University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—Alington Castle.
Sir Thomas Wyatt.
I do not hear from Carew or the Duke
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move.
The Duke hath gone to Leicester; Carew stirs
In Devon: that fine porcelain Courtenay,
Save that he fears he might be crack'd in using,
(I have known a semi-madman in my time
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too.
Enter William.
News abroad, William?

William.

None so new, Sir Thomas, and none
so old, Sir Thomas. No new news that Philip
comes to wed Mary, no old news that all men hate
it. Old Sir Thomas would have hated it. The
bells are ringing at Maidstone. Doesn't your worship
hear?

Wyatt.
Ay, for the Saints are come to reign again.
Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's no call
As yet for me; so in this pause, before
The mine be fired, it were a pious work
To string my father's sonnets, left about
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order,
And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine,
To grace his memory.

William.

Ay, why not, Sir Thomas? He was a
fine courtier, he; Queen Anne loved him. All the
women loved him. I loved him, I was in Spain with
him. I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in
Spain. I hate Spain, Sir Thomas.

Wyatt.
But thou could'st drink in Spain if I remember.

William.

Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine.
Old Sir Thomas always granted the wine.

Wyatt.
Hand me the casket with my father's sonnets.

William.

Ay—sonnets—a fine courtier of the old
Court, old Sir Thomas.

[Exit.

Wyatt.
Courtier of many courts, he loved the more
His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace,
To read and rhyme in solitary fields,
The lark above, the nightingale below,
And answer them in song. The sire begets
Not half his likeness in the son. I fail
Where he was fullest: yet—to write it down.

[He writes.
Re-enter William.
William.

There is news, there is news, and no
call for sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making
either, but ten thousand men on Penenden Heath all
calling after your worship, and your worship's name
heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the
first man in Kent and Christendom, for the Queen's
down, and the world's up, and your worship a-top of it.

Wyatt.

Inverted Æsop—mountain out of mouse.
Say for ten thousand ten—and pothouse knaves,
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale.

Enter Antony Knyvett.
William.

Here's Antony Knyvett.

Knyvett.
Look you, Master Wyatt,
Tear up that woman's work there.

Wyatt.
No; not these,
Dumb children of my father, that will speak
When I and thou and all rebellions lie
Dead bodies without voice. Song flies you know
For ages.

Knyvett.
Tut, your sonnet's a flying ant,
Wing'd for a moment.

Wyatt.
Well, for mine own work,
[Tearing the paper.
It lies there in six pieces at your feet;
For all that I can carry it in my head.

Knyvett.
If you can carry your head upon your shoulders.

Wyatt.
I fear you come to carry it off my shoulders,
And sonnet-making's safer.

Knyvett.
Why, good Lord,
Write you as many sonnets as you will.
Ay, but not now; what, have you eyes, ears, brains?
This Philip and the black-faced swarms of Spain,
The hardest, cruellest people in the world,
Come locusting upon us, eat us up,
Confiscate lands, goods, money—Wyatt, Wyatt,
Wake, or the stout old island will become
A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you
On Penenden Heath, a thousand of them—more—
All arm'd, waiting a leader; there's no glory
Like his who saves his country: and you sit
Sing-songing here; but, if I'm any judge,
By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt,
As a good soldier.

Wyatt.
You as poor a critic
As an honest friend: you stroke me on one cheek,
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, Antony!
You know I know all this. I must not move
Until I hear from Carew and the Duke.
I fear the mine is fired before the time.

Knyvett
(showing a paper).
But here's some Hebrew. Faith, I half forgot it.
Look; can you make it English? A strange youth
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, ‘Wyatt,’
And whisking round a corner, show'd his back
Before I read his face.

Wyatt.

Ha! Courtenay's cipher.

[Reads.

‘Sir Peter Carew fled to France: it is thought the
Duke will be taken. I am with you still; but, for
appearance sake, stay with the Queen. Gardiner
knows, but the Council are all at odds, and the Queen
hath no force for resistance. Move, if you move, at
once.’

Knyvett.
Why, some fifty
That follow'd me from Penenden Heath in hope
To hear you speak.

Wyatt.

