University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—Aldgate richly decorated.
Crowd. Marshalmen.
Marshalman.

Stand back, keep a clear lane!
When will her Majesty pass, sayst thou? why now,
even now; wherefore draw back your heads and your
horns before I break them, and make what noise you
will with your tongues, so it be not treason. Long
live Queen Mary, the lawful and legitimate daughter
of Harry the Eighth! Shout, knaves!

Citizens.

Long live Queen Mary!

First Citizen.

That's a hard word, legitimate;
what does it mean?

Second Citizen.

It means a bastard.

Third Citizen.

Nay, it means true-born.

First Citizen.

Why, didn't the Parliament make
her a bastard?

Second Citizen.

No; it was the Lady Elizabeth.

Third Citizen.

That was after, man; that was
after.

First Citizen.

Then which is the bastard?

Second Citizen.

Troth, they be both bastards
by Act of Parliament and Council.

Third Citizen.

Ay, the Parliament can make
every true-born man of us a bastard. Old Nokes,
can't it make thee a bastard? thou shouldst know, for
thou art as white as three Christmasses.

Old Nokes
(dreamily).

Who's a-passing? King
Edward or King Richard?

Third Citizen.

No, old Nokes.

Old Nokes.

It's Harry!

Third Citizen.

It's Queen Mary.

Old Nokes.

The blessed Mary's a-passing!

[Falls on his knees.

Nokes.

Let father alone, my masters! he's past
your questioning.

Third Citizen.

Answer thou for him, then!
thou'rt no such cockerel thyself, for thou was born i'
the tail end of old Harry the Seventh.

Nokes.

Eh! that was afore bastard-making
began. I was born true man at five in the forenoon
i' the tail of old Harry, and so they can't make
me a bastard.

Third Citizen.

But if Parliament can make the

Queen a bastard, why, it follows all the more that they
can make thee one, who art fray'd i' the knees, and
out at elbow, and bald o' the back, and bursten at the
toes, and down at heels.

Nokes.

I was born of a true man and a ring'd
wife, and I can't argue upon it; but I and my old
woman 'ud burn upon it, that would we.

Marshalman.

What are you cackling of bastardy
under the Queen's own nose? I'll have you flogg'd
and burnt too, by the Rood I will.

First Citizen.

He swears by the Rood. Whew!

Second Citizen.

Hark! the trumpets.

[The Procession passes, Mary and Elizabeth riding side by side, and disappears under the gate.

Citizens.

Long live Queen Mary! down with all
traitors! God save her Grace; and death to
Northumberland!

[Exeunt.

Manent Two Gentlemen.
First Gentleman.

By God's light a noble
creature, right royal!

Second Gentleman.

She looks comelier than
ordinary to-day; but to my mind the Lady Elizabeth
is the more noble and royal.

First Gentleman.

I mean the Lady Elizabeth.
Did you hear (I have a daughter in her service who

reported it) that she met the Queen at Wanstead with
five hundred horse, and the Queen (tho' some say
they be much divided) took her hand, call'd her sweet
sister, and kiss'd not her alone, but all the ladies of
her following.

Second Gentleman.

Ay, that was in her hour of
joy; there will be plenty to sunder and unsister them
again: this Gardiner for one, who is to be made Lord
Chancellor, and will pounce like a wild beast out of
his cage to worry Cranmer.

First Gentleman.

And furthermore, my
daughter said that when there rose a talk of the late
rebellion, she spoke even of Northumberland pitifully,
and of the good Lady Jane as a poor innocent child
who had but obeyed her father; and furthermore, she
said that no one in her time should be burnt for
heresy.

Second Gentleman.

Well, sir, I look for happy
times.

First Gentleman.

There is but one thing
against them. I know not if you know.

Second Gentleman.

I suppose you touch upon
the rumour that Charles, the master of the world, has
offer'd her his son Philip, the Pope and the Devil. I
trust it is but a rumour.

First Gentleman.

She is going now to the
Tower to loose the prisoners there, and among them

Courtenay, to be made Earl of Devon, of royal blood,
of splendid feature, whom the council and all her
people wish her to marry. May it be so, for we are
many of us Catholics, but few Papists, and the Hot
Gospellers will go mad upon it.

Second Gentleman.

Was she not betroth'd in
her babyhood to the Great Emperor himself?

First Gentleman.

Ay, but he's too old.

Second Gentleman.

