SCENE I.--THE CONDUIT IN GRACECHURCH,

Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Tapio Riikonen and Distributed Proofreaders

QUEEN MARY and HAROLD

BY

ALFRED LORD TENNYSON, POET LAUREATE

[Illustration]

CONTENTS

QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA

HAROLD: A DRAMA

QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA.

_DRAMATIS PERSONAE_

QUEEN MARY.

PHILIP, _King of Naples and Sicily, afterwards King of Spain_.

THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH.

REGINALD POLE, _Cardinal and Papal Legate_.

SIMON RENARD, _Spanish Ambassador_.

LE SIEUR DE NOAILLES, _French Ambassador_.

THOMAS CRANMER, _Archbishop of Canterbury_.

SIR NICHOLAS HEATH, _Archbishop of York; Lord Chancellor after Gardiner_.

EDWARD COURTENAY, _Earl of Devon_.

LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, _afterwards Lord Howard, and Lord High Admiral_.

LORD WILLIAMS OF THAME.

LORD PAGET.

LORD PETRE.

STEPHEN GARDINER, _Bishop of Winchester and Lord Chancellor_.

EDMUND BONNER, _Bishop of London_.

THOMAS THIRLBY, _Bishop of Ely_.

SIR THOMAS WYATT |

SIR THOMAS STAFFORD | _Insurrectionary Leaders_.

SIR RALPH BAGENHALL.

SIR ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

SIR HENRY BEDINGFIELD.

SIR WILLIAM CECIL.

SIR THOMAS WHITE, _Lord Mayor of London_.

THE DUKE OF ALVA |

THE COUNT DE FERIA | _attending on Philip_.

PETER MARTYR.

FATHER COLE.

FATHER BOURNE.

VILLA GARCIA.

SOTO.

CAPTAIN BRETT |

ANTHONY KNYVETT | _Adherents of Wyatt_.

PETERS, _Gentleman of Lord Howard_.

ROGER, _Servant to Noailles_.

WILLIAM, _Servant to Wyatt_.

STEWARD OF HOUSEHOLD _to the Princess Elizabeth_.

OLD NOKES _and_ NOKES.

MARCHIONESS OF EXETER, _Mother of Courtenay_.

LADY CLARENCE |

LADY MAGDALEN DACRES | _Ladies in Waiting to the Queen_.

ALICE | _to the Princess Elizabeth_.

MAID OF HONOUR |

JOAN |

TIB | _two Country Wives_.

Lords _and other_ Attendants, Members _of the_ Privy Council,

Members _of_ Parliament, Two Gentlemen, Aldermen,

Citizens, Peasants, Ushers, Messengers, Guards, Pages,

Gospellers, Marshalmen, _etc_.

QUEEN MARY.

ACT I.

SCENE I.--ALDGATE RICHLY DECORATED.

CROWD. MARSHALMEN.

MARSHALMAN. Stand back, keep a clear lane! When will her Majesty pass,

sayst thou? why now, even now; wherefore draw back your heads and your

horns before I break them, and make what noise you will with your

tongues, so it be not treason. Long live Queen Mary, the lawful and

legitimate daughter of Harry the Eighth! Shout, knaves!

CITIZENS. Long live Queen Mary!

FIRST CITIZEN. That's a hard word, legitimate; what does it mean?

SECOND CITIZEN. It means a bastard.

THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, it means true-born.

FIRST CITIZEN. Why, didn't the Parliament make her a bastard?

SECOND CITIZEN. No; it was the Lady Elizabeth.

THIRD CITIZEN. That was after, man; that was after.

FIRST CITIZEN. Then which is the bastard?

SECOND CITIZEN. Troth, they be both bastards by Act of Parliament and

Council.

THIRD CITIZEN. Ay, the Parliament can make every true-born man of us a

bastard. Old Nokes, can't it make thee a bastard? thou shouldst know,

for thou art as white as three Christmasses.

OLD NOKES (_dreamily_). Who's a-passing? King Edward or King Richard?

THIRD CITIZEN. No, old Nokes.

OLD NOKES. It's Harry!

THIRD CITIZEN. It's Queen Mary.

OLD NOKES. The blessed Mary's a-passing!

[_Falls on his knees_.

NOKES. Let father alone, my masters! he's past your questioning.