Men of Kent; England of England; you that have
kept your old customs upright, while all the rest of
England bow'd theirs to the Norman, the cause that
hath brought us together is not the cause of a county
or a shire, but of this England, in whose crown our
Kent is the fairest jewel. Philip shall not wed Mary;
and ye have called me to be your leader. I know
Spain. I have been there with my father; I have
seen them in their own land; have marked the
haughtiness of their nobles; the cruelty of their priests.
If this man marry our Queen, however the Council and
the Commons may fence round his power with restriction,
he will be King, King of England, my masters;
and the Queen, and the laws, and the people, his
slaves. What? shall we have Spain on the throne
and in the parliament; Spain in the pulpit and on the
law-bench; Spain in all the great offices of state;
Spain in our ships, in our forts, in our houses, in our
beds?

Crowd.

No! no! no Spain!

William.

No Spain in our beds—that were worse
than all. I have been there with old Sir Thomas, and
the beds I know. I hate Spain.

A Peasant.

But, Sir Thomas, must we levy war
against the Queen's Grace?

Wyatt.

No, my friend; war for the Queen's
Grace—to save her from herself and Philip—war

against Spain. And think not we shall be alone—
thousands will flock to us. The Council, the Court
itself, is on our side. The Lord Chancellor himself
is on our side. The King of France is with us; the
King of Denmark is with us; the world is with us—
war against Spain! And if we move not now, yet it
will be known that we have moved; and if Philip come
to be King, O, my God! the rope, the rack, the thumbscrew,
the stake, the fire. If we move not now, Spain
moves, bribes our nobles with her gold, and creeps,
creeps snake-like about our legs till we cannot move
at all; and ye know, my masters, that wherever Spain
hath ruled she hath wither'd all beneath her. Look
at the New World—a paradise made hell; the red
man, that good helpless creature, starved, maim'd,
flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd, boil'd, buried alive, worried by
dogs; and here, nearer home, the Netherlands, Sicily,
Naples, Lombardy. I say no more—only this, their
lot is yours. Forward to London with me! forward
to London! If ye love your liberties or your skins,
forward to London!

Crowd.

Forward to London! A Wyatt! a Wyatt!

Wyatt.

But first to Rochester, to take the guns
From out the vessels lying in the river.
Then on.

A Peasant.

Ay, but I fear we be too few, Sir Thomas.

Wyatt.
Not many yet. The world as yet, my friend,
Is not half-waked; but every parish tower
Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass,
And pour along the land, and swoll'n and fed
With indraughts and side-currents, in full force
Roll upon London.

Crowd.
A Wyatt! a Wyatt! Forward!

Knyvett.
Wyatt, shall we proclaim Elizabeth?

Wyatt.
I'll think upon it, Knyvett.

Knyvett.
Or Lady Jane?

Wyatt.
No, poor soul; no.
Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field
Beside the brimming Medway, it may chance
That I shall never look upon you more.

Knyvett.
Come, now, you're sonnetting again.

Wyatt.
Not I.
I'll have my head set higher in the state;
Or—if the Lord God will it—on the stake.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—Guildhall.
Sir Thomas White (The Lord Mayor), Lord William Howard, Sir Ralph Bagenhall, Aldermen and Citizens.
White.
I trust the Queen comes hither with her guards.

Howard.
[Several of the citizens move hastily out of the hall.

White.
My Lord, cut out the rotten from your apple,
Your apple eats the better. Let them go.
They go like those old Pharisees in John
Convicted by their conscience, arrant cowards,
Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent.
When will her Grace be here?

Howard.
In some few minutes.
She will address your guilds and companies.
I have striven in vain to raise a man for her.
But help her in this exigency, make
Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man
This day in England.

White.
I am Thomas White.
Few things have fail'd to which I set my will.
I do my most and best.

Howard.
You know that after
The Captain Brett, who went with your train bands
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him
With all his men, the Queen in that distress
Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the traitor,
Feigning to treat with him about her marriage—
Know too what Wyatt said.

White.
He'd sooner be,
While this same marriage question was being argued,
Trusted than trust—the scoundrel—and demanded
Possession of her person and the Tower.

Howard.
And four of her poor Council too, my Lord,
As hostages.

White.
I know it. What do and say
Your Council at this hour?

Howard.
I will trust you.
We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. The Council,
The Parliament as well, are troubled waters;
And yet like waters of the fen they know not
Which way to flow. All hangs on her address,
And upon you, Lord Mayor.

White.
How look'd the city
When now you past it? Quiet?

