Queen Mary; and, Harold

by Baron Alfred Tennyson Tennyson

SCENE II.—OXFORD. CRANMER IN PRISON.

CRANMER. Last night, I dream'd the faggots were alight,
And that myself was fasten'd to the stake, I
And found it all a visionary flame,
Cool as the light in old decaying wood;
And then King Harry look'd from out a cloud,
And bad me have good courage; and I heard
An angel cry 'There is more joy in Heaven,'—
And after that, the trumpet of the dead.
[Trumpets without.
Why, there are trumpets blowing now: what is it?
Enter FATHER COLE.
COLE. Cranmer, I come to question you again;
Have you remain'd in the true Catholic faith
I left you in?
CRANMER. In the true Catholic faith,
By Heaven's grace, I am more and more confirm'd.
Why are the trumpets blowing, Father Cole?
COLE. Cranmer, it is decided by the Council
That you to-day should read your recantation
Before the people in St. Mary's Church.
And there be many heretics in the town,
Who loathe you for your late return to Rome,
And might assail you passing through the street,
And tear you piecemeal: so you have a guard.
CRANMER. Or seek to rescue me. I thank the Council.
COLE. Do you lack any money?
CRANMER. Nay, why should I?
The prison fare is good enough for me.
COLE. Ay, but to give the poor.
CRANMER. Hand it me, then!
I thank you.
COLE. For a little space, farewell;
Until I see you in St. Mary's Church.
[Exit COLE.
CRANMER. It is against all precedent to burn
One who recants; they mean to pardon me.
To give the poor—they give the poor who die.
Well, burn me or not burn me I am fixt;
It is but a communion, not a mass:
A holy supper, not a sacrifice;
No man can make his Maker—Villa Garcia.
Enter VILLA GARCIA.
VILLA GARCIA. Pray you write out this paper for me, Cranmer.
CRANMER. Have I not writ enough to satisfy you?
VILLA GARCIA. It is the last.
CRANMER. Give it me, then.
[He writes.
VILLA GARCIA. Now sign.
CRANMER. I have sign'd enough, and I will sign no more.
VILLA GARCIA. It is no more than what you have sign'd already,
The public form thereof.
CRANMER. It may be so;
I sign it with my presence, if I read it.
VILLA GARCIA. But this is idle of you. Well, sir, well,
You are to beg the people to pray for you;
Exhort them to a pure and virtuous life;
Declare the Queen's right to the throne; confess
Your faith before all hearers; and retract
That Eucharistic doctrine in your book.
Will you not sign it now?
CRANMER. No, Villa Garcia,
I sign no more. Will they have mercy on me?
VILLA GARCIA. Have you good hopes of mercy!
So, farewell.
[Exit.
CRANMER. Good hopes, not theirs, have I that I am fixt,
Fixt beyond fall; however, in strange hours,
After the long brain-dazing colloquies,
And thousand-times recurring argument
Of those two friars ever in my prison,
When left alone in my despondency,
Without a friend, a book, my faith would seem
Dead or half-drown'd, or else swam heavily
Against the huge corruptions of the Church,
Monsters of mistradition, old enough
To scare me into dreaming, 'what am I,
Cranmer, against whole ages?' was it so,
Or am I slandering my most inward friend,
To veil the fault of my most outward foe—
The soft and tremulous coward in the flesh?
O higher, holier, earlier, purer church,
I have found thee and not leave thee any more.
It is but a communion, not a mass—
No sacrifice, but a life-giving feast!
(Writes.) So, so; this will I say—thus will I pray.
[Puts up the paper.
Enter BONNER.
BONNER. Good day, old friend; what, you look somewhat worn;
And yet it is a day to test your health
Ev'n at the best: I scarce have spoken with you
Since when?—your degradation. At your trial
Never stood up a bolder man than you;
You would not cap the Pope's commissioner—
Your learning, and your stoutness, and your heresy,
Dumbfounded half of us. So, after that,
We had to dis-archbishop and unlord,
And make you simple Cranmer once again.
The common barber dipt your hair, and I
Scraped from your finger-points the holy oil;
And worse than all, you had to kneel to me;
Which was not pleasant for you, Master Cranmer.
Now you, that would not recognise the Pope,
And you, that would not own the Real Presence,
Have found a real presence in the stake,
Which frights you back into the ancient faith:
And so you have recanted to the Pope.
How are the mighty fallen, Master Cranmer!
CRANMER. You have been more fierce against the Pope than I;
But why fling back the stone he strikes me with?
[Aside.
O Bonner, if I ever did you kindness—
Power hath been given you to try faith by fire—
Pray you, remembering how yourself have changed,
Be somewhat pitiful, after I have gone,
To the poor flock—to women and to children—
That when I was archbishop held with me.
BONNER. Ay—gentle as they call you—live or die!
Pitiful to this pitiful heresy?
I must obey the Queen and Council, man.
Win thro' this day with honour to yourself,
And I'll say something for you—so—good-bye.
[Exit.
CRANMER. This hard coarse man of old hath crouch'd to me
Till I myself was half ashamed for him.
Enter THIRLBY.
Weep not, good Thirlby.
THIRLBY. Oh, my Lord, my Lord!
My heart is no such block as Bonner's is:
Who would not weep?
CRANMER. Why do you so my—lord me,
Who am disgraced?
THIRLBY. On earth; but saved in heaven
By your recanting.
CRANMER. Will they burn me, Thirlby?
THIRLBY. Alas, they will; these burnings will not help
The purpose of the faith; but my poor voice
Against them is a whisper to the roar
Of a spring-tide.
CRANMER. And they will surely burn me?
THIRLBY. Ay; and besides, will have you in the church
Repeat your recantation in the ears
Of all men, to the saving of their souls,
Before your execution. May God help you
Thro' that hard hour!
CRANMER. And may God bless you, Thirlby!
Well, they shall hear my recantation there.
[Exit THIRLBY.
Disgraced, dishonour'd!—not by them, indeed,
By mine own self—by mine own hand!
O thin-skinn'd hand and jutting veins, 'twas you
That sign'd the burning of poor Joan of Kent;
But then she was a witch. You have written much,
But you were never raised to plead for Frith,
Whose dogmas I have reach'd: he was deliver'd
To the secular arm to burn; and there was Lambert;
Who can foresee himself? truly these burnings,
As Thirlby says, are profitless to the burners,
And help the other side. You shall burn too,
Burn first when I am burnt.
