, Sir Richard ; farewell, sweet Marian. Marian. Till better times. Robin. But if the better times should never come ? Marian. Then I shall be no worse. Robin. And if the worst time come? Marian. Why then I will be better than the time. Robin. This ring my mother gave me : it was her own Betrothal ring. She pray'd me when I loved A maid with all my heart to pass it down A finger of that hand which should be mine Thereafter. Will you have it ? \\\\\ you wear it ? Marian. Ay, noble Earl, and never part with it. Sir Richard Lea (coming j(p). Not till she clean forget thee, noble Earl. Afarian. Forget him — never — by this Holy Cross Which good King Richard gave me when a child — Never ! Not while the swallow skims along the ground. And while the lark flies up and touches heaven ! Not while the smoke floats from the cottage roof. And the white cloud is roll'd along the sky ! Not while the rivulet babbles by the door. And the great breaker beats upon the beach ! Never — Till Nature, high and low, and great and small 440 THE FORESTERS act i Forgets herself, and all her loves and hates Sink again into chaos. Sir Richard Lea. Away ! away ! [Exeunt to music. SCENE III.— Same as Scene II Robin and his men. Robin. All gone ! — my ring — I am happy — should be happy. She took my ring. I trust she loves me — yet I heard this Sheriff tell her he would pay The mortgage if she favour'd him. I fear Not her, the father's power upon her. Friends, {to his men) I am only merry for an hour or two Upon a birthday : if this life of ours Be a good glad thing, why should we make us merry Because a year of it is gone ? but Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come Whispering 'it will be happier,' and old faces Press round us, and warm hands close with warm hands. And thro' the blood the wine leaps to the brain Like April sap to the topmost tree, that shoots New buds to heaven, whereon the throstle rock'd Sings a new song to the new year — and you Strike up a song, my friends, and then to bed. Little John. What will you have, my lord? Robin. ' To sleep ! to sleep ! ' Little John. There is a touch of sadness in it, my lord, But ill befitting such a festal day. Robin. I have a touch of sadness in myself. Sing. Song. To sleep ! to sleep ! The long bright day is done, And darkness rises from the fallen sun. To sleep ! to sleep ! SCENE HI THE FORESTERS 44i Whate'er thy joys, they vanish with the day • Whate'er ihy griefs, in sleep they fade away. To sleep ! to sleep ! Sleep, mournful heart, and let the past be past ! Sleep, happy soul ! all life will sleep at last. To sleep ! to sleep ! [A trumpet blown at the gates. Robin. Who breaks the stillness of the morning thus ? Little John {going out a?id returning). It is a royal messenger, my lord : I trust he brings us news of the King's coming. Enter a Pursuivant ^vho reads. O yes, O yes, O yes ! In the name of the Regent. Thou, Robin Hood Earl of Huntingdon, art attainted and hast lost thine earldom of Huntingdon. Moreover thou art dispossessed of all thy lands, goods, and chattels ; and by virtue of this writ, whereas Robin Hood Earl of Huntingdon by force and arms hath trespassed against the king in divers manners, therefore by the judgment of the ofificers of the said lord king, according to the law and custom of the kingdom of England Robin Hood Earl of Huntingdon is outlawed and banished. Robin. I have shelter'd some that broke the forest laws. This is irregular and the work of John. ['Irregular, irregular! (tumult). Down with him, tear his coat from his back.' Messenger. Ho there ! ho there,the Sheriff's men wilhoul! Robin. Nay, let them be, man, let them be. We yield. How should we cope with John ? The Eondon folkmotc Has made him all but king, and he hath seized On half the royal castles. Let him alone ! {to his men) A worthy messenger I how should he help it ? Shall we too work injustice ? what, thou shakcst ! Here, here — a cup of wine — drink and begone ! \Exit Messenger. We will away in four-and-twenty hours, But shall we leave our England ? 442 THE FORESTERS APT I Ttick. Robin, Earl— Robin. Let be the Earl. Henceforth I am no more Than plain man to plain man. Tuck. Well, then, plain man, There be good fellows there in merry Sherwood That hold by Richard, tho' they kill his deer. Robin. In Sherwood Forest. I have heard of them. Have they no leader ? Tuck. Each man for his own. Be thou their leader and they will all of them Swarm to thy voice like bees to the brass pan. Robin. They hold by Richard — ^the wild wood ! to cast All threadbare household habit, mix with all The lusty life of wood and underwood. Hawk, buzzard, jay, the mavis and the merle, The tawny squirrel vaulting thro' the boughs. The deer, the highback'd i)olccat, the wild boar, The burrowing badger — By St. Nicholas I have a sudden passion for the wild wood — We should be free as air in the wild wood — What .say you ? shall we go ? Your hands, your hands ! \Gives his hand to each. You, Scarlet, you are always moody here. Scarlet. 'Tis for no lack of love to you, my lord, But lack of hap[)iness in a blatant wife. She broke my head on Tuesday with a dish. I would have thwack'd the woman, but I did not, Because thou sayest such fine things of women, But I shall have to thwack her if I stay. Robin. Would it be better for thee in the wood? Scarlet. Ay, so she did not follow me to the wood. Robin. Then, Scarlet, thou at least wilt go with me. Thou, Much, the miller's son, I knew thy father: He was a manly man, as thou art, Much, And gray before his time as thou art. Much. Much. It is the trick of the family, my lord. There was a song he made to the turning wheel — Robin. ' Turn ! turn I ' but I forget it. SCENE III THE FORESTERS 443 Much. I can sing it. Robin. Not now, good Much ! And thou, dear Little John, Who hast that worship for me which Heaven knows I ill deserve — you love me, all of you, But I am outlaw'd, and if caught, I die. Your hands again. All thanks for all your service ; But if you follow me, you may die with me. All. We will live and die with thee, we will live and die with thee. ACT II THE FLIGHT OF MARIAN SCENE I. A BROAD FOREST GI.ADK, WOODMAN'S HUT AT ONE SIDE WITH HALF- DOOR. FORKSTKRS ARE LOOKING TO THEIR BOWS AND ARROW.S, OR POLISHING THEIR SWORDS. Foresters shif^ (as they disperse to their work). There is no land like England Where'er the light of day be ; There are no hearts like English hearts Such hearts of oak as they be. There is no land like ICngland Where'er the light of day be ; There are no men like Englishmen So tall and bold as they be. (Full chorus.) And these will strike for England And man and maid be free To foil and spoil the tyrant pjcncath the greenwood tree. 444 'i'ilE FORESTERS act ii There is no land like England Where'er the light of day be ; There are no wives like English wives So fair and chaste as they be. There is no land like England Where'er the light of day be ; There are no maids like English maids So beautiful as they be. (Full chorus.) And these shall wed with freemen, And all their sons be free, To sing the songs of England Beneath the greenwood tree. Robin [alone). My lonely hour ! The king of day hath stept from off his throne, Flung by the golden mantle of the cloud, . And sets, a naked fire. The King of England Perchance this day may sink as gloriously, Red with his own and enemy's blood — but no I We hear he is in prison. It is my birthday. I have reign'd one year in the wild wood. My mother. For whose sake, and the blessed Queen of Heaven, I reverence all women, bad me, dying. Whene'er this day should come about, to carve One lone hour from it, so to meditate Upon my greater nearness to the birthday Of the after-life, when all the sheeted dead .\re shaken from their stillness in the grave By the last trumpet. Am I worse or better ? I am outlaw'd. I am none the worse for that. I held for Richard, and I hated John. I am a thief, ay, and a king of thieves. Ay ! but we rob the robber, wrong the wronger. And what we wring from them we give the poor. I am none the worse for that, and all the better For this free forest-life, for while I sat Among my thralls in my baronial hall SCENE I THE FORESTERS 445 The groining hid the heavens ; but since I breathed, A houseless head beneath the sun and stars, The soul of the woods hath stricken thro' my blood, The love of freedom, the desire of God, The hope of larger life hereafter, more Tenfold than under roof. \Horn bloivn. True, were I taken They would prick out my sight. A price is set On this poor head ; but I believe there lives No man who truly loves and truly rules His following, but can keep his followers true. I am one with mine. Traitors are rarely bred Save under traitor kings. Our vice-king John, True king of vice — true play on words — our John By his Norman arrogance and dissoluteness, Hath made me king of all the discontent Of England up thro' all the forest land North to the Tyne : being outlaw'd in a land Where law lies dead, we make ourselves the law. Why break you thus upon my lonely hour ? Enter Little John arid Kate. Little John. I found this white doe wandering thro' the wood. Not thine, but mine. I have shot her thro' the heart. Kate. He lies, my lf)rd. I have shot him thro' the heart. Roliiu. My God, thou art the very woman wlio waits On my dear Marian. Tell me, tell me of her. Thou comcst a very angel out of heaven. Where is she ? and how fares she ? Kate. O my good lord, 1 am but an angel by reflected light. Your heaven is vacant of your angel. Jolin — Shame on him ! — Stole on her, she was walking in the garden. And after some slight speech about the Sheriff 446 THE FORESTERS act ii He caught her round the waist, whereon she struck liini, And fled into the castle. She and Sir Richard Have past away, I know not where ; and I Was left alone, and knowing as I did That I had shot him thro' the heart, I came To eat him up and make an end of him. Little John. In kisses? Kate. You, how dare you mention kisses ? But I am weary pacing thro' the wood. Show me some cave or cabin where I may rest. Robin. Go with him. I will talk with thee anon. [Exeunt Little John and Kate. She struck him, my brave Marian, struck the Prince, The serpent that had crept into the garden And coird himself about her sacred waist. , I think I should have stricken him to the death. He never will forgive her. O the Sheriff Would pay this cursed mortgage to his brother If Marian would marry him ; and the son Is most like dead — if so the land may come To Marian, and they rate the land fivefold The worth of the mortgage, and who marries her Marries the land. Most honourable Sheriff! {Passionately) (ione, and it may l)e gone for evermore ! would that I could see her for a moment Olide like a light across these woodland ways ! Tho' in one moment she should glance away, 1 should be happier for it all the year. O would she moved beside me like my shadow ! O would she stood before me as my (jueen. To make this Sherwood Eden o'er again, And these rough oaks the palms of Paradi.se ! Ah ! but who be those three yonder with bows ?