University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Street in London.
De Morville, De Traci, and Brito, meeting.
De Traci.
Good morrow, Hugh de Morville!—Richard Brito,
Grandson, how great I know not, of the Brut
That kill'd his father, and gave life to Britons,
(Brutings they should be call'd!),—bon jour, Sir Richard!

Brito.
I love but little to be jeer'd, Sir Gwillim,
By you, or any spring-heel'd Norman knight,
About mine ancestors. That Trojan Brutus
Was a king's son, and Conqueror of this Isle,
No Bastard Conqueror neither!—I have heard
Our learned Chancellor tell of it.

De Traci.
What, Becket?
Learned he is in sooth; and gallant too,
And wise, as few of his compatriots are.

Brito.
Gallant as ye! gallant and wise as ye,
Half-brethren of the seagulls! whom foul blasts,
Loosed from her wallet by some Lapland witch,
Blew o'er the Northern foam to France, and thence
The next ill wind puff'd hither!

De Morville.
Down with these swords!
Will ye ne'er stop this brawling? Fie! be friends:
He's young, Sir Richard; he 's hot-brain'd, De Traci.—
Yes, as you said, Becket 's a cunning clerk,
Or he would scarce be an Archdeacon; wise
As Guiscard's self, or what had made him Chancellor?
For boldness, he exceeds all priests; and dares
Take even the very Devil by the horns
Did he fall out with him.

De Traci
Well, if he be
Falcon in fight, he 's vulture after it!

De Morville.
He 'll have his pickings! Know you not our adage—

De Traci.
Yet he 's against the Bishops, in this strife
About their jurisdiction; so 'twould seem
At least: and echoes our sharp-witted king,
Who cries them up as ‘Shepherds skill'd to fleece,
Drive, and make market of, those sheep the people.’—
Allons, Fitz-Urse! what think you of this man?

Enter Fitz-Urse.
Fitz-Urse.
Whom?

De Traci.
Why, the man of men—him with more names
Than blaze in Doomsday-Book—the Provost of Beverley!

De Morville.
Dean of Hastings!

Brito.
Constable of the Tower!

De Morville.
Secretary of State! Chancellor of the Realm!
Archdeacon of Canterbury! Castellan of Cahors!
Lord of the baronies of Eye and Berkham!
With some few other—scores of trusts and titles,
Enough to break Ambition's back withal.
He 's a mere sumpter-mule for robes and riches,
Save that he trots with them to his own stall,
Where sables are his litter, cloth of ermine
His housing, and his fodder golden corn.
But more:
As if the custody of the Royal Seal,
With all the perquisites thereto belonging,
The administration of all Sees and Abbeys
Whilst vacant—which they are whene'er his purse is!—
The Wardship of all Minors, whose revenues
Leave a rich crust in running through his hands;
As if these gifts sufficed not to fulfil
His huge capacity for power and office,
He is made tutor to the Prince himself,
Young Henry, whom the crown o'er-hangs—this Becket!
This son of a Saxon truckster, Gilbert Becket,
And a bought Moor-woman!—this Jack o'the Beanstalk,
That climbs up to the clouds, lark-swift, and there
Mocks the mazed world beneath him!

Fitz-Urse.
Very true.

De Morville.
This glib Bologna lawyer—

Fitz-Urse.
True, but yet—

De Morville.
But what, Fitz-Urse?

Fitz-Urse.
Thirty-five score pick'd lances
He brought us, when much needed at Toulouse:
Twelve hundred in the Norman wars. King Harry
Owes him some precious jewels of his crown.

De Traci.
Pardic, but he has claim'd them! If he saved them,
'Twas for himself, to perk in his own cap.

Fitz-Urse.
He's a stout soldier—that's well: sits his horse
Firm as St. Michael sits his Mount; no storm
Moves him a hair: Can drive his lance right through
A mailed breast, and out between the shoulders;
That's pretty well too!

Brito.
I have seen him strain
One of our bows, our mightiest English bows,
Till the tough yew bent withy-like; and when it
Whirr'd straight again, his shaft was in an oak
Barb-deep, twelve-score yards off:—that 's not ill neither!

