Queen Mary; and, Harold Part 31

MARY. There were not many hang'd for Wyatt's rising.

LADY CLARENCE. Nay, not two hundred.

MARY. I could weep for them And her, and mine own self and all the world.

LADY CLARENCE. For her? for whom, your Grace?

_Enter_ USHER.

USHER. The Cardinal.

_Enter_ CARDINAL POLE. (MARY _rises_.)

MARY. Reginald Pole, what news hath plagued thy heart?

What makes thy favour like the bloodless head Fall'n on the block, and held up by the hair?

Philip?--

POLE. No, Philip is as warm in life As ever.

MARY. Ay, and then as cold as ever.

Is Calais taken?

POLE. Cousin, there hath chanced A sharper harm to England and to Rome, Than Calais taken. Julius the Third Was ever just, and mild, and father-like; But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Fourth, Not only reft me of that legateship Which Julius gave me, and the legateship Annex'd to Canterbury--nay, but worse-- And yet I must obey the Holy Father, And so must you, good cousin;--worse than all, A pa.s.sing bell toll'd in a dying ear-- He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy, Before his Inquisition.

MARY. I knew it, cousin, But held from you all papers sent by Rome, That you might rest among us, till the Pope, To compa.s.s which I wrote myself to Rome, Reversed his doom, and that you might not seem To disobey his Holiness.

POLE. He hates Philip; He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard; He cannot dream that _I_ advised the war; He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself.

Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too; So brands me in the stare of Christendom A heretic!

Now, even now, when bow'd before my time, The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out; When I should guide the Church in peace at home, After my twenty years of banishment, And all my lifelong labour to uphold The primacy--a heretic. Long ago, When I was ruler in the patrimony, I was too lenient to the Lutheran, And I and learned friends among ourselves Would freely canva.s.s certain Lutheranisms.

What then, he knew I was no Lutheran.

A heretic!

He drew this shaft against me to the head, When it was thought I might be chosen Pope, But then withdrew it. In full consistory, When I was made Archbishop, he approved me.

And how should he have sent me Legate hither, Deeming me heretic? and what heresy since?

But he was evermore mine enemy, And hates the Spaniard--fiery-choleric, A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines, That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic?

Your Highness knows that in pursuing heresy I have gone beyond your late Lord Chancellor,-- He cried Enough! enough! before his death.-- Gone beyond him and mine own natural man (It was G.o.d's cause); so far they call me now, The scourge and butcher of their English church.

MARY. Have courage, your reward is Heaven itself.

POLE. They groan amen; they swarm into the fire Like flies--for what? no dogma. They know nothing; They burn for nothing.

MARY. You have done your best.

POLE. Have done my best, and as a faithful son, That all day long hath wrought his father's work, When back he comes at evening hath the door Shut on him by the father whom he loved, His early follies cast into his teeth, And the poor son turn'd out into the street To sleep, to die--I shall die of it, cousin.

MARY. I pray you be not so disconsolate; I still will do mine utmost with the Pope.

Poor cousin!

Have not I been the fast friend of your life Since mine began, and it was thought we two Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other As man and wife?

POLE. Ah, cousin, I remember How I would dandle you upon my knee At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once With your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry, You but his c.o.c.kboat; prettily you did it, And innocently. No--we were not made One flesh in happiness, no happiness here; But now we are made one flesh in misery; Our bridemaids are not lovely--Disappointment, Ingrat.i.tude, Injustice, Evil-tongue, Labour-in-vain.

MARY. Surely, not all in vain.

Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself.

POLE. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay, Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond; And there is one Death stands behind the Groom, And there is one Death stands behind the Bride--

MARY. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'?

POLE. No; but these libellous papers which I found Strewn in your palace. Look you here--the Pope Pointing at me with 'Pole, the heretic, Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself, Or I will burn thee;' and this other; see!-- 'We pray continually for the death Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole.'

This last--I dare not read it her. [_Aside_.

MARY. Away!

Why do you bring me these?

I thought you knew better. I never read, I tear them; they come back upon my dreams.

The hands that write them should be burnt clean off As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these?

Do you mean to drive me mad?

POLE. I had forgotten How these poor libels trouble you. Your pardon, Sweet cousin, and farewell! 'O bubble world, Whose colours in a moment break and fly!'

Why, who said that? I know not--true enough!

[_Puts up the papers, all but the last, which falls.

Exit_ POLE.

ALICE. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one, And heard these two, there might be sport for him. [_Aside_.

MARY. Clarence, they hate me; even while I speak There lurks a silent dagger, listening In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn, And panting for my blood as I go by.

LADY CLARENCE. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too, And I have often found them.

MARY. Find me one!

LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam; but Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor, Would see your Highness.

MARY. Wherefore should I see him?

LADY CLARENCE. Well, Madam, he may bring you news from Philip.

MARY. So, Clarence.

LADY CLARENCE. Let me first put up your hair; It tumbles all abroad.

MARY. And the gray dawn Of an old age that never will be mine Is all the clearer seen. No, no; what matters?

Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn.

_Enter_ SIR NICHOLAS HEATH.

HEATH. I bring your Majesty such grievous news I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken.

MARY. What traitor spoke? Here, let my cousin Pole Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran.