Queen Mary; and, Harold

by Baron Alfred Tennyson Tennyson

SCENE IV.—LONDON. A ROOM IN THE PALACE.
ELIZABETH. Enter COURTENAY.

COURTENAY. So yet am I,
Unless my friends and mirrors lie to me,
A goodlier-looking fellow than this Philip.
Pah!
The Queen is ill advised: shall I turn traitor?
They've almost talked me into it: yet the word
Affrights me somewhat: to be such a one
As Harry Bolingbroke hath a lure in it.
Good now, my Lady Queen, tho' by your age,
And by your looks you are not worth the having,
Yet by your crown you are. [Seeing ELIZABETH.
The Princess there?
If I tried her and la—she's amorous.
Have we not heard of her in Edward's time,
Her freaks and frolics with the late Lord Admiral?
I do believe she'd yield. I should be still
A party in the state; and then, who knows—
ELIZABETH. What are you musing on, my Lord of Devon?
COURTENAY. Has not the Queen—
ELIZABETH. Done what, Sir?
COURTENAY. —made you follow
The Lady Suffolk and the Lady Lennox?—
You,
The heir presumptive.
ELIZABETH. Why do you ask? you know it.
COURTENAY. You needs must bear it hardly.
ELIZABETH. No, indeed!
I am utterly submissive to the Queen.
COURTENAY. Well, I was musing upon that; the Queen
Is both my foe and yours: we should be friends.
ELIZABETH. My Lord, the hatred of another to us
Is no true bond of friendship.
COURTENAY. Might it not
Be the rough preface of some closer bond?
ELIZABETH. My Lord, you late were loosed from out the Tower,
Where, like a butterfly in a chrysalis,
You spent your life; that broken, out you flutter
Thro' the new world, go zigzag, now would settle
Upon this flower, now that; but all things here
At court are known; you have solicited
The Queen, and been rejected.
COURTENAY. Flower, she!
Half faded! but you, cousin, are fresh and sweet
As the first flower no bee has ever tried.
ELIZABETH. Are you the bee to try me? why, but now
I called you butterfly.
COURTENAY. You did me wrong,
I love not to be called a butterfly:
Why do you call me butterfly?
ELIZABETH. Why do you go so gay then?
COURTENAY. Velvet and gold.
This dress was made me as the Earl of Devon
To take my seat in; looks it not right royal?
ELIZABETH. So royal that the Queen forbad you wearing it.
COURTENAY. I wear it then to spite her.
ELIZABETH. My Lord, my Lord;
I see you in the Tower again. Her Majesty
Hears you affect the Prince—prelates kneel to
you.—
COURTENAY. I am the noblest blood in Europe, Madam,
A Courtenay of Devon, and her cousin.
ELIZABETH. She hears you make your boast that after all
She means to wed you. Folly, my good Lord.
COURTENAY. How folly? a great party in the state
Wills me to wed her.
ELIZABETH. Failing her, my Lord,
Doth not as great a party in the state
Will you to wed me?
COURTENAY. Even so, fair lady.
ELIZABETH. You know to flatter ladies.
COURTENAY. Nay, I meant
True matters of the heart.
ELIZABETH. My heart, my Lord,
Is no great party in the state as yet.
COURTENAY. Great, said you? nay, you shall be great. I love you,
Lay my life in your hands. Can you be close?
ELIZABETH. Can you, my Lord?
COURTENAY. Close as a miser's casket.
Listen:
The King of France, Noailles the Ambassador,
The Duke of Suffolk and Sir Peter Carew,
Sir Thomas Wyatt, I myself, some others,
Have sworn this Spanish marriage shall not be.
If Mary will not hear us—well—conjecture—
Were I in Devon with my wedded bride,
The people there so worship me—Your ear;
You shall be Queen.
ELIZABETH. You speak too low, my Lord;
I cannot hear you.
COURTENAY. I'll repeat it.
ELIZABETH. No!
Stand further off, or you may lose your head.
COURTENAY. I have a head to lose for your sweet
sake.
ELIZABETH. Have you, my Lord? Best keep it for your own.
Nay, pout not, cousin.
Not many friends are mine, except indeed
Among the many. I believe you mine;
And so you may continue mine, farewell,
And that at once.
Enter MARY, behind.
MARY. Whispering—leagued together
To bar me from my Philip.
COURTENAY. Pray—consider—
ELIZABETH (seeing the QUEEN).
Well, that's a noble horse of yours, my Lord.
I trust that he will carry you well to-day,
And heal your headache.
COURTENAY. You are wild; what headache?
Heartache, perchance; not headache.
ELIZABETH (aside to COURTENAY). Are you blind?
[COURTENAY sees the QUEEN and exit. Exit MARY.

Enter LORD WILLIAM HOWARD.
HOWARD. Was that my Lord of Devon? do not you
Be seen in corners with my Lord of Devon.
He hath fallen out of favour with the Queen.
She fears the Lords may side with you and him
Against her marriage; therefore is he dangerous.
And if this Prince of fluff and feather come
To woo you, niece, he is dangerous everyway.
ELIZABETH. Not very dangerous that way, my good uncle.
HOWARD. But your own state is full of danger here.
The disaffected, heretics, reformers,
Look to you as the one to crown their ends.
Mix not yourself with any plot I pray you;
Nay, if by chance you hear of any such,
Speak not thereof—no, not to your best friend,
Lest you should be confounded with it. Still—
Perinde ac cadaver—as the priest says,
You know your Latin—quiet as a dead body.
What was my Lord of Devon telling you?
ELIZABETH. Whether he told me anything or not,
I follow your good counsel, gracious uncle.
Quiet as a dead body.
