University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

Scene I.

A Hill by the Camp, near Engelborg. Break of day.
Enter Ethel and Cornelius.
Cor.
Why are you so long silent?

Eth.
Stillness of morning,
And the ineffable serenity
And peace of young creation, bind my lips.
Oh, who would mar the season with dull speech,
That must tie up our visionary meanings
And subtle individual apprehensions
Into the common tongue of every man,
And of the swift and scarce-detected visitants
Of our illusive thoughts seek to make prisoners,
And only grasp their garments! Well, let's talk.

Cor.
Indeed, no language can express the hour.

Eth.
It is the very time of contemplation,
More rich for being instinct with coming life.
Short breathing-space between oblivion's sleep
And the world's tumult. Day's virginity,
Unmarried yet to action, nor made mother
Of all that brood of intricate consequents,
Quick progeny of her ephemeral womb,
That twining with their brothers of past birth,
Weave the vast web of circumstance. Oh, think of it!
We are creative gods, and whether we will or no,
Upon the present moment we beget
Shapes of the future time. Most awful present!
That swifter than the winged lightning flies,
And more irrevocable; subtly charged
With some small influence, some diminution,
Or fine accession to our immortal character,
Making a difference that shall never die
In what we might have been. Have you heard of it?
To-day we try our edges on the Swede,
For the relief of Engelborg.

Cor.
The rumour
Got wind last night. Many a young starting blood,
That never yet saw itself sluiced in battle,
Beats thick with expectation, and awaits
The trumpet's summons.

Eth.
'Twill not be till noon.
O peaceful morning-tide, with what rude deeds
Will they deface thy evening! Is it not heavenly?
The air is cool and still; soft dawn shoots up
Into the fleecy heaven, that, like a mother
Uncovering her rosy naked babe,
Looks down upon the tender new-born day.
Strange prelude to a battle.

Cor.
True, it is piteous,
And best not thought of.

Eth.
Piteous it is indeed,
And yet not best not thought of, so is nothing.
We dare not faint at woe and violence,
When we are sure our cause is with the right.
And gaping wounds, and the red skeleton death,
Painted in blood of many slaughtered men,
Though they may stir our gorge more, are in themselves,
And should be to our spirits, less abhorrent
Than living men, walking like sepulchres
Of their dead spiritual lives.

Cor.
I have seen such men.

Eth.
So sick, I have seen many, and some dead.
He is noble that can hang a shield of patience
Between himself and injuries, but most base
That sees injustices unremedied.

Cor.
That did you never.

Eth.
No, nor you, Cornelius,
Nor any man who doth believe in heaven,
But when he sees a wrong must war with it—
By sufferance, if sufferance best abates it,
But only then. And always in his spirit
Eager antagonism, not passive spirits,
Oppose the dangerous devil's mastery;
But sworded and aggressive warriors,
Who with swift charge beat down his mustered ranks,
And all day long maintain the weary war,
And die in faith of unseen victory.

Cor.
Warriors of God; servants of God;—great titles.

Eth.
Oh, that we might be worthy to be such!
Our youth is like this morning, and we stand
Between the night of our unconscious childhood
And the world's monstrous battle, whose loud roar
Grows in our ears. Well, when we mix in it,
God keep us in his hand!

Cor.
Look, the great sun
Streaks all the orient.

[The sun rises.
Eth.
Glorious apparition!

Enter Haveloc.
Hav.
May I speak with you? You keep early hours.

Eth.
We love to breathe the morning; now you have joined us,
Is't not worth while?

Hav.
My brother writes to me
I must come back. That's a strange notion, surely!

Eth.
My lord, I dare not question it.

Hav.
But tell me,
Is't true we fight to-day?

Eth.
So it is commanded.

Hav.
Well, thus much my brief service will have gained me,
To have seen a battle. Will the General use me
To bear the news home?

Cor.
Pardon me, my lord,
That charge is mine.