THIRD CITIZEN. Answer thou for him, then thou'rt no such cockerel

thyself, for thou was born i' the tail end of old Harry the Seventh.

NOKES. Eh! that was afore bastard-making began. I was born true man at

five in the forenoon i' the tail of old Harry, and so they can't make

me a bastard.

THIRD CITIZEN. But if Parliament can make the Queen a bastard, why, it

follows all the more that they can make thee one, who art fray'd i'

the knees, and out at elbow, and bald o' the back, and bursten at the

toes, and down at heels.

NOKES. I was born of a true man and a ring'd wife, and I can't argue

upon it; but I and my old woman 'ud burn upon it, that would we.

MARSHALMAN. What are you cackling of bastardy under the Queen's own

nose? I'll have you flogg'd and burnt too, by the Rood I will.

FIRST CITIZEN. He swears by the Rood. Whew!

SECOND CITIZEN. Hark! the trumpets.

[_The Procession passes_, MARY _and_ ELIZABETH _riding

side by side, and disappears under the gate_.

CITIZENS. Long live Queen Mary! down with all traitors! God save her

Grace; and death to Northumberland!

[_Exeunt_.

_Manent_ TWO GENTLEMEN.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. By God's light a noble creature, right royal!

SECOND GENTLEMAN. She looks comelier than ordinary to-day; but to my

mind the Lady Elizabeth is the more noble and royal.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I mean the Lady Elizabeth. Did you hear (I have a

daughter in her service who reported it) that she met the Queen at

Wanstead with five hundred horse, and the Queen (tho' some say they be

much divided) took her hand, call'd her sweet sister, and kiss'd not

her alone, but all the ladies of her following.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Ay, that was in her hour of joy; there will be

plenty to sunder and unsister them again: this Gardiner for one, who

is to be made Lord Chancellor, and will pounce like a wild beast out

of his cage to worry Cranmer.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. And furthermore, my daughter said that when there

rose a talk of the late rebellion, she spoke even of Northumberland

pitifully, and of the good Lady Jane as a poor innocent child who had

but obeyed her father; and furthermore, she said that no one in her

time should be burnt for heresy.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Well, sir, I look for happy times.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. There is but one thing against them. I know not if

you know.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I suppose you touch upon the rumour that Charles,

the master of the world, has offer'd her his son Philip, the Pope and

the Devil. I trust it is but a rumour.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. She is going now to the Tower to loose the prisoners

there, and among them Courtenay, to be made Earl of Devon, of royal

blood, of splendid feature, whom the council and all her people wish

her to marry. May it be so, for we are many of us Catholics, but few

Papists, and the Hot Gospellers will go mad upon it.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Was she not betroth'd in her babyhood to the Great

Emperor himself?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, but he's too old.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. And again to her cousin Reginald Pole, now Cardinal;

but I hear that he too is full of aches and broken before his day.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. O, the Pope could dispense with his Cardinalate, and

his achage, and his breakage, if that were all: will you not follow

the procession?

SECOND GENTLEMAN. No; I have seen enough for this day.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Well, I shall follow; if I can get near enough I

shall judge with my own eyes whether her Grace incline to this

splendid scion of Plantagenet.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE II.--A ROOM IN LAMBETH PALACE.

CRANMER. To Strasburg, Antwerp, Frankfort, Zurich, Worms,

Geneva, Basle--our Bishops from their sees

Or fled, they say, or flying--Poinet, Barlow,

Bale, Scory, Coverdale; besides the Deans

Of Christchurch, Durham, Exeter, and Wells--

Ailmer and Bullingham, and hundreds more;

So they report: I shall be left alone.

No: Hooper, Ridley, Latimer will not fly.

_Enter_ PETER MARTYR.

PETER MARTYR. Fly, Cranmer! were there nothing else, your name

Stands first of those who sign'd the Letters Patent

That gave her royal crown to Lady Jane.

CRANMER.

Stand first it may, but it was written last:

Those that are now her Privy Council, sign'd

Before me: nay, the Judges had pronounced

That our young Edward might bequeath the crown

Of England, putting by his father's will.

Yet I stood out, till Edward sent for me.

The wan boy-king, with his fast-fading eyes

Fixt hard on mine, his frail transparent hand,

Damp with the sweat of death, and griping mine,

Whisper'd me, if I loved him, not to yield

His Church of England to the Papal wolf

And Mary; then I could no more--I sign'd.

