University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Room in Whitehall Palace. Enter Jane Seymour.
Jane Seymour.
A queen, a queen! a real anointed queen,
With trains of maids and smiling courtiers,
Diamonds like stones, and softest velvet pall
To grace the shoulders of my majesty!
All eyes on me, my beauties sung in verse;
Each feature—ay, the tithe of any one—
More than enough to swell a rondeau up!
My wishes fairies, flying at a sign
To bring the substance of my latest thought!
My kin ennobled to the last degree;
My son a king, my daughters wed to kings;
My name the pith of gravest history!
This is too much! I cannot, if I would,
Put by the crown which fortune offers me.
But, then, the queen?—The queen o'erruns with pride;
Last Tuesday week she cruelly rated me.
What mercy showed she to poor Katharine?
I am but the instrument of justest Heaven
To make requital for her own misdeeds.
The king abhors her, and inclines to me—
Lo! nature points the path which I should take.
Just as I mount, so must the queen descend;
We hang in adverse scales. Now 't is too late;
My faith is plighted to the king, and I
Will dare the issue for the glittering prize!

(Enter King Henry.)
King Henry.
All joy befall you, darling!

[Embraces her.]
Jane S.
Welcome, sir!

King H.
Are you still constant?

Jane S.
Can you ask me that?
You have descended from your royal state,
And deigned to honor one so low as I;
Chosen me, unworthy, from the common throng,
Nor cast your eyes upon the maiden hands
Of princesses that wait outstretched for you:
As well might the dull earth reject the sun,
That changes its grimed face to virgin gold,
As I refuse the glory of your love.
Henceforth my person is a sacred thing,
A common vessel turned to holy use;
And should you now disdain my little worth,
All your great kingdom holds no mate for me.

King H.
Tut! mistress, with your gloomy fantasies;
And be not jealous of my love so soon.
Ours is a mere exchange of heart for heart;
Crowns and such baubles enter not our trade.
That which I have, the sceptre of a king,
Possession makes nigh worthless in my eyes;
That which I have not, your own beauteous self,
O'er all stale toys of royalty I prize.

Jane S.
Then be content; my heart is yours alone.
As virgin as the breast wherein it beats.
It rests with you to lift my fortunes up
On level with your own.

King H.
By Heaven, I will!—
But how, but how? Let us to counsel, love.
[Seats himself, with Jane Seymour on his knee.]
There 's Norfolk, eager at our first design;
But he is a Papist; to restore the Pope
Part of his creed;—a doubtful counsellor.
If I retrieve the Pope's authority,
Upon the act my marriage is annulled,
And I am free. True, true; but pause we here:
How shall we satisfy the plundered monks
Whom we have ousted from their fat domains?
How our good nobles who possess them now?

Jane S.
And how the people?

King H.
Let them fight it out.
They are half and half, Papists and Protestants,
And so divided, easily subdued.
I mainly fear to reinstate the Pope;
His holy finger is in every dish;
I must be king within my own domain;
Yet if the thing must be—'Ods wounds! my love,
This matrimonial knot was hard to tie;
But 't was mere pastime to undoing it.
Would that the Grecian's sword might cut it—Ha!—

Jane S.
What mean you, sir? Why do you glare around?
And pale as death!

King H.
As death!

Jane S.
Ay, and as fearful.
Rouse, rouse, sir! You are ill—I'll call relief.

King H.
Nay, sit you down again.

Jane S.
But are you well?

King H.
'T was but a passing thought that tortured me,
As one may feel who murders. Clasp me tight;
Pain would be comfort to such awful visions.

(Enter Queen Anne, behind.)
Queen Anne.
Ha!

Jane S.
O, good heavens! the queen!

Queen A.
In luckless time
For you, base minion, treble traitoress,
False to yourself, false to your state and me!
The foulest sin that woman may commit
Made doubly hideous by the circumstance!
What! in the palace that contains your queen,
The very seat of England's dignity,
Whence virtue, as the simple commons deem,
Springs to illumine this majestic realm!
Have you no shame? Wear you that brazen front
When I hold up a mirror to your crime?
Is not your Gorgon nature turned to stone,
At the bare glimpse of your own ugliness?

King H.
Peace, sweetheart, peace! all shall be well for you;
Your maid is guiltless.

