Madam, what says your sometime majesty
Of such a kingly will? since, for your own,
It has no power, it shall not fight with his,
Shall not have way, nor shall not be at all,
Except it swim with his will.
MURRAY.
This is nought.
BOTHWELL.
Yea truly, nought shall be this will of yours,
This potent will that shall not tread us down;
Yea, what you will or will not, all is nought,
Nought as your name, or title to bear rule
Within the realm possessed more royally.
MURRAY.
’Tis not a score as big-voiced men as this
Shall make me weak with wagging of their tongues
That I should loose what lies into my hand.
Madam, what faith I bear you and goodwill,
If that you know not, let the time and proof,
Not mine own lips, be witness; in this realm
I have some power to serve you, by no craft
Unjustly purchased nor by force of hand
Won masterfully: and for God’s love and yours
That which I may I will do to keep fair
In the open eye of all men your good name
And power which if that name be blown against
With windy whispers of ill-minded folk,
Or such as see your marriage-bed lie cold
And know not wherefore, dies out of your hand
And is no more for ever. Therefore is it
I would not the worst cause of strife you have
Were opened to the people; for himself,
You know if ever love between us were
Since first I fell under your stroke of wrath
For his sole sake, whose match then made with you
I would betimes have broken, but being made
Would not now see rent shamefully in twain
That men should speak you wrong.
QUEEN.
You are honourable;
But yet the whole worst cause you know not of,
That even his father Lennox writes me here
Letters to put the charge thereof away
And clear himself of fellowship therein,
Assuring his own honesty, albeit
His word is worthless with his son my lord
And his name held not as a father’s name.
This letter will I lay before the lords
That they may see what manner of cause he hath
To plead against us with what likelihood,
When his own father shall forswear his cause.
I am assured he hath set his lewd light mind,
Out of what fear I know not or what shame,
To flee forth of the kingdom and take ship
For the islands westward of that southern cape
Where the out-thrust heel of England cleaves the sea -
But God knows how to live there, if by spoil
Or what base mean of life; only thus much
In parley with the French ambassador
He hath avowed, and wept to tell of wrongs
That as he swears have driven him down to this.
MURRAY.
He is a fool, and vile; yet let not him
Be the more dangerous to you even for this,
That he is vile and foolish; there should be
Wise means to curb and chain the fool in him
Without the scandal of the full-mouthed world.
QUEEN.
Such have I sought; and presently I think
To have him brought again in Edinburgh
Before the lords in council, even those men
Who stood in arms against him with yourself
When first there grew debate upon our match
(Which I could pray now with too tardy tongue
That God had given you force to break indeed),
And were of counsel with him afterward
In David’s bloodshed, and betrayed of him
Into mine hand again for perfect fear,
Fear and false heart; even before these, I say,
Whose threefold memory of him so must knit
Their hearts to his, there shall he plead, and say
If he have aught against me blameworthy,
Or what he would; so shall he be displayed
And we in the eyes of all men justified
That simply deal with him and honourably,
Not as by cunning or imperious hand,
But plain as with an equal.
BOTHWELL.
By my head,
Your counsel, madam, is more than man’s poor wit.
MURRAY.
It may do well: would all were well indeed!
I see no clearer way than this of yours
Nor of more peaceful promise. I will go
To bid my friends together of the lords
Who will be counselled of me, and to show
Your purpose righteous: so I take my leave.
Exit.
QUEEN.
Is not that light red oversea?
BOTHWELL.
Blood-red.
QUEEN.
The wind has fallen; but there the clouds come up;
We shall not sail to-day.
BOTHWELL.
No; here will be
No woman’s weather.
QUEEN.
Yet I had in mind
Either to sail or drive the deer to-day.
I fear not so much rainfall or sea-drift
That I should care to house and hide my head.
I never loved the windless weather, nor
The dead face of the water in the sun;
I had rather the live wave leapt under me,
And fits of foam struck light on the dark air,
And the sea’s kiss were keen upon my lip
And bold as love’s and bitter; then my soul
Is a wave too that springs against the light
And beats and bursts with one great strain of joy
As the sea breaking. You said well; this light
Is like shed blood spilt here by drops and there
That overflows the red brims of the cloud
And stains the moving water: yet the waves
Pass, and the spilt light of the broken sun
Rests not upon them but a minute’s space;
No longer should a deed, methinks, once done
Endure upon the life of memory
To stain the days thereafter with remorse
And mar the better seasons.
