University of Virginia Library

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,
I cannot brace my body like a maid's,
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.
But I fall wrong, slip someway short of heaven,
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
Worse shame and wholly fashioned wretchedness,
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,
Pick me to burn forth of his yellow spears
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,
And paid full price. Dost thou not think I am mad?
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,
But I dream not that take your eyes with mine;
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.

Ca.
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
No babble slipt upon my purposes
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;
Therefore I am not wise; what would you have of me?

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;
If shame go smooth and blood so supple it,
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?

Den.
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.
God give you sleep.—Look heedfully to her
As you would have me prosperous to you.

[Exeunt severally.