And again to her cousin
Reginald Pole, now Cardinal; but I hear that he too
is full of aches and broken before his day.

First Gentleman.

O, the Pope could dispense
with his Cardinalate, and his achage, and his breakage,
if that were all: will you not follow the procession?

Second Gentleman.

No; I have seen enough
for this day.

First Gentleman.

Well, I shall follow; if I can
get near enough I shall judge with my own eyes
whether her Grace incline to this splendid scion of
Plantagenet.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—A Room in Lambeth Palace.
Cranmer.
To Strasburg, Antwerp, Frankfort, Zurich, Worms,
Geneva, Basle—our Bishops from their sees
Or fled, they say, or flying—Poinet, Barlow,
Bale, Scory, Coverdale; besides the Deans
Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and Wells—
Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds more;
So they report: I shall be left alone.
No: Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not fly.

Enter Peter Martyr.
Peter Martyr.
Fly, Cranmer! were there nothing else, your name
Stands first of those who sign'd the Letters Patent
That gave her royal crown to Lady Jane.

Cranmer.
Stand first it may, but it was written last:
Those that are now her Privy Council, sign'd
Before me: nay, the Judges had pronounced
That our young Edward might bequeath the crown
Of England, putting by his father's will.
Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for me.
The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading eyes
Fixt hard on mine, his frail transparent hand,
Damp with the sweat of death, and griping mine,
Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to yield
His Church of England to the Papal wolf
And Mary; then I could no more—I sign'd.
Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency,
She cannot pass her traitor council by,
To make me headless.

Peter Martyr.
That might be forgiven.
I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not own
The bodily presence in the Eucharist,
Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice:
Your creed will be your death.

Cranmer.
Step after step,
Thro' many voices crying right and left,
Have I climb'd back into the primal church,
And stand within the porch, and Christ with me:
My flight were such a scandal to the faith,
The downfall of so many simple souls,
I dare not leave my post.

Peter Martyr.
But you divorced
Queen Catharine and her father; hence, her hate
Will burn till you are burn'd.

Cranmer.
I cannot help it.
The Canonists and Schoolmen were with me.
‘Thou shalt not wed thy brother's wife.’—'Tis written,
‘They shall be childless.’ True, Mary was born,
But France would not accept her for a bride
As being born from incest; and this wrought
Upon the king; and child by child, you know,
Were momentary sparkles out as quick
Almost as kindled; and he brought his doubts
And fears to me. Peter, I'll swear for him
He did believe the bond incestuous.
But wherefore am I trenching on the time
That should already have seen your steps a mile
From me and Lambeth? God be with you! Go.

Peter Martyr.
Ah, but how fierce a letter you wrote against
Their superstition when they slander'd you
For setting up a mass at Canterbury
To please the Queen.

Cranmer.
It was a wheedling monk
Set up the mass.

Peter Martyr.
I know it, my good Lord.
But you so bubbled over with hot terms
Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist,
She never will forgive you. Fly, my Lord, fly!

Cranmer.
I wrote it, and God grant me power to burn!

Peter Martyr.
They have given me a safe conduct: for all that
I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see you,
Dear friend, for the last time; farewell, and fly.

Cranmer.
Fly and farewell, and let me die the death.

[Exit Peter Martyr.
Enter Old Servant.

O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's Officers
Are here in force to take you to the Tower.

Cranmer.
Ay, gentle friend, admit them. I will go.
I thank my God it is too late to fly.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—St. Paul's Cross.
Father Bourne in the pulpit. A Crowd. Marchioness of Exeter, Courtenay. The Sieur de Noailles and his man Roger in front of the stage. Hubbub.
Noailles.

Hast thou let fall those papers in the palace?

Roger.

Ay, sir.

Noailles.

‘There will be no peace for Mary till
Elizabeth lose her head.’

Roger.

Ay, sir.

Noailles.

And the other, ‘Long live Elizabeth
the Queen!’

Roger.

Ay, sir; she needs must tread upon them,

Noailles.

Well.
These beastly swine make such a grunting here,
I cannot catch what Father Bourne is saying.

Roger.

Quiet a moment, my masters; hear what
the shaveling has to say for himself.

Crowd.

Hush—hear!

Bourne.

—and so this unhappy land, long divided

in itself, and sever'd from the faith, will return into the
one true fold, seeing that our gracious Virgin Queen
hath—

Crowd.

No pope! no pope!

Roger
(to those about him, mimicking Bourne).