De Traci.
He gives brave galas, keeps a Cour d' Amour
And Castle-Joyous, throng'd with dames and knights,
One blaze of brilliant arms and brighter beauty,
Where minstrels warble thick as birds on boughs,
And softest instruments thrill through the halls,
And murmurs sweet make up the swarming sound,
And merry bells ring aye a gaudeamus!
This holy Chancellor hawks, hunts, jousts, drinks,
Games, and etceteras—'slife, a noble fellow!

De Morville
(aside).
Our youth's brain is all feathers, so his thoughts
Are of the flightiest—

Fitz-Urse.
As for me, gentlemen,
While Becket aids the king, with sword or pen,
With head in helm or cowl, I am content
To like him.

De Traci.
Bah! so am I.

Brito.
And I.

De Morville.
Then I.

Enter a Beggerman.
Beggarman.
Your charity, brave gentlemen!

De Traci.

If a pennon were as tattered as this fellow's
cloak, 'twould be called the more honourable, and perchance
hung up in a chapel.—Here 's money for thee—go!

De Morville.

'Tis so small a piece of brass, that it shines
in the abyss of his hat, like a glow-worm in a dark ditch.
Here 's another munificent speek—go! we are but poor
Knights of the King's Body.

Beggarman.

Bless ye, but I am poverty itself!

De Traci.

Thou? thou art a Knight of the Hospital,
no less, as I see by thy crutch and bandages. Get thee
away, Sir Lazarus! here comes the king.

Brito.
Heaven smiles in his blue eye, and from his brow
The sun himself shines out!

De Morville.
Becket is with him.
They seem right jocund. How they laugh! as boys,
With their ripe-apple cheeks.

Brito.
The Chancellor 's a wit,
And our good Harry loves it, seasoning wisdom,
As an abbot loves a pot of ale with spice in't.—
Get thee along, fellow!

Beggarman
(going behind the knights).

I'll steal, if
nothing else, a look at him. What 's a king like? Good
lack, I suppose St. George-and-the-Dragon. He has two
bodies, that 's sure!

Enter Henry and Becket, the King with his hands on Becket's shoulders.
Henry.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! By Mahound, an excellent tale!
Come, let us have the other! Press thee a little;
Thou overflow'st with humour, like the gourd
With richest juice.—Come, shall we hear it, ha?

Becket.
May 't please you, sire, now that the evening sun
Reflects him somewhat redly in our looks,
Which he perchance,—so tinged are they with wassail,—
Mistakes for clustering grape, whereon he loves
To hang with warmest kisses—

Henry.
Let him kiss!
And send his burning soul into our cheeks,
Till he change back our blood again to wine,
That fed it! An old Wassailer himself!
That swills the nectarous ether till he reels.
Look you, he wears an after-dinner flush
Crimson as ours! Rogue, he has had his drench,
And purple streams run down his fleecy skirts,
Staining them deep as thine!—Ha? what, Fitz-Urse?
What news from Canterbury?

Fitz-Urse.
My liege, his Grace
The archbishop gasps so hard for life, he scarce
Had breath to make fit answer to your Highness.

Henry.
Poor man! Heaven's gates stand aye ajar for him:
He has a very Saint been ere he died:
A meek, good man!—What mightiness in mildness!
I 've never gain'd from his soft nature half
I had wrung from a stern one.—But he gave some proof
That he agreed the felon-priest should stand
Trial in our Courts, not his?

Fitz-Urse.
Ay, my liege:
Here is the instrument his death-stricken hand
Marked with the cross.

[Giving a parchment.
Henry.
So! well. Keep it, Chancellor,
[Handing it to him.
Till further time.—Have with you to your palace,
And we will hear that story by the way,
You promised us.
[Becket stands abstracted.
Prithee what mood and figure
Is this deep syllogism thou 'rt solving now?
He 's sunk within himself!—Ho, Chancellor!

Becket.
(starts).
I was but conning o'er the tale—my memory—

Henry.
Since you can fold you in your loose fur-sleeves,
And in the sable pall of thought besides,
You want not this warm gown?

