Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem :: :: University of Virginia Library

Caerlaverock Castle.
Halbert Comyne and Sir John Gourlay.
Comyne.
And so the English cuirassiers are come
With Sir John Rashgill's spears?

Sir John.
Not all, my lord:
Seven were left praying by the river side,
For it to stay like Jordan: and they'll pray,—
For the cursed stream keeps running. And ten more
Sat singing “Stroudwater,” by a living brook,
To the hundred and nineteenth psalm.

Comyne.
No more, I say;
These men pray not more fervent than they fight.
Now, good Sir John, I have a gentle deed
For thee to do; nay, nay, 'tis no dirk work.
I'd have thee wear the sweet look of sixteen,
When it ventures first 'mongst maidens.

Sir John.
Sword or speech,
My lord, are ready; I can work with both,
But brief—most wond'rous brief.

Comyne.
The bravest men
Are oft the briefest—thou mayst be as brief
As a bride's prayer 'neath the blanket. But, Sir John,
She has a marvellous soft and winning way,
A sovereignty in her look, which melts
Flint hearts as wax; she eloquently moves
Hands of surpassing whiteness; and her tongue
'Twixt her lip-rubies is a thing can charm
The raven's voice to sing.

Sir John.
'Tis rarely painted.
Is she some mermaid of the flood, my lord,
That I must find to charm ye?—you 've described
A thing too hard to catch.

Comyne.
She is no maid
Of the salt flood—but she 's the sweetest maid
On the green earth. In yon high turret, see,
O'er which the twin bright stars are travelling, where
The casements gleam so gallantly, she dwells.
Here glows the red wine, ready for her lips:
Here is a soft couch for her gentle limbs;
This arm shall be her pillow; and what more
Can a good soldier offer, kind Sir John?

Sir J.
She'll ask me for some token, good my lord,
Some antique ring, some rare and costly gem,
A dirty stone set deep in dirty gold;
Or she may have a love for bonnet pieces,
The coin o' her native country. Is she soft,
And will listen to sweet speech?

Comyne.
Stay! take this ring;
And, for thy pains, take thou this purse of gold.

Nay, linger not to reckon it; begone.
(Exit Sir John.)
This fellow has his price. I love him for 't;
He does the deed, and is paid. But he that doth
His right hand wash in my foe's heart, for love
Of shining with my rising, puts a bitt
Between my lips, and follows all my steps
With the halloo of hell.

(Exit.)