 | Thomas À Becket |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Before the Temple Church, at Northampton.De Bohun, Clare, and Leicester.
Clare.
His grace was very meek!
De Bohun.
He almost prayed
On mouth and nose, as I have seen a Saracen!
Leicester.
And with what unction rare he scrubb'd the feet
Of thirteen Beggars, like a polisher
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Clean-yellow!
Clare.
But the best was, when he mix'd
Among the poorer sort; 'twas as King Log
Leapt on by swarming frogs!—how patiently
He bore their foul splay hands on him, and saw
Them wide agape with wonder at the lowliness
Of such a heaven-sent thing!
Leicester.
Four ancient hags
With beards like leopardesses, skins, and claws,
Grossly familiar, would almost have torn him
To quarters, each one striving to grasp all,
So fierce their ravenous affection!
De Bohun.
See you
Whither this sycophancy to the base people,
And over-sanctity tends?
Clare.
O plain! He needs
Support against the King, Barons, and Bishops
Assembled now at Northampton to try him.
Leicester.
Yea, he will find 'twas not so light a fault
To break his oath at Clarendon late signed,
He would observe the Constitutions!—Shame
Upon the Pope too that absolved him from it,
As easily as for breaking a love vow!
De Bohun.
By Tyrmagaunt! the King will make him rue it
In something bitterer than ashes!
Clare.
Harry
Hath so much of the royal lion in him,
That even when playing, faith, he gives a pat
With closed paw, worse than an earnest blow
From other hand! Now that he's swoln with rage
Heaven help the hunter who has goaded him!
Leicester.
He 'll do such witty wicked things too!—What are here?
Some of the royal grooms.
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I 'll lay my spurs
They have committed some new piece of roguery
Worth hearing!—Well, good knaves, why d' ye laugh?
Groom.
My lord, at the brave guests we have just left at
the Archbishop's inn, and their gambols there!
Leicester.
Guests? gamboling guests at the Primate's!
Groom.
We warrant they'll do justice to his stock of provender:
not a grain of barley have they had these two days,
that their stomachs might be a good guage for it.
Leicester.
Whom do you speak of—beggars, base-born churls?
Groom.
No, no, sir!—all high-bred as Pegasus himself;
and bear their necks so proud, his Grace would fear even to
caress them. If he attempted to curry their hides, they
would kick his Sanctity into the kennel.
Leicester.
This fellow is so full of his trade, he can only
speak in its figures. You do not mean your horses, villains!
that you have left gamboling and gorging at the Archbishop's
inn?
Groom.
No, Sir Knight, not our horses, but the King's—
a score of them! all in his grace's saloon and parlours, for
lack of better stables! A dozen of ourselves remain to wait
on the guests, and see they have enough of forage and
litter.
Leicester.
I told you what a pestilent wit the king could be!
Clare.
This is horse-play indeed!
Groom.
Ha! ha! ha! yes, sir, playing at all-fours!—
plenty of horse-laughter too, ha! ha! ha!—there is such
whinnying and squealing and flinging up of hoofs, and all
fierce racketing and royster, that 'tis as good as if the inn
were haunted by the Nightmare and her brood of foals, the
noise sounds so infernal! Ha! ha! ha!—his grace himself, I
think, will go prancing mad!
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But was this done by his Highness's order, sirrah?
Groom.
Can't say, my lord; I only did Master Adam
the equerry's.—Come on, Sim! come on!—Ha! ha! ha!
Leicester.
There needs no order to the imps of mischief,
From the great Father of it! nor to these
Mock-devils, from the king: their piercing eyes
Catch from his single fiery glance full light
Of what shall please him, when himself scarce knows it.
'Tis marvellous the kind of intuition,
And quick invention, even fools will have,
If mischief's to be done!
Clare.
There 's no one thing
Perchance could gall the pride of our haught prelate
More than this insult!
De Bohun.
His ill-faith deserves it!
Leicester.
We shall be late to Council. Mark the sun.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Council-room.Henry, De Lucy, Cornwall, De Eynsford, Archbishop of York; Bishops of Winchester, Salisbury, London, Norwich; Glanville.
Henry.
Glanville!—there is a thing I'd say to you
Before we enter on this business.—
What was it? Pshaw! my head is in the mists,
Or they in it!—O!—true!—We must not, Glanville,
Let these poor squabbles 'tween that priest and us
Prejudice nobler matters. You can guess
What's in my mind.
Glanville.
I judge, Sire, as you speak
Of noble matters, you must mean the cause
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Betterment, stablishment, and general use
Of that, long fallen into desuetude,
That noblest of all noble things which man
Ever invented for behoof of man,
Trial of all accused, by their sworn peers
Called jurors; and the name of the said practice,—
Which shall go sounding down to latest times
Join'd with your own, as its chief Advocate,
Trial by Jury.
Henry.
Yea, good Ranulph, yea;
But you great lawyers, in your deep research,
And dabbling in a flood of words, oft sink
Out of the common sight, like birds called divers,
Than which you're more long-winded. Mend that fault!—
You have been pondering o'er the theme, I see,
And that was well. Draw up your thoughts upon it
For my perusal, and in plain short terms;
D'ye hear?
Glanville.
They shall be brief, my gracious liege!
Enter De Bohun, Clare, and Leicester.
Henry.
Ha! whence come ye?
Leicester.
From the round church, my liege,
Beside us here; where Becket was at mass.
Henry.