Hav.
Why, then, I'll ride with you.
I am loth to leave you. Some of you soldiers learn
Too hardened and mechanical a spirit,
Prompt and unscrupulous in your obedience,
And too familiar with the change of death;
Yet in your tents here many virtues spring
The court and city know not; and some baseness,
Which there is drawn familiar as the air,
Shows here still strange and shameful. In your hearts
Self is less ingrained, if sometimes more violent.
Can I serve you in the court?

Eth.
Indeed you may,
And in a service where your least exertion
Shall buy my dearest gratitude.

Hav.
Pray, let me.

Eth.
There is a lady—

Hav.
The fair Countess Ingelwald.
I'll tell her you are well, and living here.
You write your heart to twenty different ladies.

Eth.
Play me no tricks; but in good earnest, sir,
If you will keep an eye upon her state,
And warn me if she is not well at ease,
You'll bind me very closely.

Hav.
I will serve her
In any way I can without obtrusion.
I know your drift, knowing my brother's temper.

Eth.
I have a private task for you, Cornelius.
Come to my tent.—Nay, go with us, my lord.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

A Room in the Palace.
Enter King, Malgodin, and Page.
King.

Did you see her, boy?

Page.

Not without labour, sire.

King.

I say—did you see her?

Page.

I did, sire.

King.

And left those jewels with her?

Page.

No, sire.

King.

How then? how then?

If with the saucy visage of a boy,
And tongue of forwardness, thou didst accost her,
Break the least point of ceremonious bearing
And deepest reverence, knave, I'll set thee up,
A speaking warning to thy fellows. Now!

Page.
Upon my knee, I lowly did accost her,
And in the very shape of true respect
Offered your salutations. She to that
Made answer shortly,—she did humbly thank you,
And would have gone; whereon, with earnest voice,
And in my best of moving eloquence,
I broached your lingering passion, telling her
The royalty of Love had set you down,
And made of one that lately was a king
A trembling subject to a higher power;
Love had discrowned you, Love had broke your rod,
And put you at the bottom of his thralls,
Feeding you only on unfilled desires,
And broken rations of your bursting sighs,
Shutting the visiting slumbers from your eyes,
And steeping them in rain of bitter tears.

King.
You were too cold. You should yourself have wept.

Page.
Why, so I did; more, and much more, I told her,
All of like import; and at every pause
Watered her feet with soft beseeching tears.

King.
When you had made an end, what said she then?

Page.
Sire, with a quiet scorn she answered me,
I was a good ambassador of love,
And bade me lie as well in mine own cause.
I asked an answer for your majesty;
She said, the King hath heard mine answer oft;
Tell him again, I am a maid betrothed,
And that he wastes his idle feigned cares.
Then of your costly gift I made presentment;
At which she not deigned look. I told her then,
King's givings were commands to take. She proudly—
They best obeyed such ill commands that broke them.
And when I would have left the casket there,
She from her window passionately flung it,
To lie in the open street.

Mal.
What! have you brought it?
You should have left it lying. She but waited
Until your back was turned to lift it.

King.
Go, boy,
[Exit Page.
This is the wildest hawk that ever yet
Refused to sit on hand; and her resistance,
Like wind to the fire, blows in me so much heat,
As I will rather lose my herited crown
Than not enjoy those charms. I would gladly welcome
Conquest of half my realm, so I could win by't
The death of her beloved.

Mal.
What if he died
Some other way?

King.
There's murder in thy look.
We're not so base yet. Hoary iniquity,
Show me some easier way.

Mal.
I have already
Whispered abroad, and will yet more completely,
She is your yielded mistress. This being confirmed
On every side, and buzzed about her ears,
Shown in all acts—as you must make the life
Of all your court strictly conform to it—
She thus shall find her valued chasteness leaves her
(If she be a woman) more loved reputation
Not guarded from the stain; and, more than this,
The thought, which now being strange is doubly abhorred,
Shall sound familiar. That vice we think possible
Already's more than probable, when we stand
In junctures that fit with it. Add to this,
The news shall reach her lover, as I'll manage it.
May be he'll break with her, or, at the least,
Even if he disbelieve, show some such anger
As, being unjust, shall rouse a spirit in her,
Since she's quick-tempered, fitter to your attacks.