Fire—inch by inch to die in agony! Latimer
Had a brief end—not Ridley. Hooper burn'd
Three-quarters of an hour. Will my faggots
Be wet as his were? It is a day of rain.
I will not muse upon it.
My fancy takes the burner's part, and makes
The fire seem even crueller than it is.
No, I not doubt that God will give me strength,
Albeit I have denied him.
Enter SOTO and VILLA GARCIA.
VILLA GARCIA. We are ready
To take you to St. Mary's, Master Cranmer.
CRANMER. And I: lead on; ye loose me from my bonds.
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.—ST. MARY'S CHURCH.
COLE in the Pulpit, LORD WILLIAMS OF THAME presiding. LORD WILLIAM
HOWARD, LORD PAGET, and others. CRANMER enters between SOTO and VILLA GARCIA, and the whole Choir strike up 'Nunc Dimittis.' CRANMER
is set upon a Scaffold before the people.

COLE. Behold him—
[A pause: people in the foreground.
PEOPLE. Oh, unhappy sight!
FIRST PROTESTANT. See how the tears run down his fatherly face.
SECOND PROTESTANT. James, didst thou ever see a carrion crow Stand
watching a sick beast before he dies?
FIRST PROTESTANT. Him perch'd up there? I wish some thunderbolt Would
make this Cole a cinder, pulpit and all.
COLE. Behold him, brethren: he hath cause to weep!—
So have we all: weep with him if ye will,
Yet—
It is expedient for one man to die,
Yea, for the people, lest the people die.
Yet wherefore should he die that hath return'd
To the one Catholic Universal Church,
Repentant of his errors?
PROTESTANT murmurs. Ay, tell us that.
COLE. Those of the wrong side will despise the man,
Deeming him one that thro' the fear of death
Gave up his cause, except he seal his faith
In sight of all with flaming martyrdom.
CRANMER. Ay.
COLE. Ye hear him, and albeit there may seem
According to the canons pardon due
To him that so repents, yet are there causes
Wherefore our Queen and Council at this time
Adjudge him to the death. He hath been a traitor,
A shaker and confounder of the realm;
And when the King's divorce was sued at Rome,
He here, this heretic metropolitan,
As if he had been the Holy Father, sat
And judged it. Did I call him heretic?
A huge heresiarch! never was it known
That any man so writing, preaching so,
So poisoning the Church, so long continuing,
Hath found his pardon; therefore he must die,
For warning and example.
Other reasons
There be for this man's ending, which our Queen
And Council at this present deem it not
Expedient to be known.
PROTESTANT murmurs. I warrant you.
COLE. Take therefore, all, example by this man,
For if our Holy Queen not pardon him,
Much less shall others in like cause escape,
That all of you, the highest as the lowest,
May learn there is no power against the Lord.
There stands a man, once of so high degree,
Chief prelate of our Church, archbishop, first
In Council, second person in the realm,
Friend for so long time of a mighty King;
And now ye see downfallen and debased
From councillor to caitiff—fallen so low,
The leprous flutterings of the byway, scum
And offal of the city would not change
Estates with him; in brief, so miserable,
There is no hope of better left for him,
No place for worse.
Yet, Cranmer, be thou glad.
This is the work of God. He is glorified
In thy conversion: lo! thou art reclaim'd;
He brings thee home: nor fear but that to-day
Thou shalt receive the penitent thief's award,
And be with Christ the Lord in Paradise.
Remember how God made the fierce fire seem
To those three children like a pleasant dew.
Remember, too,
The triumph of St. Andrew on his cross,
The patience of St. Lawrence in the fire.
Thus, if thou call on God and all the saints,
God will beat down the fury of the flame,
Or give thee saintly strength to undergo.
And for thy soul shall masses here be sung
By every priest in Oxford. Pray for him.
CRANMER. Ay, one and all, dear brothers, pray for me;
Pray with one breath, one heart, one soul for me.
COLE. And now, lest anyone among you doubt
The man's conversion and remorse of heart,
Yourselves shall hear him speak. Speak, Master Cranmer,
Fulfil your promise made me, and proclaim
Your true undoubted faith, that all may hear.
CRANMER. And that I will. O God, Father of Heaven!
O Son of God, Redeemer of the world!
O Holy Ghost! proceeding from them both,
Three persons and one God, have mercy on me,
Most miserable sinner, wretched man.
I have offended against heaven and earth
More grievously than any tongue can tell.
Then whither should I flee for any help?
I am ashamed to lift my eyes to heaven,
And I can find no refuge upon earth.
Shall I despair then?—God forbid! O God,
For thou art merciful, refusing none
That come to Thee for succour, unto Thee,
Therefore, I come; humble myself to Thee;
Saying, O Lord God, although my sins be great,
For thy great mercy have mercy! O God the Son,
Not for slight faults alone, when thou becamest
Man in the Flesh, was the great mystery wrought;
O God the Father, not for little sins
Didst thou yield up thy Son to human death;
But for the greatest sin that can be sinn'd,
Yea, even such as mine, incalculable,
Unpardonable,—sin against the light,
The truth of God, which I had proven and known.
Thy mercy must be greater than all sin.
Forgive me, Father, for no merit of mine,
But that Thy name by man be glorified,
And Thy most blessed Son's, who died for man.
Good people, every man at time of death
Would fain set forth some saying that may live
After his death and better humankind;
For death gives life's last word a power to live,
And, like the stone-cut epitaph, remain
After the vanish'd voice, and speak to men.
God grant me grace to glorify my God!
And first I say it is a grievous case,
Many so dote upon this bubble world,
Whose colours in a moment break and fly,
They care for nothing else. What saith St. John:
'Love of this world is hatred against God.'
Again, I pray you all that, next to God,
You do unmurmuringly and willingly
Obey your King and Queen, and not for dread
Of these alone, but from the fear of Him
Whose ministers they be to govern you.
Thirdly, I pray you all to live together
Like brethren; yet what hatred Christian men
Bear to each other, seeming not as brethren,
But mortal foes! But do you good to all
As much as in you lieth. Hurt no man more
Than you would harm your loving natural brother
Of the same roof, same breast. If any do,
Albeit he think himself at home with God,
Of this be sure, he is whole worlds away.
PROTESTANT murmurs. What sort of brothers then be those that lust
To burn each other?
WILLIAMS. Peace among you, there!