Howard.
Like our Council,
Your city is divided. As we past,
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There were citizens
Stood each before his shut-up booth, and look'd
As grim and grave as from a funeral.
And here a knot of ruffians all in rags,
With execrating execrable eyes,
Glared at the citizen. Here was a young mother,
Her face on flame, her red hair all blown back,
She shrilling ‘Wyatt,’ while the boy she held
Mimick'd and piped her ‘Wyatt,’ as red as she
In hair and cheek; and almost elbowing her,
So close they stood, another, mute as death,
And white as her own milk; her babe in arms
Had felt the faltering of his mother's heart,
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious Catholic,
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared prayers
Heaven and earth's Maries; over his bow'd shoulder
Scowl'd that world-hated and world-hating beast,
A haggard Anabaptist. Many such groups.
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Courtenay,
Nay the Queen's right to reign—'fore God, the rogues—
Were freely buzzed among them. So I say
Your city is divided, and I fear
One scruple, this or that way, of success
Would turn it thither. Wherefore now the Queen
In this low pulse and palsy of the state,
Bad me to tell you that she counts on you
And on myself as her two hands; on you,
In your own city, as her right, my Lord,
For you are loyal.

White.
Am I Thomas White?
One word before she comes. Elizabeth—
Her name is much abused among these traitors.
Where is she? She is loved by all of us.
I scarce have heart to mingle in this matter,
If she should be mishandled.

Howard.
No; she shall not.
The Queen had written her word to come to court:
Methought I smelt out Renard in the letter,
And fearing for her, sent a secret missive,
Which told her to be sick. Happily or not,
It found her sick indeed.

White.
God send her well;
Here comes her Royal Grace.

Enter Guards, Mary and Gardiner. Sir Thomas White leads her to a raised seat on the daïs.
White.
I, the Lord Mayor, and these our companies
And guilds of London, gathered here, beseech
Your Highness to accept our lowliest thanks
For your most princely presence; and we pray
That we, your true and loyal citizens,
From your own royal lips, at once may know
The wherefore of this coming, and so learn
Your royal will, and do it.—I, Lord Mayor
Of London, and our guilds and companies.

Mary.
In mine own person am I come to you,
To tell you what indeed ye see and know,
How traitorously these rebels out of Kent
Have made strong head against ourselves and you.
They would not have me wed the Prince of Spain;
That was their pretext—so they spake at first—
But we sent divers of our Council to them,
And by their answers to the question ask'd,
It doth appear this marriage is the least
Of all their quarrel.
They have betrayed the treason of their hearts:
Seek to possess our person, hold our Tower,
Place and displace our councillors, and use
Both us and them according as they will.
Now what I am ye know right well—your Queen;
To whom, when I was wedded to the realm
And the realm's laws (the spousal ring whereof,
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear
Upon this finger), ye did promise full
Allegiance and obedience to the death.
Ye know my father was the rightful heir
Of England, and his right came down to me
Corroborate by your acts of Parliament:
And as ye were most loving unto him,
So doubtless will ye show yourselves to me.
Wherefore, ye will not brook that anyone
Should seize our person, occupy our state,
More specially a traitor so presumptuous
As this same Wyatt, who hath tamper'd with
A public ignorance, and, under colour
Of such a cause as hath no colour, seeks
To bend the laws to his own will, and yield
Full scope to persons rascal and forlorn,
To make free spoil and havock of your goods.
Now as your Prince, I say,
I, that was never mother, cannot tell
How mothers love their children; yet, methinks,
A prince as naturally may love his people
As these their children; and be sure your Queen
So loves you, and so loving, needs must deem
This love by you return'd as heartily;
And thro' this common knot and bond of love,
Doubt not they will be speedily overthrown.
As to this marriage, ye shall understand
We made thereto no treaty of ourselves,
And set no foot theretoward unadvised
Of all our Privy Council; furthermore,
This marriage had the assent of those to whom
The king, my father, did commit his trust;
Who not alone esteem'd it honourable,
But for the wealth and glory of our realm,
And all our loving subjects, most expedient.
As to myself,
I am not so set on wedlock as to choose
But where I list, nor yet so amorous
That I must needs be husbanded; I thank God,
I have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt
But that with God's grace, I can live so still.
Yet if it might please God that I should leave
Some fruit of mine own body after me,
To be your king, ye would rejoice thereat,
And it would be your comfort, as I trust;
And truly, if I either thought or knew
This marriage should bring loss or danger to you,
My subjects, or impair in any way
This royal state of England, I would never
Consent thereto, nor marry while I live;
Moreover, if this marriage should not seem,
Before our own High Court of Parliament,
To be of rich advantage to our realm,
We will refrain, and not alone from this,
Likewise from any other, out of which
Looms the least chance of peril to our realm.
Wherefore be bold, and with your lawful Prince
Stand fast against our enemies and yours,
And fear them not. I fear them not. My Lord,
I leave Lord William Howard in your city,
To guard and keep you whole and safe from all
The spoil and sackage aim'd at by these rebels,
Who mouth and foam against the Prince of Spain.

