Should be with all extremity pursued,
To her more grief; for this should grieve her more
Than what might heaviest fall upon her.
TILNEY.
Ay?
She hath had then work enough to do to weep
For them that bled before; Northumberland,
The choice of all the north spoiled, banished, slain,
Norfolk that should have ringed the fourth sad time
The fairest hand wherewith fate ever led
So many a man to deathward, or sealed up
So many an eye from sunlight.
BABINGTON.
By my head,
Which is the main stake of this cast, I swear
There is none worth more than a tear of hers
That man wears living or that man might lose,
Borne upright in the sun, or for her sake
Bowed down by theirs she weeps for: nay, but hear;
She bids me take most vigilant heed, that all
May prosperously find end assured, and you
Conclude with me in judgment; to myself
As chief of trust in my particular
Refers you for assurance, and commends
To counsel seasonable and time’s advice
Your common resolution; and again,
If the design take yet not hold, as chance
For all our will may turn it, we should not
Pursue her transport nor the plot laid else
Of our so baffled enterprise; but say
When this were done we might not come at her
Being by mishap close guarded in the Tower
Or some strength else as dangerous, yet, she saith,
For God’s sake leave not to proceed herein
To the utmost undertaking; for herself
At any time shall most contentedly
Die, knowing of our deliverance from the bonds
Wherein as slaves we are holden.
BARNWELL.
So shall I,
Knowing at the least of her enfranchisement
Whose life were worth the whole blood shed o’ the world
And all men’s hearts made empty.
BABINGTON.
Ay, good friend,
Here speaks she of your fellows, that some stir
Might be in Ireland laboured to begin
Some time ere we take aught on us, that thence
The alarm might spring right on the part opposed
To where should grow the danger: she meantime
Should while the work were even in hand assay
To make the Catholics in her Scotland rise
And put her son into their hands, that so
No help may serve our enemies thence; again,
That from our plots the stroke may come, she thinks
To have some chief or general head of all
Were now most apt for the instant end; wherein
I branch not off from her in counsel, yet
Conceive not how to send the appointed word
To the earl of Arundel now fast in bonds
Held in the Tower she spake of late, who now
Would have us give him careful note of this,
Him or his brethren; and from oversea
Would have us seek, if he be there at large,
To the young son of dead Northumberland,
And Westmoreland, whose hand and name, we know,
May do much northward; ay, but this we know,
How much his hand was lesser than his name
When proof was put on either; and the lord
Paget, whose power is in some shires of weight
To incline them usward; both may now be had,
And some, she saith, of the exiles principal,
If the enterprise be resolute once, with these
May come back darkling; Paget lies in Spain,
Whom we may treat with by his brother’s mean,
Charles, who keeps watch in Paris: then in the end
She bids beware no messenger sent forth
That bears our counsel bear our letters; these
Must through blind hands precede them or ensue
By ignorant posts and severally despatched;
And of her sweet wise heart, as we were fools,
– But that I think she fears not – bids take heed
Of spies among us and false brethren, chief
Of priests already practised on, she saith,
By the enemy’s craft against us; what, forsooth,
We have not eyes to set such knaves apart
And look their wiles through, but should need misdoubt
– Whom shall I say the least on all our side? –
Good Gilbert Gifford with his kind boy’s face
That fear’s lean self could fear not? but God knows
Woman is wise, but woman; none so bold,
So cunning none, God help the soft sweet wit,
But the fair flesh with weakness taints it; why,
She warns me here of perilous scrolls to keep
That I should never bear about me, seeing
By that fault sank all they that fell before
Who should have walked unwounded else of proof,
Unstayed of justice: but this following word
Hath savour of more judgment; we should let
As little as we may our names be known
Or purpose here to the envoy sent from France,
Whom though she hears for honest, we must fear
His master holds the course of his design
Far contrary to this of ours, which known
Might move him to discovery.
TICHBORNE.
Well forewarned:
Forearmed enough were now that cause at need
Which had but half so good an armour on
To fight false faith or France in.
BABINGTON.