CRANMER. Fourthly, to those that own exceeding wealth,
Remember that sore saying spoken once
By Him that was the truth, 'How hard it is
For the rich man to enter into Heaven;'
Let all rich men remember that hard word.
I have not time for more: if ever, now
Let them flow forth in charity, seeing now
The poor so many, and all food so dear.
Long have I lain in prison, yet have heard
Of all their wretchedness. Give to the poor,
Ye give to God. He is with us in the poor.
And now, and forasmuch as I have come
To the last end of life, and thereupon
Hangs all my past, and all my life to be,
Either to live with Christ in Heaven with joy,
Or to be still in pain with devils in hell;
And, seeing in a moment, I shall find
[Pointing upwards.
Heaven or else hell ready to swallow me,
[Pointing downwards.
I shall declare to you my very faith
Without all colour.
COLE. Hear him, my good brethren.
CRANMER. I do believe in God, Father of all;
In every article of the Catholic faith,
And every syllable taught us by our Lord,
His prophets, and apostles, in the Testaments,
Both Old and New.
COLE. Be plainer, Master Cranmer.
CRANMER. And now I come to the great cause that weighs
Upon my conscience more than anything
Or said or done in all my life by me;
For there be writings I have set abroad
Against the truth I knew within my heart,
Written for fear of death, to save my life,
If that might be; the papers by my hand
Sign'd since my degradation—by this hand
[Holding out his right hand.
Written and sign'd—I here renounce them all;
And, since my hand offended, having written
Against my heart, my hand shall first be burnt,
So I may come to the fire.
[Dead silence.
PROTESTANT murmurs.
FIRST PROTESTANT. I knew it would be so.
SECOND PROTESTANT. Our prayers are heard!
THIRD PROTESTANT. God bless him!
CATHOLIC murmurs. Out upon him! out upon him!
Liar! dissembler! traitor! to the fire!
WILLIAMS (raising his voice).
You know that you recanted all you said
Touching the sacrament in that same book
You wrote against my Lord of Winchester;
Dissemble not; play the plain Christian man.
CRANMER. Alas, my Lord,
I have been a man loved plainness all my life;
I did dissemble, but the hour has come
For utter truth and plainness; wherefore, I say,
I hold by all I wrote within that book.
Moreover,
As for the Pope I count him Antichrist,
With all his devil's doctrines; and refuse,
Reject him, and abhor him. I have said.
[Cries on all sides, 'Pull him down! Away with him!'
COLE. Ay, stop the heretic's mouth! Hale him away!
WILLIAMS. Harm him not, harm him not! have him to the fire!
[CRANMER goes out between Two Friars, smiling; hands are
reached to him from the crowd. LORD WILLIAM HOWARD and LORD PAGET are left alone in the church.
PAGET. The nave and aisles all empty as a fool's jest!
No, here's Lord William Howard. What, my Lord,
You have not gone to see the burning?
HOWARD. Fie!
To stand at ease, and stare as at a show,
And watch a good man burn. Never again.
I saw the deaths of Latimer and Ridley.
Moreover, tho' a Catholic, I would not,
For the pure honour of our common nature,
Hear what I might—another recantation
Of Cranmer at the stake.
PAGET. You'd not hear that.
He pass'd out smiling, and he walk'd upright;
His eye was like a soldier's, whom the general
He looks to and he leans on as his God,
Hath rated for some backwardness and bidd'n him
Charge one against a thousand, and the man
Hurls his soil'd life against the pikes and dies.
HOWARD. Yet that he might not after all those papers
Of recantation yield again, who knows?
PAGET. Papers of recantation! Think you then
That Cranmer read all papers that he sign'd?
Or sign'd all those they tell us that he sign'd?
Nay, I trow not: and you shall see, my Lord,
That howsoever hero-like the man
Dies in the fire, this Bonner or another
Will in some lying fashion misreport
His ending to the glory of their church.
And you saw Latimer and Ridley die?
Latimer was eighty, was he not? his best
Of life was over then.
HOWARD. His eighty years
Look'd somewhat crooked on him in his frieze;
But after they had stript him to his shroud,
He stood upright, a lad of twenty-one,
And gather'd with his hands the starting flame,
And wash'd his hands and all his face therein,
Until the powder suddenly blew him dead.
Ridley was longer burning; but he died
As manfully and boldly, and, 'fore God,
I know them heretics, but right English ones.
If ever, as heaven grant, we clash with Spain,
Our Ridley-soldiers and our Latimer-sailors
Will teach her something.
PAGET. Your mild Legate Pole
Will tell you that the devil helpt them thro' it.
[A murmur of the Crowd in the distance.
Hark, how those Roman wolfdogs howl and bay him!
HOWARD. Might it not be the other side rejoicing
In his brave end?
PAGET. They are too crush'd, too broken,
They can but weep in silence.
HOWARD. Ay, ay, Paget,
They have brought it in large measure on themselves.
Have I not heard them mock the blessed Host
In songs so lewd, the beast might roar his claim
To being in God's image, more than they?
Have I not seen the gamekeeper, the groom.
Gardener, and huntsman, in the parson's place,
The parson from his own spire swung out dead,
And Ignorance crying in the streets, and all men
Regarding her? I say they have drawn the fire
On their own heads: yet, Paget, I do hold
The Catholic, if he have the greater right,
Hath been the crueller.
PAGET. Action and re-action,
The miserable see-saw of our child-world,
Make us despise it at odd hours, my Lord.
Heaven help that this re-action not re-act
Yet fiercelier under Queen Elizabeth,
So that she come to rule us.
HOWARD. The world's mad.
PAGET. My Lord, the world is like a drunken man,
Who cannot move straight to his end—but reels
Now to the right, then as far to the left,
Push'd by the crowd beside—and underfoot
An earthquake; for since Henry for a doubt—
Which a young lust had clapt upon the back,
Crying, 'Forward!'—set our old church rocking, men
Have hardly known what to believe, or whether
They should believe in anything; the currents
So shift and change, they see not how they are borne,
Nor whither. I conclude the King a beast;
Verily a lion if you will—the world
A most obedient beast and fool—myself
Half beast and fool as appertaining to it;
Altho' your Lordship hath as little of each
Cleaving to your original Adam-clay,
As may be consonant with mortality.
HOWARD. We talk and Cranmer suffers.
The kindliest man I ever knew; see, see,
I speak of him in the past. Unhappy land!