BOTHWELL.
So think I.
QUEEN.
If I were man I would be man like you.
BOTHWELL.
What then?
QUEEN.
And being so loved as you of me,
I would make use of love, and in good time
Put the scythe to it and reap; it should not rot
As corn ungarnered, it should bring forth bread
And fruit of life to strengthen me: but, mark,
Who would eat bread must earn bread: would you be
King?
BOTHWELL.
Nay, but servant ever to my queen.
QUEEN.
Let us go forth; the evening will be fair.
Scene VII. Edinburgh. The Parliament-House
The Queen seated in state; near her Du Croc and Murray; Darnley in front, as at
his arraignment; on the one side the Lords of the Congregation; on the other
those of the Queen’s party, Bothwell, Huntley, Caithness, Athol, and the
Archbishop of St. Andrew’s
QUEEN.
My lords, ye hear by his own word of hand
How fair and loyally our father writes,
To purge his name that had indeed no soil
Of any blame to usward; though he have
No power upon our wedded lord his son
To heal his heart�
�s disease of discontent:
Which, for myself, before God’s face and yours
I do protest I know not what thing done
Hath in my lord begotten or brought forth,
Nor of what ill he should complain in me.
Nay, here in very faith and humbleness
I turn me to him and with clasped hands beseech
That he would speak even all his mind of me,
In what thing ever I have given my lord offence,
And if before him I stand blameworthy
Would lay my blame for burden on my head
In this high presence; which to bear shall be
At once for penance and instruction to me
Who know not yet my lightest fault by name.
OCHILTREE.
So would we all be certified of you,
Sir, that your cause may stand forth visibly
And men take cognizance of it who see
Nor root nor fruit now of your discontent;
We pray you then make answer to the queen.
DU CROC.
My lord, you have held me for a friend, and laid
A friend’s trust on me; for that honour’s sake
For which I am bounden to you, give me now
But leave to entreat you in all faith of heart
Dishonour not yourself nor this great queen
By speech or silence with a show of shame;
Let it be seen shame hath no portion here,
But honour only and reconciled remorse
That pours its bitter balm into the wound
Of love somewhile divided from itself
And makes it whole; I pray you, be it so now.
QUEEN.
An honourable petition, my good lord,
And one that comes reverberate from my heart.
DARNLEY.
I will not stand the question. Are ye set
To bait me like a bondslave? Sirs, I think
There is no worthier man of you than I,
Whom ye would chide and bait and mock; howbeit,
Ye shall not wring out of my smitten lips,
As from a child’s ye scourge till he speak truth,
One word I would not; rather being thus used
I will go forth the free man that I came,
No nobler, but as noble. For your grace,
I have stood too near you now to fall behind
And stand far back with vassal hat plucked off
To bow at bidding; therefore with free soul
For a long time I take farewell and go,
Commending you to God; and if as seems
I was or nought or grievous in your eye,
It shall not take offence this many a day
At this that here offends it. So I have done:
Enough said is said well.
BOTHWELL aside to the Queen.
I never saw
Such heart yet in the fool. Madam, speak now;
I wot he hath made a beard or two of them
Nod favourably.
QUEEN.
What should I say? not I.
BOTHWELL.
Speak to the ambassador; bid him take heed
This feather fly not shipward, and be blown
Out of our hand; speak to him.
QUEEN.
Have no such fear;
He will not fly past arm’s length; the French lord
Will hold him safe unbidden. Look, they talk.
BOTHWELL.
And yet I would he had spoken not so high.
I did not think but he would bend, and mourn
Like a boy beaten.
QUEEN.
With what sorrow of heart,
My lords, we have heard such strange and harsh reply
To our good words and meaning, none of you
But must be as ourself to know it well.
But since nor kindliness nor humble speech
Nor honest heart of love can so prevail
Against the soul of such inveteracy,
But wilful mind will make itself more hard
Than modesty and womanhood are soft
Or gentleness can speak it fair, we have not
One other tear to weep thereon for shame.
