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CALLIRRHOE: 
 
 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 BY 
 
 MICHAEL FIELD 
 
 rg5LA5*$> 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 ILonbon : 
 
 GEORGE BELL & SONS, 
 
 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 ditfton: 
 J. BAKER & SON. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 A DRAMA. 
 
 "To make the heart a spirit." — Childe Harold, 
 
 Canto iii., stanza 103. 
 
 MICHAEL FIELD. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 Microsoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/callirrhofairrOOfielrich 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Before the bar of Time this poem pleads guilty to 
 anachronism. The establishment in Greece of the 
 worship of Dionysus reaches back into the dateless 
 vistas of legend. The Author has so far defied Cronus, 
 that he has represented this foreign cult struggling for 
 recognition in the midst of a refined and even sceptical 
 Hellas. Mighty voices excuse him, which have pre- 
 vailed in silencing the accusations of " old Time ,; ; he 
 is their client. Euripides puts the language of a sophist 
 in the lips of pre-historic heroes. Virgil makes ^Eneas 
 and Dido contemporaries. 
 
 The Author would here remark that his account of 
 the rise of the drama is purely imaginative and unhis- 
 torical. 
 
 The story of Callirrhoe is drawn from a classic source, 
 but has never been raised from obscurity by ancient bard 
 or dramatist. This fact has permitted a latitude of 
 treatment, unstraitened by the fear of presumption. 
 Greek men and women are approached, not from the 
 
iv PREFACE. 
 
 centre of nationality, but from the circumference of 
 humanity. " All the world's a stage." 
 
 The myth of Dionysus is the glorification of enthu- 
 siasm, which the poet believes to be the sap of the Tree 
 of Life, the spring and origin of all good fruit. 
 
 There is nothing lovelier among natural things than 
 a bunch of grapes, a Bacchanalian cluster of rare crim- 
 son, grey with the lovely mist of the world of vegetation, 
 which we call bloom. There is nothing lovelier among 
 human things than Love with its halo of self-sacrifice. 
 The natural object and the human affection find their 
 harmony in metaphor : — 
 
 " Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all 
 We can desire, O Love ! and happy souls 
 Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall, 
 
 Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls 
 Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew. " 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Coresus, priest of Bacchus. 
 
 Cephalus, father to Callirrho'e. 
 
 Emathion, son to Cephalus and brother to Callirrho'e. 
 
 Machaon, a doctor. 
 
 Cleitophon, uncle to Callirrho'e, 
 
 Acephalus, \ 
 
 Megillus, > Citizens of Calydon. 
 
 Astynous, ) 
 
 A Faun. 
 
 Callirrhoe. 
 
 Nephele, daughter to Megillus. 
 
 Hylia, daughter to Acephalus. 
 
 Promeneia, -v 
 
 Timarete, > Priestesses at Dodona. 
 
 NlCANDRA, ) 
 ANA.TIS, I Manads 
 DlONE, J 
 
 Aglauria, mother to Machaon. 
 Demophile, a nurse. 
 
 Citizens, Mcenads. 
 
 Scene. — Calydon ; twice removed to Dodona. 
 
*^ OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 CALLIRRHOH. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — The Temple of Bacchus, Calydon. Anaitis and 
 other Mcenads asleep on the steps. Enter Coresus. 
 
 Coresus. She sleeps : what wearied wildness in that 
 arm 
 That crowns the head above the twisted vine's 
 Noon-faded leaves ! Spent agitation gives 
 Strange calmness to her face. There is no calm 
 Like that upon the sea after the wind 
 Hath frenzied its blue breast, — as prophecy 
 The bosom of a Pythoness, — and passed. 
 She wakes and gathers up diffused dark limbs, 
 Springing from slumber as a wild beast springs 
 Forth from its lair. 
 
 Anaitis. Coresus ! 
 
 Coresus. Snatch not up 
 
 The thyrsus with so tremulous a grasp ! 
 To-night there is high revel in the hills, 
 
8 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Mystic assembly in the deep recess 
 Of cloven altitudes ; meanwhile, for rest 
 The women lie in heaps about the court, 
 Their dappled fawn skins laid aside for heat, 
 Their ruined wreaths of scarlet briony 
 And fennel-staves lying athwart the limbs, 
 That gleam the clearer in the glow of sleep. 
 So shall they stay till eventide. What dream, 
 Anaitis, thus hath broken thy repose ? 
 
 Anaitis. A dream I had — the altar ! — Drops of gore ! 
 
 Coresus. Ay, thou rememberest how the hinds were 
 torn 
 In the last chase. Dione cried to see 
 The fleecy fringes of her nebris dyed 
 In blood, and fled. Then didst thou catch her hair, 
 And fling her, as a slender ivy-wand, 
 Amid the bloody fragments. Thought of this, — 
 Her horror, thy o'erhasty violence, — 
 Hath trampled with rough footstep on thy rest. 
 
 Anaitis. It was the altar : one for sacrifice 
 Was kneeling. 
 
 Coresus. Yea, Dione, suppliant 
 
 Beneath thy chastening hand. 
 
 Anaitis. Dione ! No. 
 
 It was thy blood, Coresus, was the priest's ! 
 
 Coresus. Would the god suffer it ? Anaitis, wake, 
 Be sober ; I have work for thee to do ! 
 Go forth, and to the maids of Calydon 
 Break the rich tidings that I bore to thee. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 9 
 
 Anaitis. Whom dost thou seek to gather to our 
 band? 
 
 Coresus. I know two maidens. One is Nephele, 
 The daughter of Megillus, a fleet roe, 
 Tethered, as goat, to graze, pulling the cord, 
 Not pasturing. Go, loose, and bring her here. 
 
 Anaitis. An easy task. . . . 
 
 Coresus. Not therefore meet for thee. 
 
 There is a girl : beside the sycamore, 
 Once when a mighty storm was gathering, 
 She came alone for water to the brook. 
 Her water-pot was rested on a ledge 
 Of stone, and she, her large arms rounding it, 
 Was looking up. From the cerulean 
 The glittering fire outbroke. It played on her ; 
 I caught her face tempestuous with delight. 
 But momently 
 
 I looked on her; the crowd was gathering, 
 The swarthy bull was waiting for the knife, 
 And, ere the heavier thunder shook the shrine, 
 Its neck was severed. O Anaitis, there 
 Is the true Maenad ! The wide difference 
 'Twixt love and love, and oh ! the wider room 
 Twixt pieties ! from the profaner sort 
 That wreathes its victim as it roasts its flesh, 
 With the same hands, same temper ; then the Stir, 
 The flutter of fresh life religion brings 
 To common youthful ardour ! but the few, 
 Who learn it not from custom, suddenly 
 
10 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Behold it, as Narcissus his fair form ; 
 
 Would peril all for its embrace, discern 
 
 In it the image of the unknown self, 
 
 And leap to it adoring. Even thus 
 
 Will that still girl feel the entrancing awe 
 
 Of the great mysteries. And dare I dream 
 
 To-night, beneath the silver firs, in sight 
 
 Of the full-breathing heavens, she shall clasp 
 
 The thyrsus, loose the honey-golden locks, 
 
 Give her fair bosom to the breeze, her soul . . . ? 
 
 Anaitis, win her ! 
 
 Anaitis. Win her for yourself. 
 
 Coresus. Till now the highest favour I could grant 
 Was to make known my will. Five wandering years 
 As faithful comrade of my rest and march 
 Thou hast been with me, not incapable 
 Of lofty energies, needs, sympathies, 
 Beyond thy sex. Now I behold thee shrink, 
 Shrink to mere woman in thy jealousy. 
 No helpful comrade, a base sycophant, 
 Whom one must bribe. 
 
 Anaitis. 'Tis false. My thyrsus bears 
 
 A steely summit and my breast is soft ; 
 Thus will I slay Coresus' sycophant ! 
 
 Coresus. Mad fury ! stay thine hand ! 
 
 Anaitis. And dost thou care, 
 
 Care that Anaitis bleed not ? 
 
 Coresus. Well, that day 
 
 The panther caught thee in his hungry paw, 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 1 1 
 
 I slew him ; but I do not care to herd 
 With beasts as fierce as he, perfidious ! 
 
 Anaitis [crouching at his feet\ My master, pardon ! 
 thou didst rescue me. 
 Dost keep still the great scar. 
 
 Coresus. Look not so wild ! 
 
 Thou shalt not seek to move Callirrhoe, 
 Who wouldst but fright her with thy maniac face, 
 The sweetly-ordered one ! But if to-night 
 The bright-cheek'd Nephele join not the dance, 
 Thou shalt endure still harder words of me. 
 
 Anaitis And if I bring her ? 
 
 Coresus. I will consecrate 
 
 To Dionysus. That is thy reward. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene II. — Callirrhoe' 's Home. She is spinning. 
 
 Callirrhoe (sings). 
 
 Ay, twirl the spindle, twirl it round, 
 The spindle with the dark wool wound ! 
 But, maiden, if too well you spin, 
 Or twist the threaded purple thin 
 With deftest finger, think, oh ! think 
 Of her whose web of snowy link, 
 Deject Arachne, hangs above. 
 See that the gods thy spinning love. 
 [Enter Nephele.] 
 What mean these crimson vine-leaves round thy feet, 
 
12 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 My Nephele ? Why is thy hair unbound, 
 Thy polished cheek rent with the bramble scar, 
 And thy bright lips discoloured ? What ! In tears ? 
 
 Nephele. Callirrhoe, oh ! hide me in thy gown ; 
 It is so perilous a grief, a shame 
 So wild and strange that I must tell thee of; 
 I tremble to remember it, and more 
 To tell it open-faced. To the red bower 
 Of oleander, by the forest-stream, 
 Where thou and I in girlish solitude 
 So oft have hidden for sweet conference, 
 I went, and looking up, saw — not thy clear 
 Calm brows, Callirrhoe — a face as bright 
 As burnished shield, with hair that looked alive, 
 And cloak of shining hide. I lay as still 
 As if a leopard couched there ; but she came, 
 The wondrous creature, threw her spells on me, 
 And emptied my young heart as easily 
 As from a pomegranate one plucks the seeds. 
 And then she drew me, in caressing arms, 
 By secret pathways, to the temple-gates, 
 Where stood Coresus. 
 
 Callirrhoe. The new Bacchic priest ? 
 
 My father likes him not, thinks that the gods, 
 In scorn of mortal insolence, connive 
 At this chaotic fury in men's wits. 
 
 Nephele. Callirrhoe, had you been there I think 
 You would have saved me. It seemed different 
 When great Coresus turned and looked on me. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 1 3 
 
 He is himself a god. He beckoned me, 
 
 As the mild bull Agenor's child. We drank ; 
 
 I let him loose and wreathe my hair alone. 
 
 He asked me — had I strength to dedicate 
 
 Myself to the delivering god. I felt 
 
 The Maenads gather round me. I was doomed, 
 
 And as a bride, half-swooning in the flare 
 
 Of Hymen's torches is borne blindly off, 
 
 I was caught up by the great choric throng, 
 
 And in a daze of wonder found myself 
 
 Whirling the thyrsus. ... It may be I swooned. 
 
 When I awoke it was quite still. I thought 
 
 To creep home quietly, but my strange dress, 
 
 And a deep shame and wonder at myself, 
 
 Made me seek shelter with thee. 
 
 Callirrho'e. Yes, thou shalt 
 
 Rest thee in mine own bed, and afterwards 
 I will anoint thy cheeks and braid thy hair, 
 Thou foolish child ; and when less piteous 
 Thine aspect, I will give thee thy full due 
 Of blame. Now to my room. [Exeunt. 
 
 \Re-enter Callirrhoe.'] 
 
 (Sings.) Ah, Eros does not always smite 
 With cruel shining dart, 
 Whose bitter point with sudden might 
 
 Rends the unhappy heart, — 
 
 Not thus for ever purple-stained, 
 
 And sore with steely touch, 
 
14 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Else were its living fountain drained 
 Too oft, and overmuch. 
 
 O'er it sometimes the boy will deign 
 Sweep the shaft's feathered end : — 
 
 And friendship rises, without pain, 
 Where the white plumes descend. 
 Well, I must scold her for her wilfulness, 
 And take her back, in penitence and tears, 
 To her old tasks. My spindle strikes the ground. 
 How strong of brain and heart perforce must be 
 The Fates who spin our lives, from the confused 
 And tangled mass of Destiny withdrawing 
 Fibres that form the web of our existence. 
 Oh ! work terrific, solemn ! Yet I'd be 
 A kind fate to my brother and my sire. 
 This thread should be the love of Nephele. 
 For when Emathion tells her father's praise, 
 " Not Omphale more cunning at the loom." 
 And when I question archly — " Thou the god 
 Caught in her toils ? " he turns from me and laughs. 
 And for my father. . . . But necessity 
 Dominates fate ! Then is it well, indeed, 
 I cannot spin their lives for those I love ; 
 Else had I died sooner than twist the black, 
 Thick thread of blindness through my father's days. 
 I wish Emathion would come ! 'Tis late. 
 " See that the gods thy spinning love." 
 [Noise without.'] 'Tis he, my glorious brother, radiant 
 From the palaestra. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 1 5 
 
 [Enter Emathion.] 
 
 Etnathion. At the spindle still, 
 
 My nimble-fingered, grave Callirrhoe ? 
 Like feast day, I put by the work. The gods 
 Love not late spinning. 
 
 Callirrhoe. I have nearly done. 
 
 Be patient, for I'm spinning you your life. 
 Twisting such threads of deep-dyed happiness, 
 As might inspire with proud impiety, 
 And ruin you. 
 
 Emathwn. What doom hangs in this thread ? 
 Say, does the fibre run along with gold ? 
 
 Callirrhoe. A thing more precious. 
 
 Etnathion. Health, strong-sighted age, 
 
 Still beautiful? 
 
 Callirrhoe. Nay, will you urge me still ? 
 
 Etnathion. I'll threaten you ere long. 
 
 Callirrhoe. Well, 'tis the love 
 
 Of Nephele. Good brother, you were warned, 
 And now ! — But where's our father, for at noon 
 Your careful hand was guardian to his steps 
 That would to town ? You have not left him lone, 
 Sightless among the crowd of seeing men ? 
 
 Emathion. I left him chatting with a hoary friend 
 Of tedious, ancient days, of unknown wars, 
 And men, whose names were but a link of sounds 
 Unto my recent ears. 'Tis wonderful 
 How old men when together will re-thrash 
 The out-thrashed past ! 
 
1 6 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Callirrho'e. I know that age's tardy converse, dull 
 With iterated stale experience, 
 Chafes youth's hot-blooded moods as station'd rock 
 The running stream. 'Tis easier far for me, 
 Who lead so still a life, to keep from fret ; 
 The lake is always quiet round the stone. 
 Emathion, forgive ; but the old man 
 Complains he rarely sees you with his hand, 
 Who wast his eyes' great object. Oftener 
 Be near to him. . . . 
 
 Emathion, Poor father, I will sit 
 
 My hand in his when next he fills the hearth. 
 
 Callirrho'e. My kind Emathion ! I dare not pass 
 The door, now darkness mixes with the light, 
 Like dark wine spreading through clear water, yet 
 I'm ill at ease. Our father should be here. 
 'Tis growing dark, oh, not for him ! But still 
 'Tis late. Emathion, step out and look. 
 
 Emathion, Callirrhoe, 
 He told me I might leave him. 
 
 Callirrhoe, Yes, I know. 
 
 [Exit Emathion. 
 So beautiful, 
 So gentle and so kind ! I'm glad I told 
 About my father's plaint. Poor old blind eyes, 
 That cannot see him in his loveliness, 
 Most pity-worthy is your lack of sight ! 
 I'm tired of spinning ! In the viny sweeps 
 Of sunshine on the hills, if a god lurk, 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 1 7 
 
 Deliverer of women from their toil 
 
 In household darkness to the broad sweet light, 
 
 Do they so ill to flee to him for joy ? 
 
 " Can it be meant," I often ask myself, 
 
 " Callirrhoe, that thou shouldst simply spin, 
 
 Be borne of torches to the bridal-bed, 
 
 Still a babe's hunger, and then simply die, 
 
 Or wither at the distaff, who hast felt 
 
 A longing for the hills and ecstasy ? " 
 
 The fair twinned sister of the Delian 
 
 Must empty the rich passions of her heart 
 
 Where purple arbute-boughs encompass her, 
 
 In safest silence, or the bosky oak 
 
 Lets not a sigh escape. She must be mute, 
 
 The fair twinned sister of the Delian. 
 
 For him, the sunshine and the song ; for her, 
 
 The virgin lip and the inviolate shade. 
 
 Hear me, thou holy Huntress, and protect 
 
 My thoughts from lawless wandering beyond bound 
 
 Of thy own sacred precincts. Steps ! of two ! 
 
 Dear father ! 
 
 [Enter Machaon and Emathion.'] 
 
 Machaon. He is safe at Cleitophon's. 
 I came lest you should fear, and on my way 
 I met my friend. 
 
 Callirrhoe, My kind Machaon, thanks ! 
 I own that anxious fear had just looked in 
 At door o' my heart. But enter. 
 
 Emathion. Yes, I'd have 
 
 c 
 
1 8 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 These Maenads cleared away. I hate their cries. 
 
 Machaon. As peacock-shrieks at night. 
 
 Emathion. I hate their wild 
 
 Contorted forms. 
 
 Machaon. Like pines on Cithaeron. 
 
 Your sister goes for water to the stream 
 That makes your doorway pleasant at all hours. 
 A rare and lusty maiden ! Why, the jar 
 Sits on her head with firmer majesty 
 Than Rhea's towery crown. Lo, she returns, 
 With red and watery fingers, and a pot 
 Filled justly to the brim. Callirrhoe, 
 Give me a draught ! 
 
 Callirrhoe. The little twy-eared bowl — 
 
 Emathion, fetch it. 
 
 Emathion. I don't know its place. 
 
 Callirrhoe. I'll go< [Exit. 
 
 Machaon. 'Tis pity you're too old to learn 
 
 {To Callirrhoe, who re-e?iters). 
 A cup-bearer to whom the gods should rise. 
 And now I've risen, I must straightway home. 
 My mother had my supper on the board — 
 A quail ! I have not told you that I met 
 Megillus — in his head a thunder-storm, 
 Of which the lightning flashed from out his eyes. 
 It seems his daughter 's made off to the hills. 
 
 Emathion. Never ! 
 
 Machaon. Why, cheeks are Tyrian in a trice, 
 
 Emathion ? Well, well ! good-bye, fair friend. [Exit. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 1 9 
 
 Callirrhoe. ' Brother, 'tis true. She lies upon my bed. 
 She was deceived, is sorry. Take her home. 
 If you would take her home, she might be spared 
 From punishment and tears — two gloomy blights 
 You should protect your rose from. 
 
 Emathion. She has thorns. 
 
 I will not meet her parents. 
 
 CallirrhoL Fetch her nurse. 
 
 Emathion. She ill deserves protection, yet in this 
 I'll be her slave to-night. Callirrhoe, 
 I threw the discus far beyond the rest. 
 Callirrhoe. I'm very glad. 
 
 Emathion. You only love too much 
 
 Your idle brother. I must have a kiss ! 
 You were too dread for touch of mortal lip 
 While you were spinning Fate. \ExiL 
 
 Callirrhoe. The twilight falls 
 
 In showers of darkness. She will tell me all 
 The mystery of the effulgent night, 
 Up in the bluer dark among the stars, 
 Will Nephele. They say the new god shares 
 Pan's maziest secrets in deep fellowship ; 
 That the birds speak and even the brooks reveal 
 The thoughts of their clear currents. Every day 
 I fill my pitcher by the bubbling stream, 
 Close to the sycamore. It seems a girl 
 Full of sweet impulse. I would gather her 
 To my still bosom, and receive her love ; 
 But we are sundered. What if this new god 
 
20 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Of the warm vineyards and the budding trees 
 
 Could draw her trembling spirit to the brink ? 
 
 It cannot be ; 
 
 Else had our fathers known and worshipped him. 
 
 I reverence my father's old grey head ; 
 
 I reverence antiquity, the hoar 
 
 Aspect of Time. What folly to revere 
 
 The headstrong, blustering present, Time's untrained, 
 
 Immodest youth ! The elder age alone, 
 
 With Nestor-like authority, can hush 
 
 To-day's rough disputants. I hear its voice 
 
 Proclaiming the eternal pieties 
 
 These Maenads have be-mocked. I'll wake the child, 
 
 Ere my thoughts grow too angry j strip from her 
 
 The ivy meshes, cleanse her lips from stain, 
 
 And dress her in white vesture meet for maid. [Exit 
 
 Scene III. — Beneath a sycamore tree. Callirrho'e resting. 
 Enter Coresus at a distance. 
 
 Coresus. How beautiful 
 
 The face, how fixed in its forlorness, wan 
 As Ariadne, when she kept the coast 
 Of Naxos, ever straining for a sail. 
 Ay, but Eleleus sought her with acclaim, 
 Crowned her, and set her bride- wreath in the stars. 
 Oh, how I love her ! how I burn for her ! 
 And yet I fear her obstinate as him 
 From whom as from the grape its purple coat 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 2 1 
 
 Iacchus tore the skin. Heaven ravish her ! 
 Coresus is too weak. 
 
 Callirrhoe, 
 I seek for a strayed maiden, Nephele 
 Her name, a bearer of the Bacchic reed, 
 Lost on the hills last night. I oft have seen 
 Ye two together on the temple-steps 
 Or washing at the brook. Where is she fled ? 
 
 Callirrhoe. She's safe within her father's house, ashamed 
 Of her wild yester-revel and revolt 
 From seemliness and maiden modesty. 
 Seek not again to capture her ! 
 
 Coresus. I seek 
 
 To ransom, not enslave, Callirrhoe, 
 Calling all men to the Deliverer. 
 Look in mine eyes, and say if servitude 
 Be not your daily portion. Can you set 
 Your limbs free to the rhythm of your soul ? 
 Is there a passion in you that dare speak ? 
 Are not your bosom's offspring, young desires, 
 Served to you mutilate, a sick'ning food 
 By the world's impious custom ? Spurn the feast 
 As the Divinity the Libyan dish ! 
 
 Callirrhoe. These are wild words, bewildering to the 
 brain. 
 
 Coresus. As heaven's inrush. Be brave, Callirrhoe ; 
 Ask yourself have you not a deeper need 
 Than the stale rites of customary gods 
 Can satisfy ? and speak in earnestness. 
 
22 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Tell me about yourself ! 
 
 Callirrho'L I oft have longed 
 
 For speech with the dark sea and glittering hills, 
 For stories of the world, for wider care 
 And love of creatures other than myself. 
 Can your god give me these ? 
 
 Coresus. He came to bring 
 
 Life, more abundant life, into a world 
 That doled its joys as a starved city doles 
 Its miserable scraps of mummying bread. 
 He came to gladden and exalt, all such 
 Must suffer. Call men to the battle, swords 
 Clash the response ; bid them arouse themselves 
 From foolish habit, customary sloth, 
 In bestial ignorance of your intent, 
 They trample, tear you. Dionysus thus 
 Suffered ; he still endures at Calydon 
 Men's insolence in his rejected priest — 
 Though founder of fair laws, of citied life, 
 And guide to the untrodden paths of peace. 
 
 Callirrho'L The potent rioter ! Of old the gods 
 Gave culture by the harp, the helm, the plough, 
 Not by the ivy-wand. 
 
 Coresus. Seems it so strange 
 
 That Semele's sublime audacity 
 Should be the origin of life urbane ? 
 We must be fools ; all art is ecstasy, 
 All literature expression of intense 
 Enthusiasm : be beside yourself. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 23 
 
 If a god violate your shrinking soul, 
 Suffer sublimely. 
 
 Callirrhoe. Yet I hold it true, 
 Divinity oft comes with quiet foot. 
 
 Coresus. To give a moment's counsel or to guard 
 From instant peril. When a god forsakes 
 Olympus to infuse divinity 
 In man's mean soul, he must confound, incite, 
 O'erwhelm, intoxicate, break up fresh paths 
 To unremembered sympathies. Nay, more, 
 Accompany me further in my thought, — 
 Callirrhoe, I tell you there are hours 
 When the Hereafter comes and touches me 
 O' the cheek. I see the triumph of the King, 
 The gleaming crag of the Acropolis, 
 The mustered city spectatorial 
 Of vast emotion on the hollowed hill. 
 In the midst the Bromian altars. Oh, he sways 
 That peopled amplitude, that press of life, 
 With so intense a tyranny he holds 
 The reins of its very breath. Men may not stand 
 Beholding, when the conflict's at the heart; 
 The event's cold ere it reaches them. There, there 
 They watch as mothers watch their wrestling sons, 
 Fell Mora with humanity in clutch, 
 The dying hero with the victor lip, 
 The lordless creature, dominant and lone. 
 
 Callirrhoe. I tremble at your god, for terrible 
 In wrath I fear him ; though you speak him fair. 
 
24 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 I surely know 
 
 That he provokes men to unnatural deeds, 
 And once stirred frenzied mother as a fell 
 Tigress to murder her deluded son. 
 
 Coresus. More shalt thou hear ; more horrible detail 
 Of the avenger. Of a churlish king 
 Sudden he seized the recreant body, lashed 
 Its members severally limb by limb 
 To horses fleeter than strong Phoebus reins ; 
 Nor shuddered when the dull Edonian 
 Left a mere sputtering trail behind the hoofs. 
 
 Callirrho'e. Peace, peace, Coresus ; he will bring us 
 woes, 
 Woes on my father, on Emathion, 
 On Calydon, my city, if he bears 
 A breast so ruthless. I will hear no more. 
 
 Coresus. Turn not away, Callirrhoe ; by goads 
 The ox-souled must be driven ; yield response 
 To Heaven's desire of thee ; love humanly. 
 Love is the frenzy that unfolds ourselves ; 
 Before it seize us we are ignorant 
 Of our own power as reed-bed of the pipe. 
 The rushes sang not ; from Pan's burning lips 
 Syrinx sucked music. Wert thou lute to love 
 There were a new song of the heaven and earth. 
 I have been foolish frighting thee with things 
 Too wonderful for a soul-snooded girl 
 To bear the thought of ; think of them no more ; 
 Think but of me, no veiled divinity, 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 25 
 
 Coresus, a mere man, a suppliant 
 Clasping your knees in his extremity ; 
 Craving the alms of your great love, and yet 
 Withal so ravenous at heart, he scarce 
 Can bide the time of his petitioning. 
 
 Callirrhoe. I have not loved — 
 
 Coresus. Till now. You cannot say 
 
 You love not. 
 
 Callirrhoe. That I will not yield my love 
 To Bacchic priest, I can. From earliest days 
 I have been trained in the old pieties ; 
 And oft 'mid common household work have smiled 
 To think how like the blessed gods my hands 
 From chaos could educe a tiny world 
 Of perfect order. My dear father's peace 
 I will not wreck, as Nephele ; he ne'er 
 Shall miss his daughter at the evening board, 
 Nor sadder, find her truant to herself, 
 Indocile, indolent. It cannot be 
 That any but a mocking messenger 
 Can come in Heaven's name to set the child 
 Against the parent. 
 
 Coresus. As unseasoned wood 
 
 That smokes and will not kindle is flung by 
 For any refuse purpose, while the train 
 Of torchlight sinuous winds among the hills, 
 A starry serpent, so art thou cast out, 
 An apathetic slave of commonplace, 
 Sluggish and irreceptive of true life, 
 
26 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 From all high company of heavenly things. 
 Go to your home. 
 
 Callirrhoe. Oh Heaven shelter it ! 
 
 Coresus. Go home, Callirrhoe ; ask if all be well 
 Within the city : do not fear men's looks, 
 Or any whispering about the streets. 
 The temple-rites reclaim me ; from your loom 
 You have been too long absent. Go in peace. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Bower in a Garden. Enter Emathion. 
 
 Emathion. How beautiful is life and youth and love ; 
 How fair are girls and boys — how more than fair 
 My Nephele ! 
 
 Her brow is of as clear and warm a whiteness 
 As a young egg that lies in the dove's nest ! 
 She comes ! I'll hide ! {Hides. 
 
 [Enter Nephele.] 
 
 Nephele. He is not here. Naughty Emathion. 
 
 Emathion [apart]. But only just outside. 
 
 Nephele. It is unkind ! He vow'd to keep his time. 
 
 Emathion [aloud]. And only kept his vow. 
 
 Nephele. You naughty boy ! 
 
 Emathion. If you will call him good, he'll break his 
 vow, 
 And run away directly. 
 
 Nephele. Naughty boy ! 
 
 Emathion. If you will call him good, he'll keep his 
 vow, 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 27 
 
 And come and sit by you. 
 
 Nephele. He's a good boy. 
 
 E?nathion. Look at those roses, they are near each 
 other, 
 And what do they keep doing ? 
 
 Nephele. Nothing much. 
 
 Emathion. Why, lightly touching. 
 
 Nephele. There's a wind that makes them. 
 
 Emathion. Love be our wind ! [Kisses her. 
 
 Nephele. There's some one stepping past. 
 
 'Tis Hylia and her father. 
 
 Hylia. He hath asked, 
 
 Hath asked my love. 
 
 Acephalus. He is an amorous youth ! 
 
 Go wed — but don't forget old father, girl. 
 
 Hylia. Oh no, nor mother. I will come across 
 And kiss you every morning. 
 
 Acephalus. Do not cry. 
 
 Astynous, if he saw, would think I said 
 You should not marry him, and yet he'd see 
 It was not rain of grief, but the first dew 
 O' the dawn of joy. [They pass on. 
 
 Nephele. I wish my father loved me. 
 
 He beats me ; you won't ? 
 
 E?nathion. Beat you ! Horrible ! 
 
 I cannot beat a dog. Don't talk of it. 
 Look at that cyclamen ! — 
 The little flowery satyr, all white ears. 
 It must not hear of anything but love. 
 
28 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 I love you — let it hear that you love me. 
 
 Nephele. I love you. 
 
 Emathion. Nephele, 
 
 Thus should life be one chord of youth, love, joy ! 
 
 Scene V. — Temple of Dionysus. Before the Altar. 
 Enter Coresus a?id Anaiti's. 
 
 Coresus. Gall thrown in sweetest wine will make the 
 cup 
 As bitter as 'twas sweet. Throw poison in, 
 And it is venomous as cockatrice. 
 The goblet of my love holds now a draught 
 'Twere death to wet the lips with. She has scorned 
 My god, my passion, as she might refuse 
 A gift of oleander some light boy 
 Would lay in her pale bosom. So she spurned 
 The human gift of my man's utter love, 
 So great, it grew Titanic in its bulk, 
 With swelling sinews of immense desire, 
 And laid its own magnificent excess 
 At her feet for her to wonder at and scorn. 
 
 Woe, woe to her ! 
 About the columns booms a shout of woe, 
 Responsive to my menace. 'Tis the god 
 Sealing my malediction. Now instead 
 Of that grand prostrate love, hate's feller form 
 Encounters her— a Herculean power 
 Equipped for vengeance. I will make her quail, 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 29 
 
 Anaitis ! Those proud lips that scorned my love 
 Shall blanch and quiver. Dost thou think of it, 
 My love, Anaitis ? 
 
 Anaitis. Ay, an icy girl, 
 
 With veins that knew not summer. 
 
