University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Tavern. Mark Smeaton, drunk, with Ralph Loney and three Informers seated at a table spread with wine, etc.
Smeaton.
Now, that 's a song, and that 's what I call singing.
Roar it again, brave master bull-throat, roar!

First Informer.
[Sings.]

Smea.
Is that the end of your rare melody?
Loney, my boy—Loney, you are dull as mud—
Were you not ravished by yon fellow's song?
That is the neat's-tongue of true poesy:
Nature applauds it in the thirst it brings.
The song is a miracle; that one being full
Yet asks for more upon it. Wine, there, wine!
[They drink.]
What are such poets as my lord of Surrey,
Or whining Wyatt?—Some one curse Tom Wyatt!
You singer with the stormy lungs, pray curse
This Thomas Wyatt! Have I ne'er a friend
Whose oaths are potent? Curse him black and blue,
My rival Wyatt!

Lon.
Rival, boy! and how?

Smea.
Who is my love? Answer me, leather-lungs.

First I.
Nay, sir, I know not.

Smea.
Then you are an ass,
Not knowing, and a wizard, knowing her.

Lon.
We cannot miss by drinking her a round.
Give us the toast.

Smea.
Here 's to our noble queen!

[Drinks.]
Lon.
That 's good and loyal, and we'll quaff it off;
But not what we intended. We would drink
To your sweet darling, to your pretty May,
Your wanton plaything. Come, boy, never halt!

Smea.
Loney, observe me—every piece of me—
Edgewise, before, behind. Now tell me, sir,
What woman in this realm is worthy of me?

Lon.
Some great one, without doubt.

Smea.
I say, the queen.

Lon.
Now mark him, sirs.

[Apart to the Informers.]
Informers.
Ho! ho! the man is drunk!

Smea.
What do you take me for, you foul-mouthed knaves,
A man of worship, or a common liar?
Where have you lived, you scum of filthy earth,
Not to know me?

Lon.
Pardon the simple men;
Indeed they knew not of your dignity.
This is her majesty's chief groom of state—
The very front door to her royal ear;
You must needs pass him ere you reach the queen—
Pray you, respect him.

First I.
O, that alters it;
A royal servant.

Smea.
Are the villains blind?
Well, well, I have comfort.

Lon.
What may comfort you?

Smea.
That some fair day a goodly son of mine
May mount the throne, and chop off all their heads.

Lon.
Mark that again. [Apart to the Informers.]


Second Informer.
There is not a word escapes:
I have engrossed it in my table-book.

Smea.
Come, Loney, come; we'll leave these stupid knaves.

Second I.
Whither away, sir?

Smea.
To the queen, good dolt!

[Going.]
Lon.
Forget not, masters, “To the queen,” he said;
And at this hour. So, boy, away, away!

[Exit with Smeaton.]
Second I.
There is hanging in this.

Third Informer.
Curse him! what care I?
I nigh had struck the braggart down myself,
For slandering thus her gracious majesty.
The base, ungrateful cur! I'll see him hang.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.

The Queen's Apartments in Whitehall Palace. Enter Queen Anne.
Queen Anne.
So this is day, a broad, sun-staring day—
And what had it been night? the same, the same.
All time to me is one confuséd mass,
Drowned in a flood of bitter misery.
There is no time to one without a hope:
Hopes are the figures on life's changing dial,
That first betray to us the passing hours,
Ere the great bell may summon us away.
All blank and meaningless is life to me:
I have no future. One eternal present,
Rayless as Lapland winter, wraps my soul;
One ceaseless wrong, affording but one sense
Of cruelest agony, makes up my life,
Stretching from day to day its sole event.
What if the sun arise? what if the lark
Put on the glory of his morning song?
What if the flowers perk up their loaded heads,
And swing their incense down the thirsting gale?
What if the frame of the whole universe
Warm in the glow, and join the matin hymn?
While I remain in this dull lethargy,
There is no morn to me. Eternal One,
Who sent'st that joyous thing, the rising sun,
As if in mockery of my sullen woe,
To show how cheerless is my nighted soul—
O, end this mere existence! Rouse to life
The fire of my consuming energies!
O, give me scope, and fate-subduing power—
Ay, though a pang be coupled with each act—
Lest, in this trance, the erring scythe of death
Pass o'er my frame, as o'er the trampled grain,
And nature be defeated! Gracious God,
Are we mere puppets of a rigid fate?
Is all this labyrinth of cunning thought
Bestowed to snare us? Must our exit be
Through that one door which destiny holds wide?
To me alone, of all the human race,
Has the dread secret clearly been revealed?
It seems so; for where'er I bend my eyes
Some ugly phantom bars the hopeless way,
And bids me wait the will of circumstance.
This shall not be! Arise, my drowsing soul!
Gird on thy blazing arms of intellect!
One struggle more to master coming time;
And if thy earthly walls then fall consumed,
We'll scale those heights where conquering time is not!

