_A light burning within_. VOICES _of 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 make Down 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 burns Already; but to pay them full in kind, The hottest hold in all the devil's den Were but a sort of winter; sir, in Guernsey, I watch'd a woman burn; and in her agony The mother came upon her--a child was born-- And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire, That, being but baptized in fire, the babe Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good neighbour, There should be something fierier than fire To yield them their deserts.
FIRST. Amen to all Your wish, and further.
A THIRD VOICE. Deserts! Amen to what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have a gold ring on your finger, and soft raiment about your body; and is not the woman up yonder sleeping after all she has done, in peace and quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, with light, fire, physic, tendance; and I have seen the true men of Christ lying famine-dead by scores, and under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not for them.
FIRST. Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe to preach.
You had best go home. What are you?
THIRD. What am I? One who cries continually with sweat and tears to the Lord God that it would please Him out of His infinite love to break down all kingship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; to cancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, all the magistracy, all the nobles, and all the wealthy; and to send us again, according to His promise, the one King, the Christ, and all things in common, as in the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was King.
FIRST. If ever I heard a madman,--let's away!
Why, you long-winded--Sir, you go beyond me.
I pride 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 of windows on the wall opposite_. MARY, LADY CLARENCE, LADY MAGDALEN DACRES, ALICE. QUEEN _pacing the Gallery. A writing table in front_.
QUEEN _comes to the table and writes and goes again, pacing the Gallery_.
LADY CLARENCE. Mine eyes are dim: what hath she written? read.
ALICE. 'I am dying, Philip; come to me.'
LADY MAGDALEN. There--up and down, poor lady, up and down.
ALICE. And how her shadow crosses one by one The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall, Following her like her sorrow. She turns again.
[QUEEN _sits 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.
[QUEEN _returns_.
MARY. I whistle to the bird has broken cage, And all in vain. [_Sitting down_.
Calais gone--Guisnes gone, too--and Philip gone!
LADY CLARENCE. Dear Madam, Philip is but at the wars; I cannot doubt but that he comes again; And he is with you in a measure still.
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness As your great King in armour there, his hand Upon his helmet.
[_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 helmeted Before the Queen. He had his gracious moment, Altho' you'll not believe me. How he smiles As 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--says That rest is all--tells me I must not think-- That I must rest--I shall rest by and by.
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he springs And maims himself against the bars, say 'rest': Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest-- Dead or alive you cannot make him happy.
LADY CLARENCE. Your Majesty has lived so pure a life, And done such mighty things by Holy Church, I trust that God will make you happy yet.
MARY. What is the strange thing happiness? Sit down here: Tell me thine happiest hour.
LADY CLARENCE. I will, if that May make your Grace forget yourself a little.
There runs a shallow brook across our field For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five, And doth so bound and babble all the way As if itself were happy. It was May-time, And I was walking with the man I loved.
I loved him, but I thought I was not loved.
And both were silent, letting the wild brook Speak for us--till he stoop'd and gather'd one From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me.
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it, And put it in my bosom, and all at once I felt his arms about me, and his lips--
MARY. O God! I have been too slack, too slack; There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards-- Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children.
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,-- We have so play'd the coward; but by God's grace, We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up The Holy Office here--garner the wheat, And burn the tares with unquenchable fire!