HOWARD. You do right well.
I do not care to know; but this I charge you,
Tell Courtenay nothing. The Lord Chancellor
(I count it as a kind of virtue in him,
He hath not many), as a mastiff dog
May love a puppy cur for no more reason
Than that the twain have been tied up together,
Thus Gardiner—for the two were fellow-prisoners
So many years in yon accursed Tower—
Hath taken to this Courtenay. Look to it, niece,
He hath no fence when Gardiner questions him;
All oozes out; yet him—because they know him
The last White Rose, the last Plantagenet
(Nay, there is Cardinal Pole, too), the people
Claim as their natural leader—ay, some say,
That you shall marry him, make him King belike.
ELIZABETH. Do they say so, good uncle?
HOWARD. Ay, good niece!
You should be plain and open with me, niece.
You should not play upon me.
ELIZABETH. No, good uncle.
Enter GARDINER.
GARDINER. The Queen would see your Grace upon the moment.
ELIZABETH. Why, my lord Bishop?
GARDINER. I think she means to counsel your withdrawing
To Ashridge, or some other country house.
ELIZABETH. Why, my lord Bishop?
GARDINER. I do but bring the message, know no more.
Your Grace will hear her reasons from herself.
ELIZABETH. 'Tis mine own wish fulfill'd before the word
Was spoken, for in truth I had meant to crave
Permission of her Highness to retire
To Ashridge, and pursue my studies there.
GARDINER. Madam, to have the wish before the word
Is man's good Fairy—and the Queen is yours.
I left her with rich jewels in her hand,
Whereof 'tis like enough she means to make
A farewell present to your Grace.
ELIZABETH. My Lord,
I have the jewel of a loyal heart.
GARDINER. I doubt it not, Madam, most loyal.
[Bows low and exit.
HOWARD. See,
This comes of parleying with my Lord of Devon.
Well, well, you must obey; and I myself
Believe it will be better for your welfare.
Your time will come.
ELIZABETH. I think my time will come.
Uncle,
I am of sovereign nature, that I know,
Not to be quell'd; and I have felt within me
Stirrings of some great doom when God's just hour
Peals—but this fierce old Gardiner—his big baldness,
That irritable forelock which he rubs,
His buzzard beak and deep-incavern'd eyes
Half fright me.
HOWARD. You've a bold heart; keep it so.
He cannot touch you save that you turn traitor;
And so take heed I pray you—you are one
Who love that men should smile upon you, niece.
They'd smile you into treason—some of them.
ELIZABETH. I spy the rock beneath the smiling sea.
But if this Philip, the proud Catholic prince,
And this bald priest, and she that hates me, seek
In that lone house, to practise on my life,
By poison, fire, shot, stab—
HOWARD. They will not, niece.
Mine is the fleet and all the power at sea—
Or will be in a moment. If they dared
To harm you, I would blow this Philip and all
Your trouble to the dogstar and the devil.
ELIZABETH. To the Pleiads, uncle; they have lost
a sister.
HOWARD. But why say that? what have you done
to lose her?
Come, come, I will go with you to the Queen.
[Exeunt.

SCENE V.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE.
MARY with PHILIP'S miniature. ALICE.

MARY (kissing the miniature).
Most goodly, King-like and an Emperor's son,—
A king to be,—is he not noble, girl?
ALICE. Goodly enough, your Grace, and yet, methinks,
I have seen goodlier.
MARY. Ay; some waxen doll
Thy baby eyes have rested on, belike;
All red and white, the fashion of our land.
But my good mother came (God rest her soul)
Of Spain, and I am Spanish in myself,
And in my likings.
ALICE. By your Grace's leave
Your royal mother came of Spain, but took
To the English red and white. Your royal father
(For so they say) was all pure lily and rose
In his youth, and like a lady.
MARY. O, just God!
Sweet mother, you had time and cause enough
To sicken of his lilies and his roses.
Cast off, betray'd, defamed, divorced, forlorn!
And then the King—that traitor past forgiveness,
The false archbishop fawning on him, married
The mother of Elizabeth—a heretic
Ev'n as she is; but God hath sent me here
To take such order with all heretics
That it shall be, before I die, as tho'
My father and my brother had not lived.
What wast thou saying of this Lady Jane,
Now in the Tower?
ALICE. Why, Madam, she was passing
Some chapel down in Essex, and with her
Lady Anne Wharton, and the Lady Anne
Bow'd to the Pyx; but Lady Jane stood up
Stiff as the very backbone of heresy.
And wherefore bow ye not, says Lady Anne,
To him within there who made Heaven and Earth?
I cannot, and I dare not, tell your Grace
What Lady Jane replied.
MARY. But I will have it.
ALICE. She said—pray pardon me, and pity her—
She hath harken'd evil counsel—ah! she said,
The baker made him.
MARY. Monstrous! blasphemous!
She ought to burn. Hence, thou (Exit ALICE). No—being traitor
Her head will fall: shall it? she is but a child.
We do not kill the child for doing that
His father whipt him into doing—a head
So full of grace and beauty! would that mine
Were half as gracious! O, my lord to be,
My love, for thy sake only.
I am eleven years older than he is.
But will he care for that?
No, by the holy Virgin, being noble,
But love me only: then the bastard sprout,
My sister, is far fairer than myself.
Will he be drawn to her?
No, being of the true faith with myself.
Paget is for him—for to wed with Spain
Would treble England—Gardiner is against him;
The Council, people, Parliament against him;
But I will have him! My hard father hated me;
My brother rather hated me than loved;
My sister cowers and hates me. Holy Virgin,
Plead with thy blessed Son; grant me my prayer:
Give me my Philip; and we two will lead
The living waters of the Faith again
Back thro' their widow'd channel here, and watch
The parch'd banks rolling incense, as of old,
To heaven, and kindled with the palms of Christ!
