University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—London. Hall in the Palace.
Queen, Sir Nicholas Heath.
Heath.
Madam,
I do assure you, that it must be look'd to:
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes
Are scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd to,
If war should fall between yourself and France;
Or you will lose your Calais.

Mary.
It shall be look'd to;
I wish you a good morning, good Sir Nicholas:
Here is the King.

[Exit Heath.
Enter Philip.
Philip.
Sir Nicholas tells you true,
And you must look to Calais when I go.

Mary.
Go? must you go, indeed—again—so soon?
Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the swallow,
That might live always in the sun's warm heart,
Stays longer here in our poor north than you:—
Knows where he nested—ever comes again.

Philip.
And, Madam, so shall I.

Mary.
O, will you? will you?
I am faint with fear that you will come no more.

Philip.
Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence.

Mary.
Voices—I hear unhappy rumours—nay,
I say not, I believe. What voices call you
Dearer than mine that should be dearest to you?
Alas, my Lord! what voices and how many?

Philip.
The voices of Castille and Aragon,
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,—
The voices of Franche-Comté, and the Netherlands,
The voices of Peru and Mexico,
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines,
And all the fair spice-islands of the East.

Mary
(admiringly).
You are the mightiest monarch upon earth,
I but a little Queen: and, so indeed,
Need you the more.

Philip.
A little Queen! but when
I came to wed your majesty, Lord Howard,
Sending an insolent shot that dash'd the seas
Upon us, made us lower our kingly flag

See Prescott's History of Philip the Second, vol. i. p. 113: “Lord Howard is said to have fired a gun, as he approached Philip's squadron, in order to compel it to lower its topsails in acknowledgment of the supremacy of the English on the narrow seas.”

To yours of England.

Mary.
Howard is all English!
There is no king, not were he ten times king,
Ten times our husband, but must lower his flag
To that of England in the seas of England.

Philip.
Is that your answer?

Mary.
Being Queen of England,
I have none other.

Philip.
So.

Mary.
But wherefore not
Helm the huge vessel of your state, my liege,
Here by the side of her who loves you most?

Philip.
No, Madam, no! a candle in the sun
Is all but smoke—a star beside the moon
Is all but lost; your people will not crown me—
Your people are as cheerless as your clime;
Hate me and mine: witness the brawls, the gibbets.
Here swings a Spaniard—there an Englishman;
The peoples are unlike as their complexion;
Yet will I be your swallow and return—
But now I cannot bide.

Mary.
Not to help me?
They hate me also for my love to you,
My Philip; and these judgments on the land—
Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, plague—

Philip.
The blood and sweat of heretics at the stake
Is God's best dew upon the barren field.
Burn more!

Mary.
I will, I will; and you will stay?

Philip.
Have I not said? Madam, I came to sue
Your Council and yourself to declare war.

Mary.
Sir, there are many English in your ranks
To help your battle.

Philip.
So far, good. I say
I came to sue your Council and yourself
To declare war against the King of France.

Mary.
Not to see me?

Philip.
Ay, Madam, to see you.
Unalterably and pesteringly fond!
[Aside.
But, soon or late you must have war with France;
King Henry warms your traitors at his hearth.
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there.
Courtenay, belike—

Mary.
A fool and featherhead!

Philip.
Ay, but they use his name. In brief, this Henry
Stirs up your land against you to the intent
That you may lose your English heritage.
And then, your Scottish namesake marrying
The Dauphin, he would weld France, England, Scotland,
Into one sword to hack at Spain and me.

Mary.
And yet the Pope is now colleagued with France;
You make your wars upon him down in Italy:—
Philip, can that be well?

Philip.
Content you, Madam;
You must abide my judgment, and my father's,
Who deems it a most just and holy war.
The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of Naples:
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Saracens.
The Pope has pushed his horns beyond his mitre—
Beyond his province. Now,
Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns,
And he withdraws; and of his holy head—
For Alva is true son of the true church—
No hair is harm'd. Will you not help me here?

Mary.
Alas! the Council will not hear of war.
They say your wars are not the wars of England.
They will not lay more taxes on a land
So hunger-nipt and wretched; and you know
The crown is poor. We have given the church-lands back:
The nobles would not; nay, they clapt their hands
Upon their swords when ask'd; and therefore God
Is hard upon the people. What's to be done?
Sir, I will move them in your cause again,
And we will raise us loans and subsidies
Among the merchants; and Sir Thomas Gresham
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and the Jews.

Philip.
Madam, my thanks.