— not of my band — the Sheriff, and by heaven, Prince John himself and one of those mercenaries that suck the blood of England. My people are all scattered I know not where. Have they come for me ? Here is the witch's SCENE I THE FORESTERS 447 hut. The fool-people call her a witch — a good witch to me ! I will shelter here. \_Knocks at the door of the hut. Old Woman co7)ies out. Old IVofuan (hisses his hand). Ah dear Robin ! ah noble captain, friend of the poor ! Robi7i. I am chased by my foes. I have forgotten my horn that calls my men together. Disguise me — thy gown and thy coif. Old Woman. Come in, come in ; I would give my life for thee, for when the Sheriff had taken all our goods for the King without paying, our horse and our little cart Robin. Quick, good mother, quick ! Old IFoniau. Ay, ay, gown, coif, and petticoat, and the old woman's blessing with them to tlie last fringe. [77/ ey ^0 in. Enter Princi-: John, Sheriff of Nottingham, and Mercenary. Prince John. Did we not hear the two would pass this way ? They must have past. Here is a woodman's hut. Mercenary. Take liued, take heed ! in Nottingham they say There bides a foul witch somewhere hereabout. Sheriff. Not in this hut I take il. Prince John. Why not lure? Sheriff. I saw a man go in, my lord. Prince John. Not two ? Sheriff. No, my lord, one. Prince John. Make for the cottage then ! Interior of the hut. RoiJIN disi^uised as <dd ivonian. J^rince John {without). Knock again ! knock again ! 448 THE FORESTERS ACT 11 Robin {to Old Woman). Get thee into the closet there, and make a ghostly wail ever and anon to scare 'em. Old Woman. I will, I will, good Robin. \Goes into closet. Prince John {without). Open, open, or I will drive the door from the door-post. Robin {opens door). Come in, come in. Prince John. Why did ye keep us at the door so long ? Robin {curtseying). I was afear'd it was the ghost, your worship. Priiice John. Ghost ! did one in white pass? Robin {curtseying). No, your worship. Prince John. Did two knights pass? Robin {curtseying). No, your worship. Shej-iff. I fear me we have lost our labour, then. Prince John. Except this old hag have been bribed to lie. Robin. We old hags should be bribed to speak truth, for, God help us, we lie by nature. Prince John. There was a man just now that enter'd here ? Robin. There is but one old woman in the hut. [Old \W ovnsin yel/s. Robin. I crave your worship's pardon. There is yet another old woman. She was murdered here a hundred year ago, and whenever a murder is to be done again she yells out i' this way — so they say, your worship. Mercenary. Now, if I hadn't a sprig o' wickentree .sewn into my dress, T should run. Prince John. Tut ! tut I the scream of some wild wood- land thing. How came we to be parted from our men ? We shouted, and they shouted, as I thought. But shout and echo play'd into each other So hollowly we knew not which was which. Robin. The wood is full of echoes, owls, elfs, ouphe.s, oafs, ghosts o' the mist, wills-o'-the-wisp ; only they that be bred in it can find their way a-nights in it. SCENE I THE FORESTERS 449 Prince John. I am footsore and famish'd therewithal. Is there aught there ? \^Foinfing to cupboard. Robin. Naught for the Hkes o' you. Prince John. Speak straight out, crookback. Rol>in. Sour milk and black bread. Prince John. Well, set them forth. I could eat anything. \^He sets out a fable with black bread. This is mere marble. Old hag, how should thy one tooth drill thro' this ? Robin. Nay, by St. Gemini, I ha' two ; and since the Sheriff left me naught but an empty belly, they can meet upon anything thro' a millstone. You gentles that live upo' manchet-bread and marchpane, what should you know o' the food o' the poor ? Look you here, before you can eat it you must hack it with a hatchet, break it all to pieces, as you break the poor, as you would hack at Robin Hood if you could light upon him {hacks if and flings two pieces). There's for you, and there's for you — and the old woman's welcome. Prince John. The old wretch is mad, and her bread is beyond me : and the milk — faugh ! Hast thou anything to sweeten this ? Robin. Here's a pot o' wild honey from an old oak, saving your sweet reverences. Sheriff. Thou hast a cow then, hast thou ? Robin. Ay, for when the Sheriff took my little horse for the King without paying for it Sheriff. How hadst thou then the means to buy a cow ? Robin. Eh, I would ha' given my whole body to the King had he asked for it, like the woman at Acre when the Turk shot her as she was helping to build the mound against the city. I ha' served the King living, says she, and let me .serve him dead, says she ; let me go to make the mound : bury me in the mound, says the woman. Sheriff. Ay, but the cow ? Robin. She was given me. V 2 C, 450 THE FORESTERS act u Sheriff. By whom ? Robin. By a thief. Sheriff, ^\'ho, woman, who ? Robin {sings). He was a forester good ; He was the cock o' the walk ; He was the king o' the wood. Your worship may find another rhyme if you care to drag your brains for such a minnow. Sheriff. . That cow was mine. I lia\'C lost a cow from my meadow. Robin Hood was it ? 1 thought as much. He will come to the gibbet at last. [Old ^Voman ir /A. Mercenary. O sweet sir, talk not of cows. You anger the spirit. Prince John. Anger the scritch-owl. Mercenary. But, my lord, the scritch-owl bodes death, my lord. Robin. I beseech you all to speak lower. Robin may be hard by wi' three-score of his men. He often looks in here by the moonshine. Beware of Robin. [Old \Voman yells. Mercenary. Ay, do you hear? There may be murder done. Sheriff. Have you not finished, my lord ? Robin. Thou hast crost him in love, and I have heard him swear he will be even wi' thee. [Old Woman jir//.v. Mercenary. Now is my heart .so down in my heels thai if I stay, I can't run. Sheriff. Shall we not go ? Robin. And, old hag tho' I be, I can spell the hand. Give me thine. Ay, ay, the line o' life is marked enow ; but look, there is a cross line o' sudden death. I pray thee go, go, for tho' thou wouldst bar me fro' the milk o' my cow, I wouldn't have thy blood on my hearth. Prince John. Why do you listen, man, to the old fool } Sheriff. I will give thee a silver penny if thou wilt show us the way back to Nottingham. Robin {with a very low curtsey). All the sweet saints SCENE I THE FORESTERS 451 bless your worship for your alms to the old woman ! but make haste then, and be silent in the wood. Follow me. [^Takes his bo7v. {They come out of the hut and close the door cmrful/y.) Outside hut. Robiit. Softly! softly! there may be a thief in every bush. Prince John. How should this old lamester guide us? Where is thy goodman ? Rolnn. The saints were so kind to botli on us that he was dead before he was born. J^rince John. Half-witted and a witch to boot ! Mislead us, and I will have thy life ! and what doest thou with that who art more bow-bent than the very bow thou carriest ? Robin. I keep it to kill nightingales. Rrince John. Nightingales ! Robin. You see, they are so fond o' their own voices that I cannot sleep o' nights by cause on 'em. J'rince John. True soul of the Saxon churl for whom song has no charm. Robin. Then 1 roast 'em, for I have nought else to live on {whines). O your honour, I pray you too to give me an alms. {To Prince John.) .Sheriff. This is no bow to hit nightingales ; this is a true woodman's bow of the best yew-wood to slay tlie deer. Ixjok, my lord, there goes one in the moonlight. Shoot ! Prince John {s/wots). Missed ! There goes another. Shoot, Sheriff! Sheriff {shoots). Missed ! Robin. And here comes another. Why, an old woman can shoot closer than you two. Prince John. Shoot then, and if thou miss I will fasten thee to thine own door-post and make thine old carcase a target for us three. Rolnn (raises himself upriji^ht, shoots, and bit'i). Hit! I )id I not tell you an old woman could shoot better? J'rince Jidin. Thou standest straight. Thou speakesl 452 THE FORESTERS act n manlike. Tlion art no old woman — thou art disguised — thou art one oi" the thieves. [ A fakes a clutch at the t^^ow/i, which comes in pieces and falls, showing Robin in his forester s dress. Sheriff'. It is the very captain of the thieves ! Prince John. We have him at last ; we have him at advantage. Strike, Sheriff! Strike, mercenary! \_7y1ey draw swo7-ds and attack him ; tie defends him- self with his. Enter Eitti.f, John. Little John. I have lodged my pretty Katekin in lier bower. How now? Clashing of swords— three upon one, and that one our Robin ! Rogues, have you no manhood ? \^Draws and defends Robin. Enter Sir Richard 1>k.\ {draivs his sword). Sir Ricfiard Lea. Old as I am, I will not brook to see Three u])on two. [Maid Marian /;/ the armour of a Red-cross Knight follows., /lalf unsheathing her sword and half -seen. Back ! back ! I charge thee, back ! Is this a game for thee to i)lay at? Away. \Slie retires to the fringe of the copse. lie fights on Robin's side. The other three are beaten off and exeunt. Enter I'"riar Tuck. /''riar Tuck. I am too late then with my quarterstaff! Ro/nn. Quick, friar, follow them : See whether there be more of 'em in the wood. Friar Tuck. On the gallop, on the gallop, Robin, like a deer from a dog, or a colt from a gad-fly, or a stump- tailed ox in May-time, or the cow that jumped over the moon. [Exit. SCENE I THE FORESTERS 453 Robin. Nay, nay, but softly, lest they spy thee, friar ! \To Sir Richard Lea 7vho reels. Take thou mine arm. Who art thou, gallant knight? Sir Richard. Robin, I am Sir Richard of the Lea. Who be those three that I have f( ught withal ? Robin. Prince John, the Sheriff, and a mercenary. Sir Richard. Prince John again. We are flying from this John. The Sheriff — I am grieved it was the Sheriff; For, Robin, he must be my son-in-law. Thou art an outlaw, and couldst never pay The mortgage on my land. Thou wilt not see My Marian more. So — so — I have presumed Beyond my strength. Give me a draught of wine. [Marian comes forzvard. This is my son but late escaped from prison. For whom I ran into my debt to the Abbot, Two thousand marks in gold. I have paid him half. That other thousand — shall I ever pay it? A draught of wine. Robin. Our cellar is hard by. Take him, good Little John, and give him wine. [^Exit Sir Richard Icanini^ on Little John. A brave old fellow but he angers me. [y<? Maid Marian who is following her father. Young \\'alter, nay, I pray thee, stay a moment. Marian. .