University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—A Chamber.
Agnes and the Lady Maud.
Agnes touches a lute, and lays it down again.
LADY MAUD.
Are the chords false, that thou dost scorn them so,
Or is't thy heart that hath grown out of tune,
And so thy fingers falsify the strings,
Which yet are true, through thine distemperature?
Why, Agnes, did the merry Tichbourne see
These drooping eye-lids, they should almost fright
The spirit of his truth—and that were ill—
For, by my troth, he wears a true light heart.

AGNES.
Too lightly worn to wear well, haply, madam.

LADY MAUD.
Too lightly worn to wear well, haply, madam!
Why, lightliest worn for ever wears the longest.
Now this is the true spirit of misrule.
And so, because thou know'st he loves not grief,
Thou'lt do thy best to fall in love with it.

AGNES.
Nay, madam, you have grown in love with mirth,
And of the sudden—for 'tis all o' late—
And yet I marvel at it, for methinks
Your son is none of those same nimble tongues;
And surely you'd not undervalue him.

LADY MAUD.
No, Agnes, no; a mother's fondness doubled,
If double of a mother's love could be,
Were not too much for him—yet is he grave,
Too grave, methinks, for many ladies' love,
Who cannot find desert, unless it be
Bloom'd o'er with smiles, and wreathed with many mirths,
As if it were the garland made the May.

AGNES.
The eagle, when he soars towards the sun,
Is blind to specks beneath; and, lofty souls,
Whose aspirations rise a higher pitch,
Stoop not to mingle with the petty crowd
That keep the surface, and fret to and fro,
Full of the little business of the world.
Strong minds are ever difficult to move,
And, most of all, to laughter or disport;
Such is the gravity of Babington.

LADY MAUD.
Agnes, thou still wast partial in his praise;
But tell me, think'st thou Babington ambitious?

AGNES.
Pardon me, madam—no.

LADY MAUD.
Nay, blush not, Agnes;
Thou dost mistake me. All my drift was this;
Think'st thou his mind superior to his state?

AGNES.
Methinks his mind is better than his state,
And would be so, whate'er that state might be.

LADY MAUD.
But dost thou think distinction is his aim?

AGNES.
Virtuous distinction, madam; noble toil
Surely he would prefer to recreant case.

LADY MAUD.
In truth, he hath been lofty from a child,
And e'en his boyish pastimes relish'd still
Of a minute and honourable pride:
I have observed it oft.

AGNES.
Oh! doubtless, madam.
I well remember, in our infancy,
When each would have a favourite plant or flower,
He loved the wall-flower most, because it roots
Itself the highest, and can brave the blast,
And climb the rifted rock, or time-worn tower;
And he would praise the holly, for it smiled
Despite the frown of winter, as the bold
Can live and flourish in adversity.

LADY MAUD.
And say, which was my Agnes' favourite flower?

AGNES.
In sooth I know not, madam—or perchance
I have forgotten—'tis so long ago.
Yet do not think but Babington is kind
For all this prattle. I have seen him weep
O'er a wild air, brought from the Scottish hills,—
A simple soothing air, but which they say
Rizzio once sung to falling majesty,
As if his very soul died with the strain
Dissolved in music, as the summer mists
Melt in the first tide of the tender dawn.
It told of purple hills, and forests green,
Embosom'd lakes, and odour-breathing flowers,
And buds just oped, and sunny streams that glitter'd
And danced i'the early ray—now distant far,
And seen, alas! no more. In sooth, 'twas sweet,
And I did weep with him, nor ever knew
How melody spoke till then.
Nay, chide me not,
I could not choose but weep. Good truth, it moved me
As it had waken'd a new pulse of life
That never beat before. Nay, frown not, madam.

LADY MAUD.
I do not frown; but thou givest up thyself
Too much unto these fanciful conceits,
Born of imagination, which hath not
Whereon to diet, and will therefore make
Food for itself. What would'st thou say, dear girl?

AGNES.
What plant is that, which being only touch'd
Or look'd upon with an ungentle gaze,
Doth wither straight, and die?

LADY MAUD.
I know not, child;
Why dost thou ask?

AGNES.
Only because methinks
That plant should ever bloom the best with me.

LADY MAUD.
Why, Agnes, Agnes, this is childishness.

AGNES.
Dear mother!

LADY MAUD.
Sooth, I must be sharp with you.

AGNES.
Be what you please, and say what I must be,
And I am that, dear madam;—only love me,
And be “my mother” still.

LADY MAUD.
I am, dear girl.
Take now thy lute, and breathe some simple air,
May help us to forget this foolish talk.

AGNES.
Madam, I shall. There is a little air
This many a day hath hung about my lute,
As if some spirit had o'erswept the strings,
And tuned them to his fantasy.—'Tis sweet,
But melancholy.—Shall I sing it, madam?

LADY MAUD.
E'en as thou wilt, dear child, so that thou sing'st.

Agnes
Sings.

LADY MAUD.
Why this, methinks, is sadness' very self.

AGNES.
'Tis from the heart, dear mother, and they say
Music, e'en like discourse, should still be child
O' th' heart, or else 'tis nothing.
Plasket, welcome.

Enter Plasket.
LADY MAUD.
Now, Plasket, what's the newest folly stirring?

PLASKET.

None so new, my lady, but that 'tis old enough; and

none so old, but that it comes with a new face, fashion-changed;
e'en like our dames o' quality; of whom the
oldest hath haply the newest complexion!

LADY MAUD.

A riddle! what's this folly that thou talk'st of?