King.
Subtly contrived, Malgodin. So we'll manage it.

Mal.
And if this fail, there's one way left.

King.
What's that?

Mal.
There's time enough to speak when the time comes.
Something it tastes of hell. You say you'll have her?

King.
Though I should write my soul away, I'll have her.

Mal.
Why, then, you'll have her. Men's souls stick in their way
More than most other things.

King.
I'll visit her now.
This hour, they tell me, she oft walks i' the garden.

[Exit.
Mal.
O my white lady! Good Madam Maidenhood,
We'll see you smutched yet; never doubt it.

Enter Cornelius.
Cor.
Sir, I seek the King: hath he gone hence?

Mal.
The young Cornelius, or I have forgotten
Features worth memory.

Cor.
He, sir; and a soldier.

Mal.
Charged with great news, I warrant, for the King:
The King is in the garden with the Queen.

Cor.
The Queen!

Mal.
For the time being. Pooh! the lady-bird.

Cor.
I take you, sir, and rather than disturb him
Will do my other errand. Can you tell me
Where lodges the high-born Violenzia,
Betrothed of the noble Earl of Felborg?

Mal.
Why,
That's she.

Cor.
That's what?

Mal.
Tush! You are Felborg's friend.
And yet what matter? 'Tis a public thing;
And, as I think, you soldiers least of all men
Hang weight on women's fancies—she's this gardenweed.

Cor.
You speak it lightly!

Mal.
Ay, between ourselves.
Before the King she rules our eyes, our voices—
Is the only fair and honest, and commands
Our sanctimonious reverence. I have seen
Many such toys: soon our great baby breaks them,
And buys himself another—she's fresh yet.

Cor.
Ethel! when thou hear'st this, thy heart will crack.

Mal.
Oh no, sir.

Cor.
How he loved her! Can no love, then,
Buy truth in the hearts of women? Trust them never!

Mal.
It is the old and universal rule;
Yet every woman is her own exception
To some one man that trusts her.
Let it not move you thus.

Cor.
Oh, how he loved her!

Mal.
The sooner he'll forget her.

Cor.
Hapless he
That in the bosom of a faithless woman
Lays up his all of joy; hangs on one string,
That rotten, all his gems of rich affection.
O ruined gamester, on how poor a chance
Didst thou set all thy heart. Forget her? never!

Mal.
You have some news for the King. I have the entry
To the private garden, and will adventure take you.

Cor.
I have a letter for her; I'll go with you;
It is from him. I'll mark her as she reads it,
As I have seen what's penned; if any shame
Inhabit yet her bosom, her hot blushes
Will burn the spendthrift beauty in her cheeks,
Ay, utterly consume her.

Mal.
Come with me.
Yet first we'll search her lodging; it may be
She is not still with the King. How moves the war?

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

A Garden.
Enter King and Violenzia.
Vio.
Why do you love me?

King.
For thy beauty, sweet.

Vio.
O fatal beauty, which, like bloom on the fruit,
Invites its own destruction. You do love me,
And for that cause would kill me.

King.
I! O heaven!

Vio.
Call it not love, for therein you blaspheme;
Like men that, from their own polluted thoughts,
Build up their worshipped deities. Love loves not
Self, but in the answering breast of the beloved
It consecrates a temple to its joy,
And therein ministering it finds true peace,
Though all be lost at home. Yours is not love,
But base self-liking, apeing love's fair guise.
Me you love not, but love yourself in me,
To use me for your passion and my shame.

King.
The folly of proud women! that love chastity,
That love their loss, or love to seem to do.
Some act, none think it. Seeming-sainted Dian
Best knew what coldness means. In heaven she showed
A virgin face; but stooping to green earth,
Couched often on the starlit Latmian hill,
Sucking the warm breath of Endymion.
The base boy blabbed—from me no breath shall move;
Trust me, I'll be as secret as the grave.