Hard-natured Queen, half-Spanish in herself,
And grafted on the hard-grain'd stock of Spain—
Her life, since Philip left her, and she lost
Her fierce desire of bearing him a child,
Hath, like a brief and bitter winter's day,
Gone narrowing down and darkening to a close.
There will be more conspiracies, I fear.
PAGET. Ay, ay, beware of France.
HOWARD. O Paget, Paget!
I have seen heretics of the poorer sort,
Expectant of the rack from day to day,
To whom the fire were welcome, lying chain'd
In breathless dungeons over steaming sewers,
Fed with rank bread that crawl'd upon the tongue,
And putrid water, every drop a worm,
Until they died of rotted limbs; and then
Cast on the dunghill naked, and become
Hideously alive again from head to heel,
Made even the carrion-nosing mongrel vomit
With hate and horror.
PAGET. Nay, you sicken me To hear you.
HOWARD. Fancy-sick; these things are done,
Done right against the promise of this Queen
Twice given.
PAGET. No faith with heretics, my Lord!
Hist! there be two old gossips—gospellers,
I take it; stand behind the pillar here;
I warrant you they talk about the burning.
Enter TWO OLD WOMEN. JOAN, and after her TIB.
JOAN. Why, it be Tib!
TIB. I cum behind tha, gall, and couldn't make tha hear. Eh, the wind
and the wet! What a day, what a day! nigh upo' judgement daay loike.
Pwoaps be pretty things, Joan, but they wunt set i' the Lord's cheer
o' that daay.
JOAN. I must set down myself, Tib; it be a var waay vor my owld legs
up vro' Islip. Eh, my rheumatizy be that bad howiver be I to win to
the burnin'.
TIB. I should saay 'twur ower by now. I'd ha' been here avore, but
Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, and Dumble's the best milcher in
Islip.
JOAN. Our Daisy's as good 'z her.
TIB. Noa, Joan.
JOAN. Our Daisy's butter's as good'z hern.
TIB. Noa, Joan.
JOAN. Our Daisy's cheeses be better.
TIB. Noa, Joan.
JOAN. Eh, then ha' thy waay wi' me, Tib; ez thou hast wi' thy owld
man.
TIB. Ay, Joan, and my owld man wur up and awaay betimes wi' dree hard
eggs for a good pleace at the burnin'; and barrin' the wet, Hodge 'ud
ha' been a-harrowin' o' white peasen i' the outfield—and barrin' the
wind, Dumble wur blow'd wi' the wind, so 'z we was forced to stick
her, but we fetched her round at last. Thank the Lord therevore.
Dumble's the best milcher in Islip.
JOAN. Thou's thy way wi' man and beast, Tib. I wonder at tha', it
beats me! Eh, but I do know ez Pwoaps and vires be bad things; tell
'ee now, I heerd summat as summun towld summun o' owld Bishop
Gardiner's end; there wur an owld lord a-cum to dine wi' un, and a wur
so owld a couldn't bide vor his dinner, but a had to bide howsomiver,
vor 'I wunt dine,' says my Lord Bishop, says he, 'not till I hears ez
Latimer and Ridley be a-vire;' and so they bided on and on till vour
o' the clock, till his man cum in post vro' here, and tells un ez the
vire has tuk holt. 'Now,' says the Bishop, says he, 'we'll gwo to
dinner;' and the owld lord fell to 's meat wi' a will, God bless un!
but Gardiner wur struck down like by the hand o' God avore a could
taste a mossel, and a set un all a-vire, so 'z the tongue on un cum
a-lolluping out o' 'is mouth as black as a rat. Thank the Lord,
therevore.
PAGET. The fools!
TIB. Ay, Joan; and Queen Mary gwoes on a-burnin' and a-burnin', to get
her baaby born; but all her burnin's 'ill never burn out the hypocrisy
that makes the water in her. There's nought but the vire of God's hell
ez can burn out that.
JOAN. Thank the Lord, therevore.
PAGET. The fools!
TIB. A-burnin', and a-burnin', and a-makin' o' volk madder and madder;
but tek thou my word vor't, Joan,—and I bean't wrong not twice i' ten
year—the burnin' o' the owld archbishop'll burn the Pwoap out o'
this 'ere land vor iver and iver.
HOWARD. Out of the church, you brace of cursed crones, Or I will have
you duck'd! (Women hurry out.) Said I not right? For how should
reverend prelate or throned prince Brook for an hour such brute
malignity? Ah, what an acrid wine has Luther brew'd!
PAGET. Pooh, pooh, my Lord! poor garrulous country-wives.
Buy you their cheeses, and they'll side with you;
You cannot judge the liquor from the lees.
HOWARD. I think that in some sort we may. But see,
Enter PETERS.
Peters, my gentleman, an honest Catholic,
Who follow'd with the crowd to Cranmer's fire.
One that would neither misreport nor lie,
Not to gain paradise: no, nor if the Pope,
Charged him to do it—he is white as death.
Peters, how pale you look! you bring the smoke
Of Cranmer's burning with you.
PETERS. Twice or thrice
The smoke of Cranmer's burning wrapt me round.
HOWARD. Peters, you know me Catholic, but English.
Did he die bravely? Tell me that, or leave
All else untold.
PETERS. My Lord, he died most bravely.
HOWARD. Then tell me all.
PAGET. Ay, Master Peters, tell us.
PETERS. You saw him how he past among the crowd;
And ever as he walk'd the Spanish friars
Still plied him with entreaty and reproach:
But Cranmer, as the helmsman at the helm
Steers, ever looking to the happy haven
Where he shall rest at night, moved to his death;
And I could see that many silent hands
Came from the crowd and met his own; and thus
When we had come where Ridley burnt with Latimer,
He, with a cheerful smile, as one whose mind
Is all made up, in haste put off the rags
They had mock'd his misery with, and all in white,
His long white beard, which he had never shaven
Since Henry's death, down-sweeping to the chain,
Wherewith they bound him to the stake, he stood
More like an ancient father of the Church,
Than heretic of these times; and still the friars
Plied him, but Cranmer only shook his head,
Or answer'd them in smiling negatives;
Whereat Lord Williams gave a sudden cry:—
'Make short! make short!' and so they lit the wood.
Then Cranmer lifted his left hand to heaven,
And thrust his right into the bitter flame;
And crying, in his deep voice, more than once,
'This hath offended—this unworthy hand!'
