 | The Queen-Mother |  |
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ACT IV.
Scene I.
The Louvre.Enter La Noue, Soubise, and Pardaillan.
Pardaillan.
I have not heard such news.
La N.
'Faith, they sound ill;
If women of so choice and costly names
Turn worse than popular murders are, we have all
Much need to help ourselves.
Sou.
This is their fashion;
Their blood is apt to heats so mutable
As in their softer bodies overgrow
The temper of sweet reason, and confound
All order but their blood.
Par.
You read them well;
Good reason have you to put reason to't
And measure them by the just line of it.
La N.
But that such sins should plague the feverish time
I do not wonder far; all things are grown
Into a rankness.
Par.
Still I say, a woman
To do such bitter deeds—
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That's where it sticks.
Par.
Put on such iron means—
Sou.
Ay, that, sir, that.
Par.
So rip the garments of their temperance
And keep no modest thing about their face
To hide the sin thereon: pluck off the shows
That did o'erblanch a little—
Sou.
Ay, keep there.
La N.
But, gentlemen, what upshot hear you of?
Par.
The queen hath sent her under heavy guard
To bide some subtler edge of evidence
Here in her chamber.
Sou.
Why not in prison?
Look you, they'll let her slip; I say they will.
Par.
But hear you, sir; I did not blame the queen—
Sou.
It doth outgrow the height and top of shame
That she should pass untaxed.
Par.
She will not pass.
Sou.
Take note, sir, there is composition in't;
They would not put imprisonment on her;
Why this is rank: I tell you this is rank.
Par.
God's pity! what a perfect wasp are you!
Why, say she scapes—as by my faith I see
No such keen reason why she should not scape,
The matter being so bare and thin in proof
As it appears by this—
La N.
Yea, so I say;
If she be manifest a murderess—
Sou.
If!
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I read no reason on the face of “if.”
If she be not, what leans our faith upon?
If she be pure or only possible
For judgment to wash clear—if she be not
Evident in guilt beyond all evidence—
The perfect map where such red lines are drawn
As set down murder—if she be less one whit
I'll take her sin upon myself and turn
Her warrant.
Par.
Take a woman's sin on you?
O, while you live, lay no such weight on faith,
'Twill break her back. Sir, as you love me, do not;
I would not have you take such charge upon you.
Sou.
I say I will not; for I can approve
Her very guiltiness.
Par.
Nay, that clears all.
But it is strange that one so well reputed,
So perfect in all gentle ways of time
That take men's eyes—in whom the slips she had
Were her more grace and did increase report
To do her good—who might excuse all blame
That the tongued story of this time could lay
On her most sweet account—that such a lady
Should wreak herself so bloodily for words
Upon a shallow and sick-witted fool.
Why, what is she the better, he removed?
Or how doth he impair her, being alive?
There's matter in't we know not of.
Sou.
Yea, why?
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I am not perfect in a girl's repute;
It may be other than I think of it;
But in this poor conjectural mind of mine
I cannot see how to live large and loose
Doth put a sounder nerve into repute
Than honest women have. What we did know of her,
You, I, and all men—
Par.
Nay, you tax her far.
Sou.
I mean, we know her commerce with the king;
Ha? did we not?
Par.
Yea, that was broad enough.
Sou.
Why, well then, how doth she make up repute,
Being patched so palpably? Here comes the queen.
Enter the King, the Queen-Mother, and La Rochefoucauld.
Ch.
It may be so.
Ca.
I would it had less face.
If likelihood could better speak of her,
I should be glad to help it.
Sou.
Marked you this?
Ca.
But shame can hide no shame so manifest;
It must all out.
Ch.
I do not say it must.
Ca.
Why, it was open, proof doth handle it;
The poor brain-bitten railer chid at her,
Scoffed in lewd words, made speech insufferable
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But would have burnt at him; myself was angered,
Could not wear patience through; and she being quick,
Tendering her state as women do, too slight
To push her reason past her anger's bound—
Sou.
