Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)
Page 174
A father slain is more than so much bones
That worms and flies dishallow, being thin dust
And out of value; and personally to me
It is much more. I will not have this way;
Lest my most loving honour borne to you
Leave me ashamed, or service done disbark
All graces from me. You were strongly sworn,
Yea, with the assurance that all faith makes up,
To help us mend the ravelled rents of time;
But though you had more iron in your hand
Than you have yet, you cannot grasp therein
Two faiths, two sides, two justices at once.
Choose you, and put good will to choice; for me,
I am not thralled in your election.
Ch.
Madam, his talk flies far.
Ca.
True, he speaks right.
Ch.
Should I not answer with a lip more tame,
This friendship might turn slack.
Gui.
I keep still loyal.
Ch.
Yea, sir, we doubt you nothing, nothing at all:
You are our lawful friend; you speak all well;
You have had wrong, men use you grievously;
And I do love you for your bearing it.
Ca.
The man that slew Duke Francis has his breath.
Ch.
Ay, and his blood, some scantlings too of that:
We saw what tithe of it was spilled in him.
Still it is quaint that such a shaken scalp,
So grey as that, should cover so much red;
’Tis very strange and quaint; ha, think you not?
Ca.
(To Guise.)
All’s clear again; he smells about the blood
That shall incense his madness to high strain;
Look, now he peers and fingers on his sleeve.
Gui.
Pish! it looks ugly.
Ca.
I must push him yet,
Make his sense warm. You see, blood is but blood;
Shed from the most renowned veins o’ the world,
It is no redder; and the death that strikes
A blind broad way among the foolish heaps
That make a people up, takes no more pains
To finish the large work of highest men;
Take heart and patience to you; do but think
This thing shall be no heavier then, being done,
Than is our forward thought of it.
Ch.
Ay true,
But if men prate of blood — I’ll none on me.
And yet I care not much. You are wise, mother,
You know me through, ay, and know God as well,
Whom I know not. This is a grave thing.
Ca.
Yea,
And graver should be if I gave you way.
What are you made God’s friend for but to have
His hand over your head to keep it well
And warm the rainy weather through, when snow
Spoils half the world’s work? shall I let you go
And slip your boy’s neck from God’s hold on it
To graze and get mere pasture like a beast?
Nay, child, there’s nothing better for a man
Than to trust God; why, must I tell you that?
Is there more beard than blood in cheeks like this
Till some one smite them? Now I think, I think
And praise God for it, the next Huguenot
Who plucks you by the ear or smites on the face
Shall do no much work after.
Ch.
True, madam,
I need be king now; you speak true in that.
Ca.
I’ll call you king then always, king and son,
Dear son and lord of mine. Hold fast on this
And you are man indeed, and man enough
To teach command to the world and make its back
Stoop for allegiance. See you, my fair son,
This sweet face of authority is a mask
For slaves to rivet or undo the joint,
Except one wear it in the eyes of them
A witness to outbear shame and revolt
And maim resistance in the hands; you were
Never yet king, never had will to wear
That circle that completes the head with gold
And shuts up strength inside the hold of it;
You are now made man.
Ch.
And you made mother twice,
Not by gross generation of the womb
But issue of more princely consequence;
Set this day gold upon your writ of life,
The last of childbearing for you; so God
Give you good time of it!
Ca.
Ay, grace to thank
That grace that gives not mere deliverance
From unrespective burdens of the flesh,
But the keen spirit refines and recreates
To gracious labour. That God that made high things,
He wrought by purpose and secure design
The length of his contrivance; he set not tigers
In the mean seat of apes, nor the wild swine
I’ the stabled post of horses; birds and dogs
Find portion of him, and he sets the fish
In washing waters; rain and the sweet sun
He shuts and opens with his hand; and us
Hath he set upright and made larger eyes
To read some broken letters of this book
Which has the world at lesson; and for what,
If we not do the royallest good work,
If we not wear the worth of sovereignty
As attribute and raiment? At our feet
Lies reason like a hound, and faith is chained;
Lame expectation halts behind our ways,
The soundless secret of dead things is made
As naked shallows to us. It is for that
We owe strong service of the complete soul
To the most cunning fashioner that made
So good work of us; and except we serve,
We are mere beasts and lesser than a snake,
Not worth his pain at all; so might we shift
The soul as doth that worm his coloured back
And turn to herd with footless things that are
The spoil of dust and rain. To close up all,
Death takes the flesh in his abhorrèd hands
Of clean alike and unclean; but to die
Is sometime gracious, as to slip the chain
From wrist and ankle; only this is sad,
To be given up to change and the mere shame
Of its abominable and obscure work
With no good done, no clean thing in the soul
To sweeten against resurrection-time
This mire that made a body, lest we keep
No royalties at all, or in the flesh
The worm’s toothed ravin touch the soul indeed.