Peace awhile:
Here she winds up her craft. She hath long time sued
To shift her lodging, and for answer hath
None but the Castle of Dudley named as meet
To serve this turn; and thither may depart,
She thinks, with parting summer; whence may we
Devise what means about those lands to lay
For her deliverance; who from present bonds
May but by one of three ways be discharged:
When she shall ride forth on the moors that part
Her prison-place from Stafford, where few folk
Use to pass over, on the same day set,
With fifty or threescore men well horsed and armed,
To take her from her keeper’s charge, who rides
With but some score that bear but pistols; next,
To come by deep night round the darkling house
And fire the barns and stables, which being nigh
Shall draw the household huddling forth to help,
And they that come to serve her, wearing each
A secret sign for note and cognizance,
May some of them surprise the house, whom she
Shall with her servants meet and second; last,
When carts come in at morning, these being met
In the main gateway’s midst may by device
Fall or be sidelong overthrown, and we
Make in thereon and suddenly possess
The house whence lightly might we bear her forth
Ere help came in of soldiers to relief
Who lie a mile or half a mile away
In several lodgings: but howe’er this end
She holds her bounden to me all her days
Who proffer me to hazard for her love,
And doubtless shall as well esteem of you
Or scarce less honourably, when she shall know
Your names who serve beneath me; so commends
Her friend to God, and bids me burn the word
That I would wear at heart for ever; yet,
Lest this sweet script
ure haply write us dead,
Where she set hand I set my lips, and thus
Rend mine own heart with her sweet name, and end.
Tears the letter.
SALISBURY.
She hath chosen a trusty servant.
BABINGTON.
Ay, of me?
What ails you at her choice? was this not I
That laid the ground of all this work, and wrought
Your hearts to shape for service? or perchance
The man was you that took this first on him,
To serve her dying and living, and put on
The bloodred name of traitor and the deed
Found for her sake not murderous?
SALISBURY.
Why, they say
First Gifford put this on you, Ballard next,
Whom he brought over to redeem your heart
Half lost for doubt already, and refresh
The flagging flame that fired it first, and now
Fell faltering half in ashes, whence his breath
Hardly with hard pains quickened it and blew
The grey to red rekindling.
BABINGTON.
Sir, they lie
Who say for fear I faltered, or lost heart
For doubt to lose life after; let such know
It shames me not though I were slow of will
To take such work upon my soul and hand
As killing of a queen; being once assured,
Brought once past question, set beyond men’s doubts
By witness of God’s will borne sensibly,
Meseems I have swerved not.
SALISBURY.
Ay, when once the word
Was washed in holy water, you would wear
Lightly the name so hallowed of priests’ lips
That men spell murderer; but till Ballard spake
The shadow of her slaying whom we shall strike
Was ice to freeze your purpose.
TICHBORNE.
Friend, what then?
Is this so small a thing, being English born,
To strike the living empire here at heart
That is called England? stab her present state,
Give even her false-faced likeness up to death,
With hands that smite a woman? I that speak,
Ye know me if now my faith be firm, and will
To do faith’s bidding; yet it wrings not me
To say I was not quick nor light of heart,
Though moved perforce of will unwillingly,
To take in trust this charge upon me.
BARNWELL.
I
With all good will would take, and give God thanks,
The charge of all that falter in it: by heaven,
To hear in the end of doubts and doublings heaves
My heart up as with sickness. Why, by this
The heretic harlot that confounds our hope
Should be made carrion, with those following four
That were to wait upon her dead: all five
Live yet to scourge God’s servants, and we prate
And threaten here in painting: by my life,
I see no more in us of life or heart
Than in this heartless picture.
BABINGTON.
Peace again;
Our purpose shall not long lack life, nor they
Whose life is deadly to the heart of ours
Much longer keep it; Burghley, Walsingham,
Hunsdon and Knowles, all these four names writ out,
With hers at head they worship, are but now
As those five several letters that spell death
In eyes that read them right. Give me but faith
A little longer: trust that heart awhile
Which laid the ground of all our glories; think
I that was chosen of our queen’s friends in France,
By Morgan’s hand there prisoner for her sake
On charge of such a deed’s device as ours
Commended to her for trustiest, and a man
More sure than might be Ballard and more fit
To bear the burden of her counsels – I
Can be not undeserving, whom she trusts,
That ye should likewise trust me; seeing at first
She writes me but a thankful word, and this,
God wot, for little service; I return
For aptest answer and thankworthiest meed
Word of the usurper’s plotted end, and she
With such large heart of trust and liberal faith
As here ye have heard requites me: whom, I think,
For you to trust is no too great thing now
For me to ask and have of all.
