 | Babington |  |
ACT I.
SCENE I.
—A Chamber.Gifford, folded in a large Cloak, enters, followed by Walsingham, with his Sword drawn.
WALSINGHAM.
There—further yet—so;—Root thee on that spot,
And if thou shift'st a foot, or hidest a hand,
That moment is thy last. We are alone,
Now speak.
GIFFORD.
I shall. We are alone?—is't so?
WALSINGHAM.
As freely as unto the savage air
Unpierced yet by touch of human voice,
Utter what thou would'st speak. Answer, what art thou?
A man.—No less.
WALSINGHAM.
Nor more, I wot. What man?
What art thou?—speak. Methinks thy looks and bearing
Are all encrusted o'er with villainy.
Perchance thy tongue is better. Let mine ears
Set right mine eyes.—Say on. No quibbling, knave—
What art thou?
GIFFORD.
(Aside.)
So peremptory, Right Honourable? A loud
crack may, peradventure, kill a snipe—marry, not me—
(Aloud.)
What am I?—a puzzle!—a jest in earnest out
of the Statesman's Manual. A man and no man, a somebody
else. The incarnation of a piece of deep policy.
The fleshly link, my lord, between what you want to
know, and what you have to give. If you ask my name
—I give you that for to-day which I shall haply change
to-morrow—for a better! Even as you would do your
title, my lord. My lord, you seem troubled.
WALSINGHAM.
Within, there!—No. I will try one peg more.
Slave, dost thou think me some court light-o'-love,
That thou can'st play the fortune-teller with me?
Think'st thou to mist mine eyes with saucy riddles,
Or muddle me with fulsome prophecies?
Mark me. A single word, aye, look of mine,
Can conjure up the thumb-screw and the rack;
Thy tongue shall be thy bail, and,—note me, sir,—
Wag to the truth—or else shall not wag long,
Except to howl.—
GIFFORD.
And mark you me, my lord;
I shall deal plainly, if but plainly dealt by;
You shall have ingots, if you pay in ducats;
'Tis honest barter, and 'tis mine.
Now, further,
As for your prisons and tormenting engines,
I say, take thought upon Perillus' Bull,
And look ye howl not in your own device.
I tell ye,—aught that ye inflict on me
But brings the mine, destruction, to your feet
More surely—so beware.
WALSINGHAM.
Thou art a villain!
I am a Jesuit.
WALSINGHAM.
Wast thou the devil—
The Belial that o'er-kings thy dark fraternity,
I'd wrench thy secret out.
GIFFORD.
(After a pause, contemptuously.)
Why look ye, my lord?—This may be “diamond cut
diamond;” but 'tis not, “well met, hail fellow.” Here
have I told thee a truth; and how am I reguerdon'd?
Why, with bluster. Like the crow in the fable, ye may
cast pebbles into the pitcher till ye raise the water, but ye
shall scarcely pump a Jesuit by dint of hard words. If
ye want the truth, ye must e'en prime with the same
commodity. This let me tell you—As for the rest, take
heed that your shoulder rue not the rebound of your own
harquebuss.
WALSINGHAM.
Thou talkest glibly—talk so on the rack.
GIFFORD.
Be sure I shall not talk more to the purpose.
—My lord, you are a statesman, and the world
Or any spaniel that doth page your heels,
Did know your secret heart, or was the prompter,
The wire-puller, the director of your acts,
Think ye I'd thrust my neck into your fangs
For the honour o't?—No; no.
Now, if ye deal
Thus in your own concernment, as I wot,
Why think a Jesuit shallower than yourself?
Deem ye the master-mind is register'd
On such a rag as I am? Would ye dig
In such a mean and common piece of earth,
To seek the treasure, Truth?
I am a Jesuit;
And being so, what am I? Less a man
Than a poor mould for an incarnate spark
Of the spirit of mine order. I am nothing
But what I am made; and what think ye is that?
Why, but a link of that invisible chain,
Whose end is in the clouds, but whose immensity
Can clasp the earth's circumference, and zone round
The waist o' the world—yea, can embrace her limbs,
And have enough to spare, and o'er her neck
While I am part; but, sever'd from my fellows,
Am nothing. Why, I were not worth a fire.
What can ye gain by practising on me?
'Tis in my power to save you from destruction;
'Tis in your power but to destroy yourselves.
Would ye do that? If so, then let me hang,
And stop the breath of your intelligence.
—What would you say, my lord?
WALSINGHAM.
