SCENE III.
Outside of the Royal Tent.
Enter Fool.
Fool. Queen Margaret has sheltered me from the peltings of fortune, this many a year. Now the pelting has damaged my shelter; but still I stick to it. More simpleton I!—to stand, like a thin-clad booby, in a hard shower, under an unroofed penthouse. Truly, for a fool of my experience, I have but little wisdom: and yet a camp suits well with my humour; take away the fighting—the sleeping in a field—the bad fare—the long marches, and the short pay—and a soldier's is a rare merry life.—Here come two more musterers—troth we have need of them—for, considering the goodness of the cause, they drop in as sparingly as mites into a poor's box.
Enter Adeline and Gregory.
Adeline. Tremble not now, Gregory, for your life!
Gregory. Lord, madam, that is the only thing I do tremble for: if I had as many lives as a cat, I must borrow a tenth, I fancy, to carry me out of this place.
Adeline. Pooh! pr'ythee—we are here among friends. Did you not mark the courtesy of the centinels; who, upon signifying our intentions, bid us pass on, till we should find a leader, to whom we might tender our services?
Gregory. Ah! and there he is, I suppose. [Pointing to the Fool.] Mercy on us! he's a terrible looking fellow—his coat has been so pepper'd with musket shot in the wars, that 'tis patch'd from the very top to the bottom.
Adeline. Tut, tut, man! your fears have made you blind; this motley gentleman's occupation has nothing terrible in it, I'll answer for it—we will accost him. How now, fellow?
Fool. How now, fool?
Adeline. What, sirrah? call you me fool?
Fool. 'Faith may I, sir; when you call me fellow. Hail to you, sir, you are very well met. Nay you need not be ashamed of me for a companion; simple though I seem, we fools come of a great family, with a number of rich relations.
Adeline. Why do you follow the camp, fool?
Fool. For the same reason that a blind beggar follows his dog;—though it may lead me where my neck may be broke, I can't get on in the world without it. You, sir, I take it, are come, like me, to shoot your bolt at the enemy?
Adeline. I come, partly, indeed, among other purposes, to offer my weak aid to the army.
Fool. Your weakness, sir, acts marvellously wisely: you'll be the clean-shaved Nestor of the regiment.
Adeline. If I could find your leader, I would vouch, too, for the integrity of this my follower, to be received into the ranks.
Gregory. Oh no, you need not put yourself to the trouble of vouching for me.
Fool. Right; for your knave, when great folks have occasion for him, is received with little inquiry into his character. Marry, let an honest man lack their assistance, and starving stares him in the face, for want of a recommendation.
Adeline. Lead us to your General, and you shall be well remember'd by me.
Fool. Why, as to a General, I can stand you in little stead; but if such a simple thing as a Queen can content you, I am your only man: for being a proper fellow, and a huge tickler up of a lady's fancy, I may chance to push your fortune as far as another. Truly, you fell into good hands when you stumbled on me. [Flourish.] Stand back, here comes royalty.
Enter Queen Margaret, Duke of Somerset, La Varenne, Seneschal of Normandy, with Knights and Soldiers, from the Tent.
Som. Here, if it please you, madam, we'll debate.
Our tented councils but disturb the King,
And break his pious meditations.
Marg. True, Duke of Somerset; for some there are
Who, idly stretch'd upon the bank of life,
Sleep till the stream runs dry.—Is't not vexatious,
That frolic nature, as it were, in mockery,
Should in the rough, and lusty mould of manhood,
Encrust a feeble mind!—Well, upon me
Must rest the load of war.—Assist me, then,
Ye powers of just revenge! fix deep the memory
Of injured majesty! heat my glowing fancy
With all the glittering pride of high dominion;
That, when we meet the traitors who usurp it,
My breast shall swell with manly indignation,
And spur me on to enterprise.
La Var. Oh! happy
The knight who wields his sword for such a mistress.
I cannot but be proud! When late, in Normandy,
Your grace demanded succour of my countrymen,
And beauty in distress shone like the sun
Piercing a summer's cloud—then—then was I
The honour'd cavalier a royal lady
Chose, from the flower of our nobility,
To right her cause, and punish her oppressors.
Marg. Thanks, La Varenne; our cause is bound to you;
And my particular bond of obligation
Is stamp'd, my lord, with the warm seal of gratitude.
Yours is a high and gallant spirit, lord!
Impatient of inaction, even in peace
It manifests its owner: for, I found you,
In fertile France, (that nurse of courtesy)
Our sex's foremost champion;—in the tournament
Bearing away the prize, that you might lay it
At some fair lady's feet: thus, in rehearsal,
Training the martial mind to feats of chivalry;
That, when occasion call'd for real service,
It ever was found ready—witness the troops
You lead to action.—Say, lords, think you not
That these, our high-bred Normans, mingled with
Our hardy Scottish friends, like fire in flint,
Will, when the iron hand of battle strikes,
Produce such hot and vivid sparks of valour,
That the pale House of York, aghast with fear,
Shall perish in the flame it rashly kindled?
La Var. No doubt, no doubt!
'Would that the time were come, when our bright swords
Shall end the contest! Since I pledged myself
To fight this cause, delay's as irksome to me,
As to the mettled boy, contracted to
The nymph he burns for, when cold blooded age
Procrastinates the marriage ceremony.
