ACT V.
SCENE I.—LONDON. HALL IN THE PALACE.QUEEN, SIR NICHOLAS HEATH.
HEATH. Madam,I do assure you, that it must be look'd to:Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in GuisnesAre scarce two hundred men, and the French fleetRule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd to,If war should fall between yourself and France;Or you will lose your Calais.MARY. It shall be look'd to;I wish you a good morning, good Sir Nicholas:Here is the King.[ExitHEATH.EnterPHILIP.PHILIP. Sir Nicholas tells you true,And you must look to Calais when I go.MARY. Go? must you go, indeed—again—so soon?Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the swallow,That might live always in the sun's warm heart,Stays longer here in our poor north than you:—Knows where he nested—ever comes again.PHILIP. And, Madam, so shall I.MARY. O, will you? will you?I am faint with fear that you will come no more.PHILIP. Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence.MARY. Voices—I hear unhappy rumours—nay,I say not, I believe. What voices call youDearer than mine that should be dearest to you?Alas, my Lord! what voices and how many?PHILIP. The voices of Castille and Aragon,Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,—The voices of Franche-Comte, and the Netherlands,The voices of Peru and Mexico,Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines,And all the fair spice-islands of the East.MARY (admiringly).You are the mightiest monarch upon earth,I but a little Queen: and, so indeed,Need you the more.PHILIP. A little Queen! but whenI came to wed your majesty, Lord Howard,Sending an insolent shot that dash'd the seasUpon us, made us lower our kingly flagTo yours of England.MARY. Howard is all English!There is no king, not were he ten times king,Ten times our husband, but must lower his flagTo that of England in the seas of England.PHILIP. Is that your answer?MARY. Being Queen of England,I have none other.PHILIP. So.MARY. But wherefore notHelm the huge vessel of your state, my liege,Here by the side of her who loves you most?PHILIP. No, Madam, no! a candle in the sunIs all but smoke—a star beside the moonIs all but lost; your people will not crown me—Your people are as cheerless as your clime;Hate me and mine: witness the brawls, the gibbets.Here swings a Spaniard—there an Englishman;The peoples are unlike as their complexion;Yet will I be your swallow and return—But now I cannot bide.MARY. Not to helpme?They hatemealso for my love to you,My Philip; and these judgments on the land—Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, plague—PHILIP. The blood and sweat of heretics at the stakeIs God's best dew upon the barren field.Burn more!MARY. I will, I will; and you will stay?PHILIP. Have I not said? Madam, I came to sueYour Council and yourself to declare war.MARY. Sir, there are many English in your ranksTo help your battle.PHILIP. So far, good. I sayI came to sue your Council and yourselfTo declare war against the King of France.MARY. Not to see me?PHILIP. Ay, Madam, to see you.Unalterably and pesteringly fond! [Aside.But, soon or late you must have war with France;King Henry warms your traitors at his hearth.Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there.Courtenay, belike—MARY. A fool and featherhead!PHILIP. Ay, but they use his name. In brief, this HenryStirs up your land against you to the intentThat you may lose your English heritage.And then, your Scottish namesake marryingThe Dauphin, he would weld France, England, Scotland,Into one sword to hack at Spain and me.MARY. And yet the Pope is now colleagued with France;You make your wars upon him down in Italy:—Philip, can that be well?PHILIP. Content you, Madam;You must abide my judgment, and my father's,Who deems it a most just and holy war.The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of Naples:He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Saracens.The Pope has pushed his horns beyond his mitre—Beyond his province. Now,Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns,And