—hath sent for the holy legate of the holy father the
Pope, Cardinal Pole, to give us all that holy absolution
which—

First Citizen.

Old Bourne to the life!

Second Citizen.

Holy absolution! holy Inquisition!

Third Citizen.

Down with the Papist!

[Hubbub.

Bourne.

—and now that your good bishop,
Bonner, who hath lain so long under bonds for the
faith—

[Hubbub.

Noailles.

Friend Roger, steal thou in among the crowd,
And get the swine to shout Elizabeth.
Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter,
Begin with him.

Roger
(goes).

By the mass, old friend, we'll have
no pope here while the Lady Elizabeth lives.

Gospeller.

Art thou of the true faith, fellow, that
swearest by the mass?

Roger.

Ay, that am I, new converted, but the
old leaven sticks to my tongue yet.

First Citizen.

He says right; by the mass we'll
have no mass here.

Voices of the crowd.

Peace! hear him; let his
own words damn the Papist. From thine own mouth
I judge thee—tear him down!

Bourne.

—and since our Gracious Queen, let
me call her our second Virgin Mary, hath begun to
re-edify the true temple—

First Citizen.

Virgin Mary! we'll have no virgins
here—we'll have the Lady Elizabeth!

[Swords are drawn, a knife is hurled and sticks in the pulpit. The mob throng to the pulpit stairs.

Marchioness of Exeter.
Son Courtenay, wilt thou see the holy father
Murdered before thy face? up, son, and save him!
They love thee, and thou canst not come to harm.

Courtenay
(in the pulpit).
Shame, shame, my masters! are you English-born,
And set yourselves by hundreds against one?

Crowd.

A Courtenay! a Courtenay!

[A train of Spanish servants crosses at the back of the stage.

Noailles.
These birds of passage come before their time:
Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard there.

Roger.
My masters, yonder's fatter game for you
Than this old gaping gurgoyle: look you there—
The Prince of Spain coming to wed our Queen!
After him, boys! and pelt him from the city.

[They seize stones and follow the Spaniards. Exeunt on the other side Marchioness of Exeter and Attendants.
Noailles
(to Roger).

Courtenay.
My mother said, Go up; and up I went.
I knew they would not do me any wrong,
For I am mighty popular with them, Noailles.

Noailles.
You look'd a king.

Courtenay.
Why not? I am king's blood.

Noailles.
And in the whirl of change may come to be one.

Courtenay.
Ah!

Noailles.
But does your gracious Queen entreat you kinglike?

Courtenay.
'Fore God, I think she entreats me like a child.

Noailles.
You've but a dull life in this maiden court,
I fear, my Lord?

Courtenay.
A life of nods and yawns.

Noailles.
So you would honour my poor house to-night,
We might enliven you. Divers honest fellows,
The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from prison,
Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wyatt,
Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more—we play.

Courtenay.
At what?

Noailles.
The Game of Chess.

Courtenay.
The Game of Chess!
I can play well, and I shall beat you there.

Noailles.
Ay, but we play with Henry, King of France,
And certain of his court.
His Highness makes his moves across the Channel,
We answer him with ours, and there are messengers
That go between us.

Courtenay.
Why, such a game, sir, were whole years a playing.

Noailles.
Nay; not so long I trust. That all depends
Upon the skill and swiftness of the players.

Courtenay.
The King is skilful at it?

Noailles.
Very, my Lord.

Courtenay.
And the stakes high?

Noailles.
But not beyond your means.

Courtenay.
Well, I'm the first of players. I shall win.

Noailles.
With our advice and in our company,
And so you well attend to the king's moves,
I think you may.

Courtenay.
When do you meet?

Noailles.
To-night.

Courtenay
(aside).
I will be there; the fellow's at his tricks—
Deep—I shall fathom him. (Aloud.)
Good morning, Noailles.

[Exit Courtenay.
Noailles.
Good-day, my Lord. Strange game of chess! a King
That with her own pawns plays against a Queen,
Whose play is all to find herself a King.
Ay; but this fine blue-blooded Courtenay seems
Too princely for a pawn. Call him a Knight,
That, with an ass's, not a horse's head,
Skips every way, from levity or from fear.
Well, we shall use him somehow, so that Gardiner
And Simon Renard spy not out our game
Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that anyone
Suspected thee to be my man?

Roger.
Not one, sir.

