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

by Algernon Charles Swinburne

  Ay, keep there.

  La N.

  But, gentlemen, what upshot hear you of?

  Par.

  The queen hath sent her under heavy guard

  To bide some subtler edge of evidence

  Here in her chamber.

  Sou.

  Why not in prison?

  Look you, they’ll let her slip; I say they will.

  Par.

  But hear you, sir; I did not blame the queen —

  Sou.

  It doth outgrow the height and top of shame

  That she should pass untaxed.

  Par.

  She will not pass.

  Sou.

  Take note, sir, there is composition in’t;

  They would not put imprisonment on her;

  Why this is rank: I tell you this is rank.

  Par.

  God’s pity! what a perfect wasp are you!

  Why, say she scapes — as by my faith I see

  No such keen reason why she should not scape,

  The matter being so bare and thin in proof

  As it appears by this —

  La N.

  Yea, so I say;

  If she be manifest a murderess —

  Sou.

  If!

  What “if” will serve? show me the room for “if;”

  I read no reason on the face of “if.”

  If she be not, what leans our faith upon?

  If she be pure or only possible

  For judgment to wash clear — if she be not

  Evident in guilt beyond all evidence —

  The perfect map where such red lines are drawn

  As set down murder — if she be less one whit

  I’ll take her sin upon myself and turn

  Her warrant.

  Par.

  Take a woman’s sin on you?

  O, while you live, lay no such weight on faith,

  ‘Twill break her back. Sir, as you love me, do not;

  I would not have you take such charge upon you.

  Sou.

  I say I will not; for I can approve

  Her very guiltiness.

  Par.

  Nay, that clears all.

  But it is strange that one so well reputed,

  So perfect in all gentle ways of time

  That take men’s eyes — in whom the slips she had

  Were her more grace and did increase report

  To do her good — who might excuse all blame

  That the tongued story of this time could lay

  On her most sweet account — that such a lady

  Should wreak herself so bloodily for words

  Upon a shallow and sick-witted fool.

  Why, what is she the better, he removed?

  Or how doth he impair her, being alive?

  There’s matter in’t we know not of.

  Sou.

  Yea, why?

  For that you speak of her repute, my lord,

  I am not perfect in a girl’s repute;

  It may be other than I think of it;

  But in this poor conjectural mind of mine

  I cannot see how to live large and loose

  Doth put a sounder nerve into repute

  Than honest women have. What we did know of her,

  You, I, and all men —

  Par.

  Nay, you tax her far.

  Sou.

  I mean, we know her commerce with the king;

  Ha? did we not?

  Par.

  Yea, that was broad enough.

  Sou.

  Why, well then, how doth she make up repute,

  Being patched so palpably? Here comes the queen.

  Enter the King, the Queen-Mother, and La Rochefoucauld.

  Ch.

  It may be so.

  Ca.

  I would it had less face.

  If likelihood could better speak of her,

  I should be glad to help it.

  Sou.

  Marked you this?

  Ca.

  But shame can hide no shame so manifest;

  It must all out.

  Ch.

  I do not say it must.

  Ca.

  Why, it was open, proof doth handle it;

  The poor brain-bitten railer chid at her,

  Scoffed in lewd words, made speech insufferable

  Of any temperate ear; no colder cheek

  But would have burnt at him; myself was angered,

  Could not wear patience through; and she being quick,

  Tendering her state as women do, too slight

  To push her reason past her anger’s bound —

  Sou.

  Did you note that? she speaks my proper way.

  Ca.

  She being such doth with my hands resolve

  To whip him out of life; and in this humour —

  Ch.

  Soft now; I must get proof; what makes your highness

  In such a matter?

  Ca.

  I gave her glove to him.

  Ch.

  O, this is well; and yet she murdered him?

  Par.

  What says your judgment to’t? have you no quirk?

  (Aside.)

  Ca.

  She gave it me; I had the glove of her.

  Par.

  Does the wind blow that side?

  Sou.

  Notice the king; he chafes.

  [Exeunt Pardaillan, Soubise, and

  La Noue.

  Ch.

  Our sister says she did outswear you all

  She never saw the glove.

  Ca.

  Put her to proof;

  Let her outbrag by evidence evidence,

  And proof unseat by proof.

  Ch.

  Call her to me.

  Ca.

  That were unfit; you shall not see her.

  Ch.

  Shall not!

  Who puts the “shall not” on me? is it you?

  Ca.