-\ moment for some matter of no moment 1 Well — take and use your moment, while you may. Robin. Thou art her brother, and her voice is thine, Her face is thine, and if thou be as gentle (iive me some news of my sweet Marian. Where is she ? Afarian. Thy sweet Marian ? I believe She came with me into the forest here. Robin. She follow'd thee into the forest here? Marian. Nay — that, my friend, 1 am sure I did not s.iy. Ro/>in. Thou blowest hot and cold. Where is she then ? Marian. Is she not here with thee ? 454 THE FORESTERS act ii Robin. Would God she were ! Marian. If not with thee I know not where she is. She may have lighted on your fairies here, And now be skipping in their fairy-rings, And capering hand in hand with Oberon. Robin. Peace ! Marian. Or learning witchcraft of your woodland witch, And how to charm and waste the hearts of men. Robin. That is not brother-like. Marian {pointing to the sky). Or there perchance Up yonder with the man i' the moon. Robin. No more ! Marian. Or haply fallen a victim to the wolf. Robin. Tut ! be there wolves in Sherwood ? Marian. The wolf, John ! Robin. Curse him ! but thou art mocking me. Thou art Her brother — I forgive thee. Come be thou My brother too. She loves me. Marian. Doth she so ? Robin. Do you doubt me when I say she loves me, man ? Marian. No, but my father will not lose his land, Rather than that would wed her with the Sheriff. Robin. Thou hold'st with him ? Marian, Yes, in some sort I do. He is old and almost mad to keep the land. Robin. Thou hold'st with him ? Marian. I tell thee, in some sort. Robin (angrily). Sort ! sort ! what .sort ? what sort of man art thou For land, not love ? Thou wilt inherit the land, And so wouldst sell thy sister to the Sheriff, O thou unworthy brother of my dear Marian ! And now, I do bethink me, thou wast by And never drewest sword to help the old man When he was fighting. Marian. I'here were three to three. SCENE I THE FORESTERS 455 Robin. Thou shouldst have ta'en his place, and fought for him. Marian. He did it so well there was no call for me. Robin. ISIy God \ That such a brother — she marry the vSheriff ! Come now, I fain would have a bout with thee. It is but pastime — nay, I will not harm thee. Draw ! Marian. Earl, I would fight with any man but thee. Robin. Ay, ay, because I have a name for prowess. Marian. It is not that. Robin. That ! I believe thou fell'st into the hands Of these same Moors thro' nature's baseness, criedst * I yield ' almost before the thing was ask'd, .\nd thro' thy lack of manhood hast betray'd Thy father to the losing of his land. Come, boy ! 'tis but to see if thou canst fence. Draw ! \Dra7vs. Marian. No, Sir Earl, I will not fight to-day. Robin. To-morrow then ? Marian. Well, I will fight to-morrow. Robin. Give me thy glove uj)on it. Marian {pulls off her i^love and }:[ives it to him). There ! Robin. ' O God ! What sparkles in the moonlight on thy hand ? \7ahes her ho ml. In that great heat to wed her to the Sheriff Thou hast robb'd my girl of her betrothal ring. Marian. No, no ! Robin. What ! do I nf)t know mine own ring? .\fari(Ui. I keep it for her. Robin. Nay, she swore it never Should leave her finger. Give it me, by heaven. Or T will force it from thee. Marian. O Roliiii, Rohin ! Robin. O my dear Marian, Is it thou? is it thou? I fall before thee, clasp Thy knees. I am ashamed. Thou shalt not marry 456 THE FORESTERS act ii The Sheriff, but abide with me who love thee. [S/ie moves from him, the moonlight falls upon her. look ! before the shadow of these dark oaks Thou seem'st a saintly splendour out from heaven, Clothed with the mystic silver of her moon. Speak but one word not only of forgiveness, But to show thou art mortal. Marian. Mortal enough, If love for thee be mortal. Lovers hold True love immortal. Robin, tho' I love thee, We cannot come together in this world. Not mortal ! after death, if after death Robin (springing up). Life, life. I know not death. \Vhy do you vex me With raven-croaks of death and after death ? Marian. And I and he are passing overseas : He has a friend there will advance the monies, So now the forest lawns are all as bright As ways to heaven, I pray thee give us guides To lead us thro' the windings of the wood. Robin. Must it be so ? If it were so, myself Would guide you thro' the forest to the sea. But go not yet, stay with us, and when thy brother Marian. Robin, I ever held that saying false That Love is blind, but thou hast proven it true. ^V'hy — even your woodland squirrel sees the nut Behind the shell, and thee however mask'd 1 should have known. But thou — to dream that he My brother, my dear Walter — now, perhaps, Fetter'd and lash'd, a galley-slave, or closed For ever in a Moorish tower, or wreckt And dead beneath the midland ocean, he As gentle as he's brave — that such as he Would wrest from me the precious ring I promised Never to part v/ith — No, not he, nor any. I would have battled for it to the death. [/« her excitement she draivs her sivord. See, thou hast wrong'd my brother and myself SCENE I THE FORESTERS 457 Robin {ktieeling). See Ihen, I kneel once more to be forgiven. ^//Av- ScARLKT, Much, several of the Foresters, rusliiiig on. Scarlet. Look! look! he kneels! he has anger'd the foul witch, Who melts a waxen image by the fire, And drains the heart and marrow from a man. Much. Our Robin beaten, pleading for his life ! Seize on the knight ! wrench his sword from him ! \They all rush on Marian. Robin {springing up and waving his hand). Back ! Back all of you ! this is Maid Marian Flying from John — disguised. Men. Maid Marian ? she ? Scarlet. Captain, we saw thee cowering to a knight And thought thou wert bewitch'd. Marian. You dared to dream That our great Earl, the bravest English heart Since Hereward the Wake, would cower to any Of mortal build. Weak natures that impute 'I'hemselves to their unlikes, and their own want Of manhood to their leader ! he would break, I'ar as he might, the power of John — but you — What rightful cause could grow to such a heat As burns a wrong to ashes, if the followers Of him, who heads the movement, held him craven? Kobin — 1 know not, can I trust myself With your brave band ? in some of these may lodge That baseness which for fear or monies, miglit Betray me to the wild I'rince. Robin. No, love, no ! Not any of these, I swear. lAv/. No, no, we swear. 458 THE FORESTERS ACT II SCENE II. — Another Glade in the Forest Robin and Marian passing. Enter Forester. Forester. Knight, your good father had his draught of wine And then he swoon'd away. He had been hurt, And bled beneath his armour. Now he cries ' The land ! the land ! ' Come to him. Marian. O my poor father I Robin. Stay with us in this wood, till he recover. We know all balms and simples of the field To help a wound. Stay with us here, sweet love, Maid Marian, till thou wed what man thou wilt. All here will prize thee, honour, worship thee, Crown thee with flowers ; and he will soon be well : All will be well. Marian. O lead me to my father ! \^As they are going out enter Little John and Kate who falls on the neck of Marian. Kate. No, no, false knight, thou canst not hide thyself I'Yoni her who loves thee. JAttle John. What! By all the devils in and out of Hell ! Wilt thou embrace thy sweetheart 'fore my face ? (^uick with thy sword ! the yeoman braves the knight. There ! {strikes her with the flat of his sword). Marian {laying about her). Are the men all mad? there then, and there ! Kate. O hold thy hand ! this is our Marian. Little John. What ! with this skill of fence ! let go mine arm. Robin. Down with thy sword ! She is my queen and thine, The mistress of the band. Marian {sheathing her sword). A maiden now SCENE 11 THE FORESTERS 459 Were ill-bested in these dark days of John, Except she could defend her innocence. lead me to my father. \Exemit Robin and Marian. Little John. Speak to me, 1 am like a boy now going to be whipt ; I know I have done amiss, have been a fool. Speak to me, Kate, and say you pardon me ! Kate. I never will speak word to thee again. \\'hat ? to mistrust the girl you say you love Is to mistrust your own love for your girl ! How should you love if you mistrust your love ? Little John. O Kate, true love and jealousy are twins, .•\nd love is joyful, innocent, beautiful, .\nd jealousy is wither'd, sour and ugly : \'et are they twins and always go together. Kate. Well, well, until they cease to go together, I am but a stone and a dead stock to thee. L.ittle John. I thought I saw thee clasp and kiss a man And it was but a woman. Pardon me. Kate. Ay, for I much disdain thee, but if ever Thou see me clasp and ki.ss a man indeed, I will again be thine, and not till then. \Kxit. Little John. I have been a fool and I have lost my Kate. \Ii.xit. Re-enter RoBi.v. Rohin. He dozes. I liavc left her watching him. She will not marry till her father yield. The old man dotes. Nay — and she will not marry till Richard come. And that's at latter Lammas — never perhaps. Besides, tho' Friar Tuck might make us one, An outlaw's bride may not be wife in law. T am weary. \Lyini:; dn-n'n on a tnink. What's here? a dead bal in the fairy ring — Yes, I remember, Scarlet hacking down A hollow ash, a bat flew out at him 46o THE FORESTERS act ii In the clear noon, and hook'd him by the hair, And he was scared and slew it. My men say The fairies haunt this glade ; — if one could catch A glimpse of them and of their fairy Queen — Have our loud pastimes driven them all away? I never saw them : yet I could believe There came some evil fairy at my birth And cursed me, as the last heir of my race : ' This boy will never wed the maid he loves. Nor leave a child behind him ' (ymvns). Weary — weary As tho' a spell were on me {he dreams). [ The whole stage lii:[hts up, and fairies are seen S7ii.'ing- ifig on boughs and nestling in hollow trunks. TiTANiA on a hill, Fairies on either side of her, the moon above the hill. First Fairy. Evil fairy ! do you hear ? So he said who lieth here. Second Fairy. We be fairies of the wood. We be neither bad nor good. J'irst J'diry. Back and side and hip and rib, Nip, nip him for his fib. Titan ia. Nip him not, but let liim sncjre. We must flit for evermore. /'/>a/ luiirv. 