he withdraws; and of his holy head—For Alva is true son of the true church—No hair is harm'd. Will you not help me here?MARY. Alas! the Council will not hear of war.They say your wars are not the wars of England.They will not lay more taxes on a landSo hunger-nipt and wretched; and you knowThe crown is poor. We have given the church-lands back:The nobles would not; nay, they clapt their handsUpon their swords when ask'd; and therefore GodIs hard upon the people. What's to be done?Sir, I will move them in your cause again,And we will raise us loans and subsidiesAmong the merchants; and Sir Thomas GreshamWill aid us. There is Antwerp and the Jews.PHILIP. Madam, my thanks.MARY. And you will stay your going?PHILIP. And further to discourage and lay lameThe plots of France, altho' you love her not,You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.She stands between you and the Queen of Scots.MARY. The Queen of Scots at least is Catholic.PHILIP. Ay, Madam, Catholic; but I will not haveThe King of France the King of England too.MARY. But she's a heretic, and, when I am gone,Brings the new learning back.PHILIP. It must be done.You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.MARY. Then it is done; but you will stay your goingSomewhat beyond your settled purpose?PHILIP. No!MARY. What, not one day?PHILIP. You beat upon the rock.MARY. And I am broken there.PHILIP. Is this a placeTo wail in, Madam? what! a public hall.Go in, I pray you.MARY. Do not seem so changed.Say go; but only say it lovingly.PHILIP. You do mistake. I am not one to change.I never loved you more.MARY. Sire, I obey you.Come quickly.PHILIP. Ay.[ExitMARY.EnterCOUNT DE FERIA.FERIA (aside). The Queen in tears!PHILIP. Feria!Hast thou not mark'd—come closer to mine ear—How doubly aged this Queen of ours hath grownSince she lost hope of bearing us a child?FERIA. Sire, if your Grace hath mark'd it, so have I.PHILIP. Hast thou not likewise mark'd Elizabeth,How fair and royal—like a Queen, indeed?FERIA. Allow me the same answer as before—That if your Grace hath mark'd her, so have I.PHILIP. Good, now; methinks my Queen is like enoughTo leave me by and by.FERIA. To leave you, sire?PHILIP. I mean not like to live. Elizabeth—To Philibert of Savoy, as you know,We meant to wed her; but I am not sureShe will not serve me better—so my QueenWould leave me—as—my wife.FERIA. Sire, even so.PHILIP. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy.FERIA. No, sire.PHILIP. I have to pray you, some odd time,To sound the Princess carelessly on this;Not as from me, but as your phantasy;And tell me how she takes it.FERIA. Sire, I will.PHILIP. I am not certain but that PhilibertShall be the man; and I shall urge his suitUpon the Queen, because I am not certain:You understand, Feria.FERIA. Sire, I do.PHILIP. And if you be not secret in this matter,You understand me there, too?FERIA. Sire, I do.PHILIP. You must be sweet and supple, like a Frenchman.She is none of those who loathe the honeycomb.[ExitFERIA.EnterRENARD.RENARD. My liege, I bring you goodly tidings.PHILIP. Well?RENARD. Therewillbe war with France, at last, my liege;Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass,Sailing from France, with thirty Englishmen,Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of York;Proclaims himself protector, and affirmsThe Queen has forfeited her right to reignBy marriage with an alien—other thingsAs idle; a weak Wyatt! Little doubtThis buzz will soon be silenced; but the Council(I have talk'd with some already) are for war.This the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in France;They show their teeth upon it; and your Grace,So you will take advice of mine, should stayYet for awhile, to shape and guide the event.PHILIP. Good! Renard, I will stay then.RENARD. Also, sire,Might I not say—to please your wife, the Queen?PHILIP. Ay, Renard, if you care to put it so.[Exeunt.
SCENE II.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE.MARY,sitting: a rose in her hand. LADY CLARENCE. ALICEin thebackground.