Voices.

White.
Three voices from our guilds and companies!
You are shy and proud like Englishmen, my masters,
And will not trust your voices. Understand:
Your lawful Prince hath come to cast herself
On loyal hearts and bosoms, hoped to fall
Into the wide-spread arms of fealty,
And finds you statues. Speak at once—and all!
For whom?
Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's will;
The Queen of England—or the Kentish Squire?
I know you loyal. Speak! in the name of God!
The Queen of England or the rabble of Kent?
The reeking dungfork master of the mace!
Your havings wasted by the scythe and spade—
Your rights and charters hobnail'd into slush—
Your houses fired—your gutters bubbling blood—

Acclamation.
No! No! The Queen! the Queen!

White.
Your Highness hears
This burst and bass of loyal harmony,
And how we each and all of us abhor
The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt
Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now make oath
To raise your Highness thirty thousand men,
And arm and strike as with one hand, and brush
This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a flea
That might have leapt upon us unawares.
Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, all,
With all your trades, and guilds, and companies.

Citizens.
We swear!

Mary.
We thank your Lordship and your loyal city.

[Exit Mary attended.
White.
I trust this day, thro' God, I have saved the crown.

First Alderman.
Ay, so my Lord of Pembroke in command
Of all her force be safe; but there are doubts.

Second Alderman.
I hear that Gardiner, coming with the Queen,
And meeting Pembroke, bent to his saddle-bow,
As if to win the man by flattering him.
Is he so safe to fight upon her side?

First Alderman.
If not, there's no man safe.

White.
Yes, Thomas White.
I am safe enough; no man need flatter me.

Second Alderman.
Nay, no man need; but did you mark our Queen?
The colour freely play'd into her face,
And the half sight which makes her look so stern,
Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world of hers,
To read our faces; I have never seen her
So queenly or so goodly.

White.
Courage, sir,
That makes or man or woman look their goodliest.
Die like the torn fox dumb, but never whine
Like that poor heart, Northumberland, at the block.

Bagenhall.
The man had children, and he whined for those.
Methinks most men are but poor-hearted, else
Should we so doat on courage, were it commoner?
The Queen stands up, and speaks for her own self;
And all men cry, She is queenly, she is goodly.
Yet she's no goodlier; tho' my Lord Mayor here,
By his own rule, he hath been so bold to-day,
Should look more goodly than the rest of us.

White.
Goodly? I feel most goodly heart and hand,
And strong to throw ten Wyatts and all Kent.
Ha! ha! sir; but you jest; I love it: a jest
In time of danger shows the pulses even.
Be merry! yet, Sir Ralph, you look but sad.
I dare avouch you'd stand up for yourself,
Tho' all the world should bay like winter wolves.

Bagenhall.
Who knows? the man is proven by the hour.

White.
The man should make the hour, not this the man;
And Thomas White will prove this Thomas Wyatt,
And he will prove an Iden to this Cade,
And he will play the Walworth to this Wat;
Come, sirs, we prate; hence all—gather your men—
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to Southwark;
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into the Thames,
And see the citizens arm'd. Good day; good day.

[Exit White.
Bagenhall.
One of much outdoor bluster.

Howard.
For all that,
Most honest, brave, and skilful; and his wealth
A fountain of perennial alms—his fault
So thoroughly to believe in his own self.

Bagenhall.
Yet thoroughly to believe in one's own self,
So one's own self be thorough, were to do
Great things, my Lord.

Howard.
It may be.

Bagenhall.
I have heard
One of your Council fleer and jeer at him.

