QUEEN.
Ay? would God
He had slipt his saddle and borne his charge to hell!
Must we part here? I ask but what I know,
Only to have a breath more of your mouth,
A smile more of your eye, turn of your head,
Before you kiss and leave me. Why should love,
That can change life, seat and disseat the soul
In heaven or hurl it hellward, break and build,
Root and unroot the very springs o’ the heart,
Have not the force to pluck but twelve hours back,
And twice consume and twice consummate life,
Twice crowned and twice confounded? I would give
All but love’s self, all hope and heat of life,
But to have over this scant space again,
Since yesterday saw sunset.
BOTHWELL.
You shall win
A better prayer than this; for one poor hour
Caught from the gripe of all good-grudging time,
An hundredfold in long-lived happiness,
Secure and scatheless of all change or fear.
QUEEN.
Yet this joy waited on by fear and doubt,
Plucked casually, a flower of accident,
On the rough lip and edge of danger’s breach,
How sweeter is it than the rose to smell
We gather from our garden with gloved hand,
And find nor thorn nor perfume! You must go,
And I part hence; yet all through life and death
I shall have mind of this most gracious place,
Poor palace of all pleasure, where I found
Brief harbourage in long travel of my life.
Now take farewell of me.
BOTHWELL.
Fair lips, farewell,
And love me till we kiss again and sleep.
Exit.
QUEEN.
So may my last sleep kiss me at your lips,
And find me full of you as heaven of light
When my time comes of slumber. - Bid this man
Come in that waits: he shall bear word of me
Before I stand in his lord’s sight again.
Enter Crawford
What message from our lord your master, sir?
CRAWFORD.
Madam, with all his heart my lord commends
His heart’s excuses to your majesty
For the great grief and doubt wherein it stands
Of your unstanched displeasure; of which fear
He lies soul-sick, and sends that heart by me
To crave its pardon of you, and for grace
From your dread lips some comfortable word
That may assure him who now lives in pain
Through the evil news he hears from all winds blown,
In all mouths open; whence as one distraught,
And knowing not how to bear himself secure
Or dare put forth to meet you, for the words
He hears you have said, though fain, I know, to come
And clear himself of aught that you suspect
By present inquisition - this I know,
Though now he laid no charge on me to say -
He hath writ you word already of his grief,
And finds no answer but of bitter sound,
Nor any light of pity from your face,
Nor breath of healing; wherefore on my knees
He kneels before you to require his doom.
QUEEN.
I have no remedy for fear; there grows
No herb of help to heal a coward heart.
Fears were not rank were faults not rank in him.
CRAWFORD.
It is no caitiff doubt that pleads with you,
No rootless dread sprung of a craven mood
That bows him down before your highness’ foot
To take the sovereign sentence of your eye
And bide and bear its judgment given as God’s:
He knows, he says, by proof and speech of men
What cause he has what friends of yours to fear.
QUEEN.
What, must I ride alone to comfort him?
Tell him he may sleep sure then though I come;
Lord Bothwell is bound back to Edinburgh;
There is no man to affright him in my train
But grooms and lacqueys; and for all I hear
He never feared my women.
CRAWFORD.
Please it you,
My master doth but wish all hearts of men
Were on their faces written with their faith.
QUEEN.
Hath he no more than this, our lord, to say?
Then let him hold his peace; and bear him word
That of our grace we come to cherish him
With not a man’s face to procure his dread.
Tell him so much and bid him keep good heart,
If heart he have, even for my sake who swear
He shall not long live in this fear of me.
Scene XIII. Darnley’s Lodging in Glasgow
Darnley on a couch, as sick; Crawford in attendance
DARNLEY.
She is come in then?
CRAWFORD.
Presently she comes.
DARNLEY.
You found her yet more sharp of eye than tongue?
CRAWFORD.
Ay.
DARNLEY.
Would I had but strength to bring myself
Forth of this land where none will pity me,
No, not the least of all you, though I die.
Who comes with her? what household? I would speak
With Joachim her French fellow there, to know
Why she should come - you cannot show me - ay,
And if for good - and if they come with her,
Her outland folk and Bothwell’s - or at least
If she have mind yet to send off or no
Joseph, her dead knave’s brother? Are you sure
Himself shall come not? wherefore being come in
Should she not lodge beside me? Nay, I hear
More than she wots of, and have spies that see
What counsels breed among the crew of them.
