University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

ANTHONY BABINGTON.

Scene I.

Babington's Lodging: a veiled picture on the wall.
Enter Babington, Tichborne, Tilney, Abington, Salisbury, and Barnwell.
Babington.
Welcome, good friends, and welcome this good day
That casts out hope and brings in certainty
To turn raw spring to summer. Now not long
The flower that crowns the front of all our faiths
Shall bleach to death in prison; now the trust
That took the night with fire as of a star
Grows red and broad as sunrise in our sight
Who held it dear and desperate once, now sure,
But not more dear, being surer. In my hand
I hold this England and her brood, and all
That time out of the chance of all her fate
Makes hopeful or makes fearful: days and years,
Triumphs and changes bred for praise or shame
From the unborn womb of these unknown, are ours
That stand yet noteless here; ours even as God's
Who puts them in our hand as his, to wield
And shape to service godlike. None of you
But this day strikes out of the scroll of death
And writes apart immortal; what we would,
That have we; what our fathers, brethren, peers,
Bled and beheld not, died and might not win,
That may we see, touch, handle, hold it fast,
May take to bind our brows with. By my life,
I think none ever had such hap alive
As ours upon whose plighted lives are set
The whole good hap and evil of the state
And of the Church of God and world of men
And fortune of all crowns and creeds that hang
Now on the creed and crown of this our land,
To bring forth fruit to our resolve, and bear
What sons to time it please us; whose mere will
Is father of the future.

Tilney.
Have you said?

Babington.
I cannot say too much of so much good.

Tilney.
Say nothing then a little, and hear one while:
Your talk struts high and swaggers loud for joy,
And safely may perchance, or may not, here;
But why to-day we know not.

Babington.
No, I swear,
Ye know not yet, no man of us but one,
No man on earth; one woman knows, and I,
I that best know her the best begot of man
And noblest; no king born so kingly-souled,
Nor served of such brave servants.

Tichborne.
What, as we?

Babington.
Is there one vein in one of all our hearts
That is not blown aflame as fire with air
With even the thought to serve her? and, by God,
They that would serve had need be bolder found
Than common kings find servants.

Salisbury.
Well, your cause?
What need or hope has this day's heat brought forth
To blow such fire up in you?

Babington.
Hark you, sirs;
The time is come, ere I shall speak of this,
To set again the seal on our past oaths
And bind their trothplight faster than it is
With one more witness; not for shameful doubt,
But love and perfect honour. Gentlemen,
Whose souls are brethren sealed and sworn to mine,
Friends that have taken on your hearts and hands
The selfsame work and weight of deed as I,
Look on this picture; from its face to-day
Thus I pluck off the muffled mask, and bare
Its likeness and our purpose. Ay, look here;
None of these faces but are friends of each,
None of these lips unsworn to all the rest,
None of these hands unplighted. Know ye not
What these have bound their souls to? and myself,
I that stand midmost painted here of all,
Have I not right to wear of all this ring
The topmost flower of danger? Who but I
Should crown and close this goodly circle up
Of friends I call my followers? There ye stand,
Fashioned all five in likeness of mere life,
Just your own shapes, even all the man but speech,
As in a speckless mirror; Tichborne, thou,
My nearest heart and brother next in deed,
Then Abington, there Salisbury, Tilney there,
And Barnwell, with the brave bright Irish eye
That burns with red remembrance of the blood
Seen drenching those green fields turned brown and grey
Where fire can burn not faith out, nor the sword
That hews the boughs off lop the root there set
To spread in spite of axes. Friends, take heed;
These are not met for nothing here in show
Nor for poor pride set forth and boastful heart
To make dumb brag of the undone deed, and wear
The ghost and mockery of a crown unearned
Before their hands have wrought it for their heads
Out of a golden danger, glorious doubt,
An act incomparable, by all time's mouths
To be more blessed and cursed than all deeds done
In this swift fiery world of ours, that drives
On such hot wheels toward evil goals or good,
And desperate each as other; but that each,
Seeing here himself and knowing why here, may set
His whole heart's might on the instant work, and hence
Pass as a man rechristened, bathed anew
And swordlike tempered from the touch that turns
Dull iron to the two-edged fang of steel
Made keen as fire by water; so, I say,
Let this dead likeness of you wrought with hands
Whereof ye wist not, working for mine end
Even as ye gave them work, unwittingly,
Quicken with life your vows and purposes
To rid the beast that troubles all the world
Out of men's sight and God's. Are ye not sworn
Or stand not ready girt at perilous need
To strike under the cloth of state itself
The very heart we hunt for?

Tichborne.
Let not then
Too high a noise of hound and horn give note
How hot the hunt is on it, and ere we shoot
Startle the royal quarry; lest your cry
Give tongue too loud on such a trail, and we
More piteously be rent of our own hounds
Than he that went forth huntsman too, and came
To play the hart he hunted.

Babington.
Ay, but, see,
Your apish poet's-likeness holds not here,
If he that fed his hounds on his changed flesh
Was charmed out of a man and bayed to death
But through pure anger of a perfect maid;
For she that should of huntsmen turn us harts
Is Dian but in mouths of her own knaves,
And in paid eyes hath only godhead on
And light to dazzle none but them to death.
Yet I durst well abide her, and proclaim
As goddess-like as maiden.

Barnwell.
Why, myself
Was late at court in presence, and her eyes
Fixed somewhile on me full in face; yet, 'faith.
I felt for that no lightning in my blood
Nor blast in mine as of the sun at noon
To blind their balls with godhead; no, ye see,
I walk yet well enough.

Abington.
She gazed at you?

Barnwell.
Yes, 'faith; yea, surely; take a Puritan oath
To seal my faith for Catholic. What, God help,
Are not mine eyes yet whole then? am I blind
Or maimed or scorched, and know not? by my head,
I find it sit yet none the worse for fear
To be so thunder-blasted.

Abington.
Hear you, sirs?

Tichborne.
I was not fain to hear it.

Barnwell.
Which was he
Spake of one changed into a hart? by God,
There be some hearts here need no charm, I think,
To turn them hares of hunters; or if deer,
Not harts but hinds, and rascal.

Babington.
Peace, man, peace!
Let not at least this noble cry of hounds
Flash fangs against each other. See what verse
I bade write under on the picture here:
These are my comrades, whom the peril's self
Draws to it; how say you? will not all in the end
Prove fellows to me? how should one fall off
Whom danger lures and scares not? Tush, take hands;
It was to keep them fast in all time's sight
I bade my painter set you here, and me
Your loving captain; gave him sight of each
And order of us all in amity.
And if this yet not shame you, or your hearts
Be set as boys' on wrangling, yet, behold,
I pluck as from my heart this witness forth
[Taking out a letter.
To what a work we are bound to, even her hand
Whom we must bring from bondage, and again
Be brought of her to honour. This is she,
Mary the queen, sealed of herself and signed
As mine assured good friend for ever. Now,
Am I more worth or Ballard?

Tilney.
He it was
Bade get her hand and seal to allow of all
That should be practised; he is wise.

Babington.
Ay, wise!
He was in peril too, he said, God wot,
And must have surety of her, he; but I,
'Tis I that have it, and her heart and trust,
See all here else, her trust and her good love
Who knows mine own heart of mine own hand writ
And sent her for assurance.

Salisbury.
This we know;
What we would yet have certified of you
Is her own heart sent back, you say, for yours.

Babington.
I say? not I, but proof says here, cries out
Her perfect will and purpose. Look you, first
She writes me what good comfort hath she had
To know by letter mine estate, and thus
Reknit the bond of our intelligence,
As grief was hers to live without the same
This great while past; then lovingly commends
In me her own desire to avert betimes
Our enemies' counsel to root out our faith
With ruin of us all; for so she hath shown
All Catholic princes what long since they have wrought
Against the king of Spain; and all this while
The Catholics naked here to all misuse
Fall off in numbered force, in means and power,
And if we look not to it shall soon lack strength
To rise and take that hope or help by the hand
Which time shall offer them; and see for this
What heart is hers! she bids you know of me
Though she were no part of this cause, who holds
Worthless her own weighed with the general weal,
She will be still most willing to this end
To employ therein her life and all she hath
Or in this world may look for.