Ch.
Madam, I hold your sentence good to hear;
I’ll do as you would have me. Pray you now,
Make no more record of my foolishness.
I have used idle words. Make count of me
As of your servant; for from this day forth
I’ll hold no Huguenot’s throat one whit more worth
Than is the cord upon it. Sir, good day.
[Exit King.
Ca.
I told you this before; sit down and laugh.
I told you this should be.
Gui.
We have worked well.
Ca.
Is this no better now than violent ways
To threaten the poor passage of his life
With the mean loss of some sick days and hours?
You would not let him fill his season up
And feed on all his portions cut i’ t
he world;
You have iron in your policies, and hate
The unbound brows of composition;
But I, whose cheek is patient of all wrongs,
Who have endurance to my garment, worn
In face o’ the smiters, I know through by heart
Each turn i’ the crannies of the boy’s spoilt mind
And corner used in it. Years gone, my lord,
Before the tender husk of time grew hard,
He would make pastime to tear birds to death
And pinch out life by nips in some sick beast;
And being a man, blood turns him white to see?
Believe me that, I’ll praise you more for faith
Than I praise God for making him a fool.
What shall get done though hell stand up to hear
And in God’s heaven God’s self become ashamed,
The rule of use rebel against its way,
The sense of things upon itself revolt,
To the undoing of man — this shall not fail
For the meek sake of his most female mouth
That would keep honey in.
Gui.
Have your way so:
I do not cross you; keep that fashion.
Ca.
Yea,
I think to have it certainly, fair sir;
Keen man he were that should cheat me of it.
Gui.
This screw of yours has wrenched him round our way;
Yet these may pinch the wax, new-mould his face,
Carve him a mouth, make here an eye or there;
Will you wring loose their fingers till he drop
Like a fruit caught, so, in one’s hollowed hand?
You’ll have some necks to break across ere that.
Why, Châtillon’s grey chin keeps wagging down
Close at his ear; that demi-dog Soubise
Is made his formal mirth; fool Pardaillan
Struts with his throat up like a cock’s, and brags
The king is kind — has secrets — he might say
Some grace was done him — would not miss his luck —
As for the merit —
Ca.
So far it goes by rote;
Were there no larger peril than hangs there,
I’d strangle it with but a hair of mine.
Gui.
Madam, I would be fain to understand.
Ca.
Sir, this it is; the woman I set on
To shape and stoop him perfectly my way,
Is very falsely made my thorn, and wears
Such fashions as a new-enfranchised slave
To beat his master for delivering him.
She is turned milk, would slit her web mis-made
Now it shows blood at edge.
Gui.
What ailed your judgment then
To light on her? had you some plague i’ the eye
To choose so sickly?
Ca.
The king did lean to her,
And out of his good will I made this cord
To lead him by the ear. Do not you doubt me;
She has not slit the web so near across
But her own edge may turn upon her skin:
I have a plot to rid the time of her
For some slight days.
Gui.
Some trick to bite her life?
Ca.
Nay, I’ll not lose her; no more weight shall be
Than a new time may lift from her again.
I shall but get a clog upon my court
Slily removed; a double good shall bud
Upon a most small evil. Go with me
And bring me to my women.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Admiral’s House.
Enter Coligny and Attendant.
Co.
Carry these letters to my son and bid him
Attend me with La Noue. If you shall see
That noble man who spoke with me to-day,
Pray him be with me too. This is a care
That I would have you diligent in; so shall you
Gather fresh good of me.
