Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

The top and pearl of all mine ornament,

  The golden and refined election

  Of all the treasure I set hands to; well,

  I do believe were you so mixed herein

  As many are, many that I keep dear,

  Dear and right precious in my just account,

  And I had such a promise in God’s ear

  As I have now to see an end of these,

  I might renounce you too and give him leave

  To make you parcel of the execution

  That shall be done on these.

  Den.

  I fear you much;

  For I can smell the mother in your speech,

  This argument hath colour of her eyes;

  Where learnt you it?

  Ch.

  My brains do beat upon

  The month’s full time. Which day it is I know not;

  It should look red upon the calendar,

  And outblush its fierce use. The twenty-fourth of August —

  We stumble near it unawares by this;

  Give me the book.

  Den.

  What are you strayed upon?

  Ch.

  It is the time, the time — you come too late

  To tear its thread across.

  Den.

  Pray you, what time?

  Ch.

  But this Bartholomew shall be inscribed

  Beyond the first; the latter speech of time

  Shall quench and make oblivious war upon

  The former and defeated memories,

  New histories teaching it. For there will be

  Blood on the moist untimely lip of death,

  And in the dusty hunger of his bones

  A sudden marrow shall refresh itself

  And spread to perfect sinew. There will stir

  Even in the red and hollow heat of hell

  A motion of sharp spirit, a quickened sense

  Such as wine makes in us; yea, such a day

  God hath not seen as I shall make for him.

  Den.

  You put fear in me; I can feel my blood

  Go white with hearing you.

  Ch.

  We trap them all

  In a great gin where the soul sticks as well.

  Nay, there’s no hair of any Huguenot

  But makes up parcel of my work in blood,

  Nor face that is not painted with our swords.

  (I told you this should hurt). O, I could be

  Most glad that I am taken to do this

  And show the eyes of this lean world and time

  The mould and the strong model of a king,

  Not in the halting likeness of an ape

  That fingers precious ware and knows it not,

  From the teeth outward fool. Look you, I’ll do’t;

  Nay, as God stands beyond us twain, I will.

  First Paris — note you, Paris helps in it,

  I stand not singly nerved, but in mine arm

  Have multiplied the sinew of all these;

  France helps in it: the Guise has word to go

  And take our admiral’s patience by the throat

  And finish the half issue of his blood;

  See, this side goes Tavannes; here ride our men,

  And here; no falcon starved to bones and beak

  Is tempered keener than our citizens.

  Den.

  You will not murder them?

  Ch.

  Ay, will I not?

  I pray you tell me, was this well devised?

  Den.

  You are changed foul with it: nay, stand more off;

  Was it your meaning?

  Ch.

  Ay, mine, very mine;

  I will not lose it.

  Den.

  Doth my sense hold fast?

  It is not possible you should do this

  And scape the smell of blood. Nay, I but dream;

  For if I wake, the substance of my flesh,

  This form and fast impression of the air,

  Yea, the most holy sun, are counterfeit;

  We stick yards deeper than the foot of hell.

  You see not well how foul a face you have —

  I will cry out on you.

  Ch.

  Are you fallen mad?

  Den.

  I will put proclamation in the wind

  That where but any shape of breath shall blow

  It shall sound harsh as murder. Do you think

  God shall sit fast and blink at you?

  Ch.

  What more?

  Get on; I do not chide you; nay, get breath;

  Spare me no whit.

  Den.

  I hate you beyond death;

  Somewhat I had to say; give ear to me.

  — It is all lost now, spilt in water, runs

  Into sick tears. Forgive me my loud words,

  I have much erred against your gracious game,

  Mistaking all of you; I do confess

  This jest so said has proved me dull and thick;

  Now say it was well played and let me go.

  You have played well indeed, and such hard parts —

  Now I shall slip into mad speech again

  And fail myself.

  Ch.

  What is it you will do?

  Den.

  Alack, I see not that. Indeed I think

  It is God’s will to kill me first i’ the brain

  And after in the flesh. I am half mad.

  But I can speak; yea surely, I can speak;

  And I will cry in all the streets and make

  Twinned correspondence ‘twixt the tongued Seine banks

  With sound and breath, clamour and noise of tears,

  And windy witness of your enterprise.

  Oh, you are moved now; keep on that better face

  And I will find some weeping way to you,

  Persuading sin to peace; you shall not do it;

  Lest all the recollection of men’s lips

  And noise of all just times and every place

  That hath but any shape of good on it

  Be sharp on you for ever.