Queen A.
Have you found a tongue?
What sorcery bestowed this power of speech?
Or has poor shame, bedazzled at her glory,
Shrunk from the world?

King H.
This foully-slandered maid
Is half distraught at your mad violence.

Queen A.
And dare you, sir, before your injured queen—
You, the copartner of her guilt and shame,
Protect yon wanton?

King H.
Dare I, dare I, madam!
'Ods wounds! who 's king in England? Hold your tongue,
You rank defier of your sovereign's power!
Have you not learned whose presence you are in?
Or must I teach you by some sterner means?

Queen A.
O! shameless husband!

King H.
She is pure, I say:
And, by high Heaven, as pure shall you remain
From touch of mine, till malice gnaw you up!—
This is forever. Come, sweet mistress Jane.

[Exit, leading off Jane Seymour.]
Queen A.
O, God! O, God!—The king—Nay, Harry, Harry,
Come back; I will—O! killing agony!
Is there no pity in the heart of man?
Plead for me, girl—he loves you—plead for me!
I am his wife, your queen, your loving mistress.
I will forgive you, I will cherish you,
I'll love you dearer than my dearest friend.—
Gone, gone forever! Said he not, forever?
Kind Heaven, have mercy on my feebleness!
If this be trial of my strength, I yield;
I do confess my utter helplessness;
I bow me prostrate, a poor nerveless woman—
A queen no more. I'll trample on my pride,
And follow meekly where thy finger points.
By Heaven, not so! This is a grievous wrong,
By man inflicted. Devils ordered this,
And they shall pay it!—Hear me, writhing souls,
That minister around sin's ebon throne!
If to these murderers of my heart's dear peace
A child be born, may she, in that sweet time
When infant babble opes all heaven to her,
Feel the cold hand of death draw, day by day,
The clinging spirit from her! May her child
Live in the vexings of a troubled time,
And, issueless, die young! May he—O God,
I cannot bid a curse light on the head
Of him my child calls father! Bless him, Heaven!
Give him the peace which he has stolen from me!

[Exit.]

SCENE II.

A Street in London. Enter Mark Smeaton and Ralph Loney, meeting.
Loney.
Mark Smeaton, if I breathe!

Smeaton.
Who are you, fellow,
That thus accost her majesty's chief groom?

Lon.
So soon forgotten! Know you not Ralph Loney,
Whilom your school-mate? Shame upon you, Mark!
Had I turned Peter, and denied you thus,
When the big smith made at you with his hammer,
You would not bear your silken coat to-day.

Smea.
Ralph Coney—Coney?—

Lon.
Loney, Master Mark.
How should I call your name, not knowing you?

Smea.
Think you, this is the first, or hundredth time,
That knaves have claimed acquaintance with my name?
We of the court are known to every one;
And I in chief, as the queen's favored groom—
Nay, I may say, her most familiar groom,
Ranked more as friend than courtly servitor—
Am most conspicuous to the vulgar gaze.
It would but prove a new-come clown in town,
Had you not known me.

Lon.
Here are tidings gained
To please his grace of Suffolk. [Aside.]

Bless me, sir!
I pray forgive my vulgar forwardness;
Indeed I knew not of your dignity.
Your worship would not harm a thoughtless man.
Nay, frown not, good Sir Mark.—Do I misjudge,
In calling you Sir Mark?

Smea.
On the way thither;
To-morrow, or next day, that style may suit;
Perchance, a higher one. Resume your beaver.
Let me see—Loney—Ralph?—Upon my life,
When I reflect, I have a faint idea
That once I knew you.

Lon.
I will freshen you.
Do you remember, on an Easter day,
How the fierce urchins, half insane for meat,
And rancorous with the bile of fishy Lent,
Into a green and filthy pool bobbed you,
Merely because they could? How I alone,
In pity of your plight—your slimy plight—
Your most nose-wrenching plight—

Smea.
Good Loney, cease!
The zenith-topping sun forgets the clouds
Which, in the dirty dawn, he struggled through!

Lon.
Now, what bystander that had seen you rise
From that green pond, fresh with your miry coat,
Had ever prophesied these gilded clothes?
And who that saw me, with my broken staff,
Thrash to their doors your routed enemies,
Could have foretold my present mean estate?
I should be captain of a great armada;
You should be dragging horse-ponds.