Att.
I will, my lord.
Co.
I shall be bound to you; the time that makes
Such ruin of us doth yet bequeath me this,
That where I find good service without break,
I hold it dearer than a prosperous man.
See you be speedy.
Att.
I am already hence.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
The Louvre.
Enter La Rochefoucauld and Yolande de Montlitard.
La R.
You do not use me smoothly.
Yol.
Did I sue
That you would love me? I owe you nothing.
La R.
No?
But if I leave with you so much of me,
Do I not keep some petty part of you?
Yol.
Oh, not a whit; what would you do with it?
La R.
In faith, I know not.
Yol.
You have the holy way
Of cutting clean an oath; as you do coin it
A girl might use the like; your protestation
Is made out of the ravel of spoilt silk;
I trust no such tagged speech.
La R.
To do you pleasure
I would unswear the seated saints from heaven
And put shame out of use with violent breath.
But to my point.
Yol.
Shall I not say one thing?
La R.
So I would have you.
Yol.
Then I think, this breath
So spent on my vexation is not used
For love of me — nay, pray you keep that in —
But the keen service of your admiral
To whom I must be evidenced.
La R.
What then?
Are you too far in hate to do me good?
Yol.
Too far in faith to swell you with such help;
Put down i’ the writing that a woman’s trust
Is much belied with you; there’s no such flaw
As male repute doth work to blot us with;
I swear I will not show you anything.
La R.
I do not beg such alms of you; come back;
Do words make all the sweet on so sweet lips?
Yol.
I did not bid you shift your note to this.
Sir, that ring’s edge of yours has cut my glove.
[Exeunt.
ACT III.
Scene I.
Environs of the Louvre.
Enter Denise.
Denise.
Bid me keep silence? though I lose all, I’ll wear
Silence no further no my wrong-doings
That holds no weather out. I’ll speak then; God,
Keep me in heart to speak! because my sense,
Even to the holiest inward of its work
This unclean life has marred; I am stained with it
Like a stained cloth, it catches on my face,
Spoils my talk midways, breaks my breath between,
Paints me ill colours, plucks me upon the sleeve,
As who would say, “Forget me will you, then?”
Bid me keep silence? yea, but in losing that
Lies are so grown like dirt upon my lip
No kisses will wipe dry nor tears wash bare
The mouth so covered and made foul. Dear God,
I meant not so much wrong-doing that prayer
Should choke or stab me in the throat to say;
For see, the very place I pray withal
I use for lying and put in light words
To soil it over: the thoughts I make prayer with
Fasten on ill things and set work on them,
Letti
ng love go. If one could see the king
And escape writing —
Enter Cino.
Cino.
Yea, cousin, at prayer so late?
Teach me the trick, I would be fain to pray,
I grow so sick now with the smell of time.
Ah, the king hurts you? touch a spring i’ the work
And it cries — eh? and a joint creaks in it?
Den.
This fool wears out.
Cino.
At wrists?
Den.
At head; but, fool,
Hast thou not heard of the king?
Cino.
Yea, news, brave news;
But I’ll not spoil them on you.
Den.
My good Cino —
Nay, sweet thing, fair sir, any precious word,
Tell me.
Cino.
The king — what will you give me then?
Half a gold fringe worn off your cloak for alms?
Den.
Nay, anything it wills, my Cino. Quick.
Cino.
A ring? yea, more; what’s better than a ring?
A kiss I doubt of yours; but I’ll have best,
Nothing of good or better.
Den.
Come, sir; well?
Cino.
Tell me what’s better than a kiss; but hear you;
Pull not away, paint me no red; the king —
Den.
What is the king?
Cino.
Twice half his years, I think;
God keep him safe between the greys and blacks.
Den.
My head is full of tears and fever; hence,
Get from me, fool. Thou ragged skirt of man,
Thou compromise ‘twixt nothing and a bat!
Blind half a beast! I’d see thee hanged and laugh.
What fool am I to scold at thy brain’s shell?
What sort of under thing shall I call thee,