 | Sir Thomas More |  |
31
ACT. II.
SCENE—the Banks of the Thames.Enter Cecilia.
Nobody up yet? I have walk'd an hour,
And not a soul has met me, tho' the sun
Had left his bed before I quitted mine.
I thought young Heron would be sure to rise.
I told him I should walk. Well, let him sleep.
He loves not me, but I love him—a little.
(Exit.)
Enter Sir Thomas and Bonvise.
SIR THOMAS.
Now let me ask you, while occasion smiles,
What hear you of the king's divorce?
BONVISE.
Not much.
The pope still hesitates. The card'nal halts,
And with his friend Campeggio, dreams and sleeps
Cold as a statue. Our impatient king,
'Tis said, is angry at their long delay,
And vows, if things are not determined soon,
He will be judge himself. He made a tour
Some weeks ago, low-spirited forsooth,
And said he did it to disperse the clouds
Of care and melancholy. He return'd
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But more by a physician of the church,
One Doctor Cranmer, by whose shrewd advice
He trusts his conscience will be soon at ease,
And his divorce effected. The sage priest
Counsels an application to be made
To all the universities in Europe,
Whether the former dispensation of Pope Julius
Be valid, or invalid. If the first,
‘Why then, says he, your majesty's own mind
‘May rest contented that your present queen
‘Is lawfully your wife. But if the last,
‘The pope will be constrain'd to grant your suit,
‘Or pass a sentence which shall seem t' oppose
‘The joint opinions of all Christendom.’
But why should I relate a thing you know,
Just come from Hampton Court.
SIR THOMAS.
I knew it not.
The king said nothing, and my scrupulous mind
So little relishes the queen's divorce,
I held my peace, and shun'd it as a theme
Not to be mention'd. Ere I went abroad
He came himself in person to my house,
Told me his scruples, laid the Bible open,
And shew'd me where 'twas written in the law,
That no man should affect his brother's wife,
On pain of being childless. Then he turn'd,
And pointed where the Baptist chid the Tetrarch,
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His brother Philip's wife. I read the places,
But told his majesty I humbly thought
He misconceiv'd the sense. The brother's wife
Was but forbidden while the brother liv'd.
Immediately I shew'd him in the law,
Where 'twas commanded, the one brother dead,
The other who surviv'd should take his wife;
And quoted from Josephus and Eusebius,
That when the Baptist, for his brother's wife,
Rebuk'd the Tetrarch, Philip was alive.
BONVISE.
But still your argument could not prevail.
SIR THOMAS.
I was not then aware what secret cause
Had mov'd his majesty to wish divorc'd
His exemplary queen; else had I said
Much less concerning her. But I was warm,
And the sweet memory of poor Cath'rine's virtues,
Which I have often witness'd, and much strove
To plant among my daughters here at home,
Made me protect her with an earnest tongue.
O Bonvise! virtue in a queen is rare.
When it appears we should with ardent zeal
Approve and cherish it. Royal example
Makes it the fashion to be good. All eyes
Regard her motions, and what she performs
All imitate. So are her private deeds,
Her conjugal affection, piety,
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The source of general merit. Who removes,
Or wishes to unsettle such a queen,
Consults not private neither public good.
BONVISE.
Agreed—and never may we see the day
When Bullen—
SIR THOMAS.
Softly, we presume too far.
Say nothing here at least, for in this walk,
As I have sat to read, or stood to muse,
The king has often, unperceiv'd, approach'd
And touch'd my shoulder. Listen, for methinks
Some one is near us now. We'll step aside.
(Exeunt.)
Enter Cecilia, and immediately after Heron.
CECILIA.
Ah! here he comes. I hope he'll not perceive
I'm out of humour. Hem! good morning Sir.
HERON.
Who calls? good morning. We are met at last,
But, plague upon my memory, I forgot
Whether you bade me turn to right or left,
And have been wand'ring for an hour and half,
In hopes to meet you on the river's bank
Beyond the house.
CECILIA.
I told you to the left.
And here have I been walking long alone,
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You overslept yourself.
HERON.
Not I, indeed.
The sun was scarce so early. I was up
Ere he had shot one beam across the Thames,
And having stood awhile to see his orb
Slowly emerge, and his red morning rays
Dance on the ruffled water, left my room,
And have been seeking till this very moment
Thee my companion.