So! ye look grave: as if he being at prayers,
Did more than merely recommend his soul
To God and ours to Satan. Heard ye aught strange?
De Bohun.
Nought strange in such a darer, though 'twere monstrous
In any other man!
Henry.
What was that, ha?
Clare.
Besides his affectation palpable
Save to the mole-eyed people, of distress,
Disaster'd state, rapt piety, resignment,
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By dress, air, act, long moan, loud sob, large tears,—
He ordered as Introit to the service
With blasphemous self-allusion—Princes sat
And spake against me.
Henry.
O! he would set up
As mark'd for martyrdom!—with that angel face
Of his,—the Syrian blackmoor's son!—Himself
Persecutor of his king!
Leicester.
He comes, my liege:
His Meekness comes!
Enter Becket, arrayed in purple and pall, with his Crosier elevated, and a proud retinue.
Henry.
Heyday! the Pope of Canterbury!
Or Babylonian Lady all a-flame
For hot contést!—What think ye, cousins, are we
To have our heads broke with the pastoral Cross?
Becket.
I bear it for my sole protection!
Henry.
Ay!
What dread'st thou? else than paying thy just debts
To me and to the state? Dost need protection
Against thy creditors, like a prodigal?—
Glanville, that scroll!—
[Reading.
Item: three hundred pounds,—
Which thou didst levy upon Eye and Berkham,
Lately thy honours; Item; five hundred marks,
I lent thee at Toulouse; Item, five hundred,—
For which I stood thy surety to a Jew,
Whom thou dealt'st much with, till thy credit broke,
What time thou wallowedst in the wanton streams
Of Luxury most dissolute; Besides
An item, which to small rogues we set down
Plain theft, but to thy Grace embezzlement,—
Forty-four thousand marks, the balance due
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Abbeys, and baronies, by thee administer'd
When Chancellor. Item—
Becket.
My liege! my liege! my liege!
Henry.
Oh! I am then thy sovereign yet, it seems!
Most affable subject, still to call me liege!—
(To himself)
I've snapt that nerve which keeps up most men's pride,
The purse-string!
Becket.
I did never lack allegiance.—
But for my lavishness as Chancellor,
Call it more loose than his who lets the wealth
Of Tagus' bed roll down by golden shoals
Into the wasteful ocean,—'twas a thing
Praised, as magnificence in the minister
Which made for the more glory of the master,
Whose humour now condemns it!—Was he, Sire,
Who had been found a fraudful Chancellor
Deem'd fit to be a Primate?
Henry.
'Tis not what
He had been deem'd, but what we 've proved him since.
Becket.
Crying injustice! able to bring down
Those spheres in molten fragments on mankind,
But that 'twould crush the guiltless with the guilty!
Henry.
Thank heaven we have one milk-white soul among us!
Thou scarlet sinner!—Why—My gorge is swoln
With names, not huge enough for thy vast insolence!—
Tell me this—thou—who claim'st the Saintship next
Vacant i' the Calendar,—this, Immaculate!—
Thou didst subscribe in these law-guarded terms,
‘Legally, with good faith, and without fraud,
Without reserve,’—to certain Constitutions,
Which thou abjur'st now: does such perjury
Merit no lapidation from the spheres
If they did hurl their hissing firestones at us?
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There was no perjury!
Henry.
Hear this! hear this!—
Sun-dwelling Truth, hast thou not one bright dart
To strike him through the brain with?—Ye, grave Suffragans!
[To the Bishops.
Did your supreme here (give me your corporate voice)
Swear to our Constitutions, yea or no?
Bishops.
Yea!
Becket.
Foolish children that would judge their father!—
I kept to what I swore, those Constitutions,
While they were such: but when a power beyond
Thine to enact, annull'd them, how could I
Observe non-entities?
Henry.
Fraud within fraud!
In this same wise you may play fast and loose
With any oath; may be, for aught I know,
My very true, sworn subject, on proviso,
Till you 're absolved by bull into a traitor!
Becket.
His Holiness can ne'er absolve, except
To save or serve the Church—
Henry.
Yes, you may load
The winds with loyal oaths, to place your heart
Between mine and all stabbers, yet, even now,
Bear in one sleeve a permit to kill kings,
And in the other a poniard!
Becket.
My dear liege!—
This is uncharitable.
Henry.
To serve the Church!
To serve the Church, man!—Did the Romish altar
Burn for thy sovereign, as a sacrifice,
Thou 'rt bound to slaughter him!—O Thomas! Thomas!
Could I e'er think that thou wouldst pierce the heart
Of thy kind, loving, generous, royal master?
Becket.
Not generous now, to say I 'd pierce thy heart!
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Thou hast done so!—if not with knife or brand,
With keen-cold weapon of ingratitude,
More poignant still!—But 'tis no matter: go!
There is a gulf as wide as heaven from hell
Between us, across which 'tis vain to think
Of ever shaking hands!—I am thy enemy,
To thy perdition or my own!
Becket.
I know it,
So would betake me into banishment,
And save a sacrilege unto thy soul.
Henry.
Good man!—Thou wouldst betake thyself to Louis,
To the French court, which breeds intriguants,
Fast as Lutetian filth breeds vermin vile,
Against my kingdom.—Twice thou hadst fled thither,
But that the roaring winds, our rough allies,
Forbade thy ship to fetch and carry treason!
My very seas rose up, upon my side,
Against thy steps!—Stay, and be baited here,
Till thy proud dewlaps drop with sweat and foam!—
As a first humblement, thy goods and chattels
Be all confiscate for contempt of court
And breach of fealty, in not attending
Our summons, when John Mareschal appeal'd thee
About the manour of Pageham—
Becket.
