University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

Environs of the Louvre.
Enter Denise.
Denise.
Bid me keep silence? though I lose all, I'll wear
Silence no further no my wrong-doings
That holds no weather out. I'll speak then; God,
Keep me in heart to speak! because my sense,
Even to the holiest inward of its work
This unclean life has marred; I am stained with it
Like a stained cloth, it catches on my face,
Spoils my talk midways, breaks my breath between,
Paints me ill colours, plucks me upon the sleeve,
As who would say, “Forget me will you, then?”
Bid me keep silence? yea, but in losing that
Lies are so grown like dirt upon my lip
No kisses will wipe dry nor tears wash bare
The mouth so covered and made foul. Dear God,
I meant not so much wrong-doing that prayer
Should choke or stab me in the throat to say;
For see, the very place I pray withal
I use for lying and put in light words
To soil it over: the thoughts I make prayer with
Fasten on ill things and set work on them,
Letting love go. If one could see the king
And escape writing—

Enter Cino.
Cino.
Yea, cousin, at prayer so late?
Teach me the trick, I would be fain to pray,
I grow so sick now with the smell of time.
Ah, the king hurts you? touch a spring i' the work
And it cries—eh? and a joint creaks in it?

Den.
This fool wears out.

Cino.
At wrists?

Den.
At head; but, fool,
Hast thou not heard of the king?

Cino.
Yea, news, brave news;
But I'll not spoil them on you.

Den.
My good Cino—
Nay, sweet thing, fair sir, any precious word,
Tell me.

Cino.
The king—what will you give me then?
Half a gold fringe worn off your cloak for alms?

Den.
Nay, anything it wills, my Cino. Quick.

Cino.
A ring? yea, more; what's better than a ring?
A kiss I doubt of yours; but I'll have best,
Nothing of good or better.

Den.
Come, sir; well?

Cino.
Tell me what's better than a kiss; but hear you;
Pull not away, paint me no red; the king—

Den.
What is the king?

Cino.
Twice half his years, I think;
God keep him safe between the greys and blacks.

Den.
My head is full of tears and fever; hence,
Get from me, fool. Thou ragged skirt of man,
Thou compromise 'twixt nothing and a bat!
Blind half a beast! I'd see thee hanged and laugh.
What fool am I to scold at thy brain's shell?
What sort of under thing shall I call thee,
Who am thy railer?

Cino.
What would you have me? ha?
Must I poison my poor bread or choke myself
To make French Chicot room? Being simply fool,
I eat fool's alms: I may talk wise men down,
Who gives me sober bread to live by? see;
You'll let me prate now?

Den.
Yea, prate anything;
Find me the queen, and I'll with you. Cino—

Cino.
Well?

Den.
Use me better as we go, poor fool.

[Exeunt.
Enter King, Tavannes, Pardaillan, Soubise, Brantôme, and others.
Ch.
Brown hair or gold, my lord Soubise, you say?

Sou.
Pure black wears best.

Par.
He will not say so, sir.

Ch.
Ay, will not? are you wise, my Pardaillan?

Bra.
Yolande—you know this damozel I mean,
One that has black hair hard on blue—

Sou.
Hear that!
Blue hair, eyes black!

Bra.
But note me what she says:
Soubise is a fair name, and that fair lord
That wears it sewn across his arm, is good
To give her tame bird seeds to eat.

Sou.
Her bird!

Bra.
She has a sister of your height, this girl,
Skilled to work patterns with gold thread and paint.

Sou.
Well, what of her then?

Ch.
Yea, sir, hold by that.

Bra.
She said this to me, choosing seeds of corn
To put between her peacock's bill, it chanced,
One summer time; and biting with her teeth
Some husk away to make the grain more soft,
She put her mouth to the bird's mouth: but I—
“Give me food rather, I have need to eat;”
Whereat her teeth showed fuller and she said
—The seed still in her lip—she laughed and said
Her two tame birds, this peacock and Soubise,
Were all she had to feed.

Sou.
I thank her.

Ch.
Well,
What followed? that you kissed away the seed?

Bra.
Hush now, she comes, fair lord.

Enter Queen-Mother, Denise, Yolande, and other Ladies, with Cino.
Ca.
Take heart, Denise;
I'll chide him home.—Fair son, I hear hard news;
My lord of Guise in his ill hours of blood
Will hardly trust your courtesy to use
His lady's glove: here was one wept right out
At hearing of it.

Ch.
He does belie my patience;
It was this lord that had her glove away.

Ca.
The Guise is sick of it, touched hard and home;
It bites him like a hurt; you are his keen plague,
Sharp sauce to hunger, medicine to his meat,
A sufferance no pained flesh could hold upon
And not turn bitter.

