Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Algernon Charles Swinburne (Illustrated) (Delphi Poets Series)
Page 180
But I do know him for a noble man
That would acknowledge all things honourably,
Commune with no base words, nor wear such office
As cowards do; I must report him such.
Tav.
You must! I pray show me what humour then
Crosses him thus at point.
2 Cap.
I will not think.
Tav.
Sir, you that have such tender make at heart,
That wear a woman in your blood, and put
Your mother on your cheeks — you that are pure,
That will not fail — you piece of dainty talk —
Pluck me this halting passion from your heart,
Or death shall nail it there.
1 Cap.
I do not fear you, sir.
Tav.
Observe me, sir; I do not use to threat;
Either take up your office for this time
And use it honourably, or I will leave you
No place at all. What sort of fool are you
To start at such a piece of lawful work
As is the manage of more noble hands
Than are familiar with your beard? You are
Too gross a fool.
1 Cap.
My lord, you wrong me much.
2 Cap.
Sir, you push far; he is a gentleman.
Tav.
The devil shall make a better of strawn dung;
I do proclaim him for a thief, a coward,
A common beggar of safe corner-holes,
A chamber hireling to wash pots — Begone,
I will not bear such knaves. Take you his place.
Go, go, eat scraps.
1 Cap.
Sir, you shall do me right.
Tav.
I say thou art a knave, a side-stair thief —
God’s precious body! I am sick with anger
That such a pad of slack worm-eaten silk
Should wear the name of any soldiership.
Give up thine office.
1 Cap.
You do yourself much shame.
[Exit.
Tav.
Fie on him, rag! frayed velvet face! I’d beat him
But for pure shame. So, is he gone? Make after
And push him out at door. Take you his place.
Attend me presently.
2 Cap.
My lord, I shall.
[Exeunt.
Scene IV.
The Louvre.
The
Queen-Mother,
Margaret,
Duchess of Lorraine, and Ladies.
Ca.
No, no, the scandal stands with us, not you
That have no lot in it. Well, God be praised,
It does not touch me inwardly and sharp
To be so rid of him; but I do pity
The means of his removal, from my heart
I pity that. ’Tis a strange deed; I have not
Seen any that may call it brother, since
That dame’s who slew her lord, being caught in middle
Of some more lewd delight; her name now?
Duch.
Châteaudun.
Ca.
True, so it was; I thank you; Châteaudun.
Mar.
How says she yet? will she confess his death?
Ca.
No, but outbears all comfort with keen words.
Mar.
Truth, I commend her for it; I would not have her
Show the wet penitence of fools that are
More weak than what they do.
Ca.
I partly hold with you.
Have we no music? Nay, I would hear none;
I am not bowed that way; my sense will not stoop
To the pleasurable use of anything.
Is it not late?
Mar.
I think it wears to nine.
Ca.
Nay, it lies further; I am sure it does.
Duch.
Madam, it is not late.
Ca.
I say it is;
If I am pleased to reckon more than you,
It shall be late.
Mar.
I promised at this time
To be about my husband; if I fail,
My faith is breached with flaw of modesty.
Duch.
Nay, go not yet.
Ca.
Will you lay hands on her?
Duch.
I do beseech you —
Mar.
What makes you cling to that?
Duch.
If you would show me kindness, do not go.
Ca.
You play love’s fool awry.
Mar.
Show me some reason.
Duch.
I have no reason broader than my love;
And from the sweetest part of that sweet love
I do entreat you that you will not go,
But wake with me to-night. I am not well.
Mar.
Sister, I am quite lost in your desire.
Ca.
What, are you ill? how shall it get you whole
To wake the iron watches of the night
Companioned with hard ache of weariness
And bitter moods that pain feeds full upon?
Come, you are idle; I will wake with you,
If you must wake; trouble not her so much.
Mar.
Indeed it would a little tax me.
Ca.
Nay,
Think not upon it; get you hence and sleep.
Commend me to your lord; bid him thank me
That he to-night doth side you; it is a grace
Worth honourable thanks.
Duch.
