 | The Queen-Mother |  |
142
Scene V.
The Admiral's House.Enter Coligny and La Noue.
La N.
That this is true we have clean proofs; she hath made us
Pawns of her game; this very France of ours
Is as a cloth to wipe her feet upon,
Her bed and stool of lust; and hath put on
The naked patience of a beaten face
And sufferance of a whore.
Co.
I think so. Sir,
I have believed this marriage of Navarre
Began our waste.
La N.
That stings me not so hard
As that men mix us in their mouths with fools
Who are not worth our slight esteem of them,
And yet have sewn religion on their sleeve
And badged their caps with us.
Co.
They have done more harm;
There is no lean or lesser villainy
That war or peace-time saddles them withal,
But it must be our blame, the fault of it
Throws dirt on us and each man's several hand
That wets no finger in the Catholic way;
That bites the nearest.
La N.
We are imperilled; well,
Danger should be the coat across my back,
Meat in my lips, if I saw clear and good
The choice and shape of our necessity;
But here to blunder the chance out—my lord,
143
Co.
I see no help.
Nay too, I bind not all the weight on them;
In me and you the plague is well at work
That rots all chances. We have let go the times
That came with gold in the hands; and that slow snake,
Impotent patience of pernicious things,
Hath won upon us, and blown murderous breath
Between the wide unwardered lips of sleep.
Come, talk no more. Is the night fair? methinks
I heard some humming rumours run through it.
La N.
Sir, fair enough; there goes a little wind
Among the roofs, but slow as a maimed man;
The skies burn sharp with point of the lit stars,
Even to the larger cope of all there is
No air but smooth.
Co.
'Tis a good night for sleep;
Fair time to you.
La N.
I pray God set such peace
Upon the seasonable eyes of sleep
As may well comfort you. Dear lord, good night.
[Exit.
Co.
Farewell.—Now might I put lean patience in my prayers
If I should pray to-night; I have no will
To leave my witness against men and pray
That God would suffer them. Surely I think he bears
Somewhat too much with such side-working sins
144
Endurance a blind sort of sleepy lie
To confute God with. This woman here grows old,
As I am old; we have drawn this way and that
So long, the purpose lessens from the doing,
Turns to a very function of the flesh
So used for custom. She carries France her way,
And my way breaks. Then if one sees the end,
The goal that shuts the roadway sheer across,
The builded limit of a complete will,
All these side-briars and puddled rain-shallows
That rend or drench us, are but nought thereto.
Well, here I tire for one, and fain would use
This winter of bleached hair and fallen flesh
To make me quiet room.—Shut up the house;
Let nothing wake the windows.—I will to bed.—
The wind gets thick indeed. What noise is there?
[Firing outside.
Get me a light.
Gui.
(Within.)
Nay, but get you first in;
Throw the knave out at window.
Co.
Yea, my Guise?
Then are the sickles in this corn, I doubt.
Gui.
(Within.)
This way, men, this!
Co.
Not so; the right hand, sirs.
| The Queen-Mother | |