Thou art a fiend,
And gloriest with a fiendish impudence,
As mischief were thine element more than life.
—What can'st thou do to prove these boasts of thine?
If thou know'st aught against the Queen and State,
Speak it, and say at once what's thy reward.
Here's gold enough to buy a thousand pardons,
Should'st e'en betray the Church that sells thee them.
GIFFORD.
Put up your purse, my lord! A ton of gold
Were but a hair to weigh me from my purpose.
—What can I do?—Oh! wise and profound statesman,
What would ye have me do? What is the key-stone
If ye but drop a seed into the bosom
Of the ne'er-barren earth, do ye not watch
And tend it as the mother doth her babe,
Nor deem 'twill spring at once? What can I do?
Mark if I know at least what should be done.
Know ye the visage of your enemy
When ye behold it?
(He shews a Miniature, richly adorned.)
WALSINGHAM.
(Aside.)
It is she herself,
As splendid as resistless, and more fateful
Than is the stayless lightning—Cockatrice!
The rascal's right enough, but every knave
Hath like intelligence.
GIFFORD.
(Aside.)
Ha! have I moved ye?
WALSINGHAM.
(Aside.)
'Tis set with gems, and this fantastic legend
Here, i'the casket, is her character.
GIFFORD.
You are struck, my lord. Know ye that glitt'ring mischief?
(Hastily.)
Where got'st thou this?
GIFFORD
(with assumed coolness.)
Too fast, my lord! Before you expect me to tell you
that, ask if I know it myself. Thus came I by it—with
my instructions!—and whence came they? canonically;
even as an angel's message; out of a cloud!—Plainly, in
three words I know not.
WALSINGHAM.
I'll make thee know—
GIFFORD.
Why, would it not be better
If I made thee?
I tell thee what, Sir Francis,
As 'tis in vain to seek what is not lost,
So that can not be found which is not hid.
Thou might'st as well attempt to gyve the Echo,
And make her tell what 'tis she babbles of,
As question me. I am a tool that must
Be used one way, or else am useless; use me,
And I am yours. Crush me, and you are lost.
Ye cannot burst the doors of destiny,
But ye may pick the lock. I know the windings
Patience, and try again—
Nay, stop me not;
Or if you do, my lord, tell me but this—
The question's candid—Have I warn'd you not
Against your enemy? Thus far have I kept
The crown o' the causeway. Good. What see you in me—
I say what see you, that you need to start
As if I were the Archfiend, come to lure
Your steps to his burning mine? What I would ask
Is granted e'en as easy as 'tis heard,
And that should sure be easy.
WALSINGHAM.
What dost ask?
GIFFORD.
No mighty matter. I have shewn I know
Those you would know, and those that well know you.
I come to warn you of their dark devices.
If ye will take the warning, as 'tis given,
Nor, like the sturdy beggar, scorn an alms,
Because 'tis not a largess, let me have
Access to you, and upon what I tell you
As ye see fit. What would ye further? Let me
Have a short conference with some one in trust,
And what I promise, prove.
WALSINGHAM.
It shall be so;
Within there.
Enter Sir Amias Paulet, and an Officer.
Hark, Sir Amias—Sir, you may retire.
[Exit Officer.
(Aside.)
Mark ye this man. I say, note down his face,
Not his habiliments; for happily
He hath as many forms as Proteus,
As changeable as is an April sky,
And, ten to one, more treacherous. Mark him.
(Aloud.)
Now, sir,
What is't that you would say?
GIFFORD.
The Queen, four days hence,
Takes boat at Whitehall.—Doth she not, my lord?
WALSINGHAM.
How know'st thou that?
I ask thee; doth she not?
No answer!—Nay, you need not gaze at me
So fixedly, Sir Amias. I am true
As you yourself, and that you are, I know.
But to the coil in hand. Let not her Majesty
Forego her expedition—only this
Perhaps were well.—Contrive that her attendance,
Without apparent foresight, be well arm'd.
Not with a show of guard—but let the gallants
Who page her progress, or who pay their court,
Be of that sort ye wot of. So, there's fear
Without the threat'ning. So much for the present;
Next day, if she doth change her wonted airing,
And go to Richmond with the French Embassador,
That is her private purpose, peradventure
There may be need of more. But in that time
I will speak with ye, so ye scorn me not,—
Now let me have free passage.
WALSINGHAM.
One word more.
GIFFORD.
