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. 
 Limp Leather, ^s. net each volume. 
 
 Volume IIL 
 BALLADS, AND OTHER Poems 
 
 Volume IV. 
 IDYLLS OF THE KING 
 
 Volume V. 
 IJ R A M A S 
 
 MACMILLAN and CO., Ltd., LONDON.
 
 University of California 
 
 SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 • Box 951388 
 
 LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388 
 
 Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed. 
 
 Jl 
 
 crp 
 
 /^J 
 
 MAR 2 
 
 SRLF 
 . WEEK LO 
 
 HAY 1 20011 
 
 M
 
 58 00784 3518 
 
 i''"Ji§M:T::