Still I beseech you
To keep me company some poor two hours;
My prayer is slight, more large my need of it;
I charge you for pure pity stay with me.
Ca.
Are you gone mad? what makes your prayer in this?
As you regard my wrath or my fair mood,
And love me better peaceable than harsh,
Make a quick end of words. — Margaret, good night. —
Nay, sit you close. — At once good night, my love;
I pray you do my message.
Mar.
Madam, I will;
No less fair night with you and with my sister,
Whom I shall look to see as whole in health
As sound in spirit.
Ca.
I will take pains for it;
She shall get healed with pains; have no such fear.
[Exit Margaret.
Are you so much a fool? by heaven, I am ashamed
That ever I did use your faith like mine,
Nay that some blood of mine was lost on you
To make such shallow stuff as you are of.
Duch.
Madam, you have not thought —
Ca.
What ailed my wits
To lay so precious office on your brain,
Which is filled out with female matters, marred
With milky mixtures? I do loath such women
Worse than a leper’s mouth.
Duch.
Consider but her state:
It is your flesh, my sister and my blood,
That must look death in the eyes; you bid her hold
Keen danger by the skirt, gripe hands with him;
For those that scape the edges of your men,
Being refuged in her lodging, may as well
Turn their own points on her; if none escape,
Then in the slaying of her husband’s men
She may well chance on some one’s iron side
And death mistake her end.
Ca.
I did mistake
More grossly, to believe the blood in you
Was not so mean in humour as it is.
She is safe enough; he tha
t but strikes at her
With his bare hand doth pluck on his bare head
Sudden destruction. Say she were not safe,
Must we go back for that and miss the way
That we have painfully carved out and hewn
From the most solid rivet of strong time?
Duch.
If you would bid her watch —
Ca.
I will do nothing.
Duch.
Let me but speak to her.
Ca.
You shall not move;
This thing is heavier than you think of it
And has more cost than yours. You shall sit still,
And shall not frown or gape or wag your head,
As you respect the mood of my misliking.
Enter Attendant.
Att.
Madam, the Duke of Anjou —
Ca.
What would he?
Att.
He prays you dearly be about the king;
What he would have I cannot tell; I am sure
He is much moved, and as I think with fear.
Ca.
This is an absolute summons. I will go.
[Exit Attendant.
So, get you in; you have no lot beyond;
That I should have such need to use such fools!
Get you to bed and sleep.
[Exeunt severally.
ACT V.
Scene I.
The Louvre.
The King, Queen-Mother, Brantôme, Tavannes, La Rochefoucauld, Teligny, and Attendants.
Charles.
Put up the dice; you do not play me fair.
Ca.
Indeed the cast did lie too much his way.
La R.
Do me right, sir; the chance so thrown on me
May come to serve your hand.
Ch.
Nay, God forbid!
I would not fare so well, lest men should scent
The sudden savour of sharp-relished ills
To snuff my luck behind. Put them away.
La R.
So I may take my leave, my lord, I will.
Ch.
Abide a little.
La R.
Sir, in pure faith, I may not.
Ch.
Lay down your chariness; I pray you stay;
I am your friend that do entreat you stay
To help me use my better humours well.
La R.
This grace of yours doth jar with time in me.
Ca.
Fair son, put no dispute in marriage; think,
Our noble friend is yet i’ the green of time,
The summer point of wedlock; cross him not.
Ch.
No, he shall stay.
Ca.
I love him none the less
That would enfranchise his obedience,
Saying “let pass.”
Bra.
I have known an honest lady
That would have bit her lips atwain for spite
Sooner than slip her lord’s obedience so
And slacken the remitted service of him
For such light points; I do remember me —
Ca.
This tale will hold you, sir.
Bra.
I bade her choose a friend,
She seeming bare of any courtesy
That is well done to such; I bade her choose —
La R.
I take a second leave.
Bra.
As ‘twere for form —
“Seeing, look you,” said I, “a lady’s office is
To endure love and wear a good man’s name
As the lace about her wrist” —
Ch.
You shall not go.
La R.
Sir, needs I must; you shall well pardon it.
Bra.