No, not a sound. My errand is told out,
My very breath is meted, and I deal not
In over measure.
SIR AMIAS.
This is insolence.
My lord, let me essay him, and I'll warrant—
GIFFORD.
Wait for your warrant!
Mark me, Sir Amias,
You were sent here to listen, not to prate.
(Turning to Walsingham.)
My tongue is but an echo, and my voice
Pitch'd to the tenor of another pipe,
With which it falls or rises. I am dumb,
Because My Master wills it. Who is he?
He were a scholar who should answer that—
Your password, my lord.
WALSINGHAM.
Within there! Sir Amias, let him have
Safe conduct.
Enter Officer.
SIR AMIAS.
He shall have't, my lord.
Go, sir.
GIFFORD.
I thank your lordship. Ye shall hear of me.
[He goes out with the officer.
WALSINGHAM.
Now, Sir Amias—What think ye of this?
SIR AMIAS.
Even that we have a snake by th' tail; that's all.
If we be rough, he stings us—If we slip
Our vantage, he enshrouds him in his hole.
Would I had once his head beneath my heel!
WALSINGHAM.
Have with you, Sir Amias. We must take
Some counsel upon this. There may be truth,
Though, certes, small may be our gain thereby,
If Jesuits' truth be slipprier than a lie.
Come, sir, time calls on us.
[They go out.
SCENE II.
—An Apartment in Babington's House.Enter Plasket and Gardevin.
PLASKET.
Why, Master Gardevin, according to thee, the world is
like a huge cheese filled with maggots, which only serve
to shew it is rotten?
GARDEVIN.
Thou say'st well, Master Plasket. Rotten? marry, we
are turned topsy-turvy, man, woman, and child, methinks.
PLASKET.
Topsy-turvy? why, with the children that may sort
well enough; but the women? Master Gardevin,—oh,
fie!
GARDEVIN.
Go to, go to. Thou art a wag by profession, and
turnest people's sayings, even like thine own jerkin, with
the lining outward; but it cannot hold long, or I look to
brew in January and see snow at midsummer.
PLASKET.
Why, what is wrong now?
Why, what is right now? have not we all turned
worldmenders, forsooth? and are not old customs hunted
down like foxes, or only borne with to make sport? no,
marry, nothing that is old will go down now.
PLASKET.
Yes, one thing.
GARDEVIN.
What thing, Master Plasket?
PLASKET.
Why, your old wine. That goes down as well as ever,
Master Gardevin. We still chaunt—
(He sings.)
My bottle's my doxy, and she's my delight;
So keep to your wedlock, as I keep to mine;
Take you your old dame, and give me my old wine.”
GARDEVIN.
Aha! go to, Master Plasket, go to; thou art a wag
still. Old wine, sayest thou? troth hardly. Your heretical
Lollards must meddle there, too. Marry, come up
—your Malmsey, and your Tent, and your Tawney
Mountain, and your fiery Sherris, are looked down upon
waiting wenches will boggle at a cup of strong ale to break
their fast i' the morning, for fear of their favour, forsooth.
They're mad, and that at both ends, that's certain—and
now, instead of housewifery, they must play o' the virginals.
When they should be pickling, they con play-books,
and instead of making conserves, are making love—as they
call it.
PLASKET.
Which is no conserve, sayest thou? eh! Master Gardevin?
GARDEVIN.
Aha! go to—go to—thou art a sad wag, Master Plasket.
Then, there's the men. I thought what their tinkering
would come to. After mending everything, they've
ta'en to mending their religion, with a murrain!
PLASKET.
Which should have mended them, Master Gardevin.
GARDEVIN.
Mended them? ay, truly, not without need. Well,
Heaven mend us all, and Heaven mend the times.
PLASKET.
Thou rememberest good old times, Master Gardevin.
Remember? do I not?—ah! well do I remember—in
old Harry's days. There was I, a whipster; I abode
then by Walthamstow; I wot I had a touch o' the sweating
distemper, and Father Abbot (who but he?) would
send one of the lay brothers with herbs and medicinals, ay,
and wine, Master Plasket, from his own blessed hands,
till the fit left me; and then, the holy Father himself took
ill o' the falling sickness.
PLASKET.
The falling sickness? Wine would be a bad cure for
that, Master Gardevin.
GARDEVIN.
Ah! go to—go to; thou art a wicked wag, Master
Plasket;—and I, as in duty bound, went every morning to
inquire after the health of the good Father. There was
always a good flagon of ale, and a cold chine, or, peradventure,
a venison pasty; and nothing in return but to
pray for Father Abbot. Small need was there to bid me
do that, I trow!
