 | Fair Rosamund |  |
Scene V.
—Within the Labyrinth. Enter Rosamund and Sir Topaz.Ros.
He'd not have died . . .
Top.
I doubt it. I'm an old man myself. When
death once claps you by the hand, you must go. Think
not of that; think of the King! Belike he's coming
through wind and rain.
Ros.
Fie on me, fie! Is not my father dead?
And Margery . . . and yet the thing I want . . .
Is the wind fluttering through the trees? . . .
Top.
'Tis a wild night, but the wind cannot find you
—so warm and close. Yet there's comfort; one can!
The king will be here to-night. And I've taught you to
play on the lute, and made you the lady you are—his
very queen and idol!
Ros.
He has a queen in Winchester.
Top.
Now don't wring your hands till they're like
the flowers o' bindweed at the droop o' the day. Sit,
sit—and I'll tell you of Dame Elinor. She's a woman of
black eye and blacker soul—that overflows in her births—
her children benighted from all goodness. She's a snake
about the poor king's heart, and they the brood of vipers
that sting it within.
Ros.
And he has never wronged her that she knows.
Top.
Nay, nay, never. All the hurt is with him.
Oh, Lady Rosamund! I've known him stout and red,
as if from home, and not from a dungeon. It's a woman's
doing, the change. But you'll shake your tears off and
comfort him. Keep your pretty face dry till he tells
you of his broken heart. You may cry then. Why,
I warrant he's here; I must to the bolts now. Hark!
[Exit Topaz.
Ros.
Yes.—The door moves; I hear the wind—
Oh, I'm his leman, and I know not how
Bad women feel; I cannot act the part.
I am his Lady and his Love; it were
A mistress's part to meet him with reproach.
I'll be a rose for fragrance, not for thorn.
Alas! when we were lovers, I ne'er asked
What mood my love would like! He's coming! . . .
[Enter King Henry.]
K. Hen.
Rose!
Ros.
O sweet, my lord!
You're sick and weary. Keep the cloudy brow.
Let us be sad together; I've heard say
Green herbs are simple remedies, and so
There may be cure in Rosamund for ills
She wots not of. You're come to say Farewell!
I'll bear it, love.
K. Hen.
God's truth, a Royal Rose!
Though my young vultures famish for my blood,
What matter! if my little Woodstock dove
Coo for her missing mate in widowhood
That tells where love lies bleeding.
Nay, not so.
I'll with you to the wars.
K. Hen.
My doughty Love!
In the field's disposition, womanhood
Is best in the rear. The soldier must not see
In front the thing he loves; it would perplex;
Imagination of it nerves his hand.
You must not to the field—but day and night
You may besiege the skiey citadel;
I will appoint you captain in that war.
To arms, sweet lips, put off your peaceful use
Of softest kisses, and in prayerful mail
Equip you. But not yet. I'll keep this mouth
That flowers against my cheek for purposes
Most womanly. Shall women fast and pray?
Oh, never in Love's sight; it is contempt
Of his High Majesty. A fearfulness
Possesses me that here you are not safe.
I'll hide you deeper, you sweet-smelling Rose,
For safety with my treasures; you shall have
The custody of my imperilled crown.
Ros.
Think not of me—but you, my dearest lord,
Give me your griefs to think of when you're gone;
They're dearer than your crown. You go to war . .
K. Hen.
With my own blood; and Elinor—
Ros.
I would not see
Dame Elinor . . . not look
On that which bore you rebels.
K. Hen.
Ay, the boy
Ros.
May Heaven dishonour him!
K. Hen.
A royal lad!
So princely! I have put the crown on's head,
And smiled to see his brow confer a grace
On the gold bauble. Be he covetous
Of my grave, that territory shall be his;
He will annex it briefly.
Ros.
Give me leave
To dress my father's grave. I've played the part
You feel the stabbing hurt of. . . .
K. Hen.
When I'm dead
Haply the boy will grieve. Rose, have you lost
Your foster-father?
Ros.
He died daughterless.
I hate your rebel son! Go, strike him dead.
There is a grave
Where I will put my hand in Memory's,
Listen her tales and bear the childishness
That doth so oft repeat.
K. Hen.
I was mistaken babbling of my boy
As you had been his mother.
Ros.
Rosamund
Could not have borne a traitor.
K. Hen.
Ah, my sweet!
If you had borne him, Henry's very self—
The tiny portrait traced in flesh, with all
A woman's delicate imaginings,
Would have been dearer than the King, because
Let us not wrangle: lovers wrangle thus,
Young lovers, who can kiss again next day.
We're parting; one of us,
I think, will see the other once again.
Ros.
God help me! . . .
K. Hen.
Oh, parting is the mirror in Death's hand,
Reflex of that immitigable face
Whose glance for ever sunders!
Ros.
Dear, my lord,
There are some thoughts
That through this stormy weather of my soul,
Cannot now travel toward you. Fare you well!
K. Hen.
What! Lightning in those eyes! A long, long rain
Follows such storms! Farewell!
[Exeunt
| Fair Rosamund | |