Nay, thou fair death, make me not wroth with thee;
Use me the best way found in thee, fair death,
And thou shalt have a pleasure of mine end,
For I will kiss thee with a patient lip
Even on this husk of thine; thou tender death,
Do me none evil and no shame, that am
So soft and have such sufferance of thee
And talk such lovers’ little talk; fair death,
Where thou hast kissed the latest lip of man’s
None shall drink after.
Qu. El.
Cease, and be not lewd;
Cease, and make haste. What harlot’s wit hast thou
To play death’s friend this way?
Ros.
Yea, friends we are;
I have no breath that makes a curse for you,
All goes to fashion prayer that God sow pity
I’the grounds of wrath; you see me that I drink;
So God have patience.
Qu. El.
It is done indeed.
Perchance now it should please you to be sure
This were no poison? as it is, it is.
Ha, the lips tighten so across the teeth
They should bite in, show blood; how white she is,
Yea, white! dead green now like a fingered leaf.
Enter King Henry and Bouchard
.
K. Hen.
Is it all done? Yea, so, love, come to me,
You are quite safe, held fast; kiss me a little.
Speak, hast thou done?
Qu. El.
So, would you praise me now?
It is done well, and as I thought of it.
K. Hen.
O sweetest thing, you do not bleed with her?
She cannot speak. By God’s own holiness
Each fear put on you shall be as blood wrung
From her most damnèd body. Do but speak.
This is just fear. Ay, come close in and weep.
This is your fear?
Ros.
Nay, but my present death.
Doth fear so ruin all the blood in one
As this spoils mine? Let me get breath to help;
And yet no matter; I will not speak at all,
I can die without speaking.
K. Hen.
(to the Queen).
Listen to this —
Thou art worse caught than anything in hell —
To put thy hands upon this body — God,
Curse her for me! I will not slay thee yet,
But damn thee some fine quiet way — O love,
That I might put thee in my heart indeed
To be wept well! thou shalt be healed of her —
Poor sweet; she hath even touched thee in the neck
Thou art so hurt. This is not possible
O God, that I could see what thou wilt do
With her when she is damned! Thou piece of hell,
Is there no way to crawl out of my hate
By saving her? pray God then till I come,
For if my hands had room for thee I would
Hew thy face out of shape. — She will not die.
This heat in her is pure, and the sweet life
With holy colour doth assure itself
In death’s sharp face; she will not die at all.
Thou art all foiled, found fool and laughable
And halt and spat upon and sick — O love,
Make me not mad! if you do so with me
I am but dead.
Ros.
Do not so cry on me;
I am hurt sore, but shall not die of it.
Be gracious with me, set your face to mine,
Tell me sweet things. I have no pain at all,
I am but woman and make words of pain
Where I am well indeed; only the breath
Catches, for joy to have you close. I would
Sing your song through; yea, I am good you said,
Gracious and good; I cannot sing that out,
But am I good that kiss your lips or no?
That keeps yet sweet; there is not so much pain
As one might weep for; a little makes us weep;
To die grown old were sad, but I die worth
Being kissed of you; leave me some space to breathe —
I have thanks yet.
[Dies.
Qu. El.
So is the whole played out;
Yea, kiss him. Ah, my Bouchard, you said that?
K. Hen.
Ay, keep the mouth at ease; shut down the lids;
You see I am not riotously moved,
But peaceable, all heat gone out of me.
This is some trick, some riddle of a dream,
Have you not known such dreams? I bid you stand,
Being king and lord, I make you come and go;
But say I bid my love turn and kiss me,
No more obedience? here at sight of her
The heart of rule is broken. No more obedience?
She hath forgotten this; were I a man,
Even that would slay me; I beseech you, sir,
Take no care of me; I can bid you; see,
I touch her face; the lips begin to stir,
Gather up colour; is there sound or speech,
Or pleasant red under the white of death?
She will speak surely; for dead flesh is grey
And even the goodliest pattern wrought of man
Coldness and change disfigure; what was red
A new disconsolate colour overpaints,
And ever with some ill deformity
The secret riddle and pure sense of flesh
Becomes defeated and the rebel taste
Makes new revolt at it; I pray take note of me,
Here comes no new thing; do you not see her face,
How it hath shut up close like any flower,
With scents of sleep and hesitating sweet
I’the heaviest petal of it? Note her eyes,
They move and alter; and if I touched her lips
(Which lest she wake I will not) they would be
As red as mine; yea that pure cheek of hers
Turn redder.