Ch.
Well, God heal his head!

Ca.
I did not see my lord Soubise—make room,
So thick a yellow crowd of ladies' heads
Makes the air taste of powdered scent and spice
One cannot see a friend; my lord Soubise,
We love you well, what holds you back, my lord?

Sou.
Madam—

Ca.
They trouble us with tales of you;
Here's a maid carries face of Montlitard
Whose heart seems altered to a fresher name
The blood paints broader on her cheek, sweet fool;
Answer me this; nay, I shall make you clear;
Denise has told me how her middle sleep
Was torn and broken by lamentings up,
By sudden speeches, shreds and rags of talk,
And running over of light tears between;
And ever the poor tender word “Soubise”
Sighed and turned over—ah, such pain she had!
Poor love of mine, why need you spoil me her?

Sou.
She will not say so.

Yol.
But she will not say
She loves not, though it sting her soul to speak,
Being still, woe's me, so sharp and sore a truth
And hard to hide.

Ch.
Well said of her; strike hands.

Cino.
Take comfort, daughter; he shall be made fast to thee
And the devil climbs not in by way of marriage.
Conclude temptation, and God increase your joy
In the second generation of good fools.
Gripe fingers each; I will be bridesman; so.

Sou.
Fool—I am hurt with wonder, madam—fool—

Cino.
Nay, sir, keep hands.

Ch.
This is most gross in you.

Cino.
Yea, so; this is the time of horn-blowing.
Did your grace never eat stolen eggs? the meat of them
Is something like the mouth of a fair woman.
Beseech you now let your priest drink no wine
And you shall have him better for yourself;
Sir, look to that; I would not have you marred.

Ch.
No, you shall stay.

Sou.
I pray you, bid him peace.

Ch.
Let the fool talk.

Cino.
There's freedom for your kind now.
I have not seen a groom so blench and start;
I wonder what shoe pinched his mother?

Sou.
Beast!

[Strikes him, and exit.
Ca.
You are sad, sir.

Ch.
I am not well at heart.

Ca.
It is the summer heat; I have not seen
So hard a sun upon the grape-season
These twelve years back.—Fellow, look up, take heart;
He cannot hurt thee.

Cino.
Why not? I am no woman.
I am sure he has made my head swell; get him married,
I'll do as much for him. Eh? will I not?

(To Yolande.)
Yol.
I will not wed him; so the shame shall stick
Where it began on him, alone.

Ca.
(Aside.)
Whispers?
(Observing Denise and the King.)
I do suspect you sorely. Oh! so close;
Thrusting your lip even against his ear?
Yea, hold the sleeve now, pinch it up; (aloud)
there may be
No ill in this; and I have hope it wears
No face of purpose, but I like it not.

Yol.
What is it you mislike?

Ca.
Eh? nothing, I;
My care's not half the worth of a fool's head
Nor carries so much weight. My lord Bourdeilles,
Have you no tale for us?

Bra.
Yea, madam, a rare jest.

Yol.
We'll pluck it forth.

Renée.
Ay, pinch it out of him;
We would be merry.

Par.
Umph! I know the tale.

Bra.
I would not have a gospeller hear you, sir.

Cino.
I see a tale now hang at the king's sleeve.

Ca.
A very light one.

Bra.
But if you hear me, madam,—
There's matter for a leap-year's laugh therein.
The noble damsel of Maulévrier—

Ca.
Is she your tale?

Bra.
Speak low; she told it me.

Yol.
Where should he hear it?

Ca.
Peace now: sir, make on.

Bra.
She being about my lady of Navarre
Last night—I mean some foolish nights ago—
For there last night she was not, I believe—
Made out this jest: this is the jest she made.

Cino.
'Tis a sweet jest, but something over ripe.

Bra.
You have not heard it.

Cino.
I hear it with my nose, and it smells rank.

Bra.
You all do know his highness of Navarre
Is loving to his lady; and, God's death,
She is worth no less a price; nor doth affection,
Being set on her, outweigh the measured reason
Nor sense of limit she doth well deserve;
Yea, she outgoes the elected best, outswells
What is called good.

Cino.
A very merry tale.

