University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Windsor.
Enter Elizabeth and Cecil.
Cecil.
The snare has answered to our wish.
I guessed that any sudden change of fortune
Would make her turn her thoughts to England.
I had prepared accordingly for her reception.

Eliz.
Is't Lancaster, said you? Is it a place of strength?

Cecil.
Of strength to laugh at rescue.

Eliz.
I fear we shall be blamed for these harsh measures.

Cecil.
Be blamed for execution of the laws!

Eliz.
She's not in chains?—that sure would be too cruel.

Cecil.
Perhaps it would.

Eliz.
Yet, to prevent escape—

Cecil.
She's in sure ward.

Eliz.
What if we should comply with her request,
And let her visit us? 'Twould be a triumph
To see a captive Queen in England's court.

Cecil.
That must not be; she'd turn your nobles' hearts.
O, I have seen her, ere I sowed dispeace
Between her and her people: Every eye
Was bent on her, with looks of love. She seemed
A beauteous star shot from its sphere, that drew
The constellations in its train: That is
To say,—she seemed—she looked—

Eliz.
And shall I lose by the comparison?

[Angrily.
Cecil.
An' please your Majesty to pardon me.
Lose! No; though Venus' self were to descend,
She'd first feel envy when she looked at you.

Eliz.
You do not think so.—Is Wingfield come?

Cecil.
He is at hand.

Eliz.
Send him to me. [Exit Cecil.
[Reading a Letter.]

“To be banished from my “country, and from my son—to be received in a prison, “and welcomed with fetters—Permit me either to “see your Majesty, or to return to my country and “my son—Languish unpitied and unseen.”—

Unseen! She thinks, that if she were but seen,
She would be pitied, aye, and loved besides;
She'd draw the constellations in her train.—
Her son! She boasts, too, of her son!—Detested—
The threatened chains shall be realities.
Aye, she shall feel their weight; and change
Her posture, and still feel the iron's weight
Bruising her beauteous arms, till the livid blotches
Turn into festering sores, which flies shall loath
To light upon. I'll goad her on to crimes;
Then she shall have no reason to complain
Of languishing unpitied and unseen.
Her night of woe I will at last illume
With lurid gleams of gorgeous misery,
Displaying in the collied verge a scaffold.—
Some have, for love, dipped napkins in the blood
Of sufferers at the block: I, I, for hate,
Could steep my pillow in the reeking stream,
And lay my head in dreams of sweetest vengeance.—
But, no—a public death!—'twould draw forth pity.
I'd have her die unpitied and unseen.—
He comes.—How to begin—I feel I dare not,
Even to him. A villain though he be,
He is a human being, and his eye
Will look me dumb—But, no; I'm Henry's daughter.

Enter Wingfield.
Wing.
An please your Majesty—

Eliz.
Wingfield!

Wing.
I'm here, an please your Majesty.

Eliz.
What sort of day is it?
It seems, I think, to overcast.

Wing.
'Tis a fine sunshine day, an please your Grace;
And yet 'tis somewhat cloudy, I believe.

Eliz.
What are the people saying?

Wing.
Of what, an please your—

Eliz.
Of any thing—of every thing—the North.

Wing.
They think that things go well in Scotland.

Eliz.
I had a thing to say, but talking of these matters
Has drove it from me: What, what could it be?

Wing.
Was it about the restiff commoners?

Eliz.
No, not that.

Wing.
The Queen of Scots?

Eliz.
No, no.—
Wingfield, go shake the arras there;
There, just behind where Brutus lifts his arm.
I am not safe; I have no peace; I dread
Some lurking king-killer; and still must live
In dread, as long—till—

Wing.
Till when, an please your Majesty?

Eliz.
Until—

Wing.
I'll die, to save your royal life.

Eliz.
Would'st thou, now, put a poniard in thy breast,
To save my life?

Wing.
I would.

Eliz.
Would'st thou become a suicide? commit Self-murder?