Enter USHER.
Who waits, sir?
USHER. Madam, the Lord Chancellor.
MARY. Bid him come in. (Enter GARDINER.)
Good morning, my good Lord.
[Exit USHER.
GARDINER. That every morning of your Majesty
May be most good, is every morning's prayer
Of your most loyal subject, Stephen Gardiner.
MARY. Come you to tell me this, my Lord?
GARDINER. And more.
Your people have begun to learn your worth.
Your pious wish to pay King Edward's debts,
Your lavish household curb'd, and the remission
Of half that subsidy levied on the people,
Make all tongues praise and all hearts beat for you.
I'd have you yet more loved: the realm is poor,
The exchequer at neap-tide: we might withdraw
Part of our garrison at Calais.
MARY. Calais!
Our one point on the main, the gate of France!
I am Queen of England; take mine eyes, mine heart,
But do not lose me Calais.
GARDINER. Do not fear it.
Of that hereafter. I say your Grace is loved.
That I may keep you thus, who am your friend
And ever faithful counsellor, might I speak?
MARY. I can forespeak your speaking. Would I marry
Prince Philip, if all England hate him? That is
Your question, and I front it with another:
Is it England, or a party? Now, your answer.
GARDINER. My answer is, I wear beneath my dress
A shirt of mail: my house hath been assaulted,
And when I walk abroad, the populace,
With fingers pointed like so many daggers,
Stab me in fancy, hissing Spain and Philip;
And when I sleep, a hundred men-at-arms
Guard my poor dreams for England. Men would murder me,
Because they think me favourer of this marriage.
MARY. And that were hard upon you, my Lord Chancellor.
GARDINER. But our young Earl of Devon—
MARY. Earl of Devon?
I freed him from the Tower, placed him at Court;
I made him Earl of Devon, and—the fool—
He wrecks his health and wealth on courtesans,
And rolls himself in carrion like a dog.
GARDINER. More like a school-boy that hath broken bounds,
Sickening himself with sweets.
MARY. I will not hear of him.
Good, then, they will revolt: but I am Tudor,
And shall control them.
GARDINER. I will help you, Madam,
Even to the utmost. All the church is grateful.
You have ousted the mock priest, repulpited
The shepherd of St. Peter, raised the rood again,
And brought us back the mass. I am all thanks
To God and to your Grace: yet I know well,
Your people, and I go with them so far,
Will brook nor Pope nor Spaniard here to play
The tyrant, or in commonwealth or church.
MARY (showing the picture).
Is this the face of one who plays the tyrant?
Peruse it; is it not goodly, ay, and gentle?
GARDINER. Madam, methinks a cold face and a haughty.
And when your Highness talks of Courtenay—
Ay, true—a goodly one. I would his life
Were half as goodly (aside).
MARY. What is that you mutter?
GARDINER. Oh, Madam, take it bluntly; marry Philip,
And be stepmother of a score of sons!
The prince is known in Spain, in Flanders, ha!
For Philip—
MARY. You offend us; you may leave us.
You see thro' warping glasses.
GARDINER. If your Majesty—
MARY. I have sworn upon the body and blood of Christ
I'll none but Philip.
GARDINER. Hath your Grace so sworn?
MARY. Ay, Simon Renard knows it.
GARDINER. News to me!
It then remains for your poor Gardiner,
So you still care to trust him somewhat less
Than Simon Renard, to compose the event
In some such form as least may harm your Grace.
MARY. I'll have the scandal sounded to the mud.
I know it a scandal.
GARDINER. All my hope is now
It may be found a scandal.
MARY. You offend us.
GARDINER (aside).
These princes are like children, must be physick'd,
The bitter in the sweet. I have lost mine office,
It may be, thro' mine honesty, like a fool.
[Exit.
Enter USHER.
MARY. Who waits?
USHER. The Ambassador from France, your Grace.
MARY (sits down).
Bid him come in. Good morning, Sir de Noailles.
[Exit USHER,
NOAILLES (entering).
A happy morning to your Majesty.
MARY. And I should some time have a happy morning;
I have had none yet. What says the King your master?
NOAILLES. Madam, my master hears with much alarm,
That you may marry Philip, Prince of Spain—
Foreseeing, with whate'er unwillingness,
That if this Philip be the titular king
Of England, and at war with him, your Grace
And kingdom will be suck'd into the war,
Ay, tho' you long for peace; wherefore, my master,
If but to prove your Majesty's goodwill,
Would fain have some fresh treaty drawn between you.
MARY. Why some fresh treaty? wherefore should I do it?
Sir, if we marry, we shall still maintain
All former treaties with his Majesty.
Our royal word for that! and your good master,
Pray God he do not be the first to break them,
Must be content with that; and so, farewell.
NOAILLES (going, returns).
I would your answer had been other, Madam,
For I foresee dark days.
MARY. And so do I, sir;
Your master works against me in the dark.
I do believe he holp Northumberland
Against me.
NOAILLES. Nay, pure phantasy, your Grace.
Why should he move against you?
MARY. Will you hear why?
Mary of Scotland,—for I have not own'd
My sister, and I will not,—after me
Is heir of England; and my royal father,
To make the crown of Scotland one with ours,
Had mark'd her for my brother Edward's bride;
Ay, but your king stole her a babe from Scotland
In order to betroth her to your Dauphin.
See then:
Mary of Scotland, married to your Dauphin,
Would make our England, France;
Mary of England, joining hands with Spain,
Would be too strong for France.