'J'it, my (]ueen, must it be so ? Wherefore, wherefore should we go .•■ S'ENE II THE FORESTERS 461 Tifania. I Titania bid you flit, And you dare to call me Tit. First Fairy. Tit, for love and brevity, Not for love of levity. Titania. Pertest of our flickering mob, Wouldst thou call my Oberon Ob ? First Fairy. Nay, an please your Elfin Grace, Never Ob before his face. Titaiiia. Fairy realm is breaking down When the fairy slights the crown. First Fairy. No, by wisp and glowworm, no. Only wherefore shtnild wc go ? THatiia. Wc must fly from Robin Hood And this new queen of the wood. I'irsf luriry. True, she is a goodly tiling. Jealousy, jealousy of the king. Titania. Nay, for Oberon fled away Twenty thousand leagues today. 462 THE FORESTERS act ii C/iorus. Look, there comes a deputation From our finikin fairy nation. Enter several 1''airies. Third Fairy. Crush'd my bat whereon I flew ! Found him dead and drench'd in dew, Queen. Fourth Fairy. Quash'd my frog that used to quack When I vaulted on his back, Queen. Fifth Fairy. Kill'd the sward where'er they sat, Queen. Sixth Fairy. Lusty bracken beaten flat, Queen. Sevetith Fairy. Honest daisy deadly bruised. Queen. Eighth Fairy. Modest maiden lily abused. Queen. Ninth Fairy. beetle's jewel armour crark'd, Queen. scF.NF. II THE FORESTERS 463 Tenth Fairy. Reed I rock'd upon broken-back'd, Queen. Fairies {in chflrus). We be scared with song and shout. Arrows whistle all about. All our games be put to rout. All our rings be trampled out. Lead us thou to some deep glen, Far from solid fool of men, Never to return again. Queen. Titania {to First Fairy). Elf, with spiteful heart and eye, Talk of jealousy ? \'ou see why We must leave the wood and fly. (To all the Fairies, who sin^:^ at intervals with Titania.) Up with you, out of the forest and over the hills and away, And over this Robin Hood's Vwy ! Up thro' the light of the seas by the moon's long-silvering ray I 'I'o a land where the fay, Not an eye to survey. In the night, in the day, Can have frolic and play. Up with you, all of you, out of it : hear and obey. Man, lying here alone, Moody creature, Of a nature Stronger, sadder than my own, Were I human, were I human, 1 ( (juld love you like a woman. 464 ^'HE FORF.STERS act v. Man, man, You shall wed your Marian. She is true, and you are true, And you love her and she loves you ; Both be happy, and adieu for ever and for evermore — adieu. Robin [/ill// 7i'a/'/;/^i;-). Shall I be happy? Happy vision, stay. IJ/iv/ia. Up with you, all of you, off with you, out of it, over the wood and away ! A'ole. — 111 the stage copy of my play I have had this Fairy Scene transferred to the end of the Third Act, for the sake of modern (Iramatic effect. ACT III T//JS CROlV.y/XG OF MARIAN SCENE. — Heart oi'^ the Forest Marian a/id Kahc {i?i Foresters' green) Kate. What makes you seem so cold to Robin, lady ? Marian. What makes thee think I seem so cold to Robin ? Kate. You never whisper close as lovers do, Nor care to leap into each other's arms. Marian. There is a fence I cannot overleap. My father's will. Kate. Then you will wed the Sheriff? Marian. When heaven falls, I may light on such a lark ! But who art thou to catechize me — thou 'J'hat hast not made it up with Little John ! ACT III THE FORESTERS 465 Kate. I wait till Little John makes up to 7ne. Marian. \\'hy, my good Robin fancied me a man, And drew his sword upon me, and Little John Fancied he saw thee clasp and kiss a man. Kate. Well, if he fancied that / fancy a man Other than him, he is not the man for me. Alarian. And that would quite 2/;;man him, heart and soul. For both are thine. {Looking np.) But listen — overhead — Fluting, and piping and luting ' Love, love, love ' — Those sweet tree-Cupids half-way up in heaven, The birds — would I were one of 'em ! O good Kate — If my man-Robin were but a bird-Robin, How happily would we lilt among the leaves ' Love, love, love, love ' — what merry madness — listen ! And let them warm thy heart to Little John. Look where he comes ! Kate. I will not meet him yet, I'll watch him from behind the trees, but call Kate when you will, for I am close at hand. Kate stands aside and enter Roi'.iN, and after him at a tittle distance Lirii.E John, Much the Millers son, and ScAKi.KT 7t'ith an oaken chaplet, and other Foresters. JJttle John. My lord — Robin — I crave j)ar(lon— you always seem to me my lord — 1 Little Joiin, he Much the miller's son, and he Scarlet, honouring all womankind, and more especially my lady Marian, do here, in the name of all our woodmen, present her with this oaken rhaplet as Queen of the wood, I Little John, he, young Scarlet, and he, old Much, and all the rest of us. Much. And I, old Much, say as mucli, for being every inch a man I honour every inch of a woni;iii. Kohin. J-riend Scarlet, art thou less a man than Much ? Why art thou mute? Dost thou not honf)ur woman ? Scarlet. Robin, I do, but I have a l);i(l wife. V 2 H 466 THE FORESTERS a( r in Robiu. Then let her pass as an exception, Scarlet. Scarlet. So I would, Robin, if any man would accept her. Marian {puts on the chaplet). Had I a l)ulrush now in this right hand For sceptre, I were like a queen indeed. Comrades, I thank you for your loyalty, And take and wear this symbol of your love; And were my kindly father sound again, Could live as happy as the larks in heaven, And join your feasts and all your forest games As far as maiden might. Farewell, good fellows ! \Exetint sevei-al Foresters, the others withdraw to the back. Robin. Sit here by me, where the most beaten track Runs thro' the forest, hundreds of huge oaks, Gnarl'd — older than the thrones of Europe — look, \\'hat breadth, height, strength — torrents of eddying bark! Some hollow-hearted from exceeding age — That never be thy lot or mine ! — and some Pillaring a leaf-sky on their monstrous boles, Sound at the core as we are. Fifty leagues Of woodland hear and know my horn, that scares The Baron at tne torture of his churls. The pillage of his vassals. O maiden-wife, The oppression of our people moves me so, That when I think of it hotly. Love himself Seems but a ghost, but when thou fecl'st with me The ghost returns to Marian, clothes itself In maiden flesh and blood, and looks at once Maid Marian, and that maiden freedom which Would never brook the tyrant. Live thou maiden ! Thou art more my wife so feeling, than if my wife And siding with these proud prie.st.s, and these Barons, Devils, that make this blessed England hell. Marian. Earl ACT in THE FORESTERS 467 Robin. Nay, no Earl am I. I am English yeoman. Marian. Then / am yeo - woman. O the clumsy word ! Robin. Take thou this light kiss for thy clumsy word. Kiss me again. Marian. Robin, I will not kiss thee, For that belongs to marriage ; but I hold thee The husband of my heart, the noblest light That ever flash'd across my life, and I Embrace thee with the kisses of the soul. Robin. I thank thee. Marian. Scarlet told riie — is it true ?— That John last week return'd to Nottingham, And all the foolish world is pressing thither. Robin. Sit here, my queen, and judge the world with me. Doubtless, like judges of another bench. However wise, we must at times have wrought Some great injustice, yet, far as we knew. We never robb'd one friend of the true King. We robb'd the traitors that arc leagued with John ; We robb'd the lawyer who went against the law ; We spared the craftsman, chapman, all that live By their own liands, the labourer, the poor priest ; We spoil'd the prior, friar, abbot, monk. For playing upside down with Holy Writ. ' Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor ; ' Take all they have and give it to thyself! Then after we have eased them of their coins It is our forest custom they should revel Along with Robin. Marian. And if a woman pass Robin. Dear, in these days of Norman license, when Our English maidens are their prey, if ever A Norman damsel fell into our hands. In this dark wood when all was in our power We never wrong'd a woman. Marian. Noble Robin. Little John {coming fnnvartt). Here come three beggars. 468 THE FORESTERS a< t m Enter the three Beggars. Little John. Toll ! First Beggar. Eh ! we be beggars, we come to ask o' you. We ha' nothing. Second Beggar. Rags, nothing but our rags. Third Beggar. I have but one penny in pouch, and so you would make it two I should be grateful. Mariaii. Beggars, you are sturdy rogues that should be set to work. You are those that tramp the country, filch the linen from the hawthorn, poison the house-dog, and scare lonely maidens at the farmstead. Search them, Little John. Litfh' John. These two have forty gold marks between them, Robin. Robin. Cast them into our treasury, the beggars' mites. Part shall go to the almshouses at Nottingham, part to the shrine of our Lady. Search this other. Little Joh)i. He hath, as he said, but one penny. Robin. Leave it with him and add a gold mark thereto. He hath spoken truth in a world of lies. lliird Beggar. I thank you, my lord. LJttle John. A fine, a fine ! he hath called plain Kobin a lord. How much for a beggar ? Robin. Take his penny and leave him his gold mark. Little John. Sit there, knaves, till the captain call for you. \J.yiey pass behind the trunk of an oak on the right. Marian. Art thou not hard upon them, my good Robin? Robin. They might be harder upon thee, if met in a black lane at midnight : the throat might gape before the tongue could cry who ? LJttle John. Here comes a citizen, and I think his wife. Enter Citizen and Wite. Citizen. That business which we have in Notting- ham JAttleJohti. Halt! ACT III THE FORESTERS 469 Citizen. O dear wife, we have fallen into the hands Of Robin Hood. Marian. And Robin Hood hath sworn — Shame on thee, Little John, thou hast forgotten — That by the blessed Mother no man, so His own true wife came with him, should be stay'd From passing onward. Fare you well, fair lady ! \_Bo'wini:^ to her. Robin. And may your business thrive in Nottingham ! Citizen. I thank you, noble sir, the very blossom Of bandits. Curtsey to him, wife, and thank him. IVi/e. I thank you, noble sir, and will pray for you Thdit yoti may thrive, but in some kindlier trade. Citizen. Away, away, wife, wilt thou anger him ? [^Exeunt Citizen and his \\'ifc. Little John. Here come three friars. Robin. Marian, thou and thy woman {looking round), Why, where is Kate ? Marian (calling). Kate ! Kate. Here ! Robin. Thou and thy woman are a match for three friars. Take thou my bow and arrow and compel thcni to pay toll. Marian. I'oll ! Enter three Friars. First Friar {advancing). Behold a pretty Dian of the wocjd, Prettier than that .same widow which you wot of. Ha, brother. 