  Not I, but absolute need and present law;

  She is not well; and till she be made whole

  There shall no trial pass upon her proof;

  She shall have justice; it may be she is clear,

  And this large outward likelihood may lie;

  Then she were sharply wronged; and in that fear

  And also for dear love I bear to her

  I have removed her with no care but mine

  To a more quiet room; where till more surety

  She doth abide in an unwounded peace,

  Having most tender guard.

  Ch.

  I’ll write her comfort;

  For I do know she has much wrong in this.

  Ca.

  I will commend you verbally to her;

  The other were some scandal.

  Ch.

  Pray you, do;

  Look you speak gently; I would not have you loud,

  For she will weep all pity into you

  To see her cheek so marred. Look you say well;

  Say I do nothing fear but she is wronged,

  And will do right; yea, though I loved her not

  (As truly I am not so hard in love

  But I can see her fault, which is much pity —

  A very talking error in weak tongues)

  I would not have her wronged. Look you say that.

  Ca.

  I will say anything.

  Ch.

  Now, my fair lord,

  Have I done well?

  La R.

  Most justly and most well.

  Ch.

  You would not else, were you a king of mine?

  La R.

  I would do this, even merely as you do.

  Ch.

  What say you to this evidence?

  La R.

  That it doth

  Amaze my sense of what is proven; for,

  If there be witness in the touch and grasp

  Of things so palpable, and
naked likelihood

  Outpoises all thin guess and accident,

  I must believe what makes belief rebel

  And turn a proclaimed liar. For I am sure

  That she whose mouth this proof doth dwell upon,

  I mean the virtuous damozel Yolande,

  Is past the tax of lying; she is as pure

  As truth desires a man.

  Ch.

  It is most strange;

  Let’s find some smoother talk. Have you not seen

  My book of deer, what seasons and what ways

  To take them in? I finished it last night.

  La R.

  I have not seen it.

  Ch.

  Only this throws me out;

  (The verses, Peter Ronsard made them rhyme)

  I’ll show you where; come, you shall get me through;

  You are perfect at such points.

  La R.

  Your praise outruns me.

  Ch.

  No, not a whit; you are perfect in them; come.

  [Exeunt King

  and

  La Rochefoucauld.

  Ca.

  This is the proper cooling of hot blood;

  Now is she lost in him. Say, she doth live; to put

  Earth in her lips and dusty obstacle

  May not be worth my pains. She cannot thwart me either;

  For say I did enfranchise her to-night,

  Give air and breath to her loud’st speech, she could not

  Wrench one man’s faith awry. Yet since I know

  Security doth overlean itself

  And bruise its proper side, I will not do’t.

  Or say I win her back; and being so won,

  I may find serviceable times for her

  To spy upon king fool; this coolness thawed

  Would make a heat indeed. There’s use for her

  And room withal; if she leave tenderness

  And this girl’s habit of a changing blood,

  I can as well unload her of this weight

  As I did lay it on; which being kept up

  May make her life bend under it, and crack

  The sensible springs of motion. I will put proof to it;

  Favour of love, promise and sweet regard,

  Large habit, and the royal use of time,

  May her slight fear as potently outpoise

  As wisdom doth, weighed in a steadier brain.

  [Exit.

  Scene II.

  Denise’s Apartment in the same.

  Enter Denise and Attendant.

  Att.

  How do you now?

  Den.

  Well; I do ever well;

  It comes not new to me, this well-doing.

  I sleep as women do that feed well, I feed

  As those who wear the gold of doing well.

  What pricks you so to ask? Why, this is quaint,

  I cannot brace my body like a maid’s,

  Cannot plait up my hair, gather a pin,

  But you must catch me with “How do you it?”

  Att.

  I made but question of that mood you had

  Some three hours back, when you fell pale and wept,

  Saying fever clenched you fast and you would die;

  That mood forgets you.

  Den.

  Not a whit; you slip

  Strangely between conjectures of two sides,

  The white and black side. I am very well.

  They say “do well” if one does virtuously;

  May I not say so?

  Att.

  Doubtless you may well.

  Den.

  Yea, the word “well” is tied upon your tongue.

  Try now some new word, prithee some fair phrase,

  Rounder i’ the mouth than “well;” I hate this “well;”

  I pray you learn some lesson of a jay

  To use new words. I will provide me one

  That shall say nothing all day through but “ill,”

  And “ill” again. I’ll have a clock tick “well”

  And hang it by your bed to wake you mad

  Because you chatter me half sick with “well.”

