 | Francis the First |  |
SCENE I.
—THE ROYAL CHAMBER.Francis discovered.
FRANCIS.
By Jupiter! he must have made an errand
Unto th'antipodes, or this new world,
Which, it should seem, our grandsire Adam's will
Did leave to Charles of Spain, else doth he wear
Dull lead for Mercury's air-cutting pinions.
Enter Clement.
Why, how now, slow foot! art thou lame, I prithee?
Hath she the ring,—hath she perused the letter,—
What does she,—says she,—answers she? Be quick,
Man; thy reply. Come, come, the devil speed thee.
CLEMENT.
My liege! I found the lady beaming all
With smiles of hope her brother should be chosen:
Then to her hand deliver'd I your scroll.
FRANCIS.
Ha!
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The which she, with a doubting look, did open;
And, for a moment, her fix'd eye did seem
To drink the characters, but not the sense
Of your epistle: like some traveller,
Who, lacking understanding, passes o'er
Wide tracts and foreign countries, yet brings back
No fruit of his own observation: thus
Stood the fair lady, till her eye was fain
Begin the scroll again; and then, as though
That moment comprehension woke in her,
The blood forsook her cheeks; and straight, asham'd
Of its unnatural desertion, drew
A crimson veil over her marble brows.
FRANCIS.
I would I'd borne the scroll myself, thy words
Image her forth so fair!
CLEMENT.
Do they, indeed?
Then sorrow seize my tongue! for, look you, sir,
I will not speak of your own fame or honour,
Nor of your word to me: king's words, I find,
Are drafts on our credulity, not pledges
Of their own truth. You have been often pleas'd
To shower your royal favours on my head;
And fruitful honours from your kindly will
Have rais'd me far beyond my fondest hopes;
But had I known such service was to be
The nearest way my gratitude might take
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All that I hold of you: and, now, not e'en
Your crown and kingdom could requite to me
The cutting sense of shame that I endur'd
When on me fell the sad reproachful glance
Which told me how I stood in the esteem
Of yonder lady. Let me tell you, sir,
You've borrow'd for a moment what whole years
Cannot bestow—an honourable name!
Now fare you well; I've sorrow at my heart,
To think your majesty hath reckon'd thus
Upon my nature. I was poor before,
Therefore I can be poor again without
Regret, so I lose not mine own esteem.
FRANCIS.
Skip me thy spleen, and onward with thy tale.
What said the lady then?
CLEMENT.
With trembling hands
She folded up your scroll; and more in sorrow,
As I believe, than anger, letting fall
Unheeded from her hand the sparkling jewel,
She left me.
FRANCIS.
Thou, I warrant, sore abash'd,
And durst not urge her further. Excellent!
Oh, ye are precious wooers, all of ye!
I marvel how ye ever ope your lips
Unto, or look upon that fearful thing,
A lovely woman.
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And I marvel, sir,
At those who do not feel the majesty,—
By heav'n! I'd almost said the holiness,—
That circles round a fair and virtuous woman:
There is a gentle purity that breathes
In such a one, mingled with chaste respect,
And modest pride of her own excellence,—
A shrinking nature, that is so adverse
To aught unseemly, that I could as soon
Forget the sacred love I owe to heav'n,
As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air
Inhal'd by such a being: than whom, my liege,
Heaven cannot look on anything more holy,
Or earth be proud of anything more fair.
[Exit.
FRANCIS.
Good! 'tis his god stirs in him now, I trow;
The poet is inspir'd, and doubtless, too.
With his own muse; whose heavenly perfections,
He fain would think belong to Eve's frail daughters.
Well: I will find occasions for myself—
With my own ardent love I'll take the field,
And woo this pretty saint until she yield.
[Exit.
| Francis the First | |