Bra.
Prithee, fool, peace.—Now at that time I speak of
He was at point to come; but being delayed
(The how I say not—this I do not say;
Indeed I would not—mark you, not the how)
He could not come. She, grown hereon to heat,
Chid at her ladies, wrangled with her hair,
Drew it all wried, then wept, then laughed again;
Till one saying, “Madam, I did see my lord
About the middle matter of the dusk
Slip forth to speak with”—here she stayed; the queen
Doth passionately catch her by that word,
Crying with whom? and might this be a man?
And should men use her so? and shame of men,
And not the grace of temperance in them
Which is the cover and the weeds of sin;
And such wet circumstance of waterish words
As ladies use; whereto the damsel—“Madam,
I may swear truly no man had him forth,
But to swear otherwise—”

Ca.
I do perceive you:
There was a conference of the gospellers,
And there was he.

Bra.
But he that brought him forth—

Ca.
Enough, the jest runs out; I know your matter.
Fair son, you would be private?

Ch.
Like enough:
I do not say you trouble me to stay,
But you shall please me going.

Ca.
Good time to you!
Come with me, sirs. Take you the fool along.

[Exeunt all but King and Denise.
Ch.
I am assured you love me not a whit.

Den.
You will not set your faith upon that thought;
I love you dearly.

Ch.
I do not bid you swear it.

Den.
I pray you, if you know what I would say,
That you endure this feebleness which sits
Upon my lips i' the saying.

Ch.
What do you think of me?

Den.
I know you are my master and a king
That I have called thrice nobler than his name;
I know my lip hath got the print of you
And that the girdle of your fastened arms
Keeps warm upon me yet; and I have thought,
Yea, I have sworn it past the reach of faith,
Even till the temperate heaven did, stung at me,
Begin a chiding—that you loved me back
To the large aim and perfect scope o' the heart;
That I was as a thing within your blood,
There moved, and made such passage up and down
As doth the breath and motion of your air;
Being rather as a pain caught unawares,
A doubtful fever or sick heat of yours
That now the purging time hath rid you of
And made smooth ease.

Ch.
You did know better then.

Den.
Nay, then I think I knew not anything;
My wits were broken in the use of love.
What do you think of me? I would know that.

Ch.
As of a thing I love—I know not what;
Only that any slight small thing of yours,
A foolish word, a knot upon your head,
Some plait worn wrong or garment braced awry,
Any girl's thing—doth grow so and possess
With such a strength of thought, so waxen full,
The complete sum and secret of my will
I cannot get it out.

Den.
If that be love,
Then I love you, which you did swear a lie.
For I do feed upon you in my meat
And sleep upon you in my tired bed
And wake upon you in my praying times,
As you were used and natural unto me,
My soul's strong habit and nativity.

Ch.
I think you do: I never taxed you else.
But he that will not swear I love you back
Doth sin outside the heavy name of lie
And compass of a villain.

Den.
I doubt you not.
You know that I did urge you for the queen?

Ch.
Yea: you made up a peace between our jars.

Den.
Ay, like a damnéd peace-maker, a truce
More sharp than is the naked side of war.

Ch.
What now? you slip on that fool's text again?

Den.
That I did pluck you over to her side
I would repent even in the cost and price
Of my most inward blood, yea of my heart.

Ch.
You did a good work then: now you turn sharp.

Den.
I do well think that had I never been
You had not fallen in her purposes.

Ch.
I may perceive my patience is your fool:
You make slight use of me. Take note of this,
Henceforth I will not undergo the words
That it shall please you cast upon my place
In such loose way. What makes you chide at me?
Have you no sort of fool but me to wear
The impatient work of your mistempered blood
With a soft spirit?

Den.
You have sworn me love;
If you did love me with more worth and weight
Than slackly binds a two hours' liking up,
You would not pluck displeasure from my words.
I am too weak to make fit wrath for you.

Ch.
Ay, that I think.

Den.
You do me right; but mark,
Being this I am, not big enough to hurt,
I do repent me past all penitence,
Outweep the bounded sorrow of all words,
That I did bring you to such peace again
As hath its feet in blood.

Ch.
You did then swear
Nothing one half so blessed and so clean
As to make peace between her lips and mine;
You bade me think how good it was to have
The grace of such a gentle fellowship
To lean my love upon; how past the law
And natural sweetness of sweet motherhood
Her passion did delight itself on me;
With all the cost of rare observances
Followed the foot of my least enterprise;
Esteemed me even to the disvaluing
Of her own worthy life; would not, in brief,
Partake the pain of common offices
And due regard that custom hath of time
But for my love. Was this no talk of yours?

Den.
Indeed I said so.

Ch.
Did I not give you faith?

Den.
You did believe me; I would you had not so,
Or that some poisonous pain had killed my lips
Before they learnt the temper of such words.

Ch.
What then, you knew not this red work indeed?
No savour of this killing flecked your speech?

Den.
I know of it? but to have lied and known
I had been plagued past all the gins of hell.
I know of it? but if I knew of it
There is no whip that God could hunt me with
That would not seem less heavy than thin snow
Weighed with the scars and shames of my desert.