Did you note that? she speaks my proper way.
Ca.
She being such doth with my hands resolve
To whip him out of life; and in this humour—
Ch.
Soft now; I must get proof; what makes your highness
In such a matter?
Ca.
I gave her glove to him.
Ch.
O, this is well; and yet she murdered him?
Par.
What says your judgment to't? have you no quirk? (Aside.)
Ca.
She gave it me; I had the glove of her.
Par.
Does the wind blow that side?
Sou.
Notice the king; he chafes.
[Exeunt Pardaillan, Soubise, and La Noue.
Ch.
Our sister says she did outswear you all
She never saw the glove.
Ca.
Put her to proof;
Let her outbrag by evidence evidence,
And proof unseat by proof.
Ch.
Call her to me.
Ca.
That were unfit; you shall not see her.
Ch.
Shall not!
Who puts the “shall not” on me? is it you?
Ca.
Not I, but absolute need and present law;
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There shall no trial pass upon her proof;
She shall have justice; it may be she is clear,
And this large outward likelihood may lie;
Then she were sharply wronged; and in that fear
And also for dear love I bear to her
I have removed her with no care but mine
To a more quiet room; where till more surety
She doth abide in an unwounded peace,
Having most tender guard.
Ch.
I'll write her comfort;
For I do know she has much wrong in this.
Ca.
I will commend you verbally to her;
The other were some scandal.
Ch.
Pray you, do;
Look you speak gently; I would not have you loud,
For she will weep all pity into you
To see her cheek so marred. Look you say well;
Say I do nothing fear but she is wronged,
And will do right; yea, though I loved her not
(As truly I am not so hard in love
But I can see her fault, which is much pity—
A very talking error in weak tongues)
I would not have her wronged. Look you say that.
Ca.
I will say anything.
Ch.
Now, my fair lord,
Have I done well?
La R.
Most justly and most well.
Ch.
You would not else, were you a king of mine?
La R.
I would do this, even merely as you do.
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What say you to this evidence?
La R.
That it doth
Amaze my sense of what is proven; for,
If there be witness in the touch and grasp
Of things so palpable, and naked likelihood
Outpoises all thin guess and accident,
I must believe what makes belief rebel
And turn a proclaimed liar. For I am sure
That she whose mouth this proof doth dwell upon,
I mean the virtuous damozel Yolande,
Is past the tax of lying; she is as pure
As truth desires a man.
Ch.
It is most strange;
Let's find some smoother talk. Have you not seen
My book of deer, what seasons and what ways
To take them in? I finished it last night.
La R.
I have not seen it.
Ch.
Only this throws me out;
(The verses, Peter Ronsard made them rhyme)
I'll show you where; come, you shall get me through;
You are perfect at such points.
La R.
Your praise outruns me.
Ch.
No, not a whit; you are perfect in them; come.
[Exeunt King and La Rochefoucauld.
Ca.
This is the proper cooling of hot blood;
Now is she lost in him. Say, she doth live; to put
Earth in her lips and dusty obstacle
May not be worth my pains. She cannot thwart me either;
For say I did enfranchise her to-night,
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Wrench one man's faith awry. Yet since I know
Security doth overlean itself
And bruise its proper side, I will not do't.
Or say I win her back; and being so won,
I may find serviceable times for her
To spy upon king fool; this coolness thawed
Would make a heat indeed. There's use for her
And room withal; if she leave tenderness
And this girl's habit of a changing blood,
I can as well unload her of this weight
As I did lay it on; which being kept up
May make her life bend under it, and crack
The sensible springs of motion. I will put proof to it;
Favour of love, promise and sweet regard,
Large habit, and the royal use of time,
May her slight fear as potently outpoise
As wisdom doth, weighed in a steadier brain.
[Exit.
Scene II.
Denise's Apartment in the same.Enter Denise and Attendant.