Tichborne.
This rings well;
But by what present mean prepared doth hers
Confirm your counsel? or what way set forth
So to prevent our enemies with good speed
That at the goal we find them not, and there
Fall as men broken?

Babington.
Nay, what think you, man,
Or what esteem of her, that hope should lack
Herein her counsel? hath she not been found
Most wary still, clear-spirited, bright of wit,
Keen as a sword's edge, as a bird's eye swift,
Man-hearted ever? First, for crown and base
Of all this enterprise, she bids me here
Examine with good heed of good event
What power of horse and foot among us all
We may well muster, and in every shire
Choose out what captain for them, if we lack
For the main host a general;—as indeed
Myself being bound to bring her out of bonds
Or here with you cut off the heretic queen
Could take not this on me;—what havens, towns,
What ports to north and west and south, may we
Assure ourselves to hold in certain hand
For entrance and receipt of help from France,
From Spain, or the Low Countries; in what place
Draw our main head together; for how long
Raise for this threefold force of foreign friends
Wage and munition, or what harbours choose
For these to land; or what provision crave
Of coin at need or armour; by what means
The six her friends deliberate to proceed;
And last the manner how to get her forth
From this last hold wherein she newly lies:
These heads hath she set down, and bids me take
Of all seven points counsel and common care
With as few friends as may be of the chief
Ranged on our part for actors; and thereon
Of all devised with diligent speed despatch
Word to the ambassador of Spain in France,
Who to the experience past of all the estate
Here on this side aforetime that he hath
Shall join goodwill to serve us.

Tilney.
Ay, no more?
Of us no more I mean, who being most near
To the English queen our natural mistress born
Take on our hands, her household pensioners',
The stain and chiefest peril of her blood
Shed by close violence under trust; no word,
No care shown further of our enterprise
That flowers to fruit for her sake?

Babington.
Fear not that;
Abide till we draw thither—ay—she bids
Get first assurance of such help to come,
And take thereafter, what before were vain,
Swift order to provide arms, horses, coin,
Wherewith to march at word from every shire
Given by the chief; and save these principals
Let no man's knowledge less in place partake
The privy ground we move on, but set forth
For entertainment of the meaner ear
We do but fortify us against the plot
Laid of the Puritan part in all this realm
That have their general force now drawn to head
In the Low Countries, whence being home returned
They think to spoil us utterly, and usurp
Not from her only and all else lawful heirs
The kingly power, but from their queen that is
(As we may let the bruit fly forth disguised)
Wrest that which now she hath, if she for fear
Take not their yoke upon her, and therefrom
Catch like infection from plague-tainted air
The purulence of their purity; with which plea
We so may stablish our confederacies
As wrought but for defence of lands, lives, goods,
From them that would cut off our faith and these;
No word writ straight or given directly forth
Against the queen, but rather showing our will
Firm to maintain her and her lineal heirs,
Myself (she saith) not named. Ha, gallant souls,
Hath our queen's craft no savour of sweet wit,
No brain to help her heart with?

Tichborne.
But our end—
No word of this yet?

Babington.
And a good word, here,
And worth our note, good friend; being thus prepared,
Time then shall be to set our hands on work
And straight thereon take order that she may
Be suddenly transported out of guard,
Not tarrying till our foreign force come in,
Which then must make the hotter haste; and seeing
We can make no day sure for our design
Nor certain hour appointed when she might
Find other friends at hand on spur of the act
To take her forth of prison, ye should have
About you always, or in court at least,
Scouts furnished well with horses of good speed
To bear the tiding to her and them whose charge
Shall be to bring her out of bonds, that these
May be about her ere her keeper have word
What deed is freshly done; in any case,
Ere he can make him strong within the house
Or bear her forth of it: and need it were
By divers ways to send forth two or three
That one may pass if one be stayed; nor this
Should we forget, to assay in the hour of need
To cut the common posts off; by this plot
May we steer safe, and fall not miserably,
As they that laboured heretofore herein,
Through overhaste to stir upon this side
Ere surety make us strong of strangers' aid.
And if at first we bring her forth of bonds,
Be well assured, she bids us—as I think
She doubts not me that I should let this slip,
Forget so main a matter—well assured
To set her in the heart of some strong host,
Or strength of some good hold, where she may stay
Till we be mustered and the ally drawn in;
For should the queen, being scatheless of us yet
As we unready, fall upon her flight,
The bird untimely fled from snare to snare
Should find being caught again a narrower hold
Whence she should fly forth never, if cause indeed
Should seem not given to use her worse; and we
Should be with all extremity pursued,
To her more grief; for this should grieve her more
Than what might heaviest fall upon her.

Tilney.
Ay?
She hath had then work enough to do to weep
For them that bled before; Northumberland,
The choice of all the north spoiled, banished, slain,
Norfolk that should have ringed the fourth sad time
The fairest hand wherewith fate ever led
So many a man to deathward, or sealed up
So many an eye from sunlight.

Babington.
By my head,
Which is the main stake of this cast, I swear
There is none worth more than a tear of hers
That man wears living or that man might lose,
Borne upright in the sun, or for her sake
Bowed down by theirs she weeps for: nay, but hear;
She bids me take most vigilant heed, that all
May prosperously find end assured, and you
Conclude with me in judgment; to myself
As chief of trust in my particular
Refers you for assurance, and commends
To counsel seasonable and time's advice
Your common resolution; and again,
If the design take yet not hold, as chance
For all our will may turn it, we should not
Pursue her transport nor the plot laid else
Of our so baffled enterprise; but say
When this were done we might not come at her
Being by mishap close guarded in the Tower
Or some strength else as dangerous, yet, she saith,
For God's sake leave not to proceed herein
To the utmost undertaking; for herself
At any time shall most contentedly
Die, knowing of our deliverance from the bonds
Wherein as slaves we are holden.

Barnwell.
So shall I,
Knowing at the least of her enfranchisement
Whose life were worth the whole blood shed o'the world
And all men's hearts made empty.

Babington.
Ay, good friend,
Here speaks she of your fellows, that some stir
Might be in Ireland laboured to begin
Some time ere we take aught on us, that thence
The alarm might spring right on the part opposed
To where should grow the danger: she meantime
Should while the work were even in hand assay
To make the Catholics in her Scotland rise
And put her son into their hands, that so
No help may serve our enemies thence; again,
That from our plots the stroke may come, she thinks
To have some chief or general head of all
Were now most apt for the instant end; wherein
I branch not off from her in counsel, yet
Conceive not how to send the appointed word
To the earl of Arundel now fast in bonds
Held in the Tower she spake of late, who now
Would have us give him careful note of this,
Him or his brethren; and from oversea
Would have us seek, if he be there at large,
To the young son of dead Northumberland,
And Westmoreland, whose hand and name, we know,
May do much northward; ay, but this we know,
How much his hand was lesser than his name
When proof was put on either; and the lord
Paget, whose power is in some shires of weight
To incline them usward; both may now be had,
And some, she saith, of the exiles principal,
If the enterprise be resolute once, with these
May come back darkling; Paget lies in Spain,
Whom we may treat with by his brother's mean,
Charles, who keeps watch in Paris: then in the end
She bids beware no messenger sent forth
That bears our counsel bear our letters; these
Must through blind hands precede them or ensue
By ignorant posts and severally despatched;
And of her sweet wise heart, as we were fools,
—But that I think she fears not—bids take heed
Of spies among us and false brethren, chief
Of priests already practised on, she saith,
By the enemy's craft against us; what, forsooth,
We have not eyes to set such knaves apart
And look their wiles through, but should need misdoubt
—Whom shall I say the least on all our side?—
Good Gilbert Gifford with his kind boy's face
That fear's lean self could fear not? but God knows
Woman is wise, but woman; none so bold,
So cunning none, God help the soft sweet wit,
But the fair flesh with weakness taints it; why,
She warns me here of perilous scrolls to keep
That I should never bear about me, seeing
By that fault sank all they that fell before
Who should have walked unwounded else of proof,
Unstayed of justice: but this following word
Hath savour of more judgment; we should let
As little as we may our names be known
Or purpose here to the envoy sent from France,
Whom though she hears for honest, we must fear
His master holds the course of his design
Far contrary to this of ours, which known
Might move him to discovery.