MARY. Look! I have play'd with this poor rose so longI have broken off the head.LADY CLARENCE. Your Grace hath beenMore merciful to many a rebel headThat should have fallen, and may rise again.MARY. There were not many hang'd for Wyatt's rising.LADY CLARENCE. Nay, not two hundred.MARY. I could weep for themAnd her, and mine own self and all the world.LADY CLARENCE. For her? for whom, your Grace?EnterUSHER.USHER. The Cardinal.EnterCARDINAL POLE. (MARYrises.)MARY. Reginald Pole, what news hath plagued thy heart?What makes thy favour like the bloodless headFall'n on the block, and held up by the hair?Philip?—POLE. No, Philip is as warm in lifeAs ever.MARY. Ay, and then as cold as ever.Is Calais taken?POLE. Cousin, there hath chancedA sharper harm to England and to Rome,Than Calais taken. Julius the ThirdWas ever just, and mild, and father-like;But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Fourth,Not only reft me of that legateshipWhich Julius gave me, and the legateshipAnnex'd to Canterbury—nay, but worse—And yet I must obey the Holy Father,And so must you, good cousin;—worse than all,A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear—He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy,Before his Inquisition.MARY. I knew it, cousin,But held from you all papers sent by Rome,That you might rest among us, till the Pope,To compass which I wrote myself to Rome,Reversed his doom, and that you might not seemTo disobey his Holiness.POLE. He hates Philip;He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard;He cannot dream thatIadvised the war;He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself.Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too;So brands me in the stare of ChristendomA heretic!Now, even now, when bow'd before my time,The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out;When I should guide the Church in peace at home,After my twenty years of banishment,And all my lifelong labour to upholdThe primacy—a heretic. Long ago,When I was ruler in the patrimony,I was too lenient to the Lutheran,And I and learned friends among ourselvesWould freely canvass certain Lutheranisms.What then, he knew I was no Lutheran.A heretic!He drew this shaft against me to the head,When it was thought I might be chosen Pope,But then withdrew it. In full consistory,When I was made Archbishop, he approved me.And how should he have sent me Legate hither,Deeming me heretic? and what heresy since?But he was evermore mine enemy,And hates the Spaniard—fiery-choleric,A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines,That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic?Your Highness knows that in pursuing heresyI have gone beyond your late Lord Chancellor,—He cried Enough! enough! before his death.—Gone beyond him and mine own natural man(It was God's cause); so far they call me now,The scourge and butcher of their English church.MARY. Have courage, your reward is Heaven itself.POLE. They groan amen; they swarm into the fireLike flies—for what? no dogma. They know nothing;They burn for nothing.MARY. You have done your best.POLE. Have done my best, and as a faithful son,That all day long hath wrought his father's work,When back he comes at evening hath the doorShut on him by the father whom he loved,His early follies cast into his teeth,And the poor son turn'd out into the streetTo sleep, to die—I shall die of it, cousin.MARY. I pray you be not so disconsolate;I still will do mine utmost with the Pope.Poor cousin!Have not I been the fast friend of your lifeSince mine began, and it was thought we twoMight make one flesh, and cleave unto each otherAs man and wife?POLE. Ah, cousin, I rememberHow I would dandle you upon my kneeAt lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing onceWith your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry,You but his cockboat; prettily you did it,And innocently. No—we were not madeOne flesh in happiness, no happiness here;But now we are made one flesh in misery;Our bridemaids are not lovely—Disappointment,Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue,Labour-in-vain.MARY. Surely, not all in vain.Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself.POLE. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay,Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond;And there is one Death stands behind the Groom,And there is one Death stands behind the Bride—MARY. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'?POLE. No; but these libellous papers which I foundStrewn in your palace. Look you here—the PopePointing at me with 'Pole, the heretic,Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself,Or I will burn thee;' and this other; see!—'We pray continually for the deathOf our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole.'This last—I dare not read it her. [Aside.MARY. Away!Why do you bring me these?I thought you knew better. I never read,I tear them; they come back upon my dreams.The hands that write them should be burnt clean offAs Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter themTongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lieFamishing in black cells, while famish'd ratsEat them alive. Why do they bring me these?Do you mean to drive me mad?POLE. I had forgottenHow these poor libels trouble you. Your pardon,Sweet cousin, and farewell! 'O bubble world,Whose colours in a moment break and fly!'Why, who said that? I know not—true enough![Puts up the papers, all but the last, which falls.ExitPOLE.ALICE. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one,And heard these two, there might be sport for him. [Aside.MARY. Clarence, they hate me; even while I speakThere lurks a silent dagger, listeningIn some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn,And panting for my blood as I go by.LADY CLARENCE. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too,And I have often found them.MARY. Find me one!LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam; but Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor,Would see your Highness.MARY. Wherefore should I see him?LADY CLARENCE. Well, Madam, he may bring you news from Philip.MARY. So, Clarence.LADY CLARENCE. Let me first put up your hair;It tumbles all abroad.MARY. And the gray dawnOf an old age that never will be mineIs all the clearer seen. No, no; what matters?Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn.EnterSIR NICHOLAS HEATH.HEATH. I bring your Majesty such grievous newsI grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken.MARY. What traitor spoke? Here, let my cousin PoleSeize him and burn him for a Lutheran.HEATH. Her Highness is unwell. I will retire.LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your Chancellor, Sir Nicholas Heath.MARY. Sir Nicholas! I am stunn'd—Nicholas Heath?Methought some traitor smote me on the head.What said you, my good Lord, that our brave EnglishHad sallied out from Calais and driven backThe Frenchmen from their trenches?HEATH. Alas! no.That gateway to the mainland over whichOur flag hath floated for two hundred yearsIs France again.MARY. So; but it is not lost—Not yet. Send out: let England as of oldRise lionlike, strike hard and deep intoThe prey they are rending from her—ay, and rendThe renders too. Send out, send out, and makeMusters in all the counties; gather allFrom sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet;Let every craft that carries sail and gunSteer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken yet?HEATH. Guisnes is not taken yet.MARY. There yet is hope.HEATH. Ah, Madam, but your people are so cold;I do much fear that England will not care.Methinks there is no manhood left among us.MARY. Send out; I am too weak to stir abroad:Tell my mind to the Council—to the Parliament:Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold thyselfTo babble of their coldness. O would I wereMy father for an hour! Away now—Quick![ExitHEATH.I hoped I had served God with all my might!It seems I have not. Ah! much heresyShelter'd in Calais. Saints I have rebuiltYour shrines, set up your broken images;Be comfortable to me. Suffer notThat my brief reign in England be defamedThro' all her angry chronicles hereafterBy loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip,We have made war upon the Holy FatherAll for your sake: what good could come of that?LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, not against the Holy Father;You did but help King Philip's war with France,Your troops were never down in Italy.MARY. I am a byword. Heretic and rebelPoint at me and make merry. Philip gone!And Calais gone! Time that I were gone too!LADY CLARENCE. Nay, if the fetid gutter had a voiceAnd cried I was not clean, what should I care?Or you, for heretic cries? And I believe,Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas,Your England is as loyal as myself.MARY (seeing the paper draft byPOLE).There! there! another paper! Said you notMany of these were loyal? Shall I tryIf this be one of such?LADY CLARENCE. Let it be, let it be.God pardon me! I have never yet found one. [Aside.MARY (reads). 'Your people hate you as your husband hates you.'Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what sinBeyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of God,Thou knowest never woman meant so well,And fared so ill in this disastrous world.My people hate me and desire my death.LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, no.MARY. My husband hates me, and desires my death.LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam; these are libels.MARY. I hate myself, and I desire my death.LADY CLARENCE. Long live your Majesty! Shall Alice sing youOne of her pleasant songs? Alice, my child,Bring us your lute (ALICEgoes). They say the gloom of SaulWas lighten'd by young David's harp.MARY. Too young!And never knew a Philip.Re-enterALICE.Givemethe lute.He hates me!(She sings.)Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing!Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in loathing:Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing—Low, lute, low!Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken;Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken;Low, my lute! oh low, my lute! we fade and are forsaken—Low, dear lute, low!Take it away! not low enough for me!ALICE. Your Grace hath a low voice.MARY. How dare you say it?Even for that he hates me. A low voiceLost in a wilderness where none can hear!A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea!A low voice from the dust and from the grave(Sitting on the ground).There, am I low enough now?ALICE. Good Lord! how grim and ghastly looks her Grace,With both her knees drawn upward to her chin.There was an old-world tomb beside my father's,And this was open'd, and the dead were foundSitting, and in this fashion; she looks a corpse.EnterLADY MAGDALEN DACRES.LADY MAGDALEN. Madam, the Count de Feria waits without,In hopes to see your Highness.LADY CLARENCE (pointing toMARY).Wait he must—Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears,And may not speak for hours.LADY MAGDALEN. UnhappiestOf Queens and wives and women!ALICE (in