(Enter Mary Wyatt.)
Mary Wyatt.
A fair good-morning to your majesty!

Queen A.
Welcome, sweet mistress Mary!

Mary W.
Joyful sight!
There is a flush of triumph on your brow,
Such as it wore on Coronation-Day,
Or when the spleenful butcher met his fall.

Queen A.
Speak not of Wolsey.

Mary W.
Have I ruffled you?

Queen A.
O no, O no! to-day my heart is light.
I feel as if another goodly crown
Hung o'er my head.

Mary W.
Your brother, Rochford, waits.
Since break of day he has been biding here.

Queen A.
Ha! what has happened?

Mary W.
Nothing that I know.

Queen A.
Well, well, admit him. (Exit Mary Wyatt.)
Rochford, at this hour!—
A man of ease; and waited here since dawn!
My heart is failing.—Nonsense! what can come,
Worse than the vision of that weak-brained girl
Locked in the circle of my husband's arms?
(Enter Viscount Rochford.)
Good-morrow, Rochford! You are stirring soon.

Rochford.
One stirs betimes who keeps a sleepless night.

Queen A.
Have you been ill?

Roch.
Indeed I cannot tell.
Perchance a fever brought my waking dreams.

Queen A.
What dreams?

Roch.
I lay half slumbering, half awake,
And ever, as my senses leaned to sleep,
The same wild vision roused me from my rest.

Queen A.
So you came here, before the break of day,
To tell your dreams? I am no soothsayer.
Pshaw! Rochford, this is trifling. You have griefs—
Big, weighty griefs; I see them on your brow.

Roch.
First hear my dream: I swear, no common one,
For you were mingled in it.

Queen A.
Well, say on.

Roch.
I thought that you and I, for years and years,
Had climbed the rundles of a slippery ladder.
I knew not why we clambered; though above
A blazing halo, like a sunset sky,
Shone glorious, and towards it we bent our steps,
Urged by resistless impulse. You were first;
And when I halted, by the labor tired,
Or dizzy at the awful depth beneath,
You cheered me on, and with your nimble feet
Spurned the frail rounds, till sundered 'neath your tread
They fell around me. Woful, woful sight!
Each stick in falling to a ghastly head
Was metamorphosed. Here, Queen Katharine's fell;
There Wolsey's, More's, and Fisher's, spouting blood;
And many a one whose face I could not catch.
These, as they passed me, whispered in my ears
A horrid curse, and grinned, and winked their eyes.—

Queen A.
Good heaven, how awful! Was there more of this?

Roch.
Ay, far more dreadful fancies.

Queen A.
Could there be?

Roch.
Already through the radiant clouds above
Your form was piercing, when our frail support
Shook till I sickened; and aloft I saw
A dreadful shape, in features like the king,
Tugging and straining with his threatening hand
To hurl our ladder to the depths below.
I saw you clutching at the dazzling clouds,
That, unsubstantial, melted in your grasp;
I heard you cry to the unpitying fiend
Who held our lives in his relentless hands;
I saw you turn on me one fearful look,
In whose dread meaning desolate despair
Had crowded all pale shapes of agony,
Ere, with spasmodic catching at my breath,
I shot down headlong.—With the fall, I woke.

Queen A.
A fearful dream.

Roch.
A most connected one.
The thing seems now an uttered prophecy,
Whose power shall bend the neck of stubborn time
To do its bidding.