So held it till it all was burn'd, before
The flame had reach'd his body; I stood near—
Mark'd him—he never uttered moan of pain:
He never stirr'd or writhed, but, like a statue,
Unmoving in the greatness of the flame,
Gave up the ghost; and so past martyr-like—
Martyr I may not call him—past—but whither?
PAGET. To purgatory, man, to purgatory.
PETERS. Nay, but, my Lord, he denied purgatory.
PAGET. Why then to heaven, and God ha' mercy on him.
HOWARD. Paget, despite his fearful heresies,
I loved the man, and needs must moan for him;
O Cranmer!
PAGET. But your moan is useless now:
Come out, my Lord, it is a world of fools.
[Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.—LONDON. HALL IN THE PALACE.
QUEEN, SIR NICHOLAS HEATH.

HEATH. Madam,
I do assure you, that it must be look'd to:
Calais is but ill-garrison'd, in Guisnes
Are scarce two hundred men, and the French fleet
Rule in the narrow seas. It must be look'd to,
If war should fall between yourself and France;
Or you will lose your Calais.
MARY. It shall be look'd to;
I wish you a good morning, good Sir Nicholas:
Here is the King.
[Exit HEATH.
Enter PHILIP.
PHILIP. Sir Nicholas tells you true,
And you must look to Calais when I go.
MARY. Go? must you go, indeed—again—so soon?
Why, nature's licensed vagabond, the swallow,
That might live always in the sun's warm heart,
Stays longer here in our poor north than you:—
Knows where he nested—ever comes again.
PHILIP. And, Madam, so shall I.
MARY. O, will you? will you?
I am faint with fear that you will come no more.
PHILIP. Ay, ay; but many voices call me hence.
MARY. Voices—I hear unhappy rumours—nay,
I say not, I believe. What voices call you
Dearer than mine that should be dearest to you?
Alas, my Lord! what voices and how many?
PHILIP. The voices of Castille and Aragon,
Granada, Naples, Sicily, and Milan,—
The voices of Franche-Comte, and the Netherlands,
The voices of Peru and Mexico,
Tunis, and Oran, and the Philippines,
And all the fair spice-islands of the East.
MARY (admiringly).
You are the mightiest monarch upon earth,
I but a little Queen: and, so indeed,
Need you the more.
PHILIP. A little Queen! but when
I came to wed your majesty, Lord Howard,
Sending an insolent shot that dash'd the seas
Upon us, made us lower our kingly flag
To yours of England.
MARY. Howard is all English!
There is no king, not were he ten times king,
Ten times our husband, but must lower his flag
To that of England in the seas of England.
PHILIP. Is that your answer?
MARY. Being Queen of England,
I have none other.
PHILIP. So.
MARY. But wherefore not
Helm the huge vessel of your state, my liege,
Here by the side of her who loves you most?
PHILIP. No, Madam, no! a candle in the sun
Is all but smoke—a star beside the moon
Is all but lost; your people will not crown me—
Your people are as cheerless as your clime;
Hate me and mine: witness the brawls, the gibbets.
Here swings a Spaniard—there an Englishman;
The peoples are unlike as their complexion;
Yet will I be your swallow and return—
But now I cannot bide.
MARY. Not to help me? They hate me also for my love to you,
My Philip; and these judgments on the land—
Harvestless autumns, horrible agues, plague—
PHILIP. The blood and sweat of heretics at the stake
Is God's best dew upon the barren field.
Burn more!
MARY. I will, I will; and you will stay?
PHILIP. Have I not said? Madam, I came to sue
Your Council and yourself to declare war.
MARY. Sir, there are many English in your ranks
To help your battle.
PHILIP. So far, good. I say
I came to sue your Council and yourself
To declare war against the King of France.
MARY. Not to see me?
PHILIP. Ay, Madam, to see you.
Unalterably and pesteringly fond! [Aside.
But, soon or late you must have war with France;
King Henry warms your traitors at his hearth.
Carew is there, and Thomas Stafford there.
Courtenay, belike—
MARY. A fool and featherhead!
PHILIP. Ay, but they use his name. In brief, this Henry
Stirs up your land against you to the intent
That you may lose your English heritage.
And then, your Scottish namesake marrying
The Dauphin, he would weld France, England, Scotland,
Into one sword to hack at Spain and me.
MARY. And yet the Pope is now colleagued with France;
You make your wars upon him down in Italy:—
Philip, can that be well?
PHILIP. Content you, Madam;
You must abide my judgment, and my father's,
Who deems it a most just and holy war.
The Pope would cast the Spaniard out of Naples:
He calls us worse than Jews, Moors, Saracens.
The Pope has pushed his horns beyond his mitre—
Beyond his province. Now,
Duke Alva will but touch him on the horns,
And he withdraws; and of his holy head—
For Alva is true son of the true church—
No hair is harm'd. Will you not help me here?
MARY. Alas! the Council will not hear of war.
They say your wars are not the wars of England.
They will not lay more taxes on a land
So hunger-nipt and wretched; and you know
The crown is poor. We have given the church-lands back:
The nobles would not; nay, they clapt their hands
Upon their swords when ask'd; and therefore God
Is hard upon the people. What's to be done?
Sir, I will move them in your cause again,
And we will raise us loans and subsidies
Among the merchants; and Sir Thomas Gresham
Will aid us. There is Antwerp and the Jews.
PHILIP. Madam, my thanks.
MARY. And you will stay your going?
PHILIP. And further to discourage and lay lame
The plots of France, altho' you love her not,
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.
She stands between you and the Queen of Scots.
MARY. The Queen of Scots at least is Catholic.
PHILIP. Ay, Madam, Catholic; but I will not have
The King of France the King of England too.
MARY. But she's a heretic, and, when I am gone,
Brings the new learning back.
PHILIP. It must be done.
You must proclaim Elizabeth your heir.
MARY. Then it is done; but you will stay your going
Somewhat beyond your settled purpose?
PHILIP. No!
MARY. What, not one day?
PHILIP. You beat upon the rock.
MARY. And I am broken there.
PHILIP. Is this a place
To wail in, Madam? what! a public hall.
Go in, I pray you.
MARY. Do not seem so changed.
Say go; but only say it lovingly.
PHILIP. You do mistake. I am not one to change.
I never loved you more.
MARY. Sire, I obey you.
Come quickly.
PHILIP. Ay.