 Coresus. With a heart 
 
 Colder than coldest marble in a vault. 
 
 Anaitis. Thou hatest her ? 
 
 Coresus. As light-bereaving death. 
 
 Anaitis. Then let me spread my hair upon her ! 
 
 Coresus. Nay. 
 
 To tear the lovely branches of her limbs 
 From their white trunk were suffering too small, 
 Too easy. 
 
 Anaitis. Let me tear her. 'Tis enough. 
 I'm hungry for her. 
 
 Coresus. Woman-tiger, nay ! 
 
 Thou shalt not tear her. 
 
 Anaitis. Let me curse her then — 
 
 Call madness, bid it plunge its scarlet brand 
 Within her brain to burn as stubble. 
 
 Coresus. Nay. 
 
 On her no curse ; but on her city set 
 Long-famished plague. That curse as flicker cast 
 Athwart the mourner's face from glaring pyre 
 That feeds on what is precious, will evoke 
 Worse agonies than the sharp pangs of death. 
 
 Anaitis. My arms are lifted upward. Lift up thine. 
 Coresus. I lift them to a god who can chastise. 
 
30 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Anaitis. Speak, call, nay shout to Heaven ! 
 
 Coresus. Bacchus, hear 
 
 Thine injured priest, thou great Revenger, hear ! 
 Throughout the city let quick murrain breed ; 
 Drive Sleep away from his grim brother Death, 
 And then let Death pass single through the gates. 
 Let hardy limbs grow slack, crook up and fall — 
 Then burn and stiffen. Populate the streets 
 With Hades' ghosts, long, fleshless, pallid men. 
 Let the foul body know no laving hand ; 
 And let no flowers touch the hideous face ; 
 The mouth receive no coin ; no bed be dressed ; 
 No jar of water stand before the door. 
 Let the whole city be one house of death, 
 The gates its theshold, and humanity 
 Its single corpse. Be Vesta's flame extinct, 
 While ravening funereal fires leap high 
 Fierce from consuming corpses. Let strange fear 
 Flap wings unseen that beat upon the heart 
 Bestilling it with terror. Thus revenge ! 
 
 Anaitis. Hear ! 
 
 Coresus. Hear ! [Thunder and lightning. 
 
 Anaitis. The lightning flares, the thunder rolls ! 
 
 Coresus. Our prayer is heard ! 
 
 Anaitis. And granted by the god. 
 
 Coresus. Dreadful the " yes " of the omnipotent. 
 
 Anaitis. Silence, not thunder, were a dreadful thing. 
 
 Coresus. The tomb is wide as mouth of tragic mask. 
 
 Anaitis. Wide for the god's and for thine enemies. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 3 1 
 
 Coresus. Io triumphe ! Io ! for the sign ! 
 
 Anaitis. The silence is as dreadful as when corpse 
 With all the wailing women hath been borne 
 Away, and the house echoes to no step 
 Or voice. 
 
 Coresus. And in this silence it may be 
 That Destiny receives within her womb 
 Plague ; and ere night descend — 
 The rapid birth may be accomplished — Doom 
 Rent by Fulfilment, and, 'mid human shrieks, 
 The slaughterous child of wrath be recognised. 
 During the throes of the great birth, my brain 
 Is restless. I must rove, I cannot rest. 
 
 Anaitis. Woe to the arms that first receive the child. 
 
 Coresus. Woe to the city of whose life 'tis heir ! 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 Scene VI. — A Wood. Enter Dione. 
 
 Dione. Oh, the deep woods ! 
 
 I feel they hide within their inmost hearts 
 Some strange and thrilling secret, mighty, dark, 
 Unshared by mountain, sea, or Heaven's self. 
 My childhood felt its burthen when the shade 
 Of the green darkness grew about the path 
 I followed for dropt nut or lonely bloom. 
 Oh, to be friend to the great forest, earn 
 Its trust, and penetrate its green reserve ! 
 Within the bosky dells, 
 
32 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 And breathless gloom of the dense leaves, I've grown 
 Familiar with the gentle happy fauns, 
 And mystic dryads with dun crowns of oak. 
 Yet these too share the mystery of their woods, 
 They feel it, round their simple lips it lurks, 
 But cannot take expression. — Angry steps 
 Crack the curled arbute-leaves upon the ground. 
 The feet are brown ! I'm very lonely here ! 
 Coresus ! but I tremble at his brow. 
 
 Coresus. Ye gods ! 
 
 A hurricane is raging in my heart, 
 And shaking the foundations of my life 
 Almost to ruin. Round me all is still, 
 So still, I could throw up my arms and beat 
 The bushes till they whirled, only to make 
 What is without me more like that within. 
 To think the vaulted world holds not a breeze, 
 And all its winds are packed into this heart ! 
 Come, storm ; come, crackling gale and tempest, come ! 
 I'd bear the wild contention of my breast. 
 But outer calm, dark green serenity, 
 Coo of a ring-dove ; it is maddening, 
 Provocative of torment and impatience 
 That makes the torment worse ! 
 
 Dione [aside]. It is a song ! 
 
 Who sings thus timely ? 'Tis a little faun 
 Coresus loves, with buoyant happiness 
 Almost in flight. I'll slip away and watch. 
 
 [Hides at a distance. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 33 
 
 Faun {singing). 
 
 Down the forest-path I fled, 
 
 And follow'd a buzzing bee, 
 Till he clomb a foxglove red. 
 
 He filled full the nodding cup ; 
 I stood and I laughed to see ; 
 
 Then closed it and shut him up, 
 Till I laughed and set him free. 
 
 master, master, I have had great game, 
 And I have laughed and laughed until I cried, 
 And laughed again, to have him safely there, 
 The bee within a blossom ; for I tried 
 
 To catch him, and he flew so fast before, 
 
 1 could not, till he dropt his wings and crept 
 Up the tubed foxglove. Master, you are glad ? 
 
 Coresus. My silly faun, glad that thou hadst thy wish ; 
 Would that a flower encompassed mine, and not 
 A stricken city ! 
 
 A blossom holds a bee, a city plague. 
 My childish faun immures the murmuring bee, 
 I the malignant plague. How far apart, 
 How sundered by such difference of choice, 
 Are he and I ! 
 
 Faun. I'm tired. 
 
 Coresus. And yesterday 
 
 We gathered chestnuts and our laughter mixed ! 
 
 Faun. Listen, you do not listen ; I am tired. 
 
 Coresus. I hear ! Ha, boy, thine eyes agaze ! Laugh, 
 boy ! 
 
34 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Thou wilt not laugh ? Thy face was cut for smiles. 
 
 Faun. I love you. 
 
 Coresus. Pretty faun, methinks thou dost. 
 
 Faun. I had a little heap o' hazel nuts 
 I counted underneath the silver fir. 
 A squirrel came, his tail along his back, 
 And looked at me until I gave him half. 
 
 Coresus. 'Twas a bold squirrel ! — O my god, my god ! 
 Scatter my wild prayer, even as the wind 
 Disperses foam the wrathful sea uplifts. 
 Scatter it thus ! Oh, I was deeply moved ! 
 Had I no cause ? — no cause ? That could not be. 
 I suffered scorn, insufferable wrong, 
 Shame ineffaceable ! I marked her mouth, 
 I saw it push out as a bud ot rose ; 
 It parted into blossom, and for scent 
 I got a taunt, still in my nostrils rank. 
 I'll give her fragrance, smell of rotting friends ; 
 She shall draw in the odours of sweet death. 
 She shall But tell me of the pigeon's nest. 
 
 Faun. Why, yester-morn an egg lay on the twigs, 
 On the hard twigs. 
 I pitied it, and laid it on the moss 
 At foot o ? the tree. This morning it was cold ; 
 And so I pitied it again, and put 
 It back. To-morrow I shall find it warm. 
 Shall I not, master ? 
 
 Coresus. Yes. — She would not love 
 
 A Bacchic priest, she said. Because I serve 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 35 
 
 Religion am I then unfit for Love ? 
 
 What ! does religion blurr the face or dwarf 
 
 The stature, lame the feet, or make one shoulder 
 
 O'ertop the other ? 
 
 Because I strike with sacrificial knife, 
 
 A woman stabs my honour with her tongue. 
 
 Because I pour libations to the god, 
 
 A woman empties all her scorn on me. 
 
 A priest's love, like a sinewless old hound, 
 
 Is kicked aside ! My office is a brand 
 
 That stamps me despicable in the eyes 
 
 Of the one being I have ever loved 
 
 To my love's height and stretch of my heart's arms. — 
 
 And is the ant-hill busy ? 
 
 faun. Yes, indeed. 
 
 The ants are busy day and night, and yet 
 I think they're sometimes idle, for they run 
 About my hand and to and fro ; I call 
 That play, and laugh at them. 
 
 Coresus. She scorned the priest, 
 
 Then did she scorn the god. My wrath is holy, 
 Sacred and priestly. Ay, Callirrhoe, 
 Priestly, I say. 
 
 Faun. You're dull as the old owl, 
 
 Who, when I dance, looks straight before his beak, 
 And, when I laugh, turns round his eye on me ! 
 I do not like the owl. 
 
 Coresus. Be still, be still. 
 
 It's growing dark. My heart's a cataract 
 
 OF THE 
 
36 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Of whirling blood ; my veins are furious channels 
 
 Of crimson passion. I am drunk with wrath, 
 
 I stagger, and the trees appear to writhe. 
 
 What, have they got the plague ? And all the people 
 
 Will writhe their arms like that ? 
 
 Faun. I wonder if the woodpecker would cease 
 His knocking to the dryad in the tree 
 If I ran up ? 
 
 Coresus. I wonder if the first 
 Blue corpse is carried out in Calydon. 
 
 Faun. I'll try his true love for the hidden girl. 
 
 Coresus. And I will see if any yet be dead. 
 
 [Exit wildly. 
 Dione [advancing^. 
 Weep not. He's sad, and doth not love thee less. 
 I'll with thee to the ant-hill. Show the way, 
 And dance along. 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
CALLIRRHOE, 37 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — A Bridal Chamber, Astynous and Hylia. 
 
 Astynous. O Hylia, my dark and shapely maid, 
 New bound to me as wife — a bliss too great 
 For me to grasp, discovered gold in mass 
 My eager arms are hopeless to contain — 
 O Hylia, thy silence slits my heart 
 With cruel edge. A vague, dark horror rolls 
 Thine eyes, like hunted doe's, and thy touch leaves 
 Hot impress on my sense. My Hylia, 
 Is married love thus fearful, feverous, still ? 
 Then curse I Hymen, and would have my wife 
 Maiden once more, that I might woo again. 
 
 Hylia, Astynous, dear husband ! 
 
 Astynous, Ah, that's well. 
 
 Speak thus deliciously again. Thy words, 
 Though few, are each a red-ripe, perfect fruit 
 Of speech. A smile ! but a mere ghost of such 
 As live where now I kiss ! Is it so strange, 
 So fearful to be mine forever ? 
 
 Hylia, Nay, 
 
 Astynous ; in sooth Fm very gay 
 And joyous. 
 
38 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Astynous. With sad face ; an oracle 
 That hides its import. 
 
 Hylia. O— h ! I'm falling ! 
 
 Astynous. Nay, 
 
 Requesting an embrace !.. Ye gods ! her head 
 Hangs loose with backward chin ! My Hylia, 
 Speak to Astynous ! O my bride, my bride ! 
 I cannot hold her longer, she must drop, 
 So weighty grows her delicate, slight form. 
 Mother, O mother ! Nay, she cannot hear. 
 I'll bear my dreadful burden to her room. 
 
 bridal-bed, that will not hold the bride 
 To-night ! I shall go mad ! It yet may be 
 She faints and will revive to fill these arms 
 Less heavily than now ! Ha ! I have crushed 
 The myrtle wreath that's tumbled from her hair ! 
 
 1 dread the omen ! Nay, she'll soon be well. 
 
 [Exit, carrying her. 
 
 Scene II. — CallirrhoVs Home. Cephalus before the door. 
 [Enter CalIirrhoe\\ 
 
 Callirrhoe. What, lonely, my dear father ? When I left 
 Emathion was with you. 
 
 Cephalus. Hastily 
 
 He broke from me, my child ; that busy youth 
 Evamon, passing by, took hold of him, 
 Swearing he must not miss the eloquence 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 39 
 
 Of Periander, the new sage, who draws, 
 
 Machaon says, our city's idle youth. 
 
 The beamy breeze hath grown a little chill, 
 
 Or loneliness hath something damp'd my heart ; 
 
 Almost I seem in Hades, from the sun 
 
 Cut off as those sore-sighing ones below. 
 
 Soothe me, Callirrhoe ; thou know'st a strain 
 
 Of Eos' love. Sing me that song of light ! 
 
 Callirrhoe. If he could see me ! Can I trust my 
 voice ? 
 That cloud that swift as lizard to its hole 
 Made for the city ; it pursued me fast — 
 Is with me here, and on my father's head 
 In gathering volume tarries. 
 (Sings.) To the gods doth Eos bright 
 
 Bear the tidings of the light ; 
 
 Catching, as the morning steals, 
 
 At swift Helius' chariot-wheels. 
 
 But to-day she doth not care 
 
 What the clouds for livery wear ; 
 
 Dark and dewful are her eyes 
 
 When the morning sun doth rise ; 
 
 And she sheds still heavier tears 
 
 As his glory disappears. 
 
 Smitten by Scamander's bed, 
 
 Her bright warrior-boy lies dead. 
 
 She hath washed him in the wave, 
 
 Deck'd him in a garment brave ; 
 
 But his eyelids, sunk more deep, 
 
40 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Settle into marble sleep. 
 She must to the father go 
 With her life-bedark'ning woe. 
 Cephalus. Dear child, there is a trouble in thy voice. 
 Say, art thou weary climbing the long hill ? 
 
 Callirrho'e. Nay, father ; for the song is sorrowful. — 
 Oh, could he see ! now it is like a web, 
 A mesh of tempest, tangling all the streets 
 In blinding toils ! — But listen, I will try 
 The happy end, and we shall both be cheer'd. 
 {Sings.) Clasping the great knees in prayer, 
 She beseeches, " Oh, if e'er, 
 When the shrouding night-clouds flee, 
 Rosy from the reddened sea 
 Sprang thine Eos, grant me this — 
 Leave not my pale boy in Dis." 
 Then the father faltered — smiled ; 
 Eos' blushes saved her child. 
 Cephalus. Oh, the young light ! how goldenly it stole 
 In May-time 'mid the glade of budding oaks, 
 When thou did'st gather flowers for Artemis — 
 Thou mindest ? — that spring-day six years ago. 
 
 Callirrho'e. Yes. O my father, let me lead thee back ; 
 I fear some great calamity — a cloud 
 Hangs over Calydon. 
 
 Cephalus. Then will we in, 
 
 I felt the air unwholesome. 
 
 Callirrho'e. Father, stay ! 
 
 The heavens press on us, and I dare not move. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 4 1 
 
 Cephalus. These sudden showers make the young 
 vineyards swell. 
 Kindly it thunders, we shall have soft rain. 
 
 Callirrhoe. Nay, there is deadly hurricane, a stir 
 After the stillness, like the whirring wings 
 Of swooping eagle. Let me hide thee ! So ! 
 Cling close to me. 
 
 \Enter DemophileS\ 
 
 Demophile. Haste ! Little Nephele 
 Is struck with sudden sickness. Come to her. 
 
 Cephalus. Quickly, my daughter. 
 
 Callirrhoe. Can I leave him now ? 
 
 My father, trust me, for I know the sign ; 
 We lie 'neath Heaven's curse. 
 I have been summoned by the Bacchic priest 
 To worship and to love ; rejecting him, 
 He burst upon me with strange threats. 
 
 Demophile. More woe. 
 
 Callirrhoe, haste ! Sweet Hylia is dead. [Exit 
 
 Callirrhoe. Father, I 
 Thy child am wholly subject to thy will. 
 Our Calydon is smitten for my pride ; 
 This brood of dreadful cloud — this black descent 
 Of feverous wind. Let me to Bacchus' shrine ! 
 I will deny no more Coresus' love, 
 I will entreat him supplicate the god 
 For my dear city, for Emathion, thee, 
 My father. Oh, command me speedily ! 
 
 Cephalus. Nay, child, we suffer for the foolishness 
 
4 2 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 That has bewitched this city ; drunken heaps 
 
 Of maddened women have infected it. 
 
 The babe hath perished, while the mother's breast 
 
 Has suckled the young panther on the hills. 
 
 Men, of their w T ives forsaken, have grown wild, 
 
 Disordered, hungry, and uncivilized. 
 
 Apollo sees his sister's shrine desert, 
 
 Her virgin followers flocking to the hills 
 
 For all unseemly revel. He descends, 
 
 Branding the irreligion with the scathe 
 
 Of Heaven. Fear not, my child, for me ; I fear 
 
 My father's gods, and to their care commend 
 
 My daughter. Hark ! Another urging foot 
 
 Is here ! 
 
 \Re-enter Demophile.~\ 
 Demophile. Haste, ere the little one be dead. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. — The Market Place. Cleitophon, Megillus 
 Acephalus, Machaon, JEmathion, citizens. 
 
 Machaon. Idle i' the market-place ! ' Tis no time for 
 talk. We must all work. Our wealth in dead cannot 
 be counted, so fast and faster does Plague's impress give 
 them currency. 
 
 ist Cit. Ay, but the elders meet. Peace. Peace ! 
 He continues — 
 
 Cleitophon. For all along the way my course was choked 
 With issue — thick as concourse, when the crowd 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 43 
 
 Gathers for some high festal sacrifice — 
 
 Of black'ning corpses. Men cried out to me : 
 
 " You who have wisdom, dwelling near the gods, 
 
 Learn if neglected hecatomb or rite, 
 
 In ignorance polluted, is revenged 
 
 By this strange glare of sanguine ulcerous death, 
 
 That sudden paints our bodies, burns, and spreads, 
 
 And, heating as it travels onward, lights 
 
 A raging furnace, till the chilly gust 
 
 Of death creep after and put out the flame. 
 
 Help us, and we 
 
 2nd Cit. No oration — no periods ! 
 
 Acephalus. Already the corpses drop like birds on 
 the snows of Scythia. 
 
 $rd Cit. And death feeds the flames as an eagle her 
 eaglets. 
 
 Cleitophon. Woe to us ! 'Tis the forsaken shrine of 
 Artemis, the withered flowers stretched on the dusty 
 marble, that hath wrought this evil. 
 
 Acephalus. Fire-brands ! Flint, wood, flame ! To 
 the temple of the Barbarian ! Burn, kill, ravage ! 
 
 Megillus. Now it may just be that the fault is not in 
 the place of your condemnation, that you're beating the 
 grass while the snake's yonder. I would say that the 
 new god may be a god ; and then where are we, — aye, 
 and the fruit too ! I'm for the Bromian ! 
 
 4tk Cit. Evce ! I'll straight home, chaplet my brow 
 and 
 
 Machaon. Be your own corpse-adorner. He falls. 
 
44 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Can gentle gods thus disfigure their friends ? I'll bear 
 him hence. 
 
 4th Cit Carrion for the flames ! 
 
 [Exit Mac. with Cit 
 
 Cleitophon. My words are the streak of light on the 
 dial-plate of council ; they mark the course of the time 
 most expressly. 
 
 [Re-enter Machaon."] 
 
 Machaon. [to Emath.~\ You dog me like an avenger. 
 How now ? 
 
 Emathion. Machaon, I am sick. 
 
 Machaon. As the girl turned pale when Hymen on 
 his marriage-day fell from his house much hurt. Keep 
 from the north side the town, where the wind blows, 
 and you'll live to in-urn us. 
 
 Emathion. Oh, it blows ill all quarters. 
 
 Megillus. I've heard it told, by whom I know not, in 
 an impersonal whisper as it were, that Cephalus' tall 
 daughter refused the love of the Bacchic priest, knocked 
 it flat with the hand of her scorn, and 'twas hinted the 
 city is plagued for this behaviour. 
 
 Acephalus. Then let us give her to his desire ! We'll 
 not die that she may pick lovers. 
 
 Cleitophon. The maid is of my kin, devout and chaste. 
 I'll not have her infamously espoused. He's a brown 
 vine-pole. 
 
 [Enter Demophilei\ 
 
 Demophile [to Emath.]. Nephele prays you come to 
 her. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 45 
 
 She's dying, fluttering in the very breast of death, that 
 sorely hurt the little thing in catching it. Come ! 
 
 Machaon. Dost hear, Megillus ? 
 
 Megillus. Business, business ! [Exit. 
 
 Emathion. Don't touch me ; go away ! 
 
 Machaon. His light orbs are black, eclipsed with 
 panic, and he's white as ass's milk. Go, forward, nurse. 
 [exit Demophile] Emathion must protect the threatened 
 honour of his sister. Music ! 
 
 [Enter Astynous and a band of 'revellers \] 
 
 Astynous. Hail, friends ! Death is a glutton we've 
 sworn to pamper with a honeyed dish. We cram us 
 with pleasure to sweeten its gullet. Ivy and ribbons ! 
 'Tis a rare garnish ! My bride was snatched from the 
 marriage chamber, a pleasant morsel ! I'll not be behind 
 her in flavour when I'm swallowed up. Give me a 
 cymbal ! Who'll join us — dance — sing — shout ! Strike 
 up, comrades ! 
 
 Eat and drink and twine your flowers, 
 Till we make a feast — not ours ! 
 
 [Exit with revellers. 
 
 ist Cit. Choicest bullocks, wide-streaming wine, let 
 us kill and pour before heaven, and call on Artemis for 
 help. 
 
 2nd Cit. Nay, let us confess the Bromian with groans 
 and orgies. 
 
 Machaon. My good friends, counsel is hydra-headed, 
 'tis authority alone hath unity of brain-power. Seek ye 
 the voice of the godhead that fulfils the oaks of Dodona. 
 
\6 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 ist Cit. An oracle, an oracle ! 
 
 2nd Cit. 'Tis wisely spoken ; but the way is long. 
 Pestilence keeps not Time's tardy paces. The city will 
 be still ere we receive the message. 
 
 Cleitophon. Ye are deaf to my words, so 'twere best 
 to seek the Holy Oracle. 
 
 Emathion [to Mac.]. Methinks I cannot breathe again 
 till I get beyond the gate. 
 
 Machaon {pointing to Emath.]. Here is a windy- 
 heeled messenger — Hermes-shod. Two years ago his 
 feet swept the way to Dodona ; he knows each turn of 
 the road, each ford, bridge, and bye-path. 
 
 Emathio7i. I'll go to the very tether of my life to 
 serve you. 
 
 2nd Cit. Spoken like a patriot. 
 
 ist Cit. 'Tis settled, he goes. 
 
 Acephalus. At once. No leave-takings ! 
 
 Emathion. Now. 
 
 {Re-enter Demophile.] 
 
 Demophile [to Emath.\ You've stayed too long. She's 
 quite still. But your father lies and asks for you as he 
 grips at his vitals. 
 
 Emathion. Is it the plague ? 
 
 Demophile. I should think it is the plague, if you 
 were to see his face, hot as the dog-star. 
 
 Emathion [gasping]. No more — go away ! [to Afac] 
 Have you anything to smell ? 
 
 Machaon, Here's a sweet burnt herb for you. 
 
 Emathion. I can't go to my father. I've promised to 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 47 
 
 seek the oracle, and I've promised to start now, and my 
 father taught me to love my country. 
 
 Demophile. Very well. You've a milky look for a 
 patriot. There will nowhere be a father for you when 
 you return, you'll be an orphan. I'll get some healthy 
 woman from a clean house to put a little food in a scrip 
 for you. An' to think he'll be an orphan ! [Going. 
 
 Emathion. Nurse, say I love him — let him know that 
 I love him. And say, nurse, that I was bound to my 
 country. Poor old father, say that his pangs torture me. 
 Say that you saw me go — noiv. [Exit. 
 
 All. Zeus be our helper ! 
 
 i si Cit. A noble youth ! 
 
 2nd Cit. He slew nature at the foot of his country. 
 He's the boast of Calydon for beauty. 
 
 Machaon. There's suffusion in the eye of that man's 
 judgment — though the boy's loveliness captivates. His 
 golden head is perfect as Cytherea's apple. — What is it, 
 my good nurse ? 
 
 Demophile. ^Egle is restless 
 
 Machaon. What ! your dear child that makes such 
 trim wreaths ? 
 
 Demophile. Her lap was full o' white violets that 
 kept twitching off. 
 
 Machaon. I'll with you. — Disperse, friends. Plague, 
 like the wolf, loves a flock. Scatter yourselves, and let 
 confidence rule your pulses. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
48 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Scene IV. — Nephele's Home. Callirrho'e with Nephetis 
 body. 
 
 Callirrho'e. How different from that fair Bacchic 
 sleep 
 From which thou once did'st wake, my Nephele, 
 This hideous lifelessness ! Ye gods ! instead 
 Of the bright laughter of the dreaming lips 
 A grin is on the sharp, shrunk mouth ; the cheek, 
 Moist with the balmy warmth of its own blush, 
 Now glistens beaded with a chilly sweat. 
 Once in delirium, when her speech came thick 
 As blood-clot through the edges of a wound, 
 Some memory of dewy morning-hills 
 I caught in her hot voice. s 
 
 Oh, I must hide thee, bury thee ; but first 
 My lips shall touch the cheek that lies against 
 My white robe like a tawny withered rose. 
 She'd cry to think my lips 
 Loathed her that once delighted in her mouth. 
 There, there ! [kisses the corpse\ 
 Love and the vultures are the only things 
 Death cannot sicken. All are gone from her ; 
 Her parents, sisters \ and Emathion 
 Came not to comfort her. What could it be 
 Delayed him ? Now I need his help. But first 
 I will wind round thee my long veil ; he ne'er 
 Shall see thee thus. [Enter Demophile. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 49 
 
 Demophile. Oh, home, Callirrhoe ; 
 
 Thy father sickens ; he may now be dead. 
 
 [Exeunt hurriedly. 
 
 Scene V. — Do dona : the sanctuary on an eminence ; at 
 some distance the sacred grove of oaks and beeches. 
 Enter Timarete, Nicandra, and Promeneia, who 
 walks apart. 
 
 Timarete. Observe ! 
 
 Our sister mumbles ; nods, and mumbles on. 
 As drivers shake the rein when horses lag, 
 So do we ancient women, with the head 
 Urge our slow tongues. She mumbles to herself. 
 Mark that ! 
 
 Nicandra. I do. 
 
 Ti7iiarete. Observe, her yellow cheek 
 
 Is bronzy with the mixture of a blush. 
 
 Nicandra. I've marked it, sister ! 
 
 Timarete. Chew'd it over ? 
 
 Nicandra. Ay. 
 
 Timarete. Methinks there are unseemly diamond-sparks 
 A-turning in her eyes. 
 
 Nicandra. I've seen 'em, sister. 
 
 Like points of light they twinkle in the rheum. 
 
 Timarete. What is the meaning of 'em ? 
 
 Nicandra. Folly. 
 
 Timarete. Ha, ha, hi ! 
 
 Nicandra. She never was 
 
 E 
 
50 " CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 As ancient, grave, and inaccessible 
 In nature as appearance. 
 
 Timarete. Say'st thou so ? 
 
 Nicandra. We caught her once in weakness, two 
 years gone. 
 She stood, her dry, old hands so tight, I wondered 
 They broke not into powder ; her grey locks 
 Whirled, like the strips of bark when peels the birch, 
 F the wind ! She watch'd a man who left the shrine. 
 I laughed. 
 
 Timarete. And I. 
 
 Nicandra. Thou can'st remember it ? 
 
 Ti?7iarete. Ay ! how she made as she did watch a 
 bird 
 That swept the sky above him. Ha ! ha ! hi ! 
 
 Nicandra. Methinks it was this boy she watch'd ! 
 
 Timarete. Hi, sister? 
 
 Nicandra. I say, methinks it was this boy she 
 watch'd. 
 
 Timarete. Ay, an' he was a boy ; light, curling hair 
 Did rib his head all over. 
 
 Nicandra. An' he came 
 
 From Calydon to question o' the famine. 
 
 Timarete. It is the same. 
 
 Nicandra. A rt sure ? 
 
 Timarete. Ay. 
 
 Promeneia. Would to heaven 
 
 He'd seen me when my brow was flat and white 
 As cleanly, folded linen ! Now 'tis dirty 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 5 1 
 
 And crumpled up ; 
 
 And there's no washing more for it, no well 
 
 To make it white ; no press to make it flat. 
 
 Nicandra. 'Tis shameful thus to see the girl peep 
 through 
 The casement of old womanhood. I fain 
 Would cuff the impudent wench in yon old face. 
 
 Timarete. Ye ancient gods ! laugh not, nor jig my 
 sides ! 
 
 Promeneia. This mouth of mine, — its edges now turn 
 back 
 Like those o' withered leaves ! He'd kiss my lips ? 
 He could not find 'em, they are down my throat. 
 
 Nicandra. Her dotage doth wax passionate. 
 
 Timarete. Hi, sister? 
 
 Nica?idra. I say, her dotage doth wax passionate. 
 
 Timarete. E'en so. 
 
 Promeneia. Last night he shuddered when Nicandra's 
 Brown immense bosom pushed through its white wraps ; 
 Timarete with blue-nailed finger-tip 
 Pointed. He hath not shuddered to my face ! 
 Not yet ! 
 
 Nicandra. 'Tis certain we must seek the shrine, 
 Get the response, and thus despatch her boy ! 
 
 Timarete. She puts it off from day to day. 
 
 Nicandra. Poor crone ! 
 
 So old and light ; we'll do't ! 
 
 Ti?narete. Well said ; we'll do't. 
 
 Promeneia. Youth is the prodigal of golden wealth ; 
 
52 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 The middle term of life becomes a miser, 
 And clutches at the coins which still remain. 
 But old age is a lack-all and a beggar 
 Too foul for pity. Oh, he comes ! I blush 
 For my peaked, leathery visage as for sin ! 
 He's looking at my straggling chin, — O god ! 
 And his so beautiful ! 
 
 [Enter Emat/iion.] 
 
 Emathion. My reverend dames, 
 
 Whose holy mouths make verbal Heaven's will, 
 Again I do entreat that with high Zeus, 
 Th' omniscient Father, ye will hold converse ; 
 And learn the cause of the dread pestilence 
 Engulfing human life ; what angry god 
 Must be appeased ; what hostile altars smoke ; 
 What lamentations weary heaven's vault. 
 Ten days I wait ; no oracle is given. 
 I shall be cursed, be followed like a child, 
 And found here playing truant, my good name 
 Dishonoured and my faith discredited. 
 I shall be ruined if the god is dumb. 
 Upon my knees I supplicate for grace. 
 
 Promeneia. What doth he say ? 
 
 Timarete. Turn round thine other ear. 
 
 Emathion, O venerable sisters, grant my prayer ! 
 
 Promeneia. The day is not auspicious. 
 
 Nicandra. False you speak. 
 
 Timarete. 'Twas yesterday. 
 
 Promeneia. Wrongly you calculate. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. S3 
 
 Timarete. Why, yesterday you said was not aus- 
 picious ! 
 
 Promeneia. I did mistake, it was to-day. 
 
 Timarete. She dates 
 
 According to her wish. Within an hour 
 We will declare the oracles of Zeus. 
 