On that summons
I, being sick, sent four good household knights
To plead for me. Was this contempt? Was this
Devoir left unperform'd?—Yea, when the cause
Itself, was weigh'd at mine own spiritual Court
In scales which might have dropp'd from Libra stars,
As nice as Conscience trims with trembling hand—
Henry.
Ha! ha!
Becket.
Sir! Sir! 'tis truth; and he who here
By royal subornation brings that cause,
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Like it iniquitous!
[The Barons start up, and Becket's train advance. Becket raises his Crosier and Henry his Sceptre between them.
Henry.
These sacred wands,
Not unanointed swords, decide the fray!—
Archbishop, from thy last words, if no more,
I see thou art a self-devoted man
Unto destruction imminent!—Take your way.
Winchester.
My liege, accept two thousand marks from him,
In lieu of all demands.
Henry.
I will not, Winchester!
But thou another froward priest, de Blois,
Whose mitre coped thy brother Stephen's crown,
Shalt pronounce sentence for the full amount.
[They retire some paces.
Norwich
(to Becket).
My lord, beseech you on my knees, submit,
Or you, the Church, and all of us are lost!
Salisbury
(to him).
We cannot be thy sureties for such sum,
Though for the less we might.
York
(to him).
Take exhortation
From one a Primate like thyself, and moved
By most disinterested love,—resign
Thy see, to gain full peace, release, and pardon.
London
(to him).
'Twas thou thyself who led'st us to subscribe
The Constitutions, yet, when all too late,
Wouldst have us now proclaim ourselves, with thee,
Rebels to royal power, and renegades
To our own oaths!
Becket.
Folliott, thou shalt be ever
A stench i' the nostril of posterity!—
Thou art corrupted, man!—Primate of York,
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Sarum, I always knew thee as a gryphon
Keeping thy claw fast on thy hoarded gold!—
Poor Norwich, thou art pitiful!—Ye Suffragans,
[Turning to the other Bishops who implore him.
Ay, who will suffer again, again, again,
(Spare me the pertinent quibble!) all the ills
That tyranny can heap on callous meanness,—
Repose your deprecative arms! they 'll soon
Have beggar's-work enough, when ye are turn'd
By foes o' the Church, 'gainst whom ye raise no finger,
To mendicant monks and almsmen!—Stay me not,
I will go forward!
York.
There 's no stopping some men
Upon their course down the steep fall of Ruin!
Becket.
'Tis plain, Sir King!—lord of these lower skies!
Where you point all your thunder-bolts. But let them
Break first on this bare head, as yon poor image
Placed shelterless aloft that pinnacle
Bears with mild brow the elemental brunt
To shield his fane beneath!—Thou hast resolved
I know, thy throne shall rise above all height
Upon the ruins of the downcast Church,
Thy Babel-towering throne, from which shall come
Confusion o'er the land!—Have then thy will!
On this offensive mount, flourish a time,
Perish eternally!
Henry.
At thy behest?
Becket.
There is a throne, compared to earthly ones,
Higher than heaven above the hills: dread thence
Thunderings, which shall shake thy throne to dust,
And bury thyself beneath it, and thy barons
Send down with blasted fronts, to be the spurn
Of devils less degraded towards their king!
Henry.
All this, because I summon a state-debtor,
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The goods of a respectless feudatory—
By Mahound, that 's strange doctrine!
Becket.
Mere pretences
To crush the Church in me!—I do appeal
'Gainst all your sentences and penalties
Unto the Pope; and henceforth do commit
To his safeguard, myself and my whole See!
Barons.
High-treason, an appeal to Rome!
Becket.
High-traitor,
I then!—too high for ye to touch!—though graspers
For whom the sacristy holds no sacred things!—
Nay, scowl on others, king!—it daunts not me!—
Thou—thou shouldst rather quail beneath my frown!—
Thy sword may kill the body, but this staff,
Sword of the Militant Church, which I do wield,
Can kill the soul!
Henry.
Pronounce his sentence straight!
He is deprived of all his lands and holdings!
Becket.
I will not drink pollution through mine ears!
Breathe it not, Winchester! till I am gone,
Lest it scorch up thy lips to whitest ashes!
Henry.
Hear how the wolf can howl!
Becket.
Since impious men
Whom strength makes wrongful, wrongfulness makes strong,
Plunder-swoln, gross with produce of all crime,
Band them against the battlements of heaven
On earth, to wit the bulwarks of the Church—
Henry.
He means his turreted Elysium
At Saltwood-park,—to touch which we are Titans!
Becket.
And have decreed its sole defender here,
Me!—me!—most violently trampled down—
Their mounting-step to that assault sacrilegious,—
Henry.
Why thou wert far above our reach but now?
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Since prayer, plaint, rhetoric's mingled honey and gall,
Cannot withhold them from the fathomless pit
Gaping beneath their steps,—if they must follow
Satan's dark inspirations to such deeds,
Flagitious, dreadless, godless—which mute heaven
Permits, but weeps at—good men's mazement,
The angels' horror—
Henry.
Wipe from thy blest mouth
That surge of foam!
Becket.
Since then, Perverse! thou seem'st
Desperate on self and state destruction both,
What more but this can parting Becket say,—
Thine and Hell's will be done!
[Exit.
Henry.
The wolf 's dog-mad!
[Scene closes.