Tichborne.
Well forewarned:
Forearmed enough were now that cause at need
Which had but half so good an armour on
To fight false faith or France in.

Babington.
Peace awhile;
Here she winds up her craft. She hath long time sued
To shift her lodging, and for answer hath
None but the Castle of Dudley named as meet
To serve this turn; and thither may depart,
She thinks, with parting summer; whence may we
Devise what means about those lands to lay
For her deliverance; who from present bonds
May but by one of three ways be discharged:
When she shall ride forth on the moors that part
Her prison-place from Stafford, where few folk
Use to pass over, on the same day set,
With fifty or threescore men well horsed and armed,
To take her from her keeper's charge, who rides
With but some score that bear but pistols; next,
To come by deep night round the darkling house
And fire the barns and stables, which being nigh
Shall draw the household huddling forth to help,
And they that come to serve her, wearing each
A secret sign for note and cognizance,
May some of them surprise the house, whom she
Shall with her servants meet and second; last,
When carts come in at morning, these being met
In the main gateway's midst may by device
Fall or be sidelong overthrown, and we
Make in thereon and suddenly possess
The house whence lightly might we bear her forth
Ere help came in of soldiers to relief
Who lie a mile or half a mile away
In several lodgings: but howe'er this end
She holds her bounden to me all her days
Who proffer me to hazard for her love,
And doubtless shall as well esteem of you
Or scarce less honourably, when she shall know
Your names who serve beneath me; so commends
Her friend to God, and bids me burn the word
That I would wear at heart for ever; yet,
Lest this sweet scripture haply write us dead,
Where she set hand I set my lips, and thus
Rend mine own heart with her sweet name, and end.

[Tears the letter.
Salisbury.
She hath chosen a trusty servant.

Babington.
Ay, of me?
What ails you at her choice? was this not I
That laid the ground of all this work, and wrought
Your hearts to shape for service? or perchance
The man was you that took this first on him,
To serve her dying and living, and put on
The bloodred name of traitor and the deed
Found for her sake not murderous?

Salisbury.
Why, they say
First Gifford put this on you, Ballard next,
Whom he brought over to redeem your heart
Half lost for doubt already, and refresh
The flagging flame that fired it first, and now
Fell faltering half in ashes, whence his breath
Hardly with hard pains quickened it and blew
The grey to red rekindling.

Babington.
Sir, they lie
Who say for fear I faltered, or lost heart
For doubt to lose life after; let such know
It shames me not though I were slow of will
To take such work upon my soul and hand
As killing of a queen; being once assured,
Brought once past question, set beyond men's doubts
By witness of God's will borne sensibly,
Meseems I have swerved not.

Salisbury.
Ay, when once the word
Was washed in holy water, you would wear
Lightly the name so hallowed of priests' lips
That men spell murderer; but till Ballard spake
The shadow of her slaying whom we shall strike
Was ice to freeze your purpose.

Tichborne.
Friend, what then?
Is this so small a thing, being English born,
To strike the living empire here at heart
That is called England? stab her present state,
Give even her false-faced likeness up to death,
With hands that smite a woman? I that speak,
Ye know me if now my faith be firm, and will
To do faith's bidding; yet it wrings not me
To say I was not quick nor light of heart,
Though moved perforce of will unwillingly,
To take in trust this charge upon me.

Barnwell.
I
With all good will would take, and give God thanks,
The charge of all that falter in it: by heaven,
To hear in the end of doubts and doublings heaves
My heart up as with sickness. Why, by this
The heretic harlot that confounds our hope
Should be made carrion, with those following four
That were to wait upon her dead: all five
Live yet to scourge God's servants, and we prate
And threaten here in painting: by my life,
I see no more in us of life or heart
Than in this heartless picture.

Babington.
Peace again;
Our purpose shall not long lack life, nor they
Whose life is deadly to the heart of ours
Much longer keep it; Burghley, Walsingham,
Hunsdon and Knowles, all these four names writ out,
With hers at head they worship, are but now
As those five several letters that spell death
In eyes that read them right. Give me but faith
A little longer: trust that heart awhile
Which laid the ground of all our glories; think
I that was chosen of our queen's friends in France,
By Morgan's hand there prisoner for her sake
On charge of such a deed's device as ours
Commended to her for trustiest, and a man
More sure than might be Ballard and more fit
To bear the burden of her counsels—I
Can be not undeserving, whom she trusts,
That ye should likewise trust me; seeing at first
She writes me but a thankful word, and this,
God wot, for little service; I return
For aptest answer and thankworthiest meed
Word of the usurper's plotted end, and she
With such large heart of trust and liberal faith
As here ye have heard requites me: whom, I think,
For you to trust is no too great thing now
For me to ask and have of all.

Tichborne.
Dear friend,
Mistrust has no part in our mind of you
More than in hers; yet she too bids take heed,
As I would bid you take, and let not slip
The least of her good counsels, which to keep
No whit proclaims us colder than herself
Who gives us charge to keep them; and to slight
No whit proclaims us less unserviceable
Who are found too hot to serve her than the slave
Who for cold heart and fear might fail.

Babington.
Too hot!
Why, what man's heart hath heat enough or blood
To give for such good service? Look you, sirs,
This is no new thing for my faith to keep,
My soul to feed its fires with, and my hope
Fix eyes upon for star to steer by; she
That six years hence the boy that I was then,
And page, ye know, to Shrewsbury, gave his faith
To serve and worship with his body and soul
For only lady and queen, with power alone
To lift my heart up and bow down mine eyes
At sight and sense of her sweet sovereignty,
Made thence her man for ever; she whose look
Turned all my blood of life to tears and fire,
That going or coming, sad or glad—for yet
She would be somewhile merry, as though to give
Comfort, and ease at heart her servants, then
Weep smilingly to be so light of mind,
Saying she was like the bird grown blithe in bonds
That if too late set free would die for fear,
Or wild birds hunt it out of life—if sad,
Put madness in me for her suffering's sake,
If joyous, for her very love's sake—still
Made my heart mad alike to serve her, being
I know not when the sweeter, sad or blithe,
Nor what mood heavenliest of her, all whose change
Was as of stars and sun and moon in heaven;
She is well content,—ye have heard her—she, to die,
If we without her may redeem ourselves
And loose our lives from bondage; but her friends
Must take forsooth good heed they be not, no,
Too hot of heart to serve her! And for me,
Am I so vain a thing of wind and smoke
That your deep counsel must have care to keep
My lightness safe in wardship? I sought none—
Craved no man's counsel to draw plain my plot,
Need no man's warning to dispose my deed.
Have I not laid of mine own hand a snare
To bring no less a lusty bird to lure
Than Walsingham with proffer of myself
For scout and spy on mine own friends in France
To fill his wise wide ears with large report
Of all things wrought there on our side, and plots
Laid for our queen's sake? and for all his wit
This politic knave misdoubts me not, whom ye
Hold yet too light and lean of wit to pass
Unspied of wise men on our enemies' part,
Who have sealed the subtlest eyes up of them all.

Tichborne.
That would I know; for if they be not blind,
But only wink upon your proffer, seeing
More than they let your own eyes find or fear,
Why, there may lurk a fire to burn us all
Masked in them with false blindness.

Babington.
Hear you, sirs?
Now by the faith I had in this my friend
And by mine own yet flawless toward him, yea
By all true love and trust that holds men fast,
It shames me that I held him in this cause
Half mine own heart, my better hand and eye,
Mine other soul and worthier. Pray you, go;
Let us not hold you; sir, be quit of us;
Go home, lie safe, and give God thanks; lie close,
Keep your head warm and covered; nay, be wise;
We are fit for no such wise folk's fellowship,
No married man's who being bid forth to fight
Holds his wife's kirtle fitter wear for man
Than theirs who put on iron: I did know it,
Albeit I would not know; this man that was,
This soul and sinew of a noble seed,
Love and the lips that burn a bridegroom's through
Have charmed to deathward, and in steel's good stead
Left him a silken spirit.