So without answer, yea, no word vouchsafed,
As all ye witness, no complaint, no cause,
No reason shown, but all put off in wrath, -
I would not say, ourself in you, my lords,
Mocked with defiance, - it were but a scorn
To hold our session further. Thus in grief
Will we fare hence and take of you farewell,
Being southward bounden, as ye know, to hear
At Jedburgh what complaint of wrong there is
Between our own folk and the bordering men,
Whose wardens of the English side have wrought us
Fresh wrong but late; and our good warden here
Shall go before us to prepare our way.
Scene VIII. Hermitage Castle
The Queen and Bothwell
BOTHWELL.
I did not think you could have rid so fast.
QUEEN.
There is no love in you to lift your heart,
Nor heart to lift the fleshly weight, and bear
Forward: I struck my love even as a spur
Into the tired side of my horse, and made it
Leap like a flame that eats up all its way
Till I were here.
BOTHWELL.
Why came you not before?
QUEEN.
What, am I now too slow?
BOTHWELL.
Ay, though you rode
Beyond the sun’s speed, yea, the race of time
That runs down all men born. Forgive it me
That I was wroth and weary for your love,
Here lying alone, out of your eyes; I could not
But chafe and curse, sending my spirit forth
From this maimed flesh yet halting with its wound
To move about you like a thought, and bring me
Word of your works and ways.
QUEEN.
I could not come.
BOTHWELL.
Was there so much work worthier to be done
Than this, to give love and to take again
Thus? but for my part, of all things in the world
I hold this best, to love you; and I think
God never made your like for man to love.
QUEEN.
You are my soldier; but these silk-soft words
Become your lips as well as mine, when love
Rekindles them; how good it is to have
A man to love you! here is man indeed,
Not fool or boy, to make love’s face ashamed,
To abash love’s heart and turn to bitterness
The sweet blood current in it. O my fair lord!
How fairer is this warrior face, and eyes
With the iron light of battle in them left
As the after fire of sunset left in heaven
When the sun sinks, than any fool’s face made
Of smiles and courtly colour! Now I feel
As I were man too, and had part myself
In your great strength; being one with you as I,
How should not I be strong? It is your deed,
By grace of you and influence, sir, it is
That I fear nothing; how should I lift up
Mine eyes to your eyes, O my light o’ the war,
And dare be fearful? yours but looked upon,
Though mine were timorous as a dove’s affrayed,
For very shame would give them heart, and fire
To meet the eyes of danger. What were I
To have your love and love you, and yet be
No more than women are whose name is fear
And their hearts bloodless - I, who am part of you,
That have your love for heart’s blood? Shall I think
The blood you gave m
e fighting for my sake
Has entered in my veins and grown in me
To fill me with you? O, my lord, my king,
Love me! I think you cannot love me yet,
That have done nought nor borne for love of you;
But by the eye’s light of all-judging God
That if I lie shall burn my soul in hell,
There is not in this fierce world anything,
Scorn, agony, stripes, bonds, fears, woes, deep shame,
Kingdomless ruin, but with open hands,
With joyous bosom open as to love,
Yea, with soul thankful for its great delight
And life on fire with joy, for this love’s sake
I would embrace and take it to my heart.
BOTHWELL.
Why, there should need not this to love you well;
What should you have to bear for me, my queen,
Or how should I more love you? Nay, sweet, peace,
Let not your passion break you; your breast burns,
Your very lips taste bitter with your tears.
QUEEN.
It is because - O God that pities us! -
I may not always lie thus, may not kneel,
Cling round your hands and feet, or with shut eyes
Wait till your lips be fast upon my face,
And laugh with very love intolerable
As I laugh now - look, now I do not weep,
I am not sad nor angered against heaven
That ever he divides us; I am glad
That yet I have mine hour. Sweet, do not speak,
Nor do not kiss me; let mine eyes but rest
In the love’s light of yours, and for a space
My heart lie still, late drunken with love’s wine,
And feel the fierce fumes lessen and go out
And leave it healed. O, I have bled for you
The nearest inward blood that is my life
Drop by drop inly, till my swooning heart
Made my face pale - I should look green and wan
If by heart’s sickness and blood-wasting pain
The face be changed indeed; for all these days
Your wound bled in me, and your face far off
Was as a moving fire before mine eyes
That might not come to see you; I was dead,
And yet had breath enough, speech, hearing, sight,
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 211
