Queen Mary; and, Harold

by Baron Alfred Tennyson Tennyson

SCENE III.—LONDON BRIDGE.

Enter SIR THOMAS WYATT and BRETT.
WYATT. Brett, when the Duke of Norfolk moved against us
Thou cried'st 'A Wyatt!' and flying to our side
Left his all bare, for which I love thee, Brett.
Have for thine asking aught that I can give,
For thro' thine help we are come to London Bridge;
But how to cross it balks me. I fear we cannot.
BRETT. Nay, hardly, save by boat, swimming, or wings.
WYATT. Last night I climb'd into the gate-house, Brett,
And scared the gray old porter and his wife.
And then I crept along the gloom and saw
They had hewn the drawbridge down into the river.
It roll'd as black as death; and that same tide
Which, coming with our coming, seem'd to smile
And sparkle like our fortune as thou saidest,
Ran sunless down, and moan'd against the piers.
But o'er the chasm I saw Lord William Howard
By torchlight, and his guard; four guns gaped at me,
Black, silent mouths: had Howard spied me there
And made them speak, as well he might have done,
Their voice had left me none to tell you this.
What shall we do?
BRETT. On somehow. To go back
Were to lose all.
WYATT. On over London Bridge
We cannot: stay we cannot; there is ordnance
On the White Tower and on the Devil's Tower,
And pointed full at Southwark; we must round
By Kingston Bridge.
BRETT. Ten miles about.
WYATT. Ev'n so.
But I have notice from our partisans
Within the city that they will stand by us
If Ludgate can be reach'd by dawn to-morrow.
Enter one of WYATT'S MEN.
MAN. Sir Thomas, I've found this paper; pray
your worship read it; I know not my letters; the old
priests taught me nothing.
WYATT (reads). 'Whosoever will apprehend the traitor Thomas Wyatt
shall have a hundred pounds for reward.'
MAN. Is that it? That's a big lot of money.
WYATT. Ay, ay, my friend; not read it? 'tis not written
Half plain enough. Give me a piece of paper!
[Writes 'THOMAS WYATT' large.
There, any man can read that. [Sticks it in his cap.
BRETT. But that's foolhardy.
WYATT. No! boldness, which will give my followers boldness.
Enter MAN with a prisoner.
MAN. We found him, your worship, a plundering o' Bishop Winchester's
house; he says he's a poor gentleman.
WYATT. Gentleman! a thief! Go hang him. Shall we make
Those that we come to serve our sharpest foes?
BRETT. Sir Thomas—
WYATT. Hang him, I say.
BRETT. Wyatt, but now you promised me a boon.
WYATT. Ay, and I warrant this fine fellow's life.
BRETT. Ev'n so; he was my neighbour once in Kent.
He's poor enough, has drunk and gambled out
All that he had, and gentleman he was.
We have been glad together; let him live.
WYATT. He has gambled for his life, and lost, he hangs.
No, no, my word's my word. Take thy poor gentleman!
Gamble thyself at once out of my sight,
Or I will dig thee with my dagger. Away!
Women and children!
Enter a Crowd of WOMEN and CHILDREN.
FIRST WOMAN. O Sir Thomas, Sir Thomas, pray you go away, Sir Thomas,
or you'll make the White Tower a black 'un for us this blessed day.
He'll be the death on us; and you'll set the Divil's Tower a-spitting,
and he'll smash all our bits o' things worse than Philip o' Spain.
SECOND WOMAN. Don't ye now go to think that we be for Philip o' Spain.
THIRD WOMAN. No, we know that ye be come to kill the Queen, and we'll
pray for you all on our bended knees. But o' God's mercy don't ye kill
the Queen here, Sir Thomas; look ye, here's little Dickon, and little
Robin, and little Jenny—though she's but a side-cousin—and all on
our knees, we pray you to kill the Queen further off, Sir Thomas.
WYATT. My friends, I have not come to kill the Queen
Or here or there: I come to save you all,
And I'll go further off.
CROWD. Thanks, Sir Thomas, we be beholden to you, and we'll pray for
you on our bended knees till our lives' end.
WYATT. Be happy, I am your friend. To Kingston, forward!
[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.—ROOM IN THE GATEHOUSE OF WESTMINSTER PALACE.
MARY, ALICE, GARDINER, RENARD, LADIES.

GARDINER. Their cry is, Philip never shall be king.