She with a face, as thus, let sideways down,
Catching her page i’ the eye — a thing so bearded
As are a woman’s lips —
Ca.
My lord Bourdeilles,
I pray you take my way, I’ll hear this out.
Bra.
Please you so suffer me —
Ca.
Fair son, good night.
[Exeunt Cath., Brant., and Attendants.
Ch.
Good night, sweet mother. — Is she truly gone?
Then I will pray you leave not me to-night;
I’ll not to bed; I would not have you go;
Yea, by God’s blood, I put my heart indeed
Into this prayer of mine. Come, pleasure me;
It might avail you; what, by God’s own face,
I think I sue to you. Is this much alms
That you should please me?
La R.
Sir, for my poor half,
I must tie thanks upon the neck of No
And turn him forth of me.
Ch.
Then you keep here?
La R.
Good faith, I cannot so; and I well think
This lord speaks with me.
Tel.
Even your sense, indeed.
Ch.
You use me hardly, but my wish to you
Lives none the less a good and honest wish;
So, if my meaning tastes not sweet to you,
Farewell, yea well. One see my dear friends out.
La R., Tel.
Good night, fair lord.
[Exeunt La Roch. And Tel.
Ch.
I would have kept them yet.
So, if a man have sight of a big stone,
And will needs trip and sprawl with a bruised head,
Is it my fault that show him such a stone?
Or say one filches a fair sword of mine
To rip himself at side, is my sin there?
Nay not that much, but walking with my sword
It galls him in the thigh; am I his hurt?
Twice, yea now thrice, if you shall mark me, sir,
Yea, God knows well I sued three times to them,
I would have had all scars keep off their flesh,
But God’s will is not so.
Tav.
You do the wiser
To let them pass.
Ch.
Why truly so I think.
But I am heart-stung for these; this Téligny
That might have laid a word of help my way
And kept such sullen lips of doubtfulness,
I have loved him well. The other, see you, sir,
I have twined arms with him, fed from his eyes,
Made a large pleasure out of usual things
Wherein his lot fell evenly with mine,
Laid my heart on him; yea, this singled man
Was as the kin made closest to my flesh
And in the dearest of my secret will
Did as a brother govern. But he may go;
I were fallen wrong too far to pity him;
So, though they mainly mar him with their pikes,
Stab till the flesh hath holes like a big net,
I will not think I am compassionate;
Yea, though my thought of him pricks me at brain,
I will believe I do not pity him.
Show me the matter of your place, your way,
The measure of your men; nay, my sweet lord,
Pray you hold fast on this; be not made pitiful.
Nay, but stand sure; nay, I beseech you, sure.
[Exeunt.
Scene II.
Denise’s Apartment.
Enter Denise.
Den.
It is the time; had but this solid earth
A capable sense of peril, it should melt
And all disjoint itself; the builded shape of things
Should turn to waste and air. It is as strange
As is this perilous intent, that men
Should live so evenly to-night; talk, move,
Use contemplation of all common tim
es,
Speak foolishly, make no more haste to sleep
Than other days they do; I have not seen
A man to-day seem graver in the mouth,
Wear slowness on his feet, look sideways out,
Make new the stuff and subject of his speech,
Reason of things, matter of argument,
For such a business. I see death is not feared,
Only the circumstance and clothes of death;
Or else men do not commune more with time
Nor have its purpose in them larger writ
Than a beast has. Why, I did surely think
Such ill foreknowledge would have mastered me
Quite beyond reason; wrenched my sense away,
Brought it to dull default. But I do live and stir;
Have reasonable breath within my lips:
Keep my brain sound, and all my settled blood
Runs the right way. Perhaps I sleep and dream
That such things are as my fear dotes upon.
Why then I should be mad; and being mad
I might hold sound opinion of my wit
When it were truly flawed. If I not dream
And have no passionate mixture in my brain,
Large massacre to-night should fill itself
With slaughtered blood and the live price of men.
Why this? forsooth because of that and that,
For this man’s tongue and that man’s beard or gait,
For some rank slip of their opinion.
I see full reason why men slay for hate,
But for opinion or slack accident
I get no cause at all. Then I am mad