Queen A.
Cheer up, Rochford, cheer!
Some one has told you that his majesty
Looks coldly on me. So has he before,
When I have crossed him in his fiery moods.
To-day, I mean to win him back again.
I must confess I have been negligent,
Not to have closed our matrimonial flaw.

Roch.
Sister, this levity is forced. I know
That your proud soul has suffered keen chagrin;
Nor in hope's sunshine stand you more than I.
Jane Seymour—

Queen A.
Nonsense, man, to place my worth
Against the nothing of so weak a girl!
The king's time lags; his ever-roving eye,
Perchance his appetite, was caught by her:
The eye soon tires, the heart is never full;
The first is hers, the nobler prize is mine.
Hope for the best. If I return to-day
A conquered soldier, from this war of hearts,
I'll give you leave to ease your sorry eyes
O'er my afflictions.

Roch.
Joy be with you, sister!
Your merry mood has stolen my fear away.
[Going.]
Yet what I have heard—

Queen A.
Nay, what anon you'll hear!
[Exit Rochford.]
O, misery! to play this queenly part
Even to my brother! To be so supreme
That the sweet flood of human sympathy,
In which the beggar's ragged form may lave,
Can never touch me! This is royalty,
To feel for all that have no sense for me:
To have no kindred, no companionship—
The lonely phœnix on her spicy fire.
Alone, alone! Kind heaven, the king remains—
My rightful mate, sole partner of my lot—
And I will win him, though conspiring earth
Turn all its dust to Seymours, and the land
Sprout with such weedy beauties as this girl!

[Exit.]

SCENE III.

Another Room in the Palace. Enter King Henry and the Duke of Norfolk.
Norfolk.
Admit the boastings of this silly knave
Are merely grounded on his vanity:
Yet these same boasts, converted to a charge,
Would wear another aspect.

King Henry.
Very true;
But 't is too horrible. Disclose a charge
Less dyed in blackness, bearing yet a color
Sufficient for divorce, but not for death.
I do believe her a most faithful wife,
Loving and true; though now her tenderness,
Like healthy food to a distempered mouth,
Disgusts the thing 't would nourish.

Nor.
I am dumb.
I know no charge but what involves a crime
As great as treason. For the lighter fault,
Of secret correspondence with King Francis,
We have no witness, and but scanty grounds
To base our own suspicions on.

King H.
'Ods wounds!
Would I could rack the French ambassador!
Is there no other way?

Nor.
None, that I know.

King H.
Then, in the name of all the lying fiends,
Clear out this woman by what means you can!
But mind you, sir, let there be proof enough
To force conviction to the very core
Of my own conscience.

Nor.
Ah! that tender conscience!
[Aside.]
Doubt not, my liege; the proof shall be direct.
Suffolk has sent a follower of his,
With three grave witnesses, most truthful men,
To bring Mark Smeaton to that mellow state
In which the tongue o'erleaps the sober will,
And blusters out its secrets. Truth 's a fool,
And drunkenness an artificial folly.

King H.
Now, by my soul, perchance the charge is true!

Nor.
Doubtless, my liege. Nor is the groom alone
The only evidence may be produced.
I have brought one, a deeply-injured wife,
The good Viscountess Rochford; she awaits
Your royal pleasure in the ante-room.

King H.
“The good Viscountess Rochford!”

Nor.
She can tell
Some wondrous matters to your majesty.

King H.
Go bring her up. (Exit Norfolk.)
“The good Viscountess Rochford!”
If Hell were swept, to find its vilest soul,
That soul would blush at sight of this good lady.

(Reënter Norfolk with Viscountess Rochford.)
Nor.
I pray your majesty, be gentle with her.

[Apart to King Henry.]
King H.
Welcome, my lady!

Lady Rochford.
Heaven protect your highness!

King H.
His grace of Norfolk says your ladyship
Can tell some wondrous matters of the queen.

Lady R.
Not I, my liege.

King H.
'Fore heaven! what brought you, then?

Nor.
Nay, draw her gently on. She must be led, my liege.

[Apart to King Henry.]
King H.
Who are familiar with her majesty?

Lady R.
Why, Mary Wyatt, and sweet mistress Seymour—

King H.
Zounds, woman!—and what men?