PLASKET.
No; I dare swear thou would'st pray that thou might'st
long have to inquire after Father Abbot.
Could I do less? Ah! these were the good old times!
I stomach not these reformations, Master Plasket.
PLASKET.
Thou sayest well—for thy faith is mainly in thy stomach,
methinks.
GARDEVIN.
Ah! go to; thou art a wag by profession, and never
failest—In my stomach! Well, Heaven send such times
again, for this house looks not like itself.
PLASKET.
How so?
GARDEVIN.
How so? askest thou that? There was my old lord—
he would wake the lark with his bugle, be she never so
early, and see his horn of October froth and sparkle in the
first sunbeam. Then we welcomed the evening star with
a catch, did we not?—Now, there is nothing but haunting
the renegado Court, or close colleaguing, Heaven
knows for what! Doth not the sun shine, and the does
leap, as heretofore, Master Plasket? I like not that Master
Boone. He may smooth it i' the sunshine; but I
have heard him pace his turret-chamber by the hour, when
go well, Master Plasket;—but the crows have not shifted
for nothing.
PLASKET.
Shifted?
GARDEVIN.
Why, know ye not they have left the great elms, where
they have housed these two hundred years? all the
house knows that; and, as I am a sinner, I have not eyed
a rat i' the cellar these two months. Well, well, the sky
is over our heads, Master Plasket. Will ye taste a cup
of March beer i' the buttery?
PLASKET.
Excuse me, Master Gardevin; as I croak not like thee,
I need not thy cordial.
GARDEVIN.
Sayest thou so? If fools get out o' fashion, wilt thou
croak then? and if laughter be banished, I trow, fools
will soon follow.
PLASKET.
Why, Master Gardevin, certes, fools may get out o'
fashion, but folly never—that's my comfort.
Ah! go to—go to; thou never failest. Well, God be
wi' ye—now I think on't, my lady will be looking for her
posset.
[Gardevin goes out.
PLASKET.
He speaks too truly. In this seething age,
In the times' ferment, when the basest natures
Work strongest from beneath, authority
Grows jealous, and thinks e'en the tone of truth
Smacks of sedition. Yet I blame them not.
The heavens are full of clouds. Untimely glooms
Hang, prophesying tempest, o'er the land.
The hearts of men lack sunshine, and the flowers
Of jocund mirth are dead. E'en this old man,
Whose tongue hath still held chime with revelry,
More tunesome than the grashopper to spring,
Or winter cricket by the crackling fire,
Grows sad, he knows not why; and babbles o'er
His homely auguries; and looks i' the sky
For sorrow coming, if the north wind whistles
Sadder than wont.—
Nay, have not even I
Become infected with this melancholy,
And hurtle round the turrets of this house,
Not as they used to do? It is observed,
The herons have forsworn these ancient woods,
And strangely left their uninvaded nests
Heirlooms to th' hooting owls; ev'n at high noon,
The peacock flies th' accustom'd gate, and hides
I' the sedge; and country churls do cogitate
And note these things; yea, shake their heads, and raise
Forgotten tales, and on a freak of nature
Build up a thousand auguries. There are some
Will shew you how the bright and daisied rings,
The steps of fairies on the green, are blasted;
And thus, they say, good spirits take their leave,
And woe steps o'er the threshold.
Even so:
Thus runs the world. How often do we see
The born in sunshine darkle to their end,
And joy, to those in sorrow, rise too late!
We are but Fortune's toys, and, like a child,
She tires and takes a new one.
Save you, lady!
Now, be your heart as light as is your foot,
In sooth I heard you not.
AGNES.
Good-morrow, Plasket.
For one who still must run a tilt at wit,
Methinks you're grave to-day.
PLASKET.
Why, truly, lady,
Perhaps I may be. To the merriest feasts
Unwelcome guests will come.
AGNES.
You may say so.
PLASKET.
May I, in sooth? Gramercy, what is here!
Now, Heaven forefend—a sigh, and from such lips,
Where smiles still seem'd to banquet, as the bees
Hang, never satiate, on the fragrant thyme!
Well, Heaven be thank'd, the remedy is easy,
And leeches night at hand.
AGNES.
What is thy cure?
A jolly bridal and a handsome groom,
The true physician—would 'twere my degree!
AGNES.