Smea.
Prithee, cease!
These boyish pranks disgust my nicer sense.

Lon.
I would not vex you; but it comforts me,
And reconciles me to my lot on earth,
To summon back my childhood. As I then
Had my full hours of triumph and renown,
So have you now; thus fate is justified.

Smea.
You seem to be an honest fellow, Ralph;
Nor care I if from my abounding stone,
Ever replenished by my gracious mistress,
I give a parcel. [Gives a purse.]


Lon.
Luck be with you, sir!

Smea.
When that is emptied, I'll replenish it,
If you will drink my royal lady's health.

Lon.
You stand high in her favor.

Smea.
Did you know
The height I stand, it would amaze your ears.
Adieu! we'll meet again.

[Exit.]
Lon.
Farewell, poor fool!
We'll meet too soon for you. Hell snatch the purse!
[Throws it from him.]
It burns like heated brass. Now to the duke.
Mark Smeaton's vanity, a seeming trifle,
May in his grace's hands work great results;
Ay, even the unqueening of a queen.
Alas! alas! poor Mark, that thy fine feathers
Should draw the fowler's closely-prying eye!
So must it be; why should I hesitate?
Curse on his bounty! While we are beasts of prey,
The little game must ever feed the great.

[Exit.]

SCENE III.

A Room in the Palace of the Duke of Suffolk. Enter Duke of Norfolk, Duke of Suffolk, and Marquis of Exeter.
Suffolk.
Where 's Arundel, Lord Exeter?

Exeter.
Poor man!
His over boldness in once joining us
Has scared him from a second wish of it:
One valiant thought has terrified the rest.
He bade me mention that some strict affairs
Drew him away. When we have won the game,
I pledge my faith, we'll have him bickering hot,
And bold as Mars to share the dangerous spoils.

Norfolk.
We can well spare him. Since his majesty
Has shown such favor to our enterprise,
They who at first turned from us, virtue-sick,
Deem it a blesséd thing to be enrolled.
(Enter Earl of Arundel.)
Welcome, my lord!

Arundel.
A dear salute to me.
I rode four horses dead, to keep my faith,
And only reached you as the fifth fell lame.
Good Lord! good Lord! they say his majesty—
I had this from a sure but private source—
Has gained intelligence of our design,
And smiles at it. Ugh! sirs, I'm out of breath:
When I have blown a while, I'll tell you more.

Suf.
Nay, spare your wind.—

Nor.
Poh! poh! don't anger him.

[Apart to Suffolk.]
Arun.
Ha! you know all?

Nor.
Yes, every tittle of it.

Arun.
Then, sirs, to counsel.

Ex.
Now he is head assassin.

[Aside.]
Nor.
His majesty is much perplexed with doubts;
Nor knows he, better than ourselves, a plan
To rid the state of his ambitious queen.
She has committed no so gross excess
As may subject her to the common law:
A faithful wife, untainted in her fame—

Ex.
And so was Katharine.

Suf.
Come, come, be blunt:
We must destroy her, by fair means or foul.

(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
Your grace's servant, Master Loney, waits.

Suf.
Let him wait, fellow—I am much engaged.

Ser.
I told him so. He said his business was
About the matter you have now in hand.

Suf.
Ha! said he so? Admit him then. (Exit Servant.)
My lords,
Be not provoked by his familiar bearing.
He is my jackal, a most useful one,
But one who hates his trade.

(Enter Ralph Loney.)
Loney.
My speech is short.
I met a youthful schoolfellow of mine,
A rare musician, now her highness' groom:
The man 's a fool, and boasted of the love
His mistress bore him. He would go still further,
To gratify his itching vanity,
And criminate the queen.

Suf.
Go make him drunk;
Take witnesses, fit men, and pump him dry.

Lon.
I will obey, sir.—'T is but one man more.

[Exit.]
Suf.
You'll scarce believe, at times that fellow laughs;
But never when about my secret work;
Then he is ever sullen.

Arun.
A strange knave.

Suf.
But faithful.

Ex.
Something grave may come of this.

Suf.
Ay, something which, by us interpreted,
May compromise the virtue of the queen.