MARY. Lord Pembroke in command of all our force
Will front their cry and shatter them into dust.
ALICE. Was not Lord Pembroke with Northumberland?
O madam, if this Pembroke should be false?
MARY. No, girl; most brave and loyal, brave and loyal.
His breaking with Northumberland broke Northumberland.
At the park gate he hovers with our guards.
These Kentish ploughmen cannot break the guards.
Enter MESSENGER.
MESSENGER. Wyatt, your Grace, hath broken thro' the guards
And gone to Ludgate.
GARDINER. Madam, I much fear
That all is lost; but we can save your Grace.
The river still is free. I do beseech you,
There yet is time, take boat and pass to Windsor.
MARY. I pass to Windsor and I lose my crown.
GARDINER. Pass, then, I pray your Highness, to the Tower.
MARY. I shall but be their prisoner in the Tower.
CRIES without. The traitor! treason! Pembroke!
LADIES. Treason! treason!
MARY. Peace.
False to Northumberland, is he false to me?
Bear witness, Renard, that I live and die
The true and faithful bride of Philip—A sound
Of feet and voices thickening hither—blows—
Hark, there is battle at the palace gates,
And I will out upon the gallery.
LADIES. No, no, your Grace; see there the arrows flying.
MARY. I am Harry's daughter, Tudor, and not fear.
[Goes out on the gallery.
The guards are all driven in, skulk into corners
Like rabbits to their holes. A gracious guard
Truly; shame on them! they have shut the gates!
Enter SIR ROBERT SOUTHWELL.
SOUTHWELL. The porter, please your Grace, hath shut the gates
On friend and foe. Your gentlemen-at-arms,
If this be not your Grace's order, cry
To have the gates set wide again, and they
With their good battleaxes will do you right
Against all traitors.
MARY. They are the flower of England; set the gates wide.
[Exit SOUTHWELL.
Enter COURTENAY.
COURTENAY. All lost, all lost, all yielded! A barge, a barge!
The Queen must to the Tower.
MARY. Whence come you, sir?
COURTENAY. From Charing Cross; the rebels broke us there,
And I sped hither with what haste I might
To save my royal cousin.
MARY. Where is Pembroke?
COURTENAY. I left him somewhere in the thick of it.
MARY. Left him and fled; and thou that would'st be King,
And hast nor heart nor honour. I myself
Will down into the battle and there bide
The upshot of my quarrel, or die with those
That are no cowards and no Courtenays.
COURTENAY. I do not love your Grace should call me coward.
Enter another MESSENGER.
MESSENGER. Over, your Grace, all crush'd; the brave Lord William
Thrust him from Ludgate, and the traitor flying
To Temple Bar, there by Sir Maurice Berkeley
Was taken prisoner.
MARY. To the Tower with him!
MESSENGER. 'Tis said he told Sir Maurice there was one
Cognisant of this, and party thereunto,
My Lord of Devon.
MARY. To the Tower with him!
COURTENAY. O la, the Tower, the Tower, always the Tower,
I shall grow into it—I shall be the Tower.
MARY. Your Lordship may not have so long to wait. Remove him!
COURTENAY. La, to whistle out my life,
And carve my coat upon the walls again!
[Exit COURTENAY guarded.
MESSENGER. Also this Wyatt did confess the Princess
Cognisant thereof, and party thereunto.
MARY. What? whom—whom did you say?
MESSENGER. Elizabeth,
Your Royal sister.
MARY. To the Tower with her!
My foes are at my feet and I am Queen.
[GARDINER and her LADIES kneel to her.
GARDINER (rising).
There let them lie, your foot-stool! (Aside.) Can I strike
Elizabeth?—not now and save the life
Of Devon: if I save him, he and his
Are bound to me—may strike hereafter. (Aloud.) Madam,
What Wyatt said, or what they said he said,
Cries of the moment and the street—
MARY. He said it.
GARDINER. Your courts of justice will determine that.
RENARD (advancing).
I trust by this your Highness will allow
Some spice of wisdom in my telling you,
When last we talk'd, that Philip would not come
Till Guildford Dudley and the Duke of Suffolk,
And Lady Jane had left us.
MARY. They shall die.
RENARD. And your so loving sister?
MARY. She shall die.
My foes are at my feet, and Philip King.
[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.—THE CONDUIT IN GRACECHURCH,
Painted with the Nine Worthies, among them King Henry VIII. holding a
book, on it inscribed 'Verbum Dei'.

