 | Mary Tudor |  |
SCENE VIII.
A Chamber, Whitehall Palace.Philip, apart: Enter Gardiner and Bonner.
GARDINER.
He's in a moody temper. How he'll chafe,
Hearing my conference with her Grace!
BONNER.
And message.
Will he bear this? and not be dangerous?
His Spanish gentry tell strange tales.
GARDINER.
Hurt us?
Tut, man! Who strikes off hands for their offence—
Or plucks an eyeball out because it frets?
238
Ha! ha! ha! ha!
[He rises and walks up and down.
BONNER.
Why does he laugh so grimly?
And rub his hands so fiercely, and pluck his beard?
GARDINER.
His way—his way. When any new conceit
Of pleasurable malice takes his fancy,
'Tis ever thus.
BONNER.
Well: God gives instruments.
We'll not complain.
GARDINER
[kneeling].
My liege!
PHILIP
[starting].
How now? how now?
Why come you on me suddenly? Ho! Egmont!
GARDINER.
Matters of privacy, my lord—we came
Duly announced. Your pardon.
PHILIP.
I was musing.
The feather of a pleasant phantasy
Tickled me, and I laughed—did I not laugh?
239
Right joyfully methought.
PHILIP.
There you mistook.
I never laugh for joy. My lady Queen?
What said she to our message touching Pole?
GARDINER.
That she will not desert a faithful servant.
PHILIP.
Ha! ha! why see you now, I laugh again.
This was foreseen. A missive for the Pope.
A word aside with you. Bonner's a butcher
Whom, wanting, we employ; but not consult.
If the Pope prove refractory, like Queens—
Doth England hold no pet Campagna, teeming
With deadly fogs? the Legate should breathe such.
You comprehend.
GARDINER.
May heaven be merciful
To sinners! Justice must be executed:
Else were the throne a ball of emptiness
For every knave to kick.
PHILIP.
You are quick-witted.
I like you well. What of the heretick Bishops?
240
Why there, my liege, my argument hath prospered.
PHILIP.
Her hand if once with blood incarnadined
She'll love it as the henna dye is loved
In Moorish harems. To your tasks, Sir Bishops!
[Exeunt.
| Mary Tudor | |