Att.
How do you now?
Den.
Well; I do ever well;
It comes not new to me, this well-doing.
I sleep as women do that feed well, I feed
As those who wear the gold of doing well.
What pricks you so to ask? Why, this is quaint,
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Cannot plait up my hair, gather a pin,
But you must catch me with “How do you it?”
Att.
I made but question of that mood you had
Some three hours back, when you fell pale and wept,
Saying fever clenched you fast and you would die;
That mood forgets you.
Den.
Not a whit; you slip
Strangely between conjectures of two sides,
The white and black side. I am very well.
They say “do well” if one does virtuously;
May I not say so?
Att.
Doubtless you may well.
Den.
Yea, the word “well” is tied upon your tongue.
Try now some new word, prithee some fair phrase,
Rounder i' the mouth than “well;” I hate this “well;”
I pray you learn some lesson of a jay
To use new words. I will provide me one
That shall say nothing all day through but “ill,”
And “ill” again. I'll have a clock tick “well”
And hang it by your bed to wake you mad
Because you chatter me half sick with “well.”
Att.
I will say nothing lest you carp at me,
Planting offence in most pure sentences;
Mistake falls easy.
Den.
Truly it doth fall.
All matters fall out somehow in God's work,
And round the squarèd edges of them flat.
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And earth fails too, and leaves me dismal hell,
Naked as brown feet of unburied men.
Think you they hold mere talk like ours in hell?
Go up and down with wretched shoulders stooped
And wried backs under the strong burdens bruised
And thwarted bodies without pleasant breath?
Att.
I do conceive it as clean fire that burns
And makes a grey speck of the gracious corn;
God keep us that we burn not in such wise.
Den.
That is a prayer, and prayers are sweet. But then
We'll have no praying; only such as this—
I prithee set a finger to my load,
Help me from fainting; take my knife and smite
And put the blood to cool upon my mouth.
Such dull work too as carls get sickened with
And turn to die into the black rank straw,
We shall set hands to; all fair lords and knights,
Great kings with gold work wrought into their hair,
Strong men of price and such as play or sing,
Delicate ladies with well-shodden feet,
Tall queens in silk wear and all royal things,
Yea, priests of noble scarlet and chaste mark,
All shall God set awork. Peradventure too
When our arms loosen in the elbow-joints
With the strong rage and violent use of toil,
He may send patient breath to ease our lips
And heal us for a little weeping-space,
But then in talking each with each will grow
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And either will go back to mere short moans
And the hard pulse of his outlaboured hour
Rather than talk. We shall lie down and curse
Stupidly under breath, like herdsmen; turn
And hide and cover from all witness up,
Each his own loathing and particular sore;
Sit with chins fallen and lank feet asquat,
Letting the dismal head work its own way,
Till the new stripe shall pluck us up to task,
Crossing with cruelties our own bad will,
Crowning our worst with some completed bad
Too ill to face. Ay, this should be their way;
For fire and all tormented things of earth
Are parcels of good life, have use and will,
Learn worthiest office and supply brave wants;
And not the things that burn up clean make hell,
Not pain, hate, evil, actual shame or sense,
But just the lewd obedience, the dead work,
The beaten service of a barren wage
That gets no reaping.
Att.
I cannot taste the purpose of your speech.
Pray you lie down.
Den.
I will not. Well it were
To set our upper lives on some such guise
And have a perfect record when one dies
How things shall be thereafter. A knowledge armed
Of the most sharp and outermost event
Is half a comfort. I do think for one
That God will set me into certain hell,
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Like any tare as rank. Also I doubt
There shall be some I had to do withal
Packed in the same red sheaf. How will each look,
Tavannes, no leaner than the hound he was,
Or Guise beard-singed to the roots? the queen-mother
Tied by the hair to—I get idle now.