 Promeneia. Oh, not to-day ! Oh, not to-day ! Good 
 youth 
 Be ruled, and force not heaven ! Dreadful things 
 Will be declared ; no comfortable word 
 Will issue from the beeches, they will groan 
 Hair-raising horrors, grisly messages. 
 
 Timarete. Give her no heed, or thou wilt be undone ! 
 
 Nicandra. Be obdurate ! 
 
 Promeneia. He wavers ! [clutching him] Dearest youth, 
 I love you, and they hate ! — Now he hath shuddered ! 
 
 Emathion. O — h ! loose me, hag ! Nay, venerable 
 maid, 
 Thy sacred grasp appalled me. I am honoured. 
 
 Promeneia [aside]. Contemptible old woman ! never 
 mutter 
 Love with thy hollow gums and ragged mouth ; 
 For love must pass through gates of marbly teeth, 
 And open the red curtains o' young lips ! 
 
 Timarete. A tear is hanging from her peaky nose. 
 
 Nicandra. I see, I see ! 
 
 Promeneia. I'm jealous of my sisters. 
 
 At them he shuddered ; but he shrieked at me. 
 
 [She paces apart. 
 
54 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Tim arete. Young man, 
 
 Thou did'st not like her skinny fingering ? 
 Then seek the oracle ! 
 
 Nicandra. Thou did'st not like her mumble in thine 
 ear? 
 Then seek the oracle ! 
 
 Promeneia What will he say ? 
 
 Emathion. I'll gladly seek it. 
 
 Timarete. Bring your woolly bough 
 
 This time an hour. 
 
 Nicandra. Tremble, and kneel, and pray. 
 
 Timarete. Come, Promeneia, since your leg is stiff, 
 Here is my hand to help. 
 
 Promeneia. Malignity. 
 
 I walk as well as you. 
 
 [They descend the steps ; Prom, falls. 
 Timarete. She's on her shins ! 
 
 Ha ! ha ! hi ! I knew her leg was stiff ! 
 
 Nicandra. Why, any one could see it ! Let me rub 
 
 'em! 
 Timarete. She wants to rise. [To Emath.] I pray 
 
 you pick her up. 
 Emathion. Is she hurt ? 
 
 Nicandra. She's crying. Are you hurt, good sister ? 
 Promeneia. Hurt, hurt. And yet he cares ! Laugh- 
 able age ! 
 Your arm, and let me go ! 
 
 Nicandra. You're humbler, sister ! 
 
 [Exeunt, 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 55 
 
 Emathion. I laugh and curse. Faugh ! they are 
 filthy hags ! 
 I'm sick at their great feet stuck round with corns, 
 And livid chins which seem to chew their breath. 
 They make me cold ; I never was so cold. 
 Good heavens blast me 
 
 Before I grow like them ! One says she loves me ! 
 Keep down, disgust ! O execrable hag ! 
 I shall be ill with thought of her ; and then 
 Her filmy eyes will mind me of my father's. 
 I promised once to close them, but 'tis certain 
 Our private promises must snap in twain 
 For country ; and my sister 
 
 Would close them, ('twould have been most horrible 
 To drape the lid over the muddled orb !) 
 He always loved her best. 
 That execrable beldam ! If she works 
 Upon me thus, I'm sure to have the plague. 
 I'll think not on her ; yet, within an hour 
 I meet her ! I'll be firm, get the response 
 And never seek an oracle again ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene VI. — Ca/lirr/ioe's Home. 
 
 Callirrho'e. There are who think that ignorance is sin 
 Past pardon, since it is incurable 
 As blindness, when no faculty of sight 
 Is native to the eyes. I thus have err'd 
 Unconsciously, or wherefore could he die, 
 
56 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 My father ? They are mine, these dead. 
 [Enter Machaon.] 
 
 Machaon. I come 
 
 With tidings of Emathion. 
 
 Callirrho'e. He was missed, 
 
 And missing, at two death-beds. 
 
 Machaon. I was near 
 Your brother when the word from Nephele 
 Was brought ; he shrivelled and turned white, so white 
 I put my arm in his and drew him off. 
 
 Callirrho'e. And little Nephele, you let her die 
 Without her lover. 
 
 Machaon. That is aptly said. 
 
 One coin less to old Chiron. 
 
 Callirrho'e. Afterwards 
 
 Did not Emathion hear that suddenly. 
 My father had been stricken ? 
 
 Machaon. Ay, he heard. 
 
 But there was that about him made me know 
 That if I let him look much on the sick 
 You would be brotherless. 
 
 Callirrho'e. Why, so I am, 
 
 Since my dear father on his death-bed found 
 That he was sonless. Silently he lay ; 
 But after any stirring at the door, — 
 The neighbours coming in with anxious step, — 
 He felt about among the fleecy wraps 
 For his boy's hand, and being baffled, died. 
 
 Machaon. Be not too harsh ; it is no cowardice, 
 
^r THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 *g gUfORH\ ^ 
 
 CALLIRRHOE. 57 
 
 Save on the battle-field, to shrink from death. 
 
 Fleet-limb'd Emathion from Dodona soon 
 
 Will fetch the remedy ^Esclepiads 
 
 Are fools at mixing. Had I not prevailed 
 
 In urging the bewildered silly folk 
 
 To seek the oracle, you had been led 
 
 Ere now to Bacchus' altar, to allay 
 
 The jealous anger of the genial god 
 
 For scorn of young Coresus. You divine ? 
 
 Callirrho'e. Would they had come and carried me away 
 To be their victim ! 
 
 Machaon. Oh, leave me to choose 
 
 If there be sacrifice. There's Agatha, — 
 I pass her where she piles her pomegranates 
 Each day, and daily as I pass repent 
 I deal not, save for health, with poison-herbs. 
 Her crooked shadow is detestable ; 
 A thing the sun must draw reluctantly. 
 Now, she would make 
 A pretty offering for the amorous god, 
 And the fair marble wall 
 She sets her fruit by be no more deformed 
 By the uncomely darkness of her shape. 
 
 Callirrho'e, Speak not profanely ; they are mine, these 
 dead. 
 
 Machaon, The air hath been unwholesome many 
 weeks. 
 Women, disordered and intoxicate 
 Returning from their revel on the hills, 
 
58 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Have filled their homes with fever, and increased 
 
 A sickness that, without this irritant, 
 
 Had not exceeded in fatality 
 
 The plague of the great feast ten years ago. 
 
 Men were not then half frenzied, and a few, 
 
 Yielding to counsel, were restored to health. 
 
 Now all essay to heal is idleness, 
 
 Though one persuade and argue till one's hoarse, 
 
 So resolutely they refuse to touch 
 
 What has not magic in it. I deceive 
 
 No man, and so they die. 
 
 Callirrhoe. Oh, surely those 
 
 Whom the gods love live prosperous and blest. 
 
 Machaon. Love ! The cow, with a pleasant con- 
 sciousness of offspring, may feed the better her calf by 
 her side. Such complacency my mother feels in my 
 presence. ' Tis the sole definition of love my ex- 
 perience warrants. For my part, I've noted Heaven's 
 best lovers are fortune's most cruel sport. Truly the 
 enigma crumples one's eyebrows. Nay, crease not yours. 
 They're not bristly enough to wrestle with the brain's 
 pugnacious problems. Keep smooth-browed. 
 [Enter Demophile^\ 
 
 Demophile. Oh, my child, 
 
 A fury rises 'gainst the Maenads. Some 
 By their dishevelled hair are haled about, 
 Trampled and wounded. 
 
 Machaon [restraining Cal/irrnoe]. Mine shall be the 
 task. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 59 
 
 I hate these Maenads, and can therefore keep 
 The crowd in check. 
 
 [To Demophile.~\ ^Egle, the saffron-haired, 
 With my own hands I carried to the pyre. 
 So rest her ghost. Now for the angry crowd. [Exit. 
 
 Callirrhoe. And is your ^Egle dead ? 
 
 Demophile. Nay, never mind. 
 
 You must not tilt my tears over like this. 
 I carried my grief straight until you spoke. 
 An' do not look such struggles— let the eyes 
 Throw down their silver shields and go to sleep. 
 Under the sycamore I'll settle you, 
 Where none have died, and thefe are many bees. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene VII. — The City. Anaitis, Dione, Mcenads, Citizens. 
 
 Anaitis [dancing on a heap of cinders]. Behold the 
 
 remnants of the feast of death ! 
 These little heaps, flame-bitten, in my hand, 
 Once comprehended tall and mighty men 
 Who scorned our god. The heavens make no sound, 
 Their laughter's in events. Thy raillery, 
 My god, these light feet shall commemorate, 
 Shall dance before thy presence in this town 
 Upon this carpet of transformed men 
 Grey as a wolf-skin. [Shouts. 
 
 Wo77tan [rushing from the croivd\ She is trampling 
 
 down 
 My little girl ! 
 
60 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 ist Cit. Why, then we'll dance on her ! 
 
 Ye gods ! — the cinders of a smiling child 
 She tosses up like ^Etna ! Hark ye, fathers, 
 An' will ye bear the sight ? 
 
 2nd Cit. We'll act our answer. 
 
 Down with the jackal laughing on our dead ! 
 
 Anaitis. Evce ! Evce ! 
 
 $rd Cit. We'll trample her to death. 
 
 ist Cit. Ay, an 7 we'll force the lock of every joint 
 And strain the hinge of every sinew in 
 This hateful, impious body ! Drag her on ! 
 To the temple ! Here's another. Break her up ! 
 
 [They seize Dione. Enter Machaon. 
 
 Machaon. They'll kill her ! Truly, as you love your 
 lives, 
 I counsel you, good citizens, refrain 
 From this mad conduct. Look to it, my friends. 
 Just leave these crazy Maenads to their cubs ; 
 Or if you will, drive them without the town ; 
 Let them grow hungry on the hills, and feed 
 On quivering goat's flesh, but don't massacre, 
 Lest each slain Maenad cost a hecatomb 
 Of your best oxen, when Zeus' will is known. 
 
 ist Cit. The choice white breed ! Methinks it were 
 not ill 
 To wait the oracle. If we should err 
 
 Machaon. A little injury done to the gods, 
 If measured by the expiatory vow, 
 Is worth avoiding. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 6 1 
 
 [Aside.] See, Dione, through 
 That alley there is safety. [Dione escapes. 
 
 [To Citizens .] Hence with you. 
 
 To work ; unceasing toil alone can dam 
 This pestilence from pouring on your air 
 Till but to breathe is death. Bestir yourselves. 
 
 [Exeunt Citizens. 
 [Enter Coresus at a distance?^ 
 Ah ! the mad priest ! A most unsteady gait, 
 The face so lean you'd think those rolling eyes 
 Fed on 't, as thriving twins 
 Suck thin the mother • cast of countenance 
 Livid, with sudden flare that purples it ! 
 Poor fool ! 
 
 Coresus. Self-pity, prudent accusation ! 
 
 Machaon. I spoke in comment, though soliloquy. 
 
 Coresus. I care not for your sneer, let it be tossed, 
 A petty fire-brand, to the heap of wrongs 
 On which this plague is fed. Insult again. 
 
 Machaon. His face is flaming ! How combustible 
 Some faces are ! — You've wrought a noble work, 
 If it be yours — this art of dyeing skins 
 And giving flesh the odour of stale fish. 
 
 Coresus. I hate the plague, 
 And you. 
 
 Machon. More rational, I merely hate 
 The sickness ; you my science deprecates 
 A madman, dreaming that the heavens note 
 His anger of chafed passion, when a girl 
 
62 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Looks coldly on him. 
 
 Coresus. 'Tis insufferable, 
 
 The taunt ! Speech weeps its impotence to quell 
 Such insult, as a stripling sees his sire 
 Murdered, and simply sobs upon his sword. 
 You dream I drew great Bacchus to suffuse 
 This many-peopled town in agony 
 At baulk'd desire ? \Mach. nods.] No ; for the thank • 
 
 lessness, 
 The triple-hided hebitude that pain 
 Alone can penetrate. A dog will take 
 The bone you throw to him ; a mortal stares 
 In obstinate hostility if one, 
 Longing to swell the number of his joys, 
 From laden hand beseech him to be blest. 
 Teach men to suffer, and the slaves are apt ; 
 Give them fresh hope, entreat them to delight 
 They grow as stubbornly insensible, 
 As miser to a beggar's eloquence, 
 Clutching their clownish imbecility 
 As the gods grudged them that. 
 
 Machaon. Men's hopes, desires 
 
 Are difficult of transport ; you must take 
 The mule's path up the customary pass. 
 
 Coresus. Cursed be the brain that sees the waking 
 light 
 And keeps by Hecate's besmeared tombs ; 
 Accursed the heart that at dithyrambic rush 
 Of chorus keeps its measured Doric beat ; 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 63 
 
 And cursed the palsied who, at cymbal's clash, 
 Forget not age. 
 
 Machaon. Nay, modesty avers 
 It is not decent for old men to dance. 
 
 Coresus. Cursed the lame creature, custom, that 
 should go 
 'Mong men a laughter for its hobbling gait, 
 And sets them all a-hobbling, emulous. 
 Cursed be the piety 
 
 Machaon, I counsel you 
 
 Restrain your votaries, their irony 
 Of mirth is hateful in the midst of woe 
 Such as our Calydon bemoans. I fear 
 You'll find a broken form, the life blood spilt, 
 Against your shrine. 
 
 Coresus, He will put all to rights. 
 
 \Callirrhoe passes with a band of mourners. 
 [Exit Coresus suddenly. 
 
 Machaon. I'm fain to envy these god-beset mortals. 
 Those above may be but indifferent judges of our 
 actions ; yet the immense stimulus of spectators ! One 
 cannot always pluck a man by the gown to force him 
 listen, and thinking 's such a rare gymnastic o' the brain, 
 'tis pity none note it. What a public we have if our 
 pates are verily unroofed to divinity ! And yet mortals 
 take it, the gods know no more than what they tell 
 'em in their prayers. This praying, how shall we define 
 it, if it be not to take a god by the chin tenderly and 
 detain him with the small gossip of one's wishes, fears, 
 
64 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 and expectations ? There's my mother ! Her whole 
 religion is an anthology of Olympic scandal. My con- 
 tempt of her hath brought me to this cynicism. Pah ! I 
 was surely wrapt in the cradle-flame of immortality ; then 
 pried my maternal parent, and spoilt all. 
 
 [Exit, 
 
 Scene VIII. — Dodona : the sacred grove. Timarete, 
 Nicandra, and Promeneia- under three oaks, with their 
 arms lifted. A smoking altar at some distance. Emathion 
 advances to the confines of the grove and kneels. 
 
 Emathion. I hear a sound as if the branches snored, 
 Hollow and peaceful ! What if I should die, 
 Die suddenly ? 'Tis possible, for terror 
 Oft kills at once. My heart's a stone 
 That doth depress my side most grievously. 
 
 \The wind keeps rising. 
 The trees wake up. The air is full of noise. 
 Those ancient women have their hour of grandeur; 
 Their wrinkles now become them. I shall die ! 
 This shrieking wind will kill me ! All the leaves 
 Stretch out their tongues at me ! Why don't they speak ? 
 They move them up and down, and make a noise 
 As dumb men do, and struggle hideously. 
 I listen, but there's nothing, nothing, nothing ! 
 
 [A whirlwind. 
 Oh, see ! 
 The wind is flaring round the dreadful sisters ; 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 6^ 
 
 They're twisting spirally ! Their hair, their hair ! 
 The wind is carrying it all away 
 Like whisps of straw ! 
 
 I think their scarfs will strike against my head, 
 They seem to grow so long and come so near ; 
 And that I feel would kill me. Heaven help ! 
 What myriad tongues wag at me from the trees ! 
 Would I could hold them still, or tear them out ; 
 But that would want a million hands ! O gods ! 
 There's something in the wind which is not noise. 
 A voice, a voice ! 
 Timarete. Yes ! 
 Promeneia. Yes ! 
 Nicandra. Yes ! 
 
 Timarete. Vainly the tomb-fires flashed where the 
 lightning-flame was the midwife 
 Rending from Semele's womb the boy Zeus had gotten 
 
 in godhead : 
 Cephalus' daughter hath scorned the Maenad-cares and 
 Coresus. 
 Promeneia. Therefore Zeus will grant no pause from 
 plague ere the maiden 
 Haughty to Evius' priest shall try the feel of his altars, — 
 Knife through the milkless breast or riving the throat's 
 spouting vessel. 
 
 \Emathion shrieks and falls senseless. 
 Nicandra. Keen as the famished for bread, a god in 
 his vengeance claims victims. 
 Yet will heaven receive the life laid down for another : 
 
66 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Who for Callirrhoe dies, atones her sin of rejection. 
 Timarete. Hear ! 
 Promeneia. Hear ! 
 Nicandra. Hear ! 
 
 [The wind slowly goes down and they 
 come out of the grove. 
 Promeneia. Where is he ? Gone so soon ! 
 Timarete. What doth she say ? 
 Nicandra. Hi, sister ? 
 Timarete. What doth she say ? 
 Nicandra. Asks where he is. 
 Timarete. Along the road — good boy ! 
 Promeneia. Emathion, Emathion, Emathion ! 
 Timarete. Her voice — the very squeaking of a mouse ! 
 Nicandra. Could not be heard the other side o' the 
 
 bush. 
 Promeneia. Emathion, Emathion, Emathion ! 
 Ti?narete. She's got it up now to the shriek of an owl. 
 Nicandra. Give her an echo; he'll not answer her. 
 
 " Emathion." 
 Promeneia. He must be far away ! I shout so loud. 
 Nicandra [stumbling against Emathion\ Why what is 
 
 this ? The stripling; and stone dead ! 
 Timarete. Nicandra, help me down upon my knee. 
 He hath but fainted. I can feel his heart. 
 He'll soon come round, and here's a nurse for him. 
 
 [Showing Promeneia. 
 My back ! Nicandra, help me up ! My back ! 
 Oh, oh ! my back ! There — gently, sister ! — ho ! 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 67 
 
 Come, Promeneia, squat beside your boy, 
 Crook up your squeaking knee-joints till he wake. 
 
 [To JVieandra.] 
 That lunge you gave me, sister, might a' loosen'd 
 The roots o' my back ; it almost feels torn up. 
 I'll thank thee for my stick ; it's by the altar. 
 
 Nicandra. I'll fetch it, stay ! [Exit 
 
 Timarete. And, Promeneia, hold me up a bit. 
 
 Promeneia. I will not. I must light the lamp o' this 
 face. 
 Gone out completely. 
 
 Timarete. Do, and let me fall. [Re-enter Nicandra. 
 Here's my Nicandra, with her harder heart, 
 Hath brought my stick. We'll shake along together 
 Who know that we are old and relative. 
 [To Promeneia.] 
 Paint, dress in wanton robes ! 
 The interim of this swoon cries out for use ; 
 He'll wake and worship. Thank me, and we'll go. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Promeneia. There's something in it. 
 I have a pot whose red conserve would dye 
 The very tint of nature, and a robe 
 Of richest grain — my mother's — with a hem 
 That shines as if the sun was underneath 
 And edged it, as I've often seen a cloud, 
 And ... I will do 't ! . . . No, no ! I will not do it. 
 If he can love, he loves me as I am, 
 A brown old woman, shrivelled till her veins 
 
68 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Stand out like those in a mare's side. He's long 
 In coming to himself. I am a fool ! 
 
 [S/ie sits by his head, her arms round 
 her knees and her chin on them. 
 Now I can use him as I will ; can gloat 
 Upon him till my eyes are gorged ; can take 
 His hair up in my hand, thus, thus ! A curl 
 Has caught my finger. He would give to me 
 A golden ring, a ring ; and I will have it 
 If my one tooth must go. Nay, I have scissors 
 To cut away this precious bit of him 
 Which loves me. There ! And I can kiss him too. 
 Can pluck the kisses from his lips as feathers 
 From strangled birds : and so I will, I will. 
 I'll pull them from his lips, thus — thus, and thus ! 
 
 [Kisses him. 
 He stirs ! — Emathion ! — and he looks at me ! 
 
 Emathion. Are you my grandmother ! 
 
 Promeneia. Even so. 
 
 Now he will love me. 
 
 Emathion. Yet she died, I know. 
 
 How old am I ? She watched me when a child. 
 ' Tis very strange ! Where am I ? Who are you ? 
 
 Promeneia. Your grandmother, who never really died, 
 But went to keep the oracle of Zeus. 
 Emathion, you are very like your mother ; 
 I watch'd you as you slept, and that revealed it ! 
 Kiss me ! I hope you'll love me. 
 
 Emathion. I am not like my mother. I am told 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 69 
 
 No son was so unlike ! Callirrhoe 
 Is like her ! Oh ! Callirrhoe — the oracle ! 
 There's something weighs upon me — just as if 
 A foot was on my heart. Oh, I remember ! 
 You are that damned old woman, and you lie 
 To call yourself my grandmother ! I live 
 To bear the anguish of my sister's death. 
 ' Twas you said she must die. 
 
 Promeneia. ? Twas I that warned you from the oracle ; 
 I, even I. You would not listen then, 
 Deaf as an adder. Ah ! I see, you think 
 That I'm too old a purse to have within 
 The golden coins o' kindness. 
 
 Emathion. No help, no help ! She'll make a beauti- 
 ful corpse. But she must die first, and all the pain of it, 
 the bleeding, the struggles \ there's what makes me 
 shudder, and I must tell them to do it ; and there's no 
 hope, no help ! 
 
 Promeneia. But there is. 
 
 Emathion. What ! Help ? 
 
 Promeneia. Will you kiss me to tell you ? 
 
 Emathion. Kiss you ! No ! — Yes. 
 
 Promeneia. Thus further spake the oracle : 
 Yet will heaven receive the life laid down for another ; 
 Who for Callirrhoe dies atones her sin of rejection. 
 
 Emathion. Some one may die for her, die instead of 
 my sister. She has many lovers— and old Cleitophon — 
 and 
 
 Promeneia. You 
 
70 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Emathion. Promised ... I must give it, although 
 I heave. I can't descend her mouth ; it's a valley. 
 There ! [kisses her] A — ho ! 
 
 Promeneia. He's erased it from his lips like a blot ! 
 He's rubbing it off still. Oh, the full, fleshy mouth, it 
 was like a bee coming down a dried-up flower, — the 
 roundness, the softness, the warmth came down my hard 
 crevice, and there was no honey for 't. 
 
 Emathion. This place hath given me a sickness for 
 life. I'll away. I'm going with my horrible news to 
 catch the plague and die. Oh, I can't go home ! 
 
 Promeneia, Then stay, stay, oh, stay with me ! I'll 
 ask for no more kisses again, — never again, I swear. 
 
 Emathion. Better the plague, for 'tis a short sick- 
 ness. I must go home, for I should be tracked if I 
 went elsewhere ; I should be killed if I stayed here, — 
 and some one will die for her ! I'm going. 
 
 Promeneia. Never ! I'll have you seized ; you must 
 return. 
 
 Emathion. I'll return if I die not ; on my faith, I'll 
 return, for I mislike you not so much now I discover 
 your great love, which makes the scale of my favour 
 heavy. [Aside.'] I'll lie my breath away to escape, for 
 I'll never, never, never return \ and I loathe her as the 
 smell of a goat. [Aloud.] I'll but take the oracle to my 
 city, and then return, so the plague pleases. 
 
 Promeneia. You will ? 
 
 Emathion. I will. 
 
 Prome7ieia. I hope 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 7 1 
 
 You are as true as you are beautiful ! 
 
 Emathion. Trust me ! Farewell. 
 
 Promeneia. Do you affect me enough to 
 
 Emathion. Shake your kind and honest hand. 
 
 Promeneia. To 
 
 Emathion. You swore. There's my hand. I'll return. 
 There's flutter in the beeches ! And they'll speak. 
 There's a wind rising, and they'll speak, and I could not 
 bear it. They'll say I must die ! They're beginning ! 
 But I'll not hear ! 
 
 [Rushes off.} Oh, I am leaving hell ! [Exit. 
 
 Promeneia. He's torn my vital parts from out o' me 
 And carried them away. Yet he'll give back 
 My life to me. He said he would return : 
 He said it twice. He also said he liked me — 
 The dun old woman, with my bits o' hair 
 That hang like sheep's wool on a wither'd thorn. 
 He said it ! Look, he's on the distant road, 
 A precious bead that rolls down a white thread. 
 He drops, and there's the thread without the jewel ! 
 Yet he'll return. 
 
 He said so ! I am mad to think he will. 
 He would not kiss me, would not look at me. 
 He never will return. 
 
 Then will I go to him, though bowed with age, 
 Bowed almost double as a sail with wind. 
 I'll go to-morrow ; nay, to-night ; nay, now. 
 My stick, and kindly lifts in car and waggon 
 Will help me on. And here I cannot stay. 
 
72 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 I'm not an owl or bat that hates the light ; 
 I love it, and the light is in his face. 
 
 [Exit : on the other side re-enter Timarete 
 and Nicandra pointing after her. 
 
 Timarete. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 Nicandra. Hi, hi ! 
 
 Timarete. Ha, ha ! 
 
 Nicandra. Hi, hi ! Light crone ! 
 
 Timarete. Sister, she's good to make me cry a bit. 
 There's nothing touches me, and I must laugh 
 To find a use for tears. Upon my jowl 
 There's one that tickles me. 
 
 Nicandra. It is a flea. 
 
 I've got it ! Ay, for laughter I could sob. 
 
 Timarete. It's comforting, the moisture, when your eyes 
 Are dry as beetle-cases. Her's are damp, 
 So damp I wonder that there are no frogs 
 Within 'em ; yet she thinks that men can love 
 Peer in their dank enclosures. 
 
 Nicandra. Naughty sister ! 
 
 You'll force me to a crying bout o' mirth. 
 Hi ! hi ! 
 
 Timarete. Ha ! ha ! {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IX. — A roo??i in Aglauria's house. Machaon is 
 discovered sitting meditatively with some manuscripts 
 before him. 
 
 Machaon. 'Tis strange what it costs to make people 
 attend. Now, I can consider this disease with as great 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 73 
 
 intensity as Tantalus his o'er-hanging fruit. To ensure 
 eager scrutiny, you must put an object out o' reach. 
 That's why men are so fond of religion. It ever eludes 
 them, and yet looks graspable. Ay, and there's some 
 natural hunger in the heart too. Thin-stomach'd 
 Tantalus and the bonnie golden gourd splitting open ! 
 1 Tis a pathetic sight ! But here's the Augean stable 
 to cleanse, and the dung must be carried shoulder-wise. 
 My friends join the exploring party in search of the 
 river Alpheus, to turn into it. I am left to toil by 
 shovelfuls. If men had patience, and would not look 
 away from life, I could make their existence tolerable. 
 [Goes to a cupboard and looks for something, singing.'] 
 
 Have mortals then found that life goes so well 
 
 With gods to follow ? 
 I have cracked the world as a walnut-shell, 
 
 And found it hollow. 
 They must be bored who never are alone, 
 
 It can't be pleasing ; 
 Yet with one's self for ever to be thrown 
 
 Is not heart-easing. 
 
 [Draws out a child's hand for dissection. 
 
 Oh, I turn to my scalpel as a girl to her spindle ! Here's 
 a bit of dissecting to help me recover my temper. 
 What delicate work is this ! What fineness of texture. 
 I will keep the secret of it, though. The arts of intro- 
 spection are not for the crowd, nor the tunesome com- 
 ment of my throat on its follies. 
 
74 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 [Sings.] I with the tedious Machaon walk : 
 It does not strike me 
 That we shall have much philosophic talk, 
 He is so like me. 
 
 Yet they who fondly with the gods debate, 
 
 In tittle-tattle 
 Are heard, or rather on their pate 
 
 Hear thunder rattle. 
 
 [Begins dissecting. 
 
 A pretty hand ! The little Ogle's dead — 
 Hers was more dimpled. How she loved to pat 
 My cheeks ! Of late she grew a little shy — 
 For childhood's calyx shrivels when 'tis time 
 For bright-leaved girlhood. Little ^Egle's dead ! 
 
 [Knocking. 
 Away my hand and scalpel ! 
 
 [Puts them carefully away ; enter Aglauria. 
 Ah, the briony ! But you look, for all the world, like a 
 Maenad, mother, with those dangling trails about you. 
 These berries will be serviceable ; yet I would not have 
 my gentle mother put in peril of her life when I covet 
 an extract. Since the rage has set in against these 
 flower-filleted lassies, one can scarce crown one's wine- 
 cup unsuspected. 
 
 Aglauria [laying down the briony]. There, child, for 
 thy fancy ! And I know not the peril I would shrink 
 from to please thee ; so only thou wilt be wary thyself, 
 and not scuffle in the street for the rescue of these vile 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 75 
 
 foreign women. Does report say true, thou did'st stand 
 by some Maenad, whose flesh the crowd was about to 
 strip off with her ivy ? 
 
 Machaon. Ay. For the case grew semi-surgical. 
 
 Aglauria. Well, if you're chief physician to that band, 
 Old Cleitophon will trouble you no more 
 With stories of his ague. 
 
 Machaon. Then he'll die. 
 
 Aglauria. Thine is unruly babble. Cephalus, 
 If thou had'st talked more softly of the gods, 
 Had doubtless chosen thee his son-in-law. 
 And the girl's dowry 
 
 Machaon. Had been recompense 
 
 More than a hundred Cleitophons for cure 
 Of their particular infirmities 
 Could e'er enrich me with. Oh, I will sigh, 
 " Doubtless we have offended heaven," when next 
 Blight falls upon the land. There is no trick 
 Like sighing. Mother, in the mimicry 
 I will be perfect. 
 
 Aglauria. Fie, you cunning boy ; 
 
 'Twill be Callirrhoe you're sighing for ; 
 But if you'd win her, never more be seen 
 Saving of Maenads. 
 
 Machaon. Mother, do you know 
 
 It was Dione that I saved from death ? 
 
 Aglauria. You speak as she were mine — a wayward 
 girl 
 Her father could not curb —a restless sprig. 
 
?6 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 And not thy sister. Mark, Machaon, this — 
 If thou befriend the witless thing, the crowd 
 Will turn on thee. Just let them have their way. 
 But do thou keep to the old gods, and soon 
 I'll deck thee a fair bride-bed. 
 
 Machaon. So — so-ho ! 
 
 Aglauria. I'll get thy supper. 
 
 Machaon. Let it be a quail ; 
 
 And melons, mother, melons ! [Exit Aglauria. 
 
 Ay, she's fair, the strong, lithe, shapely girl, yet not for 
 me. And I marvel not the women of Lemnos slew 
 fathers, husbands, brothers, and put an end to population 
 till they could furnish their brats with heroic fatherhood. 
 Oh, we fail not in the stuff of motherhood; but the 
 heroes — the heroes ! There's Emathion, a beautiful 
 greyhound at the heels of Circumstance. Yet his 
 sister dotes on him. It enrages me. I'll back to my 
 work. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. J7 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — Citadel of Calydon: Acephalus, Megillus ; 
 Machaon on a higher level. 
 
 Machaon. Truly this is to affect the god. Thus the 
 Olympians, choosing a vauntage-ground above the field, 
 watch men's passions interact. Well, I can do it, and 
 play the god. 'Tis all I can. There's Acephalus, re- 
 tributive, alert, with tight lips where no breath passes. 
 