Noailles.
No! the disguise was perfect. Let's away.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

—London. A Room in the Palace.
Elizabeth. Enter Courtenay.
Courtenay.
[Seeing Elizabeth.

Elizabeth.
What are you musing on, my Lord of Devon?

Courtenay.
Has not the Queen—

Elizabeth.
Done what, Sir?

Courtenay.
—made you follow
The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Lennox?—
You,
The heir presumptive.

Elizabeth.
Why do you ask? you know it.

Courtenay.
You needs must bear it hardly.

Elizabeth.
No, indeed!
I am utterly submissive to the Queen.

Courtenay.
Well, I was musing upon that; the Queen
Is both my foe and yours: we should be friends.

Elizabeth.
My Lord, the hatred of another to us
Is no true bond of friendship.

Courtenay.
Might it not
Be the rough preface of some closer bond?

Elizabeth.
My Lord, you late were loosed from out the Tower,
Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis,
You spent your life; that broken, out you flutter
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now would settle
Upon this flower, now that; but all things here
At court are known; you have solicited
The Queen, and been rejected.

Courtenay.
Flower, she!
Half faded! but you, cousin, are fresh and sweet
As the first flower no bee has ever tried.

Elizabeth.
Are you the bee to try me? why, but now
I called you butterfly.

Courtenay.
You did me wrong,
I love not to be called a butterfly:
Why do you call me butterfly?

Elizabeth.
Why do you go so gay then?

Courtenay.
Velvet and gold.
This dress was made me as the Earl of Devon
To take my seat in; looks it not right royal?

Elizabeth.
So royal that the Queen forbad you wearing it.

Courtenay.
I wear it then to spite her.

Elizabeth.
My Lord, my Lord;
I see you in the Tower again. Her Majesty
Hears you affect the Prince—prelates kneel to you.—

Courtenay.
I am the noblest blood in Europe, Madam,
A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin.

Elizabeth.
She hears you make your boast that after all
She means to wed you. Folly, my good Lord.

Courtenay.
How folly? a great party in the state
Wills me to wed her.

Elizabeth.
Failing her, my Lord,
Doth not as great a party in the state
Will you to wed me?

Courtenay.
Even so, fair lady.

Elizabeth.
You know to flatter ladies.

Courtenay.
Nay, I meant
True matters of the heart.

Elizabeth.
My heart, my Lord,
Is no great party in the state as yet.

Courtenay.
Great, said you? nay, you shall be great. I love you,
Lay my life in your hands. Can you be close?

Elizabeth.
Can you, my Lord?

Courtenay.
Close as a miser's casket.
Listen:
The King of France, Noailles the Ambassador,
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew,
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some others,
Have sworn this Spanish marriage shall not be.
If Mary will not hear us—well—conjecture—
Were I in Devon with my wedded bride,
The people there so worship me—Your ear;
You shall be Queen.

Elizabeth.
You speak too low, my Lord;
I cannot hear you.

Courtenay.
I'll repeat it.

Elizabeth.
No!
Stand further off, or you may lose your head.

Courtenay.
I have a head to lose for your sweet sake.

Elizabeth.
Have you, my Lord? Best keep it for your own.
Nay, pout not, cousin.
Not many friends are mine, except indeed
Among the many. I believe you mine;
And so you may continue mine, farewell,
And that at once.

Enter Mary, behind.
Mary.
Whispering—leagued together
To bar me from my Philip.

Courtenay.
Pray—consider—

Elizabeth
(seeing the Queen).
Well, that's a noble horse of yours, my Lord.
I trust that he will carry you well to-day,
And heal your headache.

Courtenay.
You are wild; what headache?
Heartache, perchance; not headache.

Elizabeth
(aside to Courtenay).
Are you blind?

[Courtenay sees the Queen and exit. Exit Mary.
Enter Lord William Howard.
Howard.
Was that my Lord of Devon? do not you
Be seen in corners with my Lord of Devon.
He hath fallen out of favour with the Queen.
She fears the Lords may side with you and him
Against her marriage; therefore is he dangerous.
And if this Prince of fluff and feather come
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous everyway.

Elizabeth.
Not very dangerous that way, my good uncle.

Howard.
But your own state is full of danger here.
The disaffected, heretics, reformers,
Look to you as the one to crown their ends.
Mix not yourself with any plot I pray you;
Nay, if by chance you hear of any such,
Speak not thereof—no, not to your best friend,
Lest you should be confounded with it. Still—
Perinde ac cadaver—as the priest says,
You know your Latin—quiet as a dead body.
What was my Lord of Devon telling you?