Vio.
You speak of that you cannot comprehend,
As you have never known it, and confound
Things different—chastity and reputation.
My silver reputation that should be,
You, that profess a secrecy after shame,
Have dared beforehand tarnish. Shame on liars!

King.
Ha!

Vio.
You are not angry. Why, I do but say
You have broken truth's law—do you no such wrong
As you do me, when, with an artful tongue,
You would persuade me, being innocent,
To break the law of sacred chastity,
Which is the fostering air of the unstained soul;
And they that with foul thoughts dare cloud it over
Shut out the light and intercourse of heaven.
Nay, beyond this you wrong me—you would have me
Break my sworn faith. What boots it you to swear
With these thick vows you love me, when the same breath
Persuades to perjury? Who shall believe you?
More; I must offer up a love that beats
In my heart's centre, and a man that loves me
As truly as you do falsely, sacrifice
To the depths of shame and grief—that rich affection
Given to my keeping pour on the wasteful ground.
You ask me for my virgin innocence,
You ask me for my heaven-registered oath,
My deep-implanted love, my all of virtue.
What give you in return? Have you no voice?
And yet you call it love! You call it love!
Great Heaven, upon what ill-deserving heads
Hang'st thou thy crowns!

King.
Hark, thou detested girl!
No more I'll say I love thee; something I'll do
Shall make thee fear me.

Vio.
Nothing canst thou do.
If I had yielded to thy base assaults,
If I in thought had fallen from my truth,
And swayed my inclination but one jot
To the alluring pictures of thy vice,
Then mightst thou speak of fear, then might I tremble;
But now I stand in the angels' circling arms,
Whither thy power not stretches, and thence tell thee,
Pompous in youthful beauty, and set up
With regal ornament and absolute power,
All that high fortune heaps on her beloved,
Yet-wanting one thing—virtue, that I scorn thee,
And think thee, when compared to my beloved,
Not worth to touch his hand. What! can love's brow
Hang in so fierce a cloud? Did you not say—
Or have you now forgot that you did say?—
You loved me or you hated? I forget which;
For I was thinking of my own beloved.

King.
Think of him dead; there feed your wandering love-thoughts.

Vio.
Touch not his life—touch not his life, O King!
For never walked so fiery eager a spirit
Of keen revenge as such a deed shall waken.

King.
Darest thou threaten?

Vio.
Oh, no! I dare not threaten;
For in the hollow of a kingly hand
Death makes his home. And what boots dull revenge?
What shall restore the irreparable life?
Be nobler than thy words. Upon my knees
I bend and supplicate. I was too proud;
Low in the dust I lay the audacious face
That dared affront the eye of majesty,
And drown in tears the bold rebellious voice.
Have mercy! ah! have mercy! thou shouldst be
The life-giver; and that thy awful sceptre is not swayed
To guide the assassin's knife, though so to do,
Alas! it lacks not might. They that do murder
Never sleep more, never more taste of peace,
Quaff poison in their drink, see knives in the dark,
And ever at their elbow horror walks,
Shaking them like a palsy. Give me some sign
Of soft relenting grace, undo that frown;
I'll no more love him, no more look upon him,
If my love breed his death. Be merciful!

King.
Stand up. I spake in jest; I will not hurt him;
Nay, you must love me, then.

Vio.
Oh, never! never!
Only He that did create me can new-mould me,
And make this love not part: I cannot change
My mortal fashioning, and cast afresh
These eyes, these lips, this frame; I cannot barter
My hand with yours, and am as impotent
To bend the loving fixture of my soul
Upon another object.

King.
Neither can I, then,
Quench the hot flame that rages here.