 \_Enter Cleitofihon.'] 
 Here's old Cleitophon ! He makes the hill-brow his 
 afternoon stroll — nothing perturbed ; for the pious have 
 buzzings from their own bosoms they interpret oracularly, 
 — a small Dodonic grove in the rocky region of their 
 prejudices that knows which way the wind blows. How 
 now, Megillus ? Those rosy cheeks belie the rueful 
 visage. 
 
 Megillus. Why, doctor, I shall be a poor man if the 
 young fruits keep shrivelling. There's a blight in nature ; 
 something offends. Could you counsel me ? 
 
 Machaon. You remember that round the temple of 
 ^Esclepius some folks are stationed, with brains, to be 
 referred to if the divinity be not curative. Why, man, 
 you are the only mortal, not half crazed by sorrow, who 
 
7$ CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 has had sense to apply to me. Now I'll tell you, the 
 gods hate inhuman parents. Don't tremble so ; the 
 destruction of a few figs is light punishment ! I advise 
 you be patient — Ah ! [starting] — and go help my mother 
 up the hill ; the steepness distresses her. 
 
 [Exit Megillus. 
 
 Yes, truly, 'mid the dotted dark of yon patch of vine 
 something stirred. Then I lost it in the cypress grove ; 
 yet I'll fasten my eye on the near edge of the black 
 trees. If he keep the path he cannot issue un-noted. 
 Meanwhile, I'll divert these watchers and myself by 
 learning their unofficial predictions ; if these clash with 
 the oracle, how the fools will be crest-fallen ! 
 [Enter Megillus with Aglauria.~\ 
 
 Aglauria. I see you climb 
 Daily the hill as I ; 'tis well to learn 
 How thinks the oracle before one thinks. 
 
 Acephalus. You're curious. The plague has harmed 
 you not ; but should you care — that son you have so doted 
 on — to leave his clammy corpse, and learn how the winds 
 blew over Dodona's oaks ? An' though it felled Jhe 
 Titan branches, could it trouble you ? Hard woman, I 
 say Chiron must crowd his boat for the return passage he 
 ever makes in solitude, ere this calamity be repaired. 
 
 Machaon. Well, if we're all bid straight get drunk and 
 dance, 
 My comely mother, will you lead the step ? 
 
 Aglauria. I shall do what is best. 
 
 Machaon. Time-serving is the true elastic mean 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 79 
 
 Between devoutness and rank blasphemy. 
 
 I err in the defect. Old Cleitophon 
 
 Is piety stone-blind. [To Cleito.] What will you do 
 
 If faun-skins become ordinary wear 
 
 In Calydon ; will you be singular ? 
 
 Cleitophon, We need no oracle to show our deeds 
 Clear heinousness. We know where lies the guilt — 
 By Artemis' lone altars. [Enter Demophile. 
 
 Machaon. My good nurse, 
 
 What brings you to the brow ? 
 
 Demophile. Care of my child. 
 
 Dear heart ! But yester-night a mother brought 
 A dead stark babe and threw it at her feet. 
 Since then she has not cried at all. She sits 
 And spins, and sometimes in an altered voice 
 Sings snatches of her songs. 
 
 Acephalus. He comes ! he comes ! 
 
 AIL Where, where ? 
 
 Acephalus. Out o' the cypress-grove, and he brings 
 death. 
 
 Aglauria. Machaon, he is here ! 
 
 Machaon. Hum ! Would you make my knowledge 
 know? 
 
 Aglauria. Knew you ? 
 
 Machaon. Ay, you begot a prophet. 
 
 Megillus. We'll make him answer for his sloth. 
 
 Acephalus. Sharply. 
 
 Machaon. Now to this people in extreme distress 
 The gods will give some riddle ; it diverts 
 
80 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 The pain of heart-ache to perplex men's heads ; 
 I have oft tried it. How divinity 
 Is imitative of my ways, or I 
 At heart oracular of the divine ! 
 
 Aglauria. Oh, see, he comes ! Let each man shut 
 his mouth ; . 
 
 Now shall we learn where lies the safest way. 
 
 Acephalus. The safest way ! I'll learn where lies 
 the guilt. [Rushes to meet Emathion. 
 
 Demophile. Oh, now my girl will have her fears re- 
 lieved ! 
 Cleitopho?i. Now will the Bacchic worship be sup- 
 prest ; 
 The land made clean ! 
 
 Megillus. Haply by sacrifice. 
 
 Whatever may be asked for we must give. 
 
 Machaon. Truth, father ! thinking little of thy life, 
 If the gods fancy that. 
 
 Megillus, i My life ! Let those who have begot this 
 plague 
 Die to allay it, if 'tis so decreed. 
 
 Machaon. Great zeal for justice ! Now I think of it, 
 That very day you beat poor Nephele, 
 The pestilence — 
 
 Before it was a summer sickness — grew 
 Deadly in force. That I distinctly marked. 
 The gods, discriminative, will adjust — 
 
 Aglauria. Peace ! [Enter Acephalus, dragging 
 
 Emathion. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 8 1 
 
 Good Emathion, why so haggardly 
 Approachest ? Speak, for the plague rages still. 
 
 Acephalus. They are all ashes in the city. Give 
 A victim to our vengeance. 
 
 Demophile. Speak, she dies, 
 
 Callirrhoe, if you delay — 
 
 Emathion. She dies / 
 
 Gods, ye said truly. Why, what need of me. 
 Oh, is she dying fast ? 
 
 Machaon. How dare you tax 
 
 A man o'er-heated, unrefreshed ? He raves. 
 Give him some drink. Rest on my arm awhile, 
 And then interpret what the doves and oaks 
 In concert with Dodona's breezes spoke. 
 
 Emathion. What ! Have you heard it, the great 
 clashing wind ? 
 
 Machaon. You see, the prophet's vacancy disturbs 
 brain's normal action. 
 
 [Enter a crowd of Citizens.] 
 
 ist Cit. Speak ! the oracle. 
 
 2nd Cit. Speak, or we'll tear your throat to find the 
 words ! 
 
 yd Cit. What is it ? What's to do ? 
 
 Machaon. Emathion, make a clean breast of it. 
 
 Emathion. Oh, the burthen of the oracle ! the wind 
 seemed in labour of it, and moaned heavily. 
 
 ist Cit. Do you think, man, we care for its mum- 
 bling? [They lay hold on Emath. 
 
 Emathion. She's to die, do you hear ? And the 
 
 G 
 
82 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 oracle — though the wind could not bring it to the birth, 
 — you shall have it — as the women tore the sobs out. 
 Callirrhoe herself, so she find none to die for her, must 
 die for scorn of Evius' priest. 
 
 It said the knife- 
 It said — through her milkless Oh, Machaon ! 
 
 Machaon. I'm a favourite with the babies ; they're 
 always for my shoulder. You see here's a big one 
 requesting it. You're too old for a ride. What shall I 
 do with you ? I'd laugh him into manhood. 
 
 Demophile. But we will die. 
 I will die gladly, and who would not die ? 
 
 Machaon. Oh, doubtless many will give votes for 
 death, 
 Writing a comrade's name upon the shell, 
 Never their own, for that were insolent 
 Self-choice in privilege. Nurse, not so fast. 
 Think you Emathion will not joyfully 
 Prevent you to preserve Callirrhoe. 
 
 Emathion. Who — I ? Why must it be her very 
 blood. 
 Is there not one who loves her in this town 
 Would succour her ? [Silence.] Or if indeed her blood, 
 My uncle Cleitophon, I know your care 
 And scrupulous observance towards the gods. 
 You have been foremost in misguided zeal ; 
 And now will doubtlessly desire to bear 
 The chiefest penalty. 
 
 Machaon (aside). He dug his nails 
 
 / 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 8$ 
 
 Into my hand as vulture in its corpse. 
 But I'll not be the still prey of his fears. 
 Let him look to 't. 
 
 Cleitophon. Except one die for her ! 
 
 Were not obedience most precise if she 
 Herself should die ? 
 
 Aglauria [looking anxiously at Machaon\ Well said ; 
 a substitute 
 Will never satisfy. Thalia asked 
 This onyx ring of me. I prize the hoop, 
 And gave instead chalcedony fair set ; 
 But ever on my finger jealously 
 She hath kept watch. Is it not laughable 
 To think the gods would take a shrunken thing 
 As you, or me, or indeed any one 
 But just the dainty creature of their choice ? 
 
 Machaon. Try them, Emathion ; you are young and 
 fair. 
 
 Emathion. She never would consent. You, all of 
 you 
 Refuse ? Why, uncle, I ne'er had ar doubt 
 You would not by a decade forestall death, 
 
 Cleitophon. It is a pious maiden ! Shall we learn 
 How lies her will before we intervene 
 With fond, precipitate suggestion ? 
 
 ist Cit. Her will ! 'Tis settled she must die for us. 
 She dies ! She must ! she shall ! 
 
 Machaon. And you speak reason. 
 
 We must not waver ; yet an instant pause. 
 
84 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Hold a brief council 'mong yourselves ; meanwhile 
 
 I'll learn the exact conditions, truth's details, 
 
 From this poor boy. Soon as we clearly know 
 
 Th' ordained victim, we'll go fetch the priest. 
 
 Misread a word o' the oracle, we lay 
 
 Fresh miseries upon us. {Citizens talk apart. 
 
 [To Emathion,] 
 Look you here ! 
 She must not die, — 
 
 Why, I would die to save her. Save I will, 
 But never pander to a priestly fool. 
 Go, bid her fly by the far entrance, 
 And fly yourself, — there ! Change your feet to wings. 
 And, nurse, prepare and have in readiness 
 Old garments fitted to dress up escape. 
 
 [Exit Demophile. 
 Stare not so aimlessly ; address the crowd 
 One moment, ere you flee. 
 
 Emathion. I cannot tell — I — I will die for her ! 
 
 Machaon. You ! till the knife gleams, — but presum- 
 ably — 
 Come, exercise your rhetoric ; the crowd , 
 Will tear you if you tender not the word, 
 And promise instant reparation. 
 Offer to die for her ! I'll see you safe. 
 
 Emathion. Good citizens, 
 Behold me here a wretched, doomed man, 
 You thought to welcome a deliverer ; 
 Suppliant I clasp your knees. Most faithfully 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 85 
 
 I served you, not neglecting any rite, 
 And for reward 
 
 Learn that this city must be purified 
 By blood — my sister's or 
 
 Machaon. He'll choke to death. 
 
 Emathion. My own, — 
 If none whom life abuses takes this means 
 Of ridding him of all its miseries. 
 
 1st Cit We will not listen, we have died enough. 
 Come, we will bind you. 
 
 Machaon. Softly, gentle friends, 
 
 Emathion misinterprets in his haste 
 To save his sister. 'Tis the girl must die, 
 If she accept not one to die for her. 
 Most manifestly she will never choose 
 Her only brother; me she would, but flaunt 
 As somewhat liberal in my censorship 
 Of certain phases of Olympic life. 
 A victim must be passive as a sheep, 
 Ba-minded, or he'll irritate. You all 
 Are well content Callirrhoe should die. 
 She will be well content. Yet ruffianly 
 To fright and bind her were inhuman. Pause, 
 
 [To Emat/i.] 
 Keep from her doors a moment's interim. 
 Prepare your sister. We will keep the brow. 
 
 \_Exit Emath. 
 
86 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Scene II. — Callirrhoe' s Home. Enter Callirrhoe and 
 Emathion. 
 
 Callirrhoe. What says the oracle ? 
 
 Emathion. The word is you must die, ere Calydon 
 Be saved — except . . . 
 
 Callirrhoe, Why pause you ? Give me all. 
 
 Emathion. One die for her. My uncle Cleitophon 
 Refuses, holding precious his grey hair. 
 
 Callirrhoe. My brother, what said he ? 
 
 Emathion. Callirrhoe, if you would have it so . . . 
 If so . . . but yet . . . 
 'Twas your peculiar impiety, 
 Slighting Coresus' love, that brought the town 
 To this great pass. . . But if you'd have it so . . . 
 Callirrhoe, have it . . . 
 
 Callirrhoe. None will die for me ? 
 
 » 
 
 Emathion. Not Cleitophon ; the elders were all mute. 
 
 Callirrhoe. It is not that. 
 You will not die for me. Indeed, I thought 
 The city loved me. 
 
 Emathion. My dear sister, think. 
 
 Men love their lives. You know not how it hurts — 
 The spectral crowd and the grim ferryman — 
 Sharp from the burning sunshine and blithe youth. 
 Come to Demophile's. 
 My dearest, fly, and we shall both be saved. 
 
 Callirrhoe. My city — I will save it ! Oh, be soothed 
 Poor mother, bending o'er thy tortured babe ; — 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 87 
 
 It will recover. You, Emathion, 
 
 Say to this people I in ignorance 
 
 Have wrought them evil, let them flock to see 
 
 The expiation. 
 
 Emathion. No. I'll never see 
 Knife near your breast. 
 
 Callirrhoe. Although you pierced it through, 
 
 Emathion, when I knew you could not die 
 To save me. Think'st thou I had suffered it, 
 My beautiful, so amorous of the light ? 
 What, give my mother's only boy to death ! 
 Not so. I was a little grieved you failed, 
 But so you failed at the palaestra once, 
 Itys proved stronger — was it possible ? 
 And so I kissed you. Now I add farewell ! 
 
 Emathion. Farewell, farewell ! What would you 
 have me do ? 
 What do you mean ? To leave me raving mad, 
 To wander round the temple ? Stay with me, 
 Stay with me, succour, teach me to escape ! 
 I shall go mad. I'm like a lighted torch — 
 There's fire upon my head. Deliver me ! 
 
 Callirrhoe. Vex not my few last breaths. Be serious. 
 Demophile will tend you faithfully, 
 Nay, dote on you. Think of Callirrhoe 
 Where she hath been most happy, by the brook ; 
 And of my father, raising to his lips 
 My little twy-eared bowl. 
 
 Emathion. No, not like that ; — 
 
88 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Lying in bestial death i' the midst of blood. 
 
 Well, you must love this taste o' the shambles, love it, 
 
 To choose, it. There, they'll drag me. From the hill 
 
 I hear them shriek Emathion. 'Tis like 
 
 Actseon with the hounds about his heart ! 
 
 Pull them away ! 
 
 Callirrhoe. Emathion, be calm. 
 
 Fear not this people ; 'tis for me they cry. 
 You, by this secret portal shall escape 
 And take the narrow cliff stairs to the home 
 Of good Demophile, who ever watches 
 Her children's blanching faces. Stay with her 
 Till you see health's bright tincture on their cheeks ; 
 That is the sign that Calydon is saved, 
 And all at peace. 
 
 Emathion. You . . .? 
 
 Callirrhoe. Think you have left me at the spinning- 
 wheel. [Shuts and bolts the door behind him. 
 And that is true. A few more fateful threads ! 
 The scissors blink on me. How very still 
 It is. They're waiting me. My little bed 
 Looks dreary, as they'd newly borne away 
 A corpse from it ; ay, and a maiden corpse, 
 No children crowd to kiss. 
 To give one's body, with its great desire 
 For love — the very love it's fashioned for, 
 As firebrand for the flame-tip — to be cut 
 Away from sense, so that unlovingly 
 Men will behold it ! Oh, my Hylia ! 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 89 
 
 Death caught you sudden in a husband's arms ! 
 He hath mistook his place — the rear of love, 
 Never the vanward. Shame on me ! They come ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene III. — A hill-side, Calydon ; on the opposite height 
 a troop of Mcenads. Enter Coresus, 
 
 Coresus. These lovely ranks I've marshalled for the 
 god, 
 And the plague-heaps o' the city ! Oh, it's vile, 
 That work ; it crazes me. All sights are turned 
 To madness ; all the deep tenacious loves 
 Drop from my life. Anaitis dead ; the faun — 
 And I had sought for him the whole night through — 
 My faun. I found him in a moony nook ; 
 So deep his slumber, an arbutus-bell, 
 Fallen on his lid, there lay ; a woodmouse curled 
 Asleep upon his breast ; the topmost lock 
 On's head hung loose as aspen-leaf to the wind. 
 Save for that little touch 
 Of life's disorder, I had feared, he lay 
 In stillness so deep settled. — Were she hurt, 
 Hurt to the very quick ! All's well with her, 
 I'm left with my torn Maenads. I'd not live 
 To be the butt of my malediction, 
 But for the oracle, 
 The oracle, that yet may ruin her. 
 It's a way of tracking guilt down to the seed, 
 And the guilt's her's. My hands are stained with it 
 
90 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 As the dyer's with the Tyrian — she's the stuff 
 
 Red to the fibre. {Enter Dione.) What o' the oracle ? 
 
 Dione. Oh, nothing of the oracle ? 
 
 Coresus. Then, indeed, 
 
 Nothing of note. 
 
 Dione. The bleating children come 
 
 Up here. I find them wet-faced i' the cold. 
 
 Coresus. It's nothing \ it's the plague. 
 
 Dione. No ; the flesh was sound, but the face had a 
 sort of cry in it. Methinks it died for its mother. 
 \Enter Messenger. J 
 
 Messenger. Oh, quick, Coresus, for from the oracle 
 Emathion hath returned, and the word is, Cephalus' 
 daughter must die for the insult done to Evius' priest. 
 They've brought her to the altars. None will die for 
 her. She's waiting. Quick ! or she'll not feel it, if 
 you're laggard. 
 
 Coresus. Will she faint ? 
 
 Messe?iger. No ; her face grows sharp and hard as 
 sculpture. She must bleed. Oh, come to her ! The 
 plague will not budge while she's breathing. 
 
 Coresus. What ! No quiver till the knife-thrust ? 
 Dionysus, I thank thee for this rare victim. All things 
 to my hand. Yet 'tis possible she escape me. All's 
 marred if one die for her. How said you ? 
 
 Messenger. None will die for her ; she, Callirrhoe, 
 stands at the altar steps. 
 
 Dione. Callirrhoe ! It's the girl with the blind father, 
 that sings. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 9 1 
 
 Corsens. Sings ! Have you heard her of late, have 
 you marked her ? 
 
 Dione. To bring all this death ! No marvel they'l 
 not die for her. 
 
 Coresus. Peace, fool ! The plague's mine. I own it. 
 Did you say none would die for her ? Deaf, deaf, the 
 whole city full. O Dionysus, thou tormentest as a god I 
 
 Dione. The people perish. Think ! they're innocent. 
 Save them. 
 
 Coresus. The plague's mine ; her blood's mine. I 
 thirst for it. To uncistern her very heart ! And to 
 think one must get at it as at a beast's heart ! — her heart 
 — Callirrhoe's. See the great knife be sharp. To the 
 altars ! {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV. — Demophile's house. A child in a cradle. 
 Enter Demophile with some clothes. 
 
 Demophile. There they be — ancient hoods and coarse 
 old wraps. This will hang about my girl ; and there's 
 a gown will sit on the sturdy doctor to the very life ; 
 an' this will muffle up the boy. I've kept the dingiest 
 for the boy ; he's so much beauty to hide. May 
 they all prosper ! The babe sleeps My babes were all 
 restless ; but they rest now. [Knocking.] Who's there? 
 
 Emathioji [without]. Nurse, nurse, nurse ! 
 
 Demophile [opening the door]. All right, it is all right. 
 Everything's ready. — But what haps that you look so 
 wild and ashy ? Is it well with her ? 
 
9 2 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Emathion. No ; ill, ill ! 
 
 Demophile. Would she not fly ? 
 
 Emathion No, no. She wanted to die. It's against 
 nature, but she wanted to die. 
 
 Demophile. Is she gone ? 
 
 Emathion. Yes, yes ! Shut the door ! She's no 
 hinges like that ! You can't move frer. 
 
 Demophile. ' Tis a brave lass, an' I'm glad my milk 
 went to her making. An' you've left her to die, you 
 wretched, puny brother? Why, she'd have given you her 
 blood like a pelican — the tender white thing she is ! 
 When you slapt her in the face and I cuffed you, how 
 she flushed up and coddled you with her cooing ' ' There 
 then." Yes, hang your head and set your lips a-trem- 
 bling ! I'm glad on 't. An' let me tell you, I never 
 liked you, and to-day I think you're nothing but offal. 
 I've a good mind to throw you out o' doors. 
 
 Emathion. O nurse, have pity ! Let me stay. She 
 will die, and she sent me here. 
 
 Demophile. There's no time to spare. Be a good 
 boy, a good, loving boy, and come wi' me to die for her. 
 As the kernel's in the hard nut, is happiness in this 
 hard death. If not . . . Will you come ? 
 
 Emathion. I dare not — I cannot ; and she sent me 
 here. 
 
 Demophile. Then stay, and rock the babe — it's all 
 you're good for. If I return not, take it to it's mother, 
 Theron's wife. Mind what I say, and rock it. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Emath ion [dropping on a stool and rocking mechanically]. 
 Oh, I'm unspeakably wretched. And this hateful 
 child knows not, cares not, with its even humming 
 breath and its eyes, like two doves' nests with sleep on 
 them. I can't bear it ! I must pinch the child to make 
 it feel a little, feel pain with me. It shall not mock 
 me; it shall be hurt like me, be miserable. [Pinches it.] 
 There ! But it does not content. I must out. I must, 
 I must, I must see all ! Her blood draws me like a 
 cord to my ankle. They won't note me if I crouch 
 down. And I must go, wretched, wretched Emathion ! 
 
 [Exit stealthily. 
 
 Scene V. — Without, afterwards within, the Temple. 
 Enter Callirrhoe, Machaon, Megillus, and Citizens. 
 
 Callirrhoe. My people, I am come to die for you ; 
 Curse me no more. To-night in Calydon 
 There shall be health and sleep. 
 
 ist Cit. Hurry her on ! 
 
 My children peak and pine, and I must watch 
 My own good flesh I gave 'em drop away 
 Like the patrimony of a prodigal. 
 
 2nd Cit. My father's eye was red 
 As embers on the hearth. Oh ! let her die 
 Before it is a cinder in his head. 
 
 Old Man. My arm's hot. Let her die 
 Before my stomach burn, and then my pyre ! 
 
94 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Soldier. Push on, push on, ye sluggards ! Swords and 
 knives ! 
 I'd make a quicker business. 
 
 Sculptor, Ah ! superb 
 
 Her attitude ! With thong of her own fingers 
 She's bound her arms back from surrendered breast. 
 IVe got a subject that will make me great. 
 
 Woman, The child is hot and purple as a fig ; 
 It is my only child, and I am old. 
 Oh, save it ! 
 
 Callirrhoe I am ready. 
 
 \Enter Demophile\. 
 ^ist Cit. What a face ! 
 
 Sickness and hurry do alternately 
 Pinch and dilate its features. Let her pass. 
 Here, woman, drop beneath my arm, just so ! 
 What news ? 
 
 Demophile. None, none . . . Oh, stop ! for I am 
 come 
 To die, d'ye hear ; to die instead of her. 
 Dear heart ! she's never had upon her skin 
 Aught red but sticky bits o y sycamore — 
 That she should have it dabbled with her blood ! 
 
 Machaon. ' Tis the wet nurse ! 
 
 Callirrhoe. It shall not be. Your milk 
 
 Feeds the weak human grafts, the stranger shoots 
 They put within your bosom. Mine's a fountain 
 Which never hath received within its basin 
 That it was formed to hold. Demophile, 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 95 
 
 You taught me first to walk, and now good nurse, 
 You'll see how nicely I can walk to death. 
 
 Demophile. Her blood, her blood ! \_Faints. 
 
 Calli?-rhoe. This hand hath often held my clothes 
 for me. 
 It must not hold them now. You do no service, 
 Poor kindly fingers — loose. 
 
 Machaon. Your eyes are tearful. 
 
 Callirrho'e. It is giddiness. 
 
 Machaon, You stooped. 
 
 Callirrho'e. I'm straight. They crush me? 
 
 Machaon. Off ! stand off ! 
 
 Acephalus. The priest, where is the priest ? 
 
 Callirrho'e. He keeps me waiting ! 
 
 Machaon. Brute ! 
 
 Callirrho'e. Comfort my brother. 
 I used to nurse him when he cried. Machaon, 
 Comfort him ; he hath need. 
 
 Machaon. Twere better far 
 
 Blister the inflammation of his terror 
 Than pacify with lenatives. Nay, nay ! 
 I'll do it for your sake, Callirrhoe. 
 
 Cleitophon. Hail, my dear kinswoman, so glorified of 
 the gods, so honoured in death, so dignified as a patriot, 
 so sanctified as a mortal, so beatified as a maid ! 
 \_Enter Prome7ieia among the crowd.'] 
 
 Pronieneia. I'm sick and full of pain ; a fever runs 
 Beneath my skin that's dried upon my veins 
 Stiff as a bat's wing ; and my eyes — they feel 
 
g6 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 To bubble in the burning caldrons 
 
 O' the sockets. I'm o'er tired ; and yet, be brave, 
 
 Old sinews ! I will beat ye on no more 
 
 When I have seen Emathion. His sister ! 
 
 I thought she'd all the graces o' the world 
 
 To be his sister. 
 
 ist Cit. By my word o' faith, 
 
 This is a cruel waiting. 
 
 2nd Cit. She looks sick. 
 
 He's never kept a beast so long. 
 
 [Enter Emathion , creeping behind the crowd. 
 
 Promeneia. 'Tis he ! 
 # How like a god he looks ! 
 
 Emathion, I am here. 
 
 Emathion. Oh, horror, horror ! 
 
 Woman. Why don't her brother die? [To the child. 
 Hush-a-hush ! 
 Mother will blow on thy hot little head. 
 Curse the slow priest ! [Exit Emath. 
 
 ist Cit. Well said, dame. Let's haul up her brother 
 to the altar. We must pull him as an ox, for he will 
 walk not as a man. 
 
 Promeneia. You want to kill Emathion ? Kill me ! 
 'Tis all the same, because of love ! 
 
 ist Cit. Ho ! ho ! 
 
 2nd Cit. Ha ! ha ! 
 
 $rd Cit. Just listen ! An' he wants to live 
 
 To fondle hei ! — the beautiful Emathion ! 
 Would marble mate with dung ? - 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 97 
 
 i st Cit. 'Tis a strange world ! 
 
 2nd Cit. Well, we must give him up ; bat well not 
 speak with him henceforth — only hoot at him, mock, 
 howl, gibber, jeer, and execrate till his flesh shall be sore 
 with shame, as a bull's hide with gad flies. [To Prom.] 
 Come, you said you'd die. 
 
 Promeneia. For him. I will not move a step for her. — 
 With agony my gums butt at each other. 
 I cannot stand. — Die you for her. She's nothing. 
 
 2nd Cit. Come on ! 
 
 Promeneia. I will not die, I will not die ! Oh ! oh ! 
 
 [Falls. 
 
 2nd Cit. A case of plague ! 
 
 i st Cit. Away ! We're pressed on her. 
 
 $rd Cit. Let us be gone. 
 
 ist Cit. The priest ! He comes at last ; 
 He'll stop infection ! [Enter Coresus. 
 
 [Pointing to Callirrhoe] See, her pallor's red 
 As painted ivory of a goddess' cheek. 
 
 2nd Cit. But the brown priest is pale. 
 
 Promeneia. Lonely and dying ! Hateful death, to 
 steal 
 This weight of love away from my lock'd heart. 
 Old chests are strong ! 
 You shall not ; for I'll fight your each essay 
 To turn> the key ! And, oh, it is a fight 
 Tears me to shreds ! 
 
 Coresus [to Callirrnoe]. And will none die for you ? 
 Have you no lover ? 
 
 H 
 
98 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Callirrho'e. For my people, I 
 
 Come joyfully to die ; each breath I draw 
 Delays deliv'rance ; choose where thou wilt strike. 
 
 Coresus. It is the heart hath sinned. Bare the right 
 breast. [Aside. 
 
 Oh, lovely, snowy summit to the rock 
 Of her hard heart ! — Come near. Behold, ye people, 
 This maiden-victim. Ye have sorely sinned, 
 And so hath she, more deeply than you all. 
 Your sins and hers are blacker than the soles 
 Of a slave's feet, more vile. Then wonder not 
 Heav'n sent this hungry-jawed voracious plague, 
 This tiger of its wrath, to tear your flesh 
 With teeth of maddening pangs. 
 Promeneia. Oh ! oh ! 
 Coresus. Ye hear the cries 
 That mark its savage feast. Repent ! repent ! 
 
 [Emathion glides behind Promeneia, 
 
 who seizes him by ihefoot. 
 
 Promeneia. Emathion, water ! My tongue's leather ! 
 
 For you I'd drain the well o' my body. A little water ! 
 
 Emathion. There's for your thirst, and curse you ! 
 
 [Strikes her dead with a blow on the temple. 
 
 They'll have me ; they're after me. I'm the pole to a 
 
 tent of horror. It's all round me. 
 
 [Exit running. 
 Callirrho'e [aside]. My brother ! 
 Has he repented ? Does he come at last ? 
 Gone, gone ! 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 99 
 
 Coresus. Impenitence is man's foolhardiness 
 Toward God. 
 
 Citizens. We do confess the Bromian \ 
 Have mercy, Dionysus ! 
 
 Callirrhoe. And forgive. 
 
 [Coresus turns and looks at her. 
 
 Coresus. Behold, great god, this people's humbled 
 mind, 
 Forgive, and on their sacrifice be pleased 
 To look with favour. They will worship thee 
 As I have worshipped. They will drink thy wine 
 As I have drunk ; will know and prophesy. 
 [Aside.] Oh, I unanchor — I must die — leave her. 
 [Aloud.] Callirrhoe, you are ready ? 
 
 Callirrhoe. Yes. 
 
 Coresus [raising the knife]. Accept 
 The sacrifice ! 
 
 My god, my god ! she's white as holy milk 
 They pour on other altars ; thine must have 
 Wine. I am dark, and liker wine than she. 
 I'll keep thy ritual ! Behold, I pour ! 
 
 \Stabs himself. 
 
 ist Cit. He struck wrong, see ! — the priest ! 
 
 2nd Cit. He struck himself. 
 
 $rd Cit Yes, yes ; he'll bleed to death, dry up the 
 stream 
 Of blood ; tis from his heart. f 
 
 Callirrhoe. Nay, touch him not, 
 
 / am his Maenad, / alone believe ; 
 
 OF TH£ 
 
100 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 K 
 
 Go quickly to your homes ; the god accepts 
 The sacrifice. Cry Io for the god ! 
 
 Citizens, Io ! Io ! Io ! 
 
 Callirrhoe. He heard the cry, Coresus, your great priest. 
 A rapture crossed him. Now he hears no more. 
 I may a little praise him. Calydon, 
 Bear in your heart your high deliverer. 
 Swear ye will live no more to common ends 
 Of food and toil and habit. Swear that here 
 In condemnation of your petty lives 
 There shall be mighty passions solemnized 
 By masque and chorus, that all men may learn 
 The wealth of such emotion as empowers 
 To deed like this. All hail, Coresus, hail ! 
 
 Citizens. We swear. 
 All hail, Coresus, our deliverer ! 
 
 Callirrho'e. Now go home. 
 Go all of you, and see how fare the sick. 
 
 \si Cit Let's see if they are mended. 
 
 2nd Cit Run, run home. 
 
 $rd Cit We'll go. Perchance the sick who died last 
 night, 
 Will presently recover. 
 
 ist Cit Ay, we'll see. 
 
