Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)
Page 176
If you shall think on murder, how it is,
How mere a poison in all mouths of men
That only at the casual use of it
Sicken and lose the rule of their discourse,
Being wounded with it; how poorest men alive
That in dull drink have chanced upon a life
Are slain for it, and the red word of sin
Doth elbow them at side and dig their grave
And makes all tongues bitter on them, all eyes
Fills out with chiding — how very knaves do loath
The tax and blot of such a damnèd breath
As goes to call hard murder by his name;
Yea, how blood slain shall not be healed again,
Never get place within the ruined veins,
Never make heat in the forsaken flesh;
O, you shall think thereon.
Ch.
Have I not thought?
Den.
Not this I bid you, this you have not thought;
How to each foot and atom of that flesh
That makes the body of the worst man up
There went the very pain and the same love
That out of love and pain compounded you,
A piece of such man’s earth; that all of these
Feel, breathe, and taste, move and salute and sleep,
No less than you, and in each little use
Divide the customs that yourself endure;
And are so costly that the worst of these
Was worth God’s time to finish; O, thus you shall not,
Even for the worth of your own well-doing,
Set iron murder to feed full on them.
Ch.
Fret me no more; I shall turn sharp with you.
Den.
O, sir, in such dear matter as I have
I fear not you at all. You shall not go.
Ch.
I may forget your body’s tender make
And hurt you. Do not put me from myself;
I am dangerous then; being sobered, I do know
How rash and sharp a blood I have, and weep
For my fierce use of it: push not so far.
Den.
Yea now, put all the bruise of them on me
And I will thank you. You did hurt me once,
Look here, my wrist shows where you plucked it hard;
I never spoke you ill for it; you shall
Do me worse hurt and I not cry at all.
Ch.
This is fool’s talk.
Den.
And once in kissing me
You bit me here above the shoulder, yet
The mark looks red from it; you were too rough,
I swore to punish you and starve your lip
To a more smooth respect. I have loved you, sir;
Sir, this is harsh that you regard me not.
Ch.
Nay, peace! I will not have you loud.
Den.
My lord —
Ch.
Say “Charles” now; be more tender of your mouth.
Den.
Sir, the shame that burns through my cheek and throat
Cannot get words as hot as blood to speak,
Or you would hear such; keep your eyes on me,
Ay, look so; have you sense or heart, my lord?
Are you not sorry if one come to wrong?
Ch.
This is some trap. What makes you turn so quick?
Den.
Yea, king, are you? yea, is this not the king?
And I so pray, speak words so hard to speak,
Kneel down, weep hard — but you shall hear this out —
To be put like a garment off? not so.
The queen-mother throws nets about, spins well,
Contrives some thread to strike the whole web through,
To catch you like a plague — there’s worse and worse —
What hurt is it, what pain to men outside,
Although she ruin us, make spoil of us,
Melt the gold crown into a ring of hers,
What harm?
Ch.
What harm by God! I think much harm.
Den.
But this is worse — to catch France in her trap,
People and all, body and soul; cheat God,
Ruin us all, as ruined we shall be,
I know not how too well, but something thus,
And now God puts this hour of time to be
A steel sword in your hand, and says withal,
“Now give me token if there be a king
Inside you, do me right who made you way,
Drew you so high;” I pray you for God’s love
Let none put thievish fingers on the time,
Loosen your sword God girt so next your side.
What, men steal money and you hang for that,
What, one puts just his little knife in you
As I put just a bodkin in this hair,
And he gets choked with cord and spat upon —
But when some treason stabs belief in the back,
Thrusts its tongue out and wags its head at God,
Turns bitter his sweet mouth with vinegar,
Bruises him worse than any Pilate’s Jews,
These men go free? It were too hard to think.
Yea, sir, I will not have you lift your lip,
Yea, you may smite me with your foot, fair lord,
Whom yesterday you kissed here in the mouth;
I lay no care on life or on this breath
Or on this love that hath so dead an end;
More ill is done than good will ever be,
And I now pluck the finished fruit of it
Planted by bitter touches of the lip,
False breath, hot vows, the broken speech of lust,
By finger-pinches and keen mouths that bite
Their hard kiss through: nay, but I pray you well
Let there be no more ill than grows hereon,
No such kiss now that stings and makes a stain,
No cups drunk out that leave dead lees of blood.