Vio.
You may.
Call but your power about you. Budding affection,
And most a wandering fancy, that is guilt,
That will whereon the conscience lays strong hand
Lacks not the force to vanquish; but where conscience
Smiles with clear front on long-fed pure affection,
Where the deep heart's, the eye's, the brain's emotions
Knit up two souls in a fair threefold knot,
You may destroy the lives round which they twine,
But no way else unlace them.

King.
Pish! you talk.
Come, I'll speak coldly with you, and what I say,
Look you consider it; for though the earth
Broke from its centre, never shall my act
Fall from its fixed intent. I will enjoy thee—
Fling not away—despite thy chastity,
Thy vowed love, and thy virtue. If by consent,
The better for thee, and the more concealment;
If not, there is no sin in hell's wide book
Shall stay me, and no blackening taint of shame
I will not smear my life with.

Vio.
Oh, the heavens!
How basely men dare write themselves; would you
Might hear another speak as you do now,
You would condemn him for the most debased
That ever yet left blushing.

King.
Who breaks in there?—
Look you, I'll keep my purpose.

Enter Malgodin and Cornelius.
Mal.
Sire, this gentleman
Brings you good news of a great battle fought;
Victory hath blown upon your royal flag;
Engelborg is relieved, and the vexed Swede
Wheels his now fresh-recruited troops, and means
In a new battle to retrieve his loss.

Vio.
Cornelius! most of all men welcome!

Cor.
Say you?

Vio.
What says he? Quick, Cornelius!

Cor.
Here's his letter.

[Giving a Letter to Viol.
Vio.
Secretly, good Cornelius.

Cor.
Oh, ay! secretly.
Will you not read it?

[As Cornelius is giving letters to the King, Violenzia, putting the letter in her bosom, drops it, unperceived to herself, on the ground. Malgodin picks it up.
King.
These are all your letters?

Mal.
Covertly, covertly; aid me now, good devil.

[Exit, with Letter.
King.
Well, I'll go in and read them.—Follow me.

[Exit King, Cornelius following.
Vio.
Cornelius! hist! a moment, kind Cornelius.

Cor.
What would you with me?

Vio.
News!

Cor.
What news, and whence?

Vio.
O dull! you waste the moments. What says Ethel?
How looks he? lives he? doth he still remember
The girl he left? I dare be sworn he doth,
And speaks of me, Cornelius?

Cor.
Is she mad?
Or thinks me ignorant, or is so base—
Nay, that's not credible—as to think to make him
The cover of her shame?

Vio.
Cornelius, speak, I pray you.
Why do you mutter, and not answer me?

Cor.
I must to the King.

Vio.
Old friend! come, speak to me.

Cor.
Look in my eyes. So steadfast! May hot hell
Be peopled but with women!

[Exit.
Vio.
Stop, Cornelius!
[Exit after him, and returns.
Alas! he's gone. Dear Ethel, where's thy letter?
There's comfort there, at least. Where is't—where is't?
Not here! What, dropt! O carelessness! O heaven!
What was't Cornelius meant? On the ground? let's see;
'Twas here I took it, but where lost it? Oh,
I had rather lost my dowry; and Cornelius
Will tell me nothing. Folly, folly, folly;
If it had been a pin to stick i' the hair,
I could not have more carelessly bestowed it.
I'll seek without upon my steps. False bosom!
The heart within thee's truer.

[Exit.

Scene IV.

A Room in the Palace.
Malgodin alone.
Mal.

(writing.)
A crafty device! I think there is no sport in the world can equal the undoing of a woman. What? Good virtue, have I no art? Can I not reach thee? 'Tis rare to undermine these flimsy palaces of purity. There, peevishness, wilt thou scorn me again? Is't not like? Knowest thou the hand? Canst thou smell a forgery? Here is some gall to mix with the milk of your tenderness. Oh, to hear her cry, Did Ethel write this? and see her weep waterfalls, and then, in a passion, tear it to pieces, and never doubt it the while! Ho! ho! But I must not show in it.— Boy!—Softly, let me burn the original. So, so. Here's a trap for a mouse! Bite, Chastity, bite! Bite, Faith! —Boy! Enter Page.
Take this to the Lady Violenzia. Say you found it in the garden, blown away by the wind—swear it, if need be. Dost thou mark me? It is the King's work. Do it dexterously. [Exit Page.