What talk was that of marriage that should be
Between her fiddler and no maid of hers,
To what fair end? Would God I might take ship,
I would make speed for England; there at least
They durst not lay their nets about my life:
Here every wind that blows hath smells of blood.
I am lost and doomed; lost, lost.
CRAWFORD.
Have better thoughts.
Take hope to you, and cheer.
DARNLEY.
Ay, ay, much cheer!
Ye are all in one to abuse me, snare and slay -
Ye are all one heart to hate, one hand to smite;
I have none to love nor do me good, not one,
One in the world’s width, of all souls alive.
I am dead and slain already in your hearts:
By God, if ever I stand up strong again,
I will be even with all you. Doth she think
I fear her? there is none that lives I fear.
What said she to you?
CRAWFORD.
With her last breath she said
You should no longer live in fear of her.
DARNLEY.
Why, so I do not: nay, nor ever did.
Let her come now and find I fear her not,
What shall she say?
(Without)
Make way there for the queen.
Enter the Queen, attended
QUEEN.
How is it with our lord?
DARNLEY.
Ill is it, ill,
Madam, and no lord but your servant here.
Will you not kiss me?
QUEEN.
Nay, you are sick indeed.
Let me sit here, and give me but your hand.
I have a word with you to speak for love,
And not for chiding.
DARNLEY.
I beseech you, no:
I have no force to bear man’s chiding now,
Being sick, and all my sickness is of you,
That look so strange and heavily on me;
Howbeit I could now die, I am made so glad,
For very joy to see you; if I die,
Look, I leave all things to your only will,
And of my pure love make no testament,
Nor lay no charge on any else for love.
QUEEN.
I will rebuke you not but tenderly,
As a right wife and faithful woman; sir,
What word was that you wrote me, and wherein
And wherefore taxing some for cruelty,
Of what suspicion misconceived and born,
That came forth of your hand to strike my heart?
You that have found no cause, and will not say
You have found or shall find ever cause of fear,
So to misdoubt me - what could sting you so,
What adder-headed thought or venomous dream,
To make you shoot at this bared breast to you
Suspicion winged and whetted with ill thoughts?
What words were these to write, what doubts to breed,
Of mere mistrust and stark unfriendliness?
Nay, and I know not, God can witness me,
So much as what you doubt or what misdeem
Or wherein hold me dangerous or my friends,
More than I know what source your sickness hath,
Whereof I would fain think all this is bred
And all ill fears grown but of feverish nights.
What cause most ails you? or what think you on?
DARNLEY.
I think how I am punished - ay, God knows
I am punished that I made my God of you.
What should I mean of cruelty but yours
That will not look on my sore penitence
For my least sin, as God would look on all?
Though I confess wherein I have failed indeed,
Yet never in worse kind than was avowed,
And many a man for such revolt as mine
Hath had your pardon; in this kind I have sinned,
Not in such wise as ever I denied,
And am yet young; and though you should cast up
How often being forgiven I have gone back
And fallen in fresh offence of you that late
Forgave me, may not any twice or thrice
So slip that is none older than I am,
Or slack his promise plighted, yet in the end,
Repenting, by experience be chastised?
If my weak years and grief may get but grace,
I swear I never shall make fault again;
And this is all, and honest, that I crave,
To have again my wife to bed and board,
Which if I may not by consent of you
Out of this bed I never will rise more.
I pray you tell me whereof you resolve,
That I may die or live, who have no thought
But only of you; and at such luckless time
As ever I offend you, even the offence
Grows of yourself; for when I am wronged or wroth
If I for refuge might complain to you
Of any that offends me, I would speak
Into no ear but yours; but being estranged,
What now soe’er I hear, necessity
Binds me to keep it in my breast, and hence
I am moved to try my wit on mine own part
For very anger. Now, being at your foot,
Will you forgive me? that for love indeed
And fear of you have trespassed, being so young,
And had no good man’s counsel, and no guard,
No light, no help, no stay, - was yet scarce man,
And have so loved you whom I sinned against.
QUEEN.
Why would you pass in the English ship away?
DARNLEY.
I swear by God I never thought thereon;
I spake but with the men; but though I had,
I might have well ta’en hold on such a thought,
To hear much less things than the least I heard.
