Who am thy railer?
Cino.
What would you have me? ha?
Must I poison my poor bread or choke myself
To make French Chicot room? Being simply fool,
I eat fool’s alms: I may talk wise men down,
Who gives me sober bread to live by? see;
You’ll let me prate now?
Den.
Yea, prate anything;
Find me the queen, and I’ll with you. Cino —
Cino.
Well?
Den.
Use me better as we go, poor fool.
[Exeunt.
Enter King, Tavannes, Pardaillan, Soubise, Brantôme, and others.
Ch.
Brown hair or gold, my lord Soubise, you say?
Sou.
Pure black wears best.
Par.
He will not say so, sir.
Ch.
Ay, will not? are you wise, my Pardaillan?
Bra.
Yolande — you know this damozel I mean,
One that has black hair hard on blue —
Sou.
Hear that!
Blue hair, eyes black!
Bra.
But note me what she says:
Soubise is a fair name, and that fair lord
That wears it sewn across his arm, is good
To give her tame bird seeds to eat.
Sou.
Her bird!
Bra.
She has a sister of your height, this girl,
Skilled to work patterns with gold thread and paint.
Sou.
Well, what of her then?
Ch.
Yea, sir, hold by that.
Bra.
She said this to me, choosing seeds of corn
To put between her peacock’s bill, it chanced,
One summer time; and biting with her teeth
Some husk away to make the grain more soft,
She put her mouth to the bird’s mouth: but I —
“Give me food rather, I have need to eat;”
Whereat her teeth showed fuller and she said
— The seed still in her lip — she laughed and said
Her two tame birds, this peacock and Soubise,
Were all she had to feed.
Sou.
I thank her.
Ch.
Well,
What followed? that you kissed away the seed?
Bra.
Hush now, she comes, fair lord.
Enter Queen-Mother Denise, Yolande, and other Ladies, with Cino.
Ca.
Take heart, Denise;
I’ll chide him home. — Fair son, I hear hard news;
My lord of Guise in his ill hours of blood
Will hardly trust your courtesy to use
His lady’s glove: here was one wept right out
At hearing of it.
Ch.
He does belie my patience;
It was this lord that had her glove away.
Ca.
The Guise is sick of it, touched hard and home;
It bites him like a hurt; you are his keen plague,
Sharp sauce to hunger, medicine to his meat,
A sufferance no pained flesh could hold upon
And not turn bitter.
Ch.
Well, God heal his head!
Ca.
I did not see my lord Soubise — make room,
So thick a yellow crowd of ladies’ heads
Makes the air taste of powdered scent and spice
One cannot see a friend; my lord Soubise,
We love you well, what holds you back, my lord?
Sou.
Madam —
Ca.
They trouble us with tales of you;
Here’s a maid carries face of Montlitard
Whose heart seems altered to a fresher name
The blood paints broader on her cheek, sweet fool;
Answer me this; nay, I shall make you clear;
Denise has told me how her middle sleep
Was torn and broken by lamentings up,
By sudden speeches, shreds and rags of talk,
And running over of light tears between;
And ever the poor tender word “Soubise”
Sighed and turned over — ah, such pain she had!
Poor love of mine, why need you spoil me her?
Sou.
She will not say so.
Yol.
But she will not say
She loves not, though it sting her soul to speak,
Being still, woe’s me, so sharp and sore a truth
And hard to hide.
Ch.
Well said of her; strike hands.
Cino.
Take comfort, daughter; he shall be made fast to thee
And the devil climbs not in by way of marriage.
Conclude temptation, and God increase your joy
In the second generation of good fools.
Gripe fingers each; I will be bridesman; so.
Sou.
Fool — I am hurt with wonder, madam — fool —
Cino.
Nay, sir, keep hands.
Ch.
This is most gross in you.
Cino.
Yea, so; this is the time of horn-blowing.
Did your grace never eat stolen eggs? the meat of them
Is something like the mouth of a fair woman.
Beseech you now let your priest drink no wine
And you shall have him better for yourself;
Sir, look to that; I would not have you marred.