Enter SIR RALPH BAGENHALL and SIR THOMAS STAFFORD.
BAGENHALL. A hundred here and hundreds hang'd in Kent.
The tigress had unsheath'd her nails at last,
And Renard and the Chancellor sharpen'd them.
In every London street a gibbet stood.
They are down to-day. Here by this house was one;
The traitor husband dangled at the door,
And when the traitor wife came out for bread
To still the petty treason therewithin,
Her cap would brush his heels.
STAFFORD. It is Sir Ralph,
And muttering to himself as heretofore.
Sir, see you aught up yonder?
BAGENHALL. I miss something.
The tree that only bears dead fruit is gone.
STAFFORD. What tree, sir?
BAGENHALL. Well, the tree in Virgil, sir,
That bears not its own apples.
STAFFORD. What! the gallows?
BAGENHALL. Sir, this dead fruit was ripening overmuch,
And had to be removed lest living Spain
Should sicken at dead England.
STAFFORD. Not so dead,
But that a shock may rouse her.
BAGENHALL. I believe
Sir Thomas Stafford?
STAFFORD. I am ill disguised.
BAGENHALL. Well, are you not in peril here?
STAFFORD. I think so.
I came to feel the pulse of England, whether
It beats hard at this marriage. Did you see it?
BAGENHALL. Stafford, I am a sad man and a serious.
Far liefer had I in my country hall
Been reading some old book, with mine old hound
Couch'd at my hearth, and mine old flask of wine
Beside me, than have seen it: yet I saw it.
STAFFORD. Good, was it splendid?
BAGENHALL. Ay, if Dukes, and Earls,
And Counts, and sixty Spanish cavaliers,
Some six or seven Bishops, diamonds, pearls,
That royal commonplace too, cloth of gold,
Could make it so.
STAFFORD. And what was Mary's dress?
BAGENHALL. Good faith, I was too sorry for the woman
To mark the dress. She wore red shoes!
STAFFORD. Red shoes!
BAGENHALL. Scarlet, as if her feet were wash'd in blood,
As if she had waded in it.
STAFFORD. Were your eyes
So bashful that you look'd no higher?
BAGENHALL. A diamond,
And Philip's gift, as proof of Philip's love,
Who hath not any for any,—tho' a true one,
Blazed false upon her heart.
STAFFORD. But this proud Prince—
BAGENHALL. Nay, he is King, you know, the King of Naples.
The father ceded Naples, that the son
Being a King, might wed a Queen—O he
Flamed in brocade—white satin his trunk-hose,
Inwrought with silver,—on his neck a collar,
Gold, thick with diamonds; hanging down from this
The Golden Fleece—and round his knee, misplaced,
Our English Garter, studded with great emeralds,
Rubies, I know not what. Have you had enough
Of all this gear?
STAFFORD. Ay, since you hate the telling it.
How look'd the Queen?
BAGENHALL. No fairer for her jewels.
And I could see that as the new-made couple
Came from the Minster, moving side by side
Beneath one canopy, ever and anon
She cast on him a vassal smile of love,
Which Philip with a glance of some distaste,
Or so methought, return'd. I may be wrong, sir.
This marriage will not hold.
STAFFORD. I think with you.
The King of France will help to break it.
BAGENHALL. France!
We have once had half of France, and hurl'd our battles
Into the heart of Spain; but England now
Is but a ball chuck'd between France and Spain,
His in whose hand she drops; Harry of Bolingbroke
Had holpen Richard's tottering throne to stand,
Could Harry have foreseen that all our nobles
Would perish on the civil slaughter-field,
And leave the people naked to the crown,
And the crown naked to the people; the crown
Female, too! Sir, no woman's regimen
Can save us. We are fallen, and as I think,
Never to rise again.
STAFFORD. You are too black-blooded.
I'd make a move myself to hinder that:
I know some lusty fellows there in France.
BAGENHALL. You would but make us weaker, Thomas Stafford.
Wyatt was a good soldier, yet he fail'd,
And strengthen'd Philip.
STAFFORD. Did not his last breath
Clear Courtenay and the Princess from the charge
Of being his co-rebels?
BAGENHALL. Ay, but then
What such a one as Wyatt says is nothing:
We have no men among us. The new Lords
Are quieted with their sop of Abbeylands,
And ev'n before the Queen's face Gardiner buys them
With Philip's gold. All greed, no faith, no courage!