A grave thing is it to feel sure of hell,
But who should fear it if I slip the chance
And make some holy blunder in my end,
Translating sin by penitence? For none
Sinned ever yet my way; treason and lust
Sick apes, red murder a familiar fool,
To this new trick set by them, will be shamed
In me for ever; yea, contempt of men
Shall put them out of office. He that lusts,
Envies or stabs, shall merely virtuous be,
And the lank liar fingering at your throat
A friend right honest. That roadway villain's knife
That feels for gold i' the womb, shall be not hated;
And the cold thief who spills a popular breath
Find grace o' the gallows; why do men hang poor knaves,
Cut throats while mine goes smooth? Now I think on't,
I will put condemnation to their act
By mine own will and work. I pray you kill me,
I will not hurt you.
Att.
Alas, she is mad. Dear lady—
Den.
Yea, dear; I shall be dear some three days hence,
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I am not; they would fain have lied me mad,
Burnt up my brain and strung my sense awry,
In so vile space imprisoning my wants
I can help nothing. Here sit I now, beast-like,
Loathsomely silenced: who if I had the tongue
Wherewith hard winter warns the unblanched sea,
Would even outspeak the winds with large report,
Proclaiming peril. But being this I am
I get no help at all. One maimed and dumb
That sees his house burn, such am I. My God!
Were it not sweeter to be finished well
Than still hold play with hangman anger?
Enter the Queen-Mother.
Ca.
Leave us, girl.
[Exit Attendant.
Nay, sit; this reverence hath no seed in you;
Sit still.
Den.
Madam—
Ca.
Good lady, will you sit?
Den.
So you be come to bind more shame on me,
I can well bear more shame.
Ca.
You are still foolish;
How have I set this anger in your face?
I make no parcel of these tears of yours;
No word that gets upon your lips to weep
Have I given use for.
Den.
Ay, no use you say?
But I dream not that hold this hand in that,
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But I dream not I am that very thing
That as a taint inside the imperilled flesh
Have made corruption of the king's close will,
Put scarlet treason on his purpose, marred
The face of confidence, plucked words from trust,
Taught murder to walk smooth and set his feet
Upon the ways of faith; I am that thing,
I would it were some other.
Ca.
Have you yet done?
Den.
Yea, I have done all this.
Ca.
I do believe you;
And though your thoughts ungently look my way,
I have such sorrow for you sown at heart
As you should reap a liberal help thereof
Would you but pay thin thanks.
Den.
No, I'll no thanks;
Yea, though I die, I will not thank you; no;
For I can hold my breath into my lip,
Or twist my hair to choke my throat upon,
Or thrust a weak way thus to my rent heart
Even with these bare and feeble fingers here,
Making each nail a knife; look you, I'll do't.
Ca.
You talk too wide; I came to do you good.
Den.
That were good news indeed; things new, being good,
Come keener to put relish in the lip;
I pray you let me see this good i' the face,
Look in its eyes to find dead colours out,
For deadly matters make up good for me.
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Nay, you shall find my favour large as love;
I make no talk of gold, no costly words,
No promise, but this merely will I say,
You holding by me grapple to a hold
Full of all gracious office and such wealth
As love doth use for surety; such good riches
As on these latter lips of womanhood
Are sweet as early kisses of a mouth
Scented like honey. Keep but fast my side,
No time shall hew the planted root away
That faith of your dear service sets in me,
Nor violence of mistempered accident
Cleave it across.
Den.
I would I were clear of you.
What would you get? You are a great queen, grave soul,
Crown-shaped i' the head; your work is wonderful
And stoops men to you by the neck, but I
Can scantly read it out. I know just this—
Take you this patience from my wretched lips,
Pluck off this evidence of the bolted steel,
Make wide the passage of my chambered feet
And I will take a witness in my mouth
To set the cries of all the world on you
And break my shame to lead your neck with half
Like a thief's neck.
Ca.