Be sorry for me; yea, be good, my king,
Tender with me: let not the queen-mother
Touch me to hurt: sir, know you certainly
None loves you better: also men would say
It may be some joy you have had of me;
Even for that sake, for that most evil sake,
Have some good mercy.
Ch.
Mad, but really mad!
Here, child, put up your hands in mine, Denise:
By God’s blood, the girl shakes and shakes and burns —
What, have you fever?
Den.
None, no pain; but, sir,
Be pitiful a little; my sweet lord,
Have you not had me wholly in one hand
To do your will with? would I lie to you?
Ch.
Eh, would you lie? well, God knows best, I doubt.
Den.
I pray God bring me quick to bitter hell
If I lie to you: have you eyes at least?
That woman with thin reddish blood-like lips,
That queen-mother that would use blood for paint,
Can you not see her joint the trap for you,
Not see the knife between her fingers, sir,
Where the glove opens?
Ch.
This is right your way;
A sweet way, this; what will you bid me do?
Den.
Not this, not this she pulls you on to do;
Not set a treason where a promise was,
Not fill the innocent time with murder up,
Not —
Ch.
Tush! some preacher’s plague has caught the child.
Are you mad truly? some strange drink in you?
Den.
Sir —
Ch.
Do you take me for no king at all,
That you talk this? I never heard such
talk.
No hands on me; nay, go, and have good day.
[Exit Denise.
Re-enter the
Queen-Mother
and
Yolande.
Do you note this, our mother?
Ca.
Yea, and well.
Ch.
This is the very mercy of a maid;
To cut a hand off lest a finger ache
And paint the face of resolution white
Lest the red startle one.
Ca.
It is most true;
I pray you be not moveable of wit
Or waxen to her handling.
Ch.
I will not;
There’s nothing shall have time to startle me,
Being in this work so deep; no delicate sense
That gathers honey at her lip shall fool
The resolution and large gravity
That holds my purpose up. I am no fool;
I will go through with it; I am no boy
To be kissed out of mind: I will not fail.
[Exit.
Ca.
Yolande, this way; come nearer, my fair child;
I love you well; there’s no such mouth at court
For music and fair colour: sit by me;
How pleasant is it to find eyes to love
That will not cheat or flatter one! Dear maid,
I think you find a time between two loves
To put some poor dwarfed liking by for me?
Indeed you may; see if I love you not;
Get me to proof.
Yol.
You are my gracious mistress;
I would be always glad of service done
And found worth taking.
Ca.
Do you love Denise?
Meseems the girl grows whiter and less straight,
Dull too, I think; eh, you think otherwise?
Yol.
She seems to me grown duller than spoilt wine.
Ca.
I am right glad you do not think her wise.
I have a plan to pleasure mine own self,
And do you good. Are you content thereto?
Yol.
Madam, content.
Ca.
You will not blench away?
Not lightly start from me?
Yol.
I will not so.
Ca.
I trust you perfectly. — Fetch hither to me
That box of mine wherein I keep rare scents;
You know, the one carved of sweet foreign wood
I use to dress my hair and face withal.
Yol.
Madam, I shall.
[Exit.
Ca.
Ay, it shall do you good.
Will this one hold in wearing? I think, yes;
For I have seen her tread upon sick flies
Where the other swerved, and would not do them hurt.
This Yolande is half cold, and wears her pleasure
No deeper than the skin; thereto she is hard,
Cunning and bold; I have heard tales of her;
She hath the brain and patience of hoar beards
In her most supple body. I do not think
That she shall wry her mouth on tasting blood.
Re-Enter Yolande.
So, did you miss it?
Yol.
Madam, it is here.
Ca.
Thanks: have good care of the lid, you see it has
Fair foreign work of cunning little heads
And side-mouthed puppets quaintly cut on it:
See how I pinch it open with a trick;
I would not have all fingers mix in it,
For there are spices which are venomous;
So are best things puddled with ill in them,
We cannot sift them through; nothing so clean
But you may tread it foul, nor so foul anything
That one may never warp its use to good;
As this which puts out men, and is most rare
To sweeten gloves with.