Enter King.
King.

Well, Malgodin?

Mal.

Will't please your majesty walk; I've news for you; I have given her working medicine. [Exeunt.

Scene V.

Violenzia's Room in the Palace.
Enter Violenzia and a Page.
Vio.

(reading a Letter.)
“How dearly I loved you, you best know. How falsely you have forgotten me, none knows better than I.”—Give me my handkerchief, boy.—Let's see, let's see; my eyes are dim; let's read it clearly. Sorrowfully I should perceive my last hope broken. “Is it possible thou shouldst prefer to be the mistress of a king rather than the wife of thy betrothed lover?” Impossible, Ethel. “What dost thou think of me?” As of one sadly deceived. “Do I write in grief? No, but in anger.” Patiently. “To be vile, Violenzia. Shame! shame! shame!”—Where got you this, boy?

Page.

I found it in the garden.

Vio.

“To be vile, Violenzia.” Was that well writ?

Page.

Blown by the wind, half hid among the leaves.

Vio.
Quickly I'll undeceive him. Nay, not so, perhaps;
He writes in certainty. Men before now,
Ay and the noblest, have been so embraced
By false suspicion, that no clearest proof
Could once unwind her charms. What did they then?
Some did wipe out that blotted life they thought it,
Which yet they loved. Oh, to behold those eyes
Knit in a frown of death; that flattering hand
Sworded against my bosom; to kneel, to weep,
Beseeching mercy from that loving breast;
To stint one's prayer—a day! an hour! a minute!
Only to speak the truth—the truth, O Ethel!
I feel thy sharp sword's pang!—Ay, rain, sad tears,
Wash out the writing from so harsh a scroll,
Or rather turn your course and flood my brain,
Drown memory in your torrent, and dissolve
The apprehension of too great a grief.
I am not shamed. Shame, shame! a thousand times
On one that thus lacks faith: where's now that trust
That shows the generous spirit? On what light proof
Hast thou condemned me! Fie on false suspicion!
Have I for this stood proof against a King,
Scorned all delights, lived like a weeping nun,
Shook off the gauds of flattery, gone without
The common entertainments of my years,
That my behaviour might betray no crevice
Through which a doubt might peep? Have I done this?
And now, when I am set about with wiles,
And first begin to tremble, and not see
Means of escape, dost thou desert me too?
These men, these men! Look, if the boy not weeps.—
What, boy, so young, hast thou too loved?

Page.
Even I too.

Vio.
And she you loved proved false?

Page.
I weep to think it.

Vio.
I knew the boy would say so! On my life,
She was as clear as crystal, and false doubt
Mudded your heart's sworn truth.—Would I have doubted?

Enter Kin; signs to Page to go.
King.
What! so loud, Violenzia?
In tears too! What thus moves you?

Vio.
Pray you go, sire.
I am not what I should be—Oh, most desolate,
And wronged that ever stepped yet! Read, read here!
This is your handiwork. I know it, I.
Give it me again; I will not have you see it.

King.
Softly, Violenzia. Why, he blames you here
That you are false. Is this your truth's reward?

Vio.
He nowhere says I'm false; show me the word.
Wilt thou exchange me for a King? he says.
Be sure I will not. If he did say so,
Who was it sowed these mushrooms in a heart
Worthy beyond expression—who? I say.

King.
I know not, save that it shows plausibly
He needs some pretext to break faith with thee.

Vio.
Thou liest in the thought, King! Why do I keep
Terms, and my swelling breast dissemble to a wretch
As base as thou art? Dost thou hear me, King?
Thy base arts bred these mischiefs; come, deny it!
And for thy pains again I'll say, thou liest!
Oh, noble end of royal machinations,
To ruin a weak woman. Look, look here,
Read in this glass the picture of a craven.
Is it base, is it mean? Where were thy wits, good Ethel,
That such a shallow slanderer could beguile thee?