Why, ev'n the haughty prince, Northumberland,
The leader of our Reformation, knelt
And blubber'd like a lad, and on the scaffold
Recanted, and resold himself to Rome.
STAFFORD. I swear you do your country wrong, Sir Ralph.
I know a set of exiles over there,
Dare-devils, that would eat fire and spit it out
At Philip's beard: they pillage Spain already.
The French King winks at it. An hour will come
When they will sweep her from the seas. No men?
Did not Lord Suffolk die like a true man?
Is not Lord William Howard a true man?
Yea, you yourself, altho' you are black-blooded:
And I, by God, believe myself a man.
Ay, even in the church there is a man—
Cranmer.
Fly would he not, when all men bad him fly.
And what a letter he wrote against the Pope!
There's a brave man, if any.
BAGENHALL. Ay; if it hold.
CROWD (coming on).
God save their Graces!
STAFFORD. Bagenhall, I see
The Tudor green and white. (Trumpets.) They are coming now.
And here's a crowd as thick as herring-shoals.
BAGENHALL. Be limpets to this pillar, or we are torn
Down the strong wave of brawlers.
CROWD. God save their Graces!
[Procession of Trumpeters, Javelin-men, etc.; then
Spanish and Flemish Nobles intermingled.
STAFFORD. Worth seeing, Bagenhall! These black dog-Dons
Garb themselves bravely. Who's the long-face there,
Looks very Spain of very Spain?
BAGENHALL. The Duke
Of Alva, an iron soldier.
STAFFORD. And the Dutchman,
Now laughing at some jest?
BAGENHALL. William of Orange,
William the Silent.
STAFFORD. Why do they call him so?
BAGENHALL. He keeps, they say, some secret that may cost
Philip his life.
STAFFORD. But then he looks so merry.
BAGENHALL. I cannot tell you why they call him so.
[The KING and QUEEN pass, attended by Peers of
the Realm, Officers of State, etc. Cannon shot off.
CROWD. Philip and Mary, Philip and Mary!
Long live the King and Queen, Philip and Mary!
STAFFORD. They smile as if content with one another.
BAGENHALL. A smile abroad is oft a scowl at home.
[KING and QUEEN pass on. Procession.
FIRST CITIZEN. I thought this Philip had been one of those black
devils of Spain, but he hath a yellow beard.
SECOND CITIZEN. Not red like Iscariot's.
FIRST CITIZEN. Like a carrot's, as thou say'st, and English carrot's
better than Spanish licorice; but I thought he was a beast.
THIRD CITIZEN. Certain I had heard that every Spaniard carries a tail
like a devil under his trunk-hose.
TAILOR. Ay, but see what trunk-hoses! Lord! they be fine; I never
stitch'd none such. They make amends for the tails.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Tut! every Spanish priest will tell you that all
English heretics have tails.
FIFTH CITIZEN. Death and the Devil—if he find I have one—
FOURTH CITIZEN. Lo! thou hast call'd them up! here they come—a pale
horse for Death and Gardiner for the Devil.
Enter GARDINER (turning back from the procession).
GARDINER. Knave, wilt thou wear thy cap before the Queen?
MAN. My Lord, I stand so squeezed among the crowd
I cannot lift my hands unto my head.
GARDINER. Knock off his cap there, some of you about him!
See there be others that can use their hands.
Thou art one of Wyatt's men?
MAN. No, my Lord, no.
GARDINER. Thy name, thou knave?
MAN. I am nobody, my Lord.
GARDINER (shouting).
God's passion! knave, thy name?
MAN. I have ears to hear.
GARDINER. Ay, rascal, if I leave thee ears to hear.
Find out his name and bring it me (to ATTENDANT).
ATTENDANT. Ay, my Lord.
GARDINER. Knave, thou shalt lose thine ears and find thy tongue,
And shalt be thankful if I leave thee that.
[Coming before the Conduit.
The conduit painted—the nine worthies—ay!
But then what's here? King Harry with a scroll.
Ha—Verbum Dei—verbum—word of God!
God's passion! do you know the knave that painted it?
ATTENDANT. I do, my Lord.
GARDINER. Tell him to paint it out,
And put some fresh device in lieu of it—
A pair of gloves, a pair of gloves, sir; ha?
There is no heresy there.
ATTENDANT. I will, my Lord;
The man shall paint a pair of gloves. I am sure
(Knowing the man) he wrought it ignorantly,
And not from any malice.