Lady R.
I know not all.
Besides the Council, and the Churchmen—

King H.
'Sblood!
And all my army, and my navy, too!
Madam, you trifle with us; pray speak out:
I swear no harm shall come, whate'er you say.
What paramours has she? Nay, I command;
Speak, if you love my honor.

Lady R
Doleful hour,
That I was forced to see her wickedness;
More doleful far, to tell it! Pray, my liege—

King H.
I'll have no faltering. Speak! or by high heaven,
Look to yourself!

Lady R.
I am but a timid woman;
You are my king, and may compel my tongue:
But did not duty—pardon what I say—

King H.
Enough, enough!

Lady R.
These are her paramours—
Not fancied, but with certainty of proof—
Sir Henry Norris, William Brereton,
Sir Francis Weston, master Thomas Wyatt—
All proper men, all men of gallant parts—

King H.
We'll spare your comments on the lady's taste.

Lady R.
But there 's Mark Smeaton, a low common knave,
By virtue of her favor made a groom;
And last of all, my husband, Viscount Rochford.

King H.
But he 's her brother.

Lady R.
All the worse, my liege.

King H.
Monstrous! The name that you reserved to crown
The utter horror of this long-drawn list
Throws a discredit on the whole device.
Have you no enemy to name for him?
Have you denounced them all?

Lady R.
I'll prove his guilt
More clearly than the crime of any other.
'T was but this morn—

King H.
For God's sake, take her hence!

[Walks apart.]
Nor.
The king is satisfied. You may withdraw.
You have pleased him, lady, more than he dare show.

[Exit Viscountess Rochford.]
King H.
Must all these die?

Nor.
They all are mortal, sir;
And our fair witness must have that agreed,
Ere she impugn them.

King H.
Ay, her serpent mouth
Would sooner spit its rancorous member forth
Than bate one jot of its malicious spleen:
But Wyatt shall not, Wyatt shall not die.
We have had enough of executing scholars.
Who ever heard such hubbub through the world
As when Sir Thomas More was put to death?
Herod and Pilate were crowned saints to me!
Why, men that looked like moles, old dusty things,
Came from their folios, leaving fear behind,
And to my teeth talked of the infamy
To which they 'd damn me.—Wyatt shall not die.
In my wide realm are herds of courtiers,
Knights and viscounts, and gallant gentlemen;
There 's but one Wyatt.—Wyatt shall not die!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE IV.

A Room in the Duke of Suffolk's Palace. Enter Duke of Suffolk. Duke of Norfolk, Marquis of Exeter, and Earl of Arundel, followed by Mark Smeaton and Ralph Loney.
Norfolk.
I tell you, fellow, you have not a hope,
Save by agreeing to forswear the queen.
Your guilty boastings, urged against yourself,
Will bring you to the gallows—

Arundel.
Ay, and shall.

Nor.
Unless before the Council you appear,
And there denounce your royal paramour.

Smeaton.
But will that save me?

Nor.
'T is your only hope.

Smea.
But 't is a lie—a gross, atrocious lie—
And I am a villain if I uttered it.
Curse on the wine! It was the babbling wine,
And not my tongue, that forged the calumny.

Suffolk.
The boast you made was heard by witnesses,
Who say you were but warmed, not drunk with wine.

Smea.
'T is false, 't is false! Have mercy on me sirs!
I am but an humble man, of no account;
My death at this time, or a century hence,
Could make no difference to such mighty lords.
If noble mercy stoops not to the low,
At least be just to me.—

Arun.
Cease, whining cur!
The game we are playing is to check the queen;
What care we for a pawn?

Smea.
She is innocent.
The words I dropped were from a foolish whim,
To see myself admired by simple men:
I never thought to injure her, nor hear
My harmless folly rigidly explained
By noblemen. Ah! Loney, you did this;
And 't is the foulest act you ever did,
Though you have committed murder.

Loney.
Help yourself.
Be not a double fool, first to get trapped,
Then lack the art to burrow out of harm.
Forget my deeds; they are my own concern;
Nor stand there moralizing on the past.
Seize on to-day—perchance 't is golden, man.