You are slower than weighed lead
To use my speech aright. But though you be
Twice dull or thrice, and looser of your lip
Than that swift breath that outwings rumour, yet
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Could manage me a peril, no tongue's trip
Cross me between. Who puts belief to speech
Grown from some theft, that stains me with report
From mine own lips caught like infection? Look,
Though you could preach my least word spoken out
To the square in Paris where noise thickens most,
It hurts me nothing. 'Tis not that populous tongue
That savours insolence and raw distaste
Can riot out my will. Nay, keep your cheeks:
I would not kill the colour past all help,
For I have care of you; and liberal fruit
Shall you reap of it, and eat quiet bread
When white want shrinks the rest.
Den.
I will not do it.
Nay, though I were your foolish workwoman,
There is no room for good to do me good;
That blessed place wherein love kissed me first
Is now waxed bare enough. I might ask alms
Of meanest men, being by mine own repute
Made less than time makes them; I am not good nor fair,
For the good made on me by love is gone,
And that affection of the flattered blood
Which fills this holy raiment of the soul
With inwrought shapeliness and outside rose
Keeps now no tide in me; the unpulsed sense
Hath like a water settled and gets flat
As dead sands be at utmost ebb that drink
The drainèd salt o' the sea. Nay, to talk thus
Is foolish as large words let out in drink;
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Ca.
Nay, nothing but your peace, which I'll assure
Beyond large time's assault. Yet I'll do something with you,
Put sudden bitter in your sweet of lips,
A knife's edge next your throat, that when you drink
Shall spill out wine i' the blood—something like this;
Feed you upon the doubt, and gnash and grieve,
Feeling so trapped. You'll show fierce teeth at me,
Take threats of me into your milky mouth?
You'll maim my ruined patience, put me out
Of sober words and use of gravities?
Den.
Yea, I can read you are full-tempered now;
But your sharp humours come not in my fear.
Ca.
Yea so? high-tempered said she? yea, true, true—
I'm angered—give me water to cool out
This o'er-tongued fever of intemperance.
Bid one come in and see how wroth I am;
Am I not angered now? see you—and you—
Do not I chafe and froth the snaffle white
With the anger in my mouth? see, do I not?
—Thou hast the tender impotence of talk
That men teach daws; a pitiful thing—in sooth
I am not so chafed; I have something in my will
That makes me chide at thee, my plaything; look,
I do half choose to chide at it, sweet wretch,
It almost chafes me such a daw should live.
Den.
It chafes me too; I will not be forgiven;
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Kingdoms will turn from the grave word of man
To side with hoofèd herds: I were best die
And get no grace of God.
Ca.
“No grace” it said?
Dost thou make such a gracious dunce of God
To look thee out in the time's jarring sum,
Choose thy room forth and hearken after thee
To find thee place and surety and eased breath?
God's no such bat to be at pains for this.
Pray now, go pray; speak some wise word or two
To pluck his mercies back your way. God's name!
It marvels me how any fool i' the flesh
Must needs be sure of some fore-facing help
To make him fragrant means for living well,
Some blind God's favour bound across his head
To stamp him safe i' the world's imperilling.
Pardon thy sin? who blabs thy pretty slips
I' the ear of his broad knowledge, scores thy stains,
Makes him partaker of all times and rooms
Where thou hast made shuddering occasions
To try Eve's huskless apple with thy teeth?
Doth such care dwell on thy breath's lean reserves,
Thy little touches and red points of shame?
I tell thee, God is wise and thou twice fool,
That wouldst have God con thee by rote, and lay
This charge on thee, shift off that other charge,
And mete thine inward inches out by rule
That hath the measure of sphered worlds in it
And limit of great stars. Wilt thou serve yet?
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Not you herein at all; though you spake right,
As it may be this speech does call truth kin,
I would not sin beyond my ancient way
And couple with new shame.
Ca.
