University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

—The same. A Room. Enter Douglas.
Douglas.
Shall March be grandsire unto future kings,
And Douglas carry no emblazon'd fruit
On any of his branches? Question vain!
For Douglas in his issue shall be crown'd
Maternal ancestor of royalties.
Proud March, secure in fancy of his prize,
The money for its purchase in his clasp,
Shall find himself outwitted by mere gold,
When offered by my hand and double-heap'd.
The heir of Scotland mated to his house!
Not so! I'd rather beg my weary bread;
At March's doggish portal show my scars;
Shoot out my lips in kisses to the foot
Of his new-honour'd daughter. By Saint Bride,
This gold—sun-counterfeiting coin, with stamp
Of sovereignty, the even round of Heav'n
Is bare of—this shall turn her day to night,
And wrap her pride in heavy lethal shroud.
[Enter Marjorie Douglas.]
This is your dowry. 'Tis a mighty pile!

Marjorie Douglas.
My father, who hath sought my hand?

Douglas.
No man.

Marjorie Douglas.
Then, prythee, wed me to no airy boy,
That giggles at his mistress and his clothes,
His foolish quips, the serious round of things
He takes for jests of God to move his sides.
Beseech you, spare me that.

Douglas.
Lo and behold
Your suitor in this gold.

Marjorie Douglas.
I take it, sir.
I'd rather clasp it than a tricksy hand
That's current with all maidens.

Douglas.
You divine
It is the Prince of Scotland you must wed?

Marjorie Douglas.
David of Rothsay—sweet and young and fair,
Cunning in literature, a seemly form
And able head, they say; but unto me
No more than the cold vision of a dream.

Douglas.
To-night he'll be your husband, and your arms
Fold as warm guardians round no chilly shade
Or distant apparition.

Marjorie Douglas.
On my knees
I pray you save me from the keen disgrace
Of being called his wife. He never looks
With any favour on me, who is free
Of loving graces to all loveliness.
My father, I should hate to be his bride;
Yea, loathe it to the centre of my soul.

Douglas.
My daughter shall obey me. Never yet
Hath woman of my house been obstinate
Against a father's life-controlling will.

Marjorie Douglas.
In all things I obey you, for my blood
Instructs me in that duty. Yet my veins
Are now the scene of struggle 'tween your will
And mine that is against it. You are old,
A warrior, a parent, and you win.

Douglas.
Go, get you dress'd, for I must seek the king.
Put on your best array, nor set your lips
To such a bitter aspect. Get you back.
[Exit Marjorie Douglas.
I'll move the will of Albany; that done,
The king is willing and the prince my son.

[Exit.
[Enter on the other side Lindsey and Ramorgny.]
Ramorgny.
I note that you are sad.

Lindsey.
How else, i' faith!
My daughter, my Euphemia, is dead.
The prince once bound him to her gentle love,
Forgot it or was turn'd by force of State
From truth and honour. Sweetly hath she died,
Love's flower that when the fost'ring sun withdraws
Dies patiently uncolour'd of its joy.

Ramorgny.
Alas, a careless freak to dim her life!
He thought she had forgotten him, nor slipt
One gleam to where she pined. I never dreamt
She held him bound. 'Twas but a passionate
First fancy of his boyhood.

Lindsey.
These are words.
No injur'd breast is home to loyalty.
But I forgot you're of his company.
I bid you straight good morning.
[Exit Lindsey.

Ramorgny.
So it is.
I'll treasure his offence among my store
Of hoarded secrets; like a bunch of keys
Such dangle at the belt of policy.
I'd move the prince against his uncle, such
My present plot, for I am dear to him;
And if his youth could crush down Albany,
I should be foremost in the rank of men.
What could incite him more or fiercelier
Than traffic of his choice in marriage; this,
They say, is sold from March to Douglas, sold
By Albany for treasure—so the men
Of Douglas whisper, and I'll raise their voice
Until it reach the boy's dishonour'd ears.

[Exit.