Marg. The time's at hand, my lord; the enemy,
Hearing of succours daily flocking to us,
Is marching, as I gather, towards our camp—
Therefore, good Seneschal, look to our troops:
Keep all our men in readiness;—ride thro' the ranks,
And cheer the soldiery.—Come, bustle, bustle.
Oh! we'll not fail, I warrant!—How now, sirrah?
How came you here? [To the Fool.
Fool. Willy nilly, madam, as the thief came to the gallows. I am a modest guest here, madam, with a poor stomach for fighting, and need a deal of pressing before I fall to. When Providence made plumbers, it did wisely to leave me out of the number; for, Heaven knows, I take but little delight in lead: but here are two who come to traffic in that commodity. [Points to Adeline and Gregory.
Marg. How mean you, sir? What are these men?
Fool. Swelling spirits, madam, with shrunk fortunes, as I take it;—as painful to the owners, as your gouty leg in a tight boot: but if a man's word be not taken in the world, he's forced to come to blows to keep up a reputation. Poverty without spirit lets in the frost upon him worse than a crazy portal at Christmas; so here are a couple of warped doors in the foul weather of adversity, madam, who want to be listed.
Marg. I never saw a youth of better promise:
But say, young man, serve you here willingly
In these our wars? [To Adeline.
Adeline. Yes, madam, if it please you;
And, if my youth should lack ability,
I do beseech you, let my honest will
Atone for its defect:—yet I will say—
And yet I would not boast—that a weak boy
May show you that he is zealous in your service:
For tho' but green in years, alas! misfortune
Has sorely wrung my heart!—and the proud world,
(I blush for't, while I utter it)—must know
What 'tis to suffer, ere its thoughtless breast,
Callous in happiness, can warm with feeling
For others in distress.
Marg. Poor youth! I pity thee.
And for thy willingness, which I esteem
In friendly working more than if thou brought'st
The strength of Hercules to nerve our battle,
Should the just Heavens smile on our enterprise,
I will not, trust me, youth, forget thee.—
Enter a Messenger.
Now the news!
Mess. The enemy approaches. On the brow
of the next hill, rising a short mile hence,
Their colours wave.
La Var. Now then for the issue!
Marg. Ha!—So near! Who is't that leads their power?
Mess. The Marquis of Montague, so please your Majesty. [Exit.
Marg. Then he shall find us ready. Now, my lords!
Remember, half our hopes rest on this onset.—
Some one prepare the King.
[A Knight enters the Tent.
If on the border
Of England, here, we cut but boldly through
The troops opposed to intercept our passage,
The afterwork is easy:—
Where's my young son!—then, like a rolling flood,
That once has broke its mound, we'll pour upon
The affrighted country, sweeping all before
Our flood of power, till we penetrate
The very heart on't.——
Go, bring the Prince of Wales!—Now, gallant soldiers,
Fight lustily to-day, and all the rest
Is sport and holiday.
Enter an Officer with the young Prince.
My son!—my boy.
Come to thy mother's bosom! Heaven, who sees
The anxious workings of a parent's heart,
Knows what I feel for thee! Alas! alas!
It grieves me sore to have thee here, my child!
The rough, unkindly blasts of pitiless war
Suit not thy tender years.
Prince. Why, mother,
Mustn't I be a soldier? And 'tis time
I should begin my exercise—by and bye
'Twill be too late to learn—and yet I wish
That I were bigger now, for your sake, mother.
Marg. Why, boy?
Prince. Oh! you know well enough, for all your asking.
Do you think, if I were strong enough to fight,
I'd let these raw-boned fellows plague you so?
Marg. My sweet, brave boy!—Come, lords, and gentlemen;
Let us go cheerily to work! If woman,
In whose weak, yielding breast, nature puts forth
Her softest composition, can shake off
Her idle fears,—what may not you perform?
And you shall see me now, steel'd by th' occasion,
So far unsex myself, that tho' grim death
(Breaking the pale of time) shall stride the field,
With slaught'rous step,—and, prematurely, plunge
His dart in vigorous bosoms, till the earth
Is purple-dyed in gore—still will I stand
Fix'd as the oak, when tempests sweep the forest.
But, still, one woman's fear—one touch of nature,
Tugs at my heartstrings—'tis for thee, my child!
—Oh! may the white-robed angel,
That watches over baby innocence,
Hear a fond mother's prayer, and in the battle
Cast his protecting mantle round thee!—On—
Away. [Exit.
Gregory. I shall never know how to set about the business I am put upon. Of all the sports of the field, I never went a man shooting before in my life:—and, yet, when the lady, with the brass bason on her head, begins to talk big, there is a warm glow about one, that—gad! I begin to think 'tis courage;—for I don't know how to describe it; and never felt any thing like it before. [Alarm.] Zouns! no it e'n't—if it is, my courage is of a plaguy hot nature; for the very sound of a battle has thrown me into a perspiration. Oh! my poor mistress's man! Oh! I wish we were at home, and I was comfortably laid up in our damp garret, with a fine twinging fit of the rheumatism. [Huzza.] Mercy on us!—here's a whole posse, too, coming the other way. I'm in for it! but, if there is such a thing as the protecting mantle they talk'd of, I hope 'tis a pure large one; and there'll be room enough to lap up me, and my mistress in the tail on't. [Exit.