 | Anne Boleyn |  |
Whitehall.
QUEEN
(dismissing her ladies).
Queen, Lady Wiltshire.
LADY WILTSHIRE.
Dear Anne,
I come to task thy goodness: thou must use
That witching influence none e'er resists;
That, with a sweet and pardonable treason
Makes the King's Grace thy slave, nor leaves him pow'r
To think or speak but at thy pleasure—
QUEEN
(aside).
Heaven!
Each word wrings blood from my torn heart.
LADY WILTSHIRE.
In truth,
There never lived who could refuse thee ought;
For thou wert never known to ask amiss.
But, thou'rt all tears.
QUEEN.
Nought—nought—thy story, Mother.
LADY WILTSHIRE.
Ay, nothing sure will chase away thy weakness,
Be 't of the body or the mind, so soon
As that sweet consciousness that thou art using
The power Heaven gave thee in Heaven's cause. His Grace
The Primate waits without t'implore your Highness,
That the old high-born Prior of the Carthusians,
And two right noble brethren of that house,
That, obstinate and self will'd, still subscribe not
The King's supreme dominion, may find mercy,
Nor perish on the ignominious scaffold.
QUEEN.
My Lord of Canterbury at our door!
The presence of that righteous man, dear Mother,
Breathes sanctity as though from Heaven; our hearts
O'erflow at once with prayer and holiest thoughts.
Admit his Grace.
The above. Cranmer .
QUEEN.
Your blessing, holy Father.
CRANMER.
Heaven save your Highness! But, remember, Lady,
Prayers of anointed Priests or mitred Prelates
Are poor and valueless to such as come
From those that wear Christ's truest livery,
The wretched and the broken hearted.
QUEEN
(aside).
Heaven,
I own thy voice—then mine are surely heard.
CRANMER.
I'll teach your Grace to do Heaven violence,
By shrining your blest name in vows of men,
From death released, from cruel public death.
The Countess Wiltshire hath made known our suit;
And though my soul abhor the wilful hardness
Of these proud men, yet they were nursed in error—
In error, but for all-enlightening grace,
That still had darken'd our own souls. Were Heaven
Extreme t'avenge its outraged majesty,
Would the red roaring thunder ever cease?
And shall the axe earth's injured Monarchs wield
Be never satiate with the offending blood?
QUEEN.
Had I the power!
CRANMER.
The power! thou'st ever been
The rainbow o'er the awful throne. The King,
That lives but in thy presence, ne'er disdain'd
Thy righteous supplication. Oh! great Queen,
Our cause, the Gospel cause, the cause of Christ,
Is spotted o'er with shame. Rude sacrilege
Usurps the name of godly Reformation,
And revels in the spoil of shrine and altar.
Men have cast down the incensed heathenish image
To worship with more foul idolatry
The gold of which 'twas wrought; and all the blood
The too relentless Law for Treason sheds,
Attaints our blameless faith of direst cruelty.
QUEEN
(aside).
More woe, more woe—to know these holy hopes,
This noble trust, misplaced and frustrate all!
Your Grace o'ervalues our poor influence,
Such as it is.
LADY WILTSHIRE.
The King!
QUEEN.
I'll know the worst.
Dear Mother, leave us. Come contempt or shame,
She must not witness it: but he the rather
Will seek to compensate the heart's deep wrongs
By outward graciousness. Wretch, wretch myself,
I may relieve the wretchedness of others:—
Be 't as it may, the world shall never know
Through me the secret of his sin, his falsehood,
But deem him by my love the gentlest husband
As the most noble Monarch upon Earth.
King Henry.
KING.
Refuse our mandate—shut their Abbey gates
Against our Poursuivants—refuse our oaths—
Now, by St. Paul, not one of them shall wear
His shaven crown on his audacious shoulders!
CRANMER.
Your Majesty will hear your faithful servant.
KING.
I'll none of it—their heads or their allegiance.
God's death! have all our Parliament and Peers,
Our Rev'rend Bishops, given their hands and seals,
And shall we thus be mocked and set at nought
By beggarly and barefoot monks? Archbishop,
Out of our love to thine own reverend person,
We do refuse thy most unwise petition.
Good foolish man, not one of them but urged
By that old Priest of the Seven Hills would burn us,
Body and soul. We'll have no Kings but one,
None but ourself.—Tut, not a word. How now?
What, Nan? what blank? what all a mort? Thy jests,
And thy quaint sayings, and thy smiles—
QUEEN.
My Liege,
I have been sued to be a suppliant
For those that, fall'n beneath thine high displeasure—
KING.