Mary.
And you will stay your going?

Philip.
And further to discourage and lay lame
The plots of France, altho' you love her not,
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.
She stands between you and the Queen of Scots.

Mary.
The Queen of Scots at least is Catholic.

Philip.
Ay, Madam, Catholic; but I will not have
The King of France the King of England too.

Mary.
But she's a heretic, and, when I am gone,
Brings the new learning back.

Philip.
It must be done.
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.

Mary.
Then it is done; but you will stay your going
Somewhat beyond your settled purpose?

Philip.
No!

Mary.
What, not one day?

Philip.
You beat upon the rock.

Mary.
And I am broken there.

Philip.
Is this a place
To wail in, Madam? what! a public hall.
Go in, I pray you.

Mary.
Do not seem so changed.
Say go; but only say it lovingly.

Philip.
You do mistake. I am not one to change.
I never loved you more.

Mary.
Sire, I obey you.
Come quickly.

Philip.
Ay.

[Exit Mary.
Enter Count de Feria.
Feria
(aside).
The Queen in tears!

Philip.
Feria!
Hast thou not mark'd—come closer to mine ear—
How doubly aged this Queen of ours hath grown
Since she lost hope of bearing us a child?

Feria.
Sire, if your Grace hath mark'd it, so have I.

Philip.
Hast thou not likewise mark'd Elizabeth,
How fair and royal—like a Queen, indeed?

Feria.
Allow me the same answer as before—
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, so have I.

Philip.
Good, now; methinks my Queen is like enough
To leave me by and by.

Feria.
To leave you, sire?

Philip.
I mean not like to live. Elizabeth—
To Philibert of Savoy, as you know,
We meant to wed her; but I am not sure
She will not serve me better—so my Queen
Would leave me—as—my wife.

Feria.
Sire, even so.

Philip.
She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy.

Feria.
No, sire.

Philip.
I have to pray you, some odd time,
To sound the Princess carelessly on this;
Not as from me, but as your phantasy;
And tell me how she takes it.

Feria.
Sire, I will.

Philip.
I am not certain but that Philibert
Shall be the man; and I shall urge his suit
Upon the Queen, because I am not certain:
You understand, Feria.

Feria.
Sire, I do.

Philip.
And if you be not secret in this matter,
You understand me there, too?

Feria.
Sire, I do.

Philip.
You must be sweet and supple, like a Frenchman.
She is none of those who loathe the honeycomb.

[Exit Feria.
Enter Renard.
Renard.
My liege, I bring you goodly tidings.

Philip.
Well?

Renard.
There will be war with France, at last, my liege;
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass,
Sailing from France, with thirty Englishmen,
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of York;
Proclaims himself protector, and affirms
The Queen has forfeited her right to reign
By marriage with an alien—other things
As idle; a weak Wyatt! Little doubt
This buzz will soon be silenced; but the Council
(I have talk'd with some already) are for war.
This is the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in France;
They show their teeth upon it; and your Grace,
So you will take advice of mine, should stay
Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the event.

Philip.
Good! Renard, I will stay then.

Renard.
Also, sire,
Might I not say—to please your wife, the Queen?

Philip.
Ay, Renard, if you care to put it so.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—A Room in the Palace.
Mary, sitting: a rose in her hand. Lady Clarence. Alice in the background.
Mary.
Look! I have play'd with this poor rose so long
I have broken off the head.

Lady Clarence.
Your Grace hath been
More merciful to many a rebel head
That should have fallen, and may rise again.

Mary.
There were not many hang'd for Wyatt's rising.

Lady Clarence.
Nay, not two hundred.

Mary.
I could weep for them
And her, and mine own self and all the world.

Lady Clarence.
For her? for whom, your Grace?

Enter Usher.
Usher.
The Cardinal.

Enter Cardinal Pole. (Mary rises.)
Mary.
Reginald Pole, what news hath plagued thy heart?
What makes thy favour like the bloodless head
Fall'n on the block, and held up by the hair?
Philip?—

Pole.
No, Philip is as warm in life
As ever.

Mary.
Ay, and then as cold as ever.
Is Calais taken?

Pole.
Cousin, there hath chanced
A sharper harm to England and to Rome,
Than Calais taken. Julius the Third
Was ever just, and mild, and father-like;
But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Fourth,
Not only reft me of that legateship
Which Julius gave me, and the legateship
Annex'd to Canterbury—nay, but worse—
And yet I must obey the Holy Father,
And so must you, good cousin;—worse than all,
A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear—
He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy,
Before his Inquisition.