Ch.
No, you shall stay.
Sou.
I pray you, bid him peace.
Ch.
Let the fool talk.
Cino.
There’s freedom for your kind now.
I have not seen a groom so blench and start;
I wonder what shoe pinched his mother?
Sou.
Beast!
[Strikes him, and exit.
Ca.
You are sad, sir.
Ch.
I am not well at heart.
Ca.
It is the summer heat; I have not seen
So hard a sun upon the grape-season
These twelve years back. — Fellow, look up, take heart;
He cannot hurt thee.
Cino.
Why not? I am no woman.
I am sure he has made my head swell; get him married,
I’ll do as much for him. Eh? will I not?
(To Yolande.)
Yol.
I will not wed him; so the shame shall stick
Where it began on him, alone.
Ca.
(Aside.)
Whispers?
(Observing Denise and the King.)
I do suspect you sorely. Oh! so close;
Thrusting your lip even against his ear?
Yea, hold the sleeve now, pinch it up;
(aloud)
there may be
No ill in this; and I have hope it wears
No face of purpose, but I like it not.
Yol.
What is it you mislike?
Ca.
Eh? nothing, I;
My care’s not half the worth of a fool’s head
Nor carries so much weight. My lord Bourdeilles,
Have you no tale for us?
Bra.
Yea, madam, a rare jest.
Yol.
We’ll pluck it forth.
Renée.
Ay, pinch it out of him;
We would be merry.
Par.
Umph! I know the tale.
Bra.
I would not have a gospeller hear you, sir.
Cino.
I see a tale now hang at the king’s sleeve.
Ca.
A very light one.
Bra.
But if you hear me, ma
dam, —
There’s matter for a leap-year’s laugh therein.
The noble damsel of Maulévrier —
Ca.
Is she your tale?
Bra.
Speak low; she told it me.
Yol.
Where should he hear it?
Ca.
Peace now: sir, make on.
Bra.
She being about my lady of Navarre
Last night — I mean some foolish nights ago —
For there last night she was not, I believe —
Made out this jest: this is the jest she made.
Cino.
’Tis a sweet jest, but something over ripe.
Bra.
You have not heard it.
Cino.
I hear it with my nose, and it smells rank.
Bra.
You all do know his highness of Navarre
Is loving to his lady; and, God’s death,
She is worth no less a price; nor doth affection,
Being set on her, outweigh the measured reason
Nor sense of limit she doth well deserve;
Yea, she outgoes the elected best, outswells
What is called good.
Cino.
A very merry tale.
Bra.
Prithee, fool, peace. — Now at that time I speak of
He was at point to come; but being delayed
(The how I say not — this I do not say;
Indeed I would not — mark you, not the how)
He could not come. She, grown hereon to heat,
Chid at her ladies, wrangled with her hair,
Drew it all wried, then wept, then laughed again;
Till one saying, “Madam, I did see my lord
About the middle matter of the dusk
Slip forth to speak with” — here she stayed; the queen
Doth passionately catch her by that word,
Crying with whom? and might this be a man?
And should men use her so? and shame of men,
And not the grace of temperance in them
Which is the cover and the weeds of sin;
And such wet circumstance of waterish words
As ladies use; whereto the damsel— “Madam,
I may swear truly no man had him forth,
But to swear otherwise— “
Ca.
I do perceive you:
There was a conference of the gospellers,
And there was he.
Bra.
But he that brought him forth —
Ca.
Enough, the jest runs out; I know your matter.
Fair son, you would be private?
Ch.
Like enough:
I do not say you trouble me to stay,
But you shall please me going.
Ca.
Good time to you!
Come with me, sirs. Take you the fool along.
[Exeunt all but
King
and
Denise.
Ch.
I am assured you love me not a whit.
Den.
You will not set your faith upon that thought;
I love you dearly.
Ch.
I do not bid you swear it.
Den.
I pray you, if you know what I would say,
That you endure this feebleness which sits
Upon my lips i’ the saying.
Ch.
What do you think of me?