SCENE III.
A Street in Northampton.After some time, enter John of Oxford.
John of O.
How still and dead-struck seems the air, which late
Was but one maddening whirl! The pause itself
More fearful yet! 'Tis like that breathlessness
On some blank heath, when rival storms retire
Quick from their lightning-blasted battle-field,
And leave the waste more wild! They but recoil
To gasp, and 'gin their mighty rack again,
Distract the fugitive tribes and darken Nature!—
O these are ominous, gloomy times!—Proud Becket
Bears into banishment a heart more fell
Than tiger's towards his victim ere he spring:
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Like the Red Spirit northern Skalds describe
Breathing pure flame, his very flesh a-glow,
And fiercer blazing the more fast he flies!—
However lamely, I must follow him;
There will be need of me at Sens to smoothe
These differences with a polish'd tongue
And urge with subtle one the royal pleas;
For Harry, stout and little superstitious
As is his mood, loved fondly by his commons
And dreadingly by his nobles, yet hath fears
Political; he will woo the Pontiff more
To quit his holy pout at these late doings,
Than he would Pope Joan for her dearest favours.
So John of Oxford haste to make his peace
As Sens's papal court, and also there
Make your own English fortune, if you may.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
An Inn and Smithy by the roadside.De Morville, Brito, and De Traci.
Brito.
Sir William, we must leave you: the time hastes.
De Morville.
Almost as quickly as the king, whose steed
Seems to have feather'd hoofs, like one of old
Our scholars prate of.
De Traci.
Had mine but plain shoes
He 'd make the wind a laggard!—Leave me not
Good Gentlemen!—I 'll with you straight.—Stir! stir!
[To the Blacksmith.
Thou sledge-arm'd slug!
De Morville.
Well the Archbishop stood
Toughly up to 't: I almost honour him.
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Didst thou remark his spirit how it rose,
As sinewy brawn doth on a boxer's arm,
Elastic, after every blow?
De Morville.
Well! well!
De Traci.
Had he but kept his temper to the last?
De Morville.
Turbulence is the nature of a priest,
And while he rein'd it, 'twas as rocks upon
A burning mountain's mouth, which close it only
Till vent be found, and then they 're spit at heaven.
Brito.
Nothing will e'er bring down his haughty front
But what brings down a bull's—the blow of a pole-axe!
De Morville.
He'll get a tap from that same filliper,
Will make him stagger.
De Traci.
Shall we have war?
De Morville.
Most like:
A civil one—no more!
De Traci.
Pardon! what means
Un-civil war? I never for my part,
In fight, slay any man but civilly;
With compliments I deal him coup-de-grâce,
Nothing less courteous will he get from me!
I'm no ox-leveller like Sir Richard here.
Mortbleu! what is a battle but a tilt
Without its mockery? To Mars's lists
I, at the tongueless summons of the trump,
Come, as at love-call to my ladye's bower,
Gallant, and debonair, heartwarm, and trim,
In gentil hauberk, glistening helm, and arms,
But to disport me at the play of lives
With ill intent to no man! 'Tis most churlish
To fight for hate, and pash a stranger's head
Because he's stout; live he on if he may,
After I let the light through him! who cares?
My devoir has been done!—Saint Gris, my horse!
[Going to the Smithy.
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Shoe him with quicksilver, good Smith!
De Morville.
Brave damosel!
I 've seen him kiss his hand to a gallant plume
Before he strook it, dyed with sanguine, off,—
Then cut a capricole!
Brito.
Mine ancestors,
'Tis said, were taught to dance among the points
Of sharpest swords and spears, for pastime; he
Seems to do so by nature!—How he skips
About the Smith, like gnat about a horse
Before it fixes!
De Morville.
Come!—What! ostler there!—
We will not stay. Boy! bring our horses out.—
Enter Boy.
Boy.
Horses, sir? there's not a four-legged beast in the
stable but the ass and John Ostler.
De Morville.
What is 't thou say'st? Innkeeper! scoundrel!
thief! horse-stealer!
Enter Innkeeper.
Innkeeper.
Sir Knight, I pray you—
De Morville.
None of your prayers, Infidel! Fetch me
my horse in a trice, or I 'll cut off thy head, and nail it up
over thine own door for a Saracen's!
Innkeeper.
Why, Sir, your horses have been just led out
the back way.
Brito.
By whom, knave?
Innkeeper.
By two servants at command of my lord the
Archbishop, who said he would explain all to your worships.
De Morville.
Here 's pretty doings!
Brito.
By St. Edward, this passes!
De Morville.
Which way are they gone?
Innkeeper.
Round about, sir; but his Grace is here.
[Exit.
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Becket.
You took, my menials tell me, certain horses
Out of mine inn to-day; was it not so?
[To Gryme.
Gryme.
Two sorrels and a black.
De Morville.
They were our own.
Becket.
They were of twenty sent me yesternight,
As present from the King: I cannot lose them!
Brito.
Sir Primate, they are ours, and we will have them!
Becket.
When you shall prove them yours, as it may be,
By words of better credence than your own;
Till then I know not who has right to come
Rifle my mansion, and call what he steals
No thievery.
De Morville.
‘Thievery!’—the king's gentlemen
Thieves?
Becket.
No! by no means! if indeed ye be
The gentlemen ye call yourselves; but I
Cannot yet guess ye such, whilst ye seem felons.
De Morville.
What! have we stolen out of your remembrance,
My lord Archbishop?—You did know us once.
Becket.