 2nd Cit And do you think my wife will live again ? 
 
 ist Cit Who knows ! 
 
 Woman. Oh ! the child's cooler. 
 
 AIL Dionysus, hail ! [Exeunt 
 
 [Machaon goes up and looks at the corpse?^ 
 
CALLIRRHOE. IOI 
 
 Callirrhoe. No hope to staunch that blood. Machaon, 
 seek 
 Dione, tell her that I come to her 
 In the deep woods. Oh, tell her — break it soft — 
 The Maenads have no priest. [Exit Machaon. 
 
 Ah me ! ah me ! 
 How thou did'st ope thine eyes wide at the shout ; 
 And I looked down on thee and drank thy love. 
 I am a Maenad ; I must have love's wine, 
 Coresus, and you die before my face, 
 Leaving me here to thirst. I dare not mar 
 Thy holy death, mixing my fruitless blood 
 With this most precious, sacrificial stream. 
 Thine be this day's full glory. Oh, my dead, [taking the 
 Thus I despoil thee ! knife] 
 
 [Exit. 
 [Enter Emathion, creeping round the pillars ; 
 advances to Promeneid!s body.~] 
 
 Emathion. Hath she moved ? Oh ! she looks but a 
 heap of wrinkled marl ! I thought not a corpse was so 
 like soil. I had it in my mind to kiss her ; but she's so 
 earthy, she'd crumble into my lips and choke me ! I 
 meant but to say, " Be quiet " — no more ; but she took it 
 so seriously. She's too brown ! But my sister is white. 
 'Twill be fair to see. [Advances to Coresus' body.] What ! 
 Brown too — but smooth as clay ? Brown, and it looks 
 not like her. I'm going mad, going mad \ for it looks 
 brown and strange. Oh ! I'm mad ; for my sister looks 
 not like my sister, and I'm her brother and should know ; 
 
102 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 and I say it's not she, which proves me mad. Oh ! I 
 am mad, mad, mad ! [Re-enter Citizens. 
 
 ist Cit Who's this wolf that smells the dead ? 
 
 2nd Cit Stone him off ! Tis her brother ! 
 
 3rd Cit The coward ! 
 
 ist Cit Clap him, clap him ; he's the hero of the 
 day. 
 
 Emathion [with a warning movement of his hand]. 
 Plague ! Plague ! Plague ! Plague ! Plague ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 ist Cit. He says " Plague ! " Perchance the god 
 hath shut it up in him. 
 
 2nd Cit. Well, I'm for Bacchus. 
 
 3rd Cit The knife's gone, 
 
 ist Cit. Oh, he's ta'en it. 
 
 3rd Cit. He'd best use it ! Death would be better 
 than life now, if you'd give him the scales to weigh 'em. 
 
 1 st Cit. O noble priest ! 
 
 2nd Cit O brave deliverer ! 
 
 [Exeunt with the body of Coresus. 
 
 3rd Cit. [re-entering]. We'd best burn the old 
 stranger. No fear to touch her now. What's this on 
 her finger ? Hair ! — a strange ring, i' faith ! I know 
 nothing about her. [Exit with the body of Promeneia. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. IO3 
 
 Scene VI — A Plot of Grass in a Wood, 
 [Faun dancing and singing]. 
 
 Faun I dance and dance ! Another faun, 
 A black one, dances on the lawn. 
 He moves with me, and when I lift 
 My heels, his feet directly shift. 
 I can't out-dance him, though I try ; 
 He dances nimbler than I. 
 I toss my head, and so does he ; 
 What tricks he dares to play on me ! 
 I touch the ivy in my hair ; 
 Ivy he has and finger there. 
 The spiteful thing to mock me so ! 
 I will outdance him ! Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
 
 Machaon {behind the trees], A sight to shake the stif- 
 fest sides on earth ! 
 'Twould force a misanthorpe to hang a smile 
 Upon his lip, as dew-drop on a thorn. 
 Plutus beholding this would fill with noise 
 Of laughter all the hollow of his voice, 
 So exquisitely laughable it is. 
 Tis one of nature's jokes she's mistress of. 
 The little fool 
 
 Tries to outcaper his own shadow. Ha ! 
 With what a pettish energy he springs, 
 His forelock nodding to his sportive heels. 
 Thus man toils oft for the Impossible 
 
104 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 With earnest foolishness and sorry end. 
 
 But here's a jocund close to hopeless toil ! 
 
 He's lying all a-grin because he lies 
 
 Upon his shadow, which he reckons caught. 
 
 Ha ! ha ! The very sediments of mirth 
 
 Are stirred throughout my nature. This gay knave 
 
 I'll question. [Parting the trees. 
 
 Faun. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Machaon. What have you caught ? 
 
 Something philosophers themselves can't seize 
 With all their definitions. We'll revere 
 One who has caught himself, and at his feet 
 Sit like small scholars. \_Faun offers to run away. 
 
 Nay, you shall not go. 
 I'll make you talk first. You're a funny thing ! 
 
 Faun. Oh, let me go ! I'll bite ! Oh, let me go ! 
 
 Machaon. A natural philosopher, I see, 
 Apt with his mouth. I want to hear you talk. 
 For lies you are not keen enough. Methinks 
 The innocence of truth hath never fled 
 This simple mouth, though like a nested bird 
 It soon gets feathers, and betakes itself 
 Even from infant lips. Come, sit you down. 
 
 Faun. No ! no ! 
 
 Machaon. Down with you. Why, you're on 
 
 the shade 
 That danced with you. He's under you ! Sit firm ! 
 There's my good knave ; you see I mean no harm ; 
 And when you've told me all I want to hear, 
 
CALLIRRHOE. I OS 
 
 Then dance away within the sun again ! 
 
 Faun. I will not dance. 
 
 Machaon. No sulks, I'll have no sulks. 
 
 Come, tell me what you are, whether a boy 
 Or but a boyish creature. 
 
 Faun. I'm a faun. 
 
 Machaon. And what is that ? 
 
 Faun. Why, 'tis a faun ! 
 
 Machaon. Just so. 
 
 But then you're not a boy ? , 
 
 Faun. I am a faun. 
 
 Machaon. His slow conception blocks my questions up. 
 Well, can you tell me how you were begot ? 
 Dropt from the womb of Nature, I should say ; 
 Or had you once a mother ? 
 
 Faun. I'm a faun. 
 
 Machaon. A truism, my rustic sage ! But how 
 Did you become a faun ? — I'll try plain phrase. — 
 Cannot you tell 
 
 Aught of your childhood, — of the time, I mean, 
 When you were smaller ? 
 
 Faun. Oh, I danced as now, 
 
 And crushed the acorn-cups, and ran the deer, 
 Sucked the ripe mulberries, tossed the chestnuts up, 
 As I do now, and . . . 
 
 Machaon. Yes, I understand. 
 
 — O Eloquence, the tongue of Love, appeal 
 To cherished memories of simple things, 
 And thou art on the silliest of lips 
 
106 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 That never move to reason ! — Then you've lived 
 Your life in woods ; or is this very wood 
 Its one green limit ? 
 
 Faun. Once I found the trees 
 
 Grow few, so few, like hyacinths in June, 
 Which made me very sorry ; then, I saw 
 Grass without any shade on which I ran. 
 But then did I grow frightened, for I'm sure 
 The shade cares for me, and will keep me safe. 
 And I ran back. 
 
 Machaon. Poor little fool ! I shrink 
 
 Thus from a new aspect of life, before 
 Unknown. I cannot run away, like you, 
 To shades of ignorance to hide amaze. 
 Have you got any human qualities ? 
 Speak, are you quite inhuman ? 
 
 Faun. I'm a faun. 
 
 Machaon. — Like all the world, he doth repeat himself, 
 Making an adage stuff the holes of thought. 
 Yet I'm too rough, through griefs ill-timed assault. — 
 You dance and talk, both actions of the man, 
 And yet there's something in you I can't fit 
 Into humanity. I can't tell what. 
 
 Faun [offering to jump up\. Now I may go ! 
 
 Machaon. Stop ! Tell me, can you love ? 
 
 Faun. I love Coresus. 
 
 Machaon. Ah ! and you love him ! 
 
 What do you know of him ? 
 
 Faun. He's kind to me. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. IO7 
 
 Machaon. The knowledge of a brute. I hoped for more. 
 What ! from this simpleton. — He loved your wood ? 
 
 Faun. He loves it, and he often plays with me, . . . 
 
 Machaon. How dull are the unfearing to suspect ! 
 
 Faun. And bends the bough of the high fir for reach 
 Of my hand wanting cones, and then he strokes 
 The smooth back of a deer, and binds its neck 
 With ivy-leaves, at which, oh, how I laugh ! 
 And then he laughs, and then I clap my hands. 
 
 Machaon. Hast thou seen any in the woods to-day ? 
 
 Faun. Two, with their noses on a mossy root, 
 That looked at me, and . . . 
 
 Machaon. I meant any man. 
 
 Hast thou seen man or maiden in these glades ? 
 
 Faun. No ! no ! He has not come so long a time; 
 When will he come again ? 
 
 Machaon. No more, no more. 
 
 — I'd better spell the manuscript of Death 
 To these untutored ears. This ignorance 
 So blessed in the present may afflict 
 The future, with its wonder unallayed, 
 That growing drearily, at last becomes 
 The brutish misery that never knows. 
 — He's dead. 
 
 Faun. Does that mean that he's angry with me ? 
 Oh, I'll be good, 
 If he will come again, and not be dead! 
 
 Machaon. — He'll melt my manhood ! It is strange 
 most strange ; 
 
108 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 The tongue of knowledge wags with sounding phrase : 
 
 Set ignorance to question, and it straight 
 
 Declines to lisping. I am childish-mouthed 
 
 Before this unschooled creature.— Come to me. 
 
 You will not ? Nay, but I must have you near 
 
 If I'm to tell you what we mean by dead. 
 
 — I make too solemn preparations, 
 
 (Oh, cruel priestcraft of my tender dread !) 
 
 He's frightened. Brevity but cuts the flesh 
 
 Of our anxieties ; prolixity 
 
 Tears it. So I'll be brief. — 
 
 You said that you were sorry when in June 
 
 The hyacinths drop away ? 
 
 Faun. Yes. 
 
 Machaon. When they're gone. 
 
 You cannot get them back again ? 
 
 Faun. I can. 
 
 Not for a while, but then their streaky buds 
 Shoot up, and soon they're all with me again. 
 
 Machaon. — Ah ! I must give a better rendering 
 From Death's old bone-grey parchment. — Right, you're 
 
 right ! 
 The hyacinths blue the ground spring after spring, 
 Although with different flowers from those you bunched 
 In grasp too small last year. For oft your hands 
 Are greedy with the flowers ? 
 
 Faun. No, for they look 
 
 Long-faced and tired, and do not smile at me 
 As when they stick straight up out of the ground. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 109 
 
 Machaon. — A thread to guide me, through the laby- 
 rinth 
 Of his simplicity and ignorance, 
 To the mid-chamber, dark and windowless, 
 Where understanding lies ! — The tired flowers 
 Grow ugly, lose 
 
 All likeness to the bells you jerked about 
 So merrily when they were purple ? 
 
 Faun. Yes. 
 
 When they grow tired, I lay them on the grass ; 
 I love to lie upon the grass when tired, 
 And then they go. 
 
 Machaon. That going I call Death. 
 
 Faun. But then they come again, quite fresh and gay. 
 But I am tired, tired, tired ! 
 
 Machaon — The thread is snapt, the labyrinthine way 
 Blocked up with dulness. — Yet you want to know 
 Wherefore Coresus cannot play with you ? 
 
 Faun. Oh yes ! m 
 
 Machaon. Then tell me, did you ever love 
 
 One deer above the rest ? 
 
 Faun. Oh yes ! 
 
 Machaon. — His yawn 
 
 Is to my heart's pain most medicinal. 
 Tire often blunts the edge of sorrow's sword. — 
 And did it ever cease to follow you ? 
 
 Faun. One day it followed ; then lay down ; then up 
 It got, and followed as I ran before. 
 At last it lay, and would not stir, for all 
 
IIO CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 I tickled its soft skin with chestnut-leaves. 
 It lay, and . . . 
 
 Machaon. It was dead! 
 
 Faun [shuddering]. It grew a heap 
 
 More nasty than an ant-hill, for it smelt ! 
 
 Machaon. He knows the alphabet of Death • my task 
 To make the grim idea creep through the signs 
 As snake through blades of grass. Yes, I must form 
 The sentence of man's doom, and teach to him. 
 
 Fau?i. I hate the wood about it ; never dance, 
 Or even go there. 
 
 Machaon. It was dead. 
 
 Faun. Perhaps 
 
 It's right again ; I never go to see. 
 
 Machaon. I tell you it was dead. 
 
 Faun. Then it was dead. 
 
 Machaon. — How shall I lift the lid of his mind's chest, 
 And empty it of Hope's sweet silver form 
 That's been its tenant and glad prisoner ? — 
 Coresus thus is dead : 
 
 Just like your deer; dead, dead, just like your deer. 
 — He's all a-tremble ; yet his frightened thought 
 Still dares a vain resistance, like a girl 
 Who whips the captor's arms. Ah me, ah me ! 
 I dare not comfort him while still he doubts ; 
 Silence is unbeliefs best battle-field. — 
 
 Faun [in a whisper]. And is he brown and nasty, like 
 the deer ? 
 
 Machaon. — I can't pollute his memory with Yes ! — 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 1 1 1 
 
 No, no. But he can talk no more, nor move, 
 Nor ever come to play with you again. 
 
 Faun. He'll come with the next hyacinths ? 
 
 Machaon. No, no ! 
 
 You never, never will be with him more, 
 Or play with him again. 
 
 Faun. Oh — o — h — h ! 
 
 Machaon. Belief 
 
 At last fills up the doorway of his doubt. — 
 My boy ! — A sob is coming, and the face 
 Looks older now its lines of joy are bent 
 To sorrow's converse will. — 
 
 [Faun rolls on the grass and sobs. 
 Nay, do not cry. 
 Look, here's a cone. I'll pick you cones, and play. 
 — O Death, how, like a cruel step-mother, 
 You always put your spite in every joy ! 
 You've torn a great hole in the happiness 
 Of this quite happy creature, which no stitch 
 Of Time will mend completely. 
 
 Faun. Dead, dead, dead ! 
 
 Coresus, don't be dead ! 
 
 Machaon. I've got a cone ; 
 
 I'll give it you. There ! Try to love me, boy ! 
 
 Faun. Coresus dead ! Oh, oh ! Dead like the deer. 
 The horrid deer that lay and smelt ! Oh, oh ! 
 Coresus, dead like that ? 
 
 Machaon. You'll love me ? 
 
 Faun. No. 
 
112 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Perhaps the deer's all right ! I'll see ! I'll see ! 
 For then Coresus will be all right too ! [Exit. 
 
 Machaon. Go, have thy foolish way. Thy tears are dry ; 
 I will not raise their flood-gate for the world. 
 Deception is the ivy of the mind : 
 I've cut 
 
 Its roots at his small brain, and it may hang 
 Greenly about it for a little while 
 Before it withers. I must budge, must hence. 
 Poor youngster ! Here's the very place his back 
 Made in the moss. Would he could lie and laugh 
 The shadow o' Death uncaught ! So Truth can curse : 
 I thought not it could put its sacred tongue 
 To such a use. Heigh-ho ! From this time forth 
 He'll have a different laugh. I must be gone ! [Exit. 
 
 Scene VII. — The Market Place in Calydon. Megillus 
 and Acephalus meeting. 
 
 Megillus. Good-day, these better times. 
 
 Acephalus. Better times do you call them? — when 
 the pyre-flames have threshed out our hopes, and left us 
 but a chaff of cinders, whence the grain is gone to fatten 
 Death. Better times, you say ? 
 
 Megillus. Beshrew they are ! We've apples, till the 
 apple-trees look as if they were the work of Daedalus, 
 that cunning worker in bronze \ Pears ! Why they are 
 worthy to be ear-drops unto Cybele ; and so numerous 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 113 
 
 are they, she might change her ornaments a second. 
 Many fruits, and few mouths. I would not wish to live 
 in better times. 
 
 Acephalus. You might have borne no fruit yourself, 
 in that you decline so to pears and apples. 
 
 Megillus. Forsooth, neighbour, the honey of pros- 
 perity will soon correct thy sourness. Look you ! The 
 town is clean. Yester-night the fiery teeth of Death con- 
 sumed, save one, their latest corpse. In youth I never 
 snuffed the air with keener enjoyment, nor knew it of so 
 sweet a quality. Thanks to the great god, whose devout 
 worshipper will I ever be ! 
 
 Acephalus. And yet, Megillus, I'm an unbarbed 
 arrow, with no children to carry me into the future. 
 
 Megillus. Pooh, man ! To drive you through a body, 
 and make you the parent of murder, rather than direct 
 you to the bull's eye of your expectations. Our children 
 sow not in our hopes ; rather they take the spade and 
 dig them up. 
 
 Acephalus. They may turn them o'er first; but in 
 the end they fail not to throw the seed by twos or hun- 
 dreds. I hold not with you ; but you only had a girl ! 
 
 Megillus. Leave we this. To-night they burn the 
 priest who killed himself to 'scape killing a comely 
 woman. 
 
 Acephalus. He did it in a fit. 
 
 Megillus. A most likely condition for so mad a deed. 
 
 Acephalus. Let us move on. Here comes a crowd. 
 [Enter Emathion followed by citizens \] 
 
1 14 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Megillus. On my faith, this is Emathion. I'll have a 
 word with him. — How do you, Runaway ? 
 
 Emathion. I shall roll, and tear up the ground ; and 
 I shall become all over like yellow clay. But don't mis- 
 take. I haven't got the plague ! Pray you, do not go 
 away from me, for no one's at home. I can't think 
 where all are gone. Oh no, I haven't got the plague ! 
 You're running away ! 
 
 Acephalus. Nay, only you do that. 
 
 Emathion pointing at a woman]. She's there ! Plague 
 take her. Look ! Did you ever see such a flat mouth ! 
 Was it made to swallow water, like a fish's ? And she's 
 trying to puff it forward for a kiss. Heaven help me ! 
 
 Woman. Why should the young man insult me ? I 
 swear I'm not for kissing him, as he impudently asserts. 
 
 Emathion. I only struck as you might pat a horse — 
 so, so, so ! She's there ! Water, water, water ! Mark 
 her ! She's the locust o' my flower of life. So I pinched 
 her — very gently ; — so ! And I got the plague ; and 
 they're all running after. What an eye she's got ! When 
 'twas on the ground 'twas a glow-worm. You think me 
 mad, but I know it's she. There's her one tooth, like a 
 yellow stalactite hanging from the cave o' the face ! 
 
 1st Citizen. He's lunatic. Young fellow, you need 
 not mow at him; he's senseless to your faces, and 
 methinks it's blasphemous. 
 
 2nd Citizen. Just look how he stares at yon olive-tree ! 
 It might be a grey ghost from his desperate counte- 
 nance. 
 
CALLIRRHOE. I IS 
 
 Emathion. Listen there ! Hark ! It's in the trees ! 
 They're moving ! See I and they say she must die ! 
 Hark ! It's quite clear now. Oh, the cursed trees ! 
 And they will cut her throat. Oh, no, no, no, no! 
 They'll cut mine ! They've got hold on me. Good 
 people, I've the plague ! 
 
 Megillus. He raves of the oracle I should say. 
 
 Emathion. It's all about my ears ; it's in the trees ; 
 it says that she must die. Again ! But I'll not hear it ! 
 Yet the wind's everywhere ! and they want to make me 
 die! 
 
 ist Citizen. They drove him from the palaestra with 
 hoots and mouthings. He cried as if he were a child 
 again, till the breeze got up; and then he fell into a 
 frenzy such as you behold. 
 
 Emathion. I'll fly to the Libyan desert, for there are 
 no trees ! To the desert ! To the desert, before I've 
 got the plague ! I hope the people won't run after me — 
 the wind would flap their clothes ! To the desert ! To 
 the desert, where there are no trees ! 
 
 \Emathion and citizens exeunt. 
 
 Acephalus. Where are his kin, that he wanders thus 
 at large ? 
 
 Megillus. They say his eyes like sullen comets 
 shoot menace at Cleitophon, and the old man hides 
 from their malignity. Of his sister naught is known. 
 She was not found at home, and the doctor Machaon is 
 missed. Whoever would sail safely over this mystery, 
 let him plumb it first. The young man was comely. 
 
Il6 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 But his beauty is the mere skull of itself; and I'll swear 
 I saw grey hairs on his uncombed head. 
 
 Acephalus. Beauty is a stuff the moths of ill soon 
 fray. They eat it ravenously, and leave it shameful rags. 
 Why, my boy lay on the bed with the tatters of beauty 
 hanging all about his face ; his mother screamed at him. 
 And he did not deserve it as doth this madman. Oh, 
 misery lays its eggs in loveliness. Itself eats, and be- 
 queaths the remainder to its progeny — waste and decay, 
 and wrinkles, and grey hair. Faith, Megillus, they be 
 mighty big waves that capsize the mind ; for billows have 
 gone over mine, and yet it is afloat. 
 
 Megillus. The boat sinks sooner than the vessel. 
 There is the danger of these small minds ; over they tilt 
 on a sudden. But ours are better built than such small 
 craft. 
 
 Acephalus. Thine is a tough piece of shipwright's 
 work. A sea of affliction would not affect its sailing. 
 I'll home. Good-day, these better times. Munch your 
 apples, and look at your daughter's urn. 'T will give you 
 an appetite. [Exit. 
 
 Megillus. That man's gall is spilt all over his body. 
 The day's still early, and the air is sweet as the breath of 
 Europa's bull. I'll walk on with its fresh companion- 
 ship. [Exit 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 117 
 
 Scene VIIL— A Wood. Enter Callirrho'e\ hiding some 
 thing in her robe. 
 
 Callirrho'e. Alone at last ; deep in the shady hills, 
 The dark heights I have yearned for. Far below 
 A pyre is burning. Leap, ye glowing flames, 
 Leap up to me ! Coresus, it avails 
 Nothing to heap thee with my proffered love. 
 Do we lay food and wine about the dead, 
 When the stiff lips are barred, to make amends 
 For past refusal to the trembling mouth ? 
 Had I done evil deeds,- I might atone ; 
 The gods are gracious, and make clean from guilt. 
 But simply to have lived my summer through 
 And borne no roses ! Nothing compensates 
 For dearth, for failure, when the season's past. 
 Ah me, ah me ! and he besought my love 
 As wildly, passionately, as the dead 
 Beseech their burial. My heart aches with tears. 
 What do I see ? Far down that alley'd green 
 Glimmers the statue of a human form ; 
 Immovable it sits. 
 
 The aspect is Machaon's ; yet I scarce 
 Dare give him speech, so inaccessible 
 He looks ; aloof in spirit, like a god 
 Hardened against his suppliants 
 
 Machaon (to himself). The plague 
 
 Had spent itself ; I clearly marked its course, 
 
Il8 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Tracked and predicted the returning health, 
 
 Dependent on no priestly sacrifice. 
 
 And yet what glory rested on the girl 
 
 Who could put life by for her people's peace. 
 
 And when he lay — -Coresus — at her feet : — 
 
 I have watched many death-beds, seen where Death 
 
 Was the chief ministrant about the face, 
 
 Washing, and laying out the spirit's corse ; — 
 
 With him it was quite otherwise ; life there 
 
 Laid death to rest. It was rare dying, that ! 
 
 Life uppermost at end of the hard strife ; 
 
 Death forced to terms in the ensuing peace 
 
 Involving full subjection. I have brought 
 
 Word to Dione of that death. Poor child, 
 
 I think she loved him ; when I said he died 
 
 To save Callirrhoe, she grew as white 
 
 As the white sheep-skin of her nebris-fringe, 
 
 And cried, " She was not worthy of his love ; 
 
 She never loved him ! " 
 
 Callirrhoe, False, false ; oh ! she lied 
 
 And bore true witness to me all in one. 
 I never loved him, never. 
 Confession is the bitterest penalty 
 When wronged Love is plaintiff. I confess ; 
 With this addition, that I love him now 
 With woman's rapture, when the man she loves 
 Is god for adoration. I am come 
 Humbly to supplicate I may receive 
 Initiation in the Bacchic rites, 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 1 1 9 
 
 And die his Maenad. 
 
 Machaon, It would please him best 
 
 You should declare allegiance to the god, 
 And make all Calydon subservient 
 To the strange worship. Men acclimatize 
 To new emotion rapidly ; it takes 
 Time to develop custom. Clear the truth 
 By uproar of the Asiatic band 
 Concealed, and overclamoured. 
 
 Callirrho't You discern 
 
 There is a truth ? 
 
 Machaon. Rather a mystery 
 
 I would unravel. I- have looked abroad, 
 And learnt to use life deftly as a tool 
 Keen-edged to execute my purposes. 
 I had no pleasure ; I just won my ends, 
 Toiled and was served ; there was no music born. 
 Whereas these Maenads, eager as hot Pan, 
 Catch up all life as the peculiar reed 
 To make sweet passage for their spirit's breath ; 
 And Nature leaves her shyness, shows her mind, 
 This sullen Nature, laughing in my face, 
 Like an idiot, his imbecility 
 Made resonant 
 
 By shrieking echo from the void within. 
 Deep in the forest here, I found a faun 
 Coresus loved ; I captured him, and tried 
 To tame his wildness ; he would none of me, 
 Was stubborn, restive ; when I made him feel 
 
120 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 His master could not come to him again, 
 
 The creature blanched and shivered, and fled scared, 
 
 As though the news were mortal. 
 
 Callirrho'e, Can it be ! 
 
 A little, wizen body lies along 
 Yon root o' hazel ; and a powdery heap 
 Of bones is close about ; the hand still grips 
 A horny cone that purple-patches it. 
 
 Machaon. Oh, bring me there ! He went to the 
 dead deer. 
 
 [They come to the hazel. ~\ 
 Tis he ; and Death is spread all over him, 
 Death that looks startled at itself, as if 
 It had mis-settled, falling on a prey 
 Unnatural to its appetite. Ah me ! 
 How brutal, coarse, and ignorant I stand 
 Beside this sweet stray in humanity ; 
 A thing so passionately gay, it seemed 
 The fresh, warm juice that fills the hyacinth, 
 And pulses sudden verdure through the pines, 
 Leapt in his veins ; the laughter of the spring 
 Flowed through him ; Nature's vehemence and Youth's 
 Met in his rapture. Now I see him wear 
 Death's hoary aspect, shrunken and defaced, 
 The youth o' the world is gone. 
 
 Callirrhoe. You say he loved 
 
 Coresus. I have never looked on one 
 Who loved him, and I never loved him— Oh ! 
 Dione, you shall yet efface that word ! 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 121 
 
 Machaon. Here is another sacrifice. For me, 
 I taught this boy mortality, an art 
 Of which he was most innocent. 
 
 Callirrho'e. Machaon, it is natural to die 
 Wherever love is ; and Coresus gave 
 To this poor faun the faculty of love 
 That stirs the mortal craving. Be content ! 
 
 Machaon. Coresus killed him ! 
 
 Callirrho'e. If you'd have it so. 
 
 Machaon. Better a plagueful of the city dead 
 Than this strange life miscarried ; 'tis as if 
 A part of Nature were herself extinct. 
 Coresus cursed all Calydon ; here, here, 
 Machaon, is thy work ! 
 
 Callirrho'e. Most surely here, 
 
 Where Love hath made the great discovery 
 Of Death, a grey coast she must civilize. 
 
 Machaon. Oh, never, never can man carry there 
 The Hestian flames ; ne'er in the mother-shores 
 Of our humanity include that realm. 
 
 Callirrho'e. Who dwell but with themselves grow im- 
 potent : 
 They have no Past ; the Past is what hath been 
 Other than now ; the Future is a guest 
 Comes not to them 
 Who will admit no novel influence. 
 Such can but iterate themselves. It needs 
 Heaven to transmute our days to yesterdays, 
 And touch our morrows with the mystery 
 
122 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Of hope ; when men remembered and desired, 
 Straightway they worshipped. Machaon, be 
 The priest of Dionysus. 
 
 Machaon. You forget ; 
 
 They would reject me, mindful of my scoffs. 
 
 Callirrho'e. I know a way to win obedience. 
 Go quickly ; gather the great scattered band. 
 I will await you ; but the oath is sworn. 
 
 Machaon. I would not leave that little corpse, except 
 To learn the secret how he came to die. 
 I am Machaon, and still curious. [Exit 
 
 Callirrho'e. Dead of Coresus' love, poor little one \ 
 Dead, dead for him ? And he but stroked thy head, 
 And showed thee kindness ; while for me, oh, see ! 
 I bring this from him. 
 
 [Stabs herself with the sacrificial knife. 
 We will both be dead, 
 Dead with Coresus ! [Dies. 
 
 [Re-enter Machaon with Dione.] 
 
 Machaon. Dione, come to her ; look not so hard. 
 She was the stillest girl in Calydon, 
 Shy, and a little proud ; be pitiful. 
 
 [Discovering Callirrho'e V body. 
 Fool that I was to leave her to herself, 
 And not divine she bound me to that oath, 
 To steal to her Coresus ! Oh, my boy, 
 Thou dost not lie so orphanlike ; 'tis well. 
 
 Mcenads (within). Swiftly, ye Maenads, come to see 
 this girl 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 1 23 
 
 Who brought the curse on Calydon ; leap down 
 The rocks, encompass her ! 
 
 1st Mcenad. Yonder's his pyre ! 
 
 That mounting flame ! She lit it ; murder her ! 
 
 Machaon. Shriek on ; the quiet of the dead is safe 
 As a babe's innocence. 
 
 2nd Mcenad. She is our prey. 
 
 Machaon. A heap of leaves will shroud 
 Safe from espial any woodland thing. [Covers faun. 
 Fair vot'ries of the civilizing god, 
 What delicate urbanity ye need ! 
 Dione ! 
 
 Dione. He was our deliverer. 
 See, there ! From that high ridge above the pyre, 
 A flitting form — no bat's wing ! — there again 
 A Maenad tightens round her neck the coils 
 Of a live serpent, pressing in the fangs 
 Fiercely her finger-tips ; — these will not live 
 Without Coresus. 
 
 Machaon. Bare her corpse and speak. 
 
 For me, I'll watch them till the fever falls — 
 I have great patience with delirium. [Hides. 
 
 [Enter Mcenads.'] 
 
 Dione. This is a Maenad, see ! 
 . 1st Mcenad. Her hair is tressed. 
 
 This face hath known no workings of the god ; 
 It is an unsacked city. Ye are fools, 
 Duped by a stolen nebris. 
 
 Dione. She came here 
 
124 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 To join our company ; she would not die 
 Till she had owned the Bromian, and bound 
 One who was witness of the sacrifice, 
 A mighty novice, to proclaim the king. 
 
 2nd Mcenad. Where is he ? Where ? All men have 
 mocked at us. 
 We have come back half-murdered from the town, 
 Coresus hath forsaken us ; he thought 
 No more of the barbarian women when 
 The Greek's white bosom glistened Woe to us ! 
 Far are our homes across the sea, our priest 
 Is slain. Woe, woe ! Our god delivers not. 
 
