QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA. (continued 3)

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 it Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again. STEWARD. I were whole devil if I wrong'd you, Madam. [Exit STEWARD. ATTENDANT. The Count de Feria, from the King of Spain. ELIZABETH. Ay!—let him enter. Nay, you need not go: [To her LADIES. Remain within the chamber, but apart. We'll have no private conference. Welcome to England! Enter FERIA. 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 everything Most loyal and most grateful to the Queen. FERIA. You should be grateful to my master, too. He spoke of this; and unto him you owe That 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 love The 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, not him; Your royal sister cannot last; your hand Will 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 England Mistress of the Indies. ELIZABETH. It may chance, that England Will 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 now My 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 Queen That 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! [Exit ELIZABETH, 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. 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! Burn!— Fie, what a savour! tell the cooks to close The 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 Father Has 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 sight Of thine own sectaries—No, no. No pardon! Why that was false: there is the right hand still Beckons 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 written Two 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 soul By 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 not Stare 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. [To LADY CLARENCE. O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile Among thy patient wrinkles—Help me hence. [Exeunt. The PRIEST passes. Enter ELIZABETH and SIR 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. [Exit ELIZABETH. CECIL. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones, At last a harbour opens; but therein Sunk rocks—they need fine steering—much it is To be nor mad, nor bigot—have a mind— Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be, Miscolour things about her—sudden touches For him, or him—sunk rocks; no passionate faith— But—if let be—balance and compromise; Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her—a Tudor School'd by the shadow of death—a Boleyn, too, Glancing across the Tudor—not so well. Enter ALICE. How is the good Queen now? ALICE. Away from Philip. Back in her childhood—prattling to her mother Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles, And childlike—jealous of him again—and once She thank'd her father sweetly for his book Against that godless German. Ah, those days Were happy. It was never merry world In 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. Enter ELIZABETH. 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 heart To 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 left England so little. ELIZABETH. But with Cecil's aid And others, if our person be secured From traitor stabs—we will make England great. Enter PAGET, and other LORDS 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!

END OF QUEEN MARY.