So should the cure be worse than the disease,
As it is, haply, nine times out of ten.
PLASKET.
Now, out upon you for a never-pleased!
Is there not one of all the cavaliers
Who haunt, like spirits, the circle of your glance,
Can hit your squeamish fancy?
AGNES.
As thou needs
Must talk, e'en talk what foolery thou wilt,
Only, expect me not to answer thee.
If that mine eyes were but a brace of dice,
They might attract some gallants that we wot of.
PLASKET.
Nay, lady, never task your gentle nature:
Silence and woman were false heraldry—
They never quarter in the same escutcheon.
What can you libel now 'gainst Master Charnock?
Sure he's no dicer? A grave cavalier,
He hath rich manors, too, which, as good land
They say should do, feed everything but lawyers,—
What can you say to him?
AGNES.
Why, little, truly;
And he to me as little. He's a bigot,
And frowns at you as 'twere the ghostly father,
And you had come to shrift. Nay, name him not:
He's too precautious for my venturing on;
Besides, he's half a miser, and would fear
His angels might find wings. I'll none of him.
PLASKET.
What think you, then, of lordly Abingdon,
The brave and splendid, and just old enough
To know how to be young?
AGNES.
What think I of him?
What should I think of one that's made of iron,
Save that he's a good piece of workmanship?
'Twould pose, I'll warrant, your cunning Flemish artist,
Or him who made the clock at Nuremberg,
To forge a better; though I should not grudge
That's praise enough, is't not?—What! discontented
Still? Why, you're marv'lessly unreasonable,
Good Master Plasket.
PLASKET.
I shall fit ye yet, lady,
Maugre your jibes—There's gentle Tichbourne, ah!
(He sings.)
She loves not Sir Edred the tall;
But dearly, under the greenwood tree,
She loveth young Artingal.
Said I not well? Tichbourne's the man. Ev'n he,
The gallant Chidiok, gay Southampton's star,
As light and sparkling as the gossamer
That seems a thread of sunshine, and as quick,
And yet as gentle, as the swallow's flight;
Soft as the stream whereon the moonbeams sleep,
As clear in honour, and in soul as deep,
Ay, and as rash when stirr'd. I'faith, I clinch
Your choice—he is mine own favourite, after all!
AGNES.
Too fast, good Plasket. Trust me, you have ta'en
In course, too like the summer butterfly,
That flutters on and on with glittering wing,
But recks not why nor whither. As the friend
Of Babington, I would not speak him ill,
But he's too gay, in truth.
PLASKET.
Now, say you so?
In truth, I would he might infect my lord
With that same gaiety you marvel at;
He's wondrous grave o' late. He hath almost sour'd
My store of jokes, as thunder doth small beer,
For the last two months.
AGNES.
Fie, you wrong him, Plasket,
The noble Babington is not severe.
High-thoughted gravity may haply sit
Upon his brow enthron'd, and loftier promptings
Make the shrunk world look little, that perchance
He recks not of it, like a meaner man.
But mark that brow when it unbends itself;
And mark his eye, when it declines, at last,
On Pleasure, who sits smiling at his feet;
High nobleness and courtly gallantry,
Friendship, and all that doth become a man.
PLASKET.
(Aside.)
Comes the shaft thence?—
You're an enthusiast, lady.
AGNES.
It may be so. Hath he not been my brother,
My play-mate, guardian, tutor, all in one?
PLASKET.
(Aside.)
And thou would'st make him husband; would he were!
(Aloud.)
It is true, lady. Marry by my fay,
Here comes our lady mother.
Enter Lady Maud.
Save you, madam.
LADY MAUD.
Good day, good Plasket; what hast thou in hand?
Methought I heard your tongue push'd even now
Beyond its wonted amble.
PLASKET.
What in hand?
A most pernicious precedent for lawyers.
LADY MAUD.
Whose cause?
PLASKET.
Why, even the gentle Master Tichbourne's,
Whom this fair critic here finds full of faults.
I pray your ladyship, take her in hand.
LADY MAUD.
Not I—not I—but Babington is here,
And he shall well ensurety his friend.
You may retire, good Plasket.
[Plasket goes out.
Enter Babington.
How now, son;
You are just in time to end a controversy,
Ay, and reclaim a dangerous heretic,
Who hath blasphemed against your dear friend Tichbourne—
I pray you put in your authority.
BABINGTON.
That were much pity, madam. When soft means
Will work a cure, the church disclaims all violence,
I should most vilely play the guardian now,
My place so long hath slept into disuse.