Nay, for bare shame of inconsistency,

She cannot pass her traitor council by,

To make me headless.

PETER MARTYR. That might be forgiven.

I tell you, fly, my Lord. You do not own

The bodily presence in the Eucharist,

Their wafer and perpetual sacrifice:

Your creed will be your death.

CRANMER. Step after step,

Thro' many voices crying right and left,

Have I climb'd back into the primal church,

And stand within the porch, and Christ with me:

My flight were such a scandal to the faith,

The downfall of so many simple souls,

I dare not leave my post.

PETER MARTYR. But you divorced

Queen Catharine and her father; hence, her hate

Will burn till you are burn'd.

CRANMER. I cannot help it.

The Canonists and Schoolmen were with me.

'Thou shalt not wed thy brother's wife.'--'Tis written,

'They shall be childless.' True, Mary was born,

But France would not accept her for a bride

As being born from incest; and this wrought

Upon the king; and child by child, you know,

Were momentary sparkles out as quick

Almost as kindled; and he brought his doubts

And fears to me. Peter, I'll swear for him

He _did_ believe the bond incestuous.

But wherefore am I trenching on the time

That should already have seen your steps a mile

From me and Lambeth? God be with you! Go.

PETER MARTYR. Ah, but how fierce a letter you wrote against

Their superstition when they slander'd you

For setting up a mass at Canterbury

To please the Queen.

CRANMER. It was a wheedling monk

Set up the mass.

PETER MARTYR. I know it, my good Lord.

But you so bubbled over with hot terms

Of Satan, liars, blasphemy, Antichrist,

She never will forgive you. Fly, my Lord, fly!

CRANMER. I wrote it, and God grant me power to burn!

PETER MARTYR. They have given me a safe conduct: for all that

I dare not stay. I fear, I fear, I see you,

Dear friend, for the last time; farewell, and fly.

CRANMER. Fly and farewell, and let me die the death.

[_Exit_ PETER MARTYR.

_Enter_ OLD SERVANT.

O, kind and gentle master, the Queen's Officers

Are here in force to take you to the Tower.

CRANMER. Ay, gentle friend, admit them. I will go.

I thank my God it is too late to fly.

[_Exeunt_.

SCENE III.--ST. PAUL'S CROSS.

FATHER BOURNE _in the pulpit_. A CROWD. MARCHIONESS OF EXETER,

COURTENAY. _The_ SIEUR DE NOAILLES _and his man_ ROGER _in front

of the stage. Hubbub_.

NOAILLES. Hast thou let fall those papers in the palace?

ROGER. Ay, sir.

NOAILLES. 'There will be no peace for Mary till

Elizabeth lose her head.'

ROGER. Ay, sir.

NOAILLES. And the other, 'Long live Elizabeth the Queen!'

ROGER. Ay, sir; she needs must tread upon them.

NOAILLES. Well.

These beastly swine make such a grunting here,

I cannot catch what Father Bourne is saying.

ROGER. Quiet a moment, my masters; hear what the shaveling has to say

for himself.

CROWD. Hush--hear!

BOURNE.--and so this unhappy land, long divided in itself, and

sever'd from the faith, will return into the one true fold, seeing

that our gracious Virgin Queen hath----

CROWD. No pope! no pope!

ROGER (_to those about him, mimicking_ BOURNE).--hath sent for the

holy legate of the holy father the Pope, Cardinal Pole, to give us all

that holy absolution which----

FIRST CITIZEN. Old Bourne to the life!

SECOND CITIZEN. Holy absolution! holy Inquisition!

THIRD CITIZEN. Down with the Papist!

[_Hubbub_.

BOURNE.--and now that your good bishop,

Bonner, who hath lain so long under bonds for the

faith--

[_Hubbub_.

NOAILLES. Friend Roger, steal thou in among the crowd,

And get the swine to shout Elizabeth.

Yon gray old Gospeller, sour as midwinter,

Begin with him.

ROGER (_goes_). By the mass, old friend, we'll have no pope here while

the Lady Elizabeth lives.

GOSPELLER. Art thou of the true faith, fellow, that swearest by the

mass?