Becket.
I would in truth
Put it off—soon—with your good leave—

Henry.
See'st there
[Pointing to the Beggarman.
Yon shiverer, in rags as few as hang
Upon the roadside thorn?—Were it not well
To give that wretch, who shakes i' the summer's sun
Like Winter's image, something of your too-much
For his too-little?

Becket.
I am all content,
And will provide him quickly.

Henry.
Thou wert ever
Most charitable, Thomas!—Come, strip off
This superfluity.

[Laying hold of his robe.
Becket.
Nay, nay, your Highness.

[Struggling to keep it.
Henry.
I swear I'll have it!—You shall walk the town
Naked as dame Godiva, and more stared at,
But I will have it!

[They struggle.
Knights.

Ha! ha! ha!—the King will carry it!—the
Chancellor doubles it close!—'Tis a stiff tussle!—Lion
against Bear!

De Morville.

No; but shepherd against wolf in sheep's
clothing! 'Twill be rent between them!—

Becket.
It is the maddest humour!— [He lets the cloak go.


Henry.
Tut, man! thou need'st but bury thee again
In Meditation's solemn robe: it much
Becomes so grave a lord!—Ha! ha!—I never
Saw thee so lost in foggy thought before.
'Twas a rich mantle, but thou wilt be cover'd
With blessings far more precious.—Give it him!

[It is flung to the Beggar.
Beggarman.
Heaven guard your Majesty, and send my Lord
All that he wishes! And for his good-will
In leaving me this benefit, may he live
A glory to the Church, and at his death
Be worshipt 'mongst the blessed saints and martyrs!
No worse I pray for him—

Becket.
Enough, enough!

[Exit Beggar.
Henry.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!
Thou 'rt well repaid for thy benevolence!—
Fitz-Urse, I say?—Again to Canterbury:
Stay by the Primate; let no buzzing monks
(Save his confessor, Gryme, whom we can trust,)
Haunt his bedside; nor, while he drops to slumber
On the eternal pillow of repose,
With pestilent whispers sting him in the ear.
He 's not to change the instrument—mark that!—
He has given o'er the priest to the King's Bench,
Lawful tribunal for such crime.—And Reginald!
If the Archbishop hold his promise well,
Give his meek spirit my god-speed, and send me
Immediate tidings when he is in heaven.— [Exit Fitz-Urse.

Have with you, Chancellor.

Becket.
At your Grace's pleasure.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE II.

A Royal Apartment.—Queen Eleanor alone.
Eleanor.
Henry, thou play'st me false! With whom, I know not,
But to find that out, feel myself all eyes:
Each sense, except my sight, is numb, null! null!
I do not taste my meats; I hear no music
Even when the trumpet brays it at my side;
To me the rose is scentless as the briar;
What touches me might be a burning share,
Or wedge of ice, they are indifferent:
But I can see! see—atomies! Thou shalt not,
Minion, escape me! 'Mongst ten thousand faces
Were thine one, I could swear to its bold blush.
O! I could guess her from a gown, a glove,
A cap, or aught her wanton form had ever
Swell'd out!—Suspicion, thou art call'd the dam
Of false conceits, to which the Devil is sire;
To me thou seem'st somewhat almost divine,
That canst discern all things at once—a searcher
Into the murkiest heart! Come, Inspiration
Of the abused; suggest the shape, the air,
The vision of my rival, and my victim!—
Let me consider:—
I should know something of the stratagems
Play'd off by tricksy woman; all the webs
She weaves before men's eyes to hide herself;
The painted bashfulness she can put on,
To seem what she is not; the brazen front
She steps so high with, to be thought impregnable
As Pallas, when as slippery as Venus:
All these, ere my divorce from that nice fool,
Louis of France, punctilious Louis! I
Had perfect-making practice in; and if
I have the pain of such repute, I 'll have
The gain, please Vengeance!—Oh, she must find out
Some holier sanctuary than the sepulchre,
Even for her dead bones, that I shall not gibbet them
As high as Haman's, to the grinning world!—
My Maidens there?—
[Enter the Maids of Honour.
If ye be such?—Now, Bold-face!
Are you the King's—toy?