GARDINER. Word of God
In English! over this the brainless loons
That cannot spell Esaias from St. Paul,
Make themselves drunk and mad, fly out and flare
Into rebellions. I'll have their bibles burnt.
The bible is the priest's. Ay! fellow, what!
Stand staring at me! shout, you gaping rogue!
MAN. I have, my Lord, shouted till I am hoarse.
GARDINER. What hast thou shouted, knave?
MAN. Long live Queen Mary!
GARDINER. Knave, there be two. There be both King and Queen,
Philip and Mary. Shout!
MAN. Nay, but, my Lord,
The Queen comes first, Mary and Philip.
GARDINER. Shout, then,
Mary and Philip!
MAN. Mary and Philip!
GARDINER. Now,
Thou hast shouted for thy pleasure, shout for mine!
Philip and Mary!
MAN. Must it be so, my Lord?
GARDINER. Ay, knave.
MAN. Philip and Mary!
GARDINER. I distrust thee.
Thine is a half voice and a lean assent.
What is thy name?
MAN. Sanders.
GARDINER. What else?
MAN. Zerubbabel.
GARDINER. Where dost thou live?
MAN. In Cornhill.
GARDINER. Where, knave, where?
MAN. Sign of the Talbot.
GARDINER. Come to me to-morrow.—
Rascal!—this land is like a hill of fire,
One crater opens when another shuts.
But so I get the laws against the heretic,
Spite of Lord Paget and Lord William Howard,
And others of our Parliament, revived,
I will show fire on my side—stake and fire—
Sharp work and short. The knaves are easily cow'd.
Follow their Majesties.
[Exit. The crowd following.
BAGENHALL. As proud as Becket.
STAFFORD. You would not have him murder'd as Becket was?
BAGENHALL. No—murder fathers murder: but I say
There is no man—there was one woman with us—
It was a sin to love her married, dead
I cannot choose but love her.
STAFFORD. Lady Jane?
CROWD (going off).
God save their Graces!
STAFFORD. Did you see her die?
BAGENHALL. No, no; her innocent blood had blinded me.
You call me too black-blooded—true enough
Her dark dead blood is in my heart with mine.
If ever I cry out against the Pope
Her dark dead blood that ever moves with mine
Will stir the living tongue and make the cry.
STAFFORD. Yet doubtless you can tell me how she died?
BAGENHALL. Seventeen—and knew eight languages—in music
Peerless—her needle perfect, and her learning
Beyond the churchmen; yet so meek, so modest,
So wife-like humble to the trivial boy
Mismatch'd with her for policy! I have heard
She would not take a last farewell of him,
She fear'd it might unman him for his end.
She could not be unmann'd—no, nor outwoman'd—
Seventeen—a rose of grace!
Girl never breathed to rival such a rose;
Rose never blew that equall'd such a bud.
STAFFORD. Pray you go on.
BAGENHALL. She came upon the scaffold,
And said she was condemn'd to die for treason;
She had but follow'd the device of those
Her nearest kin: she thought they knew the laws.
But for herself, she knew but little law,
And nothing of the titles to the crown;
She had no desire for that, and wrung her hands,
And trusted God would save her thro' the blood
Of Jesus Christ alone.
STAFFORD. Pray you go on.
BAGENHALL. Then knelt and said the Misere Mei—
But all in English, mark you; rose again,
And, when the headsman pray'd to be forgiven,
Said, 'You will give me my true crown at last,
But do it quickly;' then all wept but she,
Who changed not colour when she saw the block,
But ask'd him, childlike: 'Will you take it off
Before I lay me down?' 'No, madam,' he said,
Gasping; and when her innocent eyes were bound,
She, with her poor blind hands feeling—'where is it?
Where is it?'—You must fancy that which follow'd,
If you have heart to do it!
CROWD (in the distance).
God save their Graces!
STAFFORD. Their Graces, our disgraces! God confound them!
Why, she's grown bloodier! when I last was here,
This was against her conscience—would be murder!
BAGENHALL. The 'Thou shall do no murder,' which God's hand
Wrote on her conscience, Mary rubb'd out pale—
She could not make it white—and over that,
Traced in the blackest text of Hell—'Thou shall!'
And sign'd it—Mary!
STAFFORD. Philip and the Pope
Must have sign'd too. I hear this Legate's coming
To bring us absolution from the Pope.
The Lords and Commons will bow down before him—
You are of the house? what will you do, Sir Ralph?