Mary.
I knew it, cousin,
But held from you all papers sent by Rome,
That you might rest among us, till the Pope,
To compass which I wrote myself to Rome,
Reversed his doom, and that you might not seem
To disobey his Holiness.

Pole.
He hates Philip;
He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard;
He cannot dream that I advised the war;
He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself.
Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too;
So brands me in the stare of Christendom
A heretic!
Now, even now, when bow'd before my time,
The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out;
When I should guide the Church in peace at home,
After my twenty years of banishment,
And all my lifelong labour to uphold
The primacy—a heretic. Long ago,
When I was ruler in the patrimony,
I was too lenient to the Lutheran,
And I and learned friends among ourselves
Would freely canvass certain Lutheranisms.
What then, he knew I was no Lutheran.
A heretic!
He drew this shaft against me to the head,
When it was thought I might be chosen Pope,
But then withdrew it. In full consistory,
When I was made Archbishop, he approved me.
And how should he have sent me Legate hither,
Deeming me heretic? and what heresy since?
But he was evermore mine enemy,
And hates the Spaniard—fiery-choleric,
A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines,
That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic?
Your Highness knows that in pursuing heresy
I have gone beyond your late Lord Chancellor,—
He cried Enough! enough! before his death.—
Gone beyond him and mine own natural man
(It was God's cause); so far they call me now,
The scourge and butcher of their English church.

Mary.
Have courage, your reward is Heaven itself.

Pole.
They groan amen; they swarm into the fire
Like flies—for what? no dogma. They know nothing;
They burn for nothing.

Mary.
You have done your best.

Pole.
Have done my best, and as a faithful son,
That all day long hath wrought his father's work,
When back he comes at evening hath the door
Shut on him by the father whom he loved,
His early follies cast into his teeth,
And the poor son turn'd out into the street
To sleep, to die—I shall die of it, cousin.

Mary.
I pray you be not so disconsolate;
I still will do mine utmost with the Pope.
Poor cousin!
Have not I been the fast friend of your life
Since mine began, and it was thought we two
Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other
As man and wife?

Pole.
Ah, cousin, I remember
How I would dandle you upon my knee
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once
With your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry,
You but his cockboat; prettily you did it,
And innocently. No—we were not made
One flesh in happiness, no happiness here;
But now we are made one flesh in misery;
Our bridemaids are not lovely—Disappointment,
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue,
Labour-in-vain.

Mary.
Surely, not all in vain.
Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself.

Pole.
Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay,
Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond;
And there is one Death stands behind the Groom,
And there is one Death stands behind the Bride—

Mary.
Have you been looking at the ‘Dance of Death’?

Pole.
No; but these libellous papers which I found
Strewn in your palace. Look you here—the Pope
Pointing at me with ‘Pole, the heretic,
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself,
Or I will burn thee;’ and this other; see!—
‘We pray continually for the death
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole.’
This last—I dare not read it her.

[Aside.
Mary.
Away!
Why do you bring me these?
I thought you knew me better. I never read,
I tear them; they come back upon my dreams.
The hands that write them should be burnt clean off
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie
Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats
Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these?
Do you mean to drive me mad?

Pole.
I had forgotten
How these poor libels trouble you. Your pardon,
Sweet cousin, and farewell! ‘O bubble world,
Whose colours in a moment break and fly!’
Why, who said that? I know not—true enough!

[Puts up the papers, all but the last, which falls. Exit Pole.
Alice.
If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one,
And heard these two, there might be sport for him.

[Aside.
Mary.
Clarence, they hate me; even while I speak
There lurks a silent dagger, listening
In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn,
And panting for my blood as I go by.

Lady Clarence.
Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too,
And I have often found them.

Mary.
Find me one!

Lady Clarence.
Ay, Madam; but Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor,
Would see your Highness.

Mary.
Wherefore should I see him?

Lady Clarence.
Well, Madam, he may bring you news from Philip.

Mary.
So, Clarence.

Lady Clarence.
Let me first put up your hair;
It tumbles all abroad.

Mary.
And the gray dawn
Of an old age that never will be mine
Is all the clearer seen. No, no; what matters?
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn.

Enter Sir Nicholas Heath.
Heath.
I bring your Majesty such grievous news
I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken.

Mary.
What traitor spoke? Here, let my cousin Pole
Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran.

Heath.
Her Highness is unwell. I will retire.

Lady Clarence.
Madam, your Chancellor, Sir Nicholas Heath.