Yea, were there issue born to her, Spain and we,
One crown, might rule the world. There lies your fear.
That is your drift. You play at hide and seek.
Show me your faces!
NOAILLES. Madam, I am amazed:
French, I must needs wish all good things for France.
That must be pardon'd me; but I protest
Your Grace's policy hath a farther flight
Than mine into the future. We but seek
Some settled ground for peace to stand upon.
MARY. Well, we will leave all this, sir, to our council.
Have you seen Philip ever?
NOAILLES. Only once.
MARY. Is this like Philip?
NOAILLES. Ay, but nobler-looking.
MARY. Hath he the large ability of the Emperor?
NOAILLES. No, surely.
MARY. I can make allowance for thee,
Thou speakest of the enemy of thy king.
NOAILLES. Make no allowance for the naked truth.
He is every way a lesser man than Charles;
Stone-hard, ice-cold—no dash of daring in him.
MARY. If cold, his life is pure.
NOAILLES. Why (smiling), no, indeed.
MARY. Sayst thou?
NOAILLES. A very wanton life indeed (smiling).
MARY. Your audience is concluded, sir.
[Exit NOAILLES.
You cannot
Learn a man's nature from his natural foe.
Enter USHER.
Who waits?
USHER. The Ambassador of Spain, your Grace.
[Exit.
Enter SIMON RENARD.
MARY (rising to meet him).
Thou art ever welcome, Simon Renard. Hast thou
Brought me the letter which thine Emperor promised
Long since, a formal offer of the hand Of Philip?
RENARD. Nay, your Grace, it hath not reach'd me.
I know not wherefore—some mischance of flood,
And broken bridge, or spavin'd horse, or wave
And wind at their old battle: he must have written.
MARY. But Philip never writes me one poor word.
Which in his absence had been all my wealth.
Strange in a wooer!
RENARD. Yet I know the Prince,
So your king-parliament suffer him to land,
Yearns to set foot upon your island shore.
MARY. God change the pebble which his kingly foot
First presses into some more costly stone
Than ever blinded eye. I'll have one mark it
And bring it me. I'll have it burnish'd firelike;
I'll set it round with gold, with pearl, with diamond.
Let the great angel of the church come with him;
Stand on the deck and spread his wings for sail!
God lay the waves and strow the storms at sea,
And here at land among the people! O Renard,
I am much beset, I am almost in despair.
Paget is ours. Gardiner perchance is ours;
But for our heretic Parliament—
RENARD. O Madam,
You fly your thoughts like kites. My master, Charles,
Bad you go softly with your heretics here,
Until your throne had ceased to tremble. Then
Spit them like larks for aught I care. Besides,
When Henry broke the carcase of your church
To pieces, there were many wolves among you
Who dragg'd the scatter'd limbs into their den.
The Pope would have you make them render these;
So would your cousin, Cardinal Pole; ill counsel!
These let them keep at present; stir not yet
This matter of the Church lands. At his coming
Your star will rise.
MARY. My star! a baleful one.
I see but the black night, and hear the wolf.
What star?
RENARD. Your star will be your princely son,
Heir of this England and the Netherlands!
And if your wolf the while should howl for more,
We'll dust him from a bag of Spanish gold.
I do believe, I have dusted some already,
That, soon or late, your Parliament is ours.
MARY. Why do they talk so foully of your Prince,
Renard?
RENARD. The lot of Princes. To sit high
Is to be lied about.
MARY. They call him cold,
Haughty, ay, worse.
RENARD. Why, doubtless, Philip shows
Some of the bearing of your blue blood—still
All within measure—nay, it well becomes him.
MARY. Hath he the large ability of his father?
RENARD. Nay, some believe that he will go beyond him.
MARY. Is this like him?
RENARD. Ay, somewhat; but your Philip
Is the most princelike Prince beneath the sun.
This is a daub to Philip.
MARY. Of a pure life?
RENARD. As an angel among angels. Yea, by Heaven,
The text—Your Highness knows it, 'Whosoever
Looketh after a woman,' would not graze
The Prince of Spain. You are happy in him there,
Chaste as your Grace!
MARY. I am happy in him there.
RENARD. And would be altogether happy, Madam,
So that your sister were but look'd to closer.
You have sent her from the court, but then she goes,
I warrant, not to hear the nightingales,
But hatch you some new treason in the woods.
MARY. We have our spies abroad to catch her tripping,
And then if caught, to the Tower.
RENARD. The Tower! the block!
The word has turn'd your Highness pale; the thing
Was no such scarecrow in your father's time.
I have heard, the tongue yet quiver'd with the jest
When the head leapt—so common! I do think
To save your crown that it must come to this.
MARY. No, Renard; it must never come to this.
RENARD. Not yet; but your old Traitors of the Tower—
Why, when you put Northumberland to death,
The sentence having past upon them all,
Spared you the Duke of Suffolk, Guildford Dudley,
Ev'n that young girl who dared to wear your crown?
MARY. Dared? nay, not so; the child obey'd her father.
Spite of her tears her father forced it on her.
RENARD. Good Madam, when the Roman wish'd to reign,
He slew not him alone who wore the purple,
But his assessor in the throne, perchance
A child more innocent than Lady Jane.
MARY. I am English Queen, not Roman Emperor.
RENARD. Yet too much mercy is a want of mercy,
And wastes more life. Stamp out the fire, or this
Will smoulder and re-flame, and burn the throne
Where you should sit with Philip: he will not come
Till she be gone.