CECILIA.
Had the charming maid,
You blush'd to think of as we talk'd last night,
Commanded you to rise at break of day
To be her morning beau, you'd not have slept
Till you had made of ev'ry word she spoke
A faithful memorandum in your heart.
Till you had thought so often what was said,
It had been all engrav'd upon your mind,
As lastingly as elegant inscription
Upon a royal tomb.
HERON.
And so I thought
Should your kind invitation; but my care
Not to forget, made me scarce half remember.
Like an ill-treated boy, who fears correction,
I learn'd my lesson surely, but my dread
Not to be perfect, made me hit the fault
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And let not much severity defeat
My hopeful progress. Bid me come again,
And mercy once experienc'd shall prevent
The innocent errors of a tim'rous mind,
And make me true for ever.
CECILIA.
True for ever!
What if your charmer had been by to hear.
Those words had little pleas'd her. But good Sir,
Since we are met, give me five minutes praise
Of this your nameless fair one. Now begin.
HERON.
Indeed you lay a task most hard upon me.
For who has language worthy to relate
The charms of her whom I adore and love.
She is not beauteous, it is true, but good.
Her voice is pleasant as the mellow flute,
Heard at a distance in a winding vale,
As summer's evening closes; as the horn
Blown on the mountains, its melodious tones
Falling so faintly on the listner's ear,
He holds his breath to hear them. All her words
Are laden with the treasures of good sense,
Which she imparts to all, and spares to none;
Yielding her bounties with a grace so free,
'Twould make a boor enamour'd of politeness.
Her mind abounds in knowledge, but her tongue
Betrays it never. With effectual care
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Studiously wink'd upon her own perfections,
She seems to have o'erlook'd her great desert;
And is indeed most modest, praying still
For winning graces which she owns already.
CECILIA.
Poor worthy girl! I hope you love her truly.
HERON.
Most truly—she deserves it. But alas!
I never yet could find that she loves me.
CECILIA.
Has she declar'd she does not? But what then?
Had she declar'd it, it might not be true.
Sir, woman is deceitful. She delights
To hide her passion, sometimes to torment,
Sometimes because her poor misgiving heart
Cannot find words to own it. Honest love
Is ever silent, and we then love most
When you the least suspect it.
HERON.
On that hope
I build my happiness. I live upon it
Like the cameleon on his proper food,
The insubstantial air. Since you have own'd
Woman may love and yet that love conceal,
I feel more confident. And let me ask
Whence learn'd Cecilia that most welcome truth?
CECILIA.
You question me too closely.
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Come, be bold.
Requite my tale with one of equal length,
And tell me the perfections of that youth,
Who sits upon the throne of your regard.
CECILIA
(in surprise.)
My Lady Alice and my father here?
What shall we do? Away, they see us not.
(Exeunt.)
Enter Sir Thomas and Lady More.
LADY MORE.
Now let me whisper in your private ear
A word or two of family concerns.
I must apprize you of a circumstance
Which gives me much uneasiness.
SIR THOMAS.
What is't?
Be brief and tell it me.
LADY MORE.
Some days ago,
I overheard a thoughtless child of your's,
Your own Eliza, in the garden bower
Talking with Dancy.
SIR THOMAS.
Did she tell her love?
LADY MORE.
Yes, she confess'd she lov'd him, and the youth
Made warm professions of his love for her.
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Then can the secret passion of her heart
No longer be denied. Poor silent girl,
I thought the joy that sat upon her brow
Was awkwardly put on. Long has she hid,
Fearing to make it known, this innocent love.
She thinks, perhaps, that I shall discommend her.
LADY MORE.
Will you bestow her on a man so poor?
Roper has expectations; but this youth
Is but a second son, whose elder brother
Were scarce a match sufficient.
SIR THOMAS.
Lady More,
I tell you not what my intention is.
But be advis'd to cast an eye more kind
On merit without fortune. Frugal nature
Often denies her talents to the rich,
Giving them largely to the man who needs,
And has no other portion. Noble souls
Daily emerge from darkness and retreat,
From unknown families and scanty means,
To sit with princes. So the ardent youth,
Born to no titles, no estates or friends,
Outsoars the great and rich, and looking down
From the high summit of true dignity,
Pities their littleness, whose scornful eyes
Once laugh'd at him below.
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Some may be such.