First Maid.
Madam, my humbleness never
Reach'd the majestic level of his eyes.

Eleanor.
Nor you, stale Prudery?

Second Maid.
Madam, not I!

Eleanor.
You'll all say so! you'll all say so! when even
The infamous brand had burnt plain Harlot there
On the convenient tablet of your brows.—
Get ye all gone!—Come back, and dress me quick—
(To herself.)
I will go talk with that same cunning man
At Clerkenwell, who kens all covert doings
Which Night's dark mantle wraps.— (Aloud)
Is there, or no,
A haunt of wise-folk near the brambled fields
By Old-Bourne hill?

Third Maid.
Great madam, ay.

Eleanor.
Had ye not, one of ye, your fortune told,
Even to the pettiest freak?

Third Maid.
Your Grace, they told me:
“You are to serve a Queen, and gain one day
A pair of royal ear-rings for your pay.”

Eleanor.
Darling of Destiny! they said you sooth,—
[Pinches her ears.
I 'll see if they tell me such punctual truth.—
Hie to your chambers!—Dwerga!
[The Dwarf peeps forth.
Make the bolt
Upon these gadders, and these gossip-goers,
As wandering and as wanton as the vines
That must be nail'd up.—
[Exeunt Maids.
I will now to Becket's,
But in another hood. Ho there, Abortion!

Enter Dwerga.
Dwerga.
Here! here, my grandam!

Eleanor.
Thine, prodigious Imp?

Dwerga.
What, am I not thy grand-child? thou that bought'st me
Of my Norse dam, when scarce the size of a crab,
And fed'st me to my present stature with
Dainties of all kinds—cocks' eggs, and young frogs
So freshly caught they whistled as they singed,
Like moist wood, on the spit, still bubbling out
Dew from their liquid ribs, to baste themselves,
As they turn'd slowly!—then rich snails that slip
My throttle down ere I well savour them;
Most luscious mummy; bat's-milk cheese; at times
The sweetbreads of fall'n mooncalves, or the jellies
Scumm'd after shipwreck floating to the shore:
Have I not eat live mandrakes, screaming torn
From their warm churchyard-bed, out of thy hand?
With other roots and fruits cull'd ere their season,—
The yew's green berries, nightshade's livid bugles,
That poison human chits but nourish me,—
False mushrooms, toadstools, oak-warts, hemlock chopt?

Eleanor.
Ay, thou 'rt an epicure in such luxuries.

Dwerga.
My fangs still water!—Grandam, thou art good!
Dost thou not give me daily for my draught
Pure sloe-juice, bitter-sweet! or wormwood wine,
Syrup of galls, old coffin-snags boil'd down
Thrice in fat charnel-ooze, so strong and hilarous,
I dance to a tub's sound like the charmer's snake
We at Aleppo saw? What made me, pray you,
All that I am, but this fine food? Thou art,
Then, my creatress; and I am thy creature.

Eleanor.
My creature, not my offspring.

Dwerga.
Oh, thou thought'st
I meant thy very babe—by the young Saracen
Of my swart favour, whom thou loved'st in Jewry—

Eleanor.
Small monster! I will crush thee like a hornet
If thou darest buzz a word of that—

Dwerga.
Sweet grandam!
I would not for the world, save here alone
That we may chuckle at thy husband's honours!

Eleanor.
Fetch me my hood,—
The yellow one.

Dwerga.
Yes, grandam!
(Sings)

[Exit.
Eleanor.
Venomous spider! I could pierce it through
With a witch's bodkin, but it does me service.

Dwerga
(re-entering behind her).
Doats on thee too, dear grandam!—less in gratitude
Than that, as Dwerga does and all her race,
Thou work'st ill to those gawkish, smooth, soft things,
Call'd mortals.—Shan't I go with thee, my Dame?

Eleanor.
Thou wouldst be mischievous.

Dwerga.
Lovest thou not mischief?
No!—hatest it, worse than the horse-leech hates blood!

Eleanor.
In, cockatrice!—that wouldst sting even the hand
Which feeds thee, and caresses!—In, deformity!

