QUEEN. After a long storm in a troublous sea, The pilot is no gladder of a calm, Than Isabel to see the vexed looks Of her lov'd lord chang'd into sweet aspects.
KING. I will not tell thee what a world of foes For thy love (dear love) rise against my life.
Matilda's love, few swords will fight for thee. [_To himself_.
I will not number up the many woes That shall be multiplied: strife upon strife Will follow; but to shun ensuing ills, I'll take such pledges as shall please me ask Of each proud baron dwelling in the realm.
Bruce, kinsman and the deputy to March, Hath a high-minded lady to his wife, An able son for arms, and a less boy, That is the comfort of his father's life.
Madam, I know you love the lady well, And of her wealth you may be bold to build[305], By sending you four hundred white milch kine, And ten like-colour'd bulls to serve that herd; So fair, that every cow did Io seem, And every bull Europa's ravisher.
To friend myself with such a subject's truth, Thus I command: you and Earl Salisbury Shall, with what speed conveniently ye may, Hie ye to Guildford: there the lady lies, And her sons too, as I am told by spies.
All that she hath, I know, she calleth yours; All that she hath I gladly would call mine, If she abuse ye; if she use ye well, For ever be what she retains her own.
Only go by, as queens in progress do, And send me word how she receiveth you.
QUEEN. Well, I avouch, she will, before I go: Far be it John should prove Lord Bruce's foe.
Come, noble Salisbury, I long to be at Guildford.
SAL. In such a business, madam, so do I.
[_Exeunt_.
KING. Go on, good stales[306]: now Guildford is mine own! [_Aside_.]
Hubert, I charge you take an hundred horse, And follow unto Guildford castle-gates.
The queen pretend you come to tend upon, Sent carefully from us: when you are in, Boldly demand the lady for her sons, For pledges of her husband's faith and hers: Whom when ye have, upon the castle seize, And keep it to our use, until we come.
Meanwhile let me alone with Hugh your son, To work a wonder, if no prodigy; But whatsoe'er, it shall attempted be.
HUB. Even that which to your majesty May seem contentful, thereto I agree.
KING. Go then to Guildford, and a victor be, [_Exit_ HUBERT.
Mowbray, our masque: are you and Chester ready?
MOW. We will before your grace, I warrant you.
KING. How think'st of it, Mowbray?
MOW. As on a masque: but for our torch-bearers, Hell cannot make so mad a crew as I.
KING. Faith, who is chief?
MOW. Will Brand, my lord; But then your grace must curb his cruelty: The rein once got, he's apt for villainy.
KING. I know the villain is both rough and grim; But as a tie-dog I will muzzle him.
I'll bring him up to fawn upon my friends.
And worry dead my foes. But to our masque.
I mean this night to revel at the feast, Where fair Matilda graceth every guest; And if my hidden courtesy she grace, Old Baynard's Castle, good Fitzwater's place, John will make rich with royal England's wealth: But if she do not, not those scatter'd bands, Dropping from Austria and the Holy Land, That boast so much of glorious victories, Shall stop the inundations of those woes, That like a deluge I will bring on them.
I know the crew is there; banish all fears: If wrong'd, they shall be ours: if welcome, theirs.
[_Exeunt_.
SCENE II.
_Enter_ FITZWATER _and his son_: OLD BRUCE _and_ YOUNG BRUCE, _and call forth_ MATILDA[307].
FITZ. Why, how now, votary! still at your book?
Ever in mourning weeds? For shame, for shame!
With better entertainment cheer our friends.
Now, by the bless'd cross, you are much to blame To cross our mirth thus: you are much to blame, I say. Good lord! hath never woe enough Of welladay? Indeed, indeed, Some sorrow fits, but this is more than need.
MAT. Good father, pardon me: You saw I sat the supper and the banquet; You know I cannot dance; discourse I shun, By reason that my wit, but small before, Comes far behind the ripe wits of our age.
YOUNG B. You'll be too ripe for marriage, If you delay by day and day thus long.
There is the noble Wigmore, Lord of the March That lies on Wye, Lug[308], and the Severn streams: His son is like the sun's sire's Ganymede, And for your love hath sent a lord to plead.
His absence I did purpose to excuse,
_Enter_ LEICESTER.
But Leicester is the man for him that sues.
FITZ. My cousin Bruce hath been your broker, Leicester; At least hath broke the matter to my girl.
LEI. O, for a barber at the time of need, Or one of these that dresses periwigs, To deck my grey head with a youthful hair!
But I must to't. Matilda, thus it is!
Say, can you love me? I am Wigmore's son.
MAT. My cousin said he look'd like Ganymede; But you, but you--
LEI. But I, but I, you say, Am rather like old Chremes in a play[309]; But that's a nice objection: I am he, But by attorneyship made deputy.
MAT. He's never like to speed well all his life, That by attorney sues to win a wife: But grant you are, whom you seem nothing like, Young Wigmore, the heir to this noble lord-- He for his son hath sent us ne'er a word.
OLD B. If you grant love, when [that] his son doth woo, Then in your jointure he'll send, say, and do.
YOUNG B. And for a doer, cousin, take my word: Look for a good egg, he was a good bird; Cock o' the game, i' faith, [O,] never fear.
MAT. Ay, but I fear the match will fall out ill, Because he says his son is named Will.
FITZ. And why, good daughter? hath some palmister, Some augur, or some dreaming calculator (For such, I know, you often hearken to), Been prating 'gainst the name? go to, go to; Do not believe them. Leicester, fall to woo.
MAT. I must believe my father; and 'tis you That, if I ought misdid, reprov'd me still, And chiding said, "You're wedded to your will."
FITZ. God, for thy mercy! have ye catch'd me there?
Wigmore is William, woman. Leicester, speak: Thou art the simplest wooer in the world.
LEI. You have put me out, and she hath took me down; You with your talk, she with her ready tongue.
You told me I should find her mild and still, And scarce a word came from her in an hour: Then did I think I should have all the talk, Unhinder'd by your willingness to help, Unanswer'd, till I had no more to say; And then--
YOUNG B. What, then?
She with a courtly court'sy saying Nay!
MAT. Your friend's attorney might have gone his way With as great credit as did that orator Which, handling an oration some three hours, Ill for the matter, worse than bad for phrase, Having said _dixi_, look'd, and found not one To praise or dispraise his oration; For, wearied with his talk, they all were gone.