But Dancy is an awkward shame-fac'd boy,
Who makes no promise; and I think, Sir Thomas,
Your daughter, if she weds him, is undone.
SIR THOMAS.
Fear not my Lady. I have studied man
Longer than you have. I have learn'd to fear
The blossom that is early, and its leaves
Too soon exposes to the chilly spring.
But much I hope from the more modest bud,
That hides its head and gathers secret strength,
Scarce blown at midsummer. An awkward gait,
Unpolish'd manners and a fetter'd tongue,
A sheepish countenance and burning cheek,
Are clouds in which true genius loves to rise.
And thus obscur'd, like a November sun,
She makes her heav'nly progress unobserv'd,
Till softly thro' the gloom she steals her way
In full meridian glory.
LADY MORE.
As you please.
Were she my daughter I should still oppose you.
SIR THOMAS.
Well, well, proceed. I have not yet consented.
(Exit Lady More.)
But I will shortly, for that youth deserves
Lib'ral encouragement. If Heron thrives
And takes Cecilia, I'll make up a purse
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May spare for one, the other two provided.
(Exit.)
Enter Heron and Cecilia.
CECILIA.
I fear you have transgress'd the bounds of truth.
HERON.
I'll summon my friend Bonvise to attest it.
Yourself shall ask him, while I stand aloof,
If all the purpose of my coming hither
Was not to own my love, and yield a heart
Entirely your's. Indeed the peerless fair one,
Whom I have prais'd so warmly, and not nam'd,
Was none but thou Cecilia. And I think,
Would but Cecilia's tongue the truth reveal,
The favour'd youth whom her reluctant lips
So fairly pictur'd, was indeed none else
But my unworthy self. Come, come be bold.
CECILIA.
'Tis true, I much esteem you. Make me sure
You have not wrong'd another, all my heart
Is only your's.
HERON.
Most generous confession!
I swear I have not wrong'd a soul alive.
And here I give my bond, and with a kiss
Seal it most surely, I will look no farther,
But satisfied to own a pearl so fair,
A gem so bright, be with my wealth content.
This hand, Cecilia, shall bestow once more
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To solitude and peace.
CECILIA.
A moment's pause.
You are too sanguine. Hide we love a while.
'Twill grow in secret like the hopeful plant,
Whose shelter'd infancy defies the storm.
Think it not much to wait, for time has wings
Swift as the eagle's, and can fly as soon
From earth to heav'n. When Jacob was in love,
We read he serv'd for Rachel seven years;
Yet so he lov'd her, that a task so long
Seem'd but a few short days. Be your's as true
As his love was, and you shall feel as little
The torment of delay. Come, look not sad,
For sadness is infectious. If your brow
Seems melancholy, mine will gather from it
The hue of discontent. Be brisk and gay,
As if the secret of Cecilia's love
Had not escap'd her. Oh! you're wondrous grave.
Hide, hide it, or away. My father comes.
(Exit. Heron.)
I'm glad he's gone. His looks would have betray'd us.
What shall I do? I feel my face on fire.
My father may not mark it, for my glass
Tells me I blush, like the dark Ethiop,
Invisibly. I hope it is so. Hem.
Good morning, Sir.
(Enter Sir Thomas.)
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Good morning to Cecilia.
You rise betimes. I heard your chamber door
Creak to the orient sun some hours ago.
What, has my daughter walk'd so long alone?
Something disturbs her peace. Her mind is vex'd
With care or love. Perhaps the rhyming fit
Makes pris'ner her attention. Poet like,
She could not sleep for thinking, but stole out
To ring the chimes of fancy undisturb'd
In the still ear of morning. Else perhaps
She would have tap'd her father's door as wont,
And waited till he met her.
CECILIA.
Sir, I thought
You might be wearied, and in want of rest
After your journey.
SIR THOMAS.
Why in want of rest?
I rode no farther than from Hampton Court.
Was that a journey for a summer's day?
'Twas hardly exercise. No, no, Cecilia,
I see the reason. An old father's arm
Is not so welcome as a younger man's.
Who left you and withdrew this moment?
CECILIA.
Sir.
SIR THOMAS.
Was it not Heron?
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Yes Sir.
SIR THOMAS.
Then his arm
Supported your's to day, and 'twas for him
You rose so early, and forgot your father.