'I'oll, my dear? the toll of love. Marian (drawing bow). Bark I how nuuli mont y hast thou in thy purse ? First Friar. Thou art playing with us. Mow should l)()or friars have money? Marian. How much? how much? S|)tak, or the arrow flics. lirst Friar. How much? well, now I bctliink mr, I 470 THE FORESTERS act m have one mark in gold wliich a pious son of the Church gave nie this morning on my setting forth. Marian {l)ending bow at the second). And thou? Second Friar. Well, as he said, one mark in gold. Marian (penditig boiv at the third). And thou? Third Friar. One mark in gold. Marian. Search them, Kate, arid see if they have spoken truth. Kate. They are all mark'd men. They have told but a tenth of the truth : they have each ten marks in gold. Marian. Leave them each what they say is theirs, and take the twenty-seven marks to the captain's treasury. Sit there till you be called for. First Friar. We have fall'n into the hands of Robin Hood. [Marian and Kate return to Robin. \The Friars /rt.M behind an oak on the left. Robin. Honour to thee, brave Marian, and thy Kate. I know them arrant knaves in Nottingham. One half of this shall go to those they have wrong'd. One half shall pass into our treasury. Where lies that cask of wine whereof we plunder'd The Norman prelate ? Little John. In that oak, where twelve Can stand upright, nor touch each other. Robin. ( )ood ! Roll it in here. These friars, thieves, and liars. Shall drink the health of our new woodland Queen. And they shall j)ledge thee, Marian, loud enough To fright the wild hawk passing overhead, The mouldwarp underfoot. Marian. They pledge me, Robin ? The silent blessing of one honest man Is heard in heaven — the wassail yells of thief /\nd rogue and liar echo down in Hell, And wake the Devil, and I may sicken by 'em. Well, well, be it so, thou strongest thief of all. For thou hast stolen my will, and made it thine. ACT HI THE FORESTERS 471 Friar Tuck, Little John, Much, and Scarlet roll in cask. Friar Tuck. I marvel is it sack or Malvoisie ? Robin. Uo me the service to tap it, and thou wilt know. Friar Tuck. I would tap myself in thy service, Robin. Robin. And thou wouldst run more wine than blood. Friar Tuck. And both at thy service, Robin. Robin. I believe thee, thou art a good fellow, though a friar. \They pour the wine into cups. Friar Tuck. Fill to the brim. Our Robin, King o' the woods. Wherever the horn sound, and the buck bound, Robin, the people's friend, the King o' the woods ! {Tliey drink. Robin. To the brim and over till the green earth drink Her health along with us in this rich draught, And answer it in flowers. The Queen o' the woods, Wherever the buck bound, and the horn sound. Maid Marian, Queen o' the woods ! \They drink. Here, you three rogues, [7J? the Beggars. They come out. You caught a lonely woodman of our band, .\nd bruised him almost to the death, and took His monies. Third Be}^,i^ar. Captain, nay, it wasn't me. Robin. You ought to dangle up there aiiKjng the crows. Drink to the health of our new Queen o' the woods, Or else be bound and beaten. First Jki^'i^ar. Sir, sir — well, We drink the health of thy new Queen o' the woods. Robin. Louder! louder! Maid IVLirinn, Queen o' the woods ! 472 THE FORESTERS actiii Beggars {shouting). Maid Marian, (^)ueen o' the woods: Queen o' the woods ! First and Second Beggars {aside). The black fiend grip her! '' [They drink. Robin {to the Friars). And you three holy men, [They come out. You worshippers of the Virgin, one of you Shamed a too trustful widow whom you heard In her confession ; and another — worse ! — An innocent maid. Drink to the Queen o' the woods, Or else be bound and beaten. First Friar. Robin Hood, These be the lies the i)eople tell of us, Because we seek to curb their viciousness. However — to this maid, this Queen o' the woods. Robin. Louder, louder, ye knaves. Maid Marian ! Queen o' the woods. Friars {shouting). Maid Marian, Queen o' the woods. First Friar {aside). Maid ? Second Friar {aside). Paramour ! Third Friar {aside). Hell take her ! [They drink. Friar Tuck. Robin, will you not hear one of these beggars' catches ? They can do it. I have heard 'em in the market at Mansfield. Little John. No, my lord, hear ours — Robin — I crave pardon, I always think of you as my lord, but I may still say my lady; and, my lady, Kate and I have fallen out again, and I pray you to come between us again, for, my lady, we have made a song in your honour, so your lady- ship care to listen. Robin. Sing, and by St. Mary these beggars and these friars shall join you. Play the air, Little John. Little Johti. Air and word, my lady, are maid and man. Join them and they are a true marriage ; and so, I pray you, my lady, come between me and my Kate and make us one again. Scarlet, begin. [Playing the air on his viol. ACT III THE FORESTERS 473 Scarlet. By all the deer that spring Thro' wood and lawn and ling, When all the leaves are green ; By arrow and gray goosewing, When horn and echo ring, We care so much for a King ; We care not much for a Queen — For a Queen, for a Queen o' the woods. Mariafi. Do you call that in my honour? Scarlet. Bitters before dinner, my lady, to give you a relish. The first part — made before you came among us — they put it upon me because I have a bad wife. I love you all the same. Proceed. \^All the rest sing. By all the leaves of spring, And all the birds that sing When all the leaves are green ; By arrow and by bowstring. We care so much for a King That we would die for a Queen — For a Queen, for a Queen o' the woods. Enter Fore.ster. Forester. Jilaf:k news, black news from Notlinghnni ! 1 grieve I am the Raven who croaks it. My lord John, In wrath because you drove him frctm the forest, Is coming with a swarm of mercenaries To break our band and scatter us to the winds. Afarian. O Robin, Robin ! See that men be set -Along the glades and passes of the wood To warn us of his foniing ! then each man That owns a wife or daughter, let him bury her ICvcn in the bowels of the earth to 'scape The glance of John Rol'in. You hear your Queen, obey ! 474 'I'HE FORESTERS act iv ACT IV THE CONCLUSION SCENE. A FOREST BOWER, CAVERN IN BACKGROUND. SUNRISE Marian {rising to meet Robin). Robin, the sweet light of a mother's eye, That beam of dawn upon the opening flower. Has never glanced upon me when a child. He was my father, mother, both in one. The love that children owe to both I give To him alone. (Robin offers to caress her.) Marian. Quiet, good Robin, quiet ! You lovers are such clumsy summer-flies For ever buzzing at your lady's face. Roln'n. Bees rather, flying to the flower for honey. Marian (sings). The bee buzz'd up in the heat. 'I am faint for your honey, my sweet.' The flower said ' Take it, my dear, For now is the spring of the year. So come, come ! ' 'Hum!' ,\nd the bee buzz'd down from the heat. And the bee buzz'd up in the cold \Vhcn the flower was wither'd and old. ' Have you still any honey, my dear ? ' She said ' It's the fall of the year. But come, come ! ' 'Hum!' And the bee buzz'd off in the cold. ACT IV THE FORESTERS 475 Robin. Out on thy song ! Marian. Did I not sing it in tune ? Robin. No, sweetheart ! out of tune with Love and me. Marian. And yet in tune with Nature and the bees. Robin. Out on it, I say, as out of tune and time ! Marian. Till thou thyself shalt come to sing it — in time. Robiti {taking a tress of her hair in his hand). Time ! if his backward-working alchemy Should change this gold to silver, why, the silver Were dear as gold, the wrinkle as the dimple. Thy bee should buzz about the Court of John. No ribald John is Love, no wanton Prince, The ruler of an hour, but lawful King, \Vhose writ will run thro' all the range of life. Out upon all hard-hearted maidenhood ! Marian. And out upon all simple batchelors ! .\h, well ! thou seest the land has come between us, And my sick father here has come between us, And this rich Sheriff too has come'between us; So, is it not all over now between us ? ■ (ione, like a deer that hath escaped thine arrow ! Robin. What dctr when 1 have mark'd him ever yet Escaped mine arrow? over is it? wilt thou (iive me thy hand on that ? Marian. Take it. Robin {kisses her hand). The Sheriff! 'I'his ring cries out against thee. Say it again, ;\nd by this ring the lips that never breathed Love's falsehood to true maid will seal Ixjve's truth On those sweet lijjs that dare to dally with it. Marian. Quiet, rjuiet ! or I will to my father. Robin. So, then, thy father will not grace our feast With his white beard to-day. Marian. I'.cing so sick How should he, Koijin ? Robin. Then that bond he hath Of the Abbot — wilt thou ask him for it ? Marian. Why? 4^6 THE FORESTERS act iv Robin. 1 have sent to the Abbot and justiciary To brinET their counter-bond into the forest. Marian. But will they come ? Robin. ir not I have let them know Their lives unsafe in any of these our woods, And in the winter I will lire their farms. Rut I have sworn by our Lady if they come 1 will not tear the bond, but see fair play Betwixt them and Sir Richard — promised too. So that they deal with us like honest men. They shall be handled with all courteousness. Marian. What wilt thou do with the bond then ? Robin. Wait and see. What wilt thou do with the Sheriff? Marian. Wait and see. I l)ring the bond. \Exit Marian. Enter Little John,.Fri.\r Tuck, and Much, and FORESTER-S and Peasant.s laiti^/iinjr and ta/kini:^. Robin. Have ye glanced down through all the forest ways And niark'd if those two knaves from York be coming ? Liti/e John. Not yet, but here comes one of bigger mould. \Enter King Richard. Art thou a knight ? King Richard. I am. Robin. And walkest here Unarmour'd? all these walks are Robin Hood's .\nd sometimes perilou.s. King Richard. Good ! but having lived For twenty days and nights in mail, at last I crawl'd like a sick crab from my old shell, That I might breathe for a moment free of shield .