[Exit MARY.
Enter COUNT DE FERIA.
FERIA (aside). The Queen in tears!
PHILIP. Feria!
Hast thou not mark'd—come closer to mine ear—
How doubly aged this Queen of ours hath grown
Since she lost hope of bearing us a child?
FERIA. Sire, if your Grace hath mark'd it, so have I.
PHILIP. Hast thou not likewise mark'd Elizabeth,
How fair and royal—like a Queen, indeed?
FERIA. Allow me the same answer as before—
That if your Grace hath mark'd her, so have I.
PHILIP. Good, now; methinks my Queen is like enough
To leave me by and by.
FERIA. To leave you, sire?
PHILIP. I mean not like to live. Elizabeth—
To Philibert of Savoy, as you know,
We meant to wed her; but I am not sure
She will not serve me better—so my Queen
Would leave me—as—my wife.
FERIA. Sire, even so.
PHILIP. She will not have Prince Philibert of Savoy.
FERIA. No, sire.
PHILIP. I have to pray you, some odd time,
To sound the Princess carelessly on this;
Not as from me, but as your phantasy;
And tell me how she takes it.
FERIA. Sire, I will.
PHILIP. I am not certain but that Philibert
Shall be the man; and I shall urge his suit
Upon the Queen, because I am not certain:
You understand, Feria.
FERIA. Sire, I do.
PHILIP. And if you be not secret in this matter,
You understand me there, too?
FERIA. Sire, I do.
PHILIP. You must be sweet and supple, like a Frenchman.
She is none of those who loathe the honeycomb.
[Exit FERIA.
Enter RENARD.
RENARD. My liege, I bring you goodly tidings.
PHILIP. Well?
RENARD. There will be war with France, at last, my liege;
Sir Thomas Stafford, a bull-headed ass,
Sailing from France, with thirty Englishmen,
Hath taken Scarboro' Castle, north of York;
Proclaims himself protector, and affirms
The Queen has forfeited her right to reign
By marriage with an alien—other things
As idle; a weak Wyatt! Little doubt
This buzz will soon be silenced; but the Council
(I have talk'd with some already) are for war.
This the fifth conspiracy hatch'd in France;
They show their teeth upon it; and your Grace,
So you will take advice of mine, should stay
Yet for awhile, to shape and guide the event.
PHILIP. Good! Renard, I will stay then.
RENARD. Also, sire,
Might I not say—to please your wife, the Queen?
PHILIP. Ay, Renard, if you care to put it so.
[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A ROOM IN THE PALACE.
MARY, sitting: a rose in her hand. LADY CLARENCE. ALICE in the
background.

MARY. Look! I have play'd with this poor rose so long
I have broken off the head.
LADY CLARENCE. Your Grace hath been
More merciful to many a rebel head
That should have fallen, and may rise again.
MARY. There were not many hang'd for Wyatt's rising.
LADY CLARENCE. Nay, not two hundred.
MARY. I could weep for them
And her, and mine own self and all the world.
LADY CLARENCE. For her? for whom, your Grace?
Enter USHER.
USHER. The Cardinal.
Enter CARDINAL POLE. (MARY rises.)
MARY. Reginald Pole, what news hath plagued thy heart?
What makes thy favour like the bloodless head
Fall'n on the block, and held up by the hair?
Philip?—
POLE. No, Philip is as warm in life
As ever.
MARY. Ay, and then as cold as ever.
Is Calais taken?
POLE. Cousin, there hath chanced
A sharper harm to England and to Rome,
Than Calais taken. Julius the Third
Was ever just, and mild, and father-like;
But this new Pope Caraffa, Paul the Fourth,
Not only reft me of that legateship
Which Julius gave me, and the legateship
Annex'd to Canterbury—nay, but worse—
And yet I must obey the Holy Father,
And so must you, good cousin;—worse than all,
A passing bell toll'd in a dying ear—
He hath cited me to Rome, for heresy,
Before his Inquisition.
MARY. I knew it, cousin,
But held from you all papers sent by Rome,
That you might rest among us, till the Pope,
To compass which I wrote myself to Rome,
Reversed his doom, and that you might not seem
To disobey his Holiness.
POLE. He hates Philip;
He is all Italian, and he hates the Spaniard;
He cannot dream that I advised the war;
He strikes thro' me at Philip and yourself.
Nay, but I know it of old, he hates me too;
So brands me in the stare of Christendom
A heretic!
Now, even now, when bow'd before my time,
The house half-ruin'd ere the lease be out;
When I should guide the Church in peace at home,
After my twenty years of banishment,
And all my lifelong labour to uphold
The primacy—a heretic. Long ago,
When I was ruler in the patrimony,
I was too lenient to the Lutheran,
And I and learned friends among ourselves
Would freely canvass certain Lutheranisms.
What then, he knew I was no Lutheran.
A heretic!
He drew this shaft against me to the head,
When it was thought I might be chosen Pope,
But then withdrew it. In full consistory,
When I was made Archbishop, he approved me.
And how should he have sent me Legate hither,
Deeming me heretic? and what heresy since?
But he was evermore mine enemy,
And hates the Spaniard—fiery-choleric,
A drinker of black, strong, volcanic wines,
That ever make him fierier. I, a heretic?
Your Highness knows that in pursuing heresy
I have gone beyond your late Lord Chancellor,—
He cried Enough! enough! before his death.—
Gone beyond him and mine own natural man
(It was God's cause); so far they call me now,
The scourge and butcher of their English church.
MARY. Have courage, your reward is Heaven itself.
POLE. They groan amen; they swarm into the fire
Like flies—for what? no dogma. They know nothing;
They burn for nothing.
MARY. You have done your best.
POLE. Have done my best, and as a faithful son,
That all day long hath wrought his father's work,
When back he comes at evening hath the door
Shut on him by the father whom he loved,
His early follies cast into his teeth,
And the poor son turn'd out into the street
To sleep, to die—I shall die of it, cousin.
MARY. I pray you be not so disconsolate;
I still will do mine utmost with the Pope.
Poor cousin!
Have not I been the fast friend of your life
Since mine began, and it was thought we two
Might make one flesh, and cleave unto each other
As man and wife?
