Queen Mary; and, Harold Part 36

Burn!-- Fie, what a savour! tell the cooks to close The doors of all the offices below.

Latimer!

Sir, we are private with our women here-- Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow-- Thou light a torch that never will go out!

'Tis out--mine flames. Women, the Holy Father Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole-- Was that well done? and poor Pole pines of it, As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, I have no power.--Ah, weak and meek old man, Seven-fold dishonour'd even in the sight Of thine own sectaries--No, no. No pardon!

Why that was false: there is the right hand still Beckons me hence.

Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason, Remember that! 'twas I and Bonner did it, And Pole; we are three to one--Have you found mercy there, Grant it me here: and see, he smiles and goes, Gentle as in life.

ALICE. Madam, who goes? King Philip?

MARY. No, Philip comes and goes, but never goes.

Women, when I am dead, Open my heart, and there you will find written Two names, Philip and Calais; open his,-- So that he have one,-- You will find Philip only, policy, policy,-- Ay, worse than that--not one hour true to me!

Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice!

Adulterous to the very heart of h.e.l.l.

Hast thou a knife?

ALICE. Ay, Madam, but o' G.o.d's mercy--

MARY. Fool, think'st thou I would peril mine own soul By slaughter of the body? I could not, girl, Not this way--callous with a constant stripe, Unwoundable. The knife!

ALICE. Take heed, take heed!

The blade is keen as death.

MARY. This Philip shall not Stare in upon me in my haggardness; Old, miserable, diseased, Incapable of children. Come thou down.

[_Cuts out the picture and throws it down_.

Lie there. (_Wails_) O G.o.d, I have kill'd my Philip!

ALICE. No, Madam, you have but cut the canvas out; We can replace it.

MARY. All is well then; rest-- I will to rest; he said, I must have rest.

[_Cries of_ 'ELIZABETH' _in the street_.

A cry! What's that? Elizabeth? revolt?

A new Northumberland, another Wyatt?

I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave.

LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your royal sister comes to see you.

MARY. I will not see her.

Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my sister?

I will see none except the priest. Your arm.

[_To_ LADY CLARENCE.

O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn smile Among thy patient wrinkles--Help me hence.

[_Exeunt_.

_The_ PRIEST _pa.s.ses. Enter_ ELIZABETH _and_ SIR WILLIAM CECIL.

ELIZABETH. Good counsel yours-- No one in waiting? still, As if the chamberlain were Death himself!

The room she sleeps in--is not this the way?

No, that way there are voices. Am I too late?

Cecil ... G.o.d guide me lest I lose the way.

[_Exit_ ELIZABETH.

CECIL. Many points weather'd, many perilous ones, At last a harbour opens; but therein Sunk rocks--they need fine steering--much it is To be nor mad, nor bigot--have a mind-- Nor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds to be, Miscolour things about her--sudden touches For him, or him--sunk rocks; no pa.s.sionate faith-- But--if let be--balance and compromise; Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her--a Tudor School'd by the shadow of death--a Boleyn, too, Glancing across the Tudor--not so well.

_Enter_ ALICE.

How is the good Queen now?

ALICE. Away from Philip.

Back in her childhood--prattling to her mother Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles, And childlike--jealous of him again--and once She thank'd her father sweetly for his book Against that G.o.dless German. Ah, those days Were happy. It was never merry world In England, since the Bible came among us.

CECIL. And who says that?

ALICE. It is a saying among the Catholics.

CECIL. It never will be merry world in England, Till all men have their Bible, rich and poor.

ALICE. The Queen is dying, or you dare not say it.

_Enter_ ELIZABETH.

ELIZABETH. The Queen is dead.

CECIL. Then here she stands! my homage.

ELIZABETH. She knew me, and acknowledged me her heir, Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the Faith: Then claspt the cross, and pa.s.s'd away in peace.

I left her lying still and beautiful, More beautiful than in life. Why would you vex yourself, Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no heart To be your Queen. To reign is restless fence, Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with the dead.

Her life was winter, for her spring was nipt: And she loved much: pray G.o.d she be forgiven.

CECIL. Peace with the dead, who never were at peace!

Yet she loved one so much--I needs must say-- That never English monarch dying left England so little.

ELIZABETH. But with Cecil's aid And others, if our person be secured From traitor stabs--we will make England great.

_Enter_ PAGET, _and other_ LORDS OF THE COUNCIL, SIR RALPH BAGENHALL, _etc_.

LORDS. G.o.d save Elizabeth, the Queen of England!

BAGENHALL. G.o.d save the Crown! the Papacy is no more.

PAGET (_aside_).

Are we so sure of that?

ACCLAMATION. G.o.d save the Queen!

END OF QUEEN MARY.