Mary Tudor An Historical Drama |
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Scene I.
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 | Mary Tudor |  |
Scene I.
A Street in Cambridge.Enter Northumberland.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
I have plunged too deep. The current of the times
Hath been ill-sounded. Frosty discontent
Breathes chilly in the face of our attempt:
And, like the dry leaves in November winds,
These summer-suited friends fly my nipped branches.
What's to be done? Time, like a ruthless hunter,
Tramples my flying footsteps! banned and baited
By my own pack, dogs fed from mine own hand
Gnash fangs and snarl on me! Palmer! what ho!
Enter Sir John Palmer.
Thine eyes are downcast—heavy falls thy step—
Sure token of bad tidings.
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Ah! my Lord,
Let me advise—
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Advise me no advice!
Let me know facts. Will our men fight—or march?
At least will they disband? You shake your head.
PALMER.
Indeed, my lord, the signs of disaffection
Are manifold. Some stalk with sullen brow
Musing apart: some gather in pale knots
Whispering with sidelong glances: some stride boldly,
Attesting men and saints that you betray them.
In vain have I assayed all flatteries:
At threats they laugh.
NORTHUMBERLAND.
Good Palmer, threaten not:
Sooth rather—We must change our course, my friend.
PALMER.
Too late!
NORTHUMBERLAND.
What other hope remains? I thought
To loose a tempest on the Tudor's head:
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Too bright the sunshine of true loyalty
Flames in our eyes. The sword fails: we must kneel.
PALMER.
You should have weighed this ere you goaded us
To this alternative. The lion's paw
Is terrible to those who fly, or grovel.
Are you not moved?
NORTHUMBERLAND.
I have been Fortune's mate,
So long, my friend, I trust not in her smiles—
Fear not her frown. I tell thee, Fortune's wheel
O'er the subjected world of men and things
Shall yet roll onward, bearing Dudley's Fates.
If time hold out, at worst one friend remains—
Our Adversary's madness! That shall avail
More than our best of wit. I know this Mary:
But the world, knowing not, made her an Idol.
She shall be known ere long. I bide my time.
Here part we—save thyself.
[Exit Palmer.
Now wit befriend me!
These Malcontents!—still will I march their leader,
And be the first to hail her Queen. If spared,
With jibe for jibe I meet short-witted knaves:
He who would rise bends while the tempest raves.
| Mary Tudor | |