Qu. El.
Will you speak to him?
Bouch.
Fair lord —
K. Hen.
Sir, pardon me, I know she is but dead,
She is not as I am; we have sense and soul;
Who smites me on the mouth or plucks by the hair,
I know what feels it; stab me with a knife,
I can show blood: and when the eyes turn wet,
There’s witness for me and apparent proof
I am no less than man; though in the test
I show so abject and so base a slave
As grooms may snarl at, and your stabled hound
Find place more worth preferment. For the queen,
See how strong laughter takes her by the throat
And plucks her lips! her teeth would bite, no doubt,
But she keeps quiet; she should live indeed;
She hath mere motion, and such life in her
Accuses and impeaches the Lord God,
Who wrought so miserably the shapes of man
With such sad cunning. Lo you, sir, she weeps;
Now see I well how vile a thing it is
To wear the label and the print of life
Being fashioned so unhappily; for we
Share no more sense nor worthier scope of time
Than the live breath that is in swine and apes
As honourable, now she that made us right
In the keen balance and sharp scale of God
Becomes as pasture and gross meat for death,
Whereon the common ravin of his throat
Makes rank invasion. Time was, I could not speak
But she would praise or chide me; now I talk
All this time out, mere baffled waste, to get
That word of her I find not. Tell me, sweet,
Have I done wrong to thee? spoken thee ill?
Nay, for scorn hurts me, Rosamond; be wise,
As I am patient; do but bow your face —
By God she will not! Abide you but awhile
And we shall hear her; for she will not fail.
She will just turn her sweet head quietly
And kiss me peradventure; say no word,
And you shall see her; doubtless she will grow
Sorry to vex me; see now, here are two
She hath made weep, and God would punish her
For hardness, ay though she were thrice as fair,
He would not love her; look, she would fain wake,
It makes her mouth move and her eyelids rise
To feel so near me. — Ay, no wiser yet?
Then will I leave you; maybe she will weep
To have her hands made empty of me; yea,
Lend me your hand to cover close her face,
That she may sleep well till we twain be gone;
Cover the mouth up; come each side of me.
THE END
CHASTELARD
CONTENTS
PERSONS.
ACT I.
ACT II.
ACT III.
ACT IV.
ACT V.
PERSONS.
MARY STUART.
MARY BEATON.
MARY SEYTON.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
MARY HAMILTON.
PIERRE DE BOSCOSEL DE CHASTELARD.
DARNLEY.
MURRAY.
RANDOLPH.
MORTON.
LINDSAY.
FATHER BLACK.
Guards, Burgesses, a Preacher, Citizens, &c.
Another Yle is there toward the Northe, in the See Occean, where that ben fulle cruele and ful evele Wommen of Nature: and thei han precious Stones in hire Eyen; and their ben of that kynde, that zif they beholden ony man, thei slen him anon with the beholdynge, as dothe the Basilisk.
MAUNDEVILE’S Voiage and Travaile, Ch. xxviii.
I DEDICATE THIS PLAY, AS A PARTIAL EXPRESSION OF REVERENCE AND GRATITUDE, TO THE CHIEF OF LIVING POETS; TO THE FIRST DRAMATIST OF HIS AGE; TO THE GREATEST EXILE, AND THEREFORE TO THE GREATEST MAN OF FRANCE; TO VICTOR HUGO.
ACT I.
MARY BEATON.
SCENE I. — The Upper Chamber in Holyrood.
The four MARIES.
MARY BEATON (sings): —
1.
Le navire
Est a l’eau;
Entends rire
Ce gros flot
Que fait luire
Et bruire
Le vieux sire
Aquilo.
2.
Dans l’espace
Du grand air
Le vent passe
Comme un fer;
Siffle et sonne,
Tombe et tonne,
Prend et donne
A la mer.
3.
Vois, la brise
Tourne au nord,
Et la bise
Souffle et mord
Sur ta pure
Chevelure
Qui murmure
Et se tord.
MARY HAMILTON.
You never sing now but it makes you sad;
Why do you sing?
MARY BEATON.
I hardly know well why;
It makes me sad to sing, and very sad
To hold my peace.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
I know what saddens you.
MARY BEATON.
Prithee, what? what?
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Why, since we came from France,
You have no lover to make stuff for songs.
MARY BEATON.