But if truth, honour, generosity—
A mind as pure as is the blood sustains it—
A tongue match'd only by the speaker's deeds,
May win a woman, why, then, gallant Tichbourne
Can never lack an argument of mine.
What say you, Agnes?—How now?—Not a word!
LADY MAUD.
What should she say? List to me, childish trifler;
In wedding Tichbourne, thou wedd'st worth and honour
That is the first; and, in the next degree,
Prosperity beyond the reach of chance—
A name, nobility, and splendour, grace,
Which shame nor poverty have e'er obscured,
Nor ever shall, or can. If Heaven would stoop
To please your sickly fancy with a husband,
And fashion him to the pattern, tell me, girl,
What could'st thou ask for more?—Speak to her, son.
AGNES.
I pray you spare me, madam.
Babington,
Are you dumb too?
BABINGTON.
Madam, an' if my breath
Could, in its sway, outvie the winds of spring,
That from their plumes drop beauty, youth, and health,
'Twere not too much for my dear friend's deservings.
Heaven hath shower'd down on him prosperity,
And may God grant it lasting—may it 'scape
The blight of tyrannous power—ay, and the sweep
That ever must attend on vengeance' wing
Whene'er she lights upon a darken'd land.
LADY MAUD.
This is another theme.
BABINGTON.
Madam, forgive me
That I forestall your words. Pray, bear with me
For once. You gave me life, and, next to that
In value, Truth, and reverence for the truth
I will speak truly. Tichbourne is a spirit
That beauty's self might be content to worship;
So let her take him. But, in this drear time,
When to be honourable is to be distrusted—
When change strides o'er men's heads, and sets her foot
Upon the noblest necks—who is so good,
But he shall be a mark for those whose archery
Is bent to strike the fairest? Who so humble,
But he shall be an eye-sore unto those
Whose best religion lies in innovation?
In nature's throes, when inward motion shakes
The frighted earth, and the tumultuous waves
Rage like the wild despair, 'twere worse than vain
Sometimes to cast an anchor.
I have spoken;
Now, madam, say what you would say.
AGNES.
Hear me.
Beseech you—here I have the deepest stake,
Although the weakest player. Hear me, sir,
For you are honourable, and hear me, madam,
For you are kind.—Oh, sir! answer but this.—
If in some storm, such as e'en now you spoke of,
You were to risk your whole—if in one cast
Went all that should be dearest—peace and love,
State, happiness, content, soul, heart, and all,
Would you not pause?—would you not hesitate,
Tremble, and stop, and shrink, as I do now?
Oh, press me not—am I not happy here?
And here I know I can be, so please Heaven
And you to suffer me. Alas! alas!
I grieve you.
BABINGTON.
(With agitation.)
No; no more—I am not well.
LADY MAUD.
Sure thou turn'st pale.—How came these shadowy fancies
To cross your mind in such unlucky wise?
You take these things too strongly. This springs, son,
From too much talk and indoors thought, the while;
Where are your hawks, or those two foreign hounds
That Charnock sent you? This is phantasy.
BABINGTON.
I pray you chide me not. 'Tis nothing, madam.
Enter Servant.
Thine errand?
Sir, here is young Master Tichbourne,
With Master Tylney, and with Abingdon,
New lighted from their horses at the gate.
[Servant goes out.
BABINGTON.
Wilt please you, madam, to receive them? I
Shall be with you anon. 'Twas a brief spasm
From over-study; nothing else, believe it.
Come, Agnes, you shall bid young Tichbourne welcome.
LADY MAUD.
You follow, son?
BABINGTON.
I follow in a breath.
[Agnes and Lady Maud go out.
How light a whisper can awake the heart!
Methought my bosom steel—that I could go
To danger as 'twere to a marriage rite—
With such composed cheerfulness—when duty
And honour bade me there; and lo! the softness
Of yon meek girl, and the unconscious pleadings
Of maiden fearfulness, have moved my heart
To very childishness.
With trace of aught remorseful in mine eyes,
Lest it infect theirs too—though it is hard
To chase the bosom's shadows from the brow.
They say, that when the Ocean's surface stirs,
The depths are still at rest; but when below
All is commotion, where's the power can bid
The waves keep down their heads, and to a calm
Smooth the blue superficial? Yet must I
Essay this task, and with sad bosom go
To welcome pleasure, while the heart says no.
[Babington goes out.
| Babington | |