SCENE III.—The Palace of the King of Scots.
Enter Queen Dorothea, Sir Bartram, Nano, Ross, Ladies, and Attendants.
Q. Dor. Thy credit, Bartram, in the Scottish court,
Thy reverend years, the strictness of thy vows,
All these are means sufficient to persuade;
But love, the faithful link of loyal hearts,
That hath possession of my constant mind,
Exiles all dread, subdueth vain suspect.
Methinks no craft should harbour in that breast
Where majesty and virtue are install'd:
Methinks my beauty should not cause my death.
Sir Bar. How gladly, sovereign princess, would I err,
And bide my shame to save your royal life!
'Tis princely in yourself to think the best,
To hope his grace is guiltless of this crime:
But if in due prevention you default,
How blind are you that were forewarn'd before!
Q. Dor. Suspicion without cause deserveth blame.
Sir Bar. Who see, and shun not, harms, deserve the same.
Behold the tenor of this traitorous plot.
[Gives warrant.
Q. Dor. What should I read? Perhaps he wrote it not.
Sir Bar. Here is his warrant, under seal and sign,
To Jaques, born in France, to murder you.
Q. Dor. Ah, careless king, would God this were not thine!
What though I read? ah, should I think it true?
Ross. The hand and seal confirm the deed is his.
Q. Dor. What know I though if now he thinketh this?
Nano. Madam, Lucretius saith that to repent
Is childish, wisdom to prevent.
Q. Dor. What tho?
Nano. Then cease your tears, that have dismay'd you,
And cross the foe before he have betray'd you.
Sir Bar. What need these long suggestions in this cause,
When every circumstance confirmeth truth?
First, let the hidden mercy from above
Confirm your grace, since by a wondrous means
The practice of your dangers came to light:
Next, let the tokens of approvèd truth
Govern and stay your thoughts, too much seduc'd,
And mark the sooth, and listen the intent.
Your highness knows, and these my noble lords
Can witness this, that whilst your husband's sire
In happy peace possess'd the Scottish crown,
I was his sworn attendant here in court;
In dangerous fight I never fail'd my lord;
And since his death, and this your husband's reign,
No labour, duty, have I left undone,
To testify my zeal unto the crown.
But now my limbs are weak, mine eyes are dim,
Mine age unwieldly and unmeet for toil,
I came to court, in hope, for service past,
To gain some lease to keep me, being old.
There found I all was upsy-turvy turn'd,
My friends displac'd, the nobles loth to crave:
Then sought I to the minion of the king,
Ateukin, who, allurèd by a bribe,
Assur'd me of the lease for which I sought.
But see the craft! when he had got the grant,
He wrought to sell it to Sir Silvester,
In hope of greater earnings from his hands.
In brief, I learn'd his craft, and wrought the means,
By one his needy servants for reward,
To steal from out his pocket all the briefs;
Which he perform'd, and with reward resign'd.
Them when I read,—now mark the power of God,—
I found this warrant seal'd among the rest,
To kill your grace, whom God long keep alive!
Thus, in effect, by wonder are you sav'd:
Trifle not, then, but seek a speedy flight;
God will conduct your steps, and shield the right.
Q. Dor. What should I do? ah, poor unhappy queen,
Born to endure what fortune can contain!
Alas, the deed is too apparent now!
But, O mine eyes, were you as bent to hide
As my poor heart is forward to forgive,
Ah cruel king, my love would thee acquit!
O, what avails to be allied and match'd
With high estates, that marry but in show?
Were I baser born, my mean estate
Could warrant me from this impendent harm:
But to be great and happy, these are twain.
Ah, Ross, what shall I do? how shall I work?
Ross. With speedy letters to your father send,
Who will revenge you and defend your right.
Q. Dor. As if they kill not me, who with him fight!
As if his breast be touch'd, I am not wounded!
As if he wail'd, my joys were not confounded!
We are one heart, though rent by hate in twain;
One soul, one essence doth our weal contain:
What, then, can conquer him, that kills not me?
Ross. If this advice displease, then, madam, flee.
Q. Dor. Where may I wend or travel without fear?
Ross. Where not, in changing this attire you wear?
Q. Dor. What, shall I clad me like a country maid?
Nano. The policy is base, I am afraid.
Q. Dor. Why, Nano?
Nano. Ask you why? What, may a queen
March forth in homely weed, and be not seen?
The rose, although in thorny shrubs she spread,
Is still the rose, her beauties wax not dead;
And noble minds, although the coat be bare,
Are by their semblance known, how great they are.
Sir Bar. The dwarf saith true.
Q. Dor. What garments lik'st thou, than?
Nano. Such as may make you seem a proper man.
Q. Dor. He makes me blush and smile, though I am sad.
Nano. The meanest coat for safety is not bad.
Q. Dor. What, shall I jet[277] in breeches, like a squire?
Alas, poor dwarf, thy mistress is unmeet.
Nano. Tut, go me thus, your cloak before your face,
Your sword uprear'd with quaint and comely grace:
If any come and question what you be,
Say you "A man," and call for witness me.
Q. Dor. What, should I wear a sword? to what intent?
Nano. Madam, for show; it is an ornament:
If any wrong you, draw: a shining blade
Withdraws a coward thief that would invade.
Q. Dor. But, if I strike, and he should strike again,
What should I do? I fear I should be slain.
Nano. No, take it single on your dagger so:
I'll teach you, madam, how to ward a blow.
Q. Dor. How little shapes much substance may include!—
Sir Bartram, Ross, ye ladies, and my friends,
Since presence yields me death, and absence life,
Hence will I fly, disguisèd like a squire,
As one that seeks to live in Irish wars:
You, gentle Ross, shall furnish my depart.
Ross. Yea, prince, and die with you with all my heart!
Vouchsafe me, then, in all extremest states
To wait on you and serve you with my best.
Q. Dor. To me pertains the woe: live then in rest.
Friends, fare you well: keep secret my depart:
Nano alone shall my attendant be.
Nano. Then, madam, are you mann'd, I warrant ye!
Give me a sword, and, if there grow debate,
I'll come behind, and break your enemy's pate.
Ross. How sore we grieve to part so soon away!
Q. Dor. Grieve not for those that perish if they stay.
Nano. The time in words misspent is little worth;
Madam, walk on, and let them bring us forth.
[Exeunt.
CHORUS
Enter Bohan.
Boh. So, these sad motions make the fairy sleep;
And sleep he shall in quiet and content:
For it would make a marble melt and weep,
To see these treasons 'gainst the innocent.
But, since she 'scapes by flight to save her life,
The king may chance repent she was his wife.
The rest is ruthful; yet, to beguile the time,
'Tis interlac'd with merriment and rhyme.
[Exit.