MARY CARMICHAEL.
Madam, he is here.
QUEEN.
Begin a measure now that other side.
I will not dance; let them play soft a little.
Fair sir, we had a dance to tread to-night,
To teach our north folk all sweet ways of France,
But at this time we have no heart to it.
Sit, sir, and talk. Look, this breast-clasp is new,
The French king sent it me.
CHASTELARD.
A goodly thing:
But what device? the word is ill to catch.
QUEEN.
A Venus crowned, that eats the hearts of men:
Below her flies a love with a bat's wings,
And strings the hair of paramours to bind
Live birds' feet with. Lo what small subtle work:
The smith's name, Gian Grisostomo da—what?
Can you read that? The sea froths underfoot;
She stands upon the sea and it curls up
In soft loose curls that run to one in the wind.
But her hair is not shaken, there 's a fault;
It lies straight down in close-cut points and tongues,
Not like blown hair. The legend is writ small:
Still one makes out this—*Cave*—if you look.
CHASTELARD.
I see the Venus well enough, God wot,
But nothing of the legend.
QUEEN.
Come, fair lord,
Shall we dance now? My heart is good again.
[They dance a measure.]
DARNLEY.
I do not like this manner of a dance,
This game of two by two; it were much better
To meet between the changes and to mix
Than still to keep apart and whispering
Each lady out of earshot with her friend.
MARY BEATON.
That 's as the lady serves her knight, I think:
We are broken up too much.
DARNLEY.
Nay, no such thing;
Be not wroth, lady, I wot it was the queen
Pricked each his friend out. Look you now—your ear—
If love had gone by choosing—how they laugh,
Lean lips together, and wring hands underhand!
What, you look white too, sick of heart, ashamed,
No marvel—for men call it—hark you though—