the foreground withLADY MAGDALEN).And all alongOf Philip.LADY MAGDALEN. Not so loud! Our Clarence thereSees ever such an aureole round the Queen,It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace,Who stands the nearest to her.ALICE. Ay, this Philip;I used to love the Queen with all my heart—God help me, but methinks I love her lessFor such a dotage upon such a man.I would I were as tall and strong as you.LADY MAGDALEN. I seem half-shamed at times to be so tall.ALICE. You are the stateliest deer in all the herd—Beyond his aim—but I am small and scandalous,And love to hear bad tales of Philip.LADY MAGDALEN. Why?I never heard him utter worse of youThan that you were low-statured.ALICE. Does he thinkLow stature is low nature, or all women'sLow as his own?LADY MAGDALEN. There you strike in the nail.This coarseness is a want of phantasy.It is the low man thinks the woman low;Sin is too dull to see beyond himself.ALICE. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as well as dull.How dared he?LADY MAGDALEN. Stupid soldiers oft are bold.Poor lads, they see not what the general sees,A risk of utter ruin. I amnotBeyond his aim, or was not.ALICE. Who? Not you?Tell, tell me; save my credit with myself.LADY MAGDALEN. I never breathed it to a bird in the eaves,Would not for all the stars and maiden moonOur drooping Queen should know! In Hampton CourtMy window look'd upon the corridor;And I was robing;—this poor throat of mine,Barer than I should wish a man to see it,—When he we speak of drove the window back,And, like a thief, push'd in his royal hand;But by God's providence a good stout staffLay near me; and you know me strong of arm;I do believe I lamed his Majesty'sFor a day or two, tho', give the Devil his due,I never found he bore me any spite.ALICE. I would she could have wedded that poor youth,My Lord of Devon—light enough, God knows,And mixt with Wyatt's rising—and the boyNot out of him—but neither cold, coarse, cruel,And more than all—no Spaniard.LADY CLARENCE. Not so loud.Lord Devon, girls! what are you whispering here?ALICE. Probing an old state-secret—how it chancedThat this young Earl was sent on foreign travel,Not lost his head.LADY CLARENCE. There was no proof against him.ALICE. Nay, Madam; did not Gardiner interceptA letter which the Count de Noailles wroteTo that dead traitor Wyatt, with full proofOf Courtenay's treason? What became of that?LADY CLARENCE. Some say that Gardiner, out of love for him,Burnt it, and some relate that it was lostWhen Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's house in Southwark.Let dead things rest.ALICE. Ay, and with him who diedAlone in Italy.LADY CLARENCE. Much changed, I hear,Had put off levity and put graveness on.The foreign courts report him in his mannerNoble as his young person and old shield.It might be so—but all is over now;He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice,And died in Padua.MARY (looking up suddenly).Died in the true faith?LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam, happily.MARY. Happier he than I.LADY MAGDALEN. It seems her Highness hath awaken'd. Think youThat I might dare to tell her that the Count—MARY. I will see no man hence for evermore,Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole.LADY MAGDALEN. It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady.MARY. What Count?LADY MAGDALEN. The Count de Feria, from his MajestyKing Philip.MARY. Philip! quick! loop up my hair!Throw cushions on that seat, and make it throne-like.Arrange my dress—the gorgeous Indian shawlThat Philip brought me in our happy days!—That covers all. So—am I somewhat Queenlike,Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth?LADY CLARENCE. Ay, so your Grace would bide a moment yet.MARY. No, no, he brings a letter. I may dieBefore I read it. Let me see him at once.EnterCOUNT DE FERIA (kneels).FERIA. I trust your Grace is well. (Aside) How her hand burns!MARY. I am not well, but it will better me,Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring.FERIA. Madam, I bring no letter.MARY. How! no letter?FERIA. His Highness is so vex'd with strange affairs—MARY. That his own wife is no affair of his.FERIA. Nay, Madam, nay! he sends his veriest love,And says, he will come quickly.MARY. Doth he, indeed?You, sir, doyouremember whatyousaidWhen last you came to England?FERIA. Madam, I broughtMy King's congratulations; it was hopedYour Highness was once more in happy stateTo give him an heir male.MARY. Sir, you said more;You said he would come quickly. I had horsesOn all the road from Dover, day and night;On all the road from Harwich, night and day;But the child came not, and the husband came not;And yet he will come quickly.... Thou hast learntThy lesson, and I mine. There is no needFor Philip so to shame himself again.Return,And tell him that I know he comes no more.Tell him at last I know his love is dead,And that I am in state to bring forth death—Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth,And not to me!FERIA. Mere compliments and wishes.But shall I take some message from your Grace?MARY. Tell her to come and close my dying eyes,And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave.FERIA. Then I may say your Grace will see your sister?Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and sunshine.I would we had you, Madam, in our warm Spain.You droop in your dim London.MARY. Have him away!I sicken of his readiness.LADY CLARENCE. My Lord Count,Her Highness is too ill for colloquy.FERIA (kneels, and kisses her hand).I wish her Highness better. (Aside) How her hand burns![Exeunt.