Howard.
The nursery-cocker'd child will jeer at aught
That may seem strange beyond his nursery.
The statesman that shall jeer and fleer at men,
Makes enemies for himself and for his king;
And if he jeer not seeing the true man
Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool;
And if he see the man and still will jeer,
He is child and fool, and traitor to the State.
Who is he? let me shun him.

Bagenhall.
Nay, my Lord,
He is damn'd enough already.

Howard.
I must set
The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well, Sir Ralph.

Bagenhall.
‘Who knows?’ I am for England. But who knows,
That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, and the Pope,
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the Queen?

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—London Bridge.
Enter Sir Thomas Wyatt and Brett.
Wyatt.
Brett, when the Duke of Norfolk moved against us
Thou cried'st ‘A Wyatt!’ and flying to our side
Left his all bare, for which I love thee, Brett.
Have for thine asking aught that I can give,
For thro' thine help we are come to London Bridge;
But how to cross it balks me. I fear we cannot.

Brett.
Nay, hardly, save by boat, swimming, or wings.

Wyatt.
Last night I climb'd into the gate-house, Brett,
And scared the gray old porter and his wife.
And then I crept along the gloom and saw
They had hewn the drawbridge down into the river.
It roll'd as black as death; and that same tide
Which, coming with our coming, seem'd to smile
And sparkle like our fortune as thou saidest,
Ran sunless down, and moan'd against the piers.
But o'er the chasm I saw Lord William Howard
By torchlight, and his guard; four guns gaped at me,
Black, silent mouths: had Howard spied me there
And made them speak, as well he might have done,
Their voice had left me none to tell you this.
What shall we do?

Brett.
On somehow. To go back
Were to lose all.

Wyatt.
On over London Bridge
We cannot: stay we cannot; there is ordnance
On the White Tower and on the Devil's Tower,
And pointed full at Southwark; we must round
By Kingston Bridge.

Brett.
Ten miles about.

Wyatt.
Ev'n so.
But I have notice from our partisans
Within the city that they will stand by us
If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to-morrow.

Enter one of Wyatt's Men.
Man.

Sir Thomas, I've found this paper; pray
your worship read it; I know not my letters; the old
priests taught me nothing.

Wyatt
(reads).

‘Whosoever will apprehend the

traitor Thomas Wyatt shall have a hundred pounds
for reward.’

Man.

Is that it? That's a big lot of money.

Wyatt.
Ay, ay, my friend; not read it? 'tis not written
Half plain enough. Give me a piece of paper!
[Writes ‘Thomas Wyatt’ large.
There, any man can read that.

[Sticks it in his cap.
Brett.
But that's foolhardy.

Wyatt.
No! boldness, which will give my followers boldness.

Enter Man with a prisoner.
Man.

We found him, your worship, a plundering
o' Bishop Winchester's house; he says he's a poor
gentleman.

Wyatt.
Gentleman! a thief! Go hang him. Shall we make
Those that we come to serve our sharpest foes?

Brett.
Sir Thomas—

Wyatt.
Hang him, I say.

Brett.
Wyatt, but now you promised me a boon.

Wyatt.
Ay, and I warrant this fine fellow's life.

Brett.
Ev'n so; he was my neighbour once in Kent.
He's poor enough, has drunk and gambled out
All that he had, and gentleman he was.
We have been glad together; let him live.

Wyatt.
He has gambled for his life, and lost, he hangs.
No, no, my word's my word. Take thy poor gentleman!
Gamble thyself at once out of my sight,
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. Away!
Women and children!

Enter a Crowd of Women and Children.
First Woman.

O Sir Thomas, Sir Thomas, pray
you go away, Sir Thomas, or you'll make the White
Tower a black 'un for us this blessed day. He'll be
the death on us; and you'll set the Divil's Tower
a-spitting, and he'll smash all our bits o' things worse
than Philip o' Spain.

Second Woman.

Don't ye now go to think that
we be for Philip o' Spain.

Third Woman.

No, we know that ye be come to
kill the Queen, and we'll pray for you all on our
bended knees. But o' God's mercy don't ye kill the
Queen here, Sir Thomas; look ye, here's little Dickon,
and little Robin, and little Jenny—though she's but a
side-cousin—and all on our knees, we pray you to
kill the Queen further off, Sir Thomas.

Wyatt.
My friends, I have not come to kill the Queen
Or here or there: I come to save you all,
And I'll go further off.

Crowd.

Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be beholden to
you, and we'll pray for you on our bended knees till
our lives' end.