  Enter the Queen-Mother and Guise.

  Ca.

  So, you are loud,

  I come betimes. Sir, if you spare me room,

  I have two words to say.

  Ch.

  I am bound to you;

  You have care of me indeed. Bid her go in.

  Ca.

  I would not be untimely.

  Ch.

  No, you are not,

  You are a gracious mother, a good help.

  (To Denise.)

  I’ll see you soon at night.

  Den.

  My lord, my lord —

  Ca.

  Give my son breath at least; you are impatient;

  It suits you not.

  Gui.

  (To the King.) I wait upon your highness.

  Ch.

  We are bounden to you too. Madam, go in.

  (Exit Denise.)

  Ca.

  My son, you put too large a face on this.

  Ch.

  Mother, I put no face on it at all.

  Come, pray you now, what do you look to get

  By such a use of me?

  Ca.

  You take strange ways

  To chide me with; I did expect your good.

  Always it is the plague of love to be

  Thus mated by some check. I will go play;

  Farewell.

  Ch.

  Nay, now you shall not go. My lord,

  Tell her I meant no shame, no red i’ the cheek;

  Say now I did not.

  Ca.

  I am content enough.

  You may well see why we are come to you.

  Ch.

  Yea, that I see.

  Gui.

  The men are at full point;

  Also the marshal helps us at all need

  And some things over.

  Ca
.

  You turn jealous of him.

  Gui.

  Madam, I wear no envy on my words.

  Ca.

  Sir, you are safe. Truly I am so glad

  Now this thing clears i’ the working and comes straight,

  I could well jest and laugh.

  Ch.

  So could I not;

  All’s not squared yet; you are too hot on it.

  Ca.

  Too hot am I? Sir, you much wrong your honour

  Taxing such heat in me; I have proof of you,

  So hath the Guise, that you have wrought herein

  As hard as any.

  Gui.

  I take your part as mine

  For witness of my lord’s free grace and will

  Towards this matter.

  Ch.

  This matter — call it so;

  Have you such honey in the mouth, my lord,

  To make a milky matter of the name?

  Why, if men are to call us murderers,

  Let’s take the word up and not tell such lies,

  Skulking with beaten cheeks behind the word.

  Gui.

  (Aside to Cath.)

  He is touched the wrong side yet.

  Ca.

  (Aside to Guise.)

  I have stung myself;

  This girl I set on him has thrown us out,

  Played her own way. That we should pay such apes

  To pinch us in the wrist!

  Ch.

  What are you saying?

  Ca.

  Take your best means: here’s none shall cross you, sir.

  We do but say if you will give them leave

  To slit your throat with whispering — or abed

  Take medicine of them — or wear gloves of theirs —

  Or please your mouth with drinking after them —

  It is no matter.

  Ch.

  Would you have me mad?

  I have not heard of such a tax on them;

  No, not since Florence taught us to use drugs

  Has it been noised of these.

  Ca.

  I think indeed

  That poison hath no Florence in the drug

  Which puts the peril of so hard a speech

  In my son’s lip. Do not unsay it; no:

  I do not bid you take the blur from me.

  I am content to stay and take shame up

  So I may suit you. O sweet son, — my lord,

  Forgive me that my tongue so slips on you,

  Catching the old name first — I pray you note

  That I can be as patient as your ear

  Hath been of me too long. This is the last

  That I shall ever take of words to push

  Your just forbearance beyond use. I said

  “Farewell” as idly as one says “good thanks”

  To him that hath not earned it; but I see

  Here is made room for a farewell indeed.

  Now could I take it silently and go,

  Turning my very passion to content

  And no whit using it: I am not abashed,

  Albeit I speak as one whom shame has marred;

  That I am not I pray take no offence,

  For should I show a penitent herein

  I must do penance for much care of you,

  And this I will not. Be not offended with me;

  For God doth know, sweet son, that in my life

  I have used many days in loving you.

  Consider of it: I do not boast myself,

  Seeing I but fall within the range and scope,

  The limit and fair marge of a good law;

  Yet if I have not been there excessive (as

  I say not that I have one whit exceeded),

  Surely I have not shortened its just room

  Or narrowed in the sweet law’s offices.

  That I am so put off I say is well;

  You are wise herein; for women at best count

  Are the mere spoil of a male reason, lie

  In his loosest thoughts outside. We are the chaff,

  The gross unwinnowed husks of your fanned wheat;

  I say that you do well to turn me off.