Wing.
I would.

Eliz.
'Tis the most heinous of all sorts of murder.

Wing.
'Twere here a pious deed.

Eliz.
If, then, to save my life, thou'dst sacrifice
Thy own, and do self-murder; say, would'st thou not
Think it less sinful to bereave of life
Another, to attain the end?
One guilty too; and one who, if not struck,
Will strike?

Wing.
That were most sure a meritorious deed.

Eliz.
But who's the judge? who has the right to judge?

Wing.
The truth: The truth's the truth, though not declared
By gospel-kissing knaves, who often yield
Their perjured judgments to a scarlet robe.

Eliz.
O now I recollect what 'twas I thought of;
The banished Queen of Scots—her maintenance—
'Tis hard the people should be burdened.

Wing.
'Tis very hard.

Eliz.
And that the prince's state should be endangered.

Wing.
It is not right.

Eliz.
And yet, nor prince nor people have a friend
To rid them of those burdens, and those hazards.

Wing.
Your Grace has many friends.

Eliz.
Aye, faithful friends, who'd rather serve themselves,
Than do disservice to mine enemies.

Wing.
Who are your Grace's enemies?

Eliz.
Have I not named the Queen of Scots?

Wing.
She is your prisoner; she's in your hands.

Eliz.
She lives, and she has friends.

Wing.
Your Grace cannot complain of want of friends.

Eliz.
My friends have tongues.

Wing.
And some of them have hands.

Eliz.
And yet my enemies live.

Wing.
What would your Highness that your friends should do?
Is death your life?

Eliz.
Begone! dost think I am a murderess?

Wing.
No, justice is no murder.

Eliz.
I fear the bird, though limed, may yet escape.
Where then would be my safety?—
Say, would'st thou, Wingfield, choose to be its keeper?
The rangership of Wiersdale should be thy fee.—
But, hark—

Wing.
An' please your Grace.

Eliz.
I would not have her blood upon my head;
There is no need, no, none for shedding blood.
Blood, though it sometimes glides with silent flow,
At other times speaks with a cataract's roar.

Wing.
What does your Highness mean?

Eliz.
Mean!
You ought to take with you a skilful cook;
She's fond of dainty fare.

Wing.
I've been informed, she has a female friend
Who tastes each thing she eats or drinks.

Eliz.
The holy wafer.

Wing.
How?

Eliz.
None tastes of it before she eats.

Wing.
I am no priest.

Eliz.
Wise, prudent priests there are, and of her faith.
In Lancashire they swarm.

Wing.
The rangership?

Eliz.
I've said it:—But, hear,
I would not have this done, unless you find
That those suspicions which I have surmised
Have truth for their foundation. Examine well;
I put thee in the place of those same knaves,
Those gospel-kissing knaves, of whom thou spok'st.
Enquire, and judge; and let thy verdict be
Written in deeds, not words; but, recollect,
It must be on full proof. I would not touch
The life o'the innocent to save my own.

Wing.
I would not do it, though your Highness ordered.

Eliz.
Wingfield!

Wing.
What more, an' please your Grace?

Eliz.
Nothing—O aye, I think on't; do not be
Another Hubert; but yet, remember well,
It must be on full proof of guilt:
Remember!

[Exit.
Wing.
Conscience, shall I be schooled by thee!
Thou shadow of the soul, at which fools start.
Crime! what is crime? If there be such a thing,
It lies in the intention, and in that
My guilt is now complete;—the plan is here:
[Pointing to his brow.
It is a furled scene, that's soon unrolled,
A tragic scene, by Treachery drawn in blood.
But where is all this guilt? What can I add
To misery like hers?—
Imprisonment perpetual is her doom:
Death is the sole deliverance she can hope.
Death—death—aye, death must come one day to me;
What then? what is it but a loss of being?
And what annihilation, but a sleep,
Unhaunted by those qualmish phantasies,
Which, while awake, I laugh at?

[Exit.