BAGENHALL. And why should I be bolder than the rest,
Or honester than all?
STAFFORD. But, sir, if I—
And oversea they say this state of yours
Hath no more mortice than a tower of cards;
And that a puff would do it—then if I
And others made that move I touch'd upon,
Back'd by the power of France, and landing here,
Came with a sudden splendour, shout, and show,
And dazzled men and deafen'd by some bright
Loud venture, and the people so unquiet—
And I the race of murder'd Buckingham—
Not for myself, but for the kingdom—Sir,
I trust that you would fight along with us.
BAGENHALL. No; you would fling your lives into the gulf.
STAFFORD. But if this Philip, as he's like to do,
Left Mary a wife-widow here alone,
Set up a viceroy, sent his myriads hither
To seize upon the forts and fleet, and make us
A Spanish province; would you not fight then?
BAGENHALL. I think I should fight then.
STAFFORD. I am sure of it.
Hist! there's the face coming on here of one
Who knows me. I must leave you. Fare you well,
You'll hear of me again.
BAGENHALL. Upon the scaffold.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—ROOM IN WHITEHALL PALACE.
MARY. Enter PHILIP and CARDINAL POLE.

POLE. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Benedicta tu in mulieribus.
MARY. Loyal and royal cousin, humblest thanks.
Had you a pleasant voyage up the river?
POLE. We had your royal barge, and that same chair,
Or rather throne of purple, on the deck.
Our silver cross sparkled before the prow,
The ripples twinkled at their diamond-dance,
The boats that follow'd, were as glowing-gay
As regal gardens; and your flocks of swans,
As fair and white as angels; and your shores
Wore in mine eyes the green of Paradise.
My foreign friends, who dream'd us blanketed
In ever-closing fog, were much amazed
To find as fair a sun as might have flash'd
Upon their lake of Garda, fire the Thames;
Our voyage by sea was all but miracle;
And here the river flowing from the sea,
Not toward it (for they thought not of our tides),
Seem'd as a happy miracle to make glide—
In quiet—home your banish'd countryman.
MARY. We heard that you were sick in Flanders, cousin.
POLE. A dizziness.
MARY. And how came you round again?
POLE. The scarlet thread of Rahab saved her life;
And mine, a little letting of the blood.
MARY. Well? now?
POLE. Ay, cousin, as the heathen giant
Had but to touch the ground, his force return'd—
Thus, after twenty years of banishment,
Feeling my native land beneath my foot,
I said thereto: 'Ah, native land of mine,
Thou art much beholden to this foot of mine,
That hastes with full commission from the Pope
To absolve thee from thy guilt of heresy.
Thou hast disgraced me and attainted me,
And mark'd me ev'n as Cain, and I return
As Peter, but to bless thee: make me well.'
Methinks the good land heard me, for to-day
My heart beats twenty, when I see you, cousin.
Ah, gentle cousin, since your Herod's death,
How oft hath Peter knock'd at Mary's gate!
And Mary would have risen and let him in,
But, Mary, there were those within the house
Who would not have it.
MARY. True, good cousin Pole;
And there were also those without the house
Who would not have it.
POLE. I believe so, cousin.
State-policy and church-policy are conjoint,
But Janus-faces looking diverse ways.
I fear the Emperor much misvalued me.
But all is well; 'twas ev'n the will of God,
Who, waiting till the time had ripen'd, now,
Makes me his mouth of holy greeting. 'Hail,
Daughter of God, and saver of the faith.
Sit benedictus fructus ventris tui!'
MARY. Ah, heaven!
POLE. Unwell, your Grace?
MARY. No, cousin, happy—
Happy to see you; never yet so happy
Since I was crown'd.
POLE. Sweet cousin, you forget
That long low minster where you gave your hand
To this great Catholic King.
PHILIP. Well said, Lord Legate.
MARY. Nay, not well said; I thought of you, my liege,
Ev'n as I spoke.
PHILIP. Ay, Madam; my Lord Paget
Waits to present our Council to the Legate.
Sit down here, all; Madam, between us you.
POLE. Lo, now you are enclosed with boards of cedar,
Our little sister of the Song of Songs!
You are doubly fenced and shielded sitting here
Between the two most high-set thrones on earth,
The Emperor's highness happily symboll'd by
The King your husband, the Pope's Holiness
By mine own self.
MARY. True, cousin, I am happy.