MARY. Indeed, if that were true—
For Philip comes, one hand in mine, and one
Steadying the tremulous pillars of the Church—
But no, no, no. Farewell. I am somewhat faint
With our long talk. Tho' Queen, I am not Queen
Of mine own heart, which every now and then
Beats me half dead: yet stay, this golden chain—
My father on a birthday gave it me,
And I have broken with my father—take
And wear it as memorial of a morning
Which found me full of foolish doubts, and leaves me
As hopeful.
RENARD (aside). Whew—the folly of all follies
Is to be love-sick for a shadow. (Aloud) Madam,
This chains me to your service, not with gold,
But dearest links of love. Farewell, and trust me,
Philip is yours.
[Exit.
MARY. Mine—but not yet all mine.
Enter USHER.
USHER. Your Council is in Session, please your Majesty.
MARY. Sir, let them sit. I must have time to breathe.
No, say I come. (Exit USHER.) I won by boldness once.
The Emperor counsell'd me to fly to Flanders.
I would not; but a hundred miles I rode,
Sent out my letters, call'd my friends together,
Struck home and won.
And when the Council would not crown me—thought
To bind me first by oaths I could not keep,
And keep with Christ and conscience—was it boldness
Or weakness that won there? when I, their Queen,
Cast myself down upon my knees before them,
And those hard men brake into woman tears,
Ev'n Gardiner, all amazed, and in that passion
Gave me my Crown.
Enter ALICE.
Girl; hast thou ever heard
Slanders against Prince Philip in our Court?
ALICE. What slanders? I, your Grace; no, never.
MARY. Nothing?
ALICE. Never, your Grace.
MARY. See that you neither hear them nor repeat!
ALICE (aside).
Good Lord! but I have heard a thousand such.
Ay, and repeated them as often—mum!
Why comes that old fox-Fleming back again?
Enter RENARD.
RENARD. Madam, I scarce had left your Grace's presence
Before I chanced upon the messenger
Who brings that letter which we waited for—
The formal offer of Prince Philip's hand.
It craves an instant answer, Ay or No.
MARY. An instant Ay or No! the Council sits.
Give it me quick.
ALICE (stepping before her).
Your Highness is all trembling.
MARY. Make way. [Exit into the Council Chamber.
ALICE. O, Master Renard, Master Renard,
If you have falsely painted your fine Prince;
Praised, where you should have blamed him, I pray God
No woman ever love you, Master Renard.
It breaks my heart to hear her moan at night
As tho' the nightmare never left her bed.
RENARD. My pretty maiden, tell me, did you ever
Sigh for a beard?
ALICE. That's not a pretty question.
RENARD. Not prettily put? I mean, my pretty maiden,
A pretty man for such a pretty maiden.
ALICE. My Lord of Devon is a pretty man.
I hate him. Well, but if I have, what then?
RENARD. Then, pretty maiden, you should know that whether
A wind be warm or cold, it serves to fan
A kindled fire.
ALICE. According to the song.
His friends would praise him, I believed 'em,
His foes would blame him, and I scorn'd 'em,
His friends—as Angels I received 'em,
His foes—the Devil had suborn'd 'em.
RENARD. Peace, pretty maiden.
I hear them stirring in the Council Chamber.
Lord Paget's 'Ay' is sure—who else? and yet,
They are all too much at odds to close at once
In one full-throated No! Her Highness comes.
Enter MARY.
ALICE. How deathly pale!—a chair, your Highness
[Bringing one to the QUEEN.
RENARD. Madam,
The Council?
MARY. Ay! My Philip is all mine.
[Sinks into chair, half fainting.

ACT II

SCENE I.—ALINGTON CASTLE.

SIR THOMAS WYATT. I do not hear from Carew or the Duke
Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move.
The Duke hath gone to Leicester; Carew stirs
In Devon: that fine porcelain Courtenay,
Save that he fears he might be crack'd in using,
(I have known a semi-madman in my time
So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too.
Enter WILLIAM.
News abroad, William?
WILLIAM. None so new, Sir Thomas, and none so old, Sir Thomas. No new
news that Philip comes to wed Mary, no old news that all men hate it.
Old Sir Thomas would have hated it. The bells are ringing at
Maidstone. Doesn't your worship hear?
WYATT. Ay, for the Saints are come to reign again.
Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's no call
As yet for me; so in this pause, before
The mine be fired, it were a pious work
To string my father's sonnets, left about
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order,
And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine,
To grace his memory.
WILLIAM. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas? He was a fine courtier, he; Queen
Anne loved him. All the women loved him. I loved him, I was in Spain
with him. I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I hate
Spain, Sir Thomas.
WYATT. But thou could'st drink in Spain if I remember.
WILLIAM. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas always
granted the wine.
WYATT. Hand me the casket with my father's sonnets.
WILLIAM. Ay—sonnets—a fine courtier of the old Court, old Sir
Thomas. [Exit.
WYATT. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more
His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace,
To read and rhyme in solitary fields,
The lark above, the nightingale below,
And answer them in song. The sire begets
Not half his likeness in the son. I fail
Where he was fullest: yet—to write it down.
[He writes.
Re-enter WILLIAM.
WILLIAM. There is news, there is news, and no call for
sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand
men on Penenden Heath all calling after your worship, and your
worship's name heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the first
man in Kent and Christendom, for the Queen's down, and the world's up,
and your worship a-top of it.
WYATT. Inverted Aesop—mountain out of mouse.
Say for ten thousand ten—and pothouse knaves,
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale.
Enter ANTONY KNYVETT.
WILLIAM. Here's Antony Knyvett.
KNYVETT. Look you, Master Wyatt,
Tear up that woman's work there.
WYATT. No; not these,
Dumb children of my father, that will speak
When I and thou and all rebellions lie
Dead bodies without voice. Song flies you know
For ages.