Dwerga.
Must I sit purring like a tigress-cub
Over my paws alone? or peer from out
These bars, like a new-caught baboon?

Eleanor.
Attend
Thy duty; or I'll pack thee to the chymist,
Who 'll drown thee first in vitriol, and then
Bottle thee up as a false birth of Nature,
To draw the passing gaze with. 'Tend thy duty!
Thou 'lt have enough to keep those skittish fillies
From whinnying out of bounds, if they should hear
Even a jackass bray.

Dwerga.
I 'll fetter them!
They are as fearful of me as a fiend.
If they dare venture forth, I 'll spit green fire,
Pinch them about the ancles, fly upon them
As a wild cat, and score their waxen cheeks,
Distract them with such dissonant yells and screams
That they shall think ten furies flicker round them!
Break out?—Let one o' them,—with my spongy lips
I'll suck a blood-spot on her neck will spoil
Her beauty for a month! Not the Nile weasel
Falls with such malice on the crocodile's eggs,
As I will on these glossy ones!

Eleanor.
Do so!—yet take
Some heed,—for mortals have their malice too.

Dwerga.
Ha! ha! ha! ha!
They cannot hurt me, as my skin is thick
And bags about me all in dewlaps—see!
Then I can roll me up into a hedgehog,
And put out prickles that would pierce their feet,
Did they tramp on me; I can slip away
Like a sleek otter when they grasp at me,
And then turn short and bite till my teeth meet.
Let me alone for them!

Eleanor.
In, then, and watch.—
[Exit Dwerga.
The Chancellor holds a feast: there my false Harry
Will be, no doubt, by preconcert, to meet
His bella donna. None thinks of Eleanor!
Her bloom is flown, as are the amorous bees
That once clung to it!—I am left forsooth
With a few manikins and greensick girls,
To lead an old-maid's after-life with apes
In this hell-gloomy palace!—But I'll follow!
I 'll be a guest they neither wot nor wish!
I 'll be a go-between,—to part, not couple!—
Are they assembled yet?—Some half-hour gone!—
'Tis time!—Ha! ay!—he bows her to the dance.
They smile—they lisp—they make dove's eyes—they murmur.
He leads her now to a dim, curtain 'd room—
They rush to the love-wrestle—kiss—they kiss!—
O serpents in my heart!—methinks my flesh
Turns to a swarm of them! I feel my hair
Tangle and writhe and swell like sinewy creatures!
I 'm Fury's self,—all but her scourge!—Oh, lend it,
Vengeance!—this hand with palsy of eagerness shakes
To use it on these kissers!—Kiss? hiss! kiss!
My blood turns poison at the sound!—Kiss! hiss!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Apartments in Becket's Palace, gorgeously set out and illuminated. Knights, Ladies, Squires, Pages, Minstrels, Attendants: the former attired or disguised in different quaint or characteristic dresses. Cates and wines served round. Music. The King seen apparelled as a Soldan in an inner chamber.
Becket enters, and signs to De Morville.
Becket.
De Morville, you love not these mummeries,
Whilst, as all other wise men, you allow them.
Hie to the porch, good sir; you know the Queen;
Should Jealousy, that ignis fatuus,
With green and flickering taper light her hither,—
Though she pretends in sourness of her soul
To love retreat, and feasts but on her spleen
(Which sprouts the more she crops it—crude refection,
That makes her meagrer still!); and though she is
Too proud for mirth's equality;—yet should she
Perchance come—

De Morville.
I am to give notice.— [Aside]
Hang him!
I scorn these gauds no more than Eleanor,
Though I scoff at them too.

Becket.
Brito is there,
But—“Two heads,” says the proverb. If she come,
Delay her with some shows of reverence,
Whilst you send word. There 's reason high—look to 't.

[Passes on.
De Morville.
I'll fill Sir Richard like a leathern jack
Up to the lips with Winton wine; and then
You shall have Roland for your Oliver!

