University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The Gardens of the Palace.
Enter Pietro Mala and Antonio.
PIETRO MALA.
Where is the King Cophetua?

ANTONIO.
He's within,
Playing at loving with the beggar-lady.

PIETRO MALA.
What doth the passion hold?

ANTONIO.
Most constantly;
He hath forsworn the sceptre and the crown,
And will not look on dry decrees of state.
He traceth veins along his lady's hands,
And binds his bravest jewels in her braids,
Nor thinks them half so gleaming; he would say so,
But that from dawn to dusk the royal lips
Are over-close for talking.

PIETRO MALA.
Will it last?

ANTONIO.
Yes! while she wears the crown as if the crown
Were what it is for being on her brow.
She meets him still in each particular,
And shows as royal to his royalty,
As loving to his love.

PIETRO MALA.
Hath she a charm
To witch all hearts to her? There's not a tongue
That hath not learned to laud her.

ANTONIO.
Aye! and none
That laudeth worthily. She doth not keep
One memory of her simple peasant state,
Save to be simple-hearted. Thou didst see
The tournament, and how she queened it there?

PIETRO MALA.
Not I, by this good light.

ANTONIO.
It was thy loss;
She gave away the prizes of the ring,
Coupling the gifts with such rare courtesy
And regal speech, that every bleeding knight
Forgot his wounds, and would have braced again
His broken vaunt-brace; aye! and drained his heart
For such another guerdon.

PIETRO MALA.
Sups she not
Under these trees at vespers with the prince?

ANTONIO.
The feast is spread, thou seest, in the garden;
If thou wilt stay, we'll taste their cheer, and see
How the play prospers.

PIETRO MALA.
Let us stay—they come.

Enter Marquis, with train of Attendants, &c.
[They take their places, and the banquet begins.
MARQUIS.
Fill up the cups! The reveller whose lip
Shall let the bubbles burst before he drinks,
Doth us high treason. Thou, Pietro Mala,
Melt thy sage wrinkles into smiles to-night
With the rare Cypriot.

PIETRO MALA.
Oh! our joy is young,
It shall be ripe and lusty, my good lord,
When our dear lady's smile shines on the feast.

MARQUIS.
Nay, then, 'tis grown already,—for she comes.
Queen of my land and love, the banquet lacked
Thee only, but in thee lacked all its best!

GRISELDA.
My light is thine,—shine still on me, dear sun;
And to thy golden and most gracious rays,
I, like the moon,—the patient, watchful moon,—
Will send back silver shining, borrowed beams.

MARQUIS.
Wilt thou be as the moon to change and change?

GRISELDA.
My sun sets not, as hers. I need not change.

MARQUIS.
Nay but it may!

GRISELDA.
Then I'll not be the moon,
But a poor star, which, when its light is gone,
Keeps to its path and post.

MARQUIS.
Sweet! throne thee here;
Wilt thou command the revels? Shall they trip
A courtly measure for thy pleasuring,
Or wilt have music?

BERTOLO.
There is come, Madonna,
To Saluzzo, a troubadour of note;
He waits your bidding.

GRISELDA.
Oh, we bid him straight:
Whence cometh he?

BERTOLO.
Last from Lauretta's court,—
The Countess of Bologna.

GRISELDA.
He doth name
Thy sister, Walter.

MARQUIS.
Even so, my heart!
Doubtless she sends a message sisterly
Of praise and promise hither. Look, he comes
Enter Bertram.
Thy name?

BERTRAM.
Bertram di Bocca d'Oro, Prince.

MARQUIS.
Right fit for roundelays; if thou bring'st speech
More sober than thy rebeck's to Saluzzo,
Tell it out first.

BERTRAM.
Thy sister bade me lay
Before thy beautous lady's gentle feet
Her love and commendation; being thine,
Her weal is hers. This scroll, and what it saith,
Ends my commission.

MARQUIS.
Let this jewel pay
Its fair fulfilment. Hast thou taught thy strings
A feast-song for us?

GRISELDA.
Sing, Sir Troubadour,
We love the music well.

BERTRAM.
Alas! my strings
Sound well to common ears at village-wakes,
But this is a brave festival, and I—
I have no skill save for a simple song.

