University of Virginia Library

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
Involuntary, like the songs of cherubim.
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!

Enter John of Salisbury.
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,
Who dost allure with beauteous wile the sword
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
Even by skill less schoolgirl-like than mine.
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

Enter Gabel.
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,
And let this high-flyer on ether live,
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.
Scene changes to Rosamond's Bower.
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!—
And the two greyhounds are a brace of spirits
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!

Rosamond.
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.

John of S.
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.

Henry.
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.
Scene changes to a Lawn in the Labyrinth.
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,
And cries of haste, and feignèd shrieks of fear
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.