Mary.
Sir Nicholas! I am stunn'd—Nicholas Heath?
Methought some traitor smote me on the head.
What said you, my good Lord, that our brave English
Had sallied out from Calais and driven back
The Frenchmen from their trenches?

Heath.
Alas! no.
That gateway to the mainland over which
Our flag hath floated for two hundred years
Is France again.

Mary.
So; but it is not lost—
Not yet. Send out: let England as of old
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into
The prey they are rending from her—ay, and rend
The renders too. Send out, send out, and make
Musters in all the counties; gather all
From sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet;
Let every craft that carries sail and gun
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken yet?

Heath.
Guisnes is not taken yet.

Mary.
There yet is hope.

Heath.
Ah, Madam, but your people are so cold;
I do much fear that England will not care.
Methinks there is no manhood left among us.

Mary.
Send out; I am too weak to stir abroad:
Tell my mind to the Council—to the Parliament:
Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold thyself
To babble of their coldness. O would I were
My father for an hour! Away now—Quick!
[Exit Heath.
I hoped I had served God with all my might!
It seems I have not. Ah! much heresy
Shelter'd in Calais. Saints I have rebuilt
Your shrines, set up your broken images;
Be comfortable to me. Suffer not
That my brief reign in England be defamed
Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter
By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip,
We have made war upon the Holy Father
All for your sake: what good could come of that?

Lady Clarence.
No, Madam, not against the Holy Father;
You did but help King Philip's war with France,
Your troops were never down in Italy.

Mary.
I am a byword. Heretic and rebel
Point at me and make merry. Philip gone!
And Calais gone! Time that I were gone too!

Lady Clarence.
Nay, if the fetid gutter had a voice
And cried I was not clean, what should I care?
Or you, for heretic cries? And I believe,
Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas,
Your England is as loyal as myself.

Mary
(seeing the paper dropt by Pole).
There! there! another paper! Said you not
Many of these were loyal? Shall I try
If this be one of such?

Lady Clarence.
Let it be, let it be.
God pardon me! I have never yet found one.

[Aside.
Mary
(reads).
‘Your people hate you as your husband hates you.’
Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what sin
Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of God,
Thou knowest never woman meant so well,
And fared so ill in this disastrous world.
My people hate me and desire my death.

Lady Clarence.
No, Madam, no.

Mary.
My husband hates me, and desires my death.

Lady Clarence.
No, Madam; these are libels.

Mary.
I hate myself, and I desire my death.

Lady Clarence.
Long live your Majesty! Shall Alice sing you
One of her pleasant songs? Alice, my child,
Bring us your lute (Alice goes).
They say the gloom of Saul
Was lighten'd by young David's harp.

Mary.
Re-enter Alice.
(She sings.)

Alice.
Your Grace hath a low voice.

Mary.
How dare you say it?
Even for that he hates me. A low voice
Lost in a wilderness where none can hear!
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea!
A low voice from the dust and from the grave
(Sitting on the ground).
There, am I low enough now?

Alice.
Good Lord! how grim and ghastly looks her Grace,
With both her knees drawn upward to her chin.
There was an old-world tomb beside my father's,
And this was open'd, and the dead were found
Sitting, and in this fashion; she looks a corpse.

Enter Lady Magdalen Dacres.
Lady Magdalen.
Madam, the Count de Feria waits without,
In hopes to see your Highness.

Lady Clarence
(pointing to Mary).
Wait he must—
Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears,
And may not speak for hours.

Lady Magdalen.
Unhappiest
Of Queens and wives and women!

Alice
(in the foreground with Lady Magdalen).
And all along
Of Philip.

Lady Magdalen.
Not so loud! Our Clarence there
Sees ever such an aureole round the Queen,
It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace,
Who stands the nearest to her.

Alice.
Ay, this Philip;
I used to love the Queen with all my heart—
God help me, but methinks I love her less
For such a dotage upon such a man.
I would I were as tall and strong as you.

Lady Magdalen.
I seem half-shamed at times to be so tall.

Alice.
You are the stateliest deer in all the herd—
Beyond his aim—but I am small and scandalous,
And love to hear bad tales of Philip.

Lady Magdalen.
Why?
I never heard him utter worse of you
Than that you were low-statured.

Alice.
Does he think
Low stature is low nature, or all women's
Low as his own?

Lady Magdalen.
There you strike in the nail.
This coarseness is a want of phantasy.
It is the low man thinks the woman low;
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself.

Alice.
Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as well as dull.
How dared he?