Elizabeth.
Whether he told me anything or not,
I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle.
Quiet as a dead body.

Howard.
You do right well.
I do not care to know; but this I charge you,
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord Chancellor
(I count it as a kind of virtue in him,
He hath not many), as a mastiff dog
May love a puppy cur for no more reason
Than that the twain have been tied up together,
Thus Gardiner—for the two were fellow-prisoners
So many years in yon accursed Tower—
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to it, niece,
He hath no fence when Gardiner questions him;
All oozes out; yet him—because they know him
The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the people
Claim as their natural leader—ay, some say,
That you shall marry him, make him King belike.

Elizabeth.
Do they say so, good uncle?

Howard.
Ay, good niece!
You should be plain and open with me, niece.
You should not play upon me.

Elizabeth.
No, good uncle.

Enter Gardiner.
Gardiner.
The Queen would see your Grace upon the moment.

Elizabeth.
Why, my lord Bishop?

Gardiner.
I think she means to counsel your withdrawing
To Ashridge, or some other country house.

Elizabeth.
Why, my lord Bishop?

Gardiner.
I do but bring the message, know no more.
Your Grace will hear her reasons from herself.

Elizabeth.
'Tis mine own wish fulfill'd before the word
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to crave
Permission of her Highness to retire
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies there.

Gardiner.
Madam, to have the wish before the word
Is man's good Fairy—and the Queen is yours.
I left her with rich jewels in her hand,
Whereof 'tis like enough she means to make
A farewell present to your Grace.

Elizabeth.
My Lord,
I have the jewel of a loyal heart.

Gardiner.
I doubt it not, Madam, most loyal.

[Bows low and exit.
Howard.
See,
This comes of parleying with my Lord of Devon.
Well, well, you must obey; and I myself
Believe it will be better for your welfare.
Your time will come.

Elizabeth.
I think my time will come.
Uncle,
I am of sovereign nature, that I know,
Not to be quell'd; and I have felt within me
Stirrings of some great doom when God's just hour
Peals—but this fierce old Gardiner—his big baldness,
That irritable forelock which he rubs,
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd eyes
Half fright me.

Howard.
You've a bold heart; keep it so.
He cannot touch you save that you turn traitor;
And so take heed I pray you—you are one
Who love that men should smile upon you, niece.
They'd smile you into treason—some of them.

Elizabeth.
I spy the rock beneath the smiling sea.
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic prince,
And this bald priest, and she that hates me, seek
In that lone house, to practise on my life,
By poison, fire, shot, stab—

Howard.
They will not, niece.
Mine is the fleet and all the power at sea—
Or will be in a moment. If they dared
To harm you, I would blow this Philip and all
Your trouble to the dogstar and the devil.

Elizabeth.
To the Pleiads, uncle; they have lost a sister.

Howard.
But why say that? what have you done to lose her?
Come, come, I will go with you to the Queen.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

—A Room in the Palace.
Mary with Philip's miniature. Alice.
Mary
(kissing the miniature).
Most goodly, King-like and an Emperor's son,—
A king to be,—is he not noble, girl?

Alice.
Goodly enough, your Grace, and yet, methinks,
I have seen goodlier.

Mary.
Ay; some waxen doll
Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike;
All red and white, the fashion of our land.
But my good mother came (God rest her soul)
Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself,
And in my likings.

Alice.
By your Grace's leave
Your royal mother came of Spain, but took
To the English red and white. Your royal father
(For so they say) was all pure lily and rose
In his youth, and like a lady.

Mary.
O, just God!
Sweet mother, you had time and cause enough
To sicken of his lilies and his roses.
Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, forlorn!
And then the King—that traitor past forgiveness,
The false archbishop fawning on him, married
The mother of Elizabeth—a heretic
Ev'n as she is; but God hath sent me here
To take such order with all heretics
That it shall be, before I die, as tho'
My father and my brother had not lived.
What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane,
Now in the Tower?

Alice.
Why, Madam, she was passing
Some chapel down in Essex, and with her
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne
Bow'd to the Pyx; but Lady Jane stood up
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy.
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne,
To him within there who made Heaven and Earth?
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace
What Lady Jane replied.

Mary.
But I will have it.

Alice.
She said—pray pardon me, and pity her—
She hath harken'd evil counsel—ah! she said,
The baker made him.

