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 English Had sallied out from Calais and driven back The Frenchmen from their trenches?
HEATH. Alas! no.
That gateway to the mainland over which Our flag hath floated for two hundred years Is France again.
MARY. So; but it is not lost-- Not yet. Send out: let England as of old Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into The prey they are rending from her--ay, and rend The renders too. Send out, send out, and make Musters in all the counties; gather all From sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet; Let every craft that carries sail and gun Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken yet?
HEATH. Guisnes is not taken yet.
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 thyself To babble of their coldness. O would I were My father for an hour! Away now--Quick!
[_Exit_ HEATH.
I hoped I had served God with all my might!
It seems I have not. Ah! much heresy Shelter'd in Calais. Saints I have rebuilt Your shrines, set up your broken images; Be comfortable to me. Suffer not That my brief reign in England be defamed Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip, We have made war upon the Holy Father All for your sake: what good could come of that?
LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, not against the Holy Father; You did but help King Philip's war with France, Your troops were never down in Italy.
MARY. I am a byword. Heretic and rebel Point at me and make merry. Philip gone!
And Calais gone! Time that I were gone too!
LADY CLARENCE. Nay, if the fetid gutter had a voice And cried I was not clean, what should I care?
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 by_ POLE).
There! there! another paper! Said you not Many of these were loyal? Shall I try If this be one of such?
LADY CLARENCE. Let it be, let it be.
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 sin Beyond 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 you One of her pleasant songs? Alice, my child, Bring us your lute (ALICE _goes_). They say the gloom of Saul Was lighten'd by young David's harp.
MARY. Too young!
And never knew a Philip.
_Re-enter_ ALICE.
Give _me_ the 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 voice Lost in a wilderness where none can hear!
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea!
A low voice from the dust and from the grave (_Sitting on the 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 found Sitting, and in this fashion; she looks a corpse.
_Enter_ LADY MAGDALEN DACRES.
LADY MAGDALEN. Madam, the Count de Feria waits without, In hopes to see your Highness.
LADY CLARENCE (_pointing to_ MARY).
Wait he must-- Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears, And may not speak for hours.
LADY MAGDALEN. Unhappiest Of Queens and wives and women!
ALICE (_in the foreground with_ LADY MAGDALEN).
And all along Of Philip.
LADY MAGDALEN. Not so loud! Our Clarence there Sees ever such an aureole round the Queen, It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace, Who stands the nearest to her.
ALICE. Ay, this Philip; I used to love the Queen with all my heart-- God help me, but methinks I love her less For such a dotage upon such a man.
I would I were as tall and strong as you.
LADY MAGDALEN. I seem half-shamed at times to be so tall.