Ch.
But how if such a thing be necessary?

Den.
There's no such need that bids men damn themselves.

Ch.
Nay, but if God take hell to work withal
That is more bitter than all waste of men,
And yet God makes the honey of his law
Out of its sharp and fire-mouthed bitterness,
Why may not I take this? yea, why not I?

Den.
If you shall think on murder, how it is,
How mere a poison in all mouths of men
That only at the casual use of it
Sicken and lose the rule of their discourse,
Being wounded with it; how poorest men alive
That in dull drink have chanced upon a life
Are slain for it, and the red word of sin
Doth elbow them at side and dig their grave
And makes all tongues bitter on them, all eyes
Fills out with chiding—how very knaves do loath
The tax and blot of such a damnèd breath
As goes to call hard murder by his name;
Yea, how blood slain shall not be healed again,
Never get place within the ruined veins,
Never make heat in the forsaken flesh;
O, you shall think thereon.

Ch.
Have I not thought?

Den.
Not this I bid you, this you have not thought;
How to each foot and atom of that flesh
That makes the body of the worst man up
There went the very pain and the same love
That out of love and pain compounded you,
A piece of such man's earth; that all of these
Feel, breathe, and taste, move and salute and sleep,
No less than you, and in each little use
Divide the customs that yourself endure;
And are so costly that the worst of these
Was worth God's time to finish; O, thus you shall not,
Even for the worth of your own well-doing,
Set iron murder to feed full on them.

Ch.
Fret me no more; I shall turn sharp with you.

Den.
O, sir, in such dear matter as I have
I fear not you at all. You shall not go.

Ch.
I may forget your body's tender make
And hurt you. Do not put me from myself;
I am dangerous then; being sobered, I do know
How rash and sharp a blood I have, and weep
For my fierce use of it: push not so far.

Den.
Yea now, put all the bruise of them on me
And I will thank you. You did hurt me once,
Look here, my wrist shows where you plucked it hard;
I never spoke you ill for it; you shall
Do me worse hurt and I not cry at all.

Ch.
This is fool's talk.

Den.
And once in kissing me
You bit me here above the shoulder, yet
The mark looks red from it; you were too rough,
I swore to punish you and starve your lip
To a more smooth respect. I have loved you, sir;
Sir, this is harsh that you regard me not.

Ch.
Nay, peace! I will not have you loud.

Den.
My lord—

Ch.
Say “Charles” now; be more tender of your mouth.

Den.
Sir, the shame that burns through my cheek and throat
Cannot get words as hot as blood to speak,
Or you would hear such; keep your eyes on me,
Ay, look so; have you sense or heart, my lord?
Are you not sorry if one come to wrong?

Ch.
This is some trap. What makes you turn so quick?

Den.
Yea, king, are you? yea, is this not the king?
And I so pray, speak words so hard to speak,
Kneel down, weep hard—but you shall hear this out—
To be put like a garment off? not so.
The queen-mother throws nets about, spins well,
Contrives some thread to strike the whole web through,
To catch you like a plague—there's worse and worse—
What hurt is it, what pain to men outside,
Although she ruin us, make spoil of us,
Melt the gold crown into a ring of hers,
What harm?

Ch.
What harm by God! I think much harm.

Den.
But this is worse—to catch France in her trap,
People and all, body and soul; cheat God,
Ruin us all, as ruined we shall be,
I know not how too well, but something thus,
And now God puts this hour of time to be
A steel sword in your hand, and says withal,
“Now give me token if there be a king
Inside you, do me right who made you way,
Drew you so high;” I pray you for God's love
Let none put thievish fingers on the time,
Loosen your sword God girt so next your side.
What, men steal money and you hang for that,
What, one puts just his little knife in you
As I put just a bodkin in this hair,
And he gets choked with cord and spat upon—
But when some treason stabs belief in the back,
Thrusts its tongue out and wags its head at God,
Turns bitter his sweet mouth with vinegar,
Bruises him worse than any Pilate's Jews,
These men go free? It were too hard to think.
Yea, sir, I will not have you lift your lip,
Yea, you may smite me with your foot, fair lord,
Whom yesterday you kissed here in the mouth;
I lay no care on life or on this breath
Or on this love that hath so dead an end;
More ill is done than good will ever be,
And I now pluck the finished fruit of it
Planted by bitter touches of the lip,
False breath, hot vows, the broken speech of lust,
By finger-pinches and keen mouths that bite
Their hard kiss through: nay, but I pray you well
Let there be no more ill than grows hereon,
No such kiss now that stings and makes a stain,
No cups drunk out that leave dead lees of blood.
Be sorry for me; yea, be good, my king,
Tender with me: let not the queen-mother
Touch me to hurt: sir, know you certainly
None loves you better: also men would say
It may be some joy you have had of me;
Even for that sake, for that most evil sake,
Have some good mercy.