'Sdeath! ye've our answer—as I pass'd but now
Jane Seymour was set on t'entreat our mercy;
We yielded not, nor thought of being wearied
At every step with the old tedious tale—
Art answer'd?
QUEEN.
What I am, I owe your Grace,
And in most deep humility confess it;
But being as I am, your Grace's wife,
I knew not that my maid's rejected prayer
Precluded further speech—
KING.
Why, how now, wayward!
Your maid! good truth, Sir Thomas Boleyn's daughter's
Right nobly served. I'd have you know, proud woman,
What the King gives, the King may take away—
Who raised up one from dust, may raise another.
Look to thyself, I say—thou may'st have cause;
Look, and be wise—be humble. For your Grace
We've business in our Council—not a word—
Our Queen's our subject still.
QUEEN
(alone).
And this is he,
The flower of the world's chivalry, most courtly
Where met the splendor of all courts! When Europe
Sent its three Sov'reigns to that Golden field,
Which won all eyes with liberal noble bearing?
Which charm'd all ears with high and gracious speech?
Which made all hearts his slaves by inbred worth
But English Henry? by his pattern all
Moved, spoke, rode, tilted, shaped their dress, their language,
And he that most resembled England's King
Was kingliest in the esteem of all. This he
That lay whole hours before my worshipp'd feet,
Making the air melodious with his words?
So fearful to offend, having offended
So fearful of his pardon, not myself
More jealous of my maiden modesty;
The bridegroom of my youth, my infant's Father!
Ah! me, my rash and inconsiderate speech,
My pride, hath wrought from his too hasty nature
This shame upon mine head: he'll turn, he'll come
My prodigal back to mine heart—if not,
I'm born his subject, sworn before high Heaven
His faithful wife; then let him cast me from him,
Spurn, trample me to dust—the foe, the stranger
That owns no law of kindred, blood, or duty,
Is taught, where every word is Heaven's own oracle,
To love where most he's hated. I will live
On the delicious memory of the past,
And bless him so for my few years of bliss,
My lips shall find no time for harsh reproach;
I'll be as one of those sweet flowers, that crush'd
By the contemptuous foot, winds closer round it,
And breathes in every step its richest odours.
QUEEN
(dismissing her ladies).
Away—we are not used to order twice;
Away—depart.—
Away—depart.—
I am alone—alone—
Nor that cold hateful pomp of fawning faces
Pursues me, nor the true officious love
Of those whose hearts I would not wring, by seeming
The wretch I am: so pour thee forth, mine heart,
Pour thy full tide of bitterness; for Queens
Must weep in secret when they weep. I saw it—
'Twas no foul vision—with unblinded eyes
I saw it: his fond hands, as once in mine,
Were wreath'd in hers; he gazed upon her face
Even with those sorcerous eyes, no woman looks at—
I know it, ah! too well—nor madly dote.
That eloquence, the self-same burning words
That seize the awe-struck soul, when weakest, thrill'd
Her vainly-deaf averted ears.—Oh, Heaven!
I thank thee that I cursed her not, nor him.
Jane Seymour, like a sister did I deem thee;
But what of that? Thou'rt heaven-ordain'd to visit
Her sins upon the head of her that dared
To love, to wed another's lord. May'st thou
Ne'er know the racking anguish of this hour,
The desolation of this heart! But thou,
Oh! thou, my crime, my madness! thou on whom
The loftiest woman had been proud to dote,
Had he been master of a straw roof'd cottage!
Was't just to awe, to dazzle the young mind,
That deem'd its transport loyal admiration,
Submissive duty all, till it awoke
And found it thrilling, deepest woman's love?
Too late, too early disabused—would Heaven
That I were still abused! Long, long I've felt
Love's bonds fall one by one from thy pall'd heart.
Oh! the fond falsehoods of my credulous soul!
War, policy, religion, all the cares
Of kingdoms, Europe's fate within thy hands,
I pleaded to myself to justify
Thy cold estrangement.
Nor that cold hateful pomp of fawning faces
Pursues me, nor the true officious love
Of those whose hearts I would not wring, by seeming
56
Pour thy full tide of bitterness; for Queens
Must weep in secret when they weep. I saw it—
'Twas no foul vision—with unblinded eyes
I saw it: his fond hands, as once in mine,
Were wreath'd in hers; he gazed upon her face
Even with those sorcerous eyes, no woman looks at—
I know it, ah! too well—nor madly dote.