Well, well, let youth associate with the young,
And leave the grey head to his sober task
Of contemplation. Met you by appointment?
CECILIA.
Sir.
SIR THOMAS.
Met you by appointment?
CECILIA.
With much shame
I own we did Sir.
SIR THOMAS.
See the truth will out.
And what have you convers'd of?
CECILIA.
Nothing, Sir—
Worth your attention.
SIR THOMAS.
But perhaps it was.
I love to hearken to the simple chat
Of prattling infants. From the lip of youth
I draw a sweeter pleasure, to remark
How reason dawns toward her perfect day,
How passion kindles and impels the soul
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Come, be no longer secret. Make a friend
Of him who most regards you. Tell your father
What was your conversation? Was it love?
Be not asham'd to own it. He lov'd once,
And still remembers with a lover's sigh
Your poor departed mother. She lov'd him,
And had a brow as full of woe as your's,
Till by entreaty he extorted from her
The secret you conceal. What said the youth?
CECILIA.
He told me of a maid he long had lov'd—
SIR THOMAS.
And told you 'twas yourself.
CECILIA.
He did Sir.
SIR THOMAS.
Well,
And what said you?
CECILIA.
I told him of a youth
Whom I regarded—
SIR THOMAS.
And that youth was Heron.
Honest confession! Was it true, Cecilia?
CECILIA.
Most true Sir.
SIR THOMAS.
What said he?
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He took my hand,
And said I should be his.
SIR THOMAS.
And did your heart
Warmly consent?
CECILIA.
As warmly as it could, Sir,
My father's leave not ask'd.
SIR THOMAS.
Suppose that leave
Withheld for ever; could you shun the youth
And stifle love, your father disapproving?
Tell me the truth.
CECILIA.
Sir, 'twere an arduous task.
I'd try and be obedient, tho' I died.
SIR THOMAS.
I know it well. It ever was your care
To be obedient. I will not withhold
Leave so deserved. I give you free consent,
And am most happy you have won a youth
Worthy your love. When daughters make a choice
Wise as Cecilia's, 'tis the father's pride
To crown it with success.
CECILIA.
Dear Sir, I thank you.
SIR THOMAS.
Be cheerful then. You may if Heron pleases
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A couple not unknown to you or him.
I say to-day, because this afternoon
I must away to Greenwich to the king,
And know not when I shall return. What say you?
CECILIA.
Sir, I am much perplex'd. If I consent
Must I forsake your house?
SIR THOMAS.
Heron perhaps,
Will not dislike to live with you and me.
My house is roomy and will hold us all.
Make him proposals. When your father dies,
You must have other homes—but while he lives,
He is content to lodge and feed you all,
And all your husbands.
CECILIA.
Sir I'll go directly.
SIR THOMAS.
Go. If my Lady tells you breakfast waits,
Tell her I come. (Exit Cecilia.)
Poor girl, how large a load
Of secret trouble has thy mind escap'd
In a few moments. When I met her here,
She could no more have trip'd so gaily home,
Than the tir'd traveller whose weary limbs
A feather almost crushes. A light heart
Quickens the pace, and makes the foot alert.
It teaches it to mock the poet's art,
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In measur'd dance, which has a tongue to sing
Almost as sweetly as the lyre itself.
Well, one is happy, and but one remains
Who needs my consolation. She, dear heart,
Imagines that her secret love is hid,
And fears to tell it, lest her father frown.
I would indeed young Dancy had been rich
In money as in virtue. But 'tis well
His only want is wealth. Better my child
Love worth and poverty than wealth and vice.
A daughter that o'erlooks the proud parade,
And silver'd equipage of affluent guilt,
To smile at modesty that makes no shew,
But meets her unattended, all his train
Virtue and learning, has discerning eyes.
Who bids her mend her choice, deserves to die
Without a daughter to lament his end.
But Dancy comes.—
Enter Dancy.
DANCY.
Good morning to Sir Thomas.
SIR THOMAS.
What, is it breakfast time?
DANCY.
I think it is, Sir,
Or I had not return'd so soon.
SIR THOMAS.
Alone?
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Or is she yet behind?
DANCY.
She has not walk'd
Some days, Sir Thomas. She has spent her hours
Chiefly in music, singing plaintive airs,
And fing'ring lessons of a serious mood
In her own chamber. If my ear be just,
She's playing now. I hear a tinkling sound,
Which seems to come from yonder open casement,
Her chamber window.
