University of Virginia Library

ACT IV

SCENE I

[Terrace of the Duke's castle. The Duke, with Adrian at his side; the household standing round, and the dwellers on the estate assembled in front.]
DUKE
(to ADRIAN).
Nay, Adrian, be my secretary, now.
Yet take it not amiss if ofttimes I
Trespass upon your functions; for there are
Duties too personal to be discharged
By the most capable and kindly vicar.
Therefore, I pray you, aid me constantly,
But do not let me abdicate. Myself,
Since Heaven is pleased to name me for the task,
Must learn, with eyes and ears not yours but mine,
The needs of them who, be it kindly said,
Depend on me, on whom I do depend.
[To the Vicar.]
Help me, good Vicar! I will help you always.
[To the Schoolmaster.]
And you who have these little ones in charge,
I pray you, teach them virtue, love of country,
Faith, Hope, and Charity, the Graces Three,
And Reverence, that “angel of the world.”
And, so you will permit me, I at times
Will lift the schoolhouse latch and second you
In loving admonitions.
[To the Crowd.]
Comrades all!
Who dwell upon the land that's labelled mine,
Though mine it is not more than it is yours,
Give me your friendship, own me for your friend,
And I will do for you, through good and ill,
Whate'er would not undo your manliness,
Derange the commonwealth, nor mar the State.

THE RUSTICS.
Now shall we sing?

DUKE.
I pray you.

ADRIAN.
Now! Begin!

The Ploughmen
sing.
Three cheers for Winter,
That blows upon the horn,
That makes the branches splinter,
And threshes out the corn:
When chimney-stacks are shaken,
And flooded is the ditch,
And the gammer salts the bacon,
And the lasses sit and stitch,
Or thread the melted tallow
To cheer the longsome nights,
And the ploughland oozeth fallow,
And the black frost nips and bites;
When we close and bar the shutter,
As the wet winds wail and sob,
And we watch the chestnuts sputter
And crackle on the hob;
When the Yule log lights the rafter,
And the gossip tells the tale,
And the house is filled with laughter,
And the mugs are filled with ale:
Three cheers for Winter!

The Shepherds
sing.
Three cheers for Springtime,
That makes the pastures strong,
When, blithe upon the wing, Time
Comes bursting into song:
When celandine and oxslip
Are dotted all about,
And the young ones on their frocks slip,
And sally forth and shout;
When lifted is the wattle,
And emptied is the shed,
And the dewy-fetlocked cattle
Roam afield for board and bed;
When we ply the rake and harrow,
And bark the oaken bole,
And the lean sow drops her farrow,
And the broodmare drops her foal;
When the buxom lambs are bleating,
And the cuckoo never stops,
And the glad swain and his sweeting
Are cuddling in the copse:
Three cheers for Springtime!

The Mowers
sing.
Three cheers for Summer,
When posies smell once more,
And morrice-man and mummer
Come dancing to the door:
When open stands the casement,
And walls that dripped with snow
Are hung from eave to basement
With roses all ablow;
When grass is scythed and tedded,
And work is paid-for play,
And lad and lass are wedded,
And tumble in the hay;
When everything increases,
And mother makes the jams,
While we shear the curly fleeces,
And wean the lusty lambs;
When the youngsters pitch the wicket
Upon the village green,
And the elders watch the cricket
And talk of what hath been:
Three cheers for Summer!

The Reapers
sing.
Three cheers for Autumn,
When jolly shocks of grain,
And the brawny arms that wrought 'em,
Ride homeward on the wain;
When the early rime-frost dapples
The tender woodland leaves,
And the juicy ruddled apples
Are stored behind the eaves;
When unto green hop-garden
Pour all the village folk,
And the cobnuts swell and harden,
And the oasts are lit and smoke;
When steams the harvest-supper
With joints of beef and boar,
And lower dance with upper
Upon the granary floor;
When the yeoman counts his earning,
And the yokel's wage is known,
And the maiden feels a yearning
For a fireside of her own:
Three cheers for Autumn!

They All
sing.
Then three cheers, my hearties,
And together three times three,
For whatsoe'er your part is,
Or whoso ye may be,
Be yours to spud the thistles,
To scoop and bank the ditch,
To souse and scrape the bristles,
And to cut up chine and flitch,
To peel and twist the withy,
To tend the lambing ewe,
To smite upon the stithy
And hammer out the shoe;
To find the emmet maggots,
To stake and tie the hops,
Or to stack the hazel faggots
In spinney and in copse;
To mount the market waggon,
Or to whistle by the shaft,
Now lift the home-brewed flagon,
And drain a goodly draught:
With three cheers, my hearties!

DUKE.
I never heard a saner song than that,
And its wise wholesomeness may make amends
For something rude and rustic in its rhythm.
These old-world ditties that are handed down
By your ancestral cottages maintain
The tie of time and fellowship alive.
I did not know it. You must teach it me.
Now shall we in, and cheerly feast together?

SCENE II

[Urania's garden.]
URANIA.
How quickly, Fortunatus, Love doth learn!
There's not a leaf nor tendril but you know
Its nature by affection; not a plant
But you dispose it true and tenderly.

FORTUNATUS.
Are they not yours, and were you not my teacher?

URANIA.
They and myself were all I had to give,
And so improve them yours! ... Have we not swept
The borders and the by-paths now enough;
Dead leaves being part of Autumn's livery,
Befitting more her habit than trim suit
Of modern liking?

FORTUNATUS.
Yes, the Seasons deck
Themselves in their appropriate garniture;
Self-conscious Spring betraying its desires
In blushing bud and reddening coppices,
While married Summer, satisfied with home,
Twineth the gadding rose about her brow.
Now widowed Autumn, careless of herself,
And her discoloured garments loosely flying,
Bends all her thought on harvesting the past.
Even Winter, tempering age with dignity,
Over his shoulder flings an ermine cloak,
And calm awaits the End.

URANIA.
How rightly reasoned,
Now you discern Imagination should
A reconciler, not a rebel, be,
To teach the heart of man to apprehend
Nature's vicissitudes, and bear his own,
With sympathetic fancy.

FORTUNATUS.
Dear Urania!
Next year your garden should be lovelier still,
Now you've an under-gardener.

URANIA.
Next year, alas!
The fairest of our flowers will waken not,
And you must help me to conceive it Spring,
When April doth not bring its namesake back,
To melt the Winter.

FORTUNATUS.
I have kept these blooms
To strew where she abides.

URANIA.
And I saved these.

FORTUNATUS.
Then let us go and sanctify her grave.

URANIA.
But, tell me. Is the poem not complete?

FORTUNATUS.
It is; and I will read it you to-night.