That eloquence, the self-same burning words
That seize the awe-struck soul, when weakest, thrill'd
Her vainly-deaf averted ears.—Oh, Heaven!
I thank thee that I cursed her not, nor him.
Jane Seymour, like a sister did I deem thee;
But what of that? Thou'rt heaven-ordain'd to visit
Her sins upon the head of her that dared
To love, to wed another's lord. May'st thou
Ne'er know the racking anguish of this hour,
The desolation of this heart! But thou,
Oh! thou, my crime, my madness! thou on whom
The loftiest woman had been proud to dote,
57
Was't just to awe, to dazzle the young mind,
That deem'd its transport loyal admiration,
Submissive duty all, till it awoke
And found it thrilling, deepest woman's love?
Too late, too early disabused—would Heaven
That I were still abused! Long, long I've felt
Love's bonds fall one by one from thy pall'd heart.
Oh! the fond falsehoods of my credulous soul!
War, policy, religion, all the cares
Of kingdoms, Europe's fate within thy hands,
I pleaded to myself to justify
Thy cold estrangement.
Well, 'tis o'er, and I
Must sit alone on my cold eminence,
All women's envy, mine own scorn and pity.
And all the sweetness of these virgin lips,
And all the pureness of this virgin bosom,
And all the fondness of this virgin heart,
Forgotten, turn'd to scorn—perchance to loathing.
Heaven! was no way but this, and none but He
To scourge this guilty heart? Thy will be done.
I've still a noble Father, and a Brother,
And, Powers of grace! my Mother—kill her not,
Break not her heart,—for sure 'twill break to hear it.
My child, my child, thou only wilt not feel it:
Thy parent o'er thy face may weep, nor thou
Be sadder for her misery; thou wilt love me
Though thy false father scorn and loathe. My Mother—
Oh! ne'er before would I have fled thy presence:
Betray me not, my tear swoln eyes.
Must sit alone on my cold eminence,
All women's envy, mine own scorn and pity.
And all the sweetness of these virgin lips,
And all the pureness of this virgin bosom,
And all the fondness of this virgin heart,
Forgotten, turn'd to scorn—perchance to loathing.
Heaven! was no way but this, and none but He
58
I've still a noble Father, and a Brother,
And, Powers of grace! my Mother—kill her not,
Break not her heart,—for sure 'twill break to hear it.
My child, my child, thou only wilt not feel it:
Thy parent o'er thy face may weep, nor thou
Be sadder for her misery; thou wilt love me
Though thy false father scorn and loathe. My Mother—
Oh! ne'er before would I have fled thy presence:
Betray me not, my tear swoln eyes.
Queen, Lady Wiltshire.
LADY WILTSHIRE.
Dear Anne,
I come to task thy goodness: thou must use
That witching influence none e'er resists;
That, with a sweet and pardonable treason
Makes the King's Grace thy slave, nor leaves him pow'r
To think or speak but at thy pleasure—
59
(aside).
Heaven!
Each word wrings blood from my torn heart.
LADY WILTSHIRE.
In truth,
There never lived who could refuse thee ought;
For thou wert never known to ask amiss.
But, thou'rt all tears.
QUEEN.
Nought—nought—thy story, Mother.
LADY WILTSHIRE.
Ay, nothing sure will chase away thy weakness,
Be 't of the body or the mind, so soon
As that sweet consciousness that thou art using
The power Heaven gave thee in Heaven's cause. His Grace
The Primate waits without t'implore your Highness,
That the old high-born Prior of the Carthusians,
And two right noble brethren of that house,
That, obstinate and self will'd, still subscribe not
60
Nor perish on the ignominious scaffold.
QUEEN.
My Lord of Canterbury at our door!
The presence of that righteous man, dear Mother,
Breathes sanctity as though from Heaven; our hearts
O'erflow at once with prayer and holiest thoughts.
Admit his Grace.
The above. Cranmer .
QUEEN.
Your blessing, holy Father.
CRANMER.
Heaven save your Highness! But, remember, Lady,
Prayers of anointed Priests or mitred Prelates
Are poor and valueless to such as come
From those that wear Christ's truest livery,
The wretched and the broken hearted.
61
(aside).
Heaven,
I own thy voice—then mine are surely heard.
CRANMER.
I'll teach your Grace to do Heaven violence,
By shrining your blest name in vows of men,
From death released, from cruel public death.
The Countess Wiltshire hath made known our suit;
And though my soul abhor the wilful hardness
Of these proud men, yet they were nursed in error—
In error, but for all-enlightening grace,
That still had darken'd our own souls. Were Heaven
Extreme t'avenge its outraged majesty,
Would the red roaring thunder ever cease?