GRISELDA.
Oh, sing a simple song, for I have thought,
Listening to many a modern line and lay
Of minstrelsy excelling, that their strings
Strove for too great an utterance, and so missed
The ready road that quiet music finds
Right to the heart; like as an o'erstrained bow
Shoots past the butt. Dame Nature doth not thus,
And minstrels are her children, and should stand
Close at their mother's knee to learn of her.
Look! when she will be beautiful or great,
She strains not for her rainbows or her stars,
But with deft finger works her wonders in
With an unruffled quiet, a soul-felt
And unregardful strength,—so that her storms,
Her calms, night, day, moon-risings and sunsets,
Wood-songs and river-songs, and waves and winds,
Come without noise of coming. Ah! I love,
When 'tis voiced tenderly—a simple song,—
A song whereto the caught ear listens close,
To hear a heart, and not a chord speak out
Musical truthfulness.

BERTRAM.
Most wise Madonna,
Small skill is mine of this. If you will hear 'em,
I have a few rhymes to my lady's eyes,
And one or two poor stories of old wars,
Such as the gossips sing; with, it may be,
A tale of derring-do, and light-o'-love;
Farther than these I know not.

GRISELDA.
Oh, sir, yes!
You wrong your fame, speaking so lightly of it;
I pray you to your craft.

BERTRAM.
Now, by my Lady,
Thy silver asking makes the music harsh,
Yet what my rebeck skills to rival it,
I will be lavish in. Will't please you hear
A song of love?

MARQUIS.
Aye, sing it, courtly sir!

Bertram
sings.

MARQUIS.
Doth he say sooth, Griselda?

GRISELDA.
It were hard
For him, and us, and all, if such were sooth:
Look you, it is the fashion of the time
To rhyme sweet rhymes and sing them daintily,
Touching this woman-fault. Our praise is said
Roughly in wrack and pain, our blame they make
Matter for mandolines;—nay, but I err,—
Doubtless the measure mends.

BERTRAM.
Madonna! no.
For the sad lack of constancy, it praises
The love that sweetly overlives a kiss,
Yet there comes wisdom at the end.

MARQUIS.
Nay then,
For wisdom's sake sing on!

Bertram
sings.

MARQUIS.
St. Paul! I think not so.

BERTRAM.
Lord, by your leave,
The wise man speaketh now.

MARQUIS.
'Tis over time!

Bertram
sings.

MARQUIS
to Griselda.
What think'st thou?

GRISELDA.
Higher of his measure far
Than of his matter; 'tis too fine a strain
To slander true love in.

MARQUIS.
Art thou not charmed
Almost into a disbelief of love,
When Love's own almoner and subject sings
Disloyalty so well?

GRISELDA.
Not with a song.
My heart remembers, and remembering loves
Once and for ever. Give me leave, fair sirs,
And take my thanks. For thee, Sir Troubadour,
We shall think lightly of the Southern dames
Until thy penitence be sung as sweet
As this thy heresy.

[Exeunt Griselda, Ladies, and Courtiers.
MARQUIS
(alone with Bertram).
What song is that?

BERTRAM.
A lay of mine thy noble sister loved;
She bade me sing it here.

MARQUIS.
Know'st thou the sense
Her letter bears?

BERTRAM.
My noble lord, not I.

MARQUIS.
'Tis well. I shall have need of thee; meanwhile
Make here my havings thine.

BERTRAM.
I humbly thank you.

[Exit Bertram.
MARQUIS
(alone).
My love is like a river grown too large
For little lets to stay, yet I do fret,
Wondrously at her scripture: thus she saith,—

“Thy village spousal is Italy's gossip; take
heed it be not its scorn. Thou art the most
fortunate or the most witless of men; yet must
thou mar thy fortune to prove thy wit. If thou
wilt wear thy jewel bravely, try it boldly;
if not, its lustre must be still suspect. Thus
much the opinion of thy dignity asketh of the
blindness of thy love.”

Is my love blind? good sister,—no! or blind,
With gazing ever on a steadfast star
Of sweet perfections; so my darkness is
Gender'd of heavenly light. Yet I do fear;
Not for my name,—albeit a noble name
Must not be lightly lost,—not for the note
My wisdom had, good sister;—wisdom's self
Might stoop to folly for a love like mine.
Yet thou sayest well,—this jewel must be tried,—
Tried like the gold, with fire of fancied wrath,—
Tried like the adamant, with stroke of scorn,—
Tried to the pitch of sufferance. If she fail,
Like a most desperate alchemist, I lose
All at a loss;—if she come clear of that,
Detraction's breath can never taint her more.
I that I chose her,—she that she kept oath,
Shall be the country's love and wonderment;
And naming perfect wifehood, they shall name
The wife Lord Walter married from the stall.