Tichborne.
By that faith
Which yet I think you have found as fast in me
As ever yours I found, you wrong me more
Than were I that your words can make me not
I had wronged myself and all our cause; I hold
No whit less dear for love's sake even than love
Faith, honour, friendship, all that all my days
Was only dear to my desire, till now
This new thing dear as all these only were
Made all these dearer. If my love be less
Toward you, toward honour or this cause, then think
I love my wife not either, whom you know
How close at heart I cherish, but in all
Play false alike. Lead now which way you will,
And wear what likeness; though to all men else
It look not smooth, smooth shall it seem to me,
And danger be not dangerous; where you go,
For me shall wildest ways be safe, and straight
For me the steepest; with your eyes and heart
Will I take count of life and death, and think
No thought against your counsel: yea, by heaven,
I had rather follow and trust my friend and die
Than halt and hark mistrustfully behind
To live of him mistrusted.

Babington.
Why, well said:
Strike hands upon it; I think you shall not find
A trustless pilot of me. Keep we fast,
And hold you fast my counsel, we shall see
The state high-builded here of heretic hope
Shaken to dust and death. Here comes more proof
To warrant me no liar. You are welcome, sirs;
Enter Ballard, disguised, and Savage.
Good father captain, come you plumed or cowled,
Or stoled or sworded, here at any hand
The true heart bids you welcome.

Ballard.
Sir, at none
Is folly welcome to mine ears or eyes.
Nay, stare not on me stormily; I say,
I bid at no hand welcome, by no name,
Be it ne'er so wise or valiant on men's lips,
Pledge health to folly, nor forecast good hope
For them that serve her, I, but take of men
Things ill done ill at any hand alike.
Ye shall not say I cheered you to your death,
Nor would, though nought more dangerous than your death
Or deadlier for our cause and God's in ours
Were here to stand the chance of, and your blood
Shed vainly with no seed for faith to sow
Should be not poison for men's hopes to drink.
What is this picture? Have ye sense or souls,
Eyes, ears, or wits to take assurance in
Of how ye stand in strange men's eyes and ears,
How fare upon their talking tongues, how dwell
In shot of their suspicion, and sustain
How great a work how lightly? Think ye not
These men have ears and eyes about your ways,
Walk with your feet, work with your hands, and watch
When ye sleep sound and babble in your sleep?
What knave was he, or whose man sworn and spy,
That drank with you last night? whose hireling lip
Was this that pledged you, Master Babington,
To a foul quean's downfall and a fair queen's rise?
Can ye not seal your tongues from tavern speech,
Nor sup abroad but air may catch it back,
Nor think who set that watch upon your lips
Yourselves can keep not on them?

Babington.
What, my friends!
Here is one come to counsel, God be thanked,
That bears commission to rebuke us all.
Why, hark you, sir, you that speak judgment, you
That take our doom upon your double tongue
To sentence and accuse us with one breath,
Our doomsman and our justicer for sin,
Good Captain Ballard, Father Fortescue,
Who made you guardian of us poor men, gave
Your wisdom wardship of our follies, chose
Your faith for keeper of our faiths, that yet
Were never taxed of change or doubted? You,
'Tis you that have an eye to us, and take note
What time we keep, what place, what company,
How far may wisdom trust us to be wise
Or faith esteem us faithful, and yourself
Were once the hireling hand and tongue and eye
That waited on this very Walsingham
To spy men's counsels and betray their blood
Whose trust had sealed you trusty? By God's light,
A goodly guard I have of you, to crave
What man was he I drank with yesternight,
What name, what shape, what habit, as, forsooth,
Were I some statesman's knave and spotted spy,
The man I served, and cared not how, being dead,
His molten gold should glut my throat in hell,
Might question of me whom I snared last night,
Make inquisition of his face, his gait,
His speech, his likeness. Well, be answered then;
By God, I know not; but God knows I think
The spy most dangerous on my secret walks
And witness of my ways most worth my fear
And deadliest listener to devour my speech
Now questions me of danger, and the tongue
Most like to sting my trust and life to death
Now taxes mine of rashness.

Ballard.
Is he mad?
Or are ye brainsick all with heat of wine
That stand and hear him rage like men in storms
Made drunk with danger? have ye sworn with him
To die the fool's death too of furious fear
And passion scared to slaughter of itself?
Is there none here that knows his cause or me,
Nor what should save or spoil us?

Tichborne.
Friend, give ear;
For God's sake, yet be counselled.

Babington.
Ay, for God's!
What part hath God in this man's counsels? nay,
Take you part with him; nay, in God's name go;
What should you do to bide with me? turn back;
There stands your captain.

Savage.
Hath not one man here
One spark in spirit or sprinkling left of shame?
I that looked once for no such fellowship,
But soldier's hearts in shapes of gentlemen,
I am sick with shame to hear men's jangling tongues
Outnoise their swords unbloodied. Hear me, sirs;
My hand keeps time before my tongue, and hath
But wit to speak in iron; yet as now
Such wit were sharp enough to serve our turn
That keenest tongues may serve not. One thing sworn
Calls on our hearts; the queen must singly die,
Or we, half dead men now with dallying, must
Die several deaths for her brief one, and stretched
Beyond the scope of sufferance; wherefore here
Choose out the man to put this peril on
And gird him with this glory; let him pass
Straight hence to court, and through all stays of state
Strike death into her heart.

Babington.
Why, this rings right;
Well said, and soldierlike; do thus, and take
The vanguard of us all for honour.

Savage.
Ay,
Well would I go, but seeing no courtly suit
Like yours, her servants and her pensioners,
The doorkeepers will bid my baseness back
From passage to her presence.

Babington.
O, for that,
Take this and buy; nay, start not from your word;
You shall not.

Savage.
Sir, I shall not.

Babington.
Here's more gold;
Make haste, and God go with you; if the plot
Be blown on once of men's suspicious breath,
We are dead, and all die bootless deaths—be swift—
And her we have served we shall but surely slay.
I will make trial again of Walsingham
If he misdoubt us. O, my cloak and sword—
[Knocking within.
I will go forth myself. What noise is that?
Get you to Gage's lodging; stay not here;
Make speed without for Westminster; perchance
There may we safely shift our shapes and fly,
If the end be come upon us.

Ballard.
It is here.
Death knocks at door already. Fly; farewell.

Babington.
I would not leave you—but they know you not—
You need not fear, being found here singly.

Ballard.
No.

Babington.
Nay, halt not, sirs; no word but haste; this way,
Ere they break down the doors. God speed us well!

[Exeunt all but Ballard. As they go out enter an Officer with Soldiers.
Officer.
Here's one fox yet by the foot; lay hold on him.

Ballard.
What would you, sirs?

Officer.
Why, make one foul bird fast,
Though the full flight be scattered: for their kind
Must prey not here again, nor here put on
The jay's loose feathers for the raven priest's
To mock the blear-eyed marksman: these plucked off
Shall show the nest that sent this fledgeling forth,
Hatched in the hottest holy nook of hell.

Ballard.
I am a soldier.

Officer.
Ay, the badge we know
Whose broidery signs the shoulders of the file
That Satan marks for Jesus. Bind him fast:
Blue satin and slashed velvet and gold lace,
Methinks we have you, and the hat's band here
So seemly set with silver buttons, all
As here was down in order; by my faith,
A goodly ghostly friend to shrive a maid
As ever kissed for penance: pity 'tis
The hangman's hands must hallow him again
When this lay slough slips off, and twist one rope
For priest to swing with soldier. Bring him hence.

[Exeunt.

Scene II.

Chartley.
Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton.
Mary Stuart.
We shall not need keep house for fear to-day;
The skies are fair and hot; the wind sits well
For hound and horn to chime with. I will go.

Mary Beaton.
How far from this to Tixall?

Mary Stuart.
Nine or ten
Or what miles more I care not; we shall find
Fair field and goodly quarry, or he lies,
The gospeller that bade us to the sport,
Protesting yesternight the shire had none
To shame Sir Walter Aston's. God be praised,
I take such pleasure yet to back my steed
And bear my crossbow for a deer's death well,
I am almost half content—and yet I lie—
To ride no harder nor more dangerous heat
And hunt no beast of game less gallant.