And shall the axe earth's injured Monarchs wield
Be never satiate with the offending blood?
QUEEN.
Had I the power!
CRANMER.
The power! thou'st ever been
62
That lives but in thy presence, ne'er disdain'd
Thy righteous supplication. Oh! great Queen,
Our cause, the Gospel cause, the cause of Christ,
Is spotted o'er with shame. Rude sacrilege
Usurps the name of godly Reformation,
And revels in the spoil of shrine and altar.
Men have cast down the incensed heathenish image
To worship with more foul idolatry
The gold of which 'twas wrought; and all the blood
The too relentless Law for Treason sheds,
Attaints our blameless faith of direst cruelty.
QUEEN
(aside).
More woe, more woe—to know these holy hopes,
This noble trust, misplaced and frustrate all!
Your Grace o'ervalues our poor influence,
Such as it is.
LADY WILTSHIRE.
The King!
63
I'll know the worst.
Dear Mother, leave us. Come contempt or shame,
She must not witness it: but he the rather
Will seek to compensate the heart's deep wrongs
By outward graciousness. Wretch, wretch myself,
I may relieve the wretchedness of others:—
Be 't as it may, the world shall never know
Through me the secret of his sin, his falsehood,
But deem him by my love the gentlest husband
As the most noble Monarch upon Earth.
King Henry.
KING.
Refuse our mandate—shut their Abbey gates
Against our Poursuivants—refuse our oaths—
Now, by St. Paul, not one of them shall wear
His shaven crown on his audacious shoulders!
64
Your Majesty will hear your faithful servant.
KING.
I'll none of it—their heads or their allegiance.
God's death! have all our Parliament and Peers,
Our Rev'rend Bishops, given their hands and seals,
And shall we thus be mocked and set at nought
By beggarly and barefoot monks? Archbishop,
Out of our love to thine own reverend person,
We do refuse thy most unwise petition.
Good foolish man, not one of them but urged
By that old Priest of the Seven Hills would burn us,
Body and soul. We'll have no Kings but one,
None but ourself.—Tut, not a word. How now?
What, Nan? what blank? what all a mort? Thy jests,
And thy quaint sayings, and thy smiles—
QUEEN.
My Liege,
I have been sued to be a suppliant
For those that, fall'n beneath thine high displeasure—
65
'Sdeath! ye've our answer—as I pass'd but now
Jane Seymour was set on t'entreat our mercy;
We yielded not, nor thought of being wearied
At every step with the old tedious tale—
Art answer'd?
QUEEN.
What I am, I owe your Grace,
And in most deep humility confess it;
But being as I am, your Grace's wife,
I knew not that my maid's rejected prayer
Precluded further speech—
KING.
Why, how now, wayward!
Your maid! good truth, Sir Thomas Boleyn's daughter's
Right nobly served. I'd have you know, proud woman,
What the King gives, the King may take away—
Who raised up one from dust, may raise another.
Look to thyself, I say—thou may'st have cause;
Look, and be wise—be humble. For your Grace
66
Our Queen's our subject still.
QUEEN
(alone).
And this is he,
The flower of the world's chivalry, most courtly
Where met the splendor of all courts! When Europe
Sent its three Sov'reigns to that Golden field,
Which won all eyes with liberal noble bearing?
Which charm'd all ears with high and gracious speech?
Which made all hearts his slaves by inbred worth
But English Henry? by his pattern all
Moved, spoke, rode, tilted, shaped their dress, their language,
And he that most resembled England's King
Was kingliest in the esteem of all. This he
That lay whole hours before my worshipp'd feet,
Making the air melodious with his words?
So fearful to offend, having offended
So fearful of his pardon, not myself
More jealous of my maiden modesty;
67
Ah! me, my rash and inconsiderate speech,
My pride, hath wrought from his too hasty nature
This shame upon mine head: he'll turn, he'll come
My prodigal back to mine heart—if not,
I'm born his subject, sworn before high Heaven
His faithful wife; then let him cast me from him,
Spurn, trample me to dust—the foe, the stranger
That owns no law of kindred, blood, or duty,
Is taught, where every word is Heaven's own oracle,
To love where most he's hated. I will live
On the delicious memory of the past,
And bless him so for my few years of bliss,
My lips shall find no time for harsh reproach;
I'll be as one of those sweet flowers, that crush'd
By the contemptuous foot, winds closer round it,
And breathes in every step its richest odours.
| Anne Boleyn | |