King.
Art thou mad, woman?

Vio.
Ethel! my last resource!
Harbour of safety! sole security!
Sustainer of my hopes! part of my life!
Of thee too have they robbed me? Now let fate
Blow where it will, I'll no more hold the helm,
But on these sunken rocks of treachery
Let drive, and go to pieces.

King.
What boots truth,
And never-scarred fidelity, that cannot
Secure from base mistrust?

Vio.
Why, much it boots.
Are you not shamed yet? Ah, if you dare think it,
Out of this grief to shape me to your ends,
Widely you miss your aim in it. Why, how?
Shall I, with colour of my own disgrace,
Paint false suspicion true? Because my hopes
Are slendered to a thread, shall I slit that?
More the least chance of his returning love
Is worth than all the world else; and his wrongs,
Unjust suspicions—hatred—sharp revenge—
Sweet opposites to your detested passion.
[Exit King.
Gone without speech, so guilty proven go.
I'll seek Cornelius; perhaps he is not gone.
How should my Ethel doubt me? Oh, that hearts
Should need interpreters, and not be read
Even as they beat! Would mine were cased in glass!

[Exit.

Scene VI.

A Room in the Palace.
Enter King and Malgodin.
King.
Force! Malgodin.

Mal.
Ay.

King.
Violence! why that's—

Mal.
Trivial.

King.
That's death by the law.

Mal.
In subjects, ay.

King.
In subjects—and in kings?

Mal.
Not punishable,
And when a girl turns peevish, a most lawful
And necessary device.

King.
Lawful! Malgodin.

Mal.
Bah! are we children still? Kings are not paled.

King.
Having once passed the fire, she's malleable
To all my future wishes? D'ye hear, Malgodin?
Is it once for all?

Mal.
Doubt it not.

King.
Why, I'll do it.

Mal.
You stand as if you trembled, and look pale
At a trick of youth. Why, so much dreaming on't
Might usher in a murder.

King.
Ay, Malgodin;
Murder's a worse thing—

Mal.
One thing's worse than either—
To go without one's wishes.

King.
Nay, I'll do it.

[Exeunt.

Scene VII.

Violenzia's Room in the Palace.
Enter Violenzia alone.
Vio.
Cornelius is gone ere I can see him.
I met the old Malgodin there; his eyes
Did frighten me. Enter Page.

Well, boy, what fresh grief now?

Page.
Madam, the prince asks leave to speak with you.

Vio.
Who's that?

Page.
The King's young brother.

Vio.
The King's again!
Tell him, I dare not, cannot if I dare,
Deny him entrance. Did it stand with me,
I have no dearer wish than privacy.

[Exit Page.
Enter Haveloc.
Hav.
Pardon me that I break upon your quiet,
In spite of your dissuasion; but a matter
Lies in my hand that touches you so nearly,
And I have such scant chance of speech with you,
That I will rather brook to be called rude
Than do you wrong by courtesy.

Vio.
Alas, sir,
It is the fashion of your brother's court
To do us wrong by courtesy.

Hav.
Do you know me?

Vio.
By report, for one that holds the secondrank here
With dignity unblemished, and whose young years
Ne'er showed the bud of vice yet. But report
Lies mostly; and when gods drop from their height,
We think no mortals steadfast.

Hav.
I am grieved
If any act of mine have lodged distrust
Where now I seek belief.

Vio.
There's no such act, sir.
Yet here's a letter, penned to break the heart
Of childlike confidence.

Hav.
Believe me thus far,
I honour you; and trust me when I tell you
There's danger near you.

Vio.
He who came to tell me
There was no danger, would bring fresher news:
Tell me I breathe.

Hav.
I say it's imminent.
Put by these false suspicions, and be bold
Rather to leap at safety, though in the dark,
Than chain yourself to ill. The King, my brother,
Plans something that by his brow should seem unusual.
He swears to break that virtue which you hold
(And which hold ever!); and that hell-souled wretch,
Malgodin, drives him past all bar of pity.
I bid you fly!