Wyatt.
Be happy, I am your friend. To Kingston, forward!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

—Room in the Gatehouse of Westminster Palace.
Mary, Alice, Gardiner, Renard, Ladies.
Gardiner.
Their cry is, Philip never shall be king.

Mary.
Lord Pembroke in command of all our force
Will front their cry and shatter them into dust.

Alice.
Was not Lord Pembroke with Northum-berland?
O madam, if this Pembroke should be false?

Mary.
No, girl; most brave and loyal, brave and loyal.
His breaking with Northumberland broke Northum berland.
At the park gate he hovers with our guards.
These Kentish ploughmen cannot break the guards.

Enter Messenger.
Messenger.
Wyatt, your Grace, hath broken thro' the guards
And gone to Ludgate.

Gardiner.
Madam, I much fear
That all is lost; but we can save your Grace.
The river still is free. I do beseech you,
There yet is time, take boat and pass to Windsor.

Mary.
I pass to Windsor and I lose my crown.

Gardiner.
Pass, then, I pray your Highness, to the Tower.

Mary.
I shall but be their prisoner in the Tower.

Cries
without.
The traitor! treason! Pembroke!

Ladies.
Treason! treason!

Mary.
Peace.
False to Northumberland, is he false to me?
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and die
The true and faithful bride of Philip—A sound
Of feet and voices thickening hither—blows—
Hark, there is battle at the palace gates,
And I will out upon the gallery.

Ladies.
No, no, your Grace; see there the arrows flying.

Mary.
I am Harry's daughter, Tudor, and not fear.
[Goes out on the gallery.
The guards are all driven in, skulk into corners
Like rabbits to their holes. A gracious guard
Truly; shame on them! they have shut the gates!

Enter Sir Robert Southwell.
Southwell.
The porter, please your Grace, hath shut the gates
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen-at-arms,
If this be not your Grace's order, cry
To have the gates set wide again, and they
With their good battleaxes will do you right
Against all traitors.

Mary.
They are the flower of England; set the gates wide.

[Exit Southwell.
Enter Courtenay.
Courtenay.
All lost, all lost, all yielded! A barge, a barge!
The Queen must to the Tower.

Mary.
Whence come you, sir?

Courtenay.
From Charing Cross; the rebels broke us there,
And I sped hither with what haste I might
To save my royal cousin.

Mary.
Where is Pembroke?

Courtenay.
I left him somewhere in the thick of it.

Mary.
Left him and fled; and thou that would'st be King,
And hast nor heart nor honour. I myself
Will down into the battle and there bide
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with those
That are no cowards and no Courtenays.

Courtenay.
I do not love your Grace should call me coward.

Enter another Messenger.
Messenger.
Over, your Grace, all crush'd; the brave Lord William
Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor flying
To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice Berkeley
Was taken prisoner.

Mary.
To the Tower with him!

Messenger.
'Tis said he told Sir Maurice there was one
Cognisant of this, and party thereunto,
My Lord of Devon.

Mary.
To the Tower with him!

Courtenay.
O la, the Tower, the Tower, always the Tower,
I shall grow into it—I shall be the Tower.

Mary.
Your Lordship may not have so long to wait.
Remove him!

Courtenay.
La, to whistle out my life,
And carve my coat upon the walls again!

[Exit Courtenay guarded.
Messenger.
Also this Wyatt did confess the Princess
Cognisant thereof, and party thereunto.

Mary.
What? whom—whom did you say?

Messenger.
Elizabeth,
Your Royal sister.

Mary.
To the Tower with her!
My foes are at my feet and I am Queen.

[Gardiner and her Ladies kneel to her.
Gardiner
(rising).
There let them lie, your footstool! (Aside.)
Can I strike
Elizabeth?—not now and save the life
Of Devon: if I save him, he and his
Are bound to me—may strike hereafter. (Aloud.)
Madam,
What Wyatt said, or what they said he said,
Cries of the moment and the street—

Mary.
He said it.

Gardiner.
Your courts of justice will determine that.

Renard
(advancing).
I trust by this your Highness will allow
Some spice of wisdom in my telling you,
When last we talk'd, that Philip would not come
Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of Suffolk,
And Lady Jane had left us.

Mary.
They shall die.

Renard.
And your so loving sister?

Mary.
She shall die.
My foes are at my feet, and Philip King.

[Exeunt.