POLE. Ah, cousin, I remember
How I would dandle you upon my knee
At lisping-age. I watch'd you dancing once
With your huge father; he look'd the Great Harry,
You but his cockboat; prettily you did it,
And innocently. No—we were not made
One flesh in happiness, no happiness here;
But now we are made one flesh in misery;
Our bridemaids are not lovely—Disappointment,
Ingratitude, Injustice, Evil-tongue,
Labour-in-vain.
MARY. Surely, not all in vain.
Peace, cousin, peace! I am sad at heart myself.
POLE. Our altar is a mound of dead men's clay,
Dug from the grave that yawns for us beyond;
And there is one Death stands behind the Groom,
And there is one Death stands behind the Bride—
MARY. Have you been looking at the 'Dance of Death'?
POLE. No; but these libellous papers which I found
Strewn in your palace. Look you here—the Pope
Pointing at me with 'Pole, the heretic,
Thou hast burnt others, do thou burn thyself,
Or I will burn thee;' and this other; see!—
'We pray continually for the death
Of our accursed Queen and Cardinal Pole.'
This last—I dare not read it her. [Aside.
MARY. Away!
Why do you bring me these?
I thought you knew better. I never read,
I tear them; they come back upon my dreams.
The hands that write them should be burnt clean off
As Cranmer's, and the fiends that utter them
Tongue-torn with pincers, lash'd to death, or lie
Famishing in black cells, while famish'd rats
Eat them alive. Why do they bring me these?
Do you mean to drive me mad?
POLE. I had forgotten
How these poor libels trouble you. Your pardon,
Sweet cousin, and farewell! 'O bubble world,
Whose colours in a moment break and fly!'
Why, who said that? I know not—true enough!
[Puts up the papers, all but the last, which falls.
Exit POLE.
ALICE. If Cranmer's spirit were a mocking one,
And heard these two, there might be sport for him. [Aside.
MARY. Clarence, they hate me; even while I speak
There lurks a silent dagger, listening
In some dark closet, some long gallery, drawn,
And panting for my blood as I go by.
LADY CLARENCE. Nay, Madam, there be loyal papers too,
And I have often found them.
MARY. Find me one!
LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam; but Sir Nicholas Heath, the Chancellor,
Would see your Highness.
MARY. Wherefore should I see him?
LADY CLARENCE. Well, Madam, he may bring you news from Philip.
MARY. So, Clarence.
LADY CLARENCE. Let me first put up your hair;
It tumbles all abroad.
MARY. And the gray dawn
Of an old age that never will be mine
Is all the clearer seen. No, no; what matters?
Forlorn I am, and let me look forlorn.
Enter SIR NICHOLAS HEATH.
HEATH. I bring your Majesty such grievous news
I grieve to bring it. Madam, Calais is taken.
MARY. What traitor spoke? Here, let my cousin Pole
Seize him and burn him for a Lutheran.
HEATH. Her Highness is unwell. I will retire.
LADY CLARENCE. Madam, your Chancellor, Sir Nicholas Heath.
MARY. Sir Nicholas! I am stunn'd—Nicholas Heath?
Methought some traitor smote me on the head.
What said you, my good Lord, that our brave English
Had sallied out from Calais and driven back
The Frenchmen from their trenches?
HEATH. Alas! no.
That gateway to the mainland over which
Our flag hath floated for two hundred years
Is France again.
MARY. So; but it is not lost—
Not yet. Send out: let England as of old
Rise lionlike, strike hard and deep into
The prey they are rending from her—ay, and rend
The renders too. Send out, send out, and make
Musters in all the counties; gather all
From sixteen years to sixty; collect the fleet;
Let every craft that carries sail and gun
Steer toward Calais. Guisnes is not taken yet?
HEATH. Guisnes is not taken yet.
MARY. There yet is hope.
HEATH. Ah, Madam, but your people are so cold;
I do much fear that England will not care.
Methinks there is no manhood left among us.
MARY. Send out; I am too weak to stir abroad:
Tell my mind to the Council—to the Parliament:
Proclaim it to the winds. Thou art cold thyself
To babble of their coldness. O would I were
My father for an hour! Away now—Quick!
[Exit HEATH.
I hoped I had served God with all my might!
It seems I have not. Ah! much heresy
Shelter'd in Calais. Saints I have rebuilt
Your shrines, set up your broken images;
Be comfortable to me. Suffer not
That my brief reign in England be defamed
Thro' all her angry chronicles hereafter
By loss of Calais. Grant me Calais. Philip,
We have made war upon the Holy Father
All for your sake: what good could come of that?
LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, not against the Holy Father;
You did but help King Philip's war with France,
Your troops were never down in Italy.
MARY. I am a byword. Heretic and rebel
Point at me and make merry. Philip gone!
And Calais gone! Time that I were gone too!
LADY CLARENCE. Nay, if the fetid gutter had a voice
And cried I was not clean, what should I care?
Or you, for heretic cries? And I believe,
Spite of your melancholy Sir Nicholas,
Your England is as loyal as myself.
MARY (seeing the paper draft by POLE).
There! there! another paper! Said you not
Many of these were loyal? Shall I try
If this be one of such?
LADY CLARENCE. Let it be, let it be.
God pardon me! I have never yet found one. [Aside.
MARY (reads). 'Your people hate you as your husband hates you.'
Clarence, Clarence, what have I done? what sin
Beyond all grace, all pardon? Mother of God,
Thou knowest never woman meant so well,
And fared so ill in this disastrous world.
My people hate me and desire my death.
LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam, no.
MARY. My husband hates me, and desires my death.
LADY CLARENCE. No, Madam; these are libels.
MARY. I hate myself, and I desire my death.
LADY CLARENCE. Long live your Majesty! Shall Alice sing you
One of her pleasant songs? Alice, my child,
Bring us your lute (ALICE goes). They say the gloom of Saul
Was lighten'd by young David's harp.
MARY. Too young!
And never knew a Philip.
Re-enter ALICE.
Give me the lute.
He hates me!
(She sings.)
Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing!
Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in loathing:
Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing—
Low, lute, low!
Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken;
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken;
Low, my lute! oh low, my lute! we fade and are forsaken—
Low, dear lute, low!
Take it away! not low enough for me!
ALICE. Your Grace hath a low voice.
MARY. How dare you say it?
Even for that he hates me. A low voice
Lost in a wilderness where none can hear!
A voice of shipwreck on a shoreless sea!
A low voice from the dust and from the grave
(Sitting on the ground).
There, am I low enough now?
ALICE. Good Lord! how grim and ghastly looks her Grace,
With both her knees drawn upward to her chin.