PLASKET.

'Tis a new gift, as easy as fortune-telling, and not quite
so ticklish. Marry, 'tis the faculty of seeing what is not
to be seen, and hearing what is not to be heard. A goodly
accomplishment! and right likely to thrive!

LADY MAUD.

What foolery's this, good Plasket?

PLASKET.

You may say so—Here's a bumpkin, this morning,
will swear you the Baron's chapel, last night, was lighted
up, as for a death solemnity, and that he heard airy voices
chanting the requiem!

AGNES.

What dost thou say? strange music heard i'the night?
—did'st thou hear aught?

PLASKET.

Truly, not I—had it been the music o' the spheres!

Snoring is all my concert till cock-crowing—unless the
wind sing i' the chimney, as it did last night.

AGNES.
This is but fooling.
(Anxiously.)
Didst thou hear nought else?

PLASKET.
Not I, sweet lady.

LADY MAUD.
Wherefore should he, Agnes?
What fancy's this?

AGNES.
No fancy!—I, too, heard it.

LADY MAUD.
What did'st thou hear?

AGNES.
A solemn strain of music,
That mingled with the wind. Methought it floated
And plain'd around the turrets of the house,
Despite the surging air.

LADY MAUD.
This was some dream.

AGNES.
It was no dream.—Your clear and living voices
Are not more palpable.

Enter a Servant, hastily.
PLASKET.
How now? thou sweat'st
As if thou hadst drunk hyssop!

SERVANT.
Honour'd lady,
I come to say, a troop of horsemen spur
Fast up the avenue. Is it your pleasure
The gates be barr'd?

LADY MAUD.
A troop of horsemen say'st thou?
Arm'd?

SERVANT.
Arm'd, my lady.

LADY MAUD.
Let the gates be closed,
If but for ceremony.
[The Servant goes out.
Plasket, go
Up to the turret, and of what thou see'st
Bring back report. No; stay. What needs this stir,
Because an armed troop point at my gate?
What is there we should fear? We are strong enough
To shut out lawless violence; and within
The range of any that the law can sanction,
God knows, we stand not.
(knocking heard.)
They are here already.
Now, Gardevin?

Enter Gardevin.
GARDEVIN.
An armed troop, my lady,
Are at the gate, and in the Queen's name seek
Straightway admittance.

LADY MAUD.
Did'st thou ask their mission?

GARDEVIN.
I did, my lady; but their leader bade me
To ope our gates forthwith, without more parley,
Nor deign'd to speak aught else.

LADY MAUD.
So peremptory!
In the Queen's name? what means this visitation?
No matter.—Let the gates be oped at once;
The guilty fear—not we.
[Gardevin retires.
Why dost thou tremble?
What dost thou fear?

AGNES.
I know not what I fear—
But feel a formless horror creep around me,
That makes me tremble, as the viewless wind
Doth shake the aspen.

LADY MAUD.
This is weakness; fie!

AGNES.
It is—I know it is—pardon me, mother;—
'Tis but a passing shade, and will away—
What have the innocent to dread?
They are here—
Great God!—oh! now be my foreboding false,
For this is fear enough.

Enter Sir Amias Paulet, Gifford, and Soldiers.
SIR AMIAS.
Lady—mine office,
Believe't, I would had not been laid upon me,
For 'tis most painful.

LADY MAUD.
Say, what is it, sir?

SIR AMIAS.
By the Queen's order, through her privy council,
It is commanded me to seize this house,
And all that it contains.

LADY MAUD.
To seize this house!
On what pretence?

SIR AMIAS.
Upon a sworn charge, lady,
And no pretence, although I would 'twere not so—
For that it harbours traitors.

LADY MAUD.
Traitors! whom?
What traitors?—Surely ye do know our name,
That come thus banded to despoil our house,—
And when lodged treason with a Babington?

GIFFORD.

When, say ye? marry, an't please your ladyship, within
these ten hours!—Hark ye, captain; parley no further;
'tis lost breath. Let your myrmidons ransack the house.
'Tis worth your while; and for treason—in this very
room will I shew ye, i'the nonce, the very faces of the
traitors, and these, too, of their own limning. You stare.

There's a device here, my masters, ye wot not of. Mark
ye, now—ay; here 'tis. Mark ye, now! so; there: Back
pannel, and behold.— (He touches a spring, the pannel

slides back, and discovers a painting of the conspirators.)

Welcome, gentlemen, from behind your wooden veil.
Faith! ye shew rarely—a precious parterre for the liquorish
eyes of Bothwell's Mary!—“Quorsum hæc
alio properantibus?”—A goodly motto for men going
post-haste to the gibbet! Know ye any here, sweet ladies?

AGNES.
(Rushes to the picture and screams.)
Ah! Babington!

LADY MAUD.
Where, where?—mine eyes are dim—
What do ye point at?—traitor? sir; no, no.
There is some likeness e'en 'twixt Heav'n and Hell!
It is some gin of wicked treachery—
I say, it is not he—it is not Babington—
No son—no child—of mine—

[She faints.
AGNES.
Oh! ye have kill'd her.

SIR AMIAS.
Support her, there, poor lady. Let us mingle
Pity with duty. Go, search every chamber
Throughout the house.—
Stay—doth this ashen hue,
Argue the life burnt out? or the weak spirits,
Ta'en with a sudden fear at this dire news,
Shrink back to their recesses—doth she not breathe?
Your arm—here—harden'd monk! Gently, good fellow,
There—bear her gently up.

[As they raise her, the scene closes.