Mary.
Monstrous! blasphemous!
She ought to burn. Hence, thou (Exit Alice).
No—being traitor
Her head will fall: shall it? she is but a child.
We do not kill the child for doing that
His father whipt him into doing—a head
So full of grace and beauty! would that mine
Were half as gracious! O, my lord to be,
My love, for thy sake only.
I am eleven years older than he is.
But will he care for that?
No, by the holy Virgin, being noble,
But love me only: then the bastard sprout,
My sister, is far fairer than myself.
Will he be drawn to her?
No, being of the true faith with myself.
Paget is for him—for to wed with Spain
Would treble England—Gardiner is against him;
The Council, people, Parliament against him;
But I will have him! My hard father hated me;
My brother rather hated me than loved;
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy Virgin,
Plead with thy blessed Son; grant me my prayer:
Give me my Philip; and we two will lead
The living waters of the Faith again
Back thro' their widow'd channel here, and watch
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of old,
To heaven, and kindled with the palms of Christ!
Enter Usher.
Who waits, sir?

Usher.
Madam, the Lord Chancellor.

Mary.
Bid him come in. (Enter Gardiner.)
Good morning, my good Lord.

[Exit Usher.
Gardiner.
That every morning of your Majesty
May be most good, is every morning's prayer
Of your most loyal subject, Stephen Gardiner.

Mary.
Come you to tell me this, my Lord?

Gardiner.
And more.
Your people have begun to learn your worth.
Your pious wish to pay King Edward's debts,
Your lavish household curb'd, and the remission
Of half that subsidy levied on the people,
Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat for you.
I'd have you yet more loved: the realm is poor,
The exchequer at neap-tide: we might withdraw
Part of our garrison at Calais.

Mary.
Calais!
Our one point on the main, the gate of France!
I am Queen of England; take mine eyes, mine heart,
But do not lose me Calais.

Gardiner.
Do not fear it.
Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is loved.
That I may keep you thus, who am your friend
And ever faithful counsellor, might I speak?

Mary.
I can forespeak your speaking. Would I marry
Prince Philip, if all England hate him? That is
Your question, and I front it with another:
Is it England, or a party? Now, your answer.

Gardiner.
My answer is, I wear beneath my dress
A shirt of mail: my house hath been assaulted,
And when I walk abroad, the populace,
With fingers pointed like so many daggers,
Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip;
And when I sleep, a hundred men-at-arms
Guard my poor dreams for England. Men would murder me,
Because they think me favourer of this marriage.

Mary.
And that were hard upon you, my Lord Chancellor.

Gardiner.
But our young Earl of Devon—

Mary.
Earl of Devon?
I freed him from the Tower, placed him at Court;
I made him Earl of Devon, and—the fool—
He wrecks his health and wealth on courtesans,
And rolls himself in carrion like a dog.

Gardiner.
More like a school-boy that hath broken bounds,
Sickening himself with sweets.

Mary.
I will not hear of him.
Good, then, they will revolt: but I am Tudor,
And shall control them.

Gardiner.
I will help you, Madam,
Even to the utmost. All the church is grateful.
You have ousted the mock priest, repulpited
The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the rood again,
And brought us back the mass. I am all thanks
To God and to your Grace: yet I know well,
Your people, and I go with them so far,
Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to play
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church.

Mary
(showing the picture).
Is this the face of one who plays the tyrant?
Peruse it; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle?

Gardiner.
Madam, methinks a cold face and a haughty.
And when your Highness talks of Courtenay—
Ay, true—a goodly one. I would his life
Were half as goodly

(aside).
Mary.
What is that you mutter?

Gardiner.
Oh, Madam, take it bluntly; marry Philip,
And be stepmother of a score of sons!
The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, ha!
For Philip—

Mary.
You offend us; you may leave us.
You see thro' warping glasses.

Gardiner.
If your Majesty—

Mary.
I have sworn upon the body and blood of Christ
I'll none but Philip.

Gardiner.
Hath your Grace so sworn?

Mary.
Ay, Simon Renard knows it.

Gardiner.
News to me!
It then remains for your poor Gardiner,
So you still care to trust him somewhat less
Than Simon Renard, to compose the event
In some such form as least may harm your Grace.

Mary.
I'll have the scandal sounded to the mud.
I know it a scandal.

Gardiner.
All my hope is now
It may be found a scandal.

Mary.
You offend us.