\nd cuirass in this forest where I dream 'd That all was peace — not even a Robin Hood — {.Aside) What if these knaves should know me for their King ? ACT IV THE FORESTERS 477 Robin. Art thou for Richard, or alHed to John? King Richard. I am allied to John. Robin. The worse for thee. King Richard. Art thou that banish'd lord of Huntingdon, The chief of these outlaws who break the law ? Robin. I am the yeoman, plain Robin Hood, and being out of the law how should we break the law ? if we broke into it again we should break the law. and then we were no longer outlaws. King Richard. But, Earl, if thou be he Friar Tuck. Fine him ! fine him I he hath called plain Robin an carl. How much is it, Robin, for a knight? Robin. A mark. King Richard {gives it). There. . Robin. Thou payest easil)-, like a good fellow, But being o' John's side we must have thy gold. King Richard. But I am more for Richard than for John. Robin. What, what, a truckler I a word-eating coward ! Nay, search him then. How much hast thou about thee? King Richard. I had one mark. Robin. W'hai more. King Richard. No more, I think. But how then if I will not bide to be search'd ? Robin. W'c are four to one. King Riciiard. And I might deal with [i^iwx. Robin. Good, good, I love thee for that ! hut if I wind This forest-horn of mine I can bring down Fourscore tall fellows on thee. King Richard. Search me then. I should be hard beset with thy fourscore. Little John (searching King Richard). Robin, he hath no more. Ht- hath sfjoken truth. Robin. I am glad of it. (iive him back his gold again. King Richard. But I had liefer than this gold again — Not having broken fast the livelong day — Something to eat. 478 THE FORESTERS act iv Robin. And thou shalt have it, man. ■ Our feast is yonder, spread beneath an oak, Venison, and wild boar, hare, geese, besides Hedge-i)igs, a savoury viand, so thou be Squeamish at eating the King's venison. King Richard. Nay, Robin, I am like thyself in that I look on the King's venison as my own. Friar Tuck. Ay, ay, Robin, but let him know our forest laws : he that pays not for his dinner must fight for it. In the sweat of thy brow, says Holy Writ, shalt thou eat bread, but in the sweat of thy brow and thy breast, and thine arms, and thy legs, and thy heart, and thy liver, and in the fear of thy life shalt thou eat the King's venison — ay, and so thou fight at quarterstaff for thy dinner with our Robin, that will give thee a new zest for it, though thou wert like a bottle full up to the cork, or as hollow as a kex, or the shambles-oak, or a weasel-sucked egg, or the head of a fool, or the heart of Prince John, or any other symbol of vacuity. \They l>rin}^ oief the quarterstaffs., and the Foresters and i-'easants cnnvd round to see the i^ames., and apphiud at inten)als. King Richard. Great woodland king, I know not quarterstaff. Little John. A fine! a fine! He hath called plain Robin a king. Robin. A shadow, a poetical fiction — did ye not call me king in your song ? — a mere figure. Let it go by. Friar 7)ick. No figure, no fiction, Robin. What, is not man a hunting animal? And look you now, if we kill a stag, our dogs have their paws cut off, and the hunters, if caught, are blinded, or worse than blinded. Is that to be a king? If the king and the law work injustice, is not he that goes against the king and the law the true king in the sight of the King of kings ? Thou art the king of the forest, and I would thou wert the king of the land. King Ricliard. This friar is of much boldness, noble captain. ACT IV THE FORESTERS 479 Robin. He hath got it from the bottle, noble knight. Friar Tuck. Boldness out of the bottle ! I defy thee. Boldness is in the blood, Truth in the bottle. She lay so long at the bottom of her well In the cold water that she lost her voice, And so she glided up into the heart O' the bottle, the warm wine, and found it again. In vino Veritas. Shall I undertake The knight at quarterstaff, or thou ? Robin. Peace, magpie ! Give him the quarterstaff. Nay, but thyself Shalt play a bout with me, that he may see The fashion of it. \Plays with Friar Tuck at quaj-ter staff. Kins^ Richard. AVell, then, let me try. | They play. I yield, I yield. I know no quarterstaff. Robin. Then thou shalt play the game of buffets with us. A7//if Richard. A\'hat's that ? Rolnn. I stand up here, thou there. I give thee A buffet, and thou me. The Holy Virgin Stand by the strongest. I am over-breathed, i'Viar, by my two bouts at quarterstaff. Take him and try him, friar. Friar Tuck. 'J'iiere I \Slrikes. Kini^ Richard {strikes). There! \\-x\:\x falls. I'riar Tuck. There I Thou hast roH'd over the Church militant Like a tod of wool from wagon into warehouse. Nay, I defy thee still, 'i'ry me an hour hence. I am misty with my thimbleful of ale, Robin. 'I'hou seest. Sir Knight, our friar is so holy That he's a miracle-monger, and c'ln make Five quarts pass into a thimble. Up, good Much. Friar 'Tick. And show thyself more of ;i man than mc. Muck. Well, no man yet has ever bowl'd me down. Scarlet. Ay, for old Much is every inch a man. Rubin. We should be all the more beholden to him 48o 'I'FIE FORESTERS act iv Much. Much and more ! much and more ! 1 am the oldest of thy men, and thou and thy youngsters are always muching and moreing me. Robin. Because thou art always so much more of a man than my youngsters, old Much. Much. Well, we Muches be old. Robin. Old as the hills. Much. Old as the mill. We had it i' the Red King's time, and so I may be more of a man than to be bowled over like a nincpin. There I \Strikes. King Richard. There! [Much/^z/A. Robin. ' Much would have more,' says the proverb ; but Much hath had more than enough. Give me thy hand, Much ; I love thee {lifts him up). At him. Scarlet ! Scarlet. I cannot cope with him : my wrist is strain'd. Kifig Richard. Try, thyself, valorous Robin ! Robin. I am mortally afear'd o' thee, thou big man, But seeing valour is one against all odd.s, 'I'here ! King Richard. There ! [Robin falls back, and is caught in the arms of Little John. Robin. (iood, now I love thee mightily, thou tall fellow. Break thine alliance with this faithless John, And live with us and the birds in the green wood. King Richard. I cannot break it, Robin, if I wish'd. Still I am more for Richard than for John. Little John. Look, Robin, at the far end of the glade I see two figures crawling up the hill. \^Dista?it sound of trumpets. Robin. The Abbot of York and his justiciary. King Richai'd (aside). They know me. I must not as yet be known. Friends, your free sports have swallow'd my free hour. Farewell at once, for I must hence upon The King's affair. Robin. Not taste his venison first? ACT IV THE FORESTERS 481 Friar Tuck. Hast thou not fought for it, and earn'd it ? Stay, Dine with my brethren here, and on thine own. King Richard. And which be they ? Friar Tuck. Geese, man ! for how canst thou be thus alUed With John, and serve King Richard save thou be A traitor or a goose ? but stay with Robin ; For Robin is no scatterbrains like Richard, Robin's a wise man, Richard a wiseacre, Robin's an outlaw, but he helps the poor. While Richard hath outlaw'd himself, and helps Nor rich, nor poor. Richard's the king of courtesy, For if he did me the good grace to kick me I could but sneak and smile and call it courtesy, For he's a king. And that is only courtesy by courtesy — But Robin is a thief of courtesy Whom they that suffer by him call the blossom Of bandits. There — to be a thief of courtesy — There is a trade of genius, there's glory ! Again, this Richard sacks and wastes a town With random pillage, but our Robin takes From whom he knows are hypocrites and liars. Again this Richard risks his life for a straw. So lies in prison — while our Robin's life Hangs by a thread, but he is a free man. Richard, again, is king over a realm He hardly knowsj and Robin king of Sherwood, .\nd loves and dotes on every dingle of it. .\gain this Richard is the lion of (lyprus, Robin, the lion of Sherwood — may this moulh Never suck grape again, if our true Robin Be not the nobler lion of the twain. King Richard. (Iramcrcy for thy preachment ! if the land Were ruleable by tongue, thou shouldst be king. And yet thou know'st how little of ihy king 1 What was this realm of England, all the crowns V 2 I 482 THE FORESTERS act ,v Of all this world, to Richard when he Hung His life, heart, soul into those holy wars That sought to free the tomb-place of the King Of all the world? thou, that art churchman too In a fashion, and shouldst feel with him. Farewell ! I left mine horse and armour with a Squire, And I must see to 'em. Robin. When wilt thou return ? King Richard. Return, I ? when ? when Richard will return. Robin. No sooner? when will that be? canst thou tell? But I have ta'en a sudden fancy to thee. Accept this horn 1 if e'er thou be assail'd In any of our forests, blow upon it Three mots, this fashion — listen ! {blows). Canst thou do it ! [King Richard blows. Blown like a true son of the woods. Farewell ! \Exit King Richard. Enter Abp.ot and Justiciary. Friar Tuck. Church and Law, halt and pay toll ! Justiciary. Rogue, we have thy captain's safe-conduct ; though he be the chief of rogues, he hath never broken his word. Abbot. There is our bond. \Gives it to Robin. Robin. I thank thee. Jtisticiary. Ay, but \\'here, Where is this old Sir Richard of the Lea ? Thou told'st us we should meet him in the forest, Where he would pay us down his thousand marks. Robin. Cive h'im another month, and he will pay it. Justiciary. We cannot give a month. Robin. Why then a week. Justiciary. No, not an hour : the debt is due to-day. Abbot. Where is this laggard Richard of the Lea ? Robin. He hath been hurt, was growing whole again, Only this morning in his agony ACT IV THE FORESTERS 483 Lest he should fail to pay these thousand marks He is stricken with a slight paralysis. Have you no pity ? must you see the man ? Justiciary. Ay, ay, what else? how else can this be settled ? Rodin. Go men, and fetch him hither on the litter. [Sir Richard Lea is brought in. INLarian cojues 7vith him. Marian. Here is my father's bond. [Gives it to Robin Hood. Robin. I thank thee, dear. Justiciary. Sir Richard, it was agreed when you borrowed these monies from the Abbot that if they were not repaid within a limited time your land should be forfeit. Sir Richard. The land ! the land. Marian. You see he is past himself. What would you more ? Abbot. What more ? one thousand marks, Or else the land. You hide this damsel in your forest here, \I*ointing to Marian. You hope to hold and keep her for yourself. You heed not how you soil her maiden fame. You scheme against her father's weal and hers, For so this maid would wed our brother, he Would pay us all the debt at once, and thus This old Sir Richard might redeem his land. He is all for love, he cares not for the land. Sir Richard. 