Ch.
Mad, but really mad!
Here, child, put up your hands in mine, Denise:
By God's blood, the girl shakes and shakes and burns—
What, have you fever?

Den.
None, no pain; but, sir,
Be pitiful a little; my sweet lord,
Have you not had me wholly in one hand
To do your will with? would I lie to you?

Ch.
Eh, would you lie? well, God knows best, I doubt.

Den.
I pray God bring me quick to bitter hell
If I lie to you: have you eyes at least?
That woman with thin reddish blood-like lips,
That queen-mother that would use blood for paint,
Can you not see her joint the trap for you,
Not see the knife between her fingers, sir,
Where the glove opens?

Ch.
This is right your way;
A sweet way, this; what will you bid me do?

Den.
Not this, not this she pulls you on to do;
Not set a treason where a promise was,
Not fill the innocent time with murder up,
Not—

Ch.
Tush! some preacher's plague has caught the child.
Are you mad truly? some strange drink in you?

Den.
Sir—

Ch.
Do you take me for no king at all,
That you talk this? I never heard such talk.
No hands on me; nay, go, and have good day.
[Exit Denise.
Re-enter the Queen-Mother and Yolande.
Do you note this, our mother?

Ca.
Yea, and well.

Ch.
This is the very mercy of a maid;
To cut a hand off lest a finger ache
And paint the face of resolution white
Lest the red startle one.

Ca.
It is most true;
I pray you be not moveable of wit
Or waxen to her handling.

Ch.
I will not;
There's nothing shall have time to startle me,
Being in this work so deep; no delicate sense
That gathers honey at her lip shall fool
The resolution and large gravity
That holds my purpose up. I am no fool;
I will go through with it; I am no boy
To be kissed out of mind: I will not fail.

[Exit.
Ca.
Yolande, this way; come nearer, my fair child;
I love you well; there's no such mouth at court
For music and fair colour: sit by me;
How pleasant is it to find eyes to love
That will not cheat or flatter one! Dear maid,
I think you find a time between two loves
To put some poor dwarfed liking by for me?
Indeed you may; see if I love you not;
Get me to proof.

Yol.
You are my gracious mistress;
I would be always glad of service done
And found worth taking.

Ca.
Do you love Denise?
Meseems the girl grows whiter and less straight,
Dull too, I think; eh, you think otherwise?

Yol.
She seems to me grown duller than spoilt wine.

Ca.
I am right glad you do not think her wise.
I have a plan to pleasure mine own self,
And do you good. Are you content thereto?

Yol.
Madam, content.

Ca.
You will not blench away?
Not lightly start from me?

Yol.
I will not so.

Ca.
I trust you perfectly.—Fetch hither to me
That box of mine wherein I keep rare scents;
You know, the one carved of sweet foreign wood
I use to dress my hair and face withal.

Yol.
Madam, I shall.

[Exit.
Ca.
Ay, it shall do you good.
Will this one hold in wearing? I think, yes;
For I have seen her tread upon sick flies
Where the other swerved, and would not do them hurt.
This Yolande is half cold, and wears her pleasure
No deeper than the skin; thereto she is hard,
Cunning and bold; I have heard tales of her;
She hath the brain and patience of hoar beards
In her most supple body. I do not think
That she shall wry her mouth on tasting blood.
Re-enter Yolande.
So, did you miss it?

Yol.
Madam, it is here.

Ca.
Thanks: have good care of the lid, you see it has
Fair foreign work of cunning little heads
And side-mouthed puppets quaintly cut on it:
See how I pinch it open with a trick;
I would not have all fingers mix in it,
For there are spices which are venomous;
So are best things puddled with ill in them,
We cannot sift them through; nothing so clean
But you may tread it foul, nor so foul anything
That one may never warp its use to good;
As this which puts out men, and is most rare
To sweeten gloves with.

Yol.
What am I to do?

Ca.
I know not. Set a cushion to my feet;
So.—One has told me each of you to-day
Lay some girl's gift upon that fool of mine:
Is this not true?

Yol.
Madam, it was our game.