[Exit.
[Several personages move through the rooms; among them a Veiled Lady, followed by a Gentleman-Usher. After they go out, re-enter Becket.
Becket.
Another guest I've mark'd within the halls,
Unbidden as the Queen,—at least by me!
When I besought her name, that frowning Usher
With courtesy more haught than baron's, said
Between his teeth,—Demoiselle Disconnue.
Whom she may be indeed, I but surmise,
For still she flits and flits, fair Spectre, gliding
Speechless along, nor mixing with us mortals,
More than the pale Moon with the enamour'd trees
Through which she glances, coldly beaming on them.—
Much time is in the minute. This bright thing,
Like some rich gem, is for a monarch's hand,
I guess, not being unskilful in such jewelry:
Let me do him—and some one else—a service,
By keeping it from the Gryphon; Eleanor
Must not lay clutch on it, lest she perhaps,
Like the Egyptian drunkardess, dissolve it
In some sharp menstruum—yea, so devour it,
Through luxury of revenge!—
Good king, thou 'lt thank me better for this deed,
And faster bind me friend, than had I saved
Rouen or Caen! Our private services seem
Love to the king, public but to the kingdom.
Harry of England!
Albeit thou hast much wisdom, for one born
But to be made a fool of from the cradle,—
Yet so predominates the weaker element
Of that same earth-and-water compost—Man—
That even the fiery spirit heaven put to it
Cannot drink up the spring of softness in thee,
But leaves thee mouldable by skilful hands—
What 's this? I am forgotten!
Most by myself, and worst—
[Turning to the guests.
Drink, gentlemen!
Ye trifle with me only!—Fill me there
[To a Page.
A horn of hippocras, so amber-pure
The yellow lights shall flame more lustrous through it!
Brim it up, boy! till the fresh dazzling foam
Swell o'er its burnish'd lip, like these fair bosoms
Above their bordering gold!—Health, beauteous Dames!
Sweet Demoiselles! health, noble Chevaliers!
Pledge me, I pray you, all!—my wishes are
So personal for the health of each, they ask
Unanimous return!

Guests.
Be happy, sir,
As you deserve; we need not wish you more!

Becket.
Thanks! thanks!—Now let the flood of joy roll on
And bear us with it,—so we keep our feet!
Now let the perfumed air with pleasure glow
Till even the hard heart melt, the iciest burn!
Now, gallants, lead your mistresses a measure
Where they can prove the Graces are not fled
With classic times!—Come, ladies!—Sooth I'll swear
You've not fine ancles if you fear to show 'em!—
Minstrels, strike up! let the gay mandolin
Mock the grave-voiced theorbo; whilst the harp
With intricacy sweet of various chimes,
Bewilders its own strain; and fife and shalm,
Piercing the tabret's solid-booming hum,
Give a clear edge to music!—Trouveurs! Conteurs!
Spread, spread about your free wits and yourselves!
Hie to the bow'red chamber and alcove
Whither Love's chief luxuriasts retire,
And in the ear of bending beauty pour
Your amorous songs, and tell soul-moving tales,
Or mirthful, to such triumph of your skill,
That these vast domes re-murmur with sweet sighs
Or throb with echoing laughter. Make all pleased
To be here, as I am to see them!

[Passes on.
1st Lady.
A gallant man, our Host! the cream of courtesy!

2d Lady.
Oh a magnificent creature!—such a leg!—

1st Cavalier.
He is the prince of priests!

An Alderman.

Ay, and a learned, I 'll assure you: he
has read Geoffrey of Monmouth and the Lives of the Saints
—in Latin; besides being deep in Romance as not a minstrel
of them all!

An Abbot.

O sir, his accomplishment has gone much farther
than your imagination: Venerable Bede himself, who read
so much he did not know the extent of his own knowledge,
was an ignoramus to our Chancellor.

2d Cavalier.

Truly it is possible: what with his embassies
to Rome, and his studious sojourn among the Italians, he
must have their Latin talk as much at his tongue's end as
a nun's parrot has the vocabulary of scandal.

Abbot.
It must be so, for never unfledged wit
Could take such flight as his, so near the sun!

2d Lady.

He has learned somewhat better than your
learning, I'm sure! What is it all to La gaie Science? In
that he is perfect!

3d Cavalier.

