The Surrender of Calais Part 4

Freezing indifference:--down, down, my heart!

[_Aside._ I pray you, lady, do not strain your courtesy.

If I have reap'd a single grain of favour, From your fair self, and n.o.ble father here, I have obtain'd the harvest of my hope.

_De Vienne._ Heyday! here's bow, and jut, and cringe, and sc.r.a.pe!-- Count! I have served in battle; witness for me Some curious scars, the soldier's c.o.xcombry, In which he struts, fantastically carved Upon the tough old doublet nature gave him.

Let us, then, speak like brothers of the field; Roundly and blunt. Have I your leave, my lord?

_Rib._ As freely, sir, as you have ask'd it.

_De Vienne._ Thus, then: I have a daughter, look you; here she stands; Right fair and virtuous;-- [_COUNT attempts to speak._ Nay, Count, spare your speech; I know I've your a.s.sent to the position: I have a king too; and from whom 'tis signified My daughter must be match'd with (speedily) A certain lord about the royal person.-- Now, tho' there may be some, whose gallant bearing (And glean from this, Count, what it is I aim at,) I might be proud to be allied to, yet Being a veteran French soldier, stuff'd With right enthusiastic loyalty, My house, myself, my child--Heaven knows I love her!-- Should perish, piece-meal, ere I could infringe The faintest line or trace of the proceeding, The king, our master, honours me in marking.

_Rib._ I do conceive you, sir.

_De Vienne._ Why, then, conceiving, Once more, right welcome, Count. I lodge you here, As my good friend--and Julia's friend--the friend To all our city.--Tut, Count, love is boys' play; A soldier has not time for't.-- Come, Count.----Within there, hoa! we need refreshment, Which you have furnish'd.--Love? pish! love's a gew-gaw.

Nay, come, Count, come.

[_Exit._

_Julia._ Sir, will it please you follow?

_Rib._ I fain would speak one word, and--'sdeath! I cannot.-- Pardon me, madam; I attend.--Oh, Julia!

[_Exit, leading out JULIA._

_O'Carrol._ Och ho! poor dear creatures, my heart bleeds for them. To be sure the ould gentleman means all for the best, and what he talks must be right: but if love is a gew-gaw, as he says, by my soul! 'tis the prettiest plaything for children, from sixteen to five-and-twenty, that ever was invented!

[_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_The English Camp._

_Enter KING, SIR WALTER MANNY, HARCOURT, ARUNDEL, WARWICK, and ATTENDANTS._

_King._ Fie, lords! it slurs our name;--the town is succour'd.

'Twas dull neglect to let them pa.s.s: a blot Upon our English camp; where vigilance Should be the watch-word. Which way got they in?

_Sir W._ By sea, as we do learn, my gracious liege?

_King._ Where was our fleet then? does it ride the ocean In idle mockery? It should float to awe These Frenchmen here. How are they stored, my lord?

_Harc._ Barely, as it should seem. Their crazy vessel, Driven among the rocks, that skirt the sh.o.r.e, Let in the waves so fast upon the cargo, The better half is either sunk or spoilt.

They scarce can hold another day, my liege.

_King._ Thanks to the sea for't--not our Admiral.

They brave it, stubborn, to the very last:-- But they shall smart for't shortly; smart severely.

Meantime, prepare we for our Queen; who comes From England, deck'd in conquest. Say, Lord Harcourt, Are all prepared to welcome her arrival?

_Harc._ All, my dread liege. The beach is thickly lined With English soldiery, in ardent watch, Fixing their eyes upon the bark, which bears Our royal mistress. It was hoped, ere this, 'T had reach'd the harbour.-- [_Grand Flourish._ Hark! the queen has landed.

_King._ Do you then, good my lord! escort her hither.

[_Exit HARCOURT._ Sir Walter Manny?

_Sir W._ Ay, my gracious sovereign.

_King._ Guard well this packet. When the Governor Of this same peevish town shall call a parley, Break you it up, and from it speak our pleasure.

Here are the terms--the only terms--on which We do allow them to capitulate.

_Enter the QUEEN PHILIPPA, attended._

Oh, welcome! welcome! We shall give you here Rude martial fare, and soldiers' entertainment.

_Queen._ Royal sir!

Well met, and happily. I learn your labours Draw to a glorious end.--When you return, Besides the loyal subjects who would greet you, The Scottish king, my lord! waits your arrival; Who, somewhat partial to his neighbour's land, Did come an uninvited guest among us.

I doubt he'll think us over-hospitable; For, dreading his too quick departure from us, I have made bold to guard him in the Tower: And hither have I sail'd, my n.o.ble liege!

To glad you with the tidings.

_King._ My sweet warrior!

We will dispatch our work here, then for England.

Calais will soon be ours;--of that hereafter.

Think we, to-day, on nought but revelry.

You, madam, shall diffuse your influence Throughout our camp.--Strike, there, our martial music!

For want of better, good Philippa, take A soldier's noisy concert. Strike! I say.

GRAND CHORUS.

_War has still its melody;----_ _When blows come thick, and arrows fly,_ _When the soldier marches o'er_ _The crimson field, knee-deep in gore,_ _By carnage, and grim death, surrounded,_ _And groans of dying men confounded;--_ _If the warlike drum he hear,_ _And the shrill trumpet strike his ear._ _Roused by the spirit-stirring tones,_ _Music's influence he owns;_ _His l.u.s.ty heart beats quick, and high;_ _War has still its melody._

_But, when the hard fought day is done,_ _And the battle's fairly won;_ _Oh! then he trolls the jolly note,_ _In triumph, thro' his rusty throat;_ _And all the story of the strife_ _He carols to the merry fife._ _His comrades join, their feats to tell;_ _The chorus then begins to swell;_ _Loud martial music rends the sky:_ _This is the soldier's melody._

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

_MADELON's Apartment._

_LA GLOIRE and MADELON discovered. MADELON seated at a Table covered with Eatables, Wines, &c. LA GLOIRE standing near the Table._

_La Gloire._ Blessings on her heart, how cleverly she feeds! the meat goes as naturally into her little mouth, as if it had been used to the road all the time of the famine: though, Heaven knows, 'tis a path that has, lately, been little frequented.

_Madelon._ A votre sante, mon ami;--your health, La Gloire.

[_Drinks._

_La Gloire._ Nay, I'll answer thee in that, though b.u.mpers were Englishmen, and went against my French stomach. [_Takes Wine._] Heaven bless thee, my poor Madelon! May a woman never tumble into the mire of distress; and, if she is in, ill befall him that won't help her clean out again.

[_Drinks._

_Madelon._ There; enough.