There was an old-world tomb beside my father's,
And this was open'd, and the dead were found
Sitting, and in this fashion; she looks a corpse.
Enter LADY MAGDALEN DACRES.
LADY MAGDALEN. Madam, the Count de Feria waits without,
In hopes to see your Highness.
LADY CLARENCE (pointing to MARY).
Wait he must—
Her trance again. She neither sees nor hears,
And may not speak for hours.
LADY MAGDALEN. Unhappiest
Of Queens and wives and women!
ALICE (in the foreground with LADY MAGDALEN).
And all along
Of Philip.
LADY MAGDALEN. Not so loud! Our Clarence there
Sees ever such an aureole round the Queen,
It gilds the greatest wronger of her peace,
Who stands the nearest to her.
ALICE. Ay, this Philip;
I used to love the Queen with all my heart—
God help me, but methinks I love her less
For such a dotage upon such a man.
I would I were as tall and strong as you.
LADY MAGDALEN. I seem half-shamed at times to be so tall.
ALICE. You are the stateliest deer in all the herd—
Beyond his aim—but I am small and scandalous,
And love to hear bad tales of Philip.
LADY MAGDALEN. Why?
I never heard him utter worse of you
Than that you were low-statured.
ALICE. Does he think
Low stature is low nature, or all women's
Low as his own?
LADY MAGDALEN. There you strike in the nail.
This coarseness is a want of phantasy.
It is the low man thinks the woman low;
Sin is too dull to see beyond himself.
ALICE. Ah, Magdalen, sin is bold as well as dull.
How dared he?
LADY MAGDALEN. Stupid soldiers oft are bold.
Poor lads, they see not what the general sees,
A risk of utter ruin. I am not Beyond his aim, or was not.
ALICE. Who? Not you?
Tell, tell me; save my credit with myself.
LADY MAGDALEN. I never breathed it to a bird in the eaves,
Would not for all the stars and maiden moon
Our drooping Queen should know! In Hampton Court
My window look'd upon the corridor;
And I was robing;—this poor throat of mine,
Barer than I should wish a man to see it,—
When he we speak of drove the window back,
And, like a thief, push'd in his royal hand;
But by God's providence a good stout staff
Lay near me; and you know me strong of arm;
I do believe I lamed his Majesty's
For a day or two, tho', give the Devil his due,
I never found he bore me any spite.
ALICE. I would she could have wedded that poor youth,
My Lord of Devon—light enough, God knows,
And mixt with Wyatt's rising—and the boy
Not out of him—but neither cold, coarse, cruel,
And more than all—no Spaniard.
LADY CLARENCE. Not so loud.
Lord Devon, girls! what are you whispering here?
ALICE. Probing an old state-secret—how it chanced
That this young Earl was sent on foreign travel,
Not lost his head.
LADY CLARENCE. There was no proof against him.
ALICE. Nay, Madam; did not Gardiner intercept
A letter which the Count de Noailles wrote
To that dead traitor Wyatt, with full proof
Of Courtenay's treason? What became of that?
LADY CLARENCE. Some say that Gardiner, out of love for him,
Burnt it, and some relate that it was lost
When Wyatt sack'd the Chancellor's house in Southwark.
Let dead things rest.
ALICE. Ay, and with him who died
Alone in Italy.
LADY CLARENCE. Much changed, I hear,
Had put off levity and put graveness on.
The foreign courts report him in his manner
Noble as his young person and old shield.
It might be so—but all is over now;
He caught a chill in the lagoons of Venice,
And died in Padua.
MARY (looking up suddenly).
Died in the true faith?
LADY CLARENCE. Ay, Madam, happily.
MARY. Happier he than I.
LADY MAGDALEN. It seems her Highness hath awaken'd. Think you
That I might dare to tell her that the Count—
MARY. I will see no man hence for evermore,
Saving my confessor and my cousin Pole.
LADY MAGDALEN. It is the Count de Feria, my dear lady.
MARY. What Count?
LADY MAGDALEN. The Count de Feria, from his Majesty
King Philip.
MARY. Philip! quick! loop up my hair!
Throw cushions on that seat, and make it throne-like.
Arrange my dress—the gorgeous Indian shawl
That Philip brought me in our happy days!—
That covers all. So—am I somewhat Queenlike,
Bride of the mightiest sovereign upon earth?
LADY CLARENCE. Ay, so your Grace would bide a moment yet.
MARY. No, no, he brings a letter. I may die
Before I read it. Let me see him at once.
Enter COUNT DE FERIA (kneels).
FERIA. I trust your Grace is well. (Aside) How her hand burns!
MARY. I am not well, but it will better me,
Sir Count, to read the letter which you bring.
FERIA. Madam, I bring no letter.
MARY. How! no letter?
FERIA. His Highness is so vex'd with strange affairs—
MARY. That his own wife is no affair of his.
FERIA. Nay, Madam, nay! he sends his veriest love,
And says, he will come quickly.
MARY. Doth he, indeed?
You, sir, do you remember what you said
When last you came to England?
FERIA. Madam, I brought
My King's congratulations; it was hoped
Your Highness was once more in happy state
To give him an heir male.
MARY. Sir, you said more;
You said he would come quickly. I had horses
On all the road from Dover, day and night;
On all the road from Harwich, night and day;
But the child came not, and the husband came not;
And yet he will come quickly.... Thou hast learnt
Thy lesson, and I mine. There is no need
For Philip so to shame himself again.
Return,
And tell him that I know he comes no more.
Tell him at last I know his love is dead,
And that I am in state to bring forth death—
Thou art commission'd to Elizabeth,
And not to me!
FERIA. Mere compliments and wishes.
But shall I take some message from your Grace?
MARY. Tell her to come and close my dying eyes,
And wear my crown, and dance upon my grave.
FERIA. Then I may say your Grace will see your sister?
Your Grace is too low-spirited. Air and sunshine.
I would we had you, Madam, in our warm Spain.
You droop in your dim London.
MARY. Have him away!
I sicken of his readiness.
LADY CLARENCE. My Lord Count,
Her Highness is too ill for colloquy.
FERIA (kneels, and kisses her hand).
I wish her Highness better. (Aside) How her hand burns!
[Exeunt.

SCENE III.—A HOUSE NEAR LONDON.
ELIZABETH, STEWARD OF THE HOUSEHOLD, ATTENDANTS.