QUEEN.
What inquisition was it that you made
To hear such things as fright you?
DARNLEY.
Nay, by heaven,
I have made none; I never sought man out
To speak with any; I swear I see no spies.
QUEEN.
Must I return to your own ear again
The very words were spoken?
DARNLEY.
I did hear
There was a letter brought you to subscribe
By certain of the council, to the intent
I should be cast in prison, and with power
To slay me by your warrant, should I make
Resistance; Highgate said so; I confess
I spake with him; my father that first heard
Brought him to speech of me.
QUEEN.
Spake he so much?
But Walcar, that at Stirling brought me word
Of this man’s speeches here, had heard of him
That you with certain of our lords had laid
A plot to take our son, and having crowned
Reign for him king of Scots; whereon the man
Being had before our council with good speed
Swore he knew no such tale, and had but heard
Some rumour blown of your imprisonment,
But nothing of your slaying; to which again
His witness summoned gave him straight the lie.
Yet would I not conceive the tale for true
That being incensed with some our loyal lords
Who were not of the faction that should lay
Such regency upon you for your son,
You had threatened them aloud with wrath to come.
What say you to it?
DARNLEY.
I say you do me wrong
To speak to me of him that as you say
Belied me to you; who saith so of me lies,
And I will pluck his ears from off his head,
The knave whose tongue so misdelivers me.
And I beseech you think he lies that saith
I would be wroth with any man your friend,
Or would not rather give away my life
Than by despite toward such displease you; yet
I have heard strange things here of a trustier tongue;
The Laird - you know him - of Minto, my fast friend,
If any friend be fast on earth to me,
He told me to what bond what hands were set;
Yea, and more hands than those that signed me dead,
He swore, were set to slay me; but God knows
I gave no faith to it - would not dream or doubt
You could devise, that were my proper flesh,
To do me any evil; nay, I said
It was well seen you would not, by their writ
Against my life that you subscribed not; else,
Could I think once you hungered for my death,
God knows I would not hold you hungering long,
But make mine own throat naked for your knife
As readily as your hand could pluck it forth:
Howbeit the best man of mine enemies else
Should buy me dear - ay, any of all but you,
Except he took me sleeping; as indeed
Were now not hard to take me: had I but
A hand to help my heart, and health to go,
A foot to stand against them, God and you,
Madam, should oversee us and judge; but now
You see what power I have, what hope of help,
What strength to serve my will and my best heart
Lies in my broken body; ay,
these know that,
What force is left to second my goodwill
They know who durst not else devise or do,
Had I the natural might yet of my limbs,
What now - but you, if you have pity of me,
Seeing me how faint I am and how sore sick,
And cannot eat for weakness, though I faint,
That makes me loathe my meat - but will you not
Feed me, and kiss me? surely I could live,
Being quickened of your hands and piteous lips,
So sweet you are and strong and large of life.
Nay, do but kiss me once though I must die,
Be it but lest all men say you loved me not.
QUEEN.
I have a pain here takes me in my side -
I pray you - where my sickness left it sore
And liable to swift pains yet - pardon me.
DARNLEY.
’Tis I you cannot pardon, I, woe’s me,
You cannot love or pardon; but I swear,
So be it you will not leave me, I will go,
So but I may not lose you out of sight,
Borne in a litter, such as here I lie,
So weak, so full of sickness, where you will,
Be it to Craigmillar, though death went with me,
Or to the world’s end, going in sight of you.
QUEEN.
Have here my hand then and my faith to it, sir,
When there the healing springs have washed you whole,
As they shall surely, with cold cleansing streams
Whose medicinal might shall bathe your veins
And kill the fire that feeds upon their blood,
I will once more dwell with you as your wife,
In all the lovely works and ways of love
And dues of duteous life and unity
That man may claim of woman. Tell me now,
Ere we go thither, where the leech and I
May help you, nor be far off from my son,
What are those lords you are wroth at? since I hear
Some are there that you threaten, as in doubt
Their minds are bitter toward you; shall I say
You stand in fear of Maitland?
DARNLEY.
Him? not I -
I pray you speak not of him for my sake -
I stand in fear of no man; I beseech you,
Speak me not of him; I will see no man,
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 214