Lady Magdalen.
Stupid soldiers oft are bold.
Poor lads, they see not what the general sees,
A risk of utter ruin. I am not
Beyond his aim, or was not.

Alice.
Who? Not you?
Tell, tell me; save my credit with myself.

Lady Magdalen.
I never breathed it to a bird in the eaves,
Would not for all the stars and maiden moon
Our drooping Queen should know! In Hampton Court
My window look'd upon the corridor;
And I was robing;—this poor throat of mine,
Barer than I should wish a man to see it,—
When he we speak of drove the window back,
And, like a thief, push'd in his royal hand;
But by God's providence a good stout staff
Lay near me; and you know me strong of arm;
I do believe I lamed his Majesty's
For a day or two, tho', give the Devil his due,
I never found he bore me any spite.

Alice.
I would she could have wedded that poor youth,
My Lord of Devon—light enough, God knows,
And mixt with Wyatt's rising—and the boy
Not out of him—but neither cold, coarse, cruel,
And more than all—no Spaniard.

Lady Clarence.
Not so loud.
Lord Devon, girls! what are you whispering here?

Alice.
Probing an old state-secret—how it chanced
That this young Earl was sent on foreign travel,
Not lost his head.

Lady Clarence.
There was no proof against him.

Alice.
Nay, Madam; did not Gardiner intercept
A letter which the Count de Noailles wrote
To that dead traitor Wyatt, with full proof
Of Courtenay's treason? What became of that?

Lady Clarence.
Some say that Gardiner, out of love for him,
Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost
When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's house in South-wark.
Let dead things rest.

Alice.
Ay, and with him who died
Alone in Italy.

Lady Clarence.
Much changed, I hear,
Had put off levity and put graveness on.
The foreign courts report him in his manner
Noble as his young person and old shield.
It might be so—but all is over now;
He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice,
And died in Padua.

Mary
(looking up suddenly).
Died in the true faith?

Lady Clarence.
Ay, Madam, happily.

Mary.
Happier he than I.

Lady Magdalen.
It seems her Highness hath awaken'd. Think you
That I might dare to tell her that the Count—

Mary.
I will see no man hence for evermore,
Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole.

Lady Magdalen.
It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady.

Mary.
What Count?

Lady Magdalen.
The Count de Feria, from his Majesty
King Philip.

Mary.
Philip! quick! loop up my hair!
Throw cushions on that seat, and make it throne-like.
Arrange my dress—the gorgeous Indian shawl
That Philip brought me in our happy days!—
That covers all. So—am I somewhat Queenlike,
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth?

Lady Clarence.
Ay, so your Grace would bide a moment yet.

Mary.
No, no, he brings a letter. I may die
Before I read it. Let me see him at once.

Enter Count de Feria (kneels).
Feria.
I trust your Grace is well. (Aside)
How her hand burns!

Mary.
I am not well, but it will better me,
Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring.

Feria.
Madam, I bring no letter.

Mary.
How! no letter?

Feria.
His Highnessis so vex'd with strange affairs—

Mary.
That his own wife is no affair of his.

Feria.
Nay, Madam, nay! he sends his veriest love,
And says, he will come quickly.

Mary.
Doth he, indeed?
You, sir, do you remember what you said
When last you came to England?

Feria.
Madam, I brought
My King's congratulations; it was hoped
Your Highness was once more in happy state
To give him an heir male.

Mary.
Sir, you said more;
You said he would come quickly. I had horses
On all the road from Dover, day and night;
On all the road from Harwich, night and day;
But the child came not, and the husband came not;
And yet he will come quickly. . . Thou hast learnt
Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no need
For Philip so to shame himself again.
Return,
And tell him that I know he comes no more.
Tell him at last I know his love is dead,
And that I am in state to bring forth death—
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth,
And not to me!

Feria.
Mere compliments and wishes.
But shall I take some message from your Grace?

Mary.
Tell her to come and close my dying eyes,
And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave.

Feria.
Then I may say your Grace will see your sister?
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and sunshine.
I would we had you, Madam, in our warm Spain.
You droop in your dim London.

Mary.
Have him away!
I sicken of his readiness.

Lady Clarence.
My Lord Count,
Her Highness is too ill for colloquy.

Feria
(kneels, and kisses her hand).
I wish her
Highness better. (Aside)
How her hand burns!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A House near London.
Elizabeth, Steward of the Household, Attendants.
Elizabeth.
There's half an angel wrong'd in your account;
Methinks I am all angel, that I bear it
Without more ruffling. Cast it o'er again.

