 | The Works of Sir Henry Taylor |  |
Scene V.
—The Platform at the top of the Steeple—as in the First Scene in this Act.Artevelde and Van den Bosch.
Artevelde.
He has been drunk with anger and he sleeps.
Lest he be not the soberer for his doze
'Twere well to strip him of his weapons. Come,
Come, courtier, from thy house—come from thy case,
Thou smooth and shining dangler by the side
Of them that put thee to a deadly use:
Thou art dismiss'd.
[He lays aside the dagger.
And come thou likewise forth,
Thou flashing flourisher in the battle-field;
Gaudy and senseless tool of sovereignty,
Up to thy shoulders thou shalt reek in blood,
And 'tis but wiping thee to make thee clean,
So poor a thing art thou!—there—get thee gone—
[He lays aside the sword.
Now that he's stingless I may stir him up.
Ho! Van den Bosch! arouse thee. What, thou sleep'st!
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Get thee afoot; is this a time to sleep?
Up, ere I prod thee with my sword—up, slug!
Up, drowsy clod—why, now I think thou wak'st.
Van den Bosch.
What noisy villain's this?—Van Artevelde!
Artevelde.
Nay, never grope and fumble for thy weapons;
They are conveyed away.
Van den Bosch.
Oh! villain! slave!
And wilt thou murder me unarm'd?
Artevelde.
Out! out!
More like to whip thee for thy fond conceit.
I tell thee, man, a better friend than I
Thou'st not been bless'd with for this many a year;
When all is known to thee, thyself shalt say
That a more friendly deed was never done
That this of mine—the shutting of thee up.
Van den Bosch.
Philip Van Artevelde, I say thou liest—
Give me my sword again. I say thou liest—
Give me my dagger and my sword—thou liest—
Thou art a caitiff and a lying knave
And thou hast stolen my dagger and my sword.
Artevelde.
Nay, softly, friend.
Van den Bosch.
I'm plunder'd, plunder'd, robb'd—
I'm plunder'd of my weapons—of my sword.
Give me my sword again, thou liar thou!
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My sword, thou robber, or I'll kill thee.
Artevelde.
Nay,
Do that and thou no longer needst thy sword.
Van den Bosch.
Thou coward, wilt thou give me back my sword?
Artevelde.
There—take it, and the Devil give thee good on't!
Now that thou hast it, mayhap thou'lt be brought
To leave thy bellowing and listen. Hark!
Van den Bosch.
I have thee now, Van Artevelde, I have thee.
Ha, ha! I have my sword—I have thee now!
Artevelde.
And if thou had'st thy senses and thine ears
It were a better having for thy weal.
Wilt thou be still and listen to me?
Van den Bosch.
No.
Thou art a liar. Draw thy sword and fight.
Artevelde.
I give thee back thy lie and take thy challenge;
To mortal proof we'll put it, if thou wilt,
But not by instant combat. Three days hence
I pledge my word to answer thy demand,
And I will show thee reasons why not now.
Van den Bosch.
To the pit of Hell with reasons! draw thy sword.
Artevelde.
(draws his sword and flings it from him).—
I'll fight thee when I please and not before.
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Art thou a coward? wherefore wilt not fight?
Artevelde.
There is a time for all things. Here I stand
Unarm'd before thee, and I will be heard.
That which so much thou tak'st to heart, was done
Purely to save thy credit, much indeed
Endanger'd by thy wilfulness and haste.
I would have done myself no less offence
To do thee so much service. Say thine arm
Had cut me off the messenger from Bruges;
Ghent hears the rumour—magnifies at once
The untold terms to unconditional peace,
And mad with rage for comfort thus repell'd
Had turn'd upon thee to thine overthrow.
But list to what instead I've brought to pass:
The terms were told,—such sanguinary terms
As we had cause to look for; on that ground
I moved the people to a last attempt
Of desperate daring, and we go to-night,
Five thousand men, to seek the Earl at Bruges.
Now, Peter Van den Bosch, give ear to me:
Thy mouth has been this many a day stuff'd full
Of vengeance dire denounced against this Earl.
The blood of Heins, of Launoy and Van Ranst,
(True friends of thine if truth and friendship be!)
Sinks in the ground, nor honour'd nor avenged
Save by the mouthing of an idle threat.
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In hot succession to the throne of Heaven,
Deep ravage done amongst thy native fields,
Strange tortures suffer'd by thy countrymen,
Call thee with common voice to turn thy wrath
To just account;—and is it come to this,
That for the matter of but one day's feud
With one tried friend that never did thee hurt,
Thou canst forget all else and put thy cause
To imminent hazard at the utmost verge
Of all its fortunes and its ultimate hope!
If so, I cry thee mercy; I mistook;
For I had counted on thine aid to-day
To do the thing that thou so oft hast threaten'd.
Van den Bosch.
Van Artevelde, I never yet forgave
So deep an injury as thou hast done me;
But seeing how things bear, I'll pass it by
Until this last adventure have an end.
Then shalt thou reckon with me for the past.
Artevelde.
For that I stand prepared. Meanwhile I pray,
Let needful concord join us in one yoke,
Nor let the common welfare feel this feud.
Take thou thy charge in this day's work; come down
And I will give it thee. From me thou'lt find
All fit observance.
Van den Bosch.
I will take my charge.
| The Works of Sir Henry Taylor | |