When will you that we summon both our houses
To take this absolution from your lips,
And be regather'd to the Papal fold?
POLE. In Britain's calendar the brightest day
Beheld our rough forefathers break their Gods,
And clasp the faith in Christ; but after that
Might not St. Andrew's be her happiest day?
MARY. Then these shall meet upon St. Andrew's day.
Enter PAGET, who presents the Council. Dumb show.
POLE. I am an old man wearied with my journey,
Ev'n with my joy. Permit me to withdraw.
To Lambeth?
PHILIP. Ay, Lambeth has ousted Cranmer.
It was not meet the heretic swine should live
In Lambeth.
MARY. There or anywhere, or at all.
PHILIP. We have had it swept and garnish'd after him.
POLE. Not for the seven devils to enter in?
PHILIP. No, for we trust they parted in the swine.
POLE. True, and I am the Angel of the Pope.
Farewell, your Graces.
PHILIP. Nay, not here—to me;
I will go with you to the waterside.
POLE. Not be my Charon to the counter side?
PHILIP. No, my Lord Legate, the Lord Chancellor goes.
POLE. And unto no dead world; but Lambeth palace,
Henceforth a centre of the living faith.
[Exeunt PHILIP, POLE, PAGET, etc.
Manet MARY.
MARY. He hath awaked! he hath awaked!
He stirs within the darkness!
Oh, Philip, husband! now thy love to mine
Will cling more close, and those bleak manners thaw,
That make me shamed and tongue-tied in my love.
The second Prince of Peace—
The great unborn defender of the Faith,
Who will avenge me of mine enemies—
He comes, and my star rises.
The stormy Wyatts and Northumberlands,
The proud ambitions of Elizabeth,
And all her fieriest partisans—are pale
Before my star!
The light of this new learning wanes and dies:
The ghosts of Luther and Zuinglius fade
Into the deathless hell which is their doom
Before my star!
His sceptre shall go forth from Ind to Ind!
His sword shall hew the heretic peoples down!
His faith shall clothe the world that will be his,
Like universal air and sunshine! Open,
Ye everlasting gates! The King is here!—
My star, my son!
Enter PHILIP, DUKE OF ALVA, etc.
Oh, Philip, come with me;
Good news have I to tell you, news to make
Both of us happy—ay, the Kingdom too.
Nay come with me—one moment!
PHILIP (to ALVA). More than that:
There was one here of late—William the Silent
They call him—he is free enough in talk,
But tells me nothing. You will be, we trust,
Sometime the viceroy of those provinces—
He must deserve his surname better.
ALVA. Ay, sir;
Inherit the Great Silence.
PHILIP. True; the provinces
Are hard to rule and must be hardly ruled;
Most fruitful, yet, indeed, an empty rind,
All hollow'd out with stinging heresies;
And for their heresies, Alva, they will fight;
You must break them or they break you.
ALVA (proudly). The first.
PHILIP. Good!
Well, Madam, this new happiness of mine?
[Exeunt.
Enter THREE PAGES.
FIRST PAGE. News, mates! a miracle, a miracle! news!
The bells must ring; Te Deums must be sung;
The Queen hath felt the motion of her babe!
SECOND PAGE. Ay; but see here!
FIRST PAGE. See what?
SECOND PAGE. This paper, Dickon.
I found it fluttering at the palace gates:—
'The Queen of England is delivered of a dead dog!'
THIRD PAGE. These are the things that madden her. Fie upon it!
FIRST PAGE. Ay; but I hear she hath a dropsy, lad,
Or a high-dropsy, as the doctors call it.
THIRD PAGE. Fie on her dropsy, so she have a dropsy!
I know that she was ever sweet to me.
FIRST PAGE. For thou and thine are Roman to the core.
THIRD PAGE. So thou and thine must be. Take heed!
FIRST PAGE. Not I,
And whether this flash of news be false or true,
So the wine run, and there be revelry,
Content am I. Let all the steeples clash,
Till the sun dance, as upon Easter Day.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.—GREAT HALL IN WHITEHALL.
At the far end a dais. On this three chairs, two under one canopy
for MARY and PHILIP, another on the right of these for POLE.
Under the dais on POLE'S side, ranged along the wall, sit all the
Spiritual Peers, and along the wall opposite, all the Temporal. The
Commons on cross benches in front, a line of approach to the dais
between them. In the foreground, SIR RALPH BAGENHALL and other
Members of the Commons.