University of Virginia Library

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.