You are wise; for there my pain begins indeed,
Because I have no lovers out of France.
MARY SEYTON.
I mind me of one Olivier de Pesme,
(You knew him, sweet,) a pale man with short hair,
Wore tied at sleeve the Beaton color.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Blue —
I know, blue scarfs. I never liked that knight.
MARY HAMILTON.
Me? I know him? I hardly knew his name.
Black, was his hair? no, brown.
MARY SEYTON.
Light pleases you:
I have seen the time brown served you well enough.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Lord Darnley’s is a mere maid’s yellow.
MARY HAMILTON.
No,
A man’s, good color.
MARY SEYTON.
Ah, does that burn your blood?
Why, what a bitter color is this read
That fills your face! if you be not in love,
I am no maiden.
MARY HAMILTON.
Nay, God help true hearts!
I must be stabbed with love then, to the bone,
Yea to the spirit, past cure.
MARY SEYTON.
What were you saying?
I see some jest run up and down your lips.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Finish your song; I know you have more of it;
Good sweet, I pray you do.
MARY BEATON.
I am too sad.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
This will not sadden you to sing; your song
Tastes sharp of sea and the sea’s bitterness,
But small pain sticks on it.
MARY BEATON.
Nay, it is sad;
For either sorrow with the beaten lips
Sings not at all, or if it does get breath
Sings quick and sharp like a hard sort of mirth:
And so this song does; or I would it did,
That it might please me better than it does.
MARY SEYTON.
Well, as you choose then. What a sort of men
Crowd all about the squares!
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Ay, hateful men;
For look how many talking mouths be there,
So many angers show their teeth at us.
Which one is that, stooped somewhat in the neck,
That walks so with his chin against the wind,
Lips sideways shut? a keen-faced man — lo there,
He that walks midmost.
MARY SEYTON.
That is Master Knox.
He carries all these folk within his skin,
Bound up as ‘t were between the brows of him
Like a bad thought; their hearts beat inside his;
They gather at his lips like flies in the sun,
Thrust sides to catch his face.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Look forth; so — push
The window — further — see you anything?
MARY HAMILTON.
They are well gone; but pull the lattice in,
The wind is like a blade aslant. Would God
I could get back one day I think upon:
The day we four and some six after us
Sat in that Louvre garden and plucked fruits
To cast love-lots with in the gathered grapes;
This way: you shut your eyes and reach and pluck,
And catch a lover for each grape you get.
I got but one, a green one, and it broke
Between my fingers and it ran down through them.
MARY SEYTON.
Ay, and the queen fell in a little wrath
Because she got so many, and tore off
Some of them she had plucked unwittingly —
She said, against her will. What fell to you?
MARY BEATON.
Me? nothing but the stalk of a stripped bunch
With clammy grape-juice leavings at the tip.
MARY CARMICHAEL.
Ay, true, the queen came first and she won all;
It was her bunch we took to cheat you with.
What, will you we
ep for that now? for you seem
As one that means to weep. God pardon me!
I think your throat is choking up with tears.
You are not well, sweet, for a lying jest
To shake you thus much.
MARY BEATON.
I am well enough:
Give not your pity trouble for my sake.
MARY SEYTON.
If you be well sing out your song and laugh,
Though it were but to fret the fellows there. —
Now shall we catch her secret washed and wet
In the middle of her song; for she must weep
If she sing through.
MARY HAMILTON.
I told you it was love;
I watched her eyes all through the masquing time
Feed on his face by morsels; she must weep.
MARY BEATON.
4.
Le navire
Passe et luit,
Puis chavire
A grand bruit;
Et sur l’onde
La plus blonde
Tete au monde
Flotte et fuit.
5.
Moi, je rame,
Et l’amour,
C’est ma flamme,
Mon grand jour,
Ma chandelle
Blanche et belle,
Ma chapelle
De sejour.
6.
Toi, mon ame
Et ma foi,
Sois, ma dame;
Et ma loi;
Sois ma mie,
Sois Marie,
Sois ma vie,
Toute a moi!
MARY SEYTON.
I know the song; a song of Chastelard’s,
He made in coming over with the queen.
How hard it rained! he played that over twice
Sitting before her, singing each word soft,
As if he loved the least she listened to.
MARY HAMILTON.
No marvel if he loved it for her sake;
She is the choice of women in the world;
Is she not, sweet?
MARY BEATON.
I have seen no fairer one.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 188