Smea.
“Perchance, perchance!” but not one promise given,
Even by you.

Lon.
The course they offer you
Is bright with hope; despair and frightful death,
By wrenching tortures and heart-shrivelling fires,
Threaten you darkly from all other ways.
I know your courage. When you have been racked
For one short fortnight, or a month at most,
You'll yield perforce. Why not confess at once,
And gain the hope of pardon and reward?
Pray did you ever see a felon racked,
Even for an hour?

Arun.
Come, fellow, will you speak?
Or shall I sound your carcass with my sword,
To find your tongue?

Exeter.
The valiant gentleman!

[Aside.]
Smea.
O, horror, horror! Have compassion, sirs!
O my poor mistress! Is there not a hand—
Now, while I shut my eyes—so merciful
As to despatch me, and deliver her?
She is my maker,—she created me,
From my vile dust, to be whate'er I am;
As well might I blaspheme as stain her honor!
Good sirs, have pity!

Suf.
Cease your agonies,
You foul-mouthed slanderer of Heaven's majesty!
Speak to the point—will you comply or not?

Smea.
But will that save me?

Suf.
Are we prophets, fool?
What else can save you?

Smea.
But her majesty—
What will befall her?

Nor.
What is that to you?
Have you the power to influence her fate?

Arun.
Are we the answers in your catechism,
That you so glibly question?

Smea.
I will not!

Suf.
Loney, prepare the rack.

[Exit Loney.]
Smea.
Forgive me, Heaven!
I will do anything: but spare my life!
O, this is awful! I, that never dared
To touch her robe, or raise my fearful eyes
To the full glory of her angel face—
When her twin orbs of conquering majesty
I felt upon me—now, with stubborn front,
To stand before the gaze of frowning Heaven,
And call its host to register a lie,
A black, soul-killing lie! O, urge it not!
There 's not an honest man, in England's realm,
Who will not sicken at my perfidy,
Or cram the falsehood down my caitiff throat
Ere I half utter it! This is too foul,
And useless for the end to which you urge it.

Suf.
Loney, the rack.

(A curtain is drawn, and the rack disclosed, with Attendants standing near it.)
Arun.
Look there, Sir Constancy!
There 's what shall move you, every joint and limb—
There 's what shall stretch you more than you'll stretch truth.
You'll strain a point for this—hey! hey! my boy?

Smea.
O, nerve me, Heaven!—uplift my faltering heart!
Give me the strength to foil these sinful men,
And here assert thy might!

Arun.
Away with him!

[Attendants seize Smeaton.]
Smea.
I yield, I yield!

Suf.
Then sign this paper, Mark,
And wait the issue.

[Smeaton signs.]
Ex.
There an angel fell!
Here is a wretch who damns his endless soul
To save his mortal body. I had hoped,
For the poor cause of frail humanity,
To see yon fellow win a martyr's crown,
And give the Calendar of our new creed
Its first accomplished sainthood. [Aside.]


Suf.
It is done.

Nor.
In the king's name, Mark Smeaton I arrest
For treason manifest.

[Attendants seize Smeaton.]
Smea.
Is this your mercy?

Suf.
Traitor, no words! Away with him, away!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V.

An Apartment in Whitehall Palace. Enter King Henry.
King Henry.
How easy 't is to run an evil course!
How many stubborn checks a virtuous meets!
Sure all the fiends have turned them engineers,
And smoothed the thousand pathways to their gulf,
So quickly trod by man. There 's not a let,
As far as reason's straining eye can pierce,
To the career which sin points out for me.
Jane daily warms; the queen grows proud and cold,
Nor now besieges me with tender notes;
My nobles leave her, all afire for me;
And the most powerful—ay, her very kin—
Hatch plots to work her sudden overthrow.
My love goes smoothly.—Hum! and yet 't is strange,
When not within the circle of my eyes—
That drink her beauties like the thirsting sands,
And bear the hot thrill of her loveliness
Into my very soul—how this same fever,
That fiercely glowed erewhile, calms and is cooled;
How, in the place of sudden pangs and starts,
And all unrest, a holy peace succeeds;
When comes the shape of my much-wrongéd queen,
Crossing my mind in quiet majesty,
And trampling on the dust of noxious fancies,
That throng the long, long avenues of thought,
As if of right she crushed my base desires!