I have, methinks, seen visages like yours
In the King's shadow, darkly, times ago;
But I am oft oblivious of such things,
My memory being throng'd with better.—Pray you,
Go from me now.
De Morville.
De Morville is a baron,
Proud prelate!—Lord of Knaresborough Castle, I!
Becket.
A lesser baron—it may be, perchance—
Brito.
The Britos were born sovereigns, when the Beckets
Were but their slaves and villeins.
Becket.
Bosham, my book:
I'll read a prayer or two, whilst the mules bait.
[He begins to read while the Knights threaten him.
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Will't please your grace retire into the house,
Or shall I call your knights?
Becket.
Who needs defence?
England's most sacred head?—go to! go to!
De Traci
(returning).
Allons, mes enfans! See you how my steed
Pants hotter than the bellows, now he's shod:
Allons.
[Gryme whispers Becket, pointing to the forge.
Becket.
Ha!—that's another of the twenty!
Bosham, go tell a groom to seize that horse
For the Archbishop's use.
[Exit Bosham.
De Traci.
Diable! my horse?
Becket.
Gryme, set these cavaliers aright upon
This trivial matter.
[Walks apart reading.
Gryme.
Sirs, if you 'll examine
These chargers; underneath their housings rich,
You 'll find them branded with the letter B
And a large crook crossed: this is for archbishop,
That is for Becket: you 've but to examine,
And be full satisfied.
De Traci.
What tell you me
Of B's and crooks and Beckets?—He shall have
My steed by neither crook nor hook—
Becket.
You are loud:
It is irreverent in this presence. Are ye
Of the King's body-guard, I can but say
The master's conduct shows it in the men
Most coarsely mimick'd.—Ye shall have no steeds,
So follow him to London as ye can.
De Traci.
Yield we thus, friend?
[To De Morville.
De Morville.
What say you, Brito?
Brito.
I?—
Even what you say!
De Morville.
Though I'm no church-goer,
There is an awe hangs round this priest: I cannot
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(To Becket)
Granted these beasts were of your household, Sir,
They 've been attach'd to-day with all your goods.
Becket.
Does that give you a right to nym them, friend?
It more behoves me guard what I must soon
Surrender to the Sheriff, or be deem'd
A petty-traitor. Meantime they will serve
To bear me on the road to Canterbury;
My servants want good steeds.
De Morville.
O that thou hadst not
This sacred stole upon thee—
Becket.
That I have it
Is well for ye!—or my good sword had sent
Your souls a-horseback on the current winds
To serve the king of darkness!—Speak once more,
I will dismiss them to eternal pain
Even with this naked arm. Begone!—or stay
Accursed for ever!
[They withdraw intimidated.
Now they have given ground,
I will retire. Go you before me, Richard!
[Exit with Gryme.
The Knights come forward.
De Morville.
'T was all in vain; I could not meet his eye!
De Traci.
Pardie, his lance-point were the easier parried!
Brito.
You 'd have found even that no knitting-needle
In an old nurse's hand.—Mars was his sponsor;
He had his first meat put into his mouth
Upon a sword's point; that was his spoon-feeding!
De Traci.
He has affray'd us, three puissant knights,
By his mere growl, as a grim mastiff would
A leash of greyhounds.
De Morville.
Let us bide our time!—
97
On any churl's old dobbins we can seize.
Brito.
Be the priest hang'd as high as his own pride!
De Morville.
And without benefit of clergy!—Come.
De Traci.
I'll make that whisperer, Gryme, cry out at least
One day or other!—Allons, mes amis!
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
An Alley in the Labyrinth.Enter John of Salisbury, with a book.
John of S.
“Formosam resonare doces Amaryllida sylvas.”—
Let me pause here, both tongue and foot. Such melody
Of words doth strike the wild-birds mute to hear it!
Honey-lipp'd Virgil, 'tis an ignorant truth
To name thee—Sorcerer; for thou dost indeed
Enchant by happiest art!—Here is a place
To meditate thy sylvan music in,
Which seems the very echo of these woods,
As if some Dryad taught thee to resound it.
O gentle breeze, what lyrist of the air
Tunes her soft chord with visionary hand
To make thy voice so dulcet? O ye boughs
Whispering with numerous lips your kisses close,
How sweet ye mingle secret words and sighs!
Doth not this nook grow warmer with the hum
Of fervent bees, blithe murmurers at their toil,
Minstrels most bland? Here the dim cushat, perch'd
Within his pendulous arbour, plaintive woos
With restless love-call his ne'er-distant mate;
While changeful choirs do flit from tree to tree,
All various in their notes, yet chiming all
98
O how by accident, apt as art, drops in
Each tone to make the whole harmonical,
And when need were, thousands of wandering sounds
Though aimless would, with exquisite error sure,
Fill up the diapason!—Pleasant din!
So fine that even the cricket can be heard
Soft-fluttering through the grass. Long have I mark'd
The silver toll of a clear-dropping well
Peal in its light parishioners, ouphes and elves:
'Tis nigh me, certes?—I will peer between
These honeysuckles, for it.—Lo! in verity
A Sylph, with veil-fall'n hair down to her feet,
Bending her o'er the waters, and I think
Giving them purer crystal from her eyes—
O learned John, but thou art grown fantastic
As a Romancer! thou art quite bedream'd,
A sleep-walker even in the breadth of day,
That err'st with wide eyes!—Hark!—
[A lute is heard.
O me! O me!