Ca.
When you shall see him give him this for me;
(Gives her a glove.)
And yet not me, he loves not me, poor fool;
Say that Denise had wrought him such a glove,
And being incensed at his late insolence
Which he hath put upon the king and her,
Was purposed to withhold it; I will confirm you.
Suppose a shift of mine to vex the fool;
Say what you will, but thrust her name therein;
Look that you take him where she may not see.
Clasp the silk well across my shoulder; thanks;
I am clad too thinly for a queen-mother,
But all this month is overhot. Be sure
Nothing shall stick to us. Keep close to me.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

The Admiral's House.
Enter La Noue, Teligny, and La Rochefoucauld.
La N.
I fear me he can scantly bear this out.

Tel.
Nay, fear him not; there goes more nerve to him
Than to some lesser scores. His competence
Is like that virtue in his mind which fills
The shallowness of thin occasions up,
And makes him better than the season is
That serves his worth to work in. He shall not live
And bear himself beyond the fear of time,
Where other men made firm in goodness drop
And are the food of peril.

La R.
Doubtless he is most wise;
But I misdoubt he doth too much regard
Each trick and shift of bastard circumstance;
It is the custom and grey note of age
To turn consideration wrong way out
Until it show like fear.

Tel.
I pray, sir, tell me
In what keen matter hath he so blenched aside
Since time began on him? or in what fashion
Hath he worn fear? The man is absolute,
Perfectly tempered; that I a little speak him,
Your less observance of him shall excuse
And so my praise allow itself. He hath been
In all hard points of war the best that ever
Did take success by the hand; the first that wore
Peace as the double coronet of time,
The costly stone set in red gold of war,
So wise to mix reverse with sufferance,
Use fortune with a liberal gravity
And discipline calamitous things with grace,
That failure more approved him, being so shaped
And worn to purpose in his wisdom's worth,
Than men are praised for hazard, though it leaves
Their heads embraced with wealth. His nobleness of speech
Hath made true grace and temperate reserve
But usual names for his; he is too pure,
Too perfect in all means of exercise
That are best men's best pearl, to be esteemed
At single value of some separate man
That the thin season can oppose to him.

La R.
I say not else.

Tel.
So would I have you say.

La R.
Had I dispraised the admiral, it had shown
My love to him that I did prick your speech
To such fair estimate of his fair worth.
The man is come.

Enter Coligny.
Co.
Good morrow, noble friends.
Fair son, it is a loving bound that doth
Limit your custom thus.

Tel.
I am best pleased
When I may use you thus familiarly.

Co.
(To La R.)
My lord, you told me of a way you had
To bring the matter clear we spoke upon.

La R.
Yea, by a woman's means.

Co.
I think it was.

La R.
I saw her yesternight.

La N.
You did not say
Where our hopes went? I would not trust you far.

La R.
Nay, I did strain discretion out of wear;
I told her nothing.

Co.
What did you get of her?
I think you called the woman—umph—Yolande.

La R.
That's your demand, what I did get of her?
Why, such fair time as women keep for us;
What better should I get?

Tel.
(To La N.)
I fear him greatly;
It is the unwound and ravelled sort of man
That the proof uses worst; so large of lip
Was never yet secure in spirit.

Co.
Sir,
We have looked for more of you.

La R.
This is pure truth;
I had such usage as made room for talk,
And in the vantage of occasion put
Inquiry on her, how the queen her mistress
Was moved in temper towards us; did she say thus,
Or thus: you see I spoke not as of purpose
To get this out, but just in some loose way;
As did she put new colour in her hair,
Or what sweet kind of water did she take
To smooth her neck, what powder blanch it with;
And twenty such blown matters out of joint;
Then at the last felt underhand on this,
What were her state-words, her talk's policy;
Which way she bowed; or should the Polish king
Weigh dearer than the duke of Alençon
Or either than this Charles; and thus, and thus;
Being so, you see, bosomed and gathered up
Towards the close and dearest time of all
She could keep nothing safer than her mouth
Would let it out for me; and I as quick
To catch her talk for food as 'twere a kiss
The last I thought to find about her lips.

Co.
But, to the point she told you of—if thus
You got one clear.

Tel.
Ay, that, sir, show us that.

La R.
Give me the breath to come to it, my lords;
Thus was it; I must hide her foolishness
Deep as trust lies in man; whereon I swore
Ten such sweet oaths as love doth take to wind
His windy weaving up; then she begins
The matter of her fear, thus quakes thereon—

Tel.
This will outlive all patience.

La N.
Bear with it.

La R.
The queen she said was kind, not given to put
Her care of things outside her talk, but kind,
And would say somewhat—something one might know—
As this; the queen was graciously disposed
And all sick humour of old policies
By this blown out; she would not do men wrong;
We should have music in the month would play
All harsher-throated measures out, and make
Even in the noisy and sick pulse of war
Continual quiet.

Co.
Did she take such words?