Nor.
Perhaps. O find me but some little charge,
Less weighty than the air-drawn gossamer—
Some dim tradition, gathered in a dream
Seen by the blearing vision of a drunkard—
Some hearsay mumbled by a maniac's lips,
With fever scorched upon his dying bed—
Some words the roaring tongues of angry blasts,
Or zephyrs, lisping through the sluggish trees,
Hummed in the ears of musing fantasy—
Find one of these, to frame a charge upon,
And I will warrant trial expedite,
And sure conviction, though an angel plead.

Suf.
I'll answer, Loney's craft unearths a charge
As horrible as death.

Ex.
What mean you, sirs,
To bring a deadly fault against the guiltless?

Arun.
Ay, prove it too.

Ex.
This is flat villany!
'T is now too late to shape my course anew;
And England's weal outweighs a woman's life.

[Aside.]
Nor.
Should this affair fulfil its promises,
We'll meet anon.

Arun.
If 't would assist you, sirs,
Pray use my house.

Ex.
Yon fellow glows with zeal;
He 'd stab she-Cæsar in the capitol.

[Aside.]
[Exeunt severally.]

SCENE IV.

A By-street in London. Knots of vagabonds occasionally cross the scene. Enter Viscount Rochford and Thomas Wyatt.
Rochford.
Here is, indeed, a walk to take a friend,
Good master Poet! Pray what place is this?
Are we in London or in Tartarus?
For, by my life, the visions we have passed
Seemed fit induction to the place of shades.

Wyatt.
No, Heaven be praised, we are in “Safety.” sir;
So call the thieves this well of girding walls.
Here is a place as innocent of rule
As the dun sands of savage Araby.
Here pilferers divide their filchéd rags,
And bolder robbers share their golden spoils;
Here crime is native, natural, unabashed,
Walking abroad in easy confidence;
Here treason stalks, the dreaded ghost of courts,
Whetting his knife, and mixing deadly bowls.
From yonder porch, I heard a hoarse-voiced Jew
Harangue a crowd of frowning murderers,
Cursing the king, the state, the holy church,
Until he choked with mere malignity.
On yonder steps, I saw a quiet wretch
Coolly thrust in an ell or so of steel
Between his brother's ribs.—There they both walk,
The Jew and murderer. No law is here,
Save what the dwellers make, and that is shifting.
I oft have thought the watchful eye of God
Upon this place ne'er rested; or that hell
Had raised so black a smoke of densest sin,
That the All-Beautiful, appalled, shrank back
From its fierce ugliness. I tell you, friend,
When the great treason, which shall surely come
To burst in shards law-bound society,
Gives the first shudder, ere it grinds to dust
Thrones, ranks, and fortunes, and most cunning laws—
When the great temple of our social state
Staggers, and throbs, and totters back to chaos—
Let men look here, here in this fiery mass
Of agéd crime and primal ignorance,
For the hot heart of all the mystery!—
Here, on this howling sea, let fall the scourge,
Or pour the oil of mercy!

Roch.
Pour the oil,—
In God's name, pour the blessed oil! The scourge,
Bloody and fierce, has fallen for ages past
Upon the foreward crests within its reach;
Yet made no more impression on the mass
Than Persia's whips upon the Hellespont.

Wyatt.
'T was not to harrow up your heart with crime—
Though, haply, such amazement is not lost—
I brought you hither. 'T was to stand beyond
The utmost pale and influence of the Court,
Where men interpret a malignant mind
From every look the changing features wear;
Find danger in the meeting of two friends;
Rank treason in devices of our arms;
Open rebellion to their gracious king,
Should we but furbish our time-rusted blades.
Now, Rochford, listen.

Roch.
Heavens! you frighten me.

Wyatt.
No, I but caution you. My tale, though sad,
May rest on fears as thin as summer clouds.

Roch.
Why, that is cheering.

Wyatt.
'T is not for yourself,
But for her sacred majesty, the queen,
I have these vague misgivings.