(Enter Queen Anne, behind.)
Queen Anne.
Henry.

King H.
Was that a spirit?

Queen A.
Husband, king.

King H.
How came you here? I left direct command
That no one should disturb my privacy.
Have you again been tampering with my knaves?

Queen A.
I came by a small passage—if forgotten
By you, my liege, still to my memory dear—
Made by yourself, in that once happy time,
When, unobserved, you came to woo “the Boleyn.”
Is there no secret passage, you can name,
Through which so poor a one as I may creep
Back to your heart, and see again the face
Of hidden love? O, sir, it must be rough,
And small, and frightful to a valiant gaze,
But I will tempt it.

King H.
There is none for you.
Your pride and haughtiness and stubborn will
Are all too big for love's slight passages.—
Now, by my faith, I am indeed amazed,
To hear you pleading in this gentle tone.
Have you forgot your character? Begin!
Rail, like the thunders, at our guilty world!
So ho! brave censor of morality,
Embodied purity, untouched by earth!—
What, are you pitiful? or have you sinned,
And therefore feel compassion?

Queen A.
I have sinned,
And tried the mercy of indulgent Heaven
Beyond all bounds that human reason knows.
I have been arrogant, to judge my kind
By God's own law, not seeing in myself
A guilty judge condemning the less vile.
I have forgotten that the hand of death
Would snatch the royal circle from my brow,
And set me, but encumbered by my guilt,
Equal with all, before the judgment-seat.
I have forgotten mercy: so might God
Forget His mercy in my utmost need.
I have—

King H.
Hoot! madam; pray restrain yourself!
I have no office to receive confessions.
Yet—since you force me to play ghostly father—
Is there no other sin, of grosser cast,
By you committed, not towards Heaven alone,
But to my honor?

Queen A.
'T is a hideous lie!
Who has abused your majesty's belief
With such unworthy tattle? Did you stand
And tamely hear your honor thus belied?
I knew that I had enemies enough,
Unscrupulous and cruel; but never deemed
Such base, malicious, and unfounded charge
Could move a human lip, or find an ear
So used to gorging sickly mental stuff
As to receive it. Try me, try me, sir.
Wring every fibre of my woman's frame
With piercing tortures—hold my modesty,
In truth's keen sunlight, to the vulgar gaze—
Confront me crownless with my slanderers:
If at the last my trial prove me clear,
And reünite our long-dissevered hearts,
I'll hold the pain but lightly.

King H.
Pshaw! my child,
You waste your energy. This base report
Is the light mintage of some idle tongue,
In want of truer metal.

Queen A.
Ah! my liege,
I hold this shallow falsehood at its worth;
But it afflicts me sadly, to behold
Your easy method of avoiding it,
Without a thought of punishing the wrong.
How have I changed?—O, Henry, you have changed
From that true Henry who, in bygone days,
Rode, with the hurry of a northern gale,
Towards Hever's heights, and ere the park was gained,
Made the glad air a messenger of love,
By many a blast upon your hunting-horn.
Have you forgotten that old oaken room,
Fearful with portraits of my buried race,
Where I received you panting from your horse;
As breathless, from my dumb excess of joy,
As you with hasty travel? Do you think
Of our sweet meetings 'neath the gloomy yews
Of Sopewell Nunnery, when the happy day
That made me yours seemed lingering as it came,
More slowly moving as it nearer drew?
How you chid time, and vowed the hoary knave
Might mark each second of his horologe
With dying groans, from those you cherished most,
So he would hasten—

King H.
Anne, that was you.
Have you forgotten, too, my merriment
At your quaint figure of time's human clock,
Whose every beat a soul's flight registered?

Queen A.
God bless you, Henry!

[Embraces him.]
King H.
Pshaw! why touch so deep?
These softening memories of our early love
Come o'er me like my childhood.

Queen A.
Love be praised,
That with such pure reflections couples me!
Be steadfast, Henry.

King H.
Fear not: love is poor
That seals not compacts with the stamp of faith.

Queen A.
My stay is trespass. We shall meet anon.
Love needs no counsel in his little realm.