TICHBORNE.
Dear friend,
Mistrust has no part in our mind of you
More than in hers; yet she too bids take heed,
As I would bid you take, and let not slip
The least of her good counsels, which to keep
No whit proclaims us colder than herself
Who gives us charge to keep them; and to slight
No whit proclaims us less unserviceable
Who are found too hot to serve her than the slave
Who for cold heart and fear might fail.
BABINGTON.
Too hot!
Why, what man’s heart hath heat enough or blood
To give for such good service? Look you, sirs,
This is no new thing for my faith to keep,
My soul to feed its fires with, and my hope
Fix eyes upon for star to steer by; she
That six years hence the boy that I was then,
And page, ye know, to Shrewsbury, gave his faith
To serve and worship with his body and soul
For only lady and queen, with power alone
To lift my heart up and bow down mine eyes
At sight and sense of her sweet sovereignty,
Made thence her man for ever; she whose look
Turned all my blood of life to tears and fire,
That going or coming, sad or glad – for yet
She would be somewhile merry, as though to give
Comfort, and ease at heart her servants, then
Weep smilingly to be so light of mind,
Saying she was like the bird grown blithe in bonds
That if too late set free would die for fear,
Or wild birds hunt it out of life – if sad,
Put madness in me for her suffering’s sake,
If joyous, for her very love’s sake – still
Made my heart mad alike to serve her, being
I know not when the sweeter, sad or blithe,
Nor what mood heavenliest of her, all whose change
Was as of stars and sun and moon in heaven;
She is well content, – ye have heard her – she, to die,
If we without her may redeem ourselves
And loose our lives from bondage; but her friends
Must take forsooth good heed they be not, no,
Too hot of heart to serve her! And for me,
Am I so vain a thing of wind and smoke
That your deep counsel must have care to keep
My lightness safe in wardship? I sought none –
Craved no man’s counsel to draw plain my plot,
Need no man’s warning to dispose my deed.
Have I not laid of mine own hand a snare
To bring no less a lusty bird to lure
Than Walsingham with proffer of myself
For scout and spy on mine own friends in France
To fill his wise wide ears with large report
Of all things wrought there on our side, and plots
Laid for our queen’s sake? and for all his wit
This politic knave misdoubts me not, whom ye
Hold yet too light and lean of wit to pass
Unspied of wise men on our enemies’ part,
Who have sealed th
e subtlest eyes up of them all.
TICHBORNE.
That would I know; for if they be not blind,
But only wink upon your proffer, seeing
More than they let your own eyes find or fear,
Why, there may lurk a fire to burn us all
Masked in them with false blindness.
BABINGTON.
Hear you, sirs?
Now by the faith I had in this my friend
And by mine own yet flawless towards him, yea
By all true love and trust that holds men fast,
It shames me that I held him in this cause
Half mine own heart, my better hand and eye,
Mine other soul and worthier. Pray you, go;
Let us not hold you; sir, be quit of us;
Go home, lie safe, and give God thanks; lie close,
Keep your head warm and covered; nay, be wise;
We are fit for no such wise folk’s fellowship,
No married man’s who being bid forth to fight
Holds his wife’s kirtle fitter wear for man
Than theirs who put on iron: I did know it,
Albeit I would not know; this man that was,
This soul and sinew of a noble seed,
Love and the lips that burn a bridegroom’s through
Have charmed to deathward, and in steel’s good stead
Left him a silken spirit.
TICHBORNE.
By that faith
Which yet I think you have found as fast in me
As ever yours I found, you wrong me more
Than were I that your words can make me not
I had wronged myself and all our cause; I hold
No whit less dear for love’s sake even than love
Faith, honour, friendship, all that all my days
Was only dear to my desire, till now
This new thing dear as all these only were
Made all these dearer. If my love be less
Toward you, toward honour or this cause, then think
I love my wife not either, whom you know
How close at heart I cherish, but in all
Play false alike. Lead now which way you will,
And wear what likeness; though to all men else
It look not smooth, smooth shall it seem to me,
And danger be not dangerous; where you go,
For me shall wildest ways be safe, and straight
For me the steepest; with your eyes and heart
Will I take count of life and death, and think
No thought against your counsel: yea, by heaven,
I had rather follow and trust my friend and die
Than halt and hark mistrustfully behind
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series) Page 246