Mary Beaton.
Nay,
You grew long since more patient.

Mary Stuart.
Ah, God help!
What should I do but learn the word of him
These years and years, the last word learnt but one,
That ever I loved least of all sad words?
The last is death for any soul to learn,
The last save death is patience.

Mary Beaton.
Time enough
We have had ere death of life to learn it in
Since you rode last on wilder ways than theirs
That drive the dun deer to his death.

Mary Stuart.
Eighteen—
How many more years yet shall God mete out
For thee and me to wait upon their will
And hope or hope not, watch or sleep, and dream
Awake or sleeping? surely fewer, I think,
Than half these years that all have less of life
Than one of those more fleet that flew before.
I am yet some ten years younger than this queen,
Some nine or ten; but if I die this year
And she some score years longer than I think
Be royal-titled, in one year of mine
I shall have lived the longer life, and die
The fuller-fortuned woman. Dost thou mind
The letter that I writ nigh two years gone
To let her wit what privacies of hers
Our trusty dame of Shrewsbury's tongue made mine
Ere it took fire to sting her lord and me?
How thick soe'er o'erscurfed with poisonous lies,
Of her I am sure it lied not; and perchance
I did the wiselier, having writ my fill,
Yet to withhold the letter when she sought
Of me to know what villainies had it poured
In ears of mine against her innocent name:
And yet thou knowest what mirthful heart was mine
To write her word of these, that had she read
Had surely, being but woman, made her mad,
Or haply, being not woman, had not. 'Faith,
How say'st thou? did I well?

Mary Beaton.
Ay, surely well
To keep that back you did not ill to write.

Mary Stuart.
I think so, and again I think not; yet
The best I did was bid thee burn it. She,
That other Bess I mean of Hardwick, hath
Mixed with her gall the fire at heart of hell,
And all the mortal medicines of the world
To drug her speech with poison; and God wot
Her daughter's child here that I bred and loved,
Bess Pierpoint, my sweet bedfellow that was,
Keeps too much savour of her grandam's stock
For me to match with Nau; my secretary
Shall with no slip of hers engraft his own,
Begetting shame or peril to us all
From her false blood and fiery tongue; except
I find a mate as meet to match with him
For truth to me as Gilbert Curle hath found,
I will play Tudor once and break the banns,
Put on the feature of Elizabeth
To frown their hands in sunder.

Mary Beaton.
Were it not
Some tyranny to take her likeness on
And bitter-hearted grudge of matrimony
For one and not his brother secretary,
Forbid your Frenchman's banns for jealousy
And grace your English with such liberal love
As Barbara fails not yet to find of you
Since she writ Curle for Mowbray? and herein
There shows no touch of Tudor in your mood
More than its wont is; which indeed is nought;
The world, they say, for her should waste, ere man
Should get her virginal goodwill to wed.

Mary Stuart.
I would not be so tempered of my blood,
So much mismade as she in spirit and flesh,
To be more fair of fortune. She should hate
Not me, albeit she hate me deadly, more
Than thee or any woman. By my faith,
Fain would I know, what knowing not of her now
I muse upon and marvel, if she have
Desire or pulse or passion of true heart
Fed full from natural veins, or be indeed
All bare and barren all as dead men's bones
Of all sweet nature and sharp seed of love,
And those salt springs of life, through fire and tears
That bring forth pain and pleasure in their kind
To make good days and evil, all in her
Lie sere and sapless as the dust of death.
I have found no great good hap in all my days
Nor much good cause to make me glad of God,
Yet have I had and lacked not of my life
My good things and mine evil: being not yet
Barred from life's natural ends of evil and good
Foredoomed for man and woman through the world
Till all their works be nothing: and of mine
I know but this—though I should die to-day,
I would not take for mine her fortune.

Mary Beaton.
No?
Myself perchance I would not.

Mary Stuart.
Dost thou think
That fire-tongued witch of Shrewsbury spake once truth
Who told me all those quaint foul merry tales
Of our dear sister that at her desire
I writ to give her word of, and at thine
Withheld and put the letter in thine hand
To burn as was thy counsel? for my part,
How loud she lied soever in the charge
That for adultery taxed me with her lord
And being disproved before the council here
Brought on their knees to give themselves the lie
Her and her sons by that first lord of four
That took in turn this hell-mouthed hag to wife
And got her kind upon her, yet in this
I do believe she lied not more than I
Reporting her by record, how she said
What infinite times had Leicester and his queen
Plucked all the fruitless fruit of baffled love
That being contracted privily they might,
With what large gust of fierce and foiled desire
This votaress crowned, whose vow could no man break,
Since God whose hand shuts up the unkindly womb
Had sealed it on her body, man by man
Would course her kindless lovers, and in quest
Pursue them hungering as a hound in heat,
Full on the fiery scent and slot of lust,
That men took shame and laughed and marvelled; one,
Her chamberlain, so hotly would she trace
And turn perforce from cover, that himself
Being tracked at sight thus in the general eye
Was even constrained to play the piteous hare
And wind and double till her amorous chase
Were blind with speed and breathless; but the worst
Was this, that for this country's sake and shame's
Our huntress Dian could not be content
With Hatton and another born her man
And subject of this kingdom, but to heap
The heavier scandal on her countrymen
Had cast the wild growth of her lust away
On one base-born, a stranger, whom of nights
Within her woman's chamber would she seek
To kiss and play for shame with secretly;
And with the duke her bridegroom that should be,
That should and could not, seeing forsooth no man
Might make her wife or woman, had she dealt
As with this knave his follower; for by night
She met him coming at her chamber door
In her bare smock and night-rail, and thereon
Bade him come in; who there abode three hours:
But fools were they that thought to bind her will
And stay with one man or allay the mood
That ranging still gave tongue on several heats
To hunt fresh trails of lusty love; all this,
Thou knowest, on record truly was set down,
With much more villainous else: she prayed me write
That she might know the natural spirit and mind
Toward her of this fell witch whose rancorous mouth
Then bayed my name, as now being great with child
By her fourth husband, in whose charge I lay
As here in Paulet's; so being moved I wrote,
And yet I would she had read it, though not now
Would I re-write each word again, albeit
I might, or thou, were I so minded, or
Thyself so moved to bear such witness; but
'Tis well we know not how she had borne to read
All this and more, what counsel gave the dame,
With loud excess of laughter urging me
To enter on those lists of love-making
My son for suitor to her, who thereby
Might greatly serve and stead me in her sight;
And I replying that such a thing could be
But held a very mockery, she returns,
The queen was so infatuate and distraught
With high conceit of her fair fretted face
As of a heavenly goddess, that herself
Would take it on her head with no great pains
To bring her to believe it easily;
Being so past reason fain of flattering tongues
She thought they mocked her not nor lied who said
They might not sometimes look her full in face
For the light glittering from it as the sun;
And so perforce must all her women say
And she herself that spake, who durst not look
For fear to laugh out each in other's face
Even while they fooled and fed her vein with words,
Nor let their eyes cross when they spake to her
And set their feature fast as in a frame
To keep grave countenance with gross mockery lined;
And how she prayed me chide her daughter, whom
She might by no means move to take this way,
And for her daughter Talbot was assured
She could not ever choose but laugh outright
Even in the good queen's flattered face. God wot,
Had she read all, and in my hand set down,
I could not blame her though she had sought to take
My head for payment; no less poise on earth
Had served, and hardly, for the writer's fee;
I could not much have blamed her; all the less,
That I did take this, though from slanderous lips,
For gospel and not slander, and that now
I yet do well believe it.

Mary Beaton.
And herself
Had well believed so much, and surely seen,
For all your protest of discredit made
With God to witness that you could not take
Such tales for truth of her nor would not, yet
You meant not she should take your word for this,
As well I think she would not.

Mary Stuart.
Haply, no.
We do protest not thus to be believed.
And yet the witch in one thing seven years since
Belied her, saying she then must needs die soon
For timeless fault of nature. Now belike
The soothsaying that speaks short her span to be
May prove more true of presage.