SCENE III.—A HOUSE NEAR LONDON.ELIZABETH, STEWARD OF THE HOUSEHOLD, ATTENDANTS.
ELIZABETH. There's half an angel wrong'd in your account;Methinks I am all angel, that I bear itWithout more ruffling. Cast it o'er again.STEWARD. I were whole devil if I wrong'd you, Madam.[ExitSTEWARD.ATTENDANT. The Count de Feria, from the King of Spain.ELIZABETH. Ay!—let him enter. Nay, you need not go:[To herLADIES.Remain within the chamber, but apart.We'll have no private conference. Welcome toEngland!EnterFERIA.FERIA. Fair island star!ELIZABETH. I shine! What else, Sir Count?FERIA. As far as France, and into Philip's heart.My King would know if you be fairly served,And lodged, and treated.ELIZABETH. You see the lodging, sir,I am well-served, and am in everythingMost loyal and most grateful to the Queen.FERIA. You should be grateful to my master, too.He spoke of this; and unto him you oweThat Mary hath acknowledged you her heir.ELIZABETH. No, not to her nor him; but to the people,Who know my right, and love me, as I loveThe people! whom God aid!FERIA. You will be Queen,And, were I Philip—ELIZABETH. Wherefore pause you—what?FERIA. Nay, but I speak from mine own self, nothim;Your royal sister cannot last; your handWill be much coveted! What a delicate one!Our Spanish ladies have none such—and there,Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer gold—Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty dawn—That hovers round your shoulder—ELIZABETH. Is it so fine?Troth, some have said so.FERIA. —would be deemed a miracle.ELIZABETH. Your Philip hath gold hair and golden beard;There must be ladies many with hair like mine.FERIA, Some few of Gothic blood have golden hair,But none like yours.ELIZABETH. I am happy you approve it.FERIA. But as to Philip and your Grace—consider,If such a one as you should match with Spain,What hinders but that Spain and England join'd,Should make the mightiest empire earth has known.Spain would be England on her seas, and EnglandMistress of the Indies.ELIZABETH. It may chance, that EnglandWill be the Mistress of the Indies yet,Without the help of Spain.FERIA. Impossible;Except you put Spain down.Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's dream.ELIZABETH. Perhaps; but we have seamen.Count de Feria,I take it that the King hath spoken to you;But is Don Carlos such a goodly match?FERIA. Don Carlos, Madam, is but twelve years old.ELIZABETH. Ay, tell the King that I will muse upon it;He is my good friend, and I would keep him so;But—he would have me Catholic of Rome,And that I scarce can be; and, sir, till nowMy sister's marriage, and my father's marriages,Make me full fain to live and die a maid.But I am much beholden to your King.Have you aught else to tell me?FERIA. Nothing, Madam,Save that methought I gather'd from the QueenThat she would see your Grace before she—died.ELIZABETH. God's death! and wherefore spake you not before?We dally with our lazy moments here,And hers are number'd. Horses there, without!I am much beholden to the King, your master.Why did you keep me prating? Horses, there![ExitELIZABETH,etc.FERIA. So from a clear sky falls the thunderbolt!Don Carlos? Madam, if you marry Philip,Then I and he will snaffle your 'God's death,'And break your paces in, and make you tame;God's death, forsooth—you do not know King Philip.[Exit.
SCENE IV.—LONDON. BEFORE THE PALACE.A light burning within. VOICESof the night passing.