Gardiner
(aside).
These princes are like children, must be physick'd,
The bitter in the sweet. I have lost mine office,
It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a fool.

[Exit.
Enter Usher.
Mary.
Who waits?

Usher.
The Ambassador from France, your Grace.

Mary
(sits down).
Bid him come in. Good morning, Sir de Noailles.

[Exit Usher.
Noailles
(entering).
A happy morning to your Majesty.

Mary.
And I should some time have a happy morning;
I have had none yet. What says the King your master?

Noailles.
Madam, my master hears with much alarm,
That you may marry Philip, Prince of Spain—
Foreseeing, with whate'er unwillingness,
That if this Philip be the titular king
Of England, and at war with him, your Grace
And kingdom will be suck'd into the war,
Ay, tho' you long for peace; wherefore, my master,
If but to prove your Majesty's goodwill,
Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn between you.

Mary.
Why some fresh treaty? wherefore should I do it?
Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain
All former treaties with his Majesty.
Our royal word for that! and your good master,
Pray God he do not be the first to break them,
Must be content with that; and so, farewell.

Noailles
(going, returns).
I would your answer had been other, Madam,
For I foresee dark days.

Mary.
And so do I, sir;
Your master works against me in the dark.
I do believe he holp Northumberland
Against me.

Noailles.
Nay, pure phantasy, your Grace.
Why should he move against you?

Mary.
Will you hear why?
Mary of Scotland,—for I have not own'd
My sister, and I will not,—after me
Is heir of England; and my royal father,
To make the crown of Scotland one with ours,
Had mark'd her for my brother Edward's bride;
Ay, but your king stole her a babe from Scotland
In order to betroth her to your Dauphin.
See then:
Mary of Scotland, married to your Dauphin,
Would make our England, France;
Mary of England, joining hands with Spain,
Would be too strong for France.
Yea, were there issue born to her, Spain and we,
One crown, might rule the world. There lies your fear.
That is your drift. You play at hide and seek.
Show me your faces!

Noailles.
Madam, I am amazed:
French, I must needs wish all good things for France.
That must be pardon'd me; but I protest
Your Grace's policy hath a farther flight
Than mine into the future. We but seek
Some settled ground for peace to stand upon.

Mary.
Well, we will leave all this, sir, to our council.
Have you seen Philip ever?

Noailles.
Only once.

Mary.
Is this like Philip?

Noailles.
Ay, but nobler-looking.

Mary.
Hath he the large ability of the Emperor?

Noailles.
No, surely.

Mary.
I can make allowance for thee,
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy king.

Noailles.
Make no allowance for the naked truth.
He is every way a lesser man than Charles;
Stone-hard, ice-cold—no dash of daring in him.

Mary.
If cold, his life is pure.

Noailles.
Why (smiling),
no, indeed.

Mary.
Sayst thou?

Noailles.
A very wanton life indeed

(smiling).
Mary.
[Exit Noailles.
Enter Usher.

Usher.
The Ambassador of Spain, your Grace.

[Exit.
Enter Simon Renard.
Mary
(rising to meet him).
Thou art ever welcome, Simon Renard. Hast thou
Brought me the letter which thine Emperor promised
Long since, a formal offer of the hand
Of Philip?

Renard.
Nay, your Grace, it hath not reach'd me.
I know not wherefore—some mischance of flood,
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, or wave
And wind at their old battle: he must have written.

Mary.
But Philip never writes me one poor word.
Which in his absence had been all my wealth.
Strange in a wooer!

Renard.
Yet I know the Prince,
So your king-parliament suffer him to land,
Yearns to set foot upon your island shore.

Mary.
God change the pebble which his kingly foot
First presses into some more costly stone
Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd firelike;
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond.
Let the great angel of the church come with him;
Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail!
God lay the waves and strow the storms at sea,
And here at land among the people! O Renard,
I am much beset, I am almost in despair.
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours;
But for our heretic Parliament—

Renard.
O Madam,
You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charles,
Bad you go softly with your heretics here,
Until your throne had ceased to tremble. Then
Spit them like larks for aught I care. Besides,
When Henry broke the carcase of your church
To pieces, there were many wolves among you
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their den.
The Pope would have you make them render these;
So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole; ill counsel!
These let them keep at present; stir not yet
This matter of the Church lands. At his coming
Your star will rise.

Mary.
My star! a baleful one.
I see but the black night, and hear the wolf.
What star?

