MURRAY.
SCENE I.-The Queen's Lodging at St. Andrew's.
The QUEEN and the four MARIES.
QUEEN.
Why will you break my heart with praying to me?
You Seyton, you Carmichael, you have wits,
You are not all run to tears; you do not think
It is my wrath or will that whets this axe
Against his neck?
MARY SEYTON.
Nay, these three weeks agone
I said the queen's wrath was not sharp enough
To shear a neck.
QUEEN.
Sweet, and you did me right,
And look you, what my mercy bears to fruit,
Danger and deadly speech and a fresh fault
Before the first was cool in people's lips;
A goodly mercy: and I wash hands of it.—
Speak you, there; have you ever found me sharp?
You weep and whisper with sloped necks and heads
Like two sick birds; do you think shame of me?
Nay, I thank God none can think shame of me;
But am I bitter, think you, to men's faults?
I think I am too merciful, too meek:
Why if I could I would yet save this man;
'T is just boy's madness; a soft stripe or two
Would do to scourge the fault in his French blood.
I would fain let him go. You, Hamilton,
You have a heart thewed harder than my heart;
When mine would threat it sighs, and wrath in it
Has a bird's flight and station, starves before
It can well feed or fly; my pulse of wrath
Sounds tender as the running down of tears.
You are the hardest woman I have known,
Your blood has frost and cruel gall in it,
You hold men off with bitter lips and eyes—
Such maidens should serve England; now, perfay,
I doubt you would have got him slain at once.
Come, would you not? come, would you let him live?
MARY HAMILTON.
Yes-I think yes; I cannot tell; maybe
I would have seen him punished.
QUEEN.
Look you now,
There's maiden mercy; I would have him live—
For all my wifehood maybe I weep too;
Here's a mere maiden falls to slaying at once,
Small shrift for her; God keep us from such hearts!
I am a queen too that would have him live,
But one that has no wrong and is no queen,
She would-What are you saying there, you twain?
MARY CARMICHAEL.
I said a queen's face and so fair an one's
Would lose no grace for giving grace away;
That gift comes back upon the mouth it left
And makes it sweeter, and set fresh red on it.
QUEEN.
This comes of sonnets when the dance draws breath;
These talking times will make a dearth of grace.
But you-what ails you that your lips are shut?
Weep, if you will; here are four friends of yours
To weep as fast for pity of your tears.
Do you desire him dead? nay, but men say
He was your friend, he fought them on your side,
He made you songs-God knows what songs he made!
Speak you for him a little: will you not?