FIRST. Is not yon light in the Queen's chamber?SECOND. Ay,They say she's dying.FIRST. So is Cardinal Pole.May the great angels join their wings, and makeDown for their heads to heaven!SECOND. Amen. Come on.[Exeunt.TWO OTHERS.FIRST. There's the Queen's light. I hear she cannot live.SECOND. God curse her and her Legate! Gardiner burnsAlready; but to pay them full in kind,The hottest hold in all the devil's denWere but a sort of winter; sir, in Guernsey,I watch'd a woman burn; and in her agonyThe mother came upon her—a child was born—And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire,That, being but baptized in fire, the babeMight be in fire for ever. Ah, good neighbour,There should be something fierier than fireTo yield them their deserts.FIRST. Amen to allYour wish, and further.A THIRD VOICE. Deserts! Amen to what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have agold ring on your finger, and soft raiment about your body; and is notthe woman up yonder sleeping after all she has done, in peace andquietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, with light, fire, physic,tendance; and I have seen the true men of Christ lying famine-dead byscores, and under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not forthem.FIRST. Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe to preach.You had best go home. What are you?THIRD. What am I? One who cries continually with sweat and tears tothe Lord God that it would please Him out of His infinite love tobreak down all kingship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; tocancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, all the magistracy,all the nobles, and all the wealthy; and to send us again, accordingto His promise, the one King, the Christ, and all things in common, asin the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was King.FIRST. If ever I heard a madman,—let's away!Why, you long-winded—Sir, you go beyond me.I pride myself on being moderate.Good night! Go home. Besides, you curse so loud,The watch will hear you. Get you home at once.[Exeunt.
SCENE V.—LONDON. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.A Gallery on one side. The moonlight streaming through a range ofwindows on the wall opposite. MARY, LADY CLARENCE, LADY MAGDALENDACRES, ALICE. QUEENpacing the Gallery. A writing table in front.QUEENcomes to the table and writes and goes again, pacing theGallery.
LADY CLARENCE. Mine eyes are dim: what hath she written? read.ALICE. 'I am dying, Philip; come to me.'LADY MAGDALEN. There—up and down, poor lady, up and down.ALICE. And how her shadow crosses one by oneThe moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall,Following her like her sorrow. She turns again.[QUEENsits and writes, and goes again.LADY CLARENCE. What hath she written now?ALICE. Nothing; but 'come, come, come,' and all awry,And blotted by her tears. This cannot last.[QUEENreturns.MARY. I whistle to the bird has broken cage,And all in vain. [Sitting down.Calais gone—Guisnes gone, too—and Philip gone!LADY CLARENCE. Dear Madam, Philip is but at the wars;I cannot doubt but that he comes again;And he is with you in a measure still.I never look'd upon so fair a likenessAs your great King in armour there, his handUpon his helmet.[Pointing to the portrait of Philip on the wall.MARY. Doth he not look noble?I had heard of him in battle over seas,And I would have my warrior all in arms.He said it was not courtly to stand helmetedBefore the Queen. He had his gracious moment,Altho' you'll not believe me. How he smilesAs if he loved me yet!LADY CLARENCE. And so he does.MARY. He never loved me—nay, he could not love me.It was his father's policy against France.I am eleven years older than he,Poor boy! [Weeps.ALICE. That was a lusty boy of twenty-seven; [Aside.Poor enough in God's grace!MARY. —And all in vain!The Queen of Scots is married to the Dauphin,And Charles, the lord of this low world, is gone;And all his wars and wisdoms past away:And in a moment I shall follow him.LADY CLARENCE. Nay, dearest Lady, see your good physician.MARY. Drugs—but he knows they cannot help me—saysThat rest is all—tells me I must not think—That I must rest—I shall rest by and by.Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he springsAnd maims himself against the bars, say 'rest':Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest—Dead or alive you cannot make him happy.LADY CLARENCE. Your Majesty has lived so pure a life,And done such mighty things by Holy Church,I trust that God will make you happy yet.MARY. What is the strange thing happiness? Sit down here:Tell me thine happiest hour.LADY CLARENCE. I will, if thatMay make your Grace forget yourself a little.There runs a shallow brook across our fieldFor twenty miles, where the black crow flies five,And doth so bound and babble all the wayAs if itself were happy. It was May-time,And I was walking with the man I loved.I loved him, but I thought I was not loved.And both were silent, letting the wild brookSpeak for us—till he stoop'd and gather'd oneFrom out a bed of thick forget-me-nots,Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me.I took it, tho' I did not know I took it,And put it in my bosom, and all at onceI felt his arms about me, and his lips—MARY. O God! I have been too slack, too slack;There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards—Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burntThe heretic priest, workmen, and women and children.Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,—We have so play'd the coward; but by God's grace,We'll follow Philip's leading, and set upThe Holy Office here—garner the wheat,And burn the tares with unquenchable fire!Burn!—Fie, what a savour! tell the cooks to closeThe doors of all the offices below.Latimer!Sir, we are private with our women here—Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow—Thou light a torch that never will go out!'Tis out—mine flames. Women, the Holy FatherHas ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole—Was that well done? and poor Pole pines of it,As I do, to the death. I am but a woman,I have no power.—Ah, weak and meek old man,Seven-fold dishonour'd even in the sightOf thine own sectaries—No, no. No pardon!Why that was false: there is the right hand stillBeckons me hence.Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason,Remember that! 'twas I and Bonner did it,And Pole; we are three to one—Have you found mercy there,Grant it me here: and see, he smiles and goes,Gentle as in life.ALICE. Madam, who goes? King Philip?MARY. No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes.Women, when I am dead,Open my heart, and there you will find writtenTwo names, Philip and Calais; open his,—So that he have one,—You will find Philip only, policy, policy,—Ay, worse than that—not one hour true to me!Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice!Adulterous to the very heart of Hell.Hast thou a knife?ALICE. Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy—MARY. Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine own soulBy slaughter of the body? I could not, girl,Not this way—callous with a constant stripe,Unwoundable. The knife!ALICE. Take heed, take heed!The blade is keen as death.MARY. This Philip shall notStare in upon me in my haggardness;Old, miserable, diseased,Incapable of children. Come thou down.[Cuts out the picture and throws it down.Lie there. (Wails) O God, I have kill'd my Philip!ALICE. No,Madam, you have but cut the canvas out;We can replace it.MARY. All is well then; rest—I will to rest; he said, I must have rest.[Cries of'ELIZABETH'in the street.A cry! What's that? Elizabeth? revolt?A new Northumberland, another Wyatt?I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave.LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you.MARY. I will not see her.Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister?I will see none except the priest. Your arm.[ToLADY CLARENCE.O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smileAmong thy patient wrinkles—Help me hence.[Exeunt.ThePRIESTpasses. EnterELIZABETHandSIR WILLIAM CECIL.ELIZABETH. Good counsel yours—No one in waiting? still,As if the chamberlain were Death himself!The room she sleeps in—is not this the way?No, that way there are voices. Am I too late?Cecil ... God guide me lest I lose the way.[ExitELIZABETH.CECIL. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones,At last a harbour opens; but thereinSunk rocks—they need fine steering—much it isTo be nor mad, nor bigot—have a mind—Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be,Miscolour things about her—sudden touchesFor him, or him—sunk rocks; no passionate faith—But—if let be—balance and compromise;Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her—a TudorSchool'd by the shadow of death—a Boleyn, too,Glancing across the Tudor—not so well.EnterALICE.How is the good Queen now?ALICE. Away from Philip.Back in her childhood—prattling to her motherOf her betrothal to the Emperor Charles,And childlike—jealous of him again—and onceShe thank'd her father sweetly for his bookAgainst that godless German. Ah, those daysWere happy. It was never merry worldIn England, since the Bible came among us.CECIL. And who says that?ALICE. It is a saying among the Catholics.CECIL. It never will be merry world in England,Till all men have their Bible, rich and poor.ALICE. The Queen is dying, or you dare not say it.EnterELIZABETH.ELIZABETH. The Queen is dead.CECIL. Then here she stands! my homage.ELIZABETH. She knew me, and acknowledged me her heir,Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the Faith:Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away in peace.I left her lying still and beautiful,More beautiful than in life. Why would you vex yourself,Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no heartTo be your Queen. To reign is restless fence,Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with the dead.Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt:And she loved much: pray God she be forgiven.CECIL. Peace with the dead, who never were at peace!Yet she loved one so much—I needs must say—That never English monarch dying leftEngland so little.ELIZABETH. But with Cecil's aidAnd others, if our person be securedFrom traitor stabs—we will make England great.EnterPAGET,and otherLORDS OF THE COUNCIL,SIR RALPH BAGENHALL,etc.LORDS. God save Elizabeth, the Queen of England!BAGENHALL. God save the Crown! the Papacy is no more.PAGET (aside).Are we so sure of that?ACCLAMATION. God save the Queen!