[Embraces him, and exit.]
King H.
I hang 't wixt heaven and hell.—Anne, return;
For, by my soul, one half my virtuous strength
Has gone with you! O, I would rather be
The snarling cynic in his squalid tub,
And master of myself, than England's king,
Reared to indulgence of each flimsy whim
That passion hints at. 'T is the curse of kings,
This slaving to our pampered appetites;
Which thwarted men nursed in vicissitude,
And by compulsion taught to check desire,
Gain strength to vanquish.

(Enter Jane Seymour.)
Jane Seymour.
Harry, royal Harry!

King H.
Good-morrow, mistress Seymour.

Jane S.
Ha! so cold—
The queen just gone! I'll match you, whirligig.
[Aside.]
I crave your pardon, that with rude alarm
I thus disturbed your gracious majesty,
Seeking for one I nicknamed royal Harry—
Not meaning disrespect to you, my liege,
But from a wanton fancy. Had I thought
Your majesty here present, I 'd have held
A stricter rein upon my noisy tongue.

King H.
Ah! she is beautiful. This little mood,
Of mingled coquetry and tearful spite,
Sits like the angry rain-drops on a rose,
Giving fresh lustre to its crimson cheeks.
[Aside.]
You have my pardon.

Jane S.
Nay, I wish it not.
Pray cast your pardon on a graver slip:
Forgive the maiden greenness of a heart
That prattled to itself a silly tale
Of love, and hope, and thoughtless confidence,
Even in your very presence.

King H.
Jane, what mean you?

Jane S.
But what my words imply.

King H.
And are you angry?

Jane S.
No, I am deceived.

King H.
Truce, truce, fair mistress!

Jane S.
Nay, peace is not my purpose.

King H.
Prithee stop!

Jane S.
You may be king of half the universe,
For aught I care; you are not king of hearts:
My heart shall speak, though every word cry treason!

King H.
Forgive my coldness.

Jane S.
Ah! I never deemed
A truer spirit lived than yours, my liege:
Else why did you, from your exalted height,
Descend with flattering promises of love?—
Only to make me wretched! O, 't is base!
A brutal hind might show more constancy
Than this anointed king.

[Weeps.]
King H.
Nay, weep not, Jane.
[Kneels.]
See me thus lowly in my penitence.
I swear I meant no insult to you, darling;
And here, upon my knees, I once again
Put on the easy fetters of my heart.

Jane S.
Swear fealty to love! Your fickleness
Reproaches more your manly character,
Than the poor wrong to me—

King H.
I swear, by Heaven,
Henceforth to love you with all constancy,
By night, by day, in sunshine and in storm;
Nor will I alter in my steadfast aim
To crown you queen, though every mortal sin,
That fiends can reckon in their calendar,
Lie between me and my unfaltering wish!

[Rises.]
Jane S.
This oath is fearful.

King H.
But irrevocable.—
What ask you more?

Jane S.
O, sir, I asked not that:
I but demand of you a bare return
For the great venture of my woman's heart,
Unhappily launched upon a sea of love,
With you for careless pilot. 'T is my all;
Though you esteem the charge of little worth.

King H.
Tut, tut, my darling! if our hearts respond,
Our windy tongues are poor ambassadors
To bear their gentle greetings. Love is dumb,
A potent spirit, felt, but never heard,
Save when he murmurs inarticulate
'T ween meeting lips, or buzzes wild conceits,
That mock the language of our grosser sense,
In lover's brains. Words are love's counterfeits:
When stumbling fools would ape a shallow passion,
Lies slide full glibly, and false rhetoric,
Lashed to a foam, roars opposition down,
And for effect kills feeling. Rail no more;
Or I shall doubt that sweet sincerity
On which I live.

Jane S.
O, never doubt my faith.

King H.
Nor will I. (Embraces her.)
I will bar my pliant ears
Against the witchery of sly Anne's tongue:
Her airy magic cheats my spell-bound heart,
And for a moment shows a fancied spot,
Bright with the May-day flowers of early love,
Amid December's snow. And now for Norfolk.

Jane S.
Nothing in haste, my liege.

King H.
No; all in love.

[Exeunt.