Steward.
I were whole devil if I wrong'd you, Madam.

[Exit Steward.
Attendant.
The Count de Feria, from the King of Spain.

Elizabeth.
Ay!—let him enter. Nay, you need not go:
[To her Ladies.
Remain within the chamber, but apart.
We'll have no private conference. Welcome to England!

Enter Feria.
Feria.
Fair island star!

Elizabeth.
I shine! What else, Sir Count?

Feria.
As far as France, and into Philip's heart.
My King would know if you be fairly served,
And lodged, and treated.

Elizabeth.
You see the lodging, sir,
I am well-served, and am in everything
Most loyal and most grateful to the Queen.

Feria.
You should be grateful to my master, too.
He spoke of this; and unto him you owe
That Mary hath acknowledged you her heir.

Elizabeth.
No, not to her nor him; but to the people,
Who know my right, and love me, as I love
The people! whom God aid!

Feria.
You will be Queen,
And, were I Philip—

Elizabeth.
Wherefore pause you—what?

Feria.
Nay, but I speak from mine own self, not him;
Your royal sister cannot last; your hand
Will be much coveted! What a delicate one!
Our Spanish ladies have none such—and there,
Were you in Spain, this fine fair gossamer gold—
Like sun-gilt breathings on a frosty dawn—
That hovers round your shoulder—

Elizabeth.
Is it so fine?
Troth, some have said so.

Feria.
—would be deemed a miracle.

Elizabeth.
Your Philip hath gold hair and golden beard;
There must be ladies many with hair like mine.

Feria.
Some few of Gothic blood have golden hair,
But none like yours.

Elizabeth.
I am happy you approve it.

Feria.
But as to Philip and your Grace—consider,—
If such a one as you should match with Spain,
What hinders but that Spain and England join'd,
Should make the mightiest empire earth has known.
Spain would be England on her seas, and England
Mistress of the Indies.

Elizabeth.
It may chance, that England
Will be the Mistress of the Indies yet,
Without the help of Spain.

Feria.
Impossible;
Except you put Spain down.
Wide of the mark ev'n for a madman's dream.

Elizabeth.
Perhaps; but we have seamen. Count de Feria,
I take it that the King hath spoken to you;
But is Don Carlos such a goodly match?

Feria.
Don Carlos, Madam, is but twelve years old.

Elizabeth.
Ay, tell the King that I will muse upon it;
He is my good friend, and I would keep him so;
But—he would have me Catholic of Rome,
And that I scarce can be; and, sir, till now
My sister's marriage, and my father's marriages,
Make me full fain to live and die a maid.
But I am much beholden to your King.
Have you aught else to tell me?

Feria.
Nothing, Madam,
Save that methought I gather'd from the Queen
That she would see your Grace before she—died.

Elizabeth.
God's death! and wherefore spake you not before?
We dally with our lazy moments here,
And hers are number'd. Horses there, without!
I am much beholden to the King, your master.
Why did you keep me prating? Horses, there!

[Exit Elizabeth, etc.
Feria.
So from a clear sky falls the thunderbolt!
Don Carlos? Madam, if you marry Philip,
Then I and he will snaffle your ‘God's death,’
And break your paces in, and make you tame;
God's death, forsooth—you do not know King Philip.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

—London. Before the Palace.
A light burning within. Voices of the night passing.
First.
Is not yon light in the Queen's chamber?

Second.
Ay,
They say she's dying.

First.
So is Cardinal Pole.
May the great angels join their wings, and make
Down for their heads to heaven!

Second.
Amen. Come on.

[Exeunt.
Two Others.
First.
There's the Queen's light. I hear she cannot live.

Second.
God curse her and her Legate! Gardiner burns
Already; but to pay them full in kind,
The hottest hold in all the devil's den
Were but a sort of winter; sir, in Guernsey,
I watch'd a woman burn; and in her agony
The mother came upon her—a child was born—
And, sir, they hurl'd it back into the fire,
That, being but baptized in fire, the babe
Might be in fire for ever. Ah, good neighbour,
There should be something fierier than fire
To yield them their deserts.

First.
Amen to all
Your wish, and further.

A Third Voice.

Deserts! Amen to what? Whose deserts? Yours? You have a gold ring on your finger, and soft raiment about your body; and is not the woman up yonder sleeping after all she has

done, in peace and quietness, on a soft bed, in a closed room, with light, fire, physic, tendance; and I have seen the true men of Christ lying famine-dead by scores, and under no ceiling but the cloud that wept on them, not for them.