Roch.
What, the queen!
Pshaw! Wyatt, was there ever woman blessed
As she is? Courted and bepraised by all,
Sharing no empty title in the crown,
No mere producer of a royal brood;
But by the force of her own intellect,
To all effects, an equal with the king.
Why, man, just now she stands at zenith height,
Flooding our land with peerless majesty,
The gaze and wonder of all Christendom.
The great reformer, Anne, preördained
By Heaven to work its solemn purposes!—
Poh! this is idle; we are wasting time;
Your fears, indeed, were thin as summer clouds.

Wyatt.
Ah! know you not, when the rejoicing sun
Has reached its mid-day station in the sky,
At that same time its mournful fall begins?

Roch.
Sir Poet, I confess me figure-beaten:
Now croak away.

Wyatt.
What I shall tell,
My sister Mary told to me alone.
She says, of late her majesty remains,
Hour after hour, with dull and vacant eyes,
Picking the fringe around her garment's hem.
Anon, big tears, like slow-paced mourners, come
Forth from the darkened mansion of her grief,
As if they followed at hope's funeral.
If they arouse her from this lethargy,
She looks bewildered, asks the time of day,
Appears surprised at lateness of the hour,
Gives more commands than she has several hairs;
Talking, meanwhile, at such a rattling pace,
In bitter sneers and heartless gayety,
That not an ear can gather her discourse;
And then again, all suddenly, she falls
Into her former state of revery.

Roch.
Good sir, you startle me. You 're sure of this?
For 't is the dreamy torpor of the brain
That oft foreshadows madness.

Wyatt.
Very sure;
But 't is not madness. Listen, till the end.
One day my sister entered suddenly,
But unperceived, the chamber of her highness.
Scarce had she crossed the threshold ere she saw,
Rolled in a heap and crammed into a corner,
The person of the queen. She stood amazed,
Not daring to approach; and saw such grief,
So absolute, so past all earthly bounds,
So fiercely raging to pain's topmost pitch,
That she shrank quivering to the ante-room.
But there her ears made pictures to her eyes:
Anon, she heard her clawing at the floor,
Sobbing and wailing like a soul possessed:
Then into one long, piercing, hellish scream
Of hideous laughter broke her aching soul.
At that my sister fled, with echoing laugh,
And knew no more till from a lengthened swoon
Her maids awoke her.

Roch.
This is past belief.
Without a doubt, the queen or she is mad.

Wyatt.
My sister says, the king and queen ne'er meet;
That notes unnumbered of her majesty's
He has returned unopened. More, 't is noised,
The king and Seymour's daughter oft of late
Have been observed together; that the foes,
Once secret, but now open, of the queen,
Stand in high favor with his majesty,
And share his private counsels.

Roch.
Gracious Heaven!
If this be certain, there is more in it
Than I dare utter. Have I been bewitched,
That I remained o'er-confident so long?
Now you have mentioned it, a thousand things
Which I have seen, but shuffled by unweighed,
Rise to confirm the gloomiest belief.
My cold receptions, Suffolk's insolence,
Arundel's vaporings, Norfolk's tart replies,
My sudden dearth of courtly sycophants,
And Wyatt's warming friendship. Noble man,
Through all my life I never aided you—

Wyatt.
Because I never asked it. Pshaw! George Boleyn,
Were we not playfellows 'neath Blickling's oaks,
Where first my muse essayed her feeble lisp?
Did you not praise and wonder at my rhymes,
And cheer my heart with kindred sympathy?
Have we not written sonnets and rondeaux,
In kindly rivalry, to Anne's eyes?
Did you not always swear my songs the best,
Ere half were read, and force fair Anne's hand
To place the laurel on my victor brow?
Can I forget you? Can I cease to see,
In England's queen, our little playfellow?
Forgive me, Rochford; this is not a time
To babble of our childhood. You are hemmed
With scores of bold and ruthless enemies;
And, God forgive him! the worst foe of all
Is the first man in England's wide domain!

Roch.
What shall be done?

Wyatt.
Fly to her majesty;
Drain to the dregs her secret cause of grief;
Learn all her fears, the blackest of her fears,
Nor care to know her dimmest gleam of hope.
Armed for the worst, we gain a double strength—
The power to conquer at the last extreme,
And chance that such extreme may ne'er arrive.
I will not slumber. What the brain of man
Can summon from its viewless armory,
Shall be arrayed to battle for her right.
I'll see you safe beyond this wretched place,
And then we part, but not without a hope.

[Exeunt.]