KNYVETT. Tut, your sonnet's a flying ant,
Wing'd for a moment.
WYATT. Well, for mine own work,
[Tearing the paper.
It lies there in six pieces at your feet;
For all that I can carry it in my head.
KNYVETT. If you can carry your head upon your shoulders.
WYATT. I fear you come to carry it off my shoulders,
And sonnet-making's safer.
KNYVETT. Why, good Lord,
Write you as many sonnets as you will.
Ay, but not now; what, have you eyes, ears, brains?
This Philip and the black-faced swarms of Spain,
The hardest, cruellest people in the world,
Come locusting upon us, eat us up,
Confiscate lands, goods, money—Wyatt, Wyatt,
Wake, or the stout old island will become
A rotten limb of Spain. They roar for you
On Penenden Heath, a thousand of them—more—
All arm'd, waiting a leader; there's no glory
Like his who saves his country: and you sit
Sing-songing here; but, if I'm any judge,
By God, you are as poor a poet, Wyatt,
As a good soldier.
WYATT. You as poor a critic
As an honest friend: you stroke me on one cheek,
Buffet the other. Come, you bluster, Antony!
You know I know all this. I must not move
Until I hear from Carew and the Duke.
I fear the mine is fired before the time.
KNYVETT (showing a paper).
But here's some Hebrew. Faith, I half forgot it.
Look; can you make it English? A strange youth
Suddenly thrust it on me, whisper'd, 'Wyatt,'
And whisking round a corner, show'd his back
Before I read his face.
WYATT. Ha! Courtenay's cipher. [Reads.
'Sir Peter Carew fled to France: it is thought the Duke will be taken.
I am with you still; but, for appearance sake, stay with the Queen.
Gardiner knows, but the Council are all at odds, and the Queen hath no
force for resistance. Move, if you move, at once.'
Is Peter Carew fled? Is the Duke taken?
Down scabbard, and out sword! and let Rebellion
Roar till throne rock, and crown fall. No; not that;
But we will teach Queen Mary how to reign.
Who are those that shout below there?
KNYVETT. Why, some fifty
That follow'd me from Penenden Heath in hope
To hear you speak.
WYATT. Open the window, Knyvett;
The mine is fired, and I will speak to them.
Men of Kent; England of England; you that have kept your old customs
upright, while all the rest of England bow'd theirs to the Norman, the
cause that hath brought us together is not the cause of a county or a
shire, but of this England, in whose crown our Kent is the fairest
jewel. Philip shall not wed Mary; and ye have called me to be your
leader. I know Spain. I have been there with my father; I have seen
them in their own land; have marked the haughtiness of their nobles;
the cruelty of their priests. If this man marry our Queen, however
the Council and the Commons may fence round his power with restriction,
he will be King, King of England, my masters; and the Queen, and the
laws, and the people, his slaves. What? shall we have Spain on the
throne and in the parliament; Spain in the pulpit and on the law-bench;
Spain in all the great offices of state; Spain in our ships, in our
forts, in our houses, in our beds?
CROWD. No! no! no Spain!
WILLIAM. No Spain in our beds—that were worse than all. I have been
there with old Sir Thomas, and the beds I know. I hate Spain.
A PEASANT. But, Sir Thomas, must we levy war against the Queen's
Grace?
WYATT. No, my friend; war for the Queen's Grace—to save her from
herself and Philip—war against Spain. And think not we shall be
alone—thousands will flock to us. The Council, the Court itself, is
on our side. The Lord Chancellor himself is on our side. The King of
France is with us; the King of Denmark is with us; the world is with
us—war against Spain! And if we move not now, yet it will be known
that we have moved; and if Philip come to be King, O, my God! the
rope, the rack, the thumbscrew, the stake, the fire. If we move not
now, Spain moves, bribes our nobles with her gold, and creeps, creeps
snake-like about our legs till we cannot move at all; and ye know, my
masters, that wherever Spain hath ruled she hath wither'd all beneath
her. Look at the New World—a paradise made hell; the red man, that
good helpless creature, starved, maim'd, flogg'd, flay'd, burn'd,
boil'd, buried alive, worried by dogs; and here, nearer home, the
Netherlands, Sicily, Naples, Lombardy. I say no more—only this, their
lot is yours. Forward to London with me! forward to London! If ye love
your liberties or your skins, forward to London!
CROWD. Forward to London! A Wyatt! a Wyatt!
WYATT. But first to Rochester, to take the guns
From out the vessels lying in the river.
Then on.
A PEASANT. Ay, but I fear we be too few, Sir Thomas.
WYATT. Not many yet. The world as yet, my friend,
Is not half-waked; but every parish tower
Shall clang and clash alarum as we pass,
And pour along the land, and swoll'n and fed
With indraughts and side-currents, in full force
Roll upon London.
CROWD. A Wyatt! a Wyatt! Forward!
KNYVETT. Wyatt, shall we proclaim Elizabeth?
WYATT. I'll think upon it, Knyvett.
KNYVETT. Or Lady Jane?
WYATT. No, poor soul; no.
Ah, gray old castle of Alington, green field
Beside the brimming Medway, it may chance
That I shall never look upon you more.
KNYVETT. Come, now, you're sonnetting again.
WYATT. Not I.
I'll have my head set higher in the state;
Or—if the Lord God will it—on the stake.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—GUILDHALL.
SIR THOMAS WHITE (The Lord Mayor), LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, SIR RALPH
BAGENHALL, ALDERMEN and CITIZENS.

WHITE. I trust the Queen comes hither with her guards.
HOWARD. Ay, all in arms.
[Several of the citizens move hastily out of the hall.