La R.
Even these I tell you.

Co.
I thank you for their use;
This trouble hath borne fruit to us of yours.

La R.
To please a lesser friend than you are, sir,
I'll undergo worse labour, stretch myself
To a much keener service. Sirs, farewell:
I have a business waits upon the king
That narrows half my leisure seasons in.

[Exit.
Co.
What do you say of this?

Tel.
May we believe
The Florentine would with so light a key
Lock such deep matter? I do not trust the man.

Co.
Sir, what say you?

La N.
I rule not by such levels.

Co.
I hold with both of you; and I am glad
The time hath rid him hence.

Tel.
True, it is fit.

Co.
He weighs much lighter than our counsel may.
By this I doubt not, if his whore spake truth
(As commonly such have repute to trip
At unawares on it, and escape lies
By disesteem of truth)—I say I doubt not
The queen doth something cover in her speech
That has more danger in its likelihood
Than a snake poison.

La N.
Will you take it so?

Co.
Nay, so I know it. Therefore as we prefer
Before the deadly-coloured face of war
The cold assurance of a sober peace,
And esteem life beyond death's violence
For all dear friends who hang their weight on us,
It so imports us to make use of time
As never was more need.

Tel.
What must we do for you?

Co.
I would send letters to the province towns
For witness how impaired a state we have
In this loose Paris; how like beleaguered men
That are at edge of hunger and begin
To slacken their more temperate advice
And heat the blood of counsel, we are bound
To the service of this danger; informing further
Of this my hurt, caught unawares at hand
(As proof doth drive beyond the guess) of one
Who wears the gold of Guise at his point's edge
And hath allowance for the use of him
Rightly received. This being set down, with more
That is but half a hazardous as it
And yet hath face enough, shall sting them through;
So shall their keener service overcome
The providence of these.

La N.
They shall have news;
Myself am charged to be from hence this week;
The office that I have must be my means
To steal upon our friends that lie abroad
And work them to our way.

Tel.
Have you no more?

Co.
This only, that you warn our Paris men
To keep waked eyes this month; for as I think
(And partly this is gathered of report
Which our late evidence hath put sinew to)
There moves between the Guisards and the queen
Some certain question whose performance will
Bruise us past use. Nay, I am sure of it;
If proof may give security large heart
And things endured be held believable,
Then I am sure. Therefore be wise and swift;
Put iron on your lips, fire in your feet,
And turn trust out of service. I have no more;
For me, this maimed and barren piece I am
May bear the time out, and sufficient roof
Is in the patient cover of a grave
To keep hard weathers off; but for the cause
And for my friends therein I take this care
To counsel you. Farewell.

Tel., La N.
Farewell, great lord.

[Exeunt severally.

Scene III.

The Louvre.
Enter the Queen-Mother, Margaret, Denise, Yolande, and other Ladies.
Ca.
Call in my fool. You have all made proof of love
Except Denise; nay, she shall gift him too.
I prithee call him to us. (Exit Denise.)
And yet I think
The fellow turns half sour about the lip,
Being almost wholly dull.

Mar.
Nay, I keep friends with him.

Ca.
That's like enough, for he doth love your husband.
But the lewd words he put upon my son
And on Denise, did all but quite condemn
Our meek account of them. It is no matter,
If she can pardon him.
Re-enter Denise with Cino.
O, sir, come hither.

Cino.
I shall run at your bidding, shall I not?

Ca.
What should you do?

Mar.
Ay, there, what would you be?

Cino.
Not fool enough to be a dog of yours.

Mar.
This is no fool; he can do nought but rail.

Yol.
The fool has strayed among the gospellers.

Cino.
I begin to see I am virtuous; the wicked abuse me.

Ca.
Come hither, sirrah. Look well upon this fellow;
Would you not say a fool so round of flesh
Should be as courteous as a spaniel, ha?
Make answer, sir; we are told news of you,
What licensed things inhabit in your lip
That should be whipt ere heard, corrected first
And after to offend: what say you to't?

Cino.
Now shall I slip for want of a good tongue
And have my patience beaten. Prithee lend me
A tongue of yours.

Ca.
Have I more tongues than one?

Cino.
A score or so.

Ca.
Show us a little first
What sort of speech thy mother taught thee mar.

Mar.
Ay, there it lies; try that.

Cino.
What will you have me say?

Yol.
His jests are waste.

Anne.
Pure scandal screams in them.

Cino.
You call me gospeller, ha?

Yol.
Nay, that did I.

Cino.
Shall I turn preacher for your sake and make
A parable of your mouths?

Mar.
That, that; come on.

Yol.
Put your worst wrath on us.