 Machaon [advancing]. Most mightily he succours. 
 Shame on ye, 
 Doubting your great divinity, the while 
 Cursed Calydon breathes the young spring-tide air. 
 I saw Coresus die ; your great priest fell, 
 As Semele sank glowing with the god ; 
 Life flooded him ; he was immersed in life. 
 The power 
 
 That draws the white milk bubbling to your mouths 
 From the hard scaurs, brake out munificent 
 From kindled lips : this girl stayed not to weep, 
 Stooped not to kiss her lover ; she stood up 
 Pleading, inspired, prophetic, eloquent, 
 Inciting the great multitude to praise 
 The city's saviour and Coresus dead. 
 
 i st Mcenad. She is a Maenad ; she is one of us ! 
 
 Machaon. She would not slay herself where the great life 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 125 
 
 Had been laid down, though passionate to die. 
 She came here to the woods, and finding me, 
 Bound me to be your leader. Solemnly 
 I swore to bear true witness to the deeds 
 I had beheld. Believe me, I have looked, 
 Looked deep into your secret things, and own 
 The rustic deity who pressed the grape 
 A god that makes humanity august, 
 Fulfilling it with mystery and joy. 
 
 Monads. We take you, we accept you as our priest. 
 
 Dione. The holy ritual . . . 
 
 Machaon. Shall be observed. 
 
 If man need god as his ideal self, 
 He needs the picture of his life sublimed ; 
 And we will put 
 
 Before men's eyes the picture of high deeds, 
 Their hearts will emulate. They shall see acts 
 Like hers, who poured her unpolluted life 
 A frank libation ; shall again behold 
 Coresus, with the sacrificial knife, 
 And how he sheathed it. We will praise the god 
 By sculpture of the deeds he hath inspired ; 
 Yet not in fixity, for you shall track 
 Each passion from its quick'ning to its pyre ; — 
 Desires that momently disclose themselves, 
 In chasmic shock, as the Symplegades 
 Rift to the Euxine, must be held apart, 
 As by Athene's cleaving arms, access 
 Forced to the inmost heart. In you I see 
 
126 CALLIRRHOE. 
 
 Human emotion, action in the rough ; 
 
 Your agitated gestures shall become 
 
 Rhythmic in tidal refluence, your hoarse shrieks 
 
 Sonorous intonations. Ye shall dance 
 
 And thunder in your mighty mountain hymns, 
 
 While I recount 
 
 The Evian conflicts, victories, and ye, 
 
 With glorious inroad of irruptive praise, 
 
 In chorus shall conclude the chronicle. 
 
 Do ye accept the doom, ye Bacchanals ? 
 
 Mcenads. Take us, your garland-bearing company, 
 Adown the heights \ their echoes shall resound 
 With flute and timbrel, and triumphant shout. 
 
 Machaon. Soon as the sunrise vexes your closed eyes, 
 Spring from your coverts ; rouse the sisterhood, 
 And, parting into ordered ranks your band, 
 Assemble here, that we, in solemn train, 
 May bear this maiden down the wooded steeps 
 Of Calydon for burial. 
 
 Dione. The faun ? 
 
 Machaon. Hush, hush ! 
 I'll bury him at day-break in the wood 
 While the dew keeps all quiet. Now, begone. 
 
 [Exeunt Dione and Mcenads. 
 The white troops through the moonlight steal away ; 
 The last pale nebris glimmers on the hills. 
 Now can I bare myself 
 To the white skin o' my spirit unto thee, 
 Great Evius ! — finding not the wherewithal 
 
CALLIRRHOE. 1 27 
 
 To worship by the altar, but in life. 
 
 As I am Bacchanal, I will relax 
 
 No effort till mankind be broken in 
 
 By discipline of pleasure to true want 
 
 In commerce and in dream. — There is a stir 
 
 I* the heap of leaves. A few more silver hours, 
 
 And I must put them both away from me ; — 
 
 Callirrhoe 
 
 Must go to her Coresus ; and the boy — 
 
 I'll lay him in the sunny grass-plot, where 
 
 No other faun shall vex him with its dance. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Henry, King of England. 
 
 Wilfred de Lacy, a knight. 
 
 Jose de Lacy, brother to Wilfred. 
 
 Sir Topaz, an old knight 
 
 Mavis, an architect. 
 
 Michael, Keeper of tfye Kings forest. 
 
 Elinor, Queen of England. 
 Rosamund, foster-daughter to Michael. 
 Margery, foster-sister to Rqsamund. 
 Beatrix, betrothed tq Wilfred. 
 Ellen Greene, a witcfi. 
 
 Masons, Courtiers. 
 
 Scene. — At Woodstock and London. 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 As toiling Hercules forced Hell's grim door, 
 And viewed the nether mysteries of fate ; 
 So doth the buskin'd Muse of tragic lore 
 Burst through the ancient adamantine gate 
 That gives to night the secrets of the past. 
 Listen ! She opens rounded mouth to tell 
 A thing, unguessed before — revealed at last. 
 She whom our first Plantagenet too well 
 Loved, and for whom he built the marble maze, 
 Was no rich crimson beauty of old line, 
 As fabled in proud histories and lays ; 
 No Clifford, as 'tis boasted ; but, in fine, 
 A girl o' the country, delicately made 
 Of blushes and simplicity and pure, 
 Free ardour, of her sweetness unafraid \ 
 For Rosa Mundi — of this truth be sure — 
 Was nature's Rose, not man's : as ye shall see 
 In this sad tale of lovers' destiny. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. — Woodstock. Masons raising the Labyrinth. 
 Enter at a distance King Henry and Mavis. 
 
 i st Mason. Yonder is the King. 
 
 2nd Mason. He's aged of late. 
 
 ist Mason. Ay, ay ! about the face ; his fiery hair 
 Is dimmed as if by smoke ; his hollow eye 
 Is like a haughty general's retreat. 
 Yet is he stout in body, well-nigh young. 
 
 2nd Mason. Some note he stoops a little i' the back 
 Since he was whipped in church. 
 
 ist Mason. Dare-devil, peace ! 
 
 He's straight enough ; it is the monks that squint. 
 
 2nd Mason. Mum, mum ! 
 
 ist Mason. Why, wherefore ? 
 
 2nd Mason. 'Cause the sun's come out 
 
 That wakens us to labour in the glance 
 O' Master Mavis' eye. 
 
 Mavis. My gracious liege. . . . 
 
136 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 King Henry. Thou hast a spider's entrails for thy brain, 
 To spin me such a web. 
 
 Mavis. Upon that Cretan wonder did I think, 
 That held the misbegotten Minotaur, 
 Until — so worked my fancy on its shape — 
 Abortive circles built I airily, 
 And founded hoary walls as in a dream. 
 I entered the dim vistas, saw above 
 The ribboned sky 
 
 Blue as the fillets of a troop of girls. 
 'Twas magic certainty directed me 
 To the mid-chamber, straight as arrow takes 
 The eye o' the target ; and Conception stood 
 Above my dreams, their secret throughly solved. 
 
 Sir Topaz. I take it, Master Mavis, that you are what 
 they call a genius, for your talk is warm as a summer's 
 day. 
 
 Mavis. I spoke too freely. Pardon, gracious sire. 
 There's many a page within the head our tongue 
 Should skip as reader. 
 
 Sir Topaz. Now I do believe I've touched some quick, 
 and given some unconjecturable pain. On my faith, 
 good fellow, I know not what I have done. My apology 
 is an infant — 'tis that innocent. 
 
 Mavis. Oh, nothing, sir. Twas I that cut myself 
 With a knife that's in my mouth. 
 
 Sir Topaz. Pardy, I'm grieved to the heart if I 
 offended. And 'tis so fair a building— a very rose — you've 
 carved on the ground. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 37 
 
 K. Hen. A what ? 
 
 Sir Topaz. So many curves, circular and broken, I 
 said, sire, the building was in that respect like a rose. 
 
 K. Hen. Oh, ay ! the garden rose, our cultured rose, 
 That's folded up in crimson like a queen. 
 Ay, ay ! Then, Master Architect, I'd know 
 How many days before your labour's close ? 
 
 Mavis. Five, gracious liege, if every sinew work 
 From dawn to midnight, spite of curfew's toll 
 Above the hooded forest ; on such terms 
 Will incompletion yield. 
 
 K. Hen. And such we grant, 
 
 Though hard upon your craftsmen and yourself; 
 Necessity is on her knees to us 
 That we should use ye harshly. 
 
 Mavis. Be it so. 
 
 Sir Topaz. Ah, ah ! He'll be right glad when 'tis 
 finished. 
 
 Mavis. No ; for my toil hath flushed Time's langui 
 cheek. 
 
 K. Hen. I'd have ye mark yon varlets ! Make them 
 skip 
 With energy of blows, and never spare. 
 Each moment is my prey the dogs should seize ; 
 I will not brook the loss. 
 
 Mavis. Your servant, sire 
 
 [Moves towards the masons. 
 
 K. Hen. Sir Topaz. . . . 
 
 Sir Topaz. Sire. 
 
I3 S FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 K. Hen. I think you never married ? 
 
 Sir Topaz. Nay. Nor have I within me that which 
 could be quickened into the desire. 
 
 K. Hen. So proof against the arrow-headed pangs ? 
 
 Sir Topaz, Tis thus. The woman-child died I loved 
 as a lad, and my love never grew after. Tis a little 
 thing of her size. 
 
 K. Hen. Oh ! then you know Love's root as well as 
 flower ; 
 The hidden cords that darkling bind the heart 
 With hungry vehemence and never loose. 
 Oh ! they may pluck and smell the joyful red 
 Of golden-scented blossom, call it love ; 
 But there are fibres down, down in the depths, 
 That never shall be moved, by which it lives. 
 
 Sir Topaz. Constancy . . . 
 
 K. Hen. I did not speak of that, I spoke of love 
 When planted in the red soil of the heart ; 
 Of its insatiate girth ; of Rosamund, 
 And how she's everywhere about my soul. 
 I think I told you once how first we met. 
 She gathered cherry-blossoms, and I bent 
 The bough to her; when, lo! — just where they bunched — 
 Whitest, there hid a little hand more white, 
 I kissed it, and her upturned face grew white 
 To swooning, and the breath stood at her lips. 
 I longed to be a soul from Holy Land, 
 With shrift won at the Holy Sepulchre ; 
 To touch her flesh made me a penitent ; 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 39 
 
 The pressure of that kissing broke the seal 
 To all the wine that filled the stony jar 
 Of my unused past. To her I was 
 No king of men — only the great Lord Love, 
 To whom she gave, as she were born to it, 
 Unthinking loyalty. I've never known 
 Such homage, only sullen tolerance 
 And darkest-featured hate. 
 
 Sir Topaz. My dear liege, you have ever made light 
 of your griefs. 
 
 K. Hen. Because I was a loveless man and blind. 
 Vain, flippant men have tied round Cupid's eyes 
 The badge of their own shame ; his heavenly orbs 
 See fairest things where others scarce see fair, 
 Behold in darkness sooty hells more deep. 
 
 Sir Topaz. Sire, these words afflict me beyond speech. 
 Is there any service you can put me to, aught you can 
 trust to an old man's care ? 
 
 K. Hen. Yes, yes ; my love, the bright gold of my 
 heart, 
 Be thou its treasurer, — be that which I 
 Would give my heart to be. 
 
 Sir Topaz. Warden of the labyrinth and guardian of 
 the lady ! With joy, and in all fidelity. 
 
 K. Hen. 'Tis well ; I shall remember. But to give 
 This charge unto another is as hard 
 As to pull life and arrow from the breast 
 Together. Sooth, I am too heavy-souled 
 That I should stumble 'gainst thy kindliness 
 
I4-0 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 With such a clown's heel of ingratitude. 
 
 O honest Topaz, as complete my trust 
 
 In thee as is my perfect love to her. 
 
 Full well I know thou'lt dragon all my wealth, 
 
 That none shall be enriched. Yet solitude 
 
 May gyve thy days as iron. Will it ? Speak. 
 
 Sir Topaz, Oh, HI marry Seclusion for the sake of 
 getting famous progeny — Meditation — Peace, 
 
 K. Hen. Why should I ask ? Was it a country lass ? 
 
 Sir Topaz What lass ? 
 
 K. Hen. She thou didst . . . 
 
 Sir Topaz. Ay, ay ! 
 
 K. Hen. So long ago ! and after all at peace ! 
 Come, we must hasten back. Ho, Mavis, there ! 
 Five days ! 
 
 Mavis. As said, so be it, gracious liege. 
 
 Scene II. — Woodstock, by the Forester's hut. Enter 
 Rosamund and Margery. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis wonderful to see 'em dance . . . 
 
 Ros. And strange 
 
 That I may never see an elf, although 
 I roam at evening underneath the trees, 
 And love their crumpled gloom. 
 
 Mar. Oh, you should see ! 
 
 Ros. Ah, if I could. What is it in thine eyes ? 
 Why, 'tis their magic black, the naughty hue 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 141 
 
 Beloved 
 
 Of shy hob-goblins. 
 
 Mar. You are blue, and safe ? 
 
 Eos. Safe from enchantment ? Yes, or nearly so. 
 I never see the fairies. 
 
 Mar. Secretly 
 
 You take that light green path, — I've seen you there, — 
 An' look behind you ; an' I laughed and thought, 
 " She thinks none sees the elves dance but herself." 
 I've watched for you as weasel from its hole, 
 Behind the mossy wall, an' dare not speak, 
 You came along so new and wonderful. 
 It must have been the elves. 
 
 Eos. Go, Margery ; 
 
 The fire is low, and father's supper-time ! 
 
 Mar. He likes you best to wait on him. 
 
 Eos. Peace ! go ! 
 
 [Exit Margery within. 
 I'm fretful . . . and my father turned 
 Once, when we stood together by the door, — 
 We always settle in the sunset so, 
 And do not speak, — that night he turned and went 
 Into the house, as I had not been there. 
 My heart stood still to hear him . . . 
 Henry ! 
 
 The old when lonely must be very lone ; 
 They sit and watch so patient by the fire, 
 And there is none to come to them save Death. 
 I'll back directly, for I love him more 
 
142 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Not less, though I'm so hard, with better love, 
 Bright coin — the king's face shining on it clear — 
 Not the worn pieces. Yonder is the beech ! 
 I play sometimes when it is very long 
 Wi' the tiny urns, and say they hold my tears. 
 
 [Exit behind the trees. 
 [Enter Wilfred.] 
 
 Wil. This must be the hut — the nest of sticks where 
 is found the King's dove. Ha, ha ! famously said. 
 But I saw him, like a hawk, and his pigeon can't escape. 
 I spied him, and 'twill make my fortune with the Queen. 
 Down in the midst of the trees he toyed with her and 
 kissed her — pat ! — as I looked. Ha ! ha ! I saw but 
 little of that joust of lips, the crimson couples tilted too 
 far off; yet I was witness, and my fortune's made. I'll 
 knock, and use my eyes. [Knocks. 
 
 [Enter Margery from within.'] 
 Fair damsel, pardon me ; such sudden light 
 Is dazzling — 
 
 Mar. Please you, enter sir ; the sun 
 Shines as one cannot bear it on the face. 
 It's dark inside. 
 
 Wil. [aside]. The blessed simpleton ! 
 What eyes ! — to stir one's blood — and shapely cheek, 
 As brown and red and dimpled as an apple. 
 We'll have an hour together in the wood. 
 [Aloud] Your father is within ? 
 
 Mar. He's late to-night. 
 
 Wil. Has he a fair young dog ? 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. I43 
 
 Mar. Our Blanche has pups. 
 
 I play with them. 
 
 Wil. No other playfellows ? 
 
 Mar. What, have you guessed ? — the fairies ! 
 
 Wil. On my soul ! 
 
 Do you dance with them ? Tell me where they break 
 The ring to let you in to be their queen. 
 Ay? 
 
 Mar. By the beeches. 
 
 Wil. Where the old wall lies 
 
 Half ruined? 
 
 Mar. Yes. 
 
 Wil. At this end or at that ? 
 
 Mar. Right yonder, all among the elders there. 
 You'd never see 'em. They are very shy, 
 I fancy. But they like me ; so I'd make 
 A little cap each. Look ! I'm sewing it. 
 This bit o' red. I see you wear red, sir. 
 
 Wil. A plume of red, but this is iron mail. 
 I'll let you handle it. — Ah ! who comes here ? 
 Who's that ? 
 
 [Re-enter Rosamund.} 
 
 Mar. My sister — and so beautiful, 
 
 You'll like to see her. 
 
 Wil. Little hypocrite ! 
 
 You've got too bright an eye to wish it matched. 
 [Aside] Oh ! but she's beautiful, and yet withal 
 Too self-sufficient ; one of Nature's prudes, 
 Who wrap their beauty round them as a cloak, 
 
144 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Nor wave it as a veil. This browner girl 
 Is Nature's very wanton — will be mine. 
 [Aloud] Good even. Shall I say it is mischance 
 Compels me speak of business that would be 
 Of interest to your father, though to you 
 Indifferent — or Heaven's peculiar grace 
 That gives me vision of two lovely maids 
 Who came to choose a setter ?-^-for I've heard 
 Your father breeds such. 
 
 Has. It is accident. 
 
 I'm sorry father's out. Yet since I come 
 To lay his supper, I can give you hope 
 You have not journeyed bootless. Sit, sir knight ! 
 
 Mar [aside]. Sir knight ! 
 
 Wil. Nay, rather kneel— thus. 
 
 Ros. Compliments 
 
 Are here ill-breeding. We are simple folk, 
 And I am no court-lady. 
 
 Mar. Rosamund ! 
 
 But very pretty. 
 
 Wil. Ladies ! Name them not ; 
 
 There is not one to match you. Why, the heave 
 Of your green vesture sets desire to think 
 On the globing water-lilies underneath 
 Their buds' enthralment ; while my city dames 
 Trick the round swell with gauds and broidery, 
 Befooling eager gaze — 
 
 Ros. I'm maiden, sir, 
 
 As well as no court-lady. 
 
UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 ^LIFORH^ 
 
 FAIR ROSAMUND. 145 
 
 WiL I'll affect 
 
 Clownishness, if it please you. — I will watch 
 Yon forester until I'm churl in full. 
 [Enter Michael.'] 
 
 Michael. Ay, ay ! how now, wench ? 
 
 Eos. Father! . . . 
 
 WiL [aside]. Why, her eyes 
 
 Flash to him as the lightning to a stump ; 
 And yet she is the minion of a king ! 
 
 Mar. He wants a dog. 
 He's a sir knight. 
 
 Mich. Ay, ay ! the least of the pups. 
 
 He shall not have the brown one with a star. 
 
 WiL Old man, I'd see your dogs — for such you 
 breed, 
 The country-side allows, as none about. 
 
 Mich. Your honour's servant and King Henry's slave. 
 WiL 'Tis for the Queen. 
 
 Mich. Her humble slave. I've got 
 
 Some few behind the hatch. 
 
 WiL I'll come. — You've bred 
 
 The fairest daughters of the country-side. 
 
 Mich. Oh, ah ! the brownie's mine. It was a wench 
 Like nuts I wedded, an' so full of prayers 
 I always had my luck. The comely one — 
 Why, she's my fosterling : her father, sir, 
 A man-at-arms ; her mother ! never saw 
 So fine a woman — just as red and white 
 As any lady born. I'll ask you, sir, 
 
 L 
 
146 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 To step behind. An' girls, for shame, go in ! 
 
 [Exeunt Wilfred and Michael. 
 
 Ros. Margery ! 
 
 Mar. I cannot come. I'll creep 
 
 Behind 'em. 
 
 Ras. No ; it is not maidenly 
 
 To be so free with strangers. 
 
 Mar. What a man ! 
 
 With such big, ugly cheeks, like father's bull ; 
 And did you see his great damp curls, an's eyes ? 
 Such eyes that roll about you — 
 
 Ros. Margery, 
 
 Be quiet ! He's a wicked man. Don't speak 
 About his face. 
 
 Mar. He's nasty ; but he talks 
 
 As kind as can be for a gentleman. 
 
 Ros. [aside]. O Henry ! [aloud] They are coming 
 back. We'll go. 
 
 [Exeunt Rosamund and Margery. 
 
 Scene III. — Winchester: a room within the Palace. 
 Enter Queen Elinor and the Princes Henry and Richard. 
 
 Queen Elinor. Upon the yellow ground of Africa 
 Young lions tear each other ; so these sons, 
 Whom I, above all women, in my pride, 
 May proudly claim my offspring, wage a strife 
 Each against each. I care not. 'Tis the blood 
 Insurgent of their equal parentage. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 147 
 
 P. Henry [to Richard\ Ud's death ! Thou wilt defy 
 me to my face, 
 Deny my birthright and my crown's right too, 
 Because, forsooth, we're brothers — you who crawled 
 Behind me into light, who took the path 
 Which I discovered, in that very act 
 Sealing yourself my follower — bound to keep 
 A year's step lower in the court of Time ; 
 You to whose brow no golden circle gave 
 It's pledge of loyalty ; you, you to brag ! — 
 
 Q. Elin, Urged like my own young monarch. 
 
 P. Rich. Glorious fool ! 
 
 That cannot match a thunderstorm in noise 
 For all thy clapping lungs ! I'll sing you still. 
 My blood is wine that ran from the same press 
 As your bright liquor ; and the vessel ! — see, 
 I'm broad and tall as you ! Ay, mother ? 
 
 Q. Elin. Yes. 
 
 My thumb's nail taller. 
 
 P. Rich. Holding so much more 
 
 Of the blue juice of royalty. Nay, nay ; 
 Ennoble not your heels — those labourers 
 O' the soil. It were a shame. 
 
 P. Hen. I'll make yours fly. 
 
 P. Rich. Why then my knees would stand. 
 
 Q. Elin. The lion-heart ! 
 
 P. Rich. Yea, get me prone, my spirit still would rise 
 Erect before you, spite of the false show. 
 Kill me — I'd face you as a spectre tall 
 
148 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 With chin that topped your mouth. 
 
 Q. Elin. Divinely bold ! 
 
 P. Rich. I'll never yield in heaven, on earth, in hell. 
 
 P. Hen. Thou shalt by everything immovable, 
 The throne of God and Satan 's iron roof ! 
 I swear thou shalt. 
 
 P. Rich. By all that never yields, 
 
 The punishment of fiends and sinners' dole, 
 I swear I never will. 
 
 P. Henry. IVe sworn. 
 
 P. Rich. But I 
 
 Swore many days ago. Ha, ha, my oath 
 Is first-born and the heir of Fate. 
 
 Q. Elin. Well put, 
 
 My own young warrior. 
 
 P. Hen. Pll turn the edge 
 
 Of thy own sword against thee, as I live. 
 In Aquitaine 
 
 Bertram de Born, the troubadour, is mad 
 Beneath thy scorpion rule. I'll use his rage 
 
 P. Rich. OrTal ! 
 
 P. Hen. Then shalt thou eat of it. 
 
 P. Rich. Sweet cook ! 
 
 Q. Elin. Ha, ha ! 
 
 P. Hen. , S'death, I will waste no further threats — 
 No comets of my passion — but thou'lt know 
 Destruction and remember how they flared. 
 I'll to De Born. 
 
 P. Rich. And I to Aquitaine. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 49; 
 
 P. Hen. [shaking his fist]. My sign of parting. 
 
 P. Rich. Mine. 
 
 Q. Elin. Now here's a cheek 
 
 For each — and kiss me both together — so, 
 My mouth is herald 'tween the lips arrayed 
 In double line of battle on each side. 
 Farewell — Farewell ! Thank God you have repaid 
 My flesh and blood in you with usury. 
 
 P. Hen. I'll force his homage. 
 
 P. Rich. I'll bring down his pride 
 
 Q. Elm. They feed my heart ! [Exeunt severally. 
 [Enter Beatrix.] 
 
 Beatrix. Your majesty. 
 
 Q'. Elin. Oh pray 
 
 For motherhood ; it is the golden thread 
 On which are strung the ages 
 
 Beat. Gracious Queen ! 
 
 Q. Elin. Time works within our wombs as in the 
 depths 
 Of earth the miner. There are found the gems 
 He wears before the light, and there the dross 
 That makes the dull pile of oblivion.— 
 Well? 
 
 Beat. I am bidden ask your instant leave 
 To hear De Lacy speak 
 
 Q. Elin. You velvet moth, 
 
 Of you ? I will not listen to his suit. 
 He only lures with flame to drown in oil 
 Of dull neglect. Man's lamp of love is set 
 
150 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Ever to such low issues. 
 
 Beat. Not of me — 
 
 Of matter fitting but your private ear 
 He chafes to speak. My dearest sovereign, you 
 Should hold so stout a liegeman in regard, 
 Your service is his very stuff of life, 
 The yarn of all his time. He would be nothing 
 Without your favour. The King loves him not. 
 
 Q. Elin. Oh, the King loves none. 
 
 Beat. I fear he's deep in love. 
 
 Q. Elin. The King in love ! It was my hope that 
 morn — 
 You rode the spotted palfrey — I the grey — 
 My bridegroom with the bright half-rubied hair — 
 Woman, you must remember how we saw, 
 Our lover on the knoll, above the bend 
 O' the road, ere he was 'ware of us. Ah me ! 
 You bring me news my Henry is in love ? 
 His youngest lad 
 Is in his teens — in love ? 
 
 Beat Then shall I call 
 
 Sir Wilfred? 
 
 Q. Elin. Call him ? Ay ; he has a throat 
 
 [Exit Beatrix. 
 That's loud, and shame must have a trumpeter, 
 Or never march at all. 
 
 [Re-enter Beatrix with Wilfred.'] 
 [To Wilfred.'] The King's in love— 
 With you or me ? 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 151 
 
 Wil. Nay, 'tis a snooded girl 
 Down i' the country, coloured like a rose. 
 I burn as hell to speak it — how they kissed 
 And hung together 
 
 Beat. Mercy ! 
 
 Wil. In a wood — 
 
 He pressed her to his heart with panting voice 
 That out-ran language. 
 
 Beat. And the little wretch ? 
 
 Wil. Was eager as a devil. 
 
 Beat. Fie, I'm sick 
 
 Of horror and disgust. 
 
 Q. Elin. Thank God for boys ! 
 
 To have reared a treasonous brood from his own blood, 
 To have it at my call ! John laughs in 's face ; 
 'Tis a fierce pup 
 
 My first ; he'll fasten where I bid, relax 
 When Death or I cry Loose ; Oh, I am glad 
 To have the record of those ancient moods 
 Writ clear 
 
 In my boys' faces. That first ecstasy 
 Of anger, then the weak drift of despair 
 In puling Godfrey. From a fire of tears 
 Leapt out my Lion-heart ! 
 When I again conceived, my flesh was cold, 
 I bred a coward ! 
 
 [To Wilfred.] Come, a covenant ; 
 Join hands ! . . . My Beatrix, 
 I toss her, a bright posy from my breast, 
 
152 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 The day, the very hour, I've smoothed her limbs. 
 This . . . Let me loose on her ! . . . 
 Speak fast ! Direct me ! I have sown i' my sons 
 The whirlwind of my nature ; he will reap. 
 This doe of the forest — my peculiar prey — 
 With silver-arrow'd death she must be pierced ; 
 The wronged Dian must behold her bleed ! 
 I have not shared the King's love o f the chase ; 
 It 'gins to stir in me. 
 
 \_Enter Henry. ~\ 
 
 My lord, these twain 
 Have kept me all the morning with their loves. 
 Will you not bless them ? 
 
 K. Hen. Love alone can bless : 
 
 Not kings. — Sir knight, 
 Be merry. Of twain studies one must be 
 For ease, one for attainment. You'll pass days 
 Too strenuous at task with life and love. 
 Love therefore as a pastime, — this fair dame 
 Your mistress of the revels. Joy to each ! . 
 
 \_Exeuiit Beatrix and Wilfred. 
 
 Q. Elin. A pastime ! From experience you speak ? 
 
 K. Hen. I never have concerned myself with love. 
 Where's John ? 
 
 Q. Elin. Why, with his retinue of fools. 
 
 Best set an ape 
 
 Before base things, since whatso'er he sees 
 Must fall a prey 
 To the antics of his visage. Do you need 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 153 
 
 One to make mock of majesty? 
 
 K. Hen. The boy, 
 
 Where is he ? Tell me where. O Elinor, 
 Consider : you have Henry, the young king, 
 To dote on ; grant this favour to mine age, 
 Let be our youngest boy — leave the soft wax 
 Of 's heart unimpressed by your virulence. 
 He calls me " father," — I who bear an old 
 Usurper's aspect to your fiery three, 
 Plant not your poison in him. 
 
 Q. Elm. With my milk 
 
 He sucked it. The soft-browed deceptive lad 
 You munch with kissing dogs his brothers' heels 
 And licks allegiance to them. You're disgraced 
 Suing for love as humbly on your knees 
 As once for pardon at your Becket's tomb. 
 A piteous whine ! — " Love me, my little son, 
 Or heart will burst " — a sorry spectacle ! 
 I have a king to dote on — a young king ! 
 I tell you to your face, that boy of ours 
 Crowned Henry has my love, because he has 
 My bridegroom's eyes ;— but for the rest, my lord, 
 You're old to think of love ; when you were young 
 You thought not of it. 
 
 K. Hen. I embraced your lands, 
 
 Not you. 
 
 Q. Elin. Plantagenet, you wronged yourself 
 As you had made the day and night your foe, 
 And roused 
 
154 FAI R ROSAMUND. 
 
 The violated seasons to confer 
 
 Each his peculiar catastrophe 
 
 Of death or pestilence — Embraced my lands / 
 
 I'll shatter you 
 
 As Nature shatters — you, as impotent 
 
 As the uprooted tree to lash the earth 
 
 That flings its griping roots out to the air. 
 
 And plants it burgeoned summits in the soil. 
 
 Embraced my lands ! — Ah, I forget myself — 
 
 The loveless are insensate to presage ; — 
 
 'Tis in calamity's harsh stubble-field, 
 
 They learn to suffer. I'll be harvester, 
 
 And sickle your ripe joys. Embraced my lands ! 
 
 Had you embraced me, I had borne you fruit 
 
 Of soft-fleshed children. Hug the progeny 
 
 Of your stony lust, and curse me! [Exit. 
 
 K. Hen, She forgets — 
 
 When she is gone, — dear bliss ! — the thought of her 
 Lies not a stinking corpse about my heart. 
 The loved or loathed may haunt us. Who oppress, 
 Are mortal in remembrance : being past 
 As sultry day that kept the air in bond, 
 I can breathe free. How beautiful 
 To have the mind a solitude for love ! 
 Mine's clamorous as a camp — one silken tent 
 Close-curtained, secret . . . Rosamond ! 
 
 [Enter Courtier. 
 
 Cour. A man 
 
 Would see you, sire, — a haggard, bright-eyed knave, 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 155 
 
 With rapid tongue. 
 
 K. Hen. I know him. Bring him in. 
 
 [Exit Courtier. 
 The architect [Re-enter Courtier with Mavis. 
 
 We would be private. Go. [Exit Courtier. 
 
 Mavis. ' Tis done, and this the eve of the fifth day. 
 All ready. 
 
 K. Hen. Come within. Yon door hath ears 
 Of human shape. Be dumb ! This very night 
 I'll ride with Topaz to the Oxford woods. 
 Come, follow ! thou dost pant ; I'll give thee wine. 
 
 [Exeunt within. 
 