'I he land, the land ! Robin {giving two bags to the Abbot). Here be one thousand marks Out of our treasury to redeem the land. ( /'dinting to each of the bags. Half here, half there. ( /'/audits front Ids band. Justiciary. Ay, ay, but there is use, four ImiKlrcd marks. Roinn {giving a bag to justiciary). Tiicrc tlirri, four hundred marks. [/'/audits. 484 THE FORESTERS act iv Justiciary, A\'hat did I say ? Nay, my tongue tript — five hundred marks for use. Robin {giving another bag to hit)i). A hundred more ? There then, a hundred more. [P/ai/dits. Justiciary. Ay, ay, but you see the bond and the letter of the law. It is stated there that these monies should be paid in to the Abbot at York, at the end of the month at noon, and they are delivered here in the wild wood an hour after noon. Marian. The letter — O how often justice drowns Between the law and letter of the law I God, I would the letter of the law Were some strong fellow here in the wild wood, That thou mightst beat him down at quarterstaffi Have you no pity ? Justiciary. You run down your game, We ours. What pity have you for your game? Robin. We needs must live. Our bowmen are so true They strike the deer at once to death — he falls And knows no more. Marian. Pity, pity ! — There was a man of ours Up in the north, a goodly fellow too. He met a stag there on so narrow a ledge — A precipice above, and one below — There was no room to advance or to retire. The man lay down — the delicate-fooled creature Came stepping o'er him, so as not to harm him — The hunter's passion flash'd into the man. He drove his knife into the heart of the deer, The deer fell dead to the bottom, and the man Fell with him, and was crippled ever after. 1 fear I had small pity for that man. — You have the monies and the use of them. What would you more ? Justiciary. What ? must we dance attendance all the day ? Robin. Dance ! ay, by all the saints and all the devils ye shall dance. When the Church and the law have ACT IV THE FORESTERS 485 forgotten God's music, they shall dance to the music of the wild wood. Let the birds sing, and do you dance to their song. What, you will not ? Strike up our music, Little John. {He plays.) They will not ! Prick 'em in the calves with the arrow-points — prick 'em in the calves. Abbot. Rogue, I am full of gout. I cannot dance. Robin. And Sir Richard cannot redeem his land. Sweat out your gout, friend, for by my life, you shall dance till he can. Prick him in the calves ! Justiciary. Rogue, I have a swollen vein in my right leg, and if thou prick me there I shall die. Robi7i. Prick him where thou wilt, so that he dance. Abbot. Rogue, we come not alone. Justiciary. Not the right. Abbot. We told the Prince and the Sheriff of our coming. Justiciary. Take the left leg for the love of God. Abbot. They follow us. Justiciary. Vou will all of you hang. Robin. Let us hang, so thou dance meanwhile ; or by that same love of God we will hang thee, prince or no prince, sheriff or no .sheriff. Justiciary. Take care, take care! I dance— I will dance — I dance. [Abbot and Justiciary dance to music, each ho/ding a ba" in each hand. "rt Enter Scarlet. Scarlet. The Sheriff! the .Sheriff, followd by Prince John .And all his mercenaries ! We sighted 'em Only this moment. By St. Nicholas They must have sprung like Ghosts from underground, Or, like the Devils they are, straight uj) from Ikll. Robin. Crouch all into the bush ! yrhc Forester^ "■• ' P- 'sarits hide I'chind the bushes. Marian. Take up the litter ! 486 THE FORESTERS act iv Sir RicJiard. Move me no more ! I am sick and faint with pain ! MariiDi. But, Sir, the Sheriff Sir Richard. Let me be, I say ! The Sheriff will be welcome ! let me be ! Marian. Give me my bow and arrows. I remain Beside my Father's litter. Robin. And fear not thou ! Each of us has an arrow on the cord ; We all keep watch. Enter Sheriff of Nottingham. Sheriff. Marian ! Marian. Speak not. I wait upon a dying father. Sheriff. The debt hath not been paid. She will be mine. What are you capering for ? By old St. Vitus Have you gone mad ? Has it been paid ? Abbot {dancing). O yes. SJieriff. Have I lost her then ? Justiciary {dancing). Lost her ? O no, we took Advantage of the letter — O Lord, the vein ! Not paid at York — the wood — prick me no more ! Sheriff. What pricks thee save it be thy conscience, man ? Justiciary. By my halidome I felt him at my leg still. ^Vhere be they gone to ? Slicriff. Thou art alone in the silence of the forest Save for this maiden and thy brother Abbot, And this old crazeling in the litter there. Enter on one side Friar Tuck fro)n the bush., and on the other Prince John and his Spearmen, with banners and trumpets, etc. Justiciary {examining his leg). They have missed the vem. Abbot. And we shall keep the land. ACT IV THE FORESTERS 487 Sheriff. Sweet Marian, by the letter of the law- It seems thy father's land is forfeited. Sir Richard. No I let me out of the litter. He shall wed thee : The land shall siill be mine. Child, thou shalt wed him. Or thine old father will go mad — he will, He will — he feels it in his head. Marian. O peace ! Father, I cannot marry till Richard comes. Sir Richard. And then the Sheriff! Marian. Ay, the Sheriff, father. Would buy me for a thousand marks in gold — Sell me again perchance for twice as much. A woman's heart is but a little thing, Much lighter than a thousand marks in gold ; But pity for a father, it may be, Is weightier than a thousand marks in gold. I cannot love the Sheriff. Sir Richard. But thou wilt wed him? Marian. Ay, save King Richard, when he comes, forbid me. Sweet heavens, I could wish that all the land Were plunged beneath the waters of the sea. The' all the world should go about in boats. Friar Tuck. Why, so should all the love-sick be sea- sick. Marian. Better than heart sick, friar. Prince Johti {to Sheriff). See you not They are jesting at us yonder, mocking us? Carry her off, and let the old man die. \/ldvancin_i^ to iM;irinn. Come, girl, thou shalt along witli ns on the instant. Friar Tuck {hrandishin}^ his staff). Then on the instnnt I will break thy head. Sheriff. Back, thou fool-friar I Knowest thou not the Prince ? Friar Tuck {niutterinf^). He may be prince; he is not gentleman. 488 THE FORESTERS act iv Prince Joint. Look ! 1 will take the rope from off thy waist And twist it round thy neck and hang thee by it. Seize him and truss him up, and carry her off. [Friar Tuck slips into the Imsh. Marian {dra^ving the bow). No nearer to nie ! back ! My hand is firm, Mine eye most true to one hair's-breadlh of aim. You, Prince, our king to come — you that dishonour The daughters and the wives of your own faction — Who hunger for the body, not the soul — This gallant Prince would have me of his — what ? Household? or shall I call it by that new term Brought from the sacred East, his harem? Never, Tho' you should queen me over all the realms Held by King Richard, could I stoop so low As mate with one that holds no love is pure, No friendship sacred, values neither man Nor woman save as tools — God help the mark — To his own unprincely ends. And you, you, Sheriff, \Turning to the Sheriff. Who thought to buy your marrying me with gold. Marriage is of the soul, not of the body. Win me you cannot, murder me you may. And all I love, Robin, and all his men, Yox I am one with him and his ; but while I breathe Heaven's air, and Heaven looks down on me. And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul. \^Retreating, with bow draivn, to the bush. Robin : Robin. I am here, my arrow on the cord. He dies who dares to touch thee. Prince John. Advance, advance! What, daunted by a garrulous, arrogant girl ! Seize her and carry her off into my castle. Sheriff. Thy castle ! ACT IT THE FORESTERS 489 Prince John. Said I not, I loved thee, man? Risk not the love I bear thee for a girl. Sheriff. Thy castle I Prince John. See thou thwart me not, thou fool ! When Richard comes he is soft enough to pardon His brother ; but all those that held with him, Except I plead for them, will hang as high As Haman. Sheriff. She is mine. I have thy promise. Pri7ice John. O ay, she shall be thine — first mine, then thine. Eor she shall spend her honeymoon with nic. Sheriff. Woe to that land shall own thee for her king : J'rince John. Advance, advance! [jyiey advance shouting. Tlie King in armour re- appears from the wood. King Richard. What shouts are these that ring along the wood ? Friar Tuck {comifig fonvard). Hail, knight, and help us. Here is one would clutch Our pretty Marian for his paramour. This other, willy-nilly, for his bride. King Richard. Damsel, is this the truth ? Marian. Ay, noble kiiit;hl. I'ridr Tuck. Ay, and she will not marry till Richard come. King Richard {raising his vizor). I am here, and 1 am he. Prince John {/owe ring his, and jvhispering to his men). It is not he — his face — tho' very like — No, no ! we have certain news he died in prison. Make at him, all of you, a traitor coming In Richard's name — it is not he — not In-. yPhc men stand amazed. Trior Tuck (going hack to the bush). Robin, shall wc not move ? Rnlnn. It is the King ^\'ho bears all down. Let him alone awhile. 