This is your last;
For the sad fruit that burgeons out of this
Take your own blame, for I will none.—You, there,
You that make under uses of the door,
Leave off your ear-work and come in; nay, come;
Enter Yolande.
Here's use for you; look well upon this girl,
Count well the tender feet that make her flesh
And her soft inches up; nay, view them close;
For each poor part and specialty of her
You hold sharp count to me; I'll have you wise;
You that are portress shall be gaoler—you,
Mark me, just you—I would not have you slip;
Come not into my danger; but keep safe,
I do you good indeed.
Yol.
I will do truly.
Ca.
Farewell, sweet friend; (to Denise)
I am right grieved that you
Will mix my love with your impatience.
Though I more thinly fare in your esteem,
Fare you yet well for mine, and think of me
More graciously than thus; so have you peace
As I do wish you happily to have.
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As you would have me prosperous to you.
[Exeunt severally.
Scene III.
The Marshal's House.Enter two Captains.
1 Cap.
May this be true that we are bidden so?
2 Cap.
I think it is.
1 Cap.
Did the king speak with you?
2 Cap.
No, the lord marshal.
1 Cap.
He is hot on this;
But did he tell you to be forth to-night?
2 Cap.
Before the chime of twelve.
1 Cap.
Why then we have
A broken four hours' work upon us yet
Between this time and that most bloody one.
There is a yellow point upon the sky
Where the last upper sun burns sideways out,
Scoring the west beneath.
2 Cap.
I see the mark:
It shines against the Louvre; it is nigh gone.
1 Cap.
Yea, the strong sun grows sick; but not to death.
Which side have you to take?
2 Cap.
The south side, I.
1 Cap.
I to the west. Would this were really through.
2 Cap.
Who gave you news o' the office?
1 Cap.
Maurevel.
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O, he that hurt the admiral some days back?
That plague-botch of the Guisards?
1 Cap.
Yea, the same:
I had a mind to strike him in the mouth.
2 Cap.
Why had you so? you have the better place.
1 Cap.
O, sir, in such hard matters he does best
Who does not most. I had rather be a dog,
One half unleashed to feed on bitten orts
Than have his post herein.
2 Cap.
Whose? Maurevel's?
1 Cap.
Even his; for he has carved him a broad piece
Out of the body of this wounded town.
2 Cap.
What, does the work so startle you? for me,
I hold it light as kissing a girl's head.
1 Cap.
If they should face us, well; but to put knives
Into their peaceable and sleeping beds—
2 Cap.
You talk too like a fool. I loathe so far
Their slow lank ways of envious gravity,
Their sparing pride and lavish modesty,
Cunning so tempered with hot insolence
As in that Pardaillan—in him or him—
I say I do abhor them, and in my soul
I think there's no priest half so glad as I
To rid them out of wrong doing. We are
Most kind to them; for give their sin more space,
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And leave them hotter; whereas we rid them now
And they just die half-damned.
1 Cap.
You are merciful.
2 Cap.
I would be so; for him whose spleen is thick,
Made bitter and side-clogged with cruel use,
I hate as much as these.
1 Cap.
The marshal tarries;
I doubt there will be nothing done.
2 Cap.
You doubt?
Say you desire it; if you pray for it,
Shame not to answer your own hope.
1 Cap.
I do not;
I should be glad if all went out in speech
And never smutched our hands with smoke thereof.
2 Cap.
This is your poor and barren piety
That mercy calls offence, and law doth put
Rebuke upon. I do not praise it in you.
1 Cap.
Do you mislike it?
2 Cap.
If I should say I did—
1 Cap.
What then?
2 Cap.
I did you nothing less than right.
1 Cap.
You will not say so.
2 Cap.
By your head, I do;
I will and do.
1 Cap.
This will take time to mend.
2 Cap.
Mend it your way; take time to patch it with;
My hand shall not be slack. Here comes the marshal.
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Tav.
Now, sirs, how are your men disposed? have you
Had pains with them?