 Scene IV. — Woodstock. Moonlight. Rosamund asleep 
 under a beech-tree. Enter on the other side Michael. 
 
 Mich. Ay, ' tis a fair night — as much day as can be, 
 only a bit dark i' the corners like. ' Tis warm, too, for a 
 night o' May — wonderful soft and dry. — Now what is the 
 dog a-snuffing at ? Here, Blanche, here ! We must stop 
 for no game. . * . 'Tis late belike, an' the wenches 
 are a-bed. 
 
 [Enter King Henry behind the bushes.} 
 
 K. Hen. Is't a hobgoblin, this black, crooked shape ? 
 The dog that snuffs about yon single drift 
 Of snowy womanhood, a thing bewitched ? 
 I will protect her from all enmities. 
 Stand ! 
 
156 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Mich. Robbers, robbers, robbers ! I'm trapped ; 
 I've naught ! — God help ! [Exit inflight. 
 
 K. Hen. ' Tis only some belated peasant. There ! 
 He's gone. — She sleeps as innocence, and I 
 Her lion-shield. So young — so still ! O Sleep, 
 Thou lover pressing closer while we live, 
 Than any other bedfellow on earth, 
 I'm jealous of thy hold on her dear limbs, 
 Thy intimate warm clasp. Ah, but she dreams ! 
 Divine to watch 
 
 The course of her dreams, and by the rising flush 
 Mark the king's entrance. Soon as she awakes 
 I'll worship her ! — in worship's fiery clime 
 Desire 's a child audacious, innocent, 
 And knows not it is naked. Sweet, so close, 
 And I can let thee fondle with my shade ! 
 One kiss, the trembling whisper of a touch, 
 And we're together ! [Kisses her. 
 
 Ros. Prison ! No, — there's air ! 
 
 O Henry ! 
 
 K. Hen. Love ! 
 
 Ros. You left me desolate, 
 
 And in a prison. Still mine eyes are wet 
 With their leave-taking tears. 
 
 K. Hen. What, weep to-night, 
 
 Your birthday ? Rose, you are a woman now ; 
 You love the king — how much ? 
 
 Ros. The stars must count. 
 
 K. Hen. You'd do me homage, Rose, 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 57 
 
 Were you the lady of broad lands ; what vows 
 Shall I require of you who hold in fief 
 My heart's wide realm ? 
 
 Ros. I give you of myself 
 
 All, all there is — and for the rest, my love. 
 
 K. Hen. And you will swear me over-lord of all 
 The womanhood 
 That Time's good sword shall win for you ? 
 
 Ros. Ay, all. 
 
 How should I know 
 That I am girl, or, if you'll have it so, 
 With this May-moon rise woman, save for love ? 
 
 K. Hen. The moon \jvrapping her in his cloak] 
 For touching this white shoulder must be banned ! 
 Let's to the deeper woods ! The nightingale ! 
 Dost hear that urgent note ? — a thorny sigh, 
 A prick sets bliss to bleed, desire too sharp 
 For tolerance — a pang. 
 
 Ros. I'm curious 
 
 To learn what happens to the nightingales 
 At daybreak. Henry, do their gurgling throats 
 Stop like a torrent when it turns to rest 
 Under green leaves ? 
 
 K. Hen. In the nest all grows still. 
 
 I've built a fair bower-nest for thee, my bird, 
 And there we'll mate. 
 Come, 'tis a little deeper in the wood, 
 And nearer to its heart. 
 
 Ros. I love you here 
 
158 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Where the beech is and the sun. I will not go 
 Where I have never loved you. 
 
 K. Hen. Ha ! Not come ? 
 
 Who is it orders ? God, with those clasped hands 
 She's forging mail to keep me from her heart. 
 You love me in the woods ! — a summer love ! 
 You shall love me in the winter, in the world, 
 Where'er I will ; what pain I put you to. 
 You shall not choose. Is this your loyalty ? 
 And you'll not go 
 
 Where you have never loved me ! In the camp, 
 The palace, I can find no spot of life 
 Where I have " never loved." Where'er I am 
 Is Love — the famished child you will not feed. 
 Come, come ! Ah, Rose, you cannot know the pain ! 
 
 . . . If you'll not come, 
 I'll burn the bower, ride off to the wars, 
 Make havoc till I perish. 
 
 l?os. It fulfils 
 
 My dream. — You shut me in a prison close — 
 
 Henry, I cannot leave you ; lead me home. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. — Another part of the Wood. Moonlight. Enter 
 Margery. 
 
 Mar. O moon, I love to be afraid, an' see 
 The elder-boughs all white, an' feel alone 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 159 
 
 With my big fear of every bush. The fays 
 
 Will dance to-night, for all is blue and still ; 
 
 There's not a little wind runs from its hole 
 
 To be a mouse among the trees. — Good Lord ! 
 
 There's the black yew I never pass, because 
 
 I know 'tis dreadful underneath — I'll run ! 
 
 Yes, there's the stone ! Yes, yes — an' there are they 
 
 The honey-elves ! 
 
 [Lies, and watches the fairies dance and sing. 
 
 Fairies. In the moony brake 
 
 When we laugh and wake, 
 And our dance begins, 
 Violets hang their chins 
 Fast asleep — 
 While we laugh and leap. 
 
 Mar. The little wingy circle spins about 
 So that I cannot see 'em in the gloom ; 
 They might be made o' spider's gossamer. 
 
 Fairies. Woodbine-leaves above, 
 Each a tiny dove, 
 Roost upon the bare 
 Winter stems, and there 
 Peaceful cling — 
 While we shout and sing. 
 
 Mar. They've jumped the bonfire glow-worm. Here 
 they come ! 
 Soft ! They will dance upon my hair as moss, 
 And I'll not scratch my head for all their toes. 
 
160 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Fairies. On the rooty earth 
 
 Ferns of April's birth, 
 
 Brown and closely furled, 
 
 Doze like squirrels curled 
 
 Warm and still — 
 
 While we frisk our fill. 
 Mar. Now I can see their scrimped kirtles green, 
 And swinging beads of dew about their necks ; 
 They've not the pretty caps o' Midsummer, 
 Poor midges, — only cowslip-bells, o'er young, 
 That fall at every jerk, an' dirty cups 
 From acorns of last year. 
 I'll make my tiny peaked bonnets red, 
 And see if they will pick 'em from the twigs. 
 Fairies. Hark ! our ears have caught 
 
 Sound of breath and snort 
 
 Near our beechen-tree, 
 
 Mixing carelessly ! 
 
 Sprites away ! 
 
 Fly as if 'twere day ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Mar. They're gone ! I heard a noise ! Oh, oh, oh, oh ! 
 
 If it should come from underneath the yew ! [Faints. 
 
 [Enter Wilfred, leading his horse.'] 
 Wil. By Cupid ! 'tis my nut-brown maid enacts 
 The shrieking owl ! I swore I'd find her here, 
 Watching for silly spirits of the night, 
 That never come at all. My simpleton, 
 My comely rustic fool, to be cajoled, 
 The pleasant way of forcing childishness. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. l6[ 
 
 Words be my only violence to win 
 A lusty little paramour. These churls 
 Are hoodwinked by the language of the great. 
 Each finger is an icicle to touch. 
 I'll wrap her in my cloak, fold her in fur, 
 Before I speak. She's a delicious heap. 
 My cosset ! 
 Mar. [starting]. Rosie ! — Why, I'm not in bed ! 
 
 [Discovering Wilfred] Oh, Oh ! [sods]. 
 
 Wit. My pretty maid, you're in my arms, 
 And I'm the knight to whom you told a tale 
 Of elfin pranks beneath the elder-trees, 
 Just on the strike of midnight. So I came 
 To see among the fairies which is fairest, 
 That I may give her gems and gold and love. 
 I see her ! 
 
 Mar. Sir, ... I think they skipt away . . . 
 A moment back. 
 
 Wit. But one was left behind. 
 
 Mar. You only see some primroses. 
 
 Wit. [aside]. ' Tis thus 
 
 We win the city harlots ; but to-night 
 I'm ineffectual. — [Aloud] ' Tis melancholy 
 Watching for pixies dressed in flow'ry bits — 
 Not much to see, if seen ; while in the town 
 Are ladies trooping all in bodices 
 Of scarlet, jewel-lighted, with their locks 
 Caught in a golden web ; and there they dance 
 With knights unarmed and rustling in silk. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Mar. It must be brave to be in town ! 
 Wil. This dress 
 
 Is poor — it wants an edge of gold ; the stuff 
 Is coarsely woven. If you'd come to town, 
 And let me love you, robes of red and white, 
 With golden fleur-de-lis all over them, 
 I'd give you, and a necklace of bright gold. 
 
 Mar. It must be brave in town ! 
 
 Wil. Oh, but it is ! 
 
 Mar. I'd like to see it very much. 
 
 Wil. And have 
 
 A pretty dress of red ? 
 
 Mar. I've got a cloak 
 
 At home. And this is my old dress. 
 
 Wil, Poor wench ! 
 
 You'd like to have a necklace of bright gold ? 
 
 Mar. Yes, sir ; I've only got a string of eggs. 
 
 Wil. Kiss me ? 
 
 Mar. They've told me to be coy with men. 
 
 Wil. With foresters and peasants, not with knights ; 
 You should do all a gentleman could ask. 
 
 Mar. I'd rather not. 
 Wil. Come, come ! 
 You have not learnt respect, and if you'd have 
 A silken bodice, I must have a kiss. 
 
 Mar. Silk ! 
 
 Wil. And with spangles on 't. — My bait has ta'en ; 
 The body 's caught in raiment as a net. — 
 Kiss me ? 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 163 
 
 Mar. I've never kissed a man before. 
 Wil. Then try how nice it is. [Kisses her. 
 
 Mar, I'd best go home. 
 
 Wil. Nay, but the scarlet and the linen fine, 
 The broidery of wedded gems and gold, 
 The silken vest ? Will you forget them all ? 
 Mar. I can't. 
 
 Wil. Then will you come to town with me ? 
 
 Mar. Ye — s. 
 
 Wil. Or I'll go, and you be left to wear 
 
 Coarse clothing all your life, and have no play 
 But watching leaves or pixies at their dance. 
 
 Mar. I'll run home and put on my better frock. 
 Wil. No ; for we'll have you straightway dressed in 
 white 
 A-glow with lilies. 
 
 Mar. Lilies o' the vale ? 
 
 Wil. Oh, something larger. There, another kiss. 
 One, two — she cannot count them, so I'll take 
 An unrestricted measure. — Come this way. [Exeunt. 
 
 [Re-enter Fairies.] 
 Fairies. Silence ! on the ground 
 Set the toadstools round. 
 Of these mortals twain 
 We to talk will deign, 
 Grave and wise, 
 Till the morning rise. 
 
164 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Scene VI. — Without the Labyrinth. Morning. Enter 
 King Henry and Rosamund. 
 
 K. Hen, Sweet Love, 
 Here we must part. [Taking her hands. 
 
 Oh, brave, unwedded hands, that wear the kiss 
 Of troth-plight for their pledge — a pretty bond ! 
 You have the royal seal of a king's lips 
 At your free service ever. 
 
 Ros. I am glad 
 
 No woman ever spoke to me of love. 
 It's pure 
 Only from burning lips. 
 
 K. Hen. [aside]. Her innocence 
 
 Kept the flame golden ! [Aloud] I have taught you 
 
 well? 
 My bonnie wood-bird, when I'm at the wars, 
 I'll lie in my tent and think of the sweet throat 
 Of the nightingale that swells for me* 
 
 [Kissing her throat*] Again 
 You turn ? Home, sweeting, this is forwardness 
 To stroke my curls and fondle me. 
 We've done with parting, if you glisten so* 
 Unpacking all your sweets before the eyes 
 That must to fast. 
 
 Ros. O Henry, could I lie 
 
 In the green sunshine and sing soft all day 
 The words o' the lute ! 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 65 
 
 The little wood-sorrel and strawberry leaves, 
 I've smiled to see them twinkling with my tears, 
 When I have cried for sound of horse's feet, 
 And the woodpecker provoked me. 
 
 K. Hen. What surprise 
 
 To find my lady in her midmost bower, 
 Loosing from silken fillet, knot by knot, 
 That hair that measures, as I well believe, 
 My royal stature ! When you comb it out, 
 As the rower from the sea strikes sudden light 
 With his oar's motion, every crisped tress 
 Will shimmer into argent. I shall laugh 
 To find you silver-haired. Now to my will. 
 You've wedded a Plantagenet. Seven nights 
 Keep watch in heaven. When your couch is touched 
 With the first moonbeam, take it as a sign 
 That night 
 You lie not lonely. 
 
 Ros. While I live alone 
 
 Let me be free to gossip with the woods. 
 
 K. Hen. My lady keeps her bower. 
 
 Ros. What should you fear ? 
 
 K. Hen. Your father will be seeking you. 
 
 Ros. My lord, 
 
 You would not banish me from sight of him, 
 My fond old foster-father ? He'll ne'er know 
 I slip away from him. I still must tend 
 His gentle childishness, and to my state 
 When the King rides his forests. 
 
1 66 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 K, Hen, Were it my dearest hound that thus let 
 creep 
 A minute 'twixt my word and bidding done 
 
 Ros, I cannot leave my father. He'll not eat 
 If I dress not his food, and Margery 
 So wild and negligent. . . . 
 
 K, Hen, I'll order good Sir Topaz to procure 
 
 [Enter Margery. 
 All comforts for old Michael ; trust me, Rose. 
 Sweetheart, once more farewell. [Exit King. 
 
 Ros, There's Margery ; 
 
 She'll tell me of my father. What ! her cheeks 
 Are peonies ; she looks . . • Where have you been ? 
 Who tricked you in these gauds ? 
 
 Mar. [dancing], A knight ! all gold 
 
 To his horse's knees. It's splendid ! You're in w r hite. 
 How beautiful ! But, sister, I've a man 
 Gave me these pearls, and called 'em mistletoe — 
 A kiss for every one. He's taking me 
 To London on a palfrey. [Stopping before Rosamund. 
 
 Rosamund, 
 Though I'm a child, he's making love to me ; 
 It's like you and the King. 
 
 Ros, The King ! O God ! 
 
 You've been asleep all night, at home ? 
 
 Mar. No, no — 
 
 With Sir Wilfred, and he promised me 
 A frock all blue, with stars, and made me laugh. 
 He'll after me ; the palfrey had a stone 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 67 
 
 In 's foot, and while he pulled it out I peered, 
 
 And something glistened — then I jumped down quick 
 
 And saw . . . don't shudder. Rosie, do you live 
 
 Inside ? Why, it's a palace. He'll come soon. 
 
 Just see, this scarf 
 
 Is gayer than the kingcups. 
 
 Ros. [aside]. A mere child 
 
 Playing with fairies ! 
 
 Mar. Past the cherry-trees 
 
 We rode : the moon was like a candle held 
 To the little slit of light down in our room ! 
 Rosie, I cried to kiss you once, and he — 
 
 [Enter Sir Wilfred, 
 He's coming — held me firm, blew down my ear, 
 " You think none naughty but yourself, you elf ! 
 Your sister can play pranks. She sleeps to-night 
 In a palace with the King." Oh, but it's fine ! 
 
 jRos. [aside]. How can I save her? [Aloud.] Child, 
 leave gambolling, 
 They want to steal and kill you. Take my hand, 
 
 [Catching her hand and turning to the labyrinth. 
 Come, see the pretty palace. 
 
 Sir Wil. [advancing]. Pardon me, 
 
 That lady is my prize, if you're the king's. 
 Your little foster-sister has an eye 
 Of an enchanting wildness. In attire 
 Becoming that brave skin. . . . 
 
 Ros. [gathering Margery in her arms]. Sweet Margery ! 
 Oh, do not look at him. Love, hide your eyes 
 
1 68 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 In my bosom; hush! [To Wilfred. 
 
 You shall not touch the child. 
 The King — his name shall shield her. 
 
 Sir Wil. Ay, 
 
 You bear it proudly. You're his mistress — so ! 
 Queen Elinor shall hear of this. 
 
 Mar. [looking up]. Rose, Rose ! 
 
 Do you not want me go and see the streets, 
 And wear grand jewels? I will stay with you. 
 Don't sob so 'gainst my heart. 
 
 Ros. 1 11 keep the child. [To Margery. 
 
 Sister is lonely ; stay with her. 
 
 Sir Wil. [to Margery]. You little fool, d'you hear? 
 I'll fetch the Queen. 
 She'll frighten you. 
 
 And when she sees your sister here, who keeps 
 The King away, she'll take her by the hair, 
 And bind it round her till it chokes. 
 
 Mar. No, no ! 
 
 She shall not come. 
 
 Ros. You have betrayed the child. 
 
 God curse you for 't 
 
 Mar. Have I done wrong, dear Rose ? 
 
 Sir Wil. [to Rosamund], Fair precedent 
 You've given my audacity. The thing 
 You call her ruin had been triumph if 
 The actress were yourself; no more to her 
 Than rick of a trash goblin. [To Margery^] Margery, 
 You must with me ; and if you're very good, 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 169 
 
 I'll not blab of your sister. If you stay, 
 
 I'll fetch the Queen 
 
 To murder her by inches. 
 
 Mar. [struggling from Rosamund]. Murder Rose ! 
 I'll strike her in the face. [To Rosamund.] He is my man, 
 And I must follow him ! Rose, you'll be safe, 
 He'll not offend me. [Kisses her. 
 
 Ros. [clasping her •, and kneeling to Sir Wilfred]. For our 
 Lady's sake, 
 Leave this wild innocence to me. — 
 
 I've sinned. 
 She's torn 
 Her frock in the briers, and laughs. 
 
 Mar. [struggling]. I'll not with you, 
 With my man ! [Jumping into Wilfreds saddle. 
 
 Good-bye. [Exeunt Sir Wilfred and Margery 
 
 waving her hands. 
 Ros. And I am bound to him, 
 The King and my seducer ! Oh, he loves, — 
 It is not so he loves me ! — 
 
 Margery. 
 He's hard and cruel ; Margery, come back ! 
 
 Nothing to see 
 
 But a trout leap in the stream. [Turns to the labyrinth. 
 
 [Enter Sir Topaz.] 
 
 Top. Mercy ! if there are not folk about, and my 
 
 lady outside the walls. Bless the pretty soul, she looks 
 
 badly. There's been a summer shower on the two roses 
 
I70 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 of her face. My dear damozel, I must lead you back 
 'Tis a strict command I have that you never stray from 
 the door. There's a little garden within, where is broom 
 and what not. Nay, look not so down-hearted. I've 
 planted sunflower and sweet basil against the season. 
 
 JZos. I'm so bewildered. Where in all this green 
 Starts the way home? 
 
 Top. Straight to the door, straight to the door — that 
 is your home. Permit [takes her arm], 
 
 Ros. And will you never let me out again ? 
 
 Top. Nay, nay ; you'll be very happy. And my dear 
 monarch is so full of griefs, I'd rather lose a seat in 
 heaven than put you in peril. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 171 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. — Winchester, A terrace. Enter Queen Elinor, 
 Wilfred, Jose, and Beatrix. 
 
 Q. Elin. When, when ? 
 
 Wil. Not yet have Time and Circumstance 
 
 Engendered their love-child Occasion. 
 Have patience, O my Queen ! 
 
 Q. Elin. Patience and Queen ! 
 
 Thou fool, the words are mortal enemies, 
 As much opposed as Strength and Impotence, 
 Entreaty and Command. I am no queen 
 Then, when I must be patient ; royalty 
 Allows no pause between the will and deed. 
 
 Wil. Pardon ! 
 
 Beat. Yet God is patient. 
 
 Q. Elin. What, my saint ? 
 
 Patient ! God patient ! Does He ever pause? 
 Give me a poison-bowl to mix, a blade 
 To try the edge of — something to prepare. 
 Jose. There's for your silver pious tongue ! 
 
 Beat. We're told 
 
 God's patient with our wickedness. 
 
 Q. Elin. What ! lags 
 
172 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 In preparation ? — puts away His wrath ? 
 Takes ease, as you would bid me now ? You fools ! 
 He whets the hunger ere the sin be hatched 
 Of the dragon that will tear it in our sight. 
 He never waits ! 
 Jose [to Beat.\ Why were you not a nun ? 
 Wil. Because she's tender, and her shining self 
 She'd never make foul weather of in black. 
 Jose. Ha ! ha! 
 Beat. For shame ! 
 
 Wil. Nay, Mistress Beatrix, 
 
 What were my loss | 
 Beat. Then, sir, I'll take the veil. — 
 
 Wil. Of bridal lawn — ay, ay ! 
 Beat. You have me, sir, 
 
 But you must learn to keep a sinless mouth ; 
 I'd have my husband irreproachable. 
 
 Q. Elin. [aside]. To think of it ! — at Woodstock ! — 
 and a home ! 
 He brought me to a place inherited ; 
 For her he's built this palace. — Rosamund ? 
 
 Wil. The name ? 
 
 You have it right. 
 
 Q. Elin. And planned the building. — Walk ! 
 
 Why should we stand ? In pausing we grow cold. 
 
 [They pace apart. 
 [Enter King Henry]. 
 K. Hen. Sons, sons ! She'll dash the words against 
 her mouth, 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 73 
 
 As if to break *t to pieces. And she stirs 
 
 A troop of boys, with tricks of horsemanship 
 
 And set o' the lips that stamp her nuptial faith, 
 
 To mad rebellion. Would she murder them ? 
 
 She is a desperate woman ! Sick at heart 
 
 Of all her wrath, passing yon twines of rose, 
 
 My wont, I tore a handful of the flowers, 
 
 Black, splendid, half malignant as it seemed, 
 
 To throw into her lap, — a gift for queens — 
 
 My first to her, coiled sleeping on her couch. 
 
 When presently she woke, she took the flowers 
 
 And sobbed, " A happy dream ! — the sweet warm 
 
 scent ! — 
 For the king kissed me close, and called me Rose ; " 
 Then tossed them from her with a stormy hand. 
 I heard her singing her Provencal songs 
 For an hour afterwards. Can she suspect ? 
 I dare not try to soften her. She smiles 
 At a deprecating word — as the sword smiles 
 In blades of finest temper. I must keep 
 My majesty. — What news ? \_Enter Messenger. 
 
 Mess. A letter, sire, 
 
 From the third prince, your son* 
 
 K. Hen. Ah ! give it me. [Reads. 
 
 Death-warrant to my heart ! — 
 A call to Aquitaine. O Rosamund ! 
 I'll bear the news myself. He asks my help, 
 f To Mess.] Hence, and be entertained. 
 
 [Advances to Elinor •,] What ! rebel too, 
 
174 FA I R ROSAMUND. 
 
 My tongue ! — Read this. 
 
 Q. Elin. News from the children ? 
 
 K. Hen. Ay 
 
 Your progeny, in arms, war each with each, 
 In most unnatural combat. Our chief son 
 Presses back Richard to the ocean's point, 
 Who prays for help we'll grant him speedily 
 Whom favour you ? 
 
 Q. Elin. Who bears thy name and face 
 
 Is my prime warrior. 
 
 K. Hen. You'd greet me, how, 
 
 If I returned a conqueror ? 
 
 Q. Elin. With shrieks, 
 
 A spectre's welcome. 
 
 K. Hen. What, that 's darkly said. 
 
 HI never slay the first-born of my loins 
 For all his bitter disobedience. 
 I trust you with the guidance of my realm : 
 Be ready for all chance ; leave not the gates 
 Of Winchester. My Queen, the man in you 
 Will keep my honour safe, while I chastise 
 Our rebel offspring. You, good gentlemen, 
 Keep revel as our land were not distraught. 
 I may not tarry longer. Elinor, 
 Pray, not as wife or mother ; pray for peace 
 To our divided hearts. Farewell ! [Exit. 
 
 Wil. ' Tis come ! 
 
 The moment's ripe 
 
 Q. Elin. For vengeance and the deed ! 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 175 
 
 WiL [to Beat.]. My fair, you shudder at the thought 
 of blood. 
 We've work to do. Braid me that favour, sweet ; 
 You promised, and I crave. 
 
 Beat. Nay, I'll to church. [Exit. 
 
 WiL And there we'll meet. — I only know one way 
 To get the door unlocked. 
 
 Q. Elin. None but ourself 
 
 Must murder her. Oh, I am blind with hate ! 
 You'll lead me by the hand ? I could not catch 
 The thread o' the maze. 
 
 WiL I say there is a way. 
 
 Her foster-sister lives within my house, 
 A common wench — but thus she'll serve our turn. 
 She shall be taken to her father's hut — 
 (He'll have her back ; they're grossly lenient, 
 These peasants, in such matters) — which is near 
 To Woodstock and the sylvan labyrinth. 
 There shall she seek her sister, there grow dear 
 To jovial Topaz in his lonely hours. 
 And thus her voice will be our key ; to us 
 He'll double bar the door. 
 
 [To Jose~\. She does not mark. 
 [To Elin.']. Listen, at Woodstock I prepare the toils. 
 [To Jose], Attend the Queen, till at a sign from me 
 You draw her to the precincts of the maze. 
 Give her a gipsy's dress, and thus equipped 
 Yourself, await the doing of the deed, 
 With ready horses, just outside the wood. 
 
17$ FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 I will attend her at the beldam's cot 
 
 Down by the brook — you know it — to the right ; 
 
 There shall the poison brew. 
 
 Jose. And how long hence ? 
 
 WiL I fear me some few weeks, or even more, 
 To make ail straight. But stay you till I send. 
 The king belike will not return for months. 
 
 Jose. I'll off to help you. 
 WiL Look ! she's throttling her. 
 
 Jose. Ah, truly ! Speak and soothe. [Exit. 
 
 WiL Dear Queen, adieu. 
 
 Have patience ; you must feign a sickness. 
 
 Q. Elin. Yes ! 
 
 Something at last to do. 
 
 WiL I'll straight prepare 
 
 My piece of goods for travel. [Exit. 
 
 Q. Elin. If he die 
 
 In France, two lovers will be gay in heaven, 
 And I on earth in hell. He must not die ; 
 I must watch work in him the injury. 
 When God would hurt, He turns the heart adrift 
 To cut itself alive among the tombs, 
 And sets not corpse to corpse ; — he must not die ! 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 77 
 
 Scene II. — Winchester: outside a chapel; Margery 
 sitting on a tombstone. 
 
 Mar. He called me harlot — would not stay at home, 
 But left the house just as the wretched moon 
 Fainted away, and everything was wet. 
 
 [Enter Wilfred and Beatrix.] 
 'Tishe! 
 I'll go to — no, I cannot ; oh, good saints, 
 I cannot ! Who's that he's a-talking to ? 
 She's better dressed than me, an' white o- skin. 
 Oh me! 
 
 Wil. [to Beat.]. Why go to church §0 oft ? 
 
 Beat Because, Sir Wilfred, 'tis the dormitory 
 Of souls that find their pillow on sweet prayer. 
 The want is frequent. 
 
 Wil. Marry ! while you kneel, 
 
 Love has to play the monk. 
 
 Beat Sir Wilfred, fie ! 
 
 I fear you're not religious. 
 
 Wil. 
 
 I'm in love ! 
 
 Beat 
 
 And love is half religion. 
 
 Wil. 
 
 Lovely saint ! 
 
 Beat 
 
 Oh fie, Sir Wilfred ! 
 
 Wil. 
 
 Lovely angel ! 
 
 Beat. 
 
 Peace 
 
 Wil. 
 
 'S death ! then lovely woman ! 
 
 
 N 
 
178 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Beat. Nay, for shame, 
 
 You're full of oaths. 
 
 WiL Just stop them with a kiss. 
 
 Beat. Nay, not in public, by my modesty ; 
 A girl is watching us ! 
 
 WiL Oh— ah ! the slut ! 
 
 Our marriage day will never come methinks. 
 
 Beat It is Time's sluggard, as all glad days are 
 That slowly from the curtained future rise, 
 Unwilling to forsake the bed which Hope 
 Has made with golden hands. 
 
 WiL - I'm for the bed 
 
 Dressed by a grosser chamber-maid. 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Mar. Alone ! alone ! I never felt alone 
 I' the country ; there was something loving me 
 In all the green and everywhere about ; 
 But here I'm lonely — lonely — desolate. 
 There is no love for me in all the men, 
 Nor in the streets they make. I cannot cry 
 
 Because of loneliness, because 
 
 [Enter Jose.'] 
 
 Jose. Ho, wench ! 
 
 You want another woer. Look at me ! 
 What say you, Mopsy ? 
 
 Mar. Go away. 
 
 Jose. Not yet. 
 
 Why, hem ! you're resting on a slab that boasts 
 The unexampled virtue of its dame ; 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 79 
 
 She'll break it open with her finger-point, 
 And mark you for perdition. 
 
 Mar. Oh, good sir, 
 
 I cannot read [rising]. 
 
 Jose. Nay, never spoil the joke ; 
 
 Let's see your purse ; your finery is dashed. 
 Mar. No, no ! 
 
 Jose. Come, goose-cap, out with it 
 Mar. [beginning to cry]. Tis here — keep it. The 
 fairies . . . I . . . [In bringing the purse out a bit 
 
 of red stuff appears. 
 Jose. Well, and what of them ? 
 
 Mar. The little cap ... I began it . . . this 
 this . . . O' my old red skirt . . . I . . . 
 an' the little bodies . . . why, why . . . 
 they've harebells n — ow [sobs on her knees]. 
 Jose. The dolt ! Look here ! 'tis gold, not silver, 
 mind. 
 Some weighty pieces. Come ! 
 
 Mar. I hate you ! 
 
 Jose. Strong ! 
 
 [Re-enter Wilfred^] 
 Wil. Margie, old girl ! Ho ! brother, get away ! 
 [Aside.] She's yours hereafter. Come to me anon. 
 Jose [To Mar.]. God bless you ! [Exit Jose. 
 
 Wil. Jewel, I have merry news. 
 
 These cheeks are wan and dinted, ask for winds 
 That blow across the fields. My turtle-dove, 
 We'll to your home. 
 
l8o FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Mar. Is it to cast me oft 
 
 Because you take . . • a wife ? 
 
 Wil. Ha, jealousy ! 
 
 Why, baggage, bless your innocence, we wed 
 Because we must. A wife, a wife ! Forsooth ! 
 We look more sweet on minions such as you, 
 Than on our proper spouses. Thus it is : 
 I ride perforce to Oxford, and you wait 
 The space of some few days till I return. 
 At Woodstock there's a jolly squire who keeps 
 Your foster-sister's bower. Margery, 
 Seek him. His honest talk will spend the time 
 
 hang heavy as a miser's purse. 
 We'll start at dawn. 
 
 Mar. ^ You'll bring me back again ? 
 
 It is so still down there. 
 
 WiL Nay, never fear. 
 
 Brave wench, a kiss ! And now come home with me. 
 
 [Exeunt 
 
 Scene III. — Winchester : An anie-room to the Queen's 
 chamber. Curtain before the door. Enter maidens. 
 
 ist Maid. Since Lammas- tide 
 Autumn hath lain about the doomed woods. 
 To-night she storms them, battering the leaves 
 From many a stricken oak. 
 
 2nd Maid. And the wind waves 
 
 The curtain to and fro. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. l8l 
 
 2>rd Maid. Is death behind ? I know not which to 
 fear, 
 The ruffling night or the dead quietness 
 Within. 
 