Mary Beaton.
Have you hope
The chase to-day may serve our further ends
Than to renew your spirit and bid time speed?

Mary Stuart.
I see not but I may; the hour is full
Which I was bidden expect of them to bear
More fruit than grows of promise; Babington
Should tarry now not long; from France our friends
Lift up their heads to usward, and await
What comfort may confirm them from our part
Who sent us comfort; Ballard's secret tongue
Has kindled England, striking from men's hearts
As from a flint the fire that slept, and made
Their dark dumb thoughts and dim disfigured hopes
Take form from his and feature, aim and strength,
Speech and desire toward action; all the shires
Wherein the force lies hidden of our faith
Are stirred and set on edge of present deed
And hope more imminent now of help to come
And work to do than ever; not this time
We hang on trust in succour that comes short
By Philip's fault from Austrian John, whose death
Put widow's weeds on mine unwedded hope,
Late trothplight to his enterprise in vain
That was to set me free, but might not seal
The faith it pledged nor on the hand of hope
Make fast the ring that weds desire with deed
And promise with performance; Parma stands
More fast now for us in his uncle's stead,
Albeit the lesser warrior, yet in place
More like to avail us, and in happier time
To do like service; for my cousin of Guise,
His hand and league hold fast our kinsman king,
If not to bend and shape him for our use,
Yet so to govern as he may not thwart
Our forward undertaking till its force
Discharge itself on England: from no side
I see the shade of any fear to fail
As those before so baffled; heart and hand
Our hope is armed with trust more strong than steel
And spirit to strike more helpful than a sword
In hands that lack the spirit; and here to-day
It may be I shall look this hope in the eyes
And see her face transfigured. God is good;
He will not fail his faith for ever. O,
That I were now in saddle! Yet an hour,
And I shall be as young again as May
Whose life was come to August; like this year,
I had grown past midway of my life, and sat
Heartsick of summer; but new-mounted now
I shall ride right through shine and shade of spring
With heart and habit of a bride, and bear
A brow more bright than fortune. Truth it is,
Those words of bride and May should on my tongue
Sound now not merry, ring no joy-bells out
In ears of hope or memory; not for me
Have they been joyous words; but this fair day
All sounds that ring delight in fortunate ears
And words that make men thankful, even to me
Seem thankworthy for joy they have given me not
And hope which now they should not.

Mary Beaton.
Nay, who knows?
The less they have given of joy, the more they may;
And they who have had their happiness before
Have hope not in the future; time o'erpast
And time to be have several ends, nor wear
One forward face and backward.

Mary Stuart.
God, I pray,
Turn thy good words to gospel, and make truth
Of their kind presage! but our Scotswomen
Would say, to be so joyous as I am,
Though I had cause, as surely cause I have,
Were no good warrant of good hope for me.
I never took such comfort of my trust
In Norfolk or Northumberland, nor looked
For such good end as now of all my fears
From all devices past of policy
To join my name with my misnatured son's
In handfast pledge with England's, ere my foes
His counsellors had flawed his craven faith
And moved my natural blood to cast me off
Who bore him in my body, to come forth
Less childlike than a changeling. But not long
Shall they find means by him to work their will,
Nor he bear head against me; hope was his
To reign forsooth without my fellowship,
And he that with me would not shall not now
Without or with me wield not or divide
Or part or all of empire.

Mary Beaton.
Dear my queen,
Vex not your mood with sudden change of thoughts;
Your mind but now was merrier than the sun
Half rid by this through morning: we by noon
Should blithely mount and meet him.

Mary Stuart.
[Sings.

Mary Beaton.
This was one
That I would sing after my nurse, I think,
And weep upon in France at six years old
To think of Scotland.

Mary Stuart.
Would I weep for that,
Woman or child, I have had now years enough
To weep in; thou wast never French in heart,
Serving the queen of France. Poor queen that was,
Poor boy that played her bridegroom! now they seem
In these mine eyes that were her eyes as far
Beyond the reach and range of oldworld time
As their first fathers' graves.

Enter Sir Amyas Paulet.
Paulet.
Madam, if now
It please you to set forth, the hour is full,
And there your horses ready.

Mary Stuart.
Sir, my thanks.
We are bounden to you and this goodly day
For no small comfort. Is it your will we ride
Accompanied with any for the nonce
Of our own household?

Paulet.
If you will, to-day
Your secretaries have leave to ride with you.

Mary Stuart.
We keep some state then yet. I pray you, sir,
Doth he wait on you that came here last month,
A low-built lank-cheeked Judas-bearded man,
Lean, supple, grave, pock-pitten, yellow-polled,
A smiling fellow with a downcast eye?

Paulet.
Madam, I know the man for none of mine.

Mary Stuart.
I give you joy as you should give God thanks,
Sir, if I err not; but meseemed this man
Found gracious entertainment here, and took
Such counsel with you as I surely thought
Spake him your friend, and honourable; but now
If I misread not an ambiguous word
It seems you know no more of him or less
Than Peter did, being questioned, of his Lord.

Paulet.
I know not where the cause were to be sought
That might for likeness or unlikeness found
Make seemly way for such comparison
As turns such names to jest and bitterness;
Howbeit, as I denied not nor disclaimed
To know the man you speak of, yet I may
With very purity of truth profess
The man to be not of my following.

Mary Stuart.
See
How lightly may the tongue that thinks no ill
Or trip or slip, discoursing that or this
With grave good men in purity and truth,
And come to shame even with a word! God wot,
We had need put bit and bridle in our lips
Ere they take on them of their foolishness
To change wise words with wisdom. Come, sweet friend,
Let us go seek our kind with horse and hound
To keep us witless company; belike,
There shall we find our fellows.

[Exeunt Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton.
Paulet.
Would to God
This day had done its office! mine till then
Holds me the verier prisoner.

Enter Phillipps.
Phillipps.
She will go?

Paulet.
Gladly, poor sinful fool; more gladly, sir,
Than I go with her.

Phillipps.
Yet you go not far;
She is come too near her end of wayfaring
To tire much more men's feet that follow.

Paulet.
Ay.
She walks but half blind yet to the end; even now
She spake of you, and questioned doubtfully
What here you came to do, or held what place
Or commerce with me: when you caught her eye,
It seems your courtesy by some graceless chance
Found but scant grace with her.

Phillipps.
'Tis mine own blame,
Or fault of mine own feature; yet forsooth
I greatly covet not their gracious hap
Who have found or find most grace with her. I pray,
Doth Wade go with you?

Paulet.
Nay,—what, know you not?—
But with Sir Thomas Gorges, from the court,
To drive this deer at Tixall.

Phillipps.
Two years since,
He went, I think, commissioned from the queen
To treat with her at Sheffield?

Paulet.
Ay, and since
She hath not seen him; who being known of here
Had haply given her swift suspicion edge
Or cause at least of wonder.

Phillipps.
And I doubt
His last year's entertainment oversea
As our queen's envoy to demand of France
Her traitor Morgan's body, whence he brought
Nought save dry blows back from the duke d'Aumale
And for that prisoner's quarters here to hang
His own not whole but beaten, should not much
Incline him to more good regard of her
For whose love's sake her friends have dealt with him
So honourably, nor she that knows of this
Be the less like to take his presence here
For no good presage to her: you have both done well
To keep his hand as close herein as mine.

Paulet.
Sir, by my faith I know not, for myself,
What part is for mine honour, or wherein
Of all this action laid upon mine hand
The name and witness of a gentleman
May gain desert or credit, and increase
In seed and harvest of good men's esteem
For heritage to his heirs, that men unborn
Whose fame is as their name derived from his
May reap in reputation; and indeed
I look for none advancement in the world
Further than this that yet for no man's sake
Would I forego, to keep the name I have
And honour, which no son of mine shall say
I have left him not for any deed of mine
As perfect as my sire bequeathed it me:
I say, for any word or work yet past
No tongue can thus far tax me of decline
From that fair forthright way of gentleman,
Nor shall for any that I think to do
Or aught I think to say alive: howbeit,
I were much bounden to the man would say
But so much for me in our mistress' ear,
The treasurer's, or your master Walsingham's,
Whose office here I have undergone thus long
And had I leave more gladly would put off
Than ever I put on me; being not one
That out of love toward England even or God
At mightiest men's desire would lightly be
For loyalty disloyal, or approved
In trustless works a trusty traitor; this
He that should tell them of me, to procure
The speedier end here of this work imposed,
Should bind me to him more heartily than thanks
Might answer.