SIR THOMAS.
Let us both draw near
And listen. Music has a potent charm
Join'd with the graces of the morning. Hark
(ELIZA sings.)
SIR THOMAS.
How sweet that little air. Is it all sung?
'Twas like the love note of the nightingale.
DANCY.
And like that note, the sweeter, from the bough
Heard unexpected, and no songster seen.
The sweeter that the bird was passing shy,
And had not warbled with a strain so free,
Conscious who stood to hear. The sweeter too
That we enjoy'd a pleasure won by stealth,
By mute approach and unobserv'd attention.
SIR THOMAS.
Ay, Sir, we should find nothing sweet on earth,
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Soon won, is soon despis'd. Where the heart pants
With fear one moment and with hope the next,
Accomplishing its purpose thro' despair,
A toy obtain'd is like the victor's crown,
Which gives him joy for ever. Who comes here?
Eliza? 'tis so.
Enter Eliza.
Sir, the breakfast waits.
My Lady is impatient.
SIR THOMAS.
Let it wait,
For now we're met, we must proceed to business.
Eliza, thee I question. Is there, child,
One in the world thy honest heart esteems,
And can for ever love? go, bring him hither.
I will not see another day elapse
Till I have made you happy in your choice.
ELIZA.
Sir, you confound me.
SIR THOMAS.
Dancy, take this hand.
Ask her to whom she gives it. If the youth
Be leagues remote, fly like an arrow to him,
And tell him nothing hinders, I consent.
DANCY.
Sir, I presume, if I may speak the truth,
The poor unworthy youth, who would obtain
Eliza's hand, and whom she would reward
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Need not be sought beyond the narrow bounds
Of this your garden.
SIR THOMAS.
Then be quick and find him.
Unlink those hands, and let Eliza's self
Look for the man she honours. Is he here?
ELIZA.
Sir, I perceive too well, my forward love
Has not escap'd you. With a face of shame
I own this youth has lov'd me, and my heart,
Not proof to his attractions, has lov'd him.
I strove to curb affection, till at least
Your countenance should bid it live and prosper,
But had not power. So with graceless freedom
I have presum'd to center all my hopes
On Dancy. Yet if you, Sir, disapprove,
I will endeavour to repeal my fault,
By bidding him who loves me, no hard task,
To find a wife more worthy.
SIR THOMAS.
Let him seek
Ages and ages, he shall never find—
DANCY.
One whom he more desires and less deserves.
SIR THOMAS.
Take her, and be ye happy. For the means
Of present maintenance, look up to me.
Live in my house. I'll take you by the hand,
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Which lead to affluence and good preferment,
And be it your's to follow without fear.
Dismiss some little of this awkward shame,
And own assurance worthy your deserts.
Great is the man who studies to be good,
And conscious dignity becomes him well.
Come follow me. The Curate has had notice.
We'll take a hasty breakfast, and to church.
(Exeunt.)
Enter Sir John, Cecilia, and Heron.
SIR JOHN.
And so you wish to leave me? well, well, well.
Nurs'd by my hand from helpless infancy,
Till now a woman, you forget your friend,
And in the wise extravagance of nature,
Prefer the sapling, which you never tried,
To the old faithful prop, yet sound and strong,
And never known untrue. You wish to go,
And leave me at my setting. 'Twas my hope
You would attend me to the eve of life.
HERON.
She shall, Sir; faithful as the splendid star,
Betimes apparent in the soften'd beam
Of still withdrawing day, and found so true,
It ever follows the departing sun,
Tho' first and fairest of the host of night.
SIR JOHN.
Well, well, do as you please. I'll walk to church
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Tho' almost ninety. With my staff alone
I shall be able yet to reach the verge
Of life's unequal journey.
CECILIA.
Sir, my arm
Shall still support you. Live the life of man
Twice and thrice over, I will not desert you;
Ready to own your goodness, and repay
All I am able to my latest hour.
SIR JOHN.
Well, I believe you. For that honest tongue
Has never yet deceiv'd me. It was wont,
On all occasions, to be plain and true,
Tho' speedy as the race-horse or the swallow.
Come lead me in, for I am almost spent.
As soon as we have breakfasted and rested,
We'll ask your father's leave, and go to church.
(Exeunt.)
| Sir Thomas More | |