1 Cap.
Mine gave no pains at all.
Tav.
Why, well; I would the temper of such men
Were made the habit of all France. Sir, yours?
2 Cap.
I may say better of them; I could not
So eagerly give tongue to my desire
But they did grasp it first; such emulous haste
To jostle speech aside with the push of act
I have not known.
Tav.
Good; they do hunger, then?
2 Cap.
Sir, most impatiently.
Tav.
Their galls are hot?
2 Cap.
Enough to burn out patience from the world.
Tav.
Such I would have; good dogs, keen in the feet,
Swoln in the spleens of them; 'tis very good.
Your presence flags, sir.
1 Cap.
Mine, my lord?
Tav.
Ay, sir.
You have the gait of an unmaiden'd girl
That carries violence in her girdle. Humph!
I do not relish it.
1 Cap.
My lord—
Tav.
Ay, what?
Speak your own way; make answer; nay, be swift.
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My lord, you have not known me blink or blench
In the red face of death; no peril hath
Put fear upon my flesh, altered the heat
That colours on my cheek the common blood
To a dead sickness or a bruise of white;
Nor doth it now.
Tav.
No, doth not? are you sure?
1 Cap.
You do not think so.
Tav.
Nay, there's no peril in't.
But you had more; make out the worst; get on.
1 Cap.
Truly I have a motion in my blood
Forbidding such a matter to receive
Smooth entertainment there; I would be fain
To shift the service off; my fellow here
Knows I regard it something loathfully.
Tav.
Ay, do you, sir?
2 Cap.
Indeed he said so.
Tav.
Said?
2 Cap.
But I do know him for a noble man
That would acknowledge all things honourably,
Commune with no base words, nor wear such office
As cowards do; I must report him such.
Tav.
You must! I pray show me what humour then
Crosses him thus at point.
2 Cap.
I will not think.
Tav.
Sir, you that have such tender make at heart,
That wear a woman in your blood, and put
Your mother on your cheeks—you that are pure,
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Pluck me this halting passion from your heart,
Or death shall nail it there.
1 Cap.
I do not fear you, sir.
Tav.
Observe me, sir; I do not use to threat;
Either take up your office for this time
And use it honourably, or I will leave you
No place at all. What sort of fool are you
To start at such a piece of lawful work
As is the manage of more noble hands
Than are familiar with your beard? You are
Too gross a fool.
1 Cap.
My lord, you wrong me much.
2 Cap.
Sir, you push far; he is a gentleman.
Tav.
The devil shall make a better of strawn dung;
I do proclaim him for a thief, a coward,
A common beggar of safe corner-holes,
A chamber hireling to wash pots—Begone,
I will not bear such knaves. Take you his place.
Go, go, eat scraps.
1 Cap.
Sir, you shall do me right.
Tav.
I say thou art a knave, a side-stair thief—
God's precious body! I am sick with anger
That such a pad of slack worm-eaten silk
Should wear the name of any soldiership.
Give up thine office.
1 Cap.
You do yourself much shame.
[Exit.
Tav.
Fie on him, rag! frayed velvet face! I'd beat him
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And push him out at door. Take you his place.
Attend me presently.
2 Cap.
My lord, I shall.
[Exeunt.
Scene IV.
The Louvre.The Queen-Mother, Margaret, Duchess of Lorraine, and Ladies.
Ca.
No, no, the scandal stands with us, not you
That have no lot in it. Well, God be praised,
It does not touch me inwardly and sharp
To be so rid of him; but I do pity
The means of his removal, from my heart
I pity that. 'Tis a strange deed; I have not
Seen any that may call it brother, since
That dame's who slew her lord, being caught in middle
Of some more lewd delight; her name now?
Duch.
Châteaudun.
Ca.
True, so it was; I thank you; Châteaudun.
Mar.
How says she yet? will she confess his death?
Ca.
No, but outbears all comfort with keen words.
Mar.