First.

Friend, tho' so late, it is not safe to preach. You had best go home. What are you?

Third.

What am I? One who cries continually with sweat and tears to the Lord God that it would please Him out of His infinite love to break down all kingship and queenship, all priesthood and prelacy; to cancel and abolish all bonds of human allegiance, all the magistracy, all the nobies, and all the wealthy; and to send us again, according to His promise, the one King, the Christ, and all things in common, as in the day of the first church, when Christ Jesus was King.

First.
If ever I heard a madman,—let's away!
Why, you long-winded— Sir, you go beyond me.
I pride myself on being moderate.
Good night! Go home. Besides, you curse so loud,
The watch will hear you. Get you home at once.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

—London. A Room in the Palace.
A Gallery on one side. The moonlight streaming through a range of windows on the wall opposite. Mary, Lady Clarence, Lady Magdalen Dacres, Alice. Queen pacing the Gallery. A writing-table in front. Queen comes to the table and writes and goes again, pacing the Gallery.
Lady Clarence.
Mine eyes are dim: what hath she written? read.

Alice.
‘I am dying, Philip; come to me.’

Lady Magdalen.
There—up and down, poor lady, up and down.

Alice.
And how her shadow crosses one by one
The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall,
Following her like her sorrow. She turns again.

[Queen sits and writes, and goes again.
Lady Clarence.
What hath she written now?

Alice.
Nothing; but ‘come, come, come,’ and all awry,
And blotted by her tears. This cannot last.

[Queen returns.
Mary.
I whistle to the bird has broken cage,
And all in vain.
[Sitting down.
Calais gone—Guisnes gone, too—and Philip gone!

Lady Clarence.
Dear Madam, Philip is but at the wars;
I cannot doubt but that he comes again;
And he is with you in a measure still.
I never look'd upon so fair a likeness
As your great King in armour there, his hand
Upon his helmet.

[Pointing to the portrait of Philip on the wall.
Mary.
Doth he not look noble?
I had heard of him in battle over seas,
And I would have my warrior all in arms.
He said it was not courtly to stand helmeted
Before the Queen. He had his gracious moment,
Altho' you'll not believe me. How he smiles
As if he loved me yet!

Lady Clarence.
And so he does.

Mary.
He never loved me—nay, he could not love me.
It was his father's policy against France.
I am eleven years older than he,
Poor boy!

[Weeps.
Alice.
That was a lusty boy of twenty-seven;
[Aside.
Poor enough in God's grace!

Mary.
—And all in vain!
The Queen of Scots is married to the Dauphin,
And Charles, the lord of this low world, is gone;
And all his wars and wisdoms past away;
And in a moment I shall follow him.

Lady Clarence.
Nay, dearest Lady, see your good physician.

Mary.
Drugs—but he knows they cannot help me—says
That rest is all—tells me I must not think—
That I must rest—I shall rest by and by.
Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he springs
And maims himself against the bars, say ‘rest’:
Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest—
Dead or alive you cannot make him happy.

Lady Clarence.
Your Majesty has lived so pure a life,
And done such mighty things by Holy Church,
I trust that God will make you happy yet.

Mary.
What is the strange thing happiness? Sit down here:
Tell me thine happiest hour.

Lady Clarence.
I will, if that
May make your Grace forget yourself a little.
There runs a shallow brook across our field
For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five,
And doth so bound and babble all the way
As if itself were happy. It was May-time,
And I was walking with the man I loved.
I loved him, but I thought I was not loved.
And both were silent, letting the wild brook
Speak for us—till he stoop'd and gather'd one
From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots,
Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me.
I took it, tho' I did not know I took it,
And put it in my bosom, and all at once
I felt his arms about me, and his lips—

Mary.
O God! I have been too slack, too slack.
There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards—
Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt
The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children.
Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,—
We have so play'd the coward; but by God's grace,
We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up
The Holy Office here—garner the wheat,
And burn the tares with unquenchable fire!
Burn!—
Fie, what a savour! tell the cooks to close
The doors of all the offices below.
Latimer!
Sir, we are private with our women here—
Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow—
Thou light a torch that never will go out!
'Tis out—mine flames. Women, the Holy Father
Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole—
Was that well done? and poor Pole pines of it,
As I do, to the death. I am but a woman,
I have no power.—Ah, weak and meek old man,
Seven-fold dishonour'd even in the sight
Of thine own sectaries—No, no. No pardon!—
Why that was false: there is the right hand still
Beckons me hence.
Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason,
Remember that! 'twas I and Bonner did it,
And Pole; we are three to one—Have you found mercy there,
Grant it me here: and see, he smiles and goes,
Gentle as in life.