Yol.
What am I to do?
Ca.
I know not. Set a cushion to my feet;
So. — One has told me each of you to-day
Lay some girl’s gift upon that fool of mine:
Is this not true?
Yol.
Madam, it was our game.
Ca.
When you shall see him give him this for me;
(Gives her a glove.)
And yet not me, he loves not me, poor fool;
Say that Denise had wrought him such a glove,
And being incensed at his late insolence
Which he hath put upon the king and her,
Was purposed to withhold it; I will confirm you.
Suppose a shift of mine to vex the fool;
Say what you will, but thrust her name therein;
Look that you take him where she may not see.
Clasp the silk well across my shoulder; thanks;
I am clad too thinly for a queen-mother,
But all this month is overhot. Be sure
Nothing shall stick to us. Keep close to me.
[Exeunt.
Scene II.
The Admiral’s House.
Enter La Noue, Teligny, and La Rochefoucauld.
La N.
I fear me he can scantly bear this out.
Tel.
Nay, fear him not; there goes more nerve to him
Than to some lesser scores. His competence
Is like that virtue in his mind which fills
The shallowness of thin occasions up,
And makes him better than the season is
That serves his worth to work in. He shall not live
And bear himself beyond the fear of time,
Where other men made firm in goodness drop
And are the food of peril.
La R.
Doubtless he is most wise;
But I misdoubt he doth too much regard
Each trick and shift of bastard circumstance;
It is the custom and grey note of age
To turn consideration wrong way out
Until it show like fear.
Tel.
I pray, sir, tell me
In what keen matter hath he so blenched aside
Since time began on him? or in what fashion
Hath he worn fear? The man is absolute,
Perfectly tempered; that I a little speak him,
Your less observance of him shall excuse
And so my praise allow itself. He hath been
In all hard points of war the best that ever
Did take success by the hand; the first that wore
Peace as the double coronet of time,
The costly stone set in red gold of war,
So wise to mix reverse with sufferance,
Use fortune with a liberal gravity
And discipline calamitous things with grace,
That failure more approved him, being so shaped
And worn to purpose in his wisdom’s worth,
Than men are praised for hazard, though it leaves
Their heads embraced with wealth. His nobleness of speech
Hath made true grace and temperate reserve
But usual names for his; he is too pure,
Too perfect in all means of exercise
That are best men’s best pearl, to be esteemed
At single value of some separate man
That the thin season can oppose to him.
La R.
I say not else.
Tel.
So would I have you say.
La R.
Had I dispraised the admiral, it had shown
My love to him that I did prick your speech
To such fair estimate of his fair worth.
The man is come.
Enter Coligny.
Co.
Good morrow, noble friends.
Fair son, it is a loving bound that doth
Limit your custom thus.
Tel.
I am best pleased
When I may use you thus familiarly.
Co.
(To La R.)
My lord, you told me of a way you had
To bring the matter clear we spoke upon.
La R.
Yea, by a woman’s means.
Co.
I think it was.
La R.
I saw her yesternight.
La N.
You did not say
Where our hopes went? I would not trust you far.
La R.
Nay, I did strain discretion out of wear;
I told her nothing.
Co.
What did you get of her?
I think you called the woman — umph — Yolande.
La R.
That’s your demand, what I did get of her?
Why, such fair time as women keep for us;
What better should I get?
Tel.
(To La N.)
I fear him greatly;
It is the unwound and ravelled sort of man
That the proof uses worst; so large of lip
Was never yet secure in spirit.
Co.
Sir,
We have looked for more of you.
La R.
This is pure truth;
I had such usage as made room for talk,
And in the vantage of occasion put
Inquiry on her, how the queen her mistress
Was moved in temper towards us; did she say thus,
Or thus: you see I spoke not as of purpose
To get this out, but just in some loose way;
As did she put new colour in her hair,
Or what sweet kind of water did she take
To smooth her neck, what powder blanch it with;
And twenty such blown matters out of joint;