 2nd Maid. I'd like to peep. 
 
 $rd Maid. Thou dar'st not ; none 
 
 Enter save Beatrix. 
 
 2nd Maid. A cunning leech I 
 
 3rd Maid. Yet she 
 Is colourless, and whimpers, " Pray for us !" [Thunder. 
 
 2nd Maid. Hear you that? 
 Should the king be afloat ? 
 
 ist Maid. Impossible ! 
 
 His stoutest vessel cannot climb such waves, 
 As must make mountain-country of the sea 
 Betwixt his lands. 
 
 2nd Maid. 'Twas pity that the tales 
 
 From Holy Land should keep him in the town 
 After farewell. 
 
 $rd Maid. They say it fretted him. 
 
 2nd Maid. Peace, peace ! The curtain moves. 
 [Enter Beatrix, ,] 
 
 All. How fares the Queen ? 
 
 Beat. She cannot sleep. Is the King still detained ? 
 
 ist Maid. He left five hours ago. 
 
 Beat. A fearful night ! 
 
 I cannot calm the Queen. Fetch me Sir Jose, 
 He'll aid me ; then to bed ! 
 
 ist Maid. God lay the storm ! [Exeunt. 
 
1 82 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Scene IV. — Woodstock : Forester's hut. 
 [Michael, layifig faggots together for a fre.~\ 
 Mich. There's no wenches. I can lay the faggots, 
 and maybe stir a little flame . . . It's growing dark, 
 . . . one might almost as well be underground ; it's 
 cold, and nothing to smile at. There's no wenches, and 
 that means no broth. A dry crust's enough, without a 
 child to break one's bread in the bowl and spice it. To 
 think she could have done it — her — as white as the 
 lily on the pond. But her mother was a slippery 
 thing. Had she been as honest as fair, I had never had 
 the hiding of her babe. And Sir Topaz must come with 
 an air; how Blanche barked at him ! "The Lady Rosa- 
 mund was well ; the king had taken her under his pro- 
 tection ; had I a message for her ?" Well, I told him to 
 mark how the dogs yelped at him, and be gone. The 
 
 wood's green ; it won't kindle 
 
 Mags was the faggot-gatherer, what a wench ! 
 
 They'd not 'tice her to mischief; she was shrewd ; 
 
 She milked the goat, and never lolled about ; 
 
 It's the lying on the grass that leads to sin, 
 
 Snapping at flies. I kept Mags at my side ; 
 
 She knew the pups from their birth ; she'd work to do 
 
 Feeding and training 'em. Twas a soft hand 
 
 Of Rose's, seemed to make you warm at once 
 
 The way she led you in. She didn't talk ; 
 
 And it's a sign of honesty to talk. 
 
 That sighing when there's nothing wrong looks ill 
 
 Mag's eyes were wet two days for Blackberry ; 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 83 
 
 Rose stroked my head — she didn't care for the cow ; 
 
 She hadn't got the sense ; but Margery — 
 
 A child to lean on that ! just like yourself, 
 
 With a temper you'd grown used to — knew the rash 
 
 At sight, like measles, and could tackle it. 
 
 Mags, Mags, what have they done with ye, my wench ? 
 
 The fire won't burn 5 I'll just lie down a bit. 
 
 No, no ; I'll try again 
 
 To stir a flame. She may have lost her way, 
 
 And look for the red light about the door. 
 
 I'll try. 
 
 Mar. [entering]. Dear father ! 
 
 Mich, [hugging Margery], Hussy, clear the hearth ! 
 Where have you been, you naughty girl ? Oh, stop . . . 
 It takes my breath. . . . You wait 
 Till after supper, and I'll beat you blue 
 For straying in the woods. . . . Just tell me all. 
 
 IViL [advancing], I found your daughter, Michael, 
 in the glade 
 Seven nights ago, as I was riding back 
 To town, in haste, on business of the King's. 
 I put her on my horse, and kept her safe 
 In charge of gentle ladies, till to-night, 
 When I restore her to you with the prayer 
 You will not let her play among the elves. 
 The woods are dense, her childish brain confused, 
 And harm may happen. 
 
 Mich. Thank you, sir. 
 
 [To Margery.] Mags, since you've been away 
 
1 84 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 I've had no broth. Don't cry so ; never mind ! 
 Look in my face ! You must have seen fine folks, 
 Fine ladies, in the city, were they kind ? 
 
 Mar, So kind ! . . . O Wilfred, will you go away ? 
 
 Mich, You have not combed your hair — a ragged face I 
 How is it you don't ask for her : " Where's Rose ? " 
 
 Mar, O father, Rosie's safe ; she's with the King, 
 She'll be a lady ; I may go sometimes 
 And see her. 
 
 Mich, This is not your woollen gown. 
 
 WiL Kind ladies gave it her. 
 
 Mar, A lie, a lie t 
 
 No ladies gave it me, it was yourself. 
 Father, he promised me 
 
 Fine clothes to make me wicked. Why, there's Blanche. 
 Blanche, Blanche, you'll never know the difference. 
 She smells too at my frock. YJwnping down and 
 
 caressing the dog. 
 
 Mich. [to Wilfred], You took the hound 
 
 I had no mind to part with ; you took her 
 And spoilt her for my use. I had two maids 
 At my fireside — good girls, 
 And when I dozed at nights and woke again 
 They seemed like angels watching me. Ah, Lord ! 
 I shall dream now of fiends. If I could lay 
 My hands on her ! Come here, now ! 
 
 Mar. [springing to him]. Let me stay ; 
 
 I dare not go with him. . . . A blow ! . . . I 
 thought 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 85 
 
 1 Twas wicked men who loved you struck like that. 
 Speak to me. 
 
 Mich. Curse you. . . . 
 
 WiL He has lost his wits. 
 
 Don't listen to him. Had you held your tongue, 
 All had gone well. Here, call your dog and come. 
 
 Mar. [to Wilfred]. No ; I'll leave Blanche with father. 
 [To Michael \] Every day 
 
 I'll bring you faggots, lay them at the door. 
 I do not want to stay ; it's spoiled at home. 
 
 How still my father looks. ... Oh see, he sobs ! 
 Let me go back to him. [Struggling to escape from 
 
 Sir Wilfred. 
 Wilfred. He'll strike you dead. 
 
 There now, you'll see ! 
 Mar. [breaking from Wilfred], He's dead ; he cannot 
 strike. 
 The sweet grey hair ! 
 
 Don't snuff so, Blanche. It's better to be dead ; 
 It's safe, like the high shelf I used to climb, 
 Up out of reach. . . . How very thin 
 His hands are ! 
 
 Wilfred. Poor Brownie ! There, cheer up ! Learn 
 not to blab, 
 And you shall live with Rosamund. Come, now, 
 Kiss me ; be good. 
 
 Mar. Take me to Rosamund [Exeunt. 
 
1 86 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Scene V. — Within the Labyrinth Enter Rosamund 
 and Sir Topaz. 
 
 Ros. He'd not have died . . . 
 
 Top. I doubt it I'm an old man myself. When 
 death once claps you by the hand, you must go. Think 
 not of that; think of the King ! Belike he's coming 
 through wind and rain. 
 
 Ros. Fie on me, fie ! Is not my father dead ? 
 And Margery . . . and yet the thing I want . . • 
 Is the wind fluttering through the trees ? . . . 
 
 Top. J Tis a wild night, but the wind cannot find you 
 — so warm and close. Yet there's comfort; one can! 
 The king will be here to-night. And I've taught you to 
 play on the lute, and made you the lady you are — his 
 very queen and idol ! 
 
 Ros. He has a queen in Winchester. 
 
 Top. Now don't wring your hands till they're like 
 the flowers o' bindweed at the droop o' the day. Sit, 
 sit — and I'll tell you of Dame Elinor. She's a woman of 
 black eye and blacker soul — that overflows in her births — 
 her children benighted from all goodness. She's a snake 
 about the poor king's heart, and they the brood of vipers 
 that sting it within. 
 
 Ros. And he has never wronged her that she knows. 
 
 Top. Nay, nay, never. All the hurt is with him. 
 Oh, Lady Rosamund ! I've known him stout and red, 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 87 
 
 with face like a lamp and smiles that came out a'doors 
 as if from home, and not from a dungeon. It's a woman's 
 doing, the change. But you'll shake your tears off and 
 comfort him. Keep your pretty face dry till he tells 
 you of his broken heart. You may cry then. Why, 
 I warrant he's here ; I must to the bolts now. Hark ! 
 
 [Exit Topaz. 
 
 Ros. Yes. — The door moves ; I hear the wind — 
 Oh, I'm his leman, and I know not how 
 Bad women feel ; I cannot act the part 
 I am his Lady and his Love ; it were 
 A mistress's part to meet him with reproach. 
 I'll be a rose for fragrance, not for thorn. 
 Alas ! when we were lovers, I ne'er asked 
 What mood my love would like ! He's coming ! . . . 
 \_Enter King Henry."] 
 
 K. Hen. Rose ! 
 
 Ros. O sweet, my lord ! 
 
 You're sick and weary. Keep the cloudy brow. 
 Let us be sad together ; I've heard say 
 Green herbs are simple remedies, and so 
 There may be cure in Rosamund for ills 
 She wots not of. You're come to say Farewell ! 
 I'll bear it, love. 
 
 K. Hen. God's truth, a Royal Rose ! 
 
 Though my young vultures famish for my blood, 
 What matter ! if my little Woodstock dove 
 Coo for her missing mate in widowhood 
 That tells where love lies bleeding. 
 
188 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Ros. Nay, not so. 
 
 I'll with you to the wars. 
 
 K. Hen. My doughty Love ! 
 
 In the field's disposition, womanhood 
 Is best in the rear. The soldier must not see 
 In front the thing he loves ; it would perplex ; 
 Imagination of it nerves his hand. 
 You must not to the field — but day and night 
 You may besiege the skiey citadel ; 
 I will appoint you captain in that war. 
 To arms, sweet lips, put off your peaceful use 
 Of softest kisses, and in prayerful mail 
 Equip you. But not yet. I'll keep this mouth 
 That flowers against my cheek for purposes 
 Most womanly. Shall women fast and pray ? 
 Oh, never in Love's sight ; it is contempt 
 Of his High Majesty. A fearfulness 
 Possesses me that here you are not safe. 
 I'll hide you deeper, you sweet-smelling Rose, 
 For safety with my treasures ; you shall have 
 The custody of my imperilled crown. 
 
 Ros. Think not of me — but you, my dearest lord, 
 Give me your griefs to think of when you're gone ; 
 They're dearer than your crown. You go to war . . 
 
 K. Hen. With my own blood ; and Elinor 
 
 Ros. I would not see 
 Dame Elinor . . . not look 
 On that which bore you rebels. 
 
 K. Hen. Ay, the boy 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 89 
 
 Who made me father would unmake me king. 
 
 Ros. May Heaven dishonour him ! 
 
 K. Hen. A royal lad ! 
 
 So princely ! I have put the crown on 's head, 
 And smiled to see his brow confer a grace 
 On the gold bauble. Be he covetous 
 Of my grave, that territory shall be his ; 
 He will annex it briefly. 
 
 Ros. Give me leave 
 
 To dress my father's grave. IVe played the part 
 You feel the stabbing hurt of. • . . 
 
 K. Hen. When I'm dead 
 
 Haply the boy will grieve. Rose, have you lost 
 Your foster-father ? 
 
 Ros. He died daughterless. 
 
 I hate your rebel son I Go, strike him dead. 
 There is a grave 
 
 Where I will put my hand in Memory's, 
 Listen her tales and bear the childishness 
 That doth so oft repeat. 
 
 K. Hen. I was mistaken babbling of my boy 
 As you had been his mother. 
 
 Ros. Rosamund 
 
 Could not have borne a traitor. 
 
 K. He7i. Ah, my sweet ! 
 
 If you had borne him, Henry's very self — 
 The tiny portrait traced in flesh, with all 
 A woman's delicate imaginings, 
 Would have been dearer than the King, because 
 
190 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 It was the King and Love and Rosamund. 
 Let us not wrangle : lovers wrangle thus, 
 Young lovers, who can kiss again next day. 
 We're parting ; one of us, 
 I think, will see the other once again. 
 
 jRos. God help me I . . . 
 
 K. Hen. Oh, parting is the mirror in Death's hand, 
 Reflex of that immitigable face 
 Whose glance for ever sunders ! 
 
 Ros. Dear, my lord, 
 
 There are some thoughts 
 That through this stormy weather of my sou 
 Cannot now travel toward you. Fare you well ! 
 
 K. Hen. What ! Lightning in those eyes ! A long, 
 long rain 
 Follows such storms ! Farewell 1 [Exeunt 
 
 Scene VI. — Without the Labyrinth. 
 
 [Enter Margery. .] 
 Mar. The country makes me shy— so shy ! The trees 
 O' the forest seem to stand aloof — straight up, 
 An' ask respect, like gentle folk in town. 
 An' then . . . the flowers, somehow, are not kind ; 
 They only look at me . . . the marigolds ! 
 But they are in the gardens. . . . Yet I've stopped 
 At every wild flower, ... an' they only look. 
 We were such cronies ! Oh, it frightens me ! 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 191 
 
 This is the door ; I'll very softly rap, 
 Lest she should hear. I would not for the world 
 Catch sight of her. . . . She would be haughty too. 
 
 [Knocks. 
 
 Top. [within]. Who's there ? who's there ? Master the 
 Wind, ay ? — that's put a glove on his noisy hand to make 
 a fool of me ? [Looking through a window and then 
 opening.] Bless us I 
 
 Mar. Your honour 
 
 Top. Indeed, good maiden, what would you ? 
 
 Mar. A basket for the lady — whortleberries ; 
 I gathered 'em this morning i' the dew \ 
 An' if you'd give 
 
 Top. Very pretty, very pretty ! A fresh gift, but bad 
 for the teeth, assuredly bad. Ho ! ho ! you've the sweet 
 soot on your lips. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis from my fingers, for I like them not. 
 But Ro— I thought . . . 
 
 Top. A homely fruit ! and you've set the sprigs about 
 like nature. Well done ! And pray where do you live, 
 my pretty virgin, eh ? 
 
 Mar. With Mother Greene. 
 
 Top. Odzookers ! With Ellen Greene, the witch ? 
 a good girl like you ! Why, she's got a black kitten 
 that sucks her under the ear ; and they say — mercy on 
 us ! — 'tis a devil. 
 
 Mar. Oh, sir, but I have never seen it suck. 
 It sits upon her shoulders with large eyes 
 As yellow as the stars. 
 
192 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Top. Tis Lucifer. 
 
 Mar. She calls it Pretty. 
 
 Top. My child — tut, tut ! Why do you live in her 
 stye ? Bless my heart ! Her company's vile. 
 
 Mar. I have been left with her, and dare not go. 
 It's better i' the day. 
 
 But, oh ! the dreaful night ! I lie an' quake 
 To hear the purrs and chuckles i' the dark, 
 Or see the embers spring as green as wheat 
 About a hellish pot ! the room grows big 
 And like a church at evening. 
 
 Top. Oh, carry trefoil and pray, Ave Mary ! That's 
 a safe prayer. Rove the woods and be merry. 'Tis 
 lonely hereabouts ; but never fear ! Maids have a 
 watch. Keep at large, and come at your will to me. 
 I've a cup inside, and a bit of honest talk will keep you 
 from further witchcraft. Little sorceress ! you've learnt 
 the art as long as it's white and holy. Oh, oh ! You 
 set that gay bonnet like a sweet pea — all flaps. Did 
 Mother Greene teach the charm ? Nay, I see ! A 
 scholar to your own lesson, and very right ! Nature has 
 a pretty way of teaching girls. Why, my lady — bless you ! 
 she puts a flower on her bosom as if to grow. Hist ! 
 that's her voice ! Bring what the woods yield at your 
 will. I'll give the berries to my lady. God be wi' you, 
 lass ! [Exit 
 
 Mar. It's like old times. 
 He's natural, and does not seem to know, 
 As the flowers do, and all the men in town. [Exit. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 193 
 
 Scene VII. — Woodstock: Witch's cottage. Enter 
 Wilfred and Ellen Greene. 
 
 WiL It's getting late. 
 
 Greene. An' full o' bats an' owls. 
 
 WiL Your time. 
 
 Greene. Tis true, but later of an eve 
 
 The fire is making yonder ! 
 
 [Goes apart. 
 
 WiL Margie's gone 
 
 To catch old Topaz in her artless net 
 Of prattle ! 'Twas by very providence 
 I visited the silly chuck at last. 
 So many days and she had never moved 
 One step toward the fulfilment of my plan. 
 The" hussy tires me with her drooping ways, 
 The little Autumn ! She's dispiriting, 
 And makes me an old sinner with her sighs 
 And yellow tinct. If Jose can make her dance, 
 Twill be as the north wind, by savage play. 
 What tall, gaunt woman's that across the path ! 
 A wolf, a prowling creature ? Ah, the Queen ! 
 She has no patience. 
 
 Q. Elin. Take me to the maze. 
 
 See here the fire-tipped blade ! 
 
 Wil. Nay, you've mistook 
 
 The time ; our thread is Margery's young voice ; 
 
 o 
 
194 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 E'en now she's making friends with the old man. 
 
 To-morrow night 
 
 Greene [advancing]. Eh, are there two of ns ? 
 Pardie, there's magic in the hem of the robe. 
 Good faith ! I tremble at her ! 
 
 Wil. Goodie, here ! 
 
 She needs a cup — the poison I bespoke — 
 Against to-morrow eve. 
 
 Greene. I've been to pluck 
 
 The berries. Lack-a-day ! I only played 
 With wonders —for a poor soul must not die ! 
 I frightened the young girls and got their pence. 
 Why, sir, that lass of yours, this blessed eve 
 She'll have a bath o' dew beneath the moon, 
 To comfort her. 
 
 Wil. Humph ! devilish penitence ! 
 
 Greene. But, Lord ! I ne'er have sold me to the 
 fiend; 
 Belike he's come to fetch me. Don't ye go. 
 It must be secret. — Kindly stay about, 
 Good sir. 
 
 Q. Elin. I cannot bide another night. 
 My brain grows hot ; 'twill scorch my sense. The king 
 Returns a conqueror. She'll crown him — she ! 
 Get access quickly. Ah, I fear my hand 
 Can scarce strike steady. Get the poison mixed ; 
 My will is firm, and I can force her drink. 
 Sir Wilfred, there's a heart to stop, ere night ; 
 The king is landing. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND, 1 95 
 
 Wit. I'll seek Margery ; 
 
 Watch you the draught a-brewing. I'll return. [Exit 
 [Q. Elin. flings herself on a bench, 
 
 Greene. Beyond me — quite beyond me — a blue spirit 
 That's smelt at sulphur. My poor cat is grey. 
 Pretty ! . . . There's sort o' chains about the air. 
 Lor ! if I'm not afraid. 
 
 Q. Elin. To do my will ? 
 
 Greene. What is it ? ■ 
 
 Q. Elin. To make death. 
 
 Greene. 'Twas once I sent 
 
 A faithless lover pining to his doom. 
 An' thus : I pinched a candle to his shape, — 
 So like, it made ye start ; and by the fire 
 I kept it dropping. 
 
 Q. Elin. Fill your caldron — come ! 
 
 Greene. I'm shredding vipers' flesh. 
 
 Q. Elin. I have a knife ; 
 
 I'll help. 
 
 Greene. Is it a man you'd murder ? 
 
 Q. Elin. No ; a girl. 
 
 Greene. Bless us ! D'ye see that flying thing with 
 blood 
 F the trail of it — a shroud ! and at the breast 
 
 Q. Elin. Old crazy brain . . . her ghost will 
 comfort me. 
 
 Greene. Nay, to be haunted I Lady, look ye here I 
 There's safer ways. 
 I'll give ye this will make 
 
196 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Any one love ye, and be mad for ye ; 
 Take that ... 
 
 Q. Elin. You can ? 
 Nay, nay, I must not be a fool ; — 
 Past that ! Henceforth on hatred I must feed. 
 To be hated more and more, and more to hate. 
 What's that in the pot ? 
 
 Greene, It's henbane ! 
 
 Q. Elin. Wherefore cook 
 
 Your wretched broth ? This phial will suffice. 
 
 [Snatching at phial. 
 
 Greene. Not that, not that ! It will not do the thing. 
 
 Q. Elin. All's ready ! . . . Ah, it presses inwardly, 
 Like the full breast 
 
 Undrained by thirsty lips. I've borne the load 
 Of an unlonged-for heart ; it stifles less 
 Than the burthen of dammed hate ! 
 
 [Re-enter Wilfred with Margery.] 
 
 Mar. Who's this ? 
 
 Q. Elin. I am 
 
 Wil. Listen : this lady here 
 
 Is Rose's mother. She was lost, you know ; 
 Now she is come again. She'll get you Rose 
 Out of the maze. She wants to see her so ; 
 She can't be patient. Twenty years away ! 
 
 Mar. Oh, she looks poor and hungry. I am glad 
 Sir Topaz said I might come any hour. 
 
 Wil. Then you shall be our guide, and with your 
 voice 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 197. 
 
 Call the good gentleman to let us in. 
 
 Q. Elin. Give me this Rose, I say ! 
 
 Mar. I do not think 
 
 She's gentle ; may be she will strike at Rose. 
 
 Wil. She's angry with the king, who shut her in. 
 
 Q. Elin. [taking Margery firmly by the hand\ Go 
 straight ; I am her mother. 
 
 Mar. Oh, I feel 
 
 As there were thunder in her ; I'm afraid ! 
 
 Scene VIII. — Labyrinth. Rosamund pacing the room. 
 Clear moonlight. 
 
 Ros. White moon, art thou the only visitant ? 
 Thou look'st like death ! 
 
 Dost glisten through the trees 
 My Henry bows his plumes to in the gloom ? 
 He comes to-night ; for good Sir Topaz said, 
 " My lady, put you on the crimson gown 
 The king had wrought for you, and ask no more, 
 But trust an old man's word. 
 And be you ready." It's a silver night ; 
 I'll put me out apparel. How blood red 
 Burn the dark folds ! I cannot put it on ; 
 And yet I will. My lute ; what is't I want — 
 God, or the King ? [Sings. 
 
 Love doth never know 
 Why it is beloved, 
 
I9& FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 And to ask were treason ; 
 Let the wonder grow I 
 Were its hopes removed, 
 Were itself disproved 
 By cold reason, 
 In its happy season 
 
 Love would be beloved. 
 
 [Laying down her lute. 
 
 No ; it hurts sharper. I must just sit down 
 
 On the edge of the bed, arid corrrb my hair and wait — 
 
 It can't be long— until the tide of tears 
 
 Rises and fills 
 
 The cracked and parched channels of my heart. 
 
 I cannot think at all [letting fall her hair]. How beautiful 
 
 This gold made silver in the moonlight. What ! 
 
 Would Heaven age me for my Love ? Let's look 
 
 In the mirror. Rosamund, you're worshipful. 
 
 [Starling back.] 'Tis thus, 
 Even thus, he swore that he should come to me. 
 His very words I The prophecy's fulfilled, — 
 I'll comb my hair down to my very feet. 
 A step ! — my heart, some patience. Henry, speak ; 
 Bid it take courage ! [enter Elinor] God, the Queen ! 
 Q. Elin. The Queen, who'll give you access to your 
 God; 
 The wife, who'll doom the leman. Elinor 
 Corne to put bitter poison in the cup 
 The King drinks deep of. Never tremble so : 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 1 99 
 
 I'll do naught hastily. Give me your face 
 
 To lay between mine hands, and drink my fill 
 
 Of the rich beauty I must violate. 
 
 Let's look in your face ! Why, Death were yellow to 
 
 The blanch of your lips. Do not mistake me, girl, 
 
 Hay 
 
 Dagger and cup at leisure for your use ; 
 
 I will not harm you. [Aside.] What a curl o' the lash — 
 
 A lovely coast-line to the hidden realm 
 
 Of the eyes. — Have you thought of me these many days? 
 
 Queen, wife, and mother, and the thing you are. 
 
 Old age is heir 
 
 Apparent to the majesty of Death, 
 
 And thought of the impending royalty 
 
 Softens the manners, and should awe the heart 
 
 Of youth — that churl of nature ! 
 
 JRos. I'll not stay 
 
 For any prayers ; only remove the siege 
 Of your eyes from off my soul. I will repay 
 The debt {stabbing herself \ This blood — 
 An earnest of the red gold from my heart — 
 Take it . . . and do for my dead flesh the things 
 A mother would entreat. [Dies. 
 
 Q. Elin. Sooth to my will, and she died prettily, 
 With tears on her cheek. 
 
 Mar. \bursting in\ Where's Rosamund ? 
 
 Q. Elin. A play at hide and seek here in the maze. 
 Warm ! — at my feet. 
 
 Mar. You've killed my sister ; you're a murderess ; 
 
200 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 And Sir Topaz murdered ! Oh, he died so slow, 
 I could not leave him. Rose ! 
 
 WiL [entering]. My Queen, to horse ! 
 
 I hear 
 
 The King's horn in the woods. The parchment's writ 
 We'd make him reader of. Plantagenet 
 Best spend his first wild fury on the dead. 
 Quick, by this passage. 
 
 Q. Elin. Would that I were here 
 
 To chronicle his face ! Give me your hand ! 
 This roof 
 
 Will break my brow. I've made my lord 
 A bridal bed — a royal recipe 
 For slighted wives. In very sooth the neigh 
 Of his horse ! All's ready for him. [Exit 
 
 Mar. \_kneeling by Rosamund's corpse]. Oh, what 
 is it that sucks the air from the room? An' I dare 
 not go back, for the sweet old man breathed hard. 
 It's worse than the dark, and it stares so. I never 
 minded Rose looking. . . . They use coin. I've 
 got some pieces of the silver left I'll do it before I'm 
 wild. But I shouldn't like the money there when I die. 
 No. My hand. She's looking softer now. She hadn't 
 seen the Prince Jesus before ! 'Tis a great way above 
 [raising her head at the sound of footsteps], O Rose, 
 Rose ! Now I'll see what they do when we're dead who 
 say fine things to us. 
 
 WiL [re-entering]. You little fool ! 
 Come out ; did I not bid you follow ? Leave 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 201 
 
 You here for witness, sooth ! Gag up your mouth. 
 Come [pausing before Rosamund], 
 -Oh, a royal morsel ! 
 
 [Margery stabs him. 
 
 Mar. Tvvas the look 
 
 He gave 
 
 At Rosamund's white breast. I'm used to it. 
 He may look so at me ! It trickles down — 
 The blood on his cheeks — and clots his curly hair, 
 The big black curls. I can't have hurt him much ! 
 Wilfred ! I love him, love him ; be alive, 
 And strike and curse me. I've so swart a skin, 
 The yellow bruises hardly show ; but he — 
 He's growing deadly white. 
 
 Wit, [aside]. A wench's thrust, 
 
 And mortal ! Little drab ! 
 She'll do what I tell her, though. [Aloud.] I'll have you 
 
 hanged, 
 Do you hear, before the city ? Men will hoot 
 And jeer at you ; and say, "A slut like that, 
 To lay her hands upon a gentleman ! " 
 The king will have you hanged tight by your neck, 
 Do you hear ? till you are dead. 
 
 Mar. Hush, hush, hush, hush ! 
 
 Don't bleed so fast, 
 
 Wilfred ! Oh, kill me first, I can't be hanged ; 
 Have you not strength to kill me ? 
 
 Wil. Reach that bowl. [She drinks. 
 
 Don't stagger here to die ; go further off ! 
 
 p 
 
202 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 Mar. Oh, kiss me! ... Do not die ! . . . It's horrible, 
 The cold inside. 
 
 Wil. She's fallen in a heap. [Enter King. 
 
 My brain's still sick 
 From loss of blood, or here's a spectre king ! 
 How hoary pale ! 
 
 \_The King enters staggering; stands silent before Rosa- 
 mund 's corpse.] 
 
 King. Before the funeral the eyes are buried. 
 Thy lips — already is the tender mouth 
 A rosy marble to the memory 
 Of all past kisses. Lovely portraiture ! 
 That young Desire beholding ages slow, 
 And turns from with the dull pace of regret. 
 Her lute — O God ! there's life about the strings ; 
 Her spirit's touched it. [Looking round discovers Wilfred. 
 
 Wil. [to Margery, who groans']. Peace ! 
 
 King [going to Wilfred]. Confess your lips, and for 
 your soul I'll pray 
 That God may damn it deeper every hour. 
 Unkennel ! 
 
 Wil Sire, that child, 
 Suspecting me of Elinor's base deed 
 (That's the Queen's scarf caught in your lady's dress), 
 Struck at me with the yet warm-blooded sword ; 
 Now end. 
 
 Mar. Stop, stop ! 
 This gentleman 
 Is kind to me, he never did me harm. 
 
FAIR ROSAMUND. 203 
 
 Twas the tall lady with the knife . . . and this 
 
 {lifting the poison bowl\ 
 Don't hang me, sir ; if you'll wait a bit, I'll die. 
 I drunk it off 
 
 As he told me. Pretty, pretty Rosamund, 
 I'd like 
 
 To have seen her crowned. Give her a handsome tomb 
 In the church, and bury me 
 Out in the grass. I'm but a common girl, 
 And she's a lady. {Dies. 
 
 WiL You've your paramour 
 
 To answer for ; I mine. I killed that wench 
 For slashing at me ! 
 Like enough 
 
 Your lady rent her body at command 
 Of majesty ; what will not ladies do 
 For monarch's pleasure, — eh ? 
 
 King. What lips God sets 
 
 To his chalice-cups of love ! What drink 
 He gives foul mouths ! Is there comparison 
 Betwixt our deeds ? From this slain innocence 
 I wince not ; for I worshipped. You — I swear 
 By the lost childhood of that cheek — defiled. 
 
 WiL We had our pleasure the forbidden way, 
 Each after his own fashion. For the rest, 
 I bleed to death \ it's painless. 
 
 King. You shall have 
 
 A leech, a cunning one. My men shall bear 
 Your body in a litter to your love, 
 
204 FAIR ROSAMUND. 
 
 With word from me how honourable your hurt ; 
 
 And if she spurn you from her door, 'tis well ; 
 
 Or if she tend you with cold eyes. [Wilfred swoons."] He 
 
 swoons. 
 [Turning to Rosamund.'] Heaven favours me, to give my 
 
 Love 
 A private audience. They have pulled about 
 Our bower, sweet Rose ; but there's a holy spot 
 At Goddeshill, where, 'mid the sisterhood 
 Of blessed nuns, I'll rear a stately shrine. . . . 
 What need ? . . . Death's labyrinth 
 None threads. Ah, Rosa Mundi ! thou 
 That wert to the king a tender sweet-brier rose, 
 They've shed thy petals ; all thy balmy leaves 
 Lie crushed against my heart. And what regret ? 
 Without thee I had plunged for solitude 
 I' the murk of hell ; and without me, my Life, 
 Thy spirit had ne'er worn love's purple robes. 
 Let's cover thee [ Wilfred stirs. 
 
 From this base sight, — (My Sweet, how well thou know'st 
 'Tis the first time 
 
 Lust hath breathed near thee !) cover thee, until, 
 Tore God and all His glistering righteousness, 
 I shall re-claim thee, body, ay, and soul. 
 
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