  Att.

  I will say nothing lest you carp at me,

  Planting offence in most pure sentences;

  Mistake falls easy.

  Den.

  Truly it doth fall.

  All matters fall out somehow in God’s work,

  And round the squarèd edges of them flat.

  But I fall wrong, slip someway short of heaven,

  And earth fails too, and leaves me dismal hell,

  Naked as brown feet of unburied men.

  Think you they hold mere talk like ours in hell?

  Go up and down with wretched shoulders stooped

  And wried backs under the strong burdens bruised

  And thwarted bodies without pleasant breath?

  Att.

  I do conceive it as clean fire that burns

  And makes a grey speck of the gracious corn;

  God keep us that we burn not in such wise.

  Den.

  That is a prayer, and prayers are sweet. But then

  We’ll have no praying; only such as this —

  I prithee set a finger to my load,

  Help me from fainting; take my knife and smite

  And put the blood to cool upon my mouth.

  Such dull work too as carls get sickened with

  And turn to die into the black rank straw,

  We shall set hands to; all fair lords and knights,

  Great kings with gold work wrought into their hair,

  Strong men of price and such as play or sing,

  Delicate ladies with well-shodden feet,

  Tall queens in silk wear and all royal things,

  Yea, priests of noble scarlet and chaste mark,

  All shall God set awork. Peradventure too

  When our arms loosen in the elbow-joints

  With the strong rage and violent use of toil,

  He may send patient breath to ease our lips

  And heal us for a little weeping-space,

  But then in talking each with each will grow

  Worse shame and wholly fashioned wretchedness,

  And either will go back to mere short moans

  And the hard pulse of his outlaboured hour

  Rather than talk. We shall lie down and curse

  Stupidly under breath, like herdsmen; turn

  And hide and cover from all witness up,

  Each his own loathing and particular sore;

  Sit with chins fallen and lank feet asquat,

  Letting the dismal head work its own way,

  Till the new stripe shall pluck us up to task,

  Crossing with cruelties our own bad will,

  Crowning our worst with some completed bad

  Too ill to face. Ay, this should be their way;

  For fire and all tormented things of earth

  Are parcels of good life, have use and will,

  Learn worthiest office and supply brave wants;

  And not the things that burn up clean make hell,

  Not pain, hate, evil, actual shame or sense,

  But just the lewd obedience, the dead work,

  The beaten service of a barren wage

  That gets no reaping.

  Att.

  I cannot taste the purpose of your speech.

  Pray you lie down.

  Den.

  I will not. Well it were

  To set our upper lives on some such guise

  And have a perfect record when one dies

  How things shall be thereafter. A knowledge armed

  Of the most sharp and outermost event

  Is half a comfort. I do think for one

  That God will set me into certain hell,

  Pick me to burn forth of his yellow spears

  Like any tare as rank. Also I doubt

  There shall be some I had to do withal
/>
  Packed in the same red sheaf. How will each look,

  Tavannes, no leaner than the hound he was,

  Or Guise beard-singed to the roots? the queen-mother

  Tied by the hair to — I get idle now.

  A grave thing is it to feel sure of hell,

  But who should fear it if I slip the chance

  And make some holy blunder in my end,

  Translating sin by penitence? For none

  Sinned ever yet my way; treason and lust

  Sick apes, red murder a familiar fool,

  To this new trick set by them, will be shamed

  In me for ever; yea, contempt of men

  Shall put them out of office. He that lusts,

  Envies or stabs, shall merely virtuous be,

  And the lank liar fingering at your throat

  A friend right honest. That roadway villain’s knife

  That feels for gold i’ the womb, shall be not hated;

  And the cold thief who spills a popular breath

  Find grace o’ the gallows; why do men hang poor knaves,

  Cut throats while mine goes smooth? Now I think on’t,

  I will put condemnation to their act

  By mine own will and work. I pray you kill me,

  I will not hurt you.

  Att.

  Alas, she is mad. Dear lady —

  Den.

  Yea, dear; I shall be dear some three days hence,

  And paid full price. Dost thou not think I am mad?

  I am not; they would fain have lied me mad,

  Burnt up my brain and strung my sense awry,

  In so vile space imprisoning my wants

  I can help nothing. Here sit I now, beast-like,

  Loathsomely silenced: who if I had the tongue

  Wherewith hard winter warns the unblanched sea,

  Would even outspeak the winds with large report,

  Proclaiming peril. But being this I am

  I get no help at all. One maimed and dumb