40O 'I'lll': I'ORlvSTERS act iv He loves tlic chivalry of his single arm. Wait till he blow the horn. Friar 7\ick (comim:; back). If thou he king, Be not a fool ! Why blowest thou not the horn ? King Richard. I that have turn'd their Moslem crescent pale — I blow the horn against this rascal rout ! [Friar Tuck plucks the hoi'ti from him n/id blo7VS. Richard dashes alone agaitist the Sheriff and John's men, and is almost borne down., when Robin and his men rush in and re sen e him. King Richard {to Robin Hood). Thou hast saved my head at the peril of thine own. Prince John. A horse ! a horse ! I must away at once ; I cannot meet his eyes. I go to Nottingham. Sheriff, thou wilt find me at Nottingham. \_Exit. Slieriff. If anywhere, I shall find thee in hell. What ! go to slay his brother, and make me The monkey that should roast his chestnuts for him ! King Richard. I fear to ask who left us even now. Robin. I grieve to say it was thy father's son. Shall I not after him and bring him back ? King Richard. No, let him be. Sheriff of Nollingham, [Sheriff kneels. I have been away from England all these years, Heading the holy war against the Moslem, While thou and others in our kingless realms Were fighting underhand unholy wars Against your lawful king. Sheriff. My liege, Prince John — King Richard. Say thou no word against my brother John. Sheriff. Why then, my liege, I have no word to say. King Richard {to Robin). My good friend Robin, Earl of Huntingdon, For Earl thou art again, hast thou no fetters For those of thine own band who would betray thee? ACT IV THE FORESTERS 491 Robin. I have ; but these were never worn as yet. I never found one traitor in my band. King Richard. Thou art happier than ihy king. Put him in chains. \They fetter the Sherifl". Robin. Look o'er these bonds, my liege. \_Shows the King the bonds. They talk together. King Richard. You, my lord Abbot, you Justiciary, \The Abbot and Justiciary kneel. I made you Abbot, you Justiciary : You both are utter traitors to your king. Justiciary. O my good liege, we did believe you dead. Robin. Was justice dead because the King was dead ? Sir Richard paid his monies to the Abbot. You crost him with a quibble of your law. King Richard. But on the faith and honour of a king The land is his again. Sir Richard. The land ! the land ! I am crazed no longer, so I have the land. [^Comes out of the Utter and kneels. God save the King ! King Richard {raising Sir Richard). I thank thee, good Sir Richard. Maid Marian. Marian. Yes, King Richard. King Richard. Thou wouldsl marry This Sheriff when King Richard came again Except — Marian. The King forbad it. True, my liege. King Richard. How if the King command it? Marian. Tht'ii, my liege, If you would marry me with a traitor sherifr, I fear I might prove traitor with the sheriff King Ricliard. But if the King forbid thy mnrrying ^Vith Robin, our good Ivarl of Himtingdon. Marian. Then will I live for ever in the wild wood. Robin {coming forward). And I with thee. King Richard. On nuts and acorns, ha ! Or the King's deer? Earl, thou when we were hence 492 THE FORESTERS apt iv Hast broken all our Norman forest laws, And scruplest not to flaunt it to our face That thou wilt break our forest laws ncjain When we are here. Thou art overbold. Robin. My king, I am but the echo of the lips of love. Kino Richard. Thou hast risk'd thy life for mine : bind these two men. \Tliey take the bags Jrom the Abbot rt;*/^ J usticiary, and proceed to fetter them. Justiciary. But will the King, then, judge us all unheard ? 1 can defend my cause against the traitors Who fain would make me traitor. If the King Condemn us without trial, men will call him An Eastern tyrant, not an English king. Abbot. Besides, my liege, these men are outlaws, thieves, 'I'hey break thy forest laws — nay, by the rood They have done far worse — they plunder — yea, ev'n bishops, Vea, ev'n archbishops — if thou side with these. Beware, O King, the vengeance of the Church. Friar Tuck {brandishing his staff). T pray you, my liege, let me execute the vengeance of the Church upon them. I have a stout crabstick here, which longs to break itself across their backs. Robin. Keep silence, bully friar, before the King. Friar luck. If a cat may look at a king, may not a friar speak to one ? King Richard. I have had a year of prison -silence, Robin, .\nd heed him not- the vengeance of the Church ! Thou shall pronounce the blessing of the Church On those two here, Robin and Marian. Marian. He is but hedge-priest, Sir King. King fiichard. And thou their Queen. Our rebel Abbot then shall join your hands, ACT IV THE FORESTERS 493 Or lose all hope of pardon from us — yet Not now, not now — with after-dinner grace. Nay, by the dragon of St. George, we shall Do some injustice, if you hold us here Longer from our own venison. Where is it ? I scent it in the green leaves of the wood. Mariafi. First, king, a boon ! King Richard. \\'hy surely ye are pardon'd. Even this brawler of harsh truths — I trust Half truths, good friar : ye shall with us to court. Then, if ye cannot breathe but woodland air, Thou Robin shalt be ranger of this forest, .\nd have thy fees, and break the law no more. Marian. It is not that, my lord. King Richard. Then what, my lady ? Marian. This is the gala-day of thy return. I pray thee, for the moment strike the bonds From these three men, and let them dine with us. And lie with us among the flowers, and drink — Ay, whether it be gall or honey to 'em — The king's good health in ale and Malvoisic. King Richard. By Mahound I could dine with Beelzebub ! So now which way to the dinner? Marian. Past the bank Of foxglove, then U) left by that one yew. You see the darkness thro' the lighter leaf. But look, who comes ? Enter Saii.dr. Sai/or. We heard Sir Richard Lea was here with Kohin. O good Sir Kichard, I am like the in.iii In Holy Writ, who brought his talent back ; I'or tho' we touch'd at many pirate pcjrts, Wc ever fail'd to light upon thy son. Here is thy gold again. I nni sorry for it. 494 THE FORESTERS act iv Sir Richard. The gold — my son- my gold, my son, the land, Here Abbot, Sheriff -no — no, Robin Hood. Robin. Sir Richard, let that wait till we have dined. Are all our guests here ? King Richard. No — there's yet one other: I will not dine without him. Come from out [Enter \Valter Lea. That oak-tree ! This young warrior broke his prison And join'd my banner in the Holy Land, And cleft the Moslem turban at my side. My masters, welcome gallant ^Valter Lea. Kiss him, Sir Richard-— kiss him, my sweet Marian. Marian. O Walter, Walter, is it thou indeed Whose ransom was our ruin, whose return Builds up our house again ? 1 fear I dream. Here — give me one sharp pinch upon the cheek That I may feel thou art no phantom — yet Thou art tann'd almost beyond my knowing, brother. [They embrace. Walter Lea. liut thou art fair as ever, my sweet sister. Sir Ric/'iard. Art thou my son ? IVa/ter Lea. I am, good father, I am. Sir Richard. I had despair'd of thee — that sent me crazed. Thou art worth thy weight in all those marks of gold, Yea, and the weight of the very land itself, Down to the inmost centre. Robin. W'alter Lea, Give me that hand which ftnight for Richard there. Embrace me, Marian, and iluni, good Kate, [To Kate entering. Kiss and congratulate me, my good Kate. [S/ie kisses him. Little John. Lo now ! lo now ! I have seen thee clasp and kiss a man indeed, For our brave Robin is a man indeed. Then by thine own account thou shouldst be mine. Kate. ^Vell then, who kisses first ? ACT IV THE FORESTERS 495 Little John. Kiss both together. \They kiss each other. Robin. Then all is well. In this full tide of love, Wave heralds wave : thy match shall follow mine (to Little John). Would there were more — a hundred lovers more To celebrate this advent of our King ! Our forest games are ended, our free life, And we must hence to the King's court. I trust We shall return to the wood. Meanwhile, farewell Old friends, old patriarch oaks. A thousand winters Will strip you bare as death, a thousand summers Robe you life-green again. You seem, as it were, Immortal, and we mortal. How few Junes Will heat our pulses quicker ! How few frosts Will chill the hearts that beat for Robin Hood ! Marian. And yet I think these oaks at dawn and even. Or in the balmy breathings of the night. Will whisper evermore of Robin Hood. We leave but happy memories to the forest. We dealt in the wild justice of the woods. All those poor serfs whom we have served will bless us, .Ml those pale mouths which we have fed will praise us — All widows we have holpen pray for us. Our Lady's blessed shrines throughout the land }5e all the richer for us. You, good friar, You .Much, you Scarlet, you dear Little John, \'our names will cling like ivy to the wood. And here perhaps a hundred years away Some hunter in day-dreams or half asleep Will hear our arrows whizzing overhead. And catch the winding of a jihantom horn. Robin. And surely these old oaks will murmur thee Marian along with Robin. I am most happy — Art thou not mine? — and hapi)y that our King Is here again, never I trust to roam So far again, but dwell among his own. Strike up a stave, my masters, all is well. 496 THE FORESTERS Af r iv Song while they dance a Country Dance. Now the King is home again, and nevermore to roam again, Now the King is home again, the King will luive his own again. Home again, home again, and each will have his own again. All the birds in merry Sherwood sing and sing him home again. INDEX TO THE FIRST LINES Be tliou a-gawin' to the long barn ? 374. Lo ! there once more— this is the seventh night ! 141. Pine, beech and plane, oak, wahiut, apricot, 323. So, my lord, the Lady Giovanna, who hath been away, 354. So then our good Archbishop Theobald, 218. Stand back, keep a clear lane ! 2. These roses for my Lady Marian, 425. INDEX TO SONGS Artemis, Artemis, hear us, O Mother, 342. Babble in bower, 277. By all the deer that spring, 473. Dead mountain flowers, 364. Gee oop ! whoa ! Gee cop, whoa ! 397. Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing ! 123. His friends would praise him, 1 believed 'em, 29. Is it the wind of the dawn that 1 hear in the pine overhead ? 259. Long live Richard, 433. Love flew in at the window, 428. Moon on the field and the foam, 328. Now the King is home again, 496. O hapjjV lark, that warblist high, 410. O joy for the promise of May, of May, 389. O man. forgive thy mortal foe, 406. Over ! the sweet summer closes, 224. Rainbow, stay, 281. Shame upon you, Robin, 80. Thf Iw'c buzz'd up in the heal, 474. V 2 K 498 INDEX TO SONGS Tliere is no land like England, 443. The town lay still in the low sun-light, ^jc,. The warrior Earl of Allendale, 425. To sleep I to sleep ! The long bright day is done, 440. Two young lovers in winter weather, 182. Dp with you, out of the forest, 463. What did yc do, and what did ye saiiy, 394. Prinltdhy R. & R. Ci.ark, Limited, Kdinhurgh. nDacmillan'6 pocket (Tlassics. THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON 5 Vols. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth elegant, with gilt backs and gilt tops, 2s. net per volume. Limp Leather, full gilt backs and gilt tops, 3 J. net per volume. Volume L JUVENILIA, AND KXGLISII IDYLS Volume II. IN MEMORIAM, MAUD, and otiikk Poems MACMILLAN and CO., I.rn., LONDON. riDacinillans pocket Ciaeeica THE COMPLETE WORKS OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON {CoiUinued) 5 Vols. Fcap. 8vo. Cloth elegant, 2s. net each volume. 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