Well, I forgive him being able to read and
write, which is only fit for those slugs of the cloister-garden,
the monks, but the disgrace of a preux chevalier; I forgive
it him all, because he can sing the Song of Roland better
than any man since—what-d'ye-call-him? that led us on at
Hastings.

Abbot.

You speak of Taillefer, the warrior-minstrel—

Enter Brito behind, intoxicated, with a leathern jack.
3d Cavalier.

Taillefer, or Tell-fair, either will do—he
told us fair enough we should be conquerors.

4th Cavalier.

This Becket is a Saxon—where did he get
so much fire of genius to clarify his fatness of brain derived
from such ancestors? What are the Saxons fit for, but to
swill, sleep, and tend swine?

Brito.

That's a libel, by St. Edward the Confessor!—
I confess it a most nefarious libel, and will prove it so on
this spot!

4th Cavalier.

You lie there as you stand, and shalt lie
again where you fall!

[Draws.
Brito.

Come on with your bull-rush, you perpendicular
French frog!—Here's my battle-axe!

[Swinging the jack.
An Esquire.

Oh, he is drunk, he 's drunk!—tongue and all
totter!

[Supporting Brito.
Brito.

You're drunk yourself! You've drunk so much,
everything dances before you, and so you think I totter!—
Tend swine, indeed? Saxons only fit to tend swine? You,
Norman squire jackanapes! you're only fit to tend me,—
and that's not much better!

Guests.

Ha! ha! ha! ha!—truth is in wine!

Brito.

I heard what ye said, backbiters—swine forsooth
only fit to tend Saxons!—Oh, I shall never forget it!—Was
not Harry Beauclerc (bless his scholarship!) half Saxon at
the least?

4th Cavalier.

Norman, to the backbone of his heart!—
how prove you him half Saxon?

Brito.

Ay, and more! Wasn't his wife, Maud Atheling,
Saxon,—and what call you that but his better half? Pish!
it is child's-play to put you addle-headed Normans down!
Was Alfred the Great Saxon or no? tell me that. And
was he only fit for a hog-herd, a tender of bristled sheep?

Did Alfred lack genius or learning? Didn't he translate
the Pater Noster into English, which every good Saxon,
who doesn't carry his prayers in his cheek, has by heart?
—Didn't he cudgel those sea-robbers the Danes (birds of
the same nest with the Normans, I trow!) till he hammered
the laws of propriety into their loggerheads?

4th Cavalier.

Cudgel the Normans?— (Drawing.)

Brito.

Ay, Normans or Lord-Danes, 'twas all one!

[They fight.
Guests.

Part them! Peace, peace; here comes our
Entertainer!

Becket
(re-entering).
What is the matter? Revelry is not riot!—
How now, Sir Richard! wherefore thus come up
From the guard-chamber?

Brito.

Come up? marry come up!—I'm come up because
I was elevated!

Becket.

Who put this porker into such a pickle?

Brito.

Why, good Sir Hugh, none else! Sir Hugh
was my pickler, and preserver likewise—with drink—
or I had perished of a dry rot in your guard-cellar below!
—He thought to keep me from mounting, the knave! but
I roared beyond all forbearance.

Becket.
De Morville? ha! I smell a viper.—
(To the Attendants).
Look,
This swollen wine-skin tumble not about—

[Exit.
Brito.

Now a tankard of brown ale to damp my lips
with, and a song, when my throat is cleared for a chaste
melody—

[Singing as he is led off.

Scene changes to another Room, embowered, and opening on an Orchard.
Henry (as Soldan), La Disconnue, and her Gentleman-Usher.
Henry.
Shine forth, fair Moon! I prithee, from beneath
The cloud which floats between me and thy beams,
To bless me with the soft blaze of thy beauty!
I am an eagle of the night, that dares
Fix on the glorious Sister of the Sun
His ardent eye, which broadens as she brightens,
To take in more of her loved radiancy
With which his rapt soul kindles!—Oh, at length
Put off that shroud; unless thou 'lt have me think
Death hath o'er-marbled thee, so cold thou seem'st,
So mute, so still!