Den.
I know you are my master and a king
That I have called thrice nobler than his name;
I know my lip hath got the print of you
And that the girdle of your fastened arms
Keeps warm upon me yet; and I have thought,
Yea, I have sworn it past the reach of faith,
Even till the temperate heaven did, stung at me,
Begin a chiding — that you loved me back
To the large aim and perfect scope o’ the heart;
That I was as a thing within your blood,
There moved, and made such passage up and down
As doth the breath and motion of your air;
Being rather as a pain caught unawares,
A doubtful fever or sick heat of yours
That now the purging time hath rid you of
And made smooth ease.
Ch.
You did know better then.
Den.
Nay, then I think I knew not anything;
My wits were broken in the use of love.
What do you think of me? I would know that.
Ch.
As of a thing I love — I know not what;
Only that any slight small thing of yours,
A foolish word, a knot upon your head,
Some plait worn wrong or garment braced awry,
Any girl’s thing — doth grow so and possess
With such a strength of thought, so waxen full,
The complete sum and secret of my will
I cannot get it out.
Den.
If that be love,
Then I love you, which you did swear a lie.
For I do feed upon you in my meat
And sleep upon you in my tired bed
And wake upon you in my praying times,
As you were used and natural unto me,
My soul’s strong habit and nativity.
Ch.
I think you do: I never taxed you else.
But he that will not swear I love you back
Doth sin outside the heavy name of lie
And compass of a villain.
Den.
I doubt you not.
You know that I did urge you for the queen?
Ch.
Yea: you made up a peace between our jars.
Den.
Ay, like a damnéd peace-maker, a truce
More sharp than is the naked side of war.
Ch.
What now? you slip on that fool’s text again?
Den.
That I did pluck you over to her side
I would repent even in the cost and price
Of my most inward blood, yea of my heart.
Ch.
You did a good work then: now you turn sharp.
Den.
I do well think that had I never been
You had not fallen in her purposes.
Ch.
I may perceive my patience is your fool:
You make slight use of me. Take note of this,
Henceforth I will not undergo the words
That it shall please you cast upon my place
In such loose way. What makes you chide at me?
Have you no sort of fool but me to wear
The impatient work of your mistempered blood
With a soft spirit?
Den.
You have sworn me love;
If you did love me with more worth and weight
Than slackly binds a two hours’ liking up,
You would not pluck displeasure from my words.
I am too weak to make fit wrath for you.
Ch.
Ay, that I think.
Den.
You do me right; but mark,
Being this I am, not big enough to hurt,
I do repent me past all penitence,
Outweep the bounded sorrow of all words,
That I did bring you to such peace again
As hath its feet in blood.
Ch.
You did then swear
Nothing one half so blessed and so clean
As to make peace between her lips and mine;
You bade me think how good it was to have
The grace of such a gentle fellowship
To lean my love upon; how past the law
And natural sweetness of sweet motherhood
Her passion did delight itself on me;
With all the cost
of rare observances
Followed the foot of my least enterprise;
Esteemed me even to the disvaluing
Of her own worthy life; would not, in brief,
Partake the pain of common offices
And due regard that custom hath of time
But for my love. Was this no talk of yours?
Den.
Indeed I said so.
Ch.
Did I not give you faith?
Den.
You did believe me; I would you had not so,
Or that some poisonous pain had killed my lips
Before they learnt the temper of such words.
Ch.
What then, you knew not this red work indeed?
No savour of this killing flecked your speech?
Den.
I know of it? but to have lied and known
I had been plagued past all the gins of hell.
I know of it? but if I knew of it
There is no whip that God could hunt me with
That would not seem less heavy than thin snow
Weighed with the scars and shames of my desert.
Ch.
But how if such a thing be necessary?
Den.
There’s no such need that bids men damn themselves.
Ch.
Nay, but if God take hell to work withal
That is more bitter than all waste of men,
And yet God makes the honey of his law
Out of its sharp and fire-mouthed bitterness,
Why may not I take this? yea, why not I?
Den.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 175