Why do they hurry out there?
WHITE. My Lord, cut out the rotten from your apple,
Your apple eats the better. Let them go.
They go like those old Pharisees in John
Convicted by their conscience, arrant cowards,
Or tamperers with that treason out of Kent.
When will her Grace be here?
HOWARD. In some few minutes.
She will address your guilds and companies.
I have striven in vain to raise a man for her.
But help her in this exigency, make
Your city loyal, and be the mightiest man
This day in England.
WHITE. I am Thomas White.
Few things have fail'd to which I set my will.
I do my most and best.
HOWARD. You know that after
The Captain Brett, who went with your train bands
To fight with Wyatt, had gone over to him
With all his men, the Queen in that distress
Sent Cornwallis and Hastings to the traitor,
Feigning to treat with him about her marriage—
Know too what Wyatt said.
WHITE. He'd sooner be,
While this same marriage question was being argued,
Trusted than trust—the scoundrel—and demanded
Possession of her person and the Tower.
HOWARD. And four of her poor Council too, my Lord,
As hostages.
WHITE. I know it. What do and say
Your Council at this hour?
HOWARD. I will trust you.
We fling ourselves on you, my Lord. The Council,
The Parliament as well, are troubled waters;
And yet like waters of the fen they know not
Which way to flow. All hangs on her address,
And upon you, Lord Mayor.
WHITE. How look'd the city
When now you past it? Quiet?
HOWARD. Like our Council,
Your city is divided. As we past,
Some hail'd, some hiss'd us. There were citizens
Stood each before his shut-up booth, and look'd
As grim and grave as from a funeral.
And here a knot of ruffians all in rags,
With execrating execrable eyes,
Glared at the citizen. Here was a young mother,
Her face on flame, her red hair all blown back,
She shrilling 'Wyatt,' while the boy she held
Mimick'd and piped her 'Wyatt,' as red as she
In hair and cheek; and almost elbowing her,
So close they stood, another, mute as death,
And white as her own milk; her babe in arms
Had felt the faltering of his mother's heart,
And look'd as bloodless. Here a pious Catholic,
Mumbling and mixing up in his scared prayers
Heaven and earth's Maries; over his bow'd shoulder
Scowl'd that world-hated and world-hating beast,
A haggard Anabaptist. Many such groups.
The names of Wyatt, Elizabeth, Courtenay,
Nay the Queen's right to reign—'fore God, the rogues—
Were freely buzzed among them. So I say
Your city is divided, and I fear
One scruple, this or that way, of success
Would turn it thither. Wherefore now the Queen
In this low pulse and palsy of the state,
Bad me to tell you that she counts on you
And on myself as her two hands; on you,
In your own city, as her right, my Lord,
For you are loyal.
WHITE. Am I Thomas White?
One word before she comes. Elizabeth—
Her name is much abused among these traitors.
Where is she? She is loved by all of us.
I scarce have heart to mingle in this matter,
If she should be mishandled.
HOWARD. No; she shall not.
The Queen had written her word to come to court:
Methought I smelt out Renard in the letter,
And fearing for her, sent a secret missive,
Which told her to be sick. Happily or not,
It found her sick indeed.
WHITE. God send her well;
Here comes her Royal Grace.
Enter GUARDS, MARY and GARDINER. SIR THOMAS
WHITE leads her to a raised seat on the dais.
WHITE. I, the Lord Mayor, and these our companies
And guilds of London, gathered here, beseech
Your Highness to accept our lowliest thanks
For your most princely presence; and we pray
That we, your true and loyal citizens,
From your own royal lips, at once may know
The wherefore of this coming, and so learn
Your royal will, and do it.—I, Lord Mayor
Of London, and our guilds and companies.
MARY. In mine own person am I come to you,
To tell you what indeed ye see and know,
How traitorously these rebels out of Kent
Have made strong head against ourselves and you.
They would not have me wed the Prince of Spain:
That was their pretext—so they spake at first—
But we sent divers of our Council to them,
And by their answers to the question ask'd,
It doth appear this marriage is the least
Of all their quarrel.
They have betrayed the treason of their hearts:
Seek to possess our person, hold our Tower,
Place and displace our councillors, and use
Both us and them according as they will.
Now what I am ye know right well—your Queen;
To whom, when I was wedded to the realm
And the realm's laws (the spousal ring whereof,
Not ever to be laid aside, I wear
Upon this finger), ye did promise full
Allegiance and obedience to the death.
Ye know my father was the rightful heir
Of England, and his right came down to me
Corroborate by your acts of Parliament:
And as ye were most loving unto him,
So doubtless will ye show yourselves to me.
Wherefore, ye will not brook that anyone
Should seize our person, occupy our state,
More specially a traitor so presumptuous
As this same Wyatt, who hath tamper'd with
A public ignorance, and, under colour
Of such a cause as hath no colour, seeks
To bend the laws to his own will, and yield
Full scope to persons rascal and forlorn,
To make free spoil and havock of your goods.
Now as your Prince, I say,
I, that was never mother, cannot tell
How mothers love their children; yet, methinks,
A prince as naturally may love his people
As these their children; and be sure your Queen
So loves you, and so loving, needs must deem
This love by you return'd as heartily;
And thro' this common knot and bond of love,
Doubt not they will be speedily overthrown.
As to this marriage, ye shall understand
We made thereto no treaty of ourselves,
And set no foot theretoward unadvised
Of all our Privy Council; furthermore,
This marriage had the assent of those to whom
The king, my father, did commit his trust;
Who not alone esteem'd it honourable,
But for the wealth and glory of our realm,
And all our loving subjects, most expedient.