Alice.
Madam, who goes? King Philip?

Mary.
No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes.
Women, when I am dead,
Open my heart, and there you will find written
Two names, Philip and Calais; open his,—
So that he have one,—
You will find Philip only, policy, policy,—
Ay, worse than that—not one hour true to me!
Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice!
Adulterous to the very heart of Hell.
Hast thou a knife?

Alice.
Ay, Madam, but o' God's mercy—

Mary.
Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine own soul
By slaughter of the body? I could not, girl,
Not this way—callous with a constant stripe,
Unwoundable. The knife!

Alice.
Take heed, take heed!
The blade is keen as death.

Mary.
This Philip shall not
Stare in upon me in my haggardness;
Old, miserable, diseased,
Incapable of children. Come thou down.
[Cuts out the picture and throws it down.
Lie there. (Wails)
O God, I have kill'd my Philip!

Alice.
No,
Madam, you have but cut the canvas out;
We can replace it.

Mary.
All is well then; rest—
I will to rest; he said, I must have rest.
[Cries of ‘Elizabeth’ in the street.
A cry! What's that? Elizabeth? revolt?
A new Northumberland, another Wyatt?

(Act v. Sc. v.) After Mary's speech, ending “Help me hence,” the end of the last Act of the Acting Edition ran thus:

[Falls into the arms of Lady Clarence.
Alice.
The hand of God hath help'd her hence.

Lady Clarence.
Not yet.
[To Elizabeth as she enters.
Speak, speak, a word of yours may wake her.

Elizabeth
(kneeling at her sister's knee).
Mary!

Mary.

Mary! who calls? 'tis long since any one
Has called me Mary—she—
There in the dark she sits and calls for me—
She that should wear her state before the world.
My Father's own true wife. Ay, madam. Hark!
For she will call again.

Elizabeth.
Mary, my sister!

Mary.
That's not the voice!
Who is it steps between me and the light?
[Puts her arm round Elizabeth's neck.
I held her in my arms a guileless babe,
And mourn'd her orphan doom along with mine.
The crown! she comes for that! take it and feel it!
It stings the touch! It is not gold but thorns!
[Mary starts up.
The crown of crowns! Play not with holy things!
[Clasps her hands and kneels.
Keep you the faith! . . yea, mother, yea I come!

[Dies.
Lady Clarence.
She is dead.

Elizabeth
(kneeling by the body).
Poor sister! Peace be with the dead.
[Curtain.

I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave.

Lady Clarence.
Madam, your royal sister comes to see you.

Mary.
I will not see her.
Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister?
I will see none except the priest. Your arm.
[To Lady Clarence.
O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile
Among thy patient wrinkles—Help me hence.

[Exeunt.
The Priest passes. Enter Elizabeth and Sir William Cecil.
Elizabeth.
[Exit Elizabeth.

Cecil.
Enter Alice.

Alice.
Away from Philip.
Back in her childhood—prattling to her mother
Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles,
And childlike-jealous of him again—and once
She thank'd her father sweetly for his book
Against that godless German. Ah, those days
Were happy. It was never merry world
In England, since the Bible came among us.

Cecil.
And who says that?

Alice.
It is a saying among the Catholics.

Cecil.
It never will be merry world in England,
Till all men have their Bible, rich and poor.

Alice.
The Queen is dying, or you dare not say it.

Enter Elizabeth.
Elizabeth.
The Queen is dead.

Cecil.
Then here she stands! my homage.

Elizabeth.
She knew me, and acknowledged me her heir,
Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the Faith;
Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away in peace.
I left her lying still and beautiful,
More beautiful than in life. Why would you vex yourself,
Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no heart
To be your Queen. To reign is restless fence,
Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with the dead.
Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt:
And she loved much: pray God she be forgiven.

Cecil.
Peace with the dead, who never were at peace!
Yet she loved one so much—I needs must say—
That never English monarch dying left
England so little.

Elizabeth.
But with Cecil's aid
And others, if our person be secured
From traitor stabs—we will make England great.

Enter Paget, and other Lords of the Council, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, etc.
Lords.
God save Elizabeth, the Queen of England!

Bagenhall.
God save the Crown! the Papacy is no more.

Paget
(aside).
Are we so sure of that?

Acclamation.
God save the Queen!