ROGER. Ay, that am I, new converted, but the old leaven sticks to my

tongue yet.

FIRST CITIZEN. He says right; by the mass we'll have no mass here.

VOICES OF THE CROWD. Peace! hear him; let his own words damn the

Papist. From thine own mouth I judge thee--tear him down!

BOURNE.--and since our Gracious Queen, let me call her our second

Virgin Mary, hath begun to re-edify the true temple----,

FIRST CITIZEN. Virgin Mary! we'll have no virgins here--we'll have the

Lady Elizabeth!

[_Swords are drawn, a knife is hurled and sticks in

the pulpit. The mob throng to the pulpit stairs_.

MARCHIONESS OF EXETER. Son Courtenay, wilt thou see the holy father

Murdered before thy face? up, son, and save him! They love thee, and

thou canst not come to harm.

COURTENAY (_in the pulpit_). Shame, shame, my masters! are you

English-born, And set yourselves by hundreds against one?

CROWD. A Courtenay! a Courtenay!

[_A train of Spanish servants crosses at the back of the stage_.

NOAILLES. These birds of passage come before their time:

Stave off the crowd upon the Spaniard there.

ROGER. My masters, yonder's fatter game for you

Than this old gaping gurgoyle: look you there--

The Prince of Spain coming to wed our Queen!

After him, boys! and pelt him from the city.

[_They seize stones and follow the Spaniards.

Exeunt on the other side_ MARCHIONESS OF

EXETER _and_ ATTENDANTS.

NOAILLES (_to_ ROGER).

Stand from me. If Elizabeth lose her head--

That makes for France.

And if her people, anger'd thereupon,

Arise against her and dethrone the Queen--

That makes for France.

And if I breed confusion anyway--

That makes for France.

Good-day, my Lord of Devon;

A bold heart yours to beard that raging mob!

COURTENAY. My mother said, Go up; and up I went.

I knew they would not do me any wrong,

For I am mighty popular with them, Noailles.

NOAILLES. You look'd a king.

COURTENAY. Why not? I am king's blood.

NOAILLES. And in the whirl of change may come to be one.

COURTENAY. Ah!

NOAILLES. But does your gracious Queen entreat you kinglike?

COURTENAY. 'Fore God, I think she entreats me like a child.

NOAILLES. You've but a dull life in this maiden court, I fear, my

Lord?

COURTENAY. A life of nods and yawns.

NOAILLES. So you would honour my poor house to-night,

We might enliven you. Divers honest fellows,

The Duke of Suffolk lately freed from prison,

Sir Peter Carew and Sir Thomas Wyatt,

Sir Thomas Stafford, and some more--we play.

COURTENAY. At what?

NOAILLES. The Game of Chess.

COURTENAY. The Game of Chess!

I can play well, and I shall beat you there.

NOAILLES. Ay, but we play with Henry, King of France,

And certain of his court.

His Highness makes his moves across the Channel,

We answer him with ours, and there are messengers

That go between us.

COURTENAY. Why, such a game, sir, were whole years a playing.

NOAILLES. Nay; not so long I trust. That all depends

Upon the skill and swiftness of the players.

COURTENAY. The King is skilful at it?

NOAILLES. Very, my Lord.

COURTENAY. And the stakes high?

NOAILLES. But not beyond your means.

COURTENAY. Well, I'm the first of players, I shall win.

NOAILLES. With our advice and in our company,

And so you well attend to the king's moves,

I think you may.

COURTENAY. When do you meet?

NOAILLES. To-night.

COURTENAY (_aside_).

I will be there; the fellow's at his tricks--

Deep--I shall fathom him. (_Aloud_) Good morning,

Noailles.

[_Exit_ COURTENAY.

NOAILLES. Good-day, my Lord. Strange game of chess! a King

That with her own pawns plays against a Queen,

Whose play is all to find herself a King.

Ay; but this fine blue-blooded Courtenay seems

Too princely for a pawn. Call him a Knight,

That, with an ass's, not a horse's head,

Skips every way, from levity or from fear.

Well, we shall use him somehow, so that Gardiner

And Simon Renard spy not out our game

Too early. Roger, thinkest thou that anyone

Suspected thee to be my man?

ROGER. Not one, sir.

NOAILLES. No! the disguise was perfect. Let's away.

[_Exeunt_.

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_.

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_.