  But this too for my witness I should say;

  That if you do me there a word of wrong,

  Yea the thin grain of one particular word,

  The same is worse than ill. I pardon it.

  That I do love you, God shall do me right

  To bring the credit will approve it me:

  That I have sought your health yourself believe;

  That I did love the state and would get ease

  For its wried body, shall make smooth my name

  In patient reputation of good men.

  The end of that is come. Sir, this much yet;

  Since you have thus delivered up your place,

  Your worth and body to the love of these

  That hate me deadly — wherein you do well,

  For yet I will not say but you do well —

  I will entreat such almsgiving of you

  As for my son of Anjou and myself

  May serve to make us a safe place away,

  Where we may keep behind the perilous time

  And house with simple peace. For I do know

  That howsoe’er these fare as friends with you,

  With us they will but fare as murderers do

  That live between the sharpening of a knife

  And the knife’s edge embrued. This being made sure,

  I take my leave of a most royal care

  That has been precious pain to me, and is

  No costlier than a pin. The end is here

  That I have gladly answered.

  Ch.

  You say well;

  I would not have you think so thinly of me

  As that girl’s mercy and the feeble flesh

  Prevail upon advice. I love you much.

  But me she heeds not; tell her you, my lord,

  I love no meddled policy of man’s

  Before her honour.

  Ca.

  I am perfect in your way.

  Best let me part more quickly.

  Ch.

  You shall not go.

  Gui.

  Madam, your son is tempered graciously;

  You see his will keeps good.

  Ch.

  Ay, so it doth;

  I thank you, sir; you see my will is good.

  Ca.

  I had rather be a thing of labouring days

  Than a so childed mother.

  Gui.

  You must give her way.

  Ca.

  It is not fit that I should wear your time.

  Ch.

  That year of mine is lame wherein you lack.

  Ca.

  Nay, there’s no speech of silk will serve your turn,

  You must be whole with me or break; I’ll have

  No patched alliance, lank allegiances,

  Starved out of use.

  Ch.

  I do not like the business.

  Ca.

  Nay, but speak large; what is it you mislike?

  Ch.

  Keep you that way.

  Ca.

  Why this is what I said.

  Ch.

  I have thought of it, and have informed my heart

  How pale distempering evil makes the blood

  That ran full way before. I will not do it;

  Lest all that regiment of muffled years

  Now huddled in the rear and skirts of time

  I must walk through, take whips into their hands

  To bruise my shame withal.

  Ca.

  I heed you not.

  It is the sick and infirm spite of fear

  Makes your will insolent. But as it please you;

  It is not I that shall wear death for it.

  Gui.

  You do both stray: give me some leave to speak,

  And keep your patience w
hole. Right noble sir,

  For my poor worth and special reverence here

  I would not waste the price of half an hour;

  Though I might say, and no man cross the lie,

  That in the personal state of mine esteem

  I have kept endurance on against a wrong

  That might put blood i’ the dead. My royal father,

  Whose cost did earn the sum of such a name,

  Yea, even to full repute; whose motive hand

  Did the most inward ties of war unloose,

  And pluck its joint away; this man so built,

  So strained and clean of any weak revolt

  That faith herself did set her tongue by his

  And use his lesson for her proper text;

  This bulk and nerve of all your services

  Fashioned in one man’s work; how he came dead

  You twain are no whit less assured than I,

  Who have thrown beyond conjecture. It is poor truth

  To say we think that he fared treacherously;

  If knowledge be no weaker than report,

  And proof no looser than a popular mouth,

  Then we do know it. O, such a want we have,

  So dear and so entire a loss in him,

  As should make France the book of all men’s griefs,

  The mould wherein a very face of sorrow

  Were cast indeed. That I have not avenged him,

  Both you dare swear: that it is not my shame,

  But my sore pain and burden of this time,

  Both you do likewise see. How say you, sir!

  Will you find sufferance smoother-faced than mine?

  Have I borne much? or is there fault in me,

  Who am the limit of endurances?

  Now in this very point of patience here,

  Even here, you take me; and considering this,

  Commend the calm and heaviness in me

  That lackeys your own purpose, runs before

  Your proper care, pages your policy. Now, sir,

  Were I a poor man’s dog the same were well;

  Were I a sick man’s fool the same were well;

  Being thus, I doubt it is not well at all.