Phillipps.
Good Sir Amyas, you and I
Hold no such office in this dangerous time
As men make love to for their own name's sake
Or personal lust of honour; but herein
I pray you yet take note, and pardon me
If I for the instance mix your name with mine,
That no man's private honour lies at gage,
Nor is the stake set here to play for less
Than what is more than all men's names alive,
The great life's gage of England; in whose name
Lie all our own impledged, as all our lives
For her redemption forfeit, if the cause
Call once upon us; not this gift or this,
Or what best likes us or were gladliest given
Or might most honourably be parted with
For our more credit on her best behalf,
Doth she we serve, this land that made us men,
Require of all her children; but demands
Of our great duty toward her full deserts
Even all we have of honour or of life,
Of breath or fame to give her. What were I
Or what were you, being mean or nobly born,
Yet moulded both of one land's natural womb
And fashioned out of England, to deny
What gift she crave soever, choose and grudge
What grace we list to give or what withhold,
Refuse and reckon with her when she bids
Yield up forsooth not life but fame to come,
A good man's praise or gentleman's repute,
Or lineal pride of children, and the light
Of loyalty remembered? which of these
Were worth our mother's death, or shame that might
Fall for one hour on England? She must live
And keep in all men's sight her honour fast
Though all we die dishonoured; and myself
Know not nor seek of men's report to know
If what I do to serve her till I die
Be honourable or shameful, and its end
Good in men's eyes or evil; but for God,
I find not why the name or fear of him
Herein should make me swerve or start aside
Through faint heart's falsehood as a broken bow
Snapped in his hand that bent it, ere the shaft
Find out his enemies' heart, and I that end
Whereto I am sped for service even of him
Who put this office on us.

Paulet.
Truly, sir,
I lack the wordy wit to match with yours,
Who speak no more than soldier; this I know,
I am sick in spirit and heart to have in hand
Such work or such device of yours as yet
For fear and conscience of what worst may come
I dare not well bear through.

Phillipps.
Why, so last month
You writ my master word and me to boot
I had set you down a course for many things
You durst not put in execution, nor
Consign the packet to this lady's hand
That was returned from mine, seeing all was well,
And you should hold yourself most wretched man
If by your mean or order there should spring
Suspicion 'twixt the several messengers
Whose hands unwitting each of other ply
The same close trade for the same golden end,
While either holds his mate a faithful fool
And all their souls, baseborn or gently bred,
Are coined and stamped and minted for our use
And current in our service; I thereon
To assuage your doubt and fortify your fear
Was posted hither, where by craft and pains
The web is wound up of our enterprise
And in our hands we hold her very heart
As fast as all this while we held impawned
The faith of Barnes that stood for Gifford here
To take what letters for his mistress came
From southward through the ambassador of France
And bear them to the brewer, your honest man,
Who wist no further of his fellowship
Than he of Gifford's, being as simple knaves
As knavish each in his simplicity,
And either serviceable alike, to shift
Between my master's hands and yours and mine
Her letters writ and answered to and fro;
And all these faiths as weathertight and safe
As was the box that held those letters close
At bottom of the barrel, to give up
The charge there sealed and ciphered, and receive
A charge as great in peril and in price
To yield again, when they drew off the beer
That weekly served this lady's household whom
We have drained as dry of secrets drugged with death
As ever they this vessel, and return
To her own lips the dregs she brewed or we
For her to drink have tempered. What of this
Should seem so strange now to you, or distaste
So much the daintier palate of your thoughts,
That I should need reiterate you by word
The work of us o'erpast, or fill your ear
With long foregone recital, that at last
Your soul may start not or your sense recoil
To know what end we are come to, or what hope
We took in hand to cut this peril off
By what close mean soe'er and what foul hands
Unwashed of treason, which it yet mislikes
Your knightly palm to touch or close with, seeing
The grime of gold is baser than of blood
That barks their filthy fingers? yet with these
Must you cross hands and grapple, or let fall
The trust you took to treasure.

Paulet.
Sir, I will,
Even till the queen take back that gave it; yet
Will not join hands with these, nor take on mine
The taint of their contagion; knowing no cause
That should confound or couple my good name
With theirs more hateful than the reek of hell.
You had these knaveries and these knaves in charge,
Not I that knew not how to handle them
Nor whom to choose for chief of treasons, him
That in mine ignorant eye, unused to read
The shameful scripture of such faces, bare
Graved on his smooth and simple cheek and brow
No token of a traitor; yet this boy,
This milk-mouthed weanling with his maiden chin,
This soft-lipped knave, late suckled as on blood
And nursed of poisonous nipples, have you not
Found false or feared by this, whom first you found
A trustier thief and worthier of his wage
Than I, poor man, had wit to find him? I,
That trust no changelings of the church of hell,
No babes reared priestlike at the paps of Rome,
Who have left the old harlot's deadly dugs drawn dry,
I lacked the craft to rate this knave of price,
Your smock-faced Gifford, at his worth aright,
Which now comes short of promise.

Phillipps.
O, not he;
Let not your knighthood for a slippery word
So much misdoubt his knaveship; here from France,
On hint of our suspicion in his ear
Half jestingly recorded, that his hand
Were set against us in one politic track
With his old yoke-fellows in craft and creed,
Betraying not them to us but ourselves to them,
My Gilbert writes me with such heat of hand
Such piteous protestation of his faith
So stuffed and swoln with burly-bellied oaths
And God and Christ confound him if he lie
And Jesus save him as he speaks mere truth,
My gracious godly priestling, that yourself
Must sure be moved to take his truth on trust
Or stand for him approved an atheist.

Paulet.
Well,
That you find stuff of laughter in such gear
And mirth to make out of the godless mouth
Of such a twice-turned villain, for my part
I take in token of your certain trust,
And make therewith mine own assurance sure,
To see betimes an end of all such craft
As takes the faith forsworn of loud-tongued liars
And blasphemies of brothel-breathing knaves
To build its hope or break its jest upon;
And so commend you to your charge, and take
Mine own on me less gladly; for by this
She should be girt to ride, as the old saw saith,
Out of God's blessing into the warm sun
And out of the warm sun into the pit
That men have dug before her, as herself
Had dug for England else a deeper grave
To hide our hope for ever: yet I would
This day and all that hang on it were done.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

Before Tixall Park.
Mary Stuart, Mary Beaton, Paulet, Curle, Nau, and Attendants.
Mary Stuart.
If I should never more back steed alive
But now had ridden hither this fair day
The last road ever I must ride on earth,
Yet would I praise it, saying of all days gone
And all roads ridden in sight of stars and sun
Since first I sprang to saddle, here at last
I had found no joyless end. These ways are smooth,
And all this land's face merry; yet I find
The ways even therefore not so good to ride,
And all the land's face therefore less worth love,
Being smoother for a palfrey's maiden pace
And merrier than our moors for outlook; nay,
I lie to say so; there the wind and sun
Make madder mirth by midsummer, and fill
With broader breath and lustier length of light
The heartier hours that clothe for even and dawn
Our bosom-belted billowy-blossoming hills
Whose hearts break out in laughter like the sea
For miles of heaving heather. Ye should mock
My banished praise of Scotland; and in faith
I praised it but to prick you on to praise
Of your own goodly land; though field and wood
Be parked and parcelled to the sky's edge out,
And this green Stafford moorland smooth and strait
That we but now rode over, and by ours
Look pale for lack of large live mountain bloom
Wind-buffeted with morning, it should be
Worth praise of men whose lineal honour lives
In keeping here of history: but meseems
I have heard, Sir Amyas, of your liberal west
As of a land more affluent-souled than this
And fruitful-hearted as the south-wind; here
I find a fair-faced change of temperate clime
From that bald hill-brow in a broad bare plain
Where winter laid us both his prisoners late
Fast by the feet at Tutbury; but men say
Your birthright in this land is fallen more fair
In goodlier ground of heritage: perchance,
Grief to be now barred thence by mean of me,
Who less than you can help it or myself,
Makes you ride sad and sullen.