As to myself,
I am not so set on wedlock as to choose
But where I list, nor yet so amorous
That I must needs be husbanded; I thank God,
I have lived a virgin, and I noway doubt
But that with God's grace, I can live so still.
Yet if it might please God that I should leave
Some fruit of mine own body after me,
To be your king, ye would rejoice thereat,
And it would be your comfort, as I trust;
And truly, if I either thought or knew
This marriage should bring loss or danger to you,
My subjects, or impair in any way
This royal state of England, I would never
Consent thereto, nor marry while I live;
Moreover, if this marriage should not seem,
Before our own High Court of Parliament,
To be of rich advantage to our realm,
We will refrain, and not alone from this,
Likewise from any other, out of which
Looms the least chance of peril to our realm.
Wherefore be bold, and with your lawful Prince
Stand fast against our enemies and yours,
And fear them not. I fear them not. My Lord,
I leave Lord William Howard in your city,
To guard and keep you whole and safe from all
The spoil and sackage aim'd at by these rebels,
Who mouth and foam against the Prince of Spain.
VOICES. Long live Queen Mary!
Down with Wyatt!
The Queen!
WHITE. Three voices from our guilds and companies!
You are shy and proud like Englishmen, my masters,
And will not trust your voices. Understand:
Your lawful Prince hath come to cast herself
On loyal hearts and bosoms, hoped to fall
Into the wide-spread arms of fealty,
And finds you statues. Speak at once—and all!
For whom?
Our sovereign Lady by King Harry's will;
The Queen of England—or the Kentish Squire?
I know you loyal. Speak! in the name of God!
The Queen of England or the rabble of Kent?
The reeking dungfork master of the mace!
Your havings wasted by the scythe and spade—
Your rights and charters hobnail'd into slush—
Your houses fired—your gutters bubbling blood—
ACCLAMATION. No! No! The Queen! the Queen!
WHITE. Your Highness hears
This burst and bass of loyal harmony,
And how we each and all of us abhor
The venomous, bestial, devilish revolt
Of Thomas Wyatt. Hear us now make oath
To raise your Highness thirty thousand men,
And arm and strike as with one hand, and brush
This Wyatt from our shoulders, like a flea
That might have leapt upon us unawares.
Swear with me, noble fellow-citizens, all,
With all your trades, and guilds, and companies.
CITIZENS. We swear!
MARY. We thank your Lordship and your loyal city.
[Exit MARY attended.
WHITE. I trust this day, thro' God, I have saved the crown.
FIRST ALDERMAN. Ay, so my Lord of Pembroke in command
Of all her force be safe; but there are doubts.
SECOND ALDERMAN. I hear that Gardiner, coming with the Queen,
And meeting Pembroke, bent to his saddle-bow,
As if to win the man by flattering him.
Is he so safe to fight upon her side?
FIRST ALDERMAN. If not, there's no man safe.
WHITE. Yes, Thomas White.
I am safe enough; no man need flatter me.
SECOND ALDERMAN. Nay, no man need; but did you mark our Queen?
The colour freely play'd into her face,
And the half sight which makes her look so stern,
Seem'd thro' that dim dilated world of hers,
To read our faces; I have never seen her
So queenly or so goodly.
WHITE. Courage, sir,
That makes or man or woman look their goodliest.
Die like the torn fox dumb, but never whine
Like that poor heart, Northumberland, at the block.
BAGENHALL. The man had children, and he whined for those.
Methinks most men are but poor-hearted, else
Should we so doat on courage, were it commoner?
The Queen stands up, and speaks for her own self;
And all men cry, She is queenly, she is goodly.
Yet she's no goodlier; tho' my Lord Mayor here,
By his own rule, he hath been so bold to-day,
Should look more goodly than the rest of us.
WHITE. Goodly? I feel most goodly heart and hand,
And strong to throw ten Wyatts and all Kent.
Ha! ha! sir; but you jest; I love it: a jest
In time of danger shows the pulses even.
Be merry! yet, Sir Ralph, you look but sad.
I dare avouch you'd stand up for yourself,
Tho' all the world should bay like winter wolves.
BAGENHALL. Who knows? the man is proven by the hour.
WHITE. The man should make the hour, not this the man;
And Thomas White will prove this Thomas Wyatt,
And he will prove an Iden to this Cade,
And he will play the Walworth to this Wat;
Come, sirs, we prate; hence all—gather your men—
Myself must bustle. Wyatt comes to Southwark;
I'll have the drawbridge hewn into the Thames,
And see the citizens arm'd. Good day; good day.
[Exit WHITE.
BAGENHALL. One of much outdoor bluster.
HOWARD. For all that,
Most honest, brave, and skilful; and his wealth
A fountain of perennial alms—his fault
So thoroughly to believe in his own self.
BAGENHALL. Yet thoroughly to believe in one's own self,
So one's own self be thorough, were to do
Great things, my Lord.
HOWARD. It may be.
BAGENHALL. I have heard
One of your Council fleer and jeer at him.
HOWARD. The nursery-cocker'd child will jeer at aught
That may seem strange beyond his nursery.
The statesman that shall jeer and fleer at men,
Makes enemies for himself and for his king;
And if he jeer not seeing the true man
Behind his folly, he is thrice the fool;
And if he see the man and still will jeer,
He is child and fool, and traitor to the State.
Who is he? let me shun him.
BAGENHALL. Nay, my Lord,
He is damn'd enough already.
HOWARD. I must set
The guard at Ludgate. Fare you well, Sir Ralph.
BAGENHALL. 'Who knows?' I am for England. But who knows,
That knows the Queen, the Spaniard, and the Pope,
Whether I be for Wyatt, or the Queen?
[Exeunt.