Renée.
We'll hear the fool.

Anne.
Speak large and open; spare us not; speak wide.

Yol.
Now the mill grinds; now mark.

Cino.
But I shall rail indeed
Now I have holy leave.

Mar.
No matter; prithee now.

Cino.
It is your preacher's parable and not mine
Who am your poor fool and a simple thing.

Ca.
Come, sir, dig out your spleen.

Cino.
Thus then. You are all goats—

Mar.
Ha?

Ca.
Hear him through; we must have lewder stuff.

Cino.
And that which should make humbled blood in you
And clothe your broader times with modesty
Runs all to spoil and plagues your veins with heat.

Yol.
We must have more.

Anne.
This is blunt matter, fool.

Cino.
Hunger abides in you as in a dog
That has been scanted of flesh-meat three days;
Sin doth make house with you. Are you pleased yet?
You have smooth Sodom in your shameful cheeks;
Respect, obedience, the shut lips of fear,
Worship and grace and observation,
You have not heard of more than spring-swoln kine
Have heard of temperance. Are you yet satisfied?

Ca.
This is dead ware.

Mar.
Mere chaff that chokes the bin.

Yol.
The dust of a fool's bones.

Anne.
Dull as a preacher's beard.

Cino.
But are you not? resolve me; are not you?
You are made up of stolen scraps of man
That were filched unawares; you can make no children
Because you are grown half male with wicked use.

Ca.
I'll have thee whipt; thou art a hollow fool,
And hast no core but pith. Why, any beast
That hath the spring of speech in his tongue's joint
Or any talking nerve, could breed to this.
Thou wert to make us mirth.

Cino.
Well, do I not? do I not?

Mar.
Who angles in thee save for weeds, shall trip
Over his ears in mire: shut thy lewd mouth.

Ca.
Will you take gifts to be dumb? we are wearied with you.

Cino.
Ay, and worse favours at your prayer I will.

Ca.
You look near white with laughing much, Yolande,
Nay, there's no need to catch so sharp at red.
Give me that glove you keep for him.

Yol.
Here, madam.

Ca.
Here, wear this, Cino, and be friends with us.

Cino.
A fair gold thing, a finch's colour i' the back;
Too small for me though; God change one of us.

Ca.
Denise gave me the glove.

Den.
I, gracious madam?

Ca.
You, gracious maiden; it would span your wrist.
So, fool; beware you do not rend it.

Yol.
Ah!

Ca.
What now? did a gnat sting you?

Yol.
A mere fly;
A mere gold fly; I took it for a wasp.

Mar.
What does this mean? Come hither, fool; sit here.

Ca.
I will not have him there.—Stand further off.—
The knave's report doth poison miles about;
Come half so close, he'll kill you in your ear.

Cino.
Have back your glove; here, madam, have it back;
I will not wear it.

Mar.
What stings him now i' the brain?

Cino.
I am not well.

Ca.
This is some sideways jest.

Den.
(Aside.)
God make this business better than my thought,
For I do fear it.

Mar.
Do you note his lips?

Yol.
Yea, his eyes too?

Anne.
He is not well indeed.
Was all his railing prologue to this play
That reads as dull as death?

Cino.
Now I could prophesy
Like who turns heaven to riddles; my brain beats.
A man were as good ask mercy of dead bones
As of the best lip here; nay, I shall be
Quite marred amongst you.

Ca.
Convey the fool from us;
This does not look like wine.

Cino.
God be with you; be wise now, for the fool is gone.

[Exit.
Ca.
I do not like the face of this. Where had you
The glove you gave me?

Den.
I gave you nothing, madam.

Ca.
Does that wind hold? I must have more of you.

Mar.
Madam, you do not think—

Ca.
Give me leave, sweet.
We have had too much peril in report
To let this lie so light. Where had you it?

Den.
Why do you bait me out of season thus?
You know I never had it.

Ca.
Oh! had you not?
Then I have dreamed awry of you.

Den.
Madam—

Enter Attendant.
Att.
Where is the queen?

Ca.
What puts such haste in you?
Am I not worth a knee?

Att.
Pardon me, madam,
I have such tidings; your poor fool is dead.

Ca.
Bring me to him. So suddenly to cease
Is to cry out on his death's manner; bring me
To see his body; I have a little craft
In such a matter's healing. Some of you
Look to that girl; she swoons to have the deed
So entered in her ears.

Mar.
It is too foul.

Ca.
God pardon her! Could she not see that sharpness
Was but the gall and flaw of his bowed brain?
It did not hurt her more, being most proclaimed,
Than she has pitied him. Bring her with us.

[Exeunt.