Vio.
Whither? and when? and how?

Hav.
Whither, you best know. When, when best you may.
On you the doors are fast; but this my ring
Will open all that's locked.

Vio.
An hour ago,
If you had given me this, I would have blessed you,
And called you my deliverer.

Hav.
And now?

Vio.
Oh, now, the open way I so much longed for
Leads nowhere. Oh no! no! I dare not see him,
For being moved he might be terrible.
Before I loved, I feared him.

Hav.
Go to your brothers.

Vio.
Alas! why, if my Ethel could believe
The miserable stories that are vented,
What will a brother's quick suspicious ear
Not give a welcome to! No, well I knew
To them I must not flee. But I believed
There was one place of refuge in the world—
One arm, pressed in whose loving sanctuary,
I might defy the malice of a King,
And passionate brothers' rage; and one true heart,
Upon whose roof malignant slanders would
Beat impotent.

Hav.
Felborg believes you false?

Vio.
Ah! woe the day that I must say he does.
Whither, then, can I flee?

Hav.
He is not noble!

Vio.
How, sir!

Hav.
I say that it discredits him,
Upon mere rumour to believe you false.

Vio.
Well?

Hav.
I'll visit him, and make your peace with him.

Vio.
No, pardon me; I'll have no go-betweens.
I'll write to him, and as I hear from him
Perhaps go to him.

Hav.
Cornelius will carry it.

Vio.
Cornelius is gone.

Hav.
Well, let me have it;
I'll see it well delivered. To your Ethel
I promised to assist you in your needs;
Indeed they are come now. Therefore be careful,
And scruple not to use me. I am honest.
Longer I dare not stay; therefore, good night.

Vio.
Good night, my lord, and for your courtesy
Take my best thanks.
[Exit Haveloc.
I'll cut this babbling tongue out!
Must I complain to every silken boy
That gives soft words; and speak so of my Ethel
That he shall dare to say he is not noble?
Shame on my shrewishness! Come, I'll be patient,
And write to him. A little biding time,
And I dare swear all will be well again.

[Exit.

Scene VIII.

Night. A Corridor in the Palace.
Enter King and Malgodin.
King.
The air's cold, Malgodin.

Mal.
Tis the fitter, then,
For a bedfellow.

King.
Hell! hell! May kings be damned?

Mal.
Doubtless, your majesty.

King.
I hate you deadly!
Look you continue necessary, for sometimes
I have a madness nothing will assuage
But to see you dead and earthed.

Mal.
Ingratitude
Is a common vice of kings.

King.
Ingratitude!
Such gratitude I owe thee as lost souls
Owe to the devil. And grant it be a vice,
Is't the worse for that, old mischief-maker? ha?

Mal.
A good and sober night to your majesty.
I'll in, and pray to Heaven that your repentance
May be as sound as sudden.

King.
Where's the key?

Mal.
I beseech your majesty, forego this act.
The lady's of a fiery temperament,
And the brothers quick and bloody.

King.
Where's the key?
I am likely to be angry.

Mal.
Here it is.
You know the trick of the lock. The busy world
Is drowned in sleep, and no one lies so near
As to hear her shrieks, though they be louder than
Those that ghosts vent in hell. Go, if you dare;
But go not, if the passion of a girl,
Weak fears of another world, or such diseases,
Eat up your trembling will.

King.
To bed! to bed!
[Exit Mal.
The flaring candle backward bends its beams;
My passion backward bends, but fiercelier burns.
I love and loathe. Proud girl—that didst invite
War and not peace, rude storm for soft surrender—
Yet, oh, forgive me, sweet—no more—Again
The passionate fever surges in my veins.
Out, curious spy of day! And, oh, dark night,
[Extinguishing the light.
Be deaf and patient, like a wicked slave,
That watches while his master fills a grave.