Renard.
Your star will be your princely son,
Heir of this England and the Netherlands!
And if your wolf the while should howl for more,
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold.
I do believe, I have dusted some already,
That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours.

Mary.
Why do they talk so foully of your Prince,
Renard?

Renard.
The lot of Princes. To sit high
Is to be lied about.

Mary.
They call him cold,
Haughty, ay, worse.

Renard.
Why, doubtless, Philip shows
Some of the bearing of your blue blood—still
All within measure—nay, it well becomes him.

Mary.
Hath he the large ability of his father?

Renard.
Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him.

Mary.
Is this like him?

Renard.
Ay, somewhat; but your Philip
Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun.
This is a daub to Philip.

Mary.
Of a pure life?

Renard.
As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven,
The text—Your Highness knows it, ‘Whosoever
Looketh after a woman,’ would not graze
The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there,
Chaste as your Grace!

Mary.
I am happy in him there.

Renard.
And would be altogether happy, Madam,
So that your sister were but look'd to closer.
You have sent her from the court, but then she goes,
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales,
But hatch you some new treason in the woods.

Mary.
We have our spies abroad to catch her tripping,
And then if caught, to the Tower.

Renard.
The Tower! the block!
The word has turn'd your Highness pale; the thing
Was no such scarecrow in your father's time.
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with the jest
When the head leapt—so common! I do think
To save your crown that it must come to this.

Mary.
No, Renard; it must never come to this

Renard.
Not yet; but your old Traitors of the Tower—
Why, when you put Northumberland to death,
The sentence having past upon them all,
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford Dudley,
Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your crown?

Mary.
Dared? nay, not so; the child obey'd her father.
Spite of her tears her father forced it on her.

Renard.
Good Madam, when the Roman wish'd to reign,
He slew not him alone who wore the purple,
But his assessor in the throne, perchance
A child more innocent than Lady Jane.

Mary.
I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor.

I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor was much cheered by the people. The play came out when the Queen was proclaimed Empress of India.

Renard.
Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy,
And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne
Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come
Till she be gone.

Mary.
Indeed, if that were true—
For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one
Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church—
But no, no, no. Farewell. I am somewhat faint
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen
Of mine own heart, which every now and then
Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden chain—
My father on a birthday gave it me,
And I have broken with my father—take
And wear it as memorial of a morning
Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me
As hopeful.

Renard
(aside).
Whew—the folly of all follies
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (Aloud)
Madam,
This chains me to your service, not with gold,
But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me,
Philip is yours.

[Exit.
Mary.
Mine—but not yet all mine.

Enter Usher.
Usher.
Your Council is in Session, please your Majesty.

Mary.
Enter Alice.

Alice.
What slanders? I, your Grace; no, never.

Mary.
Nothing?

Alice.
Never, your Grace.

Mary.
See that you neither hear them nor repeat!

Alice
(aside).
Good Lord! but I have heard a thousand such.
Ay, and repeated them as often—mum!
Why comes that old fox-Fleming back again?

Enter Renard.
Renard.
Madam, I scarce had left your Grace's presence
Before I chanced upon the messenger
Who brings that letter which we waited for—
The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand.
It craves an instant answer, Ay or No.

Mary.
An instant Ay or No! the Council sits.
Give it me quick.

Alice
(stepping before her).
Your Highness is all trembling.

Mary.
Make way.

[Exit into the Council Chamber.
Alice.
O, Master Renard, Master Renard,
If you have falsely painted your fine Prince;
Praised, where you should have blamed him, I pray God
No woman ever love you, Master Renard.
It breaks my heart to hear her moan at night
As tho' the nightmare never left her bed.

Renard.
My pretty maiden, tell me, did you ever
Sigh for a beard?

Alice.
That's not a pretty question.

Renard.
Not prettily put? I mean, my pretty maiden,
A pretty man for such a pretty maiden.

Alice.
My Lord of Devon is a pretty man.
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then?

Renard.
Then, pretty maiden, you should know that whether
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan
A kindled fire.

Alice.

Renard.
Peace, pretty maiden.
I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber.
Lord Paget's ‘Ay’ is sure—who else? and yet,
They are all too much at odds to close at once
In one full-throated No! Her Highness comes.

Enter Mary.
Alice.
How deathly pale!—a chair, your Highness.

[Bringing one to the Queen.
Renard.
Madam,
The Council?

Mary.
Ay! My Philip is all mine.

[Sinks into chair, half fainting.