La Disconnue.
Alas! I am yet living!—
But we are now alone, and shelter'd here:
Yet here, in secret and heart-quivering sounds,
I must speak only to thee, as a bird
That warns her mate the fowler is too nigh.
Thou know'st whose will it is has brought me hither
To-night, unto this Castle Dangerous,
No Joyous one to me!

Henry.
Fair Rose of England!
My flower! my bosom's sweet!—look not, I pray,
With such a sadness and lost pensiveness
Upon this secret venture for my sake,
Thy harmless presence here: nor ever deem
Love's blossomy ways are so bestrewn with thorns
To pierce all tenderest things.

La Disconnue.
Ay, to the heart!

Henry.
Nay, nay, not thine!
They shall not: trust thy puissant king and knight!

La Disconnue.
Well! well!

Henry.
I wish'd thee here, it is so rare for us
And difficult to meet; what with the jealousy
Of my gaunt Queen, and thy self-chariness,
Which ne'er confides thy honour unto mine,
[Nodding at her Attendant.
Sans surveillance, for all my promises,
My book-sworn faith and heaven-register'd vows.

La Disconnue.
Ay me!

Henry.
Thou murmuring dove!—fear not; shalt soon,
And safe, betake thee to thine own dim bower.
Meantime thou 'rt here but La Belle Disconnue!
Unknown and unsuspected.

La Disconnue.
Let me still
To all here seem a vision, save to thee.

Henry.
Nay, by Love's shaft! thou art no substance yet
Even to me!—I have not touch'd thy hand—
[Taking her hand.
Most delicate thing! let mine eyes drink thy lustre!
Can o'er-and-o'er refined earth become
Indeed so dazzling-pure? I could scarce guess thee
From lightest leaf freighted with new-fall'n snow
Which the chill evening sun tinges so faint,
Save that thou throbb'st (as thou wert all one pulse)
Though laid in my soft clasp!—Sweet, tremble not!
England himself's thy champion!—Once to my lips—
Once, and no more!—
Kisses her hand.
Dian, who gazes on us,
Might consecrate this sin!

La Disconnue.
O no! methinks
Yon moving shrine of purity doth shudder—
It sheds bright tears—grows dim—We have offended!
Let me depart.

Henry.
Wilt thou be yet so coy
And credulous of ill?—Take this as seal
[Shows a Ring.
Of my drawn bond to thee: canst thou have more?
When Eleanor of Guienne makes one among
The carved saints and sovereigns in our Abbey,
(Which she is wrinkled grim enough to be!)
Thou art my Queen!—By all above I swear it,
And all beneath!—Is this enough, suspectful?

La Disconnue.
Hear'st thou, Lord Walter?

Gentleman-Usher.
I am satisfied!

Becket
(passing swift behind, mutters)
—The Queen! the Queen!

Henry.
Now wish I from my soul
Louis had kept her or the Devil ta'en her!

[Exeunt different ways: the Ring drops in the confusion.
Enter Queen Eleanor.
Eleanor.
Plantagenet, by his port—Vain guise! I know
Well, the crown-bearing air of that proud head,
And fitful clenching of that hand, as if
It aye grasp'd at a sword!—I can see all!—
Were no companions here? Methought I heard
The rustling harsh of gauzes, and light step
Of silver-slipper'd woman, fleeting away!—
They've barred my passage, but I 'll break one—
[Turning towards the Verandah.
Vengeance!
I pray'd thee for a vision of my rival,
And there it is—vanish'd into the night!
Curses on both!—
[Seeing the Ring.
What's this? thou basilisk,
That kill'st me with thy fatal glare! cold glitterer,
Which, like the jewel that the bright-eyed toad
Voids from his head, poison'st e'en by thy touch,—
How I abhor—nay, love thee!—
[Snatching it up.
Thou that show'st
The wrong, wilt haply cast some little ray
On the wrong-doer. One gleam, where'er so deep
She hides her this side hell, will strike her guilt
Aghast,—as to all workers in dark ways,
One sunbeam is a thunderbolt!—Good night,
Thou whom they blazon—La Belle Disconnue,
For ignorance is idolatrous. We yet
May know each other; till then, rest ye well!

[Exit.