It is the Lady Rosamond herself,
Nymphlike beside her Well!—She sent long since
For me, her youth's dear tutor, to have given her
Lessons of Delphic lore she ever loved,
And now, methinks, the better that she's sad.
I should be out of all good grace with her!
[Exit.
Scene changes to Rosamond's Well.
Rosamond
(singing to her lute).
Listen, lords and ladies all,
O listen to my lay!
And I will sing the fate and fall
Of a gentle Ladye gay!
99
John of S.
Pardon thy ancient master, fairest Pupil!
They left me wandering in this wilderness,
Where I did lose myself; yea, deeper still
I' the labyrinth of meditation wild
And maze of fancy, wherein whoso gets,
Heaven help him! he is self-inextricable.
Rosamond.
Pardon? O give me yours—I am most lost!
John of S.
Sad in Elysium, lady?
Rosamond.
Ay, forsooth!
John of S.
That's discontentful.
Rosamond.
Thou didst tell me once,—
It was thy earliest and thy latest lesson,
(O that I ne'er had conn'd it, or had kept it!)—
‘Be satisfied of thyself, that's the first thing,
Contentment will come after with all else.’
John of S.
And yet thy merit, less of form and face,
Though these be Wonder's gaze—
Rosamond.
Yes, I am fair,
Outside!
John of S.
Less than thy bosom'd ones, have raised thee
To the throne's highest step.
Rosamond.
Unto the lowest
Before Humiliation's shrine, have brought me!
There lies she bleeding tears deplorable,
Whom the world calls most happy! Should she be so?
John of S.
I can but say what I have ever found thee:
Filial to very piety; a mistress
Serving thy servants more than they could thee;
Unto the poor a virtual Charity,
A comfortable Pity to the sad;
Docile with me and duteous as a daughter,
Than which I more have loved thee, and must still;
A pleader for the people to their king,
100
Of Vengeance from his hand, and there insinuate
The sword of Mercy for it! O whatever
Thy faults, Fair Rosamond, to latest time
Thou shalt be loved in England!
Rosamond.
Quite deserveless!—
Yet 'twas my father's counsel and command,
If not those of my conscience. Come, good master!
Since thou hast cheer'd me with thy praise, and hope
At least of man's forgiveness,—read me, I pray you,
Some lines that teach submission and content
From thy belovèd book.
John of S.
If it please you,
Most gentle mistress, you shall read, while I
Look o'er the page.
Rosamond.
Well, I will English it
Precisely as I can, and you 'll correct me.
What is it?
John of S.
Virgil's pastoral address
To the old Shepherd.
Rosamond.
“Fortunate senex.”
How!—let me see—it would go somewhat thus:
‘Happy Old Man!—here mid thy well-known streams
And sacred founts, shalt thou the umbrageous cool
Inhale! This neighbour hedge of willow flowers
Still pasturing Hyblæan bees, shall oft
With their light murmur lure thee to repose!
Here shall the woodman sing unto the winds
Beneath the lofty rock; nor shall thy care
The deep-voiced doves, nor shall the turtle cease
From the aërial elm-tree to complain.’—
How poor my English sounds!
John of S.
Nay, it comes well
So musically tongued: and faithful too.
Rosamond.
No! no! its excellence is unreachable
101
That of the doves, “Raucæ, tua cura, palumbes—”
How hoarsely-sweet! just as they murmur now!
John of S.
Doth it not breathe a sweetness o'er thy mind,
Restful content and placid joy, this picture
Of the old happy swain?
Rosamond.
Happy he was,
For he was innocent! But peace without
Doth not give peace within; it must be felt
Here first, or the other is not seen. O would
My breast and I were friends! O that I were
At peace even in the grave—
[A clarion sounds.
Henry!
[Exit.
John of S.
The king!—
There flies she to her bower, wing'd by love,
Straight, low, and swift, like blackbird to its nest!
How soon love's soft alarum silenced, too,
Conscience, the wren, which but in stillness cheeps!
Well, if a lover, handsome, young, and brave,
Courteous and generous, a prince of princes,
Wise, witty, learned, skilful in all arts
To do, or undo, what and whom he wills,
Sparing nor pains, nor promises, nor pacts,
Nor power itself, to triumph—were excuse
For helpless woman erring, 'tis my pupil's.
Many a one with not the tithe so much
To warp her way, goes tenfold wider wrong;
Yea, scouts the dallyer by Virtue's path,
Whilst she herself is on the slide to sin.
I have remark'd it, and will set it down
In my court-commonplaces, for my book.
Now let me find mine own right way, if possible.
What, Gabel, are you there?—Come hither, friend
102
Gabel.
O sir, I was looking for a stray sheep,—a black
one,sir—or rather iron-brown, the colour of your cloak,
sir: have you seen it?
John of S.
Not I.
Gabel.
It did not come here to the well, sir, with you?
John of S.
I never looked.
Gabel.
Ah! he did not look at the water, or he'd have
seen the sheep there I was in search of!—Come, sir, I'll
guide you to the pen.
John of S.
“Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes.”
Gabel.
How prettily he bleats! Come, sir, you must not
stand, like a new-yeaned lamb, whose legs are too long
for walking.
John of S.
Come on, good Gabel!—though I had rather
stay—“Flumina amem, sylvasque inglorius!”
Gabel.
He's a born idiot! I shall have as much ado to
drive him forward, grunting Latin with his nose to the
ground, as a hog in canonicals!
[Exeunt.
Scene changes to an Alcove.