Paulet.
Madam, no;
I pray you lay not to my wilful charge
The blame or burden of discourtesy
That but the time should bear which lays on me
This weight of thoughts untimely.

Mary Stuart.
Nay, fair sir,
If I, that have no cause in life to seem
Glad of my sad life more than prisoners may,
Take comfort yet of sunshine, he methinks
That holds in ward my days and nights might well
Take no less pleasure of this broad blithe air
Than his poor charge that too much troubles him.
What, are we nigh the chase?

Paulet.
Even hard at hand.

Mary Stuart.
Can I not see between the glittering leaves
Gleam the dun hides and flash the startled horns
That we must charge and scatter? Were I queen
And had a crown to wager on my hand,
Sir, I would set it on the chance to-day
To shoot a flight beyond you.

Paulet.
Verily,
The hazard were too heavy for my skill:
I would not hold your wager.

Mary Stuart.
No! and why?

Paulet.
For fear to come a bowshot short of you
On the left hand, unluckily.

Mary Stuart.
My friend,
Our keeper's wit-shaft is too keen for ours
To match its edge with pointless iron.—Sir,
Your tongue shoots further than my hand or eye
With sense or aim can follow.—Gilbert Curle,
Your heart yet halts behind this cry of hounds,
Hunting your own deer's trail at home, who lies
Now close in covert till her bearing-time
Be full to bring forth kindly fruit of kind
To love that yet lacks issue; and in sooth
I blame you not to bid all sport go by
For one white doe's sake travailing, who myself
Think long till I may take within mine arm
The soft fawn suckling that is yeaned not yet
But is to make her mother. We must hold
A goodly christening feast with prisoner's cheer
And mirth enow for such a tender thing
As will not weep more to be born in bonds
Than babes born out of gaoler's ward, nor grudge
To find no friend more fortunate than I
Nor happier hand to welcome it, nor name
More prosperous than poor mine to wear, if God
Shall send the new-made mother's breast, for love
Of us that love his mother's maidenhood,
A maid to be my namechild, and in all
Save love to them that love her, by God's grace,
Most unlike me; for whose unborn sweet sake
Pray you meantime be merry.—'Faith, methinks
Here be more huntsmen out afield to-day
And merrier than my guardian. Sir, look up;
What think you of these riders?—All my friends,
Make on to meet them.

Paulet.
There shall need no haste;
They ride not slack or lamely.

Mary Stuart.
Now, fair sir,
What say you to my chance on wager? here
I think to outshoot your archery.—By my life,
That too must fail if hope now fail me; these
That ride so far off yet, being come, shall bring
Death or deliverance. Prithee, speak but once;
[Aside to Mary Beaton.
Say, these are they we looked for; say, thou too
Hadst hope to meet them; say, they should be here,
And I did well to look for them; O God!
Say but I was not mad to hope; see there;
Speak, or I die.

Mary Beaton.
Nay, not before they come.

Mary Stuart.
Dost thou not hear my heart? it speaks so loud
I can hear nothing of them. Yet I will not
Fail in mine enemy's sight. This is mine hour
That was to be for triumph; God, I pray,
Stretch not its length out longer!

Mary Beaton.
It is past.

Enter Sir Thomas Gorges, Sir William Wade, and Soldiers.
Mary Stuart.
What man is this that stands across our way?

Gorges.
One that hath warrant, madam, from the queen
To arrest your French and English secretary
And for more surety see yourself removed
To present ward at Tixall here hard by,
As in this paper stands of her subscribed.
Lay hands on them.

Mary Stuart.
Was this your riddle's word?
[To Paulet
You have shot beyond me indeed, and shot to death
Your honour with my life.—Draw, sirs, and stand;
Ye have swords yet left to strike with once, and die
By these our foes are girt with. Some good friend—
I should have one yet left of you—take heart
And slay me here. For God's love, draw; they have not
So large a vantage of us we must needs
Bear back one foot from peril. Give not way;
Ye shall but die more shamefully than here
Who can but here die fighting. What, no man?
Must I find never at my need alive
A man with heart to help me? O, my God,
Let me die now and foil them! Paulet, you,
Most knightly liar and traitor, was not this
Part of your charge, to play my hangman too,
Who have played so well my doomsman, and betrayed
So honourably my trust, so bravely set
A snare so loyal to make sure for death
So poor a foolish woman? Sir, or you
That have this gallant office, great as his,
To do the deadliest errand and most vile
That even your mistress ever laid on man
And sent her basest knave to bear and slay,
You are likewise of her chivalry, and should not
Shrink to fulfil your title; being a knight,
For her dear sake that made you, lose not heart
To strike for her one worthy stroke, that may
Rid me defenceless of the loathed long life
She gapes for like a bloodhound. Nay, I find
A face beside you that should bear for me
Not life inscribed upon it; two years since
I read therein at Sheffield what good will
She bare toward me that sent to treat withal
So mean a man and shameless, by his tongue
To smite mine honour on the face, and turn
My name of queen to servant; by his hand
So let her turn my life's name now to death,
Which I would take more thankfully than shame
To plead and thus prevail not.

Paulet.
Madam, no,
With us you may not in such suit prevail
Nor we by words or wrath of yours be moved
To turn their edge back on you, nor remit
The least part of our office, which deserves
Nor scorn of you nor wonder, whose own act
Has laid it on us; wherefore with less rage
Please you take thought now to submit yourself,
Even for your own more honour, to the effect
Whose cause was of your own device, that here
Bears fruit unlooked for; which being ripe in time
You cannot choose but taste of, nor may we
But do the season's bidding, and the queen's
Who weeps at heart to know it.—Disarm these men;
Take you the prisoners to your present ward
And hence again to London; here meanwhile
Some week or twain their lady must lie close
And with a patient or impatient heart
Expect an end and word of judgment: I
Must with Sir William back to Chartley straight
And there make inquisition ere day close
What secret serpents of what treasons hatched
May in this lady's papers lurk, whence we
Must pluck the fangs forth of them yet unfleshed,
And lay these plots like dead and strangled snakes
Naked before the council.

Mary Stuart.
I must go?

Gorges.
Madam, no help; I pray your pardon.

Mary Stuart.
Ay?
Had I your pardon in this hand to give,
And here in this my vengeance—Words, and words!
God, for thy pity! what vile thing is this
That thou didst make of woman? even in death,
As in the extremest evil of all our lives,
We can but curse or pray, but prate and weep,
And all our wrath is wind that works no wreck,
And all our fire as water. Noble sirs,
We are servants of your servants, and obey
The beck of your least groom; obsequiously,
We pray you but report of us so much,
Submit us to you. Yet would I take farewell,
May it not displease you, for old service' sake,
Of one my servant here that was, and now
Hath no word for me; yet I blame him not,
Who am past all help of man; God witness me,
I would not chide now, Gilbert, though my tongue
Had strength yet left for chiding, and its edge
Were yet a sword to smite with, or my wrath
A thing that babes might shrink at; only this
Take with you for your poor queen's true last word,
That if they let me live so long to see
The fair wife's face again from whose soft side,
Now labouring with your child, by violent hands
You are reft perforce for my sake, while I live
I will have charge of her more carefully
Than of mine own life's keeping, which indeed
I think not long to keep, nor care, God knows,
How soon or how men take it. Nay, good friend,
Weep not; my weeping time is wellnigh past,
And theirs whose eyes have too much wept for me
Should last no longer. Sirs, I give you thanks
For thus much grace and patience shown of you,
My gentle gaolers, towards a queen unqueened
Who shall nor get nor crave again of man
What grace may rest in him to give her. Come,
Bring me to bonds again, and her with me
That hath not stood so nigh me all these years
To fall ere life doth from my side, or take
Her way to death without me till I die.