Truth, I commend her for it; I would not have her
Show the wet penitence of fools that are
More weak than what they do.
Ca.
I partly hold with you.
Have we no music? Nay, I would hear none;
I am not bowed that way; my sense will not stoop
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Is it not late?
Mar.
I think it wears to nine.
Ca.
Nay, it lies further; I am sure it does.
Duch.
Madam, it is not late.
Ca.
I say it is;
If I am pleased to reckon more than you,
It shall be late.
Mar.
I promised at this time
To be about my husband; if I fail,
My faith is breached with flaw of modesty.
Duch.
Nay, go not yet.
Ca.
Will you lay hands on her?
Duch.
I do beseech you—
Mar.
What makes you cling to that?
Duch.
If you would show me kindness, do not go.
Ca.
You play love's fool awry.
Mar.
Show me some reason.
Duch.
I have no reason broader than my love;
And from the sweetest part of that sweet love
I do entreat you that you will not go,
But wake with me to-night. I am not well.
Mar.
Sister, I am quite lost in your desire.
Ca.
What, are you ill? how shall it get you whole
To wake the iron watches of the night
Companioned with hard ache of weariness
And bitter moods that pain feeds full upon?
Come, you are idle; I will wake with you,
If you must wake; trouble not her so much.
Mar.
Indeed it would a little tax me.
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Nay,
Think not upon it; get you hence and sleep.
Commend me to your lord; bid him thank me
That he to-night doth side you; it is a grace
Worth honourable thanks.
Duch.
Still I beseech you
To keep me company some poor two hours;
My prayer is slight, more large my need of it;
I charge you for pure pity stay with me.
Ca.
Are you gone mad? what makes your prayer in this?
As you regard my wrath or my fair mood,
And love me better peaceable than harsh,
Make a quick end of words.—Margaret, good night.—
Nay, sit you close.—At once good night, my love;
I pray you do my message.
Mar.
Madam, I will;
No less fair night with you and with my sister,
Whom I shall look to see as whole in health
As sound in spirit.
Ca.
I will take pains for it;
She shall get healed with pains; have no such fear.
[Exit Margaret.
Are you so much a fool? by heaven, I am ashamed
That ever I did use your faith like mine,
Nay that some blood of mine was lost on you
To make such shallow stuff as you are of.
Duch.
Madam, you have not thought—
Ca.
What ailed my wits
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Which is filled out with female matters, marred
With milky mixtures? I do loath such women
Worse than a leper's mouth.
Duch.
Consider but her state:
It is your flesh, my sister and my blood,
That must look death in the eyes; you bid her hold
Keen danger by the skirt, gripe hands with him;
For those that scape the edges of your men,
Being refuged in her lodging, may as well
Turn their own points on her; if none escape,
Then in the slaying of her husband's men
She may well chance on some one's iron side
And death mistake her end.
Ca.
I did mistake
More grossly, to believe the blood in you
Was not so mean in humour as it is.
She is safe enough; he that but strikes at her
With his bare hand doth pluck on his bare head
Sudden destruction. Say she were not safe,
Must we go back for that and miss the way
That we have painfully carved out and hewn
From the most solid rivet of strong time?
Duch.
If you would bid her watch—
Ca.
I will do nothing.
Duch.
Let me but speak to her.
Ca.
You shall not move;
This thing is heavier than you think of it
And has more cost than yours. You shall sit still,
And shall not frown or gape or wag your head,
As you respect the mood of my misliking.
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Att.
Madam, the Duke of Anjou—
Ca.
What would he?
Att.
He prays you dearly be about the king;
What he would have I cannot tell; I am sure
He is much moved, and as I think with fear.
Ca.
This is an absolute summons. I will go.
[Exit Attendant.
So, get you in; you have no lot beyond;
That I should have such need to use such fools!
Get you to bed and sleep.
[Exeunt severally.
| The Queen-Mother | |