Henry and the Earl of Cornwall.
Henry.
So, he is fled, uncle?
Cornwall.
Coastward, as they tell me.
Henry.
To France. Some storm embargo him once more!
I could forgive those seabord thieves, called wreckers,
Who pounce like cormorants on half-drown'd men,
If they would now make prey of my Archbishop:
The law I threat against them shall not pass
Till we have heard his fate. Well, we'll sequester,
At least, his revenues of Canterbury,
103
Like bird of Paradise, as he is!
Cornwall.
He hath
Many relations, friends, domestics, here
Who eat no other's bread; they'll not have husks,
Now he has left them almsless.
Henry.
Banish all to him!
So, hanging on his emptiness, they'll help
To bring his haughty stomach down. Ay, banish them!
'Tis a good thought: I thank thee for it, uncle.
Cornwall.
Nay, the whole credit of it is your majesty's!
Enter an Attendant.
Attendant.
My liege, the Lady Rosamond awaits
Your presence or your pleasure in the bower.
Henry.
Say we attend on hers.
[Exit Attendant.
Clouds, from my front!
Now be my face the mirror of the sun,
No heart like mine glows in his ardorous breast!
Away all storms for one sweet summer eve,
Away all cares but those of love alone!
[Returning.]
Uncle! You'll mention not this banishment
Of Becket's household, to the Lady Rose,
Else will she bend the strength of all her tears
To shake my purpose. You conceive?
[Exit.
Cornwall.
Most well!—
Stern with the stubborn, tender with the mild,
Fiercest in battle-field, gentlest in bower,
Heart rough of rind, but melting soft at core,
That's the right chivalrous spirit! Now he'll woo
As if he, aye, sigh'd at a lady's feet,
And never stretch'd a dragon at his own!
Come! I have stay'd the length of twenty kisses,
Each a breath long; 'tis proper to walk in.
[Exit.
104
Henry and Rosamond.
Rosamond.
You must have ta'en a bird's flight from so far.
Henry.
No coming rainbow spans the sky so swift,
As I cross'd hither.
Rosamond.
Nor so swift again
Vanishes!—Ah, thou truant!
Henry.
Faithfuller
Than ray-crown'd Lucifer is to the dawn,
Or Hesperus to eve!
Enter Cornwall.
Rosamond.
You are indeed
My star! the ruler of my horoscope!
On whose bright circlet, loftiest in the spheres,
Depend my weal and woe!
Henry.
Doubt it not, sweet!
Uncle of Cornwall, will you scold your niece
(That is to be), for her sad-heartedness?
I cannot.
Cornwall.
Fairest niece, you are to blame—
Henry.
Come, that 's enough! She smiles, which is a sign
You 've touch'd her deeply, and she will amend.
How likes my Lady the new cast of hawks
I sent her—do they fly?
Rosamond.
They soar!—yet come
Down again to my wrist as straight as larks,
Whene'er I call them.
Henry.
That's because the lure
Is dazzling white, and sparkles in their eye;
This lily wrist, I mean.
Rosamond.
Ah, flatterer!—
105
In canine form; they course the fields as light
As gossamer, yet strong their slender limbs
As bows of springiest yew. 'Tis beautiful
To see them toss themselves like bounding hoops
About you, with such gentle tamelessness
Which knows not how to still itself, and mocks
The hand that would caress them into quiet!
They are a pair of Graces in their kind!
Henry.
Well, we will go a-falconing to-morrow,
And run them quiet. How is your white palfrey,
Fleet Solyman, whom we got o'er from Spain?
Rosamond.
Then you will stay with me—all—all to-morrow?
'Tis but one, single day. O recreant knight,
That will refuse a lady!
Henry.
I must to Caen,
For England's good: and thy true patriot heart
Hath even more pride in me as her Champion
Than as thy own! Yet I shall, peradventure,
Cheat her of some few hours.
Rosamond.
Not one for Rosamond!
Serve England, that 's thyself; thyself; that's me.—
Well, I 've another favour you must grant.
Henry.
Uncle, what covetous creatures women are!
If not this, why then that! but something ever.
Cornwall.
Nay, it is true! 'tis true!—the King says true.
Rosamond.
In faith I will not be a loving niece
If you take part against me thus, my lord.
'Tis for poor master John of Salisbury,
My good, kind Tutor!
Henry.
He 's a friend of one,
Rank foe of mine: let him still follow Becket,
Who 'll make provision for him.
Cornwall
(aside).
Such as will not
Lie heavy on his stomach!
106
Now you are cold,
And cold to me!
Henry.
Well, sweet! we will translate him.
Cornwall
(aside).
To some French benefice, with a rich glebe-field
Of water-cresses, where he may take in kind
His tithe-frog if he will!
Rosamond.
Well? Have you thought?
Bishop of what?
Henry.
Take your arms from about me;
It is a kind of main force—a sheer laying
Of violent hands upon me—is it not, uncle?
Cornwall.
Assault and desperate seizure, I am witness!
Rosamond.
Then I will hang here, where it was committed!
Henry.
O thou—thou twining, clasping, tendril thing,
That to my proud top creep'st thy flexible way,
And makest it bend to thee! Have what thou wilt:
John shall be our next Bishop.
Rosamond.
I will call him:
He should be in the cabinet.—Master John!
[Going to the door.
His Highness. Come!
Enter John of Salisbury.
Henry.
So, master John!—We'd make you
A bishop, master John! at your and our
Sweet Lady's suit.
John of S.
Beholden ever
To dear and fair my Scholar! Pace tuá!
(Somewhat be-mazed yet!), I would have said,
My gracious Mistress.
Henry.
Hark'ee: you 're my Bishop,
Not Becket's, who and his chief partisans
Are banished.
107
Then I'm still plain master John:
Yea, and an exile too!
Cornwall.
Art a fool also?
Wilt give up for an outcast, a vile lack-penny,
A high-road starver,—hope, and home, and king?
John of S.
Never my king, but not more soon my friend.
Henry
(aside).
He 's steadfast—that's a man to gain. I'll think of him.
Rosamond.
Dear Master!—dearest Liege!
John of S.
Sire, thy true subject.
[Exit.
Henry
(to Rosamond).
You see 'twas not my fault: but be at ease.
[They converse apart.
Cornwall.
Were ever dunces like your deep-read men!
Lunatics like your poets! There he walks
Leisurely as an ass, though March-hare mad,
Away from Fortune, having spurn'd her wheel!
Scholars, forsooth, and heaven-born Bards!—Sheer idiots!
That shade themselves from every shower of gold
Thinking it meant to crush them; or if not,
Scorn even to pick it up! 'Tis as good calling
Sea-gulls to dovecotes, as them to warm cribs;
Both feed upon the estrays of the elements,
Famine's allowance; when they might grow fat
Merely by opening mouth at rich men's tables.
Let them go hang like bats in caves together,
I'll pet such purblind flitter-mice no more!
Henry
(to Rosamond).
John shall be cared for, though he flies from me.
Believe it, dearest! Becket's venom lies
At root of all this rebel faith I reap;
'Tis he corrupts my vassals—he!—he!—he!
Rosamond.
Nay but, my sovereign love, think how most apt
All are to deem the wronger knows he wrongs,
And thence our bitterest quarrels: Becket may
Do wrong more ignorantly than malignantly.
108
Malignantly, say I! and that admitted,
As ignorantly as you please. Ah! thou 'rt too clement:
A beauty in your sex, in ours a blemish.
Rosamond.
I am not all so peccantless myself!
Henry.
O thou 'rt a sad one! I do think thou wouldst—
No, I'll not say it!
Rosamond.
Tell me it! I will know it!
Tell me the whole, whole ill thou think'st of me!
Henry.
Come hither to my arms, and then I'll tell thee.—
I think thou wouldst defend the Devil himself
If I accused him harshly!
Rosamond.
No, in sooth!
But—save to me—bytimes I mark o'ermuch
Of thy great stock, the stern first William, in thee;
And fear, when chafed, that thou mayst work thyself
As well as others woe. None are, perchance,
For all the blotch'd or beauteous mask they wear,
So virtueless as they seem, no more than viceless.
Henry.
Well, you shall give the discipline yourself
To penitent Becket when he bares his shoulders;
You shall your scourge of feathers, and your besom
Of flowers, lay on him sharply! Come! forget him.
Let us forth to the river. I had vow'd
These hours to pleasure only, love, and thee!
Rosamond.
The barge hath all her rainbow streamers out,
You can behold them wavering in the breeze,
There, through the trellis.
Henry.
And we'll take with us
Provençal Arnault with a minstrel band
To kindle glee amongst the squires and damsels:
Come, we will feast the winds with melody!
Through the enchanted air, along the flood
We 'll pour a stream of music as we row,
That shall lead captive every god o' the wave,
And thou shalt be chief Syren!—Uncle, come!
[Exeunt.
109
Enter John of Salisbury.
John of S.
Farewell, sweet Woodstock bowers! blissful shades,
Through whose dim walks, so pleasantly perplext,
Oft have I wander'd, shadow-like myself!
Where with the finer spirits of the place
Communing, I have felt the bonds of earth
Fall gradual from about me, and it seem'd
Leave me at length mere soul, that purest state
Which man's last hope aspires! Farewell, ye lawns,
Ye silent meadows green, whose golden flowers
Breathe up rich vapour as floats o'er the fields
Of sun-fed asphodel. Ye willowy streams,
By whose wild banks my thoughts and I have stray'd;
Ye verdurous alleys, down whose tuftless sward
My foot has met no mossy obstacle
To wake me from my dream, while brow to book,
I walk'd oblivious of all else, yea letting
The insensible hours steal from me,—fare ye well!
I must no longer see thee, Woodstock! haply
Never again! nor even my native shores!
“Nos patriæ fines et dulcia linquimus arva.”
Alas, what difference sees the selfsame day,
Or moment, in the fates of different men!
Lo! for proof present, where from happy bower,
Throng down that jocund crowd unto the barge
Buoyant herself,light dancing on the wave,
Spreading her broad skirts to each errant wind
And flaunting her gay ribbons as a lure
For every amorous Zephyr. There they crowd,
Minstrels and all, each voice and instrument,
Their very laughter, shouts of firm command,
110
At the unstable element,—all tuned
To one high note of joy: like manor swans,
Bright wantons of the water, every islet
Is still their home; they sail from home to home,
And turn at eve, tired with their plashy play,
Unto that home's dear homestead, their green nest.
But dolorous John must far away to France,
With none save Poverty for his guide, and Scorn
For his close follower! Well ! 'tis Heaven's will,
And I submit mine. Farewell, Lady Rose,
My pupil and my anxious patroness!
Would that I were even sure